Minho

The clock on the microwave read 2:47 am when Jisung's key turned in the lock.

Minho hadn't moved from the kitchen counter in an hour, staring down at the empty street through the window. He was waiting for Jisung to come home.

The door finally opened. Jisung stepped inside, halfway through pulling off his jacket when he noticed Minho standing there. His hands stilled.

— Oh. You're still up.

Minho didn't answer. He just watched him toe off his shoes, hang his jacket, and avoid looking directly at him. The silence stretched until Jisung finally glanced up.

— What?

Minho nodded toward the kitchen table. — Sit down.

Jisung hesitated, but finally crossed the room and sat down. Minho stayed on his feet, watching him from the other side of the table.

— You said you'd be home by eleven.

Jisung's jaw tightened.

— My phone died.

— Your phone died, Minho repeated the words, which sounded hollow even to him. — And you couldn't borrow anyone else's? Couldn't ask a friend to text me? Couldn't find a single person with a working phone in three hours?

— I wasn't watching the time. We were just talking, and—

— Talking, Minho's voice stayed even, but something behind it shifted, turning tired. — You were talking. For three hours. After midnight.*

Jisung's hands curled around the edge of the chair.

— Why does it matter? I'm here now. I'm fine.

Minho leaned forward, placing his palms on the table. He wasn't touching Jisung, just close enough that Jisung automatically leaned back.

— Because I sat here for three hours wondering if you were fine. If you'd forgotten. If something happened. If you just didn't want to come home.

— I know you were with friends. Friends – that's the part you think makes it okay, he stood up straight and rubbed his neck, looking completely exhausted rather than angry.

— The point is, he said quietly, — Jisung, you knew I'd be here. You knew I'd be waiting. And you still let three hours pass without a single word..