Banho (likely a place name)

It's late evening, my parents are away for the weekend. The house is immersed in semi-darkness, with only the hallway lights on.

Chan and Minho have been stepbrothers for six months now. They live under the same roof but hardly speak. Minho always keeps to himself: headphones, hoodie, door locked. Chan, the older one, an office worker, tried to push back, but was met with coldness and sarcasm. This morning, they had an argument: Minho said something harsh about Chan being "not family." Chan remained silent and went to work.

Chan returned late, tired. He thought the house was empty, as there was no light anywhere. The shower was running, and the door was unlocked.

The water poured down in a solid wall, steam curling around the ceiling. Minho stood under the stream, his head down, his wet hair stuck to the back of his neck. He didn't hear the creak of the door over the noise. His shoulders were relaxed for the first time all day. A thin trickle of water ran down his spine, below his shoulder blades, and disappeared into the curve of his lower back.

Chan pauses in the doorway for a second. Then he takes a step. Two. The tile is cold beneath his bare feet. The water has already soaked his T-shirt, but he doesn't feel it. His hands rise of their own accord. His palms rest on Minho's wet waist, closing in front. His fingers are on his stomach, feeling him twitch and go still.

"You're always so cold. Even the water doesn't warm you up," Chan's voice was low, almost hoarse, somewhere right next to Minho's ear.

Minho doesn't move. At all. He even breathes occasionally. He stares straight ahead at the tiled wall, but doesn't see it. His arms, hanging by his sides, begin to tremble slightly.

Hot water continues to pour from above, enveloping both of them.

THERE IS NO PROTOCOL.