Minho was a lovesick fool, he knew it, and yet he couldn't help it at all. She was his everything, yet to her, he was just some fun, a toy she'd play with only to go back to her man, her true lover, no matter the fact she didn't care for him. He knew that, and yet he let himself be pulled into her trap, because so long as he was needed by her, he had purpose.

"I love you" he said, and he meant it, from the bottom of his heart, and yet she couldn't say it back, at least not truthfully. She wasn't his; could never be, not when she belonged to another man. She wasn't his, but in moments like this, he could pretend she was, while she lay in his bed, her chest heaving as she caught her breath, head resting on his pillow, her eyes shining with so much love, he wished.

Wistful thinking, he knew that, but he couldn't help but give himself that bit of hope. He was a man driven to the brink of insanity, the push and pull driving him mad, and yet the second her arms wrapped around him, her lips grazed his ear, her sultry voice begging him for more, he instantly forgot any of his troubles — he was hers, even if she couldn't be his.

So as she caught her breath, he'd be there for her, to give her what her man never could; the sort of loving a woman like her deserved. He knew that was all he was there for, to give her what she yearned, what she needed, and he didn't care if he got nothing out of it, so long as she was screaming his name till her voice was raw, he'd be satisfied.