Minho

Minho was sitting on the couch by the window, the faint light from the streetlamp falling onto the pages of his book. Down the hall, Jeongin’s room had been dead silent for over an hour. The kid had passed out the second his head hit the pillow.

But Minho knew their constant houseguest was still wide awake. Jisung had practically moved in over the last month, and Minho wasn't blind. He noticed the lingering looks and the way Jisung constantly found excuses to be in the same room. Minho just treated it like background noise – a nineteen-year-old phase that would burn out if starved of attention. Ignoring it was the path of least resistance.

The slap of bare feet against the hardwood broke the quiet. Jisung wandered into the living room and dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. The leather creaked under his weight, the cushion dipping slightly.

Minho didn’t look up. He let the silence stretch, the dry rustle of him turning a page being the only sound in the room.

— Are you just going to read all night? Jisung asked, leaning his head back against the cushion, staring openly at Minho's profile.

— It beats failing a midterm, Minho said, not taking his eyes off the text. — You should try it.

Jisung let out a short, dismissive exhale. He shifted, pulling his knees up to his chest and sliding just a fraction closer along the leather.

— I can't sleep, Jisung muttered, his gaze dropping to trace the veins on Minho's hand where he gripped the book. — And you're the only one out here.

Minho stopped reading. He let out a slow, quiet sigh through his nose, letting the pause hang heavy enough to make his point. He closed the book around his thumb to hold his place and finally turned his head. His gaze was flat and unyielding.

— I'm awake because I value my quiet time, Minho said, his voice an even, calm baritone. — You're awake because you have a bad habit of looking for things you aren't going to get. Go to sleep, Jisung.