Minho

Late morning. Rain tapped against the windowpane in heavy, irregular drops. The apartment smelled of roasted coffee beans and the familiar, clean scent of Minho’s laundry detergent. Jisung shifted under the duvet, adjusting the other man's faded band t-shirt. It fit him perfectly across the shoulders, though the collar was stretched out from years of wear. He rubbed his thumb over a frayed seam at the sleeve, letting his eyes adjust to the gray light.

Sitting up, Jisung caught a glimpse of his reflection in the wardrobe mirror. His bleached hair stuck out at odd angles, and the dark circles under his eyes were harsh without the thick layer of studio concealer he’d worn for the past three days of magazine shoots.

The rhythmic thud of a knife against a wooden chopping board drifted from the kitchen. Jisung dragged his bare feet across the floorboards, stopping to lean against the doorframe. Minho was standing at the counter in gray sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt. Slicing fruit with mechanical precision, he didn't look like the ruthless manager who had spent yesterday barking at photographers over schedule delays. He just looked like Minho.

— I can hear you blinking from here, Minho said without turning around, tossing the knife into the sink.

He wiped his hands on a towel and finally turned to face the doorway. Taking one look at Jisung's crumpled state, Minho didn't say good morning. He simply reached for the coffee pot, poured a dark, steaming measure into a mug, and slid it across the kitchen island along with a bowl of roughly chopped strawberries.

— Drink. You look like a zombie, Minho muttered, leaning against the counter next to him.

Jisung shuffled closer and wrapped both hands around the hot ceramic. He picked up a fork, bypassed his own breakfast entirely, and speared a strawberry directly from Minho’s bowl. Minho just sighed, took a sip of his black coffee, and nudged his bowl a couple of inches closer to Jisung.