The Group Chat

If there was one thing Minho valued above all else, it was peace. If there was a second, it was the gentle art of watching people suffer consequences of their own making. Unfortunately, living with seven other men meant that peace was an urban legend, and the suffering usually rebounded directly onto his own temples in the form of a pulsing migraine.

The living room couch dipped beside him, practically groaning under the weight of sheer, unadulterated stupidity.

"Minho," Jisung whispered, leaning in so close that Minho could smell the lingering aroma of iced Americano and poor life choices on his breath. "Look at the lighting right now. The golden hour hits your jawline like a divine intervention. If I were our beloved leader, I’d be weeping on my knees."

Minho didn't look away from his phone. "If you don't move your face at least two feet to the left, I’m going to introduce your knee to the edge of the coffee table."

"Cruel," Jisung gasped, clutching his chest with theatrical agony. "Heartless! After everything we’ve been through! The shared trauma, the bond of our souls—"

"We shared a bag of chips yesterday, Jisung. You ate the crumbs and coughed on my sleeve."

From the kitchen island, Seungmin looked up from his mug, his expression completely blank. "Leave him alone, Jisung. He's emotionally preparing for the arrival of his alpha."

Minho slowly raised his eyes. "Seungmin, do you want to find out what happens when someone blends cold ramen into your shampoo bottle?"

"I'm just observing the ecosystem," Seungmin said smoothly, taking a measured sip of water. "The tension in this room is thick enough to spread on toast. And speaking of toast, Chan-hyung specifically bought your favorite bread this morning. Just putting that out there. Into the universe."

"He bought sourdough because it was on sale," Minho said, his voice flat.

"He bought it with longing," Hyunjin chimed in from the floor, sprawling across an oversized beanbag like an auditioning Victorian ghost. He flung an arm over his eyes, his voice trembling with manufactured pathos. "I saw his eyes, Minho. They were swimming with unshed tears and profound, unspoken adoration. He whispered your name to the bakery clerk!"

"He asked if they had garlic spread, you dramatic idiot," Minho muttered.

His phone buzzed aggressively in his palm. Minho glanced down, seeing the notification banner pop up from their eight-way group chat. It seemed they couldn't even maintain their absurd operation in real life without digital coordination.

gym.ofthe.rat: CODE RED GUYS HE IS PARKING THE CAR IN THE BASEMENT

yangie.will.bangie: everyone remember the plan. act natural. do not mess this up.

cheesecakeji: I am already laying the groundwork! I told Minho his jawline looks edible!

sunnylix: guys wait did anyone light the vanilla candle in the kitchen?? chan-hyung loves vanilla it makes the dorm smell romantic like a french bakery!!

gym.ofthe.rat: FELIX NO WE SAID NO CANDLES CHAN HYUNG HAS SENSITIVE LUNGS AFTER RECORDING

tinymin: Minho is literally reading this thread right now.

Minho looked up from his screen, arching an eyebrow at the circle of guilty faces suddenly staring back at him.

Jisung froze, his fingers hovering over his phone keypad. Hyunjin bolted upright on the beanbag, eyes wide with horror, looking as though he had just been caught committing treason. Jeongin, standing near the refrigerator with an apple in hand, merely offered Minho a cherubic, unblinking smile that held all the innocence of an unexploded landmine.

"You know," Minho said softly, his voice dropping into that sweet, dangerous lilt that usually meant someone was about to lose a fingernail, "you created a separate group chat without me two weeks ago. I know you did, because Changbin accidentally sent me a screenshot of it titled 'Operation Get Minho Laid Before He Kills Us.' So why, pray tell, are you broadcasting your tactical updates into the main dorm chat?"

Changbin, who had just stepped out of the hallway holding a shaker bottle, immediately stopped in his tracks. He pointed a thick, muscular finger at Jisung. "It was his turn to manage the chat links."

"You threw me under the bus!" Jisung shrieked, clutching his hair. "I trusted you, rat man!"

"Do not insult my species," Changbin barked back, puffing out his chest. "I am a dwabbit! And more importantly, I am a man of romance! Unlike you, who approaches flirtation like a startled golden retriever!"

"Both of you shut up," Seungmin commanded, adjusting his glasses without looking up from his phone. "Chan-hyung is in the elevator."

In an instant, the living room devolved into pure, unhinged pandemonium.

Felix practically skittered into the kitchen, his freckled face glowing with panic as he fumbled with a lighter. "The candle! Where did I put the candle? Oh no, I left it in the pantry behind the protein powder—"

"Felix, don't set the cereal boxes on fire again!" Hyunjin wailed, dramatically flailing his arms as he scrambled off the floor. "Hyung's coming! Everyone scatter! Look casual! Act like we aren't engineering a domestic romance!"

"I am acting natural," Jeongin said cheerfully, taking a slow, loud bite of his apple while watching the older members trip over each other. "This is my natural state."

Minho didn't move an inch. He simply leaned back into the sofa cushions, crossed his long legs, and let a sharp, venomous smirk curl the corner of his lips. They were absolute fools, every single one of them. For weeks, they had been dropping unsubtle hints, arranging seating charts at dinners, and "accidentally" leaving Minho and Chan alone in dance studios.

It was humiliating, really. Not because Minho disliked the idea—quite the contrary, Minho had spent months cataloging the broad expanse of Bangchan's shoulders, the sharp curve of his jaw, and the deep, rumbling timbre of his laugh. But Minho was a hunter, a predator who preferred his games slow, calculated, and dripping in seductive malice. Having a squad of screeching toddlers try to play cupid was insulting to his craft.

The front door chimed. The lock clicked, turning smoothly.

The living room fell into dead, suffocating silence.

Jisung threw himself onto an armchair upside down, pretending to read a magazine that was backwards. Hyunjin froze in a bizarre, statuesque pose by the bookshelf. Changbin began aggressively doing calf raises against the wall.

The door swung open, and Bangchan stepped inside.

He looked utterly exhausted, yet infuriatingly handsome. His thick curls were slightly flattened from wearing a beanie, his oversized black hoodie hung loosely off his broad frame, and his gym bag was slung over one shoulder. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes from another grueling twelve-hour studio session, but the moment his gaze swept over the apartment, a soft, weary smile broke across his face.

"Hey, guys," Chan said, his Australian accent slipping through the fatigue in a raspy, low rumble. "Why is it so quiet? Did someone break the TV again?"

"No!" Jisung squeaked, his voice cracking violently. "Nobody broke anything! We are simply meditating on the fragile beauty of life!"

Chan blinked, his tired gaze flickering between Jisung’s upside-down posture and Changbin’s relentless calf raises. "Right... okay." He kicked off his shoes, sliding into his house slippers, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I’m completely wiped out. Did anyone leave any water in the fridge?"

Before anyone else could speak, Jeongin took another crunch of his apple and casually jerked his chin toward the couch. "Minho-hyung has water. In fact, Minho-hyung was just saying how much he missed you."

Minho’s eyes flicked toward the youngest, promising an agonizing demise in the near future.

Chan paused, his gaze landing directly on Minho. A slow, warm light blossomed in his dark eyes, cutting through the exhaustion. "Were you, now?"

Minho didn't flinch. Instead, he uncrossed his legs, leaning forward just enough to let his posture turn deliberate, feline, and dangerous. He looked Chan up and down, taking his sweet time, letting his eyes linger on the exposed collarbone peaking through the neck of Chan’s hoodie.

"I didn't say I missed you," Minho drawled, his voice dropping into a smooth, velvety purr that made the hairs on the back of Chan’s neck stand up. "I said the dorm was significantly less loud without your heavy sighing every five minutes. But you look pathetic, Channie-hyung. Did the mixing board beat you up?"

Chan chuckled, the sound deep and vibrating right down to Minho’s ribs. "Something like that. Track five gave me hell." He walked over, setting his bag on the floor, and looked at the sofa. "Mind if I sit?"

"Depends," Minho murmured, tilting his head with a razor-thin smile. "Are you going to collapse on me? Because my dry-cleaning bill is high enough."

"I might," Chan said, a sudden, playful spark flashing behind his tired eyes. He didn't hesitate; he sank into the cushion right next to Minho, their thighs brushing together through the denim of their jeans. The heat radiating off the older man was immediate, intoxicating, and heavy with the scent of cedarwood and worn leather.

Behind Chan’s back, Minho caught sight of the peanut gallery.

Felix was practically vibrating in the kitchen doorway, clutching his cheeks with both hands like a proud mother at a school recital. Hyunjin was mouthing words that looked suspiciously like kiss him, you coward, while Changbin gave a frantic double thumbs-up from the hallway.

Seungmin walked past them all, carrying a glass of water. "Well," Seungmin announced in the most robotic, unconvincing tone humanly possible, "look at the time. It is six-fifteen in the evening. As we all know, that is the international hour for the six of us to leave the apartment simultaneously and go to the convenience store three blocks away for forty-five minutes."

"Yes!" Jisung practically leaped off the armchair, tumbling onto his feet. "We need... milk! And batteries! And spiritual enlightenment!"

"So much milk," Changbin boomed, already grabbing Hyunjin by the collar of his shirt and dragging him toward the door. "Let's go, children. Leave the exhausted elders to rest. In private. With minimal clothing, if necessary."

"Changbin, what the hell?" Chan muttered, turning around with a baffled frown. "You bought three cartons of milk yesterday."

"We drank it all!" Hyunjin yelled as he was forcibly hauled toward the entryway. "We have strong bones, Chan! Do not question our calcium intake!"

Felix lingered for half a second, blowing a tiny kiss toward the sofa before Jeongin grabbed him by the hoodie strings and yanked him into the corridor. "Good luck, hyung," the youngest called out sweetly, just before the heavy front door slammed shut behind them.

The lock engaged.

Silence fell over the apartment. Real silence this time, heavy and sudden, punctuated only by the distant hum of the refrigerator.

Chan sat frozen for a moment, staring at the closed front door. Slowly, he exhaled a long breath, letting his head fall back against the sofa cushions. "They really think they’re subtle, don't they?"

Minho shifted sideways, resting his elbow on the back of the couch and propping his chin in his hand. He looked down at Chan’s profile—the strong bridge of his nose, the soft swell of his lips, the tired shadow over his stubble.

"They have the collective tactical intelligence of a wet cardboard box," Minho said coolly.

"I saw the chat, by the way," Chan murmured, his eyes still closed. "I saw Felix asking about the vanilla candle before I walked in."

Minho let out a quiet scoff. "Of course you did. Which means you walked right into their little trap willingly. Are you losing your edge, old man?"

Chan turned his head, opening his eyes. His gaze was steady, heavy, and suddenly very dark. The tired, gentle leader persona slipped away, peeling back to reveal that intense, possessive edge Chan usually kept locked up in the studio until late at night.

"Maybe I wanted to walk into it," Chan said softly, his voice dropping an octave, rumbling low in his chest.

Minho’s pulse stuttered against his ribs, but his face remained a mask of flawless composure. He leaned in closer, his voice laced with venomous amusement. "Careful, hyung. If you flirt with me, the kids will think their little scheme actually worked. You’ll validate their idiocy. Jisung will never stop singing about it."

"Let them think whatever they want," Chan said. He shifted his weight, turning his body toward Minho, effectively boxing him into the corner of the sofa. The space between them shrank to a mere whisper. Chan reached out, his warm, calloused fingers brushing against the fabric of Minho’s sleeve before sliding up to lightly graze the skin of his wrist. "Besides, they aren't the ones who spent the last three weeks wearing oversized sweaters with no undershirt around the dorm just to see if I’d lose my train of thought."

Minho’s lips parted slightly, a tiny breath catching in his throat before he smothered it with a smirk. "I was warm."

"You hate being warm," Chan countered smoothly. His fingers wrapped around Minho’s wrist, firm and unyielding, drawing the younger man’s hand away from the back of the sofa. Chan brought Minho’s knuckles to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against the pale skin. His dark eyes never left Minho's. "You’re a brat, Minho. A calculating, wicked little brat."

"And you like it," Minho whispered, refusing to pull away. In fact, he leaned in, his free hand reaching out to catch the edge of Chan’s hoodie, twisting the fabric into his fist. "You spend fourteen hours in a dark room pretending you’re the responsible leader of this circus, but the second the door closes, you're looking at me like you want to bite."

A slow, wicked grin spread across Chan’s face—not the soft, dimpled smile he showed the cameras, but the sharp, freaky grin that belonged entirely to Bangchan behind closed doors.

"Who says I just want to bite?" Chan murmured, his breath fanning hot across Minho’s cheek. He tugged Minho closer by the wrist, closing the last remaining distance until their chests pressed together, the heat of their bodies tangling in the quiet room. "I have about forty minutes before they come back with ten bags of snacks they don't need. How do you want to spend it?"

Minho tilted his head, his dark humor melting into pure, unapologetic desire. He let his fingers slide from Chan’s hoodie up into the soft curls at the nape of his neck, tugging just hard enough to make Chan let out a low, ragged gasp.

"Shut up and make yourself useful, hyung," Minho whispered against his lips.

When Chan kissed him, it wasn't hesitant, and it certainly wasn't gentle. It was heavy, possessive, and hungry, sweeping all thoughts of their meddling members straight out of Minho's head. Chan’s hand slid from his wrist to the back of his waist, pulling him flush against him with a strength that left Minho breathless and dizzy, entirely consumed by the scent of cedar and the intoxicating heat of the man he’d wanted for far too long.

Maybe, Minho thought distantly as Chan’s teeth grazed his lower lip with bruising pressure, he wouldn't poison their ramen after all.