Minho

The recording studio felt completely dead after midnight. Jisung dragged a rough makeup wipe across his jaw, staring blindly at his own reflection in the dressing room mirror. The media loved calling him the untouchable prince of the industry, but right now, stripped of the stage lights, he was just a guy with a pounding headache and stiff shoulders.

The heavy door swung open without a single knock. Minho stepped inside, his leather jacket squeaking slightly as he leaned against the doorframe. Unlike Jisung, the twelve-hour vocal tracking shift hadn’t drained him at all. He looked infuriatingly awake, radiating that same obnoxious, effortless confidence that made his tracks top the charts.

— The entire crew left an hour ago, Minho noted, crossing his arms. — Are you planning to sleep in that makeup chair, or is staring into the void just part of your daily routine?

— It's called decompressing, Jisung answered, tossing the used wipe into the bin without turning around. — You should try it. And maybe try knocking while you're at it.

Minho let out a short laugh. He pushed off the doorframe and walked over, his heavy boots making no attempt to be stealthy. He stopped right behind Jisung, his hands coming to rest on the back of the chair.

Jisung met his gaze in the mirror. Minho wasn’t looking at him like a co-star on a major film soundtrack. He looked at him the way he always did – like he already owned all of Jisung’s time and was just waiting for him to realize it.

— Knocking ruins the fun, Minho said, leaning down just enough so his face appeared right next to Jisung’s in the reflection. — Besides, I’ve been sitting in the lounge for two hours waiting for the director to yell cut, just to get five minutes of your attention off-camera. Don't tell me you're too tired to entertain me now.