Chapter Text
Hyunjin came home at half past midnight carrying his shoes in one hand and looking like someone had personally offended him with the concept of love.
Minho noticed because Hyunjin was rarely quiet when he was upset.
Normally, anger announced itself before he did. The front door would open too hard, followed by an unnecessary sigh and several minutes of muttering directed at the coat rack, the light switch, or whichever innocent piece of furniture happened to stand nearest. If the problem involved Felix, there would usually be a dramatic collapse onto the sofa and a declaration that relationships were a capitalist invention designed to destroy beautiful people.
Tonight, the lock turned softly.
Hyunjin slipped inside without switching on the entryway light, set his shoes down instead of kicking them off, and stood with one hand resting against the wall.
Minho lowered the book he had been reading.
The television played silently across the room. He had muted it almost an hour ago after realising he had not processed a single scene, but turning it off would have meant admitting he was waiting for Hyunjin to come home.
Hyunjin had gone to Felix’s apartment after rehearsal with an overnight bag.
The overnight bag was still hanging from his shoulder.
“You’re early,” Minho said.
Hyunjin flinched hard enough to make the strap slide down his arm.
“Jesus Christ. Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“The lamp is on.”
“One lamp. Behind you. You look like a landlord waiting to discuss property damage.”
Minho looked at the bag, then at Hyunjin’s face.
His eyes were dry, but the skin around them was pink. He had either been crying or trying very hard not to.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then go back to Felix’s.”
Hyunjin’s mouth tightened.
Minho closed the book.
There it was.
Not the theatrical outrage Hyunjin used for minor grievances, but the rigid stillness that meant something had lodged itself too deeply for performance.
Minho waited.
Hyunjin stared at the floor for another few seconds before walking into the living room. He dropped the overnight bag beside the sofa, sat down, then immediately stood again as though his body could not decide where it wanted to be.
“We had a disagreement.”
“You came home with all your things.”
“I didn’t bring all my things.”
“You brought your skincare refrigerator.”
Hyunjin looked towards the bag, offended. “It’s sensitive equipment.”
“You carried it down six flights of stairs during a disagreement.”
“The lift was taking too long.”
Minho placed the book on the coffee table.
“How bad was it?”
Hyunjin began removing his jacket, though he did not answer. He folded it over one arm, unfolded it, then draped it across the back of the sofa with excessive care.
That was worse than yelling.
Minho leaned back.
“Did Felix ask you to move in again?”
Hyunjin’s head snapped towards him.
The answer arrived before he spoke.
“How did you know?”
“You’ve been sleeping there four nights a week. He lives alone. He loves you. It was going to happen eventually.”
Hyunjin looked away.
Minho’s stomach tightened.
“And you said no.”
“I didn’t say no.”
“You’re here.”
“I said I couldn’t yet.”
“Why?”
The silence stretched.
Minho already knew.
He had known the moment Hyunjin looked at him instead of answering.
Something cold and unpleasant settled beneath his ribs.
“Because of the apartment?”
Hyunjin’s eyes closed.
“Hyunjin.”
“It isn’t like that.”
“It sounds exactly like that.”
“I didn’t want to leave you with the full rent when you haven’t found anyone else.”
Minho stared at him.
Hyunjin rushed on before he could respond.
“I know you said you would, but you haven’t even started looking properly. You rejected the dancer Jeongin mentioned because he wore outside shoes into the living room, and you stopped replying to the guy from rehearsal because he said he liked hosting people. You hate strangers, you hate noise, and you barely tolerate me after seven years. How am I supposed to believe you’ll suddenly be fine living with somebody you met through an advertisement?”
“That is not your problem.”
“You are my problem.”
Minho’s eyebrows rose.
Hyunjin dragged both hands down his face.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, unfortunately.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I. You told Felix you wouldn’t move in with him because you’re worried about my rent.”
“I didn’t tell him that.”
Minho went still.
Hyunjin’s gaze dropped to the floor.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.
Minho spoke more carefully.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I wasn’t ready.”
The answer was so absurd that Minho almost laughed.
Instead, he stared at Hyunjin until Hyunjin folded his arms defensively.
“What else was I supposed to say?”
“The truth.”
“I wasn’t going to tell him you can’t afford this place alone.”
“I can’t afford this place alone.”
“Exactly.”
“And you thought lying to your boyfriend would protect my dignity?”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“You said you weren’t ready when you are ready.”
Hyunjin’s jaw tightened.
“I didn’t know how to explain it without making you sound helpless.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Hyunjin’s expression cracked.
For the first time since coming home, the anger drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion.
“I know you aren’t helpless, hyung. But I also know you. You would rather eat rice and eggs for three months than admit you need help. You’d take extra classes, dance through an injury, and convince yourself you were handling it because asking anyone for anything makes you itch.”
Minho looked away.
That was not entirely inaccurate.
Hyunjin sank back onto the sofa.
“I just wanted more time. I thought if I waited until you found somebody, then I could move out without leaving you in a bad position.”
“And Felix thinks you don’t want to live with him.”
Hyunjin’s silence answered again.
Minho exhaled slowly through his nose.
“What exactly did he say?”
Hyunjin’s fingers tightened around the edge of the cushion.
“He asked whether there was another reason I didn’t want to leave.”
“Another reason.”
“You.”
Minho blinked once.
Then again.
“You told him there wasn’t.”
“Of course I told him there wasn’t.”
“But he didn’t believe you.”
“He didn’t say that directly.”
“Hyunjin.”
“He asked whether I was sure what happened between us was completely over.”
Minho stared at him for several seconds.
The idea was so disconnected from reality that he struggled to organise a response.
He and Hyunjin had slept together for the first time after a showcase neither of them remembered clearly. They had been drunk, single, exhausted, and already familiar enough with each other’s bodies that crossing the remaining distance had felt less like a revelation than a questionable scheduling decision.
They had done it again because the first time had been good.
Then again because neither wanted the complication of dating strangers.
It had been convenient. Safe. Occasionally fun.
There had never been a moment in which Minho looked at Hyunjin and wanted anything beyond what was already available. Hyunjin had never stared at him across a crowded room or searched his face for promises. They had shared a bed without confusing it for a future.
When Hyunjin admitted he was falling for Felix, the arrangement ended before the conversation did.
Minho had not been hurt.
He had been relieved, mostly because Hyunjin had spent the previous month pretending he did not check his phone every thirty seconds.
“Felix thinks you refused to move in because of me,” Minho said.
Hyunjin’s shoulders slumped.
“He knows we were never serious. I’ve told him that.”
“Knowing something and feeling secure about it are not always the same.”
“I know.”
“Especially when you reject his offer and refuse to explain why.”
“I know.”
Minho studied him.
Hyunjin looked miserable.
That irritated him more than the misunderstanding itself.
Felix was one of the gentlest people Minho knew. He loved openly, almost recklessly, as if affection were something that became more valuable the more freely it was given. He had never treated Minho strangely over his history with Hyunjin. Never made cutting jokes, never marked territory, never asked either of them to alter a friendship that existed long before he arrived.
If Felix had reached the point of asking whether Hyunjin still wanted Minho, then Hyunjin had handled this spectacularly badly.
Minho stood.
Hyunjin watched him warily.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting your suitcase.”
“My suitcase?”
“You’re moving in with Felix.”
Hyunjin stared.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You cannot decide that.”
“I already did.”
Minho walked towards the hallway.
Hyunjin sprang off the sofa and followed.
“Hyung, stop. I’m not moving out tonight because you’ve decided to become unreasonable.”
“You carried your skincare refrigerator here during an argument. You’re already packed emotionally.”
“That sentence does not mean anything.”
“It means you’re dramatic.”
“You’re the one marching towards my room like an angry flight attendant.”
Minho opened Hyunjin’s bedroom door.
The room looked as though Hyunjin had been slowly moving out for months without either of them naming it. Half the wardrobe was empty. Several framed photographs had disappeared from the dresser. The expensive hair dryer Felix bought him was gone, along with the blue blanket he claimed he could not sleep without.
Minho looked over his shoulder.
“You barely live here.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m ready to abandon you.”
“You aren’t abandoning me.”
“You can’t pay the rent alone.”
“I’ll find someone.”
“You haven’t.”
“I will.”
“You hate everyone.”
“I don’t hate everyone.”
“You hated the man from the listing because he said the kitchen had ‘good vibes.’”
“That was suspicious.”
“He was making conversation.”
“He wanted to grow herbs in the bathtub.”
“One herb.”
“Any herb is too many.”
Hyunjin stepped into the room and shut the wardrobe Minho had opened.
“I’m serious. Felix can wait.”
“No.”
“He didn’t mean it like an ultimatum.”
“I know. That makes it worse.”
Hyunjin frowned.
Minho leaned against the dresser.
“You’re making him wait for something you both want because you think I can’t manage without you. He thinks you’re hesitating because you still have feelings for me, and instead of telling him the truth, you came home and let him sit alone with that.”
“I was upset.”
“So was he.”
“I know that.”
“Then go back.”
Hyunjin’s expression softened into something dangerously close to pity.
Minho hated it immediately.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m going to die because you moved six kilometres away.”
“You might.”
“I survived before you.”
“You ate convenience-store kimbap for dinner four nights in a row before we lived together.”
“I was busy.”
“You had food poisoning.”
“Only once.”
Hyunjin crossed his arms.
Minho crossed his own.
They stared at each other in the familiar deadlock of two people who knew exactly how stubborn the other could be.
Minho broke first, but only because he had a better weapon.
“Felix cried, didn’t he?”
Hyunjin’s face changed.
Barely.
Enough.
Minho’s irritation sharpened.
“You made Yongbok cry and then came here?”
“I didn’t make him cry.”
“He cried during the fight.”
Hyunjin looked towards the window.
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is from my perspective.”
“Of course it is. You treat him like he was personally delivered to you by angels.”
“He’s sweet.”
“I’m sweet.”
“You once unplugged my phone at night because my alarm annoyed you.”
“It went off six times.”
“You were awake after the first.”
“That is why I was annoyed.”
Minho pointed towards the suitcase stored above the wardrobe.
“Pack.”
Hyunjin did not move.
“Hyung.”
“I mean it.”
“And what happens next month when rent is due?”
“I’ll have a roommate.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I have it handled.”
The lie left his mouth cleanly.
Hyunjin knew it was a lie because his face tightened.
Minho held his gaze anyway.
He would figure it out.
He had to.
That was different from needing Hyunjin to postpone his life indefinitely.
“You don’t have to protect me from my own apartment,” Minho said. “And you definitely don’t get to damage your relationship with Felix over something between you and me that never meant what he’s afraid it meant.”
Hyunjin’s eyes lowered.
Minho continued, quieter now.
“We were convenient. We trusted each other. We were lonely occasionally and lazy most of the time. That was all.”
“I know.”
“Felix doesn’t.”
“He does.”
“No. He knows the facts. That isn’t the same as believing he has nothing to compete with.”
Hyunjin sat on the edge of the bed.
“There is no competition.”
“Then stop behaving like there is.”
The room fell silent again.
Minho watched Hyunjin press both palms against his knees.
When he spoke, his voice had lost its defensive edge.
“I didn’t want you to think I was choosing him and leaving you behind.”
Minho’s chest tightened despite himself.
“You are choosing him.”
Hyunjin looked up.
“You should.”
Something fragile passed through his expression.
Minho looked away first.
He was not good at conversations that asked him to hold someone’s feelings carefully. He preferred practical solutions. Food. Money. Packing a suitcase and putting a foolish younger friend in a taxi before he could ruin something precious.
“You’re my friend,” Minho said. “That doesn’t end because you move out.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Hyunjin gave him an unimpressed look.
Minho almost smiled.
There he was.
The menace had returned.
Hyunjin stood and pulled the suitcase down from the wardrobe.
“You’re helping me find someone.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t need supervision.”
“You rejected a man over bathtub basil.”
“It was mint.”
“That is worse somehow.”
Minho took the suitcase from him and placed it on the bed.
“Go talk to Felix first.”
Hyunjin remained where he was.
Minho glanced at him.
“What now?”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“The truth.”
“I know, but how?”
Minho stared at him.
Hyunjin stared back with the desperate expectation of someone waiting for a speech.
“You expect me to help you communicate?”
“You’re very direct.”
“I’m rude.”
“That too.”
Minho considered it.
Then he sighed.
“Tell him you wanted to move in the moment he asked.”
Hyunjin’s mouth opened, but Minho kept going.
“Tell him you panicked because you were worried about me and didn’t want to embarrass me by explaining the rent. Tell him nothing between us was ever romantic, and the only person you have ever looked at like that is him.”
Hyunjin’s expression softened.
Minho immediately regretted sounding sincere.
“And apologise,” he added.
“I was going to.”
“Properly.”
“I know how to apologise.”
“You once apologised to me by buying a cake with ‘sorry you’re sensitive’ written on it.”
“You ate the cake.”
“That isn’t the point.”
Hyunjin smiled for the first time since coming home.
Small, but real.
Minho zipped the empty suitcase open.
“Call him.”
“Now?”
“Before he decides he deserves better.”
Hyunjin’s smile disappeared.
“You’re cruel.”
“I’m motivating you.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
Hyunjin pulled out his phone.
His thumb hovered over Felix’s name.
Minho turned towards the door.
“I’ll give you privacy.”
“Hyung.”
Minho stopped.
Hyunjin looked at him over the phone, eyes suddenly serious again.
“Are you really going to be okay?”
No.
The answer rose immediately.
The rent was due in twelve days. Hyunjin was right about his habits, his boundaries, and his complete lack of progress finding someone he could tolerate in the space he had spent years protecting.
Minho liked knowing which cupboard would be open when he reached for it.
He liked silence after rehearsal.
He liked coming home without needing to perform politeness for someone he did not know.
He had no idea how to place an advertisement that would attract a roommate who paid on time, cleaned properly, respected quiet hours, did not host parties, and did not describe indoor gardening as a spiritual practice.
But Hyunjin was watching him.
And somewhere across the city, Felix was probably sitting alone, believing he had asked for too much.
Minho nodded.
“I’ll be fine.”
Hyunjin studied him long enough to make it clear he did not believe him.
Then he called Felix anyway.
Minho closed the bedroom door behind him and returned to the living room.
The apartment looked the same.
Hyunjin’s jacket remained on the sofa. His shoes sat near the entrance. The television continued moving silently through a programme Minho had stopped following.
Nothing had changed yet.
Still, Minho could already feel the shape of the empty room down the hallway.
He picked up his book and stared at the page.
For the first time that evening, the silence did not feel peaceful.
It felt expensive.
Han told Chan he was thinking about moving out on a Tuesday night.
It was not the first time he had said those words.
In the past year alone, Han had threatened to leave Changbin’s apartment because Changbin had dragged him to the gym before sunrise, eaten the last dumpling without asking, hidden the television remote during an argument, and once stood outside the bathroom playing motivational speeches through his phone while Han was trying to shower.
None of those threats had lasted longer than an hour.
So when Han dropped into the chair beside Chan’s desk and announced, “I think I need to find a new place,” Chan did not immediately look away from the mixing board.
“What did Changbin do?”
Han frowned.
“Why do you assume he did something?”
“Because the last time you said this, he made you do squats.”
“He made me do weighted squats at five in the morning.”
“You agreed to go.”
“I was half asleep. That consent would not stand in court.”
Chan smiled despite himself and adjusted one of the levels on the screen.
The studio was dim except for the glow of the monitors and the strip of warm light beneath the shelves. Changbin had left almost an hour earlier after his girlfriend called. He had pretended not to rush while putting his jacket on backwards and walking into the doorframe.
Han had laughed until Changbin threatened to cancel his food delivery privileges.
Now it was just the two of them, the half-finished track looping quietly through the speakers.
Chan waited for Han to continue.
He usually did.
Han filled silence the way some people filled empty glasses—automatically, constantly, and with increasing recklessness. If Chan gave him enough room, the real point would eventually escape between three unrelated complaints and a joke he wished he could take back.
Tonight, however, Han sat with both hands tucked beneath his thighs and stared at the floor.
Chan turned his chair.
“Did you fight?”
“No.”
“Is he making you go to the gym tomorrow?”
“He makes me go every Wednesday.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Han scuffed the toe of his shoe against the carpet.
“No. We didn’t fight.”
Chan’s smile faded.
He muted the track.
The sudden quiet made Han look up.
“What?”
“You’re serious.”
“I said I was.”
“You also once packed a suitcase because Changbin bought the wrong cereal.”
“It tasted like compressed roofing material.”
“Jisung.”
Han’s mouth closed.
Chan rested his forearms against his knees.
“What’s going on?”
For a moment, Han looked like he might still make a joke.
Then his shoulders dropped.
“I think she’s going to move in.”
Chan did not need to ask who.
Changbin had been seeing his girlfriend for nearly a year. She was kind, funny, patient with his endless gym stories, and somehow capable of arguing with him without either of them becoming genuinely upset. Han liked her. More importantly, Changbin looked settled around her in a way Chan had rarely seen.
“She said something?” Chan asked.
“No. Changbin hasn’t either.”
“Then why do you think that?”
Han shrugged.
“It’s obvious.”
“How?”
“She’s there all the time now.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean—”
“She has shampoo in our bathroom.”
Chan paused.
Han nodded as though that proved a legal case.
“And there are slippers by the door. Pink ones. Changbin bought them for her because she complained the floor was cold, which is ridiculous because I have complained about that floor for two winters and he told me to wear socks.”
“That part does sound unfair.”
“Thank you.”
“But it still doesn’t mean they’re planning to live together.”
Han looked at him.
Chan recognised that expression. It was the one Han wore when he had already thought through every possible angle and was waiting for someone else to catch up.
“They talk about furniture,” Han said. “Not directly. They try to be subtle because they think I’m not listening, but Changbin is incapable of whispering. Last week they spent twenty minutes debating whether a cream-coloured sofa would survive him drinking protein shakes on it.”
Chan leaned back.
“Maybe they’re talking about her place.”
“She lives with two roommates and a rabbit that hates him.”
“The rabbit has good instincts.”
Han smiled briefly.
Then it disappeared.
“They’re serious, hyung.”
“I know.”
“And I’m happy for them.”
“I know that too.”
Han’s fingers tightened beneath his legs.
“I just don’t want to be the reason they don’t take the next step.”
Chan studied him.
“Has Changbin made you feel like you’re in the way?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately, almost offended.
“He would never.”
“Has she?”
“No. She’s always nice to me. Sometimes she brings me coffee even when Changbin tells her not to encourage me.”
“Then why are you calling yourself a reason they can’t move forward?”
Han looked back at the floor.
The question sat between them longer than Chan expected.
Finally, Han said, “Because I’m there.”
Chan frowned.
“That is generally how living somewhere works.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.”
Han exhaled sharply and pulled one hand free, gesturing as though the answer should have been visible in the air.
“They’re trying to build something together, and every time they want to do anything, they have to think about me first. She asks whether I’m home before she stays over. Changbin asks whether I mind if she comes for dinner. They whisper in his room because apparently walls stop working after midnight. He acts like none of it bothers him, but it’s his apartment too.”
“It’s your apartment too.”
“I know.”
“You pay rent.”
“I know.”
“Then you are not intruding.”
“I didn’t say they treat me like I am.”
“You said you feel like one.”
Han’s mouth tightened.
Chan saw the moment he regretted saying it.
He softened his voice.
“Jisung.”
“They deserve a place that’s theirs.”
“And you deserve a place that’s yours.”
“I have one.”
“Then why are you trying to leave before anyone asked you to?”
Han looked away.
The answer was there, somewhere behind the joke he was not making.
Chan knew better than to reach for it too quickly.
Han had a habit of removing himself from situations before anyone could choose someone else over him. He disguised it well. Called it practicality, consideration, timing. Made the decision first and presented it as a gift so nobody could accuse him of being hurt.
Chan had seen it often enough to recognise the shape.
“Changbin dating someone does not make you less important to him,” Chan said.
Han gave a tired little smile.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m not being dramatic.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking you have a very creative relationship with abandonment.”
Han stared at him.
“That sounded like something a therapist would charge money for.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I hate when you get emotionally intelligent after midnight.”
“It’s nine forty.”
“That’s basically midnight in producer time.”
Chan reached over and nudged Han’s knee.
“Have you spoken to Changbin?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll react exactly like you are.”
“How am I reacting?”
“Like I’ve announced I’m joining a cult.”
“You told me you feel like an intruder in your own home.”
“I said I feel like one around them sometimes.”
“That is not better.”
Han pulled his hands from beneath his thighs and rubbed them over his face.
“I don’t want him to feel guilty. If I tell him before I find somewhere, he’ll start insisting nothing has to change. Then he’ll tell her they can wait, and she’ll say it’s fine even if it isn’t, and I’ll spend the next six months watching them pretend they’re not rearranging their lives around me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know Changbin.”
“So do I.”
“Then you know I’m right.”
Chan did.
That was the problem.
Changbin would never ask Han to leave. Even if his girlfriend moved in, he would probably offer Han the larger bedroom and volunteer to sleep on the balcony before admitting the apartment had become crowded.
Chan sighed.
“You could stay with me.”
Han’s head lifted.
Chan watched the refusal form.
“No.”
“You haven’t even thought about it.”
“You live in a studio apartment.”
“I barely live there.”
“That is not the argument you think it is.”
“You’d have most of the place to yourself.”
“And when you do come home?”
“We’ve shared beds before.”
“On tour. Temporarily. With witnesses.”
Chan laughed.
“You make me sound dangerous.”
“You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do. It’s not even regular snoring. You make these little choking noises like your body keeps forgetting oxygen is essential.”
“That seems medically concerning.”
“It is concerning. I barely slept in Singapore.”
“You slept fourteen hours.”
“Traumatically.”
Chan continued smiling until Han’s expression softened.
Then he said, “I’m serious. Stay with me until you find somewhere.”
Han’s amusement faded into uncertainty.
“It could take a while.”
“That’s fine.”
“You don’t have a spare room.”
“I have a sofa.”
“You fall asleep on that sofa wearing jeans.”
“I can stop.”
“You won’t.”
“I’ll try.”
Han looked at him for a long moment.
Chan knew what he was considering.
Not the size of the apartment.
Not the distance to work.
Whether accepting would become another way of taking up too much space in someone else’s life.
Chan leaned forward.
“You are not inconveniencing me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say your kitchen is the size of a cupboard.”
“That too.”
Han’s lips twitched.
Chan held his gaze.
“Stay with me.”
The quiet stretched again.
Then Han nodded.
“Only until I find somewhere.”
“As long as you need.”
“That is not what I said.”
“It’s what I said.”
Han rolled his eyes, but some of the tension left his shoulders.
Chan turned the track back on.
The music filled the studio again, low and unfinished.
Han sat beside him for another minute before reaching for the notebook on the desk.
“You know Changbin is going to act like I’m dying when I tell him.”
“Probably.”
“He might cry.”
“He’ll deny it.”
“He’ll try to bribe me.”
“Definitely.”
Han picked up a pen.
“What do you think he’ll offer first?”
“Food.”
“Wrong. His gaming console.”
“He loves that console.”
“He loves me more.”
Chan smiled.
There was no arrogance in the statement.
Only certainty.
Good.
Chan wanted him to keep that.
Changbin did not cry.
He shouted.
Not angrily, exactly. More with the wounded force of someone who had come home expecting dinner and discovered a betrayal taking place at his kitchen table.
“You told Chan before you told me?”
Han sat across from him with his arms folded.
“I told him because he was there.”
“I live with you.”
“You were with your girlfriend.”
“That is not a defence.”
“It feels relevant.”
Changbin stared at him.
Han stared back.
On the table between them sat two untouched cups of tea and the housing website Han had opened on his laptop before Changbin came home.
Changbin had seen the listings immediately.
Han had barely finished saying, “Don’t make this weird,” before Changbin made it extremely weird.
“You’ve been looking for apartments behind my back.”
“I started yesterday.”
“You started yesterday and already told Chan?”
“I didn’t tell him as part of an organised conspiracy.”
“You are moving out of my apartment.”
“Our apartment.”
“Exactly. Ours.”
Han’s irritation softened despite himself.
Changbin’s hair was still damp from the shower, sticking up in dark, uneven waves. He wore an old sleeveless shirt and grey sweatpants, looking less like a producer and more like someone prepared to challenge a building to hand-to-hand combat.
His expression, however, was not angry.
It was hurt.
Han hated that.
“Hyung.”
“No. Explain it properly, because Chan sent me a message saying not to overreact, which is insulting because I am reacting the correct amount.”
“You called him before talking to me?”
“He called me.”
“That liar.”
“He knew you would tell me tonight.”
“I am telling you tonight.”
“After searching for places.”
“I wanted to know whether moving was realistic before making you panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re standing.”
Changbin looked down.
He had risen from his chair at some point without noticing.
Slowly, he sat.
“That proves nothing.”
Han sighed.
“This isn’t because we fought.”
“I know.”
“It isn’t because I don’t like her.”
“I know that too.”
“She’s wonderful.”
Changbin’s face softened automatically.
“I know.”
“And you’re serious about her.”
The softness vanished.
Changbin glanced towards the hallway, as though his girlfriend might somehow be listening from another room despite being across the city.
“What does that have to do with you leaving?”
“Everything.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Hyung.”
“You have a room here.”
“I know.”
“You pay rent.”
“I know.”
“You’re my family.”
Han’s throat tightened.
Changbin leaned across the table.
“I don’t care how serious my relationship gets. You don’t suddenly become disposable because I have a girlfriend.”
“I never said that.”
“You decided it.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Neither is planning to leave without giving me a chance to say anything.”
Han looked down at his laptop.
The listings blurred slightly.
He blinked until they sharpened.
“I’m trying to make this easier for you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“That’s why I’m doing it.”
Changbin’s chair scraped against the floor as he moved closer.
Han kept looking at the screen.
“If you asked me to go, I’d know you had already spent months feeling guilty about it. You would never do that. You’d keep acting like everything was fine until all three of us were miserable.”
“We aren’t miserable.”
“Not yet.”
“We might never be.”
“She has slippers here.”
Changbin blinked.
“What?”
“Pink slippers. By the door.”
“I bought those because her feet get cold.”
“My feet get cold.”
“You steal my socks.”
“Because you refused to buy me slippers.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“You said you wanted the frog ones.”
“They had faces.”
“They were terrifying.”
Han stared at him.
Changbin stared back.
For several seconds, neither said anything.
Then Changbin’s mouth twisted.
Han tried not to smile.
He failed first.
The laugh escaped softly, dragging some of the weight out of the room.
Changbin looked down at the table.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
“She hasn’t asked to move in.”
“Not yet.”
“And if she does, we’ll talk about it.”
“I already know what I want.”
Changbin looked at him.
Han closed the laptop.
“I want you to be able to say yes without worrying about me.”
“That is my choice.”
“And leaving is mine.”
Changbin’s jaw worked.
Han reached across the table and poked his arm.
“You’re still allowed to drag me to the gym at ungodly hours.”
“I’m not driving across the city to collect you.”
“You absolutely will.”
“I won’t.”
Han widened his eyes slightly.
Changbin held out for perhaps three seconds.
Then he looked away.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“You know what.”
Han smiled.
Changbin muttered something under his breath.
A moment later, he reached over and pulled Han’s chair closer with one hand.
Han let himself be dragged.
Changbin wrapped an arm around the back of his neck and pressed his knuckles into Han’s hair.
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re emotional.”
“I’m not emotional.”
“You’re crushing my skull affectionately.”
Changbin tightened his hold.
Han laughed and tried to shove him off.
He could have escaped if he genuinely wanted to.
He did not.
“You’re not moving somewhere disgusting,” Changbin said.
“Mhm.”
“And I’m inspecting the locks.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You are not interviewing my future roommate.”
“I absolutely am.”
“You’ll scare them.”
“Good. Then we’ll know they’re weak.”
Han groaned.
Changbin released him only to catch his face between both hands and squeeze his cheeks.
“You’re still coming over.”
“I was planning to.”
“Frequently.”
“Depends on the food.”
“I’ll change the door code if you become difficult.”
“You’d last two days.”
“One.”
Han’s chest ached.
He leaned forward until his forehead rested against Changbin’s shoulder.
Changbin went still for only a second before wrapping both arms around him.
Neither spoke.
There was nothing left to argue about that would not become a different kind of confession.
Han was leaving.
Changbin loved him.
Both things could be true without cancelling the other.
Chan’s apartment was exactly as unsuitable as Han had predicted.
It was clean, comfortable, and technically large enough for one person.
Two people transformed it into a negotiation.
Chan owned one bed, one sofa, a narrow dining table permanently covered in cables, and enough music equipment to make the studio apartment resemble a control room with plumbing.
The kitchen occupied one wall near the entrance. The living area began wherever the kitchen ended. The bed sat behind a low shelf that provided the illusion of separation without offering any actual privacy.
On Han’s first night, Chan insisted he take the bed.
Han refused.
Chan insisted again.
Han told him he would move back in with Changbin if they started sacrificing furniture before he had even unpacked.
They compromised by sharing.
It was less strange than it should have been.
They had known each other for years, slept beside one another during trips, fallen unconscious across the same studio sofas, and once shared a hotel bed while Changbin slept diagonally across the floor because he claimed the carpet was good for his back.
The problem was not sleeping.
The problem was everything else.
There was nowhere to be alone.
Han could hear Chan brushing his teeth from bed. Chan could hear Han opening snack wrappers from the sofa. If either took a phone call, the other learned every detail regardless of intention.
On the third morning, Han woke to Chan changing beside the wardrobe and pulled the blanket over his face.
“You could warn me.”
“I’m wearing shorts.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You’ve seen me in shorts.”
“I don’t want to see anyone before coffee.”
“You’re the one who opened your eyes.”
“I was checking whether I still had them.”
Chan laughed and threw a shirt at him.
Han threw it back.
Living together also exposed how little Chan actually lived at home.
The first evening, Han waited until one in the morning before walking to the company building and finding him exactly where expected: hunched over a desk, headphones on, one untouched sandwich beside his elbow.
Han stood in the doorway.
Chan noticed him only when the track ended.
“What are you doing here?”
Han folded his arms.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m working.”
“You said you were coming home.”
“I am.”
“When?”
Chan glanced at the time.
His face changed.
Han pointed at the sandwich.
“Did you eat?”
“I was going to.”
“You said that four hours ago.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked Changbin.”
“Traitor.”
“Pack your things.”
Chan smiled.
“I just need another hour.”
“No.”
“Jisung.”
“You offered me your home and then abandoned me in it. I had to eat dinner alone.”
“You ate alone in your room when you lived with Changbin.”
“That was by choice.”
Chan looked unconvinced.
Han stepped inside, closed the laptop, and disconnected the headphones.
“Hey.”
“You can be angry while walking.”
“I didn’t save.”
“You have automatic backup.”
Chan stared at him.
Han stared back.
Five minutes later, Chan was putting on his jacket.
That became their routine.
Han dragged Chan home.
Chan complained.
Han ignored him.
Somehow, Chan began sleeping more than four hours a night for the first time in months.
It should have made the arrangement feel successful.
Instead, by the end of the second week, Han had begun searching listings during lunch.
He loved Chan.
That was exactly why he needed a door.
A real one.
One that closed between his life and someone else’s without either of them interpreting it as rejection.
He wanted a room where he could work badly, sing the same line thirty times, stare at the ceiling, or call Changbin and complain without Chan hearing everything from three metres away.
He wanted to stop waking whenever Chan rolled over.
He wanted Chan to stop pretending the sofa was comfortable when Han worked late.
He wanted somewhere that belonged to him without belonging entirely to someone else first.
Every listing was either too expensive, too far away, suspiciously small, or written by someone who described themselves as “extremely social.”
Han had learned that “extremely social” meant strangers in the kitchen at two in the morning.
“Cosy” meant no window.
“Convenient location” meant beside a train track.
“Flexible household” meant nobody washed dishes.
By the third week, he had opened so many listings that the websites began recommending storage units.
Seungmin found him staring at one during dinner.
“You cannot live there.”
Han looked up.
“Why not?”
“It has no bathroom.”
“The bathroom is shared.”
“With the entire floor.”
“It builds community.”
“It builds infection.”
Han pushed his phone away.
They were sitting in a small restaurant near the company with Chan and Changbin. Chan had gone to order more food after Han complained the portions were insulting. Changbin was arguing with someone on the phone about delivery times.
Seungmin ate calmly, entirely untroubled by Han’s housing crisis.
“You could help,” Han said.
“I am helping. I told you not to rent a cupboard with communal plumbing.”
“You know people.”
“So do you.”
“You know different people.”
“That is true.”
Han narrowed his eyes.
Seungmin continued eating.
Then, as if mentioning the weather, he said, “Jeongin knows someone looking for a roommate.”
Han waited.
Seungmin did not elaborate.
“Who is Jeongin?”
Seungmin looked at him.
“My roommate.”
Han stared.
Changbin stopped arguing mid-sentence.
Even Chan, returning with two bowls, paused beside the table.
“You have a roommate?” Han asked.
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Last year.”
“You’ve lived with someone for a year?”
“Approximately.”
“And you never told us?”
Seungmin frowned slightly.
“I didn’t realise it required an announcement.”
Changbin ended his call without saying goodbye.
“What’s his name again?”
“Jeongin.”
“Who is he?”
“My roommate.”
“That is not information.”
“It answered your question.”
Chan set down the bowls.
“Is he a friend?”
“Yes.”
“How have we never met him?”
Seungmin looked genuinely puzzled by their reaction.
“Our schedules don’t overlap much.”
Han leaned across the table.
“You have had an entire person hidden in your house.”
“He isn’t hidden. He goes outside.”
“Why have you never brought him up?”
“You never asked.”
“How were we supposed to ask about a roommate we didn’t know existed?”
Seungmin considered that.
“That sounds like your problem.”
Changbin pointed at him.
“I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to live with him.”
“Apparently you do.”
Chan sat down, dimples appearing as he tried not to laugh.
Han had no such restraint.
“This is insane. What else are you hiding? Are you married? Do you have children?”
“No.”
“A dog?”
“No.”
“Another roommate?”
“Not currently.”
Han’s eyes widened.
“Not currently?”
Seungmin sighed.
“Do you want the room or not?”
Han stopped.
The restaurant noise moved around them: dishes clattering, people talking, music playing too softly through old speakers.
“What room?”
“Jeongin’s friend needs someone to split rent. The previous roommate moved out.”
“Where?”
“Not far from your company.”
“How much?”
Seungmin told him.
Han sat straighter.
It was not cheap.
But it was possible.
“And what’s wrong with him?”
Seungmin raised an eyebrow.
“Why does something have to be wrong?”
“Because affordable rooms near the company do not appear through secret roommates without consequences.”
“I didn’t say there were no consequences.”
Chan leaned forward.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Jeongin says his friend is particular.”
Changbin folded his arms.
“Particular how?”
“I haven’t met him properly.”
Han stared.
“You’re recommending I live with someone you don’t know?”
“I’m telling you Jeongin knows someone. That is not a recommendation.”
“This feels like human trafficking with extra steps.”
Seungmin drank his water.
“I can arrange a meeting.”
Han looked towards Chan.
Chan was already thinking too hard.
Then at Changbin.
Changbin looked ready to demand identification documents.
Han looked back at Seungmin.
“Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“Arrange it.”
Changbin immediately objected.
“You don’t even know his name.”
“Neither do you.”
“That is why I’m objecting.”
Han ignored him.
Seungmin unlocked his phone.
“What should I tell Jeongin?”
“That I’m clean, responsible, employed, and charming.”
Seungmin began typing.
Han leaned over.
“What did you write?”
“Employed.”
“Seungmin.”
“You said not to lie.”
Chan laughed into his hand.
Han kicked Seungmin lightly beneath the table.
Seungmin did not react.
Across the city, Yang Jeongin received a message from the roommate none of his friends seemed aware existed.
And several kilometres away from him, Lee Minho sat alone in an apartment he could not afford, staring at an unread message from Jeongin that said:
I may have found someone who knows someone. Please don’t reject him before meeting him.
Minho read it twice.
Then put his phone facedown.
He lasted four minutes before picking it up again.
Minho opened the message again.
Jeongin
I may have found someone who knows someone. Please don’t reject him before meeting him.
The wording became less reassuring the longer he looked at it.
Someone who knew someone was not a recommendation. It was barely a connection. It sounded like Jeongin had heard a rumour about a possible roommate and decided that was sufficient reason to offer a stranger access to Minho’s home.
He typed a reply.
Minho
Who knows whom?
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Jeongin
my roommate knows someone who needs a room
Minho frowned.
He read the sentence again, though its meaning remained equally unreasonable.
Minho
You have a roommate?
The typing indicator disappeared.
Several seconds passed before it returned.
Jeongin
yes?
you know that
Minho did not know that.
Jeongin had been coming to his apartment for years. He ate Minho’s food, borrowed his jackets, fell asleep on his sofa and complained about everything from rehearsal schedules to the rising price of strawberries. At no point had he clearly stated that another person permanently occupied the home he returned to afterward.
There had been references, Minho realised now. Someone had used Jeongin’s expensive conditioner without permission. Someone kept moving his shoes away from the entrance. Someone had once eaten the yoghurt Jeongin specifically labelled with his name.
Minho had assumed Jeongin was talking about an inconsiderate guest.
Apparently, the yoghurt thief paid rent.
Minho
Since when?
Jeongin
almost a year
Minho
You have lived with someone for almost a year without mentioning him?
Jeongin
i have mentioned him
Minho
You called him “the criminal who keeps reorganising the refrigerator.”
Jeongin
that was accurate at the time
his name is seungmin
can we return to your actual problem now
Minho looked towards the open bedroom at the end of the hallway.
Hyunjin had moved out nine days earlier.
Most of his things had disappeared gradually before the official move. Clothes migrated into Felix’s wardrobe. Skincare products began multiplying in Felix’s bathroom instead of Minho’s. The blue blanket Hyunjin claimed he needed to sleep had vanished one evening and never returned.
Even so, the apartment had changed abruptly once the last suitcase left.
The bathroom counter looked too empty. Nobody complained when Minho opened the windows in cold weather. There were no half-finished glasses of water abandoned in places where glasses of water had no reason to be.
For the first few days, Minho enjoyed the silence.
Then rent became due.
He had calculated the full amount four times, as though repeating the numbers might cause them to rearrange themselves into something less offensive.
They had not.
Minho returned his attention to the conversation.
Minho
What does Seungmin actually know about this person?
Jeongin called him instead of replying.
Minho considered declining. Jeongin would only call again, and if that failed, he might appear in person with Felix as emotional reinforcement.
He answered.
“You could have sent the information in a message,” Minho said.
“And you could have responded like a normal person instead of beginning an investigation into my living arrangements.”
“You concealed an entire roommate for almost a year.”
“I did not conceal him. You never asked me to provide a complete census of my household.”
“How was I supposed to ask about someone I didn’t know existed?”
“That is exactly what Seungmin’s friends said, apparently, so I’ve already heard this argument once today.”
Minho paused.
“His friends only discovered you today?”
“Yes, but that is not the point. The point is that Seungmin has a friend called Han Jisung who urgently needs somewhere to live, and you have an empty room you urgently need someone to pay for.”
“I do not urgently need anything.”
“You calculated next month’s expenses in front of me yesterday.”
“That was financial planning.”
“You stared at the same number for ten minutes and called the landlord a parasite.”
“The two things are unrelated.”
Jeongin made a sound that suggested he disagreed but had decided not to waste time proving it.
“Jisung works near your apartment, the rent is within his budget, and Seungmin says he has lived with other people before without being murdered or evicted. That seems like a reasonable starting point.”
“What does he do?”
There was a pause.
Not a long one, but long enough for Minho to notice.
“He’s a producer.”
Minho closed his eyes.
“No.”
“Hyung, you cannot reject him because of his occupation.”
“He makes music.”
“Yes. That is usually included in producing it.”
“In the apartment?”
“I don’t know yet, but Seungmin says he mostly works at his company’s studio.”
“Mostly is deliberately vague.”
“It is not deliberately anything. I received the message five minutes ago.”
“Then perhaps you should find out more before offering him my spare room.”
“I did not offer him your room. Seungmin asked whether I could arrange a meeting, and I said I would ask you. That is what I am doing now, although I’m beginning to understand why Hyunjin kept avoiding this conversation.”
Minho’s mouth tightened.
Hyunjin had attempted to help him find a roommate. The attempts had not gone well.
The first candidate had worn his outdoor shoes across the living-room floor before Minho could stop him. The second had spoken enthusiastically about hosting monthly game nights, then admitted that monthly could easily become weekly depending on everyone’s energy. The third wanted to grow mint in the bathroom because the humidity was supposedly ideal.
Hyunjin still insisted the mint had not been a serious proposal.
Minho knew better.
“I have met the people Hyunjin suggested,” he said. “I did not reject them without reason.”
“You decided the man from the game-night listing looked loud before he entered the building.”
“He did look loud.”
“Faces do not have volume.”
“His did.”
Jeongin sighed, though Minho could hear amusement beneath it.
“Jisung is not one of Hyunjin’s random acquaintances. Seungmin has known him for years.”
“That only tells me Seungmin tolerates him.”
“Seungmin barely tolerates anyone. His continued friendship is practically a character reference.”
That was, unfortunately, persuasive.
Minho shifted on the sofa and looked towards the hallway again.
He had cleaned the empty bedroom after Hyunjin left, despite there being almost nothing to clean. The sheets were fresh. The wardrobe was empty. He had moved the desk closer to the window because the afternoon light was better there.
It had been practical preparation.
It did not mean he wanted someone inside it.
“What is wrong with his current home?” Minho asked.
“He was living with another friend, but that friend has a serious girlfriend now. Jisung moved out because he thinks they deserve their own space, and he is temporarily staying with someone else in a studio apartment.”
“So he already has somewhere to live.”
“Technically, yes. In the same way sleeping inside a recording booth would technically provide shelter. Seungmin says the apartment is one open room and neither of them has had privacy for weeks.”
Minho pictured it.
A bed, a sofa and two people forced to hear every phone call, every alarm and every restless movement through the night.
“That sounds intolerable.”
“I thought you might appreciate that part.”
“It does not make him suitable to live with me.”
“No, but meeting him would help you determine that.”
Minho rubbed his thumb along the edge of his phone.
“Does he smoke?”
“No.”
“Does he drink?”
“I assume socially, but I can ask.”
“Does he host parties?”
“Seungmin’s exact words were that Jisung likes people but becomes exhausted by them and then complains about plans he agreed to himself.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It suggests he is unlikely to hold a festival in your kitchen.”
“Unlikely is not the same as impossible.”
“Hyung, nobody can promise that another person will never spontaneously organise a kitchen festival. You will have to accept some degree of uncertainty.”
Minho ignored that.
“Does he clean?”
“Seungmin says yes.”
The answer had arrived too quickly.
“What else did he say?”
Jeongin hesitated.
“He said Jisung keeps his mess contained.”
“That means his room is filthy.”
“It might mean he respects shared spaces.”
“It means Seungmin chose his words carefully.”
“You can ask Jisung when you meet him.”
Minho leaned his head against the back of the sofa.
He could already imagine the meeting. A stranger sitting too stiffly in his living room while Minho asked questions that Jeongin would later describe as an interrogation. Polite assurances about cleanliness, noise and rent. Everyone pretending that sharing a home could be reduced to a list of habits.
People lied during roommate meetings.
Not always intentionally. Sometimes they lied because they believed the most flattering version of themselves was the true one. Someone who left dishes in the sink for only one night called himself clean. Someone who invited friends over three times a week called himself social but respectful. Someone who played music until midnight claimed the volume was reasonable.
Minho preferred known inconveniences.
Hyunjin had been noisy, dramatic and incapable of replacing an empty toilet-paper roll without being reminded, but Minho knew exactly which version of unbearable he was getting.
Han Jisung would be entirely new.
“Meet him once,” Jeongin said, his voice gentler now. “You do not have to promise him anything. Seungmin can bring him over, I’ll be there, and you can ask everything you need to ask before deciding.”
“You’re coming?”
“Of course I am. I’m the only person connecting the two of you.”
“Seungmin is connecting you.”
“And I am connecting Seungmin to you. Try to respect the complexity of the operation.”
Minho stared at the blank television screen.
“One meeting does not mean he gets the room.”
“I know.”
“If he brings recording equipment with him, the meeting is over.”
“He is coming to view an apartment, not produce an album.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I will tell Seungmin not to let him arrive with a mixing console strapped to his back.”
“And ask what hours he works.”
“I will.”
“How frequently he brings people home.”
“I’ll ask.”
“Whether he can cook without setting off the smoke alarm.”
Jeongin laughed.
“What does cooking have to do with anything?”
“I would prefer not to evacuate the building because someone forgot oil catches fire.”
“That sounds oddly specific.”
“Hyunjin tried to fry something while drunk.”
“I remember that. He called me because you banned him from the kitchen.”
“He melted a spatula.”
“He said it was already damaged.”
“It was damaged because he melted it.”
Jeongin’s laughter grew louder, and Minho waited for him to finish.
When he finally settled, he said, “I’ll ask Seungmin for the important information. Then, on Sunday, you can meet Jisung and decide for yourself.”
Minho noticed the assumption.
“You have already chosen Sunday.”
“I was hoping for Sunday. Seungmin said Jisung is free in the afternoon, and I know you finish teaching before two.”
“You looked at my schedule?”
“You sent it to me last week after I asked when we could have dinner.”
Minho had forgotten that.
“What time?”
“Four?”
Minho let the silence stretch while he considered refusing purely because Jeongin sounded too pleased with himself.
Before he could answer, Jeongin spoke again.
“Please, hyung.”
Minho closed his eyes.
Jeongin knew exactly what that word did to him. Felix knew too. Between them, they had turned simple politeness into a form of emotional manipulation.
“You added that because you know I’m less likely to say no.”
“Yes,” Jeongin admitted. “I learned from Felix.”
“I need to stop feeding both of you.”
“You say that every time we ask for something, but then you send us home with containers.”
“That is unrelated.”
“It really isn’t.”
Minho looked towards the bedroom once more.
Empty wardrobe. Clean desk. Enough space for someone who could pay half the rent and leave him alone after long days at the studio.
A producer might understand strange hours. If Jisung worked late, they might barely see one another. That could be ideal.
Or he might spend every night humming through the walls and tapping rhythms against the furniture until Minho lost his mind.
“One meeting,” Minho said at last. “Sunday at four. You will be here before they arrive, not ten minutes afterward with an excuse about public transport.”
“I will come early enough for you to complain that I’m early.”
“And you’ll explain the rules to Seungmin beforehand.”
“No, you’ll explain your own rules like an adult. I’ll only warn him that you ask questions as though you are gathering evidence for court.”
“I ask clear questions because people give unclear answers.”
“That is exactly what I’m going to tell him.”
Minho was about to end the call when Jeongin laughed suddenly.
“What?”
“Seungmin replied.”
“And?”
“He said that if Jisung turns out to be an asshole, he’ll provide legal services.”
Minho frowned.
“Is he a lawyer?”
“No. He says he has access to the internet and an excellent understanding of spite.”
Minho stared ahead for several seconds.
The corner of his mouth moved before he could stop it.
Jeongin noticed the silence immediately.
“You already like him.”
“I have never met Seungmin.”
“I meant Jisung.”
“He wasn’t the one who said it.”
“No, but you’re considering the meeting instead of inventing another reason to cancel it.”
“I agreed because you were becoming irritating.”
“Whatever helps you sleep.”
“I’m ending the call now.”
“Sunday at four,” Jeongin reminded him, sounding unbearably satisfied. “I’ll message Seungmin before you change your mind.”
Minho hung up.
A second later, Jeongin sent a heart.
Minho looked at it, unimpressed, then placed the phone facedown on the sofa.
The apartment settled around him.
The refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. A car horn sounded somewhere below. Late afternoon light stretched across the floor and stopped just short of the hallway.
Han Jisung.
A producer who worked near the apartment, kept unusual hours and had apparently inspired enough loyalty for three different people to involve themselves in his housing situation.
Minho knew almost nothing about him.
By Sunday evening, he might be considering letting that stranger into the only place Minho had ever kept entirely under his own control.
The thought should have made the apartment feel smaller.
Instead, as Minho looked towards the open bedroom, he became painfully aware of how empty it was.
Seungmin received Jeongin’s confirmation before dinner reached the table.
He looked down at his phone, read the message and continued chewing with the same composure he brought to most situations, including the ones everyone else considered urgent.
Han noticed anyway.
“What did he say?”
Seungmin swallowed before answering. “Sunday at four. Minho agreed to meet you.”
Han stopped with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
Across the table, Changbin leaned forward so quickly his knee struck the underside.
“Did he agree to the room, or only the meeting?”
“The meeting,” Seungmin said. “He has questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Normal roommate questions, presumably.”
“You said he was particular.”
“I said Jeongin said he was particular. I have not personally conducted a psychological evaluation.”
Han lowered his chopsticks.
“What did Jeongin tell him about me?”
“That you are employed.”
“That cannot be the only thing.”
“I also told him you pay rent.”
Chan, who had finally returned with the rest of the food, sat beside Han and glanced at Seungmin’s screen.
“Did you mention that Jisung works mostly at the company? If Minho is worried about noise, that might help.”
“Jeongin asked about that. I said most of his work happens in the studio.”
“Most?” Han repeated. “Why did you say most? That makes it sound like I bring an orchestra home twice a week.”
“Because you sometimes work at home.”
“I use headphones.”
“You hum.”
Han stared at him.
“That does not need to be included in an initial character reference.”
“It will become relevant eventually.”
Changbin folded his arms over his chest. “How strict is this man about noise?”
Seungmin considered the question. “Jeongin said Minho’s apartment is the only place he gets real quiet after dancing and teaching all day. He probably wants to protect that.”
Han’s stomach tightened.
He could be quiet.
He was capable of it when necessary. He could wear headphones, keep his bedroom door closed and work from the company whenever a track required more than silent editing.
There was no reason for Minho to dislike him.
There were, unfortunately, many possible reasons for Minho to dislike him.
“What else does he want to know?” Chan asked.
“Whether Jisung smokes, hosts parties, cleans, cooks and keeps regular hours.”
At the last item, all three of them looked at Han.
Han felt personally attacked.
“My hours are regular.”
Changbin’s eyebrows rose. “You came home at four in the morning on Thursday.”
“That was one time.”
“You came home after three on Friday.”
“That was a separate one time.”
Chan’s mouth twitched.
Han pointed his chopsticks at him. “You are not allowed to judge me. You practically live inside the company.”
“I’m not judging you. I’m wondering whether we should explain that you know how to enter an apartment quietly.”
“I do.”
Changbin looked unconvinced. “You dropped your keys, kicked the shoe cabinet and swore loud enough to wake me last week.”
“The hallway light was broken.”
“The hallway light was motion-activated. It turned on while you were lying on the floor.”
Han looked back at Seungmin.
“Tell Jeongin I am a respectful night owl.”
“I will tell him that your work schedule varies and you are willing to follow quiet hours.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It sounds accurate.”
Han rubbed both hands over his face.
Sunday had been an abstract possibility when he agreed to the meeting. Now it had a time. Four in the afternoon, close enough to imagine and far enough away for him to ruin through excessive thought.
“What happens if he doesn’t like me?” he asked.
The question escaped before he could dress it as a joke.
Chan’s expression softened.
“Then you don’t live with him.”
“That is technically how rejection works, yes.”
“And it would not mean there’s something wrong with you,” Chan continued. “Sometimes people simply aren’t suited to share a home.”
Han looked down at the bowl in front of him.
He knew that.
He also knew how many listings he had already discarded because they were too expensive, too far away or clearly written by someone who considered sleep an optional hobby. A clean apartment near the company, with an affordable room and only one roommate, was almost suspiciously ideal.
He wanted it before he had even seen it.
That was dangerous.
Changbin nudged Han’s knee beneath the table.
“You don’t have to make yourself smaller just because he likes quiet.”
Han looked at him.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You’re already thinking about it.”
“I’m thinking about being considerate.”
“There’s a difference between considerate and disappearing.”
Han tried to laugh, but Changbin’s expression remained too serious.
Chan reached for the serving spoon and added more food to Han’s bowl.
“Meet him first. Ask your own questions too. You’re not begging him for a favour, Jisung. You would be paying to live there.”
Han stared at the extra food.
“I know.”
Seungmin watched him for a moment, then locked his phone.
“For what it’s worth, Jeongin would not push this hard if Minho were genuinely unpleasant. He is particular, but Jeongin trusts him.”
“That is reassuring,” Han admitted. “Slightly.”
“And if Minho does turn out to be an asshole, I already offered legal services.”
Chan blinked.
Changbin looked interested.
Han stared at Seungmin.
“You offered what?”
“Legal services.”
“You are not a lawyer.”
“I know how to search legislation, and I hold grudges very efficiently.”
“That is not a qualification.”
“It has been enough so far.”
Chan laughed into his hand.
Even Changbin’s expression eased.
Han shook his head and picked up his chopsticks again.
Sunday at four.
He could survive one conversation.
He could answer questions, view the room and determine whether Minho looked like the kind of person who would resent hearing another human being exist behind a closed door.
And if Minho did not like him, Han would simply continue searching.
It would be fine.
By the time they finished dinner, he had repeated that to himself often enough that it almost sounded true.
By Sunday afternoon, Han had changed his shirt three times.
Chan noticed the first change because Han entered the bathroom wearing a grey sweater and emerged in a black one.
He noticed the second because Han returned ten minutes later in a button-up shirt that made him look as though he had mistaken a roommate viewing for a corporate interview.
The third outfit was another sweater, dark blue and slightly oversized.
Chan sat on the sofa and watched Han adjust the cuffs for the fourth time.
“You looked fine in the first sweater.”
“The first sweater looked careless.”
“It looked exactly like this one, except grey.”
“The neckline was different.”
Chan nodded slowly, as though the distinction made perfect sense.
Han looked towards the mirror beside the door.
“Does this make me look irresponsible?”
“It makes you look like you’re wearing a blue sweater.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I know.”
Han checked his phone, placed it on the table, then picked it up again before the screen went dark.
Chan’s expression softened.
“You’re only meeting him.”
“I am aware of the nature of the appointment.”
“You’re not signing away your organs.”
“I know that too.”
“Seungmin will be there.”
“That makes me less certain about the organ situation.”
Chan smiled.
The door opened before he could answer, and Changbin entered carrying a paper bag of pastries and wearing the expression of someone arriving to oversee an operation.
He took one look at Han.
“Why are you dressed like that?”
Han looked down at himself.
“What is everyone seeing that I’m not?”
“You look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous. I’m dressed appropriately to meet someone whose first impression may determine whether I continue sleeping three metres away from Chan’s toothbrush.”
“You buttoned the cuffs,” Changbin said.
“That is their purpose.”
“You hate buttoned cuffs.”
Han turned towards Chan. “Did you tell him I changed clothes?”
“I didn’t need to. He has eyes.”
Changbin placed the pastries on the table and pulled lightly at Han’s sleeve.
“This sweater makes you look small.”
“I am not trying to intimidate my potential roommate.”
“You should establish that you’re not easily bullied.”
“I’m looking for housing, not entering prison.”
Chan leaned back against the sofa, visibly enjoying himself.
Changbin ignored him. “Do we have the full address?”
“You have asked me for it twice.”
“Do we have his full name?”
“Lee Minho.”
“Age?”
“Older than me.”
“Occupation?”
“Dancer and instructor.”
“What kind of dancer?”
Han stared.
“What does that question mean?”
“There are different kinds.”
“He performs and teaches. That is all I know, because unlike you, I did not request a background investigation.”
“You should have.”
“He is Jeongin’s friend.”
“We discovered Jeongin existed three days ago.”
“That doesn’t make him unreliable.”
“It doesn’t make him reliable either.”
Han reached for his bag.
“You are not coming.”
Changbin looked offended. “I never said I was.”
“You arrived wearing shoes and a jacket eight minutes before Seungmin is supposed to collect me.”
“I generally wear shoes and jackets when leaving my own home.”
“You are standing beside the door.”
“I was planning to say goodbye.”
“With your car keys in your hand?”
Changbin looked down at the keys as though they had betrayed him.
Chan covered his mouth, shoulders shaking.
Han pointed towards the sofa.
“Sit down. You are not coming with me and looming behind Seungmin like private security.”
“I don’t loom.”
“You look like you could carry Minho’s refrigerator out of the building if the conversation went badly.”
“That is not looming. That is upper-body strength.”
The doorbell rang.
Han closed his eyes briefly.
Seungmin stood outside in a dark coat, wearing the calm expression of someone who had correctly predicted every problem awaiting him.
His gaze moved from Han to Changbin.
“You’re not coming.”
Changbin’s face tightened. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because you’re dressed to come.”
“I am dressed to exist.”
Seungmin stepped inside and looked Han over.
“You changed.”
Han stared at him. “How do you know?”
“You sent me a photo twenty minutes ago asking whether the black sweater made you look unfriendly.”
Han had forgotten about that.
Seungmin examined the blue one.
“This is better.”
“Thank you.”
“You still look terrified.”
“Thank you less.”
Chan stood and handed Han a folder.
Han frowned at it.
“What is this?”
“Payslips, proof of employment, references from the previous lease and copies of your identification. I thought Minho might appreciate having the practical information clearly organised.”
Han opened it.
Each document sat inside a transparent sleeve with small labels along the side.
“You made me a housing portfolio?”
“It seemed useful.”
Changbin stepped closer. “I added the emergency-contact page.”
Han slowly turned towards him.
“You added what?”
“My number, Chan’s number, the company address, your allergies and a note that you sometimes forget meals when you’re working.”
Seungmin took the folder from Han and skimmed the page.
“This is surprisingly thorough.”
“You are all behaving as though I am being placed with a foster family.”
Chan reached out and fixed the collar Han had already adjusted repeatedly.
“You’re meeting a stranger who may become your roommate. Let us worry a little.”
The annoyance drained out of Han before he could hold onto it.
He looked from Chan to Changbin.
Both of them were trying not to appear as concerned as they were, which only made the concern more obvious.
“I’ll call after the meeting,” Han promised.
“During,” Changbin corrected.
“I am not hiding in his bathroom to provide you with live updates.”
“Send the address when you arrive.”
“You already have it.”
“Send it again so I know you arrived at the correct building.”
Han sighed.
Seungmin opened the door. “We should leave before he asks Minho for dental records.”
Changbin muttered, “That would be useful for identification.”
Han kissed two fingers and pressed them dramatically against Changbin’s forehead before slipping into the hallway.
“Pray for me.”
Changbin caught his wrist before he moved beyond reach.
His grip was gentle despite the sternness in his face.
“You do not have to take the room simply because you need one. If he makes you uncomfortable, you leave. I don’t care how good the location is.”
Han’s smile softened.
“I know.”
“If the windows don’t lock properly—”
“I’ll send photographs.”
“And check the water pressure.”
“I’ll conduct a complete structural inspection.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I’ll be careful.”
Changbin released him reluctantly.
Behind him, Chan smiled, dimples deepening.
“You’ll be fine.”
Han nodded.
Then he followed Seungmin towards the lift before either of them could offer to escort him again.
The doors closed.
Han released a breath so long that Seungmin looked over.
“You’re sweating.”
“I’m wearing a sweater indoors.”
“You were sweating before we left.”
Han shifted the folder beneath his arm.
“What is Minho actually like?”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“You told me he is particular, values quiet and has rejected several people. That is a warning, not a personality description.”
Seungmin considered it.
“Jeongin says he is responsible, direct and more considerate than he sounds.”
“That last part is worrying.”
“It means he may speak bluntly, but he is not deliberately cruel.”
“What if he hates musicians?”
“He agreed to meet you after finding out what you do.”
“Jeongin emotionally manipulated him.”
“Probably.”
Han leaned against the lift wall.
“Does he smile?”
Seungmin turned his head.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A relevant one. People who never smile are difficult to read.”
“He is a dancer, not a Victorian headmaster. I assume he smiles occasionally.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“You have survived meetings with executives who rejected entire tracks while eating salads. You can survive one dancer asking whether you wash dishes.”
“Executives don’t decide where I sleep.”
“No, but they decide whether you can afford rent, which is why we’re doing this.”
Han made a face.
The lift reached the ground floor.
As they stepped outside, Seungmin added, “You should ask questions too.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. Do not sit there agreeing to every rule because you want the room.”
Han looked at him.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You were absolutely planning to.”
“I can be discerning.”
“You nearly rented a room without a private bathroom because the listing included free internet.”
“The internet was fast.”
“It was above a karaoke bar.”
“That detail was concealed until the viewing.”
Seungmin pushed open the building door.
Han followed him outside, clutching the folder more tightly than before.
He could ask questions.
He would ask whether guests were allowed, how utilities were divided, whether the apartment stayed warm in winter and how strict Minho’s definition of quiet actually was.
He would behave like an adult evaluating a practical arrangement.
He would not agree to become invisible simply because the room had a door and the train journey was short.
At least, that was the plan.
Minho cleaned the apartment twice before they arrived.
Not because it was dirty.
It was never dirty.
But knowing that strangers would examine the space made him notice flaws he normally ignored: a faint ring on the dining table, one cushion sitting at the wrong angle, dust beneath the television stand that nobody could have seen without lying flat on the floor.
Jeongin arrived thirty minutes early and caught him wiping the kitchen counter for the third time.
“You know Jisung is the one who needs to impress you.”
Minho folded the cloth neatly.
“I’m aware.”
“You reorganised the pantry.”
“It needed reorganising.”
“You did that yesterday.”
“It required further adjustment.”
Jeongin sat at the dining table and opened a packet of crackers.
Minho placed a plate in front of him without comment.
Jeongin looked at the plate, then at Minho.
“I’m not going to create a crumb emergency.”
“You said that last time.”
“I was eating a pastry.”
“You left sugar on the chair.”
“That sounds impossible.”
“I have photographic evidence.”
Jeongin tipped the crackers onto the plate with exaggerated care.
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m not.”
“You changed your shirt.”
Minho looked down at the black shirt he had put on after deciding the first black shirt looked too worn.
“The other one had a loose thread.”
“You cut the thread off.”
“The fabric remained compromised.”
Jeongin smiled.
Minho checked the time.
Four minutes past four.
“They’re late.”
“It has been four minutes.”
“Seungmin seems like someone who arrives early.”
“You have never met him.”
“I have read his messages.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It was enough.”
Before Jeongin could argue, the doorbell rang.
Minho looked at him.
Jeongin remained seated.
“You answer it,” Minho said.
“It is your apartment.”
“This meeting exists because of your secret roommate.”
“He is not secret, and you are the one potentially accepting a new tenant.”
Minho disliked the logic because it was correct.
He walked towards the entrance with Jeongin following several steps behind.
When he opened the door, Seungmin stood in the hallway beside a man Minho assumed had to be Han Jisung.
His first impression was not loud.
It was not even particularly expressive.
It was quietness held too carefully.
Jisung stood with both hands wrapped around a dark folder, his shoulders drawn slightly inward beneath an oversized blue sweater. His hair fell softly across his forehead, and his eyes remained fixed somewhere near Minho’s shoulder rather than meeting his gaze directly.
He looked younger than Minho expected.
Nervous too.
Painfully so.
Seungmin lifted one hand in greeting.
“Hello. Sorry we’re a few minutes late. The lift in Chan’s building stopped at every floor, and Jisung insisted we should leave early enough to account for traffic but not early enough to arrive rudely.”
Jisung turned towards him.
“You did not need to explain the entire argument.”
“You were about to apologise for public infrastructure.”
“I was going to acknowledge that we kept him waiting.”
Minho stepped aside.
“It was five minutes. You didn’t keep me waiting long.”
Jisung’s gaze finally flickered towards his face.
“Still, I’m sorry. We should have planned better.”
“You cannot plan how many people use a lift.”
“That is what I told him,” Seungmin said.
Jisung gave him a wounded look.
Jeongin appeared beside Minho.
“Come in before he apologises for the building itself.”
Relief crossed Jisung’s face when he saw Jeongin, even though they had never met.
“You’re real.”
Jeongin stopped.
Behind him, Minho glanced over.
“What?”
Jisung looked briefly embarrassed, but Seungmin answered before he could.
“My friends only discovered this week that I have a roommate. They’ve decided Jeongin was hidden from them.”
“I wasn’t hidden,” Jeongin said.
“You were omitted with such consistency that the distinction has become meaningless.”
“That sounds like your fault.”
Minho watched them remove their shoes.
Jisung placed his carefully beside Seungmin’s, aligning both heels with the edge of the mat before straightening.
He did it without being told.
Minho noticed.
Jeongin noticed Minho noticing and smiled to himself.
Minho chose not to acknowledge either of them.
“This is Han Jisung,” Seungmin said. “Jisung, Lee Minho. You have already met Jeongin emotionally, if not physically.”
“That sentence made the situation stranger,” Jisung muttered.
“It was already strange.”
Minho closed the door.
Jisung looked around the apartment, but only briefly, as though examining anything for too long might be rude.
The afternoon light fell across the pale walls and dark flooring. The living room opened into the dining area and kitchen, all of it arranged exactly as Minho preferred. Nothing unnecessary sat on the surfaces. Every object had a place.
Jisung seemed afraid to touch any of them.
“You can sit,” Minho said, softening the instruction when Jisung’s posture became even straighter. “The sofa is fine.”
Jisung crossed the room and sat near one end, leaving enough space beside him for Seungmin. He placed the folder on his lap and kept both hands resting over it.
Jeongin claimed the armchair.
Minho remained standing for a moment, then realised that looming over Jisung while asking questions would support Jeongin’s accusation that he conducted roommate meetings like criminal interrogations.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Water would be good, thank you.”
Seungmin looked towards the kitchen.
“Tea, if you have it.”
Minho turned to him.
“You can also have water.”
“You asked what we wanted.”
“I asked Jisung.”
“You said ‘you,’ which can be plural.”
Jeongin covered a smile.
Minho looked back at Jisung.
Jisung’s mouth had twitched, though he quickly pressed his lips together.
“Water and tea,” Minho said. “I’ll be back.”
By the time he returned, Seungmin had apparently said something under his breath that left Jisung fighting another smile.
Minho set the drinks down and took the chair opposite the sofa.
The folder on Jisung’s lap had his full name written across the front in neat handwriting that did not match the nervous way he held it.
“You brought documents.”
Jisung looked down.
“My hyungs prepared them. I told them a normal person probably doesn’t arrive at a roommate viewing with a portfolio, but they said it would make things easier.”
“How many hyungs?”
“Two who behave as though they have joint custody of me. They are not biologically related to me, which makes their confidence even less reasonable.”
Seungmin added, “They would both be here if we had not actively prevented it.”
“One of them has self-control,” Jisung said. “Chan hyung would only have come if I asked.”
“He prepared the folder.”
“That is organisation, not interference.”
Minho held out his hand.
Jisung passed it to him.
Inside were proof of employment, recent payslips, previous rental details, copies of identification and several contact numbers. Coloured tabs separated each section.
The last page carried the heading Important Information About Han Jisung.
Minho read the first line.
Allergy: shellfish.
The second was more specific.
May forget meals while working. Remind firmly, but do not begin with a lecture because he will become defensive and claim coffee counts as nutrition.
Minho looked up.
Jisung followed his gaze to the page and closed his eyes.
“Changbin hyung added that.”
“There is more.”
“I know. Please don’t read it aloud.”
Seungmin lifted his tea.
“You should read it. Some of it is useful.”
Jisung elbowed him without looking.
Minho placed the folder on the coffee table before Jisung’s embarrassment became painful to witness.
“Jeongin said you work as a producer.”
Jisung nodded.
“I work with Chan hyung and Changbin hyung. The three of us produce under the name 3RACHA.”
“How much of that work would happen here?”
The question made Jisung straighten.
“Not much. We have studios at the company, so recording and most arranging happen there. Sometimes I bring lyrics home or edit a track if I don’t want to stay at work, but I use headphones.”
Minho watched him carefully.
The answer sounded prepared, though not dishonest. Jisung had clearly anticipated the concern.
“When you say ‘not much,’ what does that include?”
“Writing, listening back to recordings, changing small sections and occasionally working through melodies. I would not bring artists here to record, and I wouldn’t use speakers late at night.”
“Would you use them during the day?”
Jisung’s eyes moved briefly towards Seungmin.
Minho noticed.
“Sometimes,” Jisung admitted. “Not loudly. If speakers are a problem, I can keep everything on headphones.”
Minho had expected defensiveness or an attempt to minimise the noise.
Instead, Jisung sounded prepared to remove every inconvenience before Minho had decided it existed.
“I didn’t say you could never use them,” Minho clarified. “I’m trying to understand what living with you would sound like.”
For the first time since entering, Jisung looked directly at him.
His expression remained wary, but something in his shoulders eased.
“I hum sometimes.”
Minho waited.
Jisung rubbed one thumb against the folder’s edge.
“I don’t always realise I’m doing it, especially when I’m trying to find a melody. Seungmin claims it is irritating, but Seungmin finds most visible displays of joy offensive, so his opinion should not be treated as impartial.”
Seungmin did not react.
Jeongin laughed openly.
The corner of Minho’s mouth threatened to move.
He lowered his gaze towards the papers before anyone noticed.
“How late do you usually work?”
“That depends on our schedule. Some nights I finish around ten or eleven. Other nights are later.”
“How much later?”
Jisung hesitated.
“Two or three in the morning.”
“You arrive home at three?”
“Sometimes, but I know how to be quiet. I won’t play music or use the kitchen loudly, and I can prepare anything I need before work so I’m not opening cupboards in the middle of the night.”
Minho considered him.
“I don’t expect you to creep through the apartment like a burglar. Normal movement is fine. Doors close, water runs and people occasionally need food after midnight. I only need to know you won’t bring work home and play it through speakers while I’m asleep.”
Jisung blinked, apparently surprised by the distinction.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“Then the schedule itself is manageable.”
Some tension left Jisung’s face.
Minho moved to the practical details. He explained when rent was due, how utilities were divided and which household items were shared. He described the building’s waste schedule, laundry arrangements and the fact that groceries remained separate unless they agreed otherwise.
Jisung listened with such focused attention that Minho suspected he was memorising each sentence.
“I’m fine with splitting household supplies,” Jisung said when Minho finished. “I don’t cook enough to take over much kitchen space, and I would label anything I didn’t want shared.”
“What can you cook?”
There was a pause.
“Ramen.”
Minho waited, assuming more would follow.
Jisung’s ears began turning pink.
“Different kinds of ramen.”
Jeongin lowered his face.
Seungmin rescued him with questionable generosity.
“He can make eggs.”
“I can also make rice,” Jisung protested.
“You own a rice cooker.”
“Using an appliance correctly still counts as preparation.”
Minho looked between them.
Jisung straightened again.
“I can feed myself. I don’t expect anyone else to cook for me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
The statement was so earnest that Minho wondered who had made him believe clarification was necessary.
“I wasn’t worried about that,” he said. “I only wanted to know whether you use the kitchen often.”
“Oh. Then no, not often.”
Minho explained the remaining rules. No smoking. No parties. Shared spaces needed to be left clean after use. Neither of them would enter the other’s bedroom without permission.
“Guests are fine,” he continued, “but I would like advance notice before anyone comes over. You don’t need permission every time. I only don’t want to arrive home and discover strangers in the apartment.”
Jisung’s attention sharpened.
“You allow guests?”
The surprise in his voice made Minho pause.
“Yes.”
“I thought you didn’t like people coming over.”
“I don’t like unexpected people coming over. That is different.”
“Right. Of course.”
Jisung nodded, then added carefully, “Chan hyung and Changbin hyung will probably want to see wherever I move. They won’t come constantly, but they tend to worry until they inspect things themselves.”
Seungmin took another sip of tea.
“Changbin intends to assess the locks.”
Jisung looked at him.
“You did not need to include that.”
“It may prevent alarm when he arrives carrying tools.”
“He is not bringing tools.”
“Did you ask?”
Jisung went quiet.
Minho almost smiled again.
“They can visit,” he said. “Tell me beforehand. That is all.”
Jisung’s shoulders lowered another fraction.
Minho noticed how often that happened whenever one of his assumptions turned out to be less restrictive than expected.
“Would you like to see the room?”
Jisung stood so quickly that his knee nearly struck the coffee table.
Minho reached forward instinctively, though there was too much distance between them to help.
Jisung caught himself.
“I’m fine.”
“I can see that.”
The words came out drier than Minho intended.
Jisung looked at him, startled.
Then his mouth twitched.
Minho led them down the hallway.
The bedroom was not large, but it held a bed, wardrobe, desk and narrow shelf without feeling cramped. Afternoon sunlight filled the room through the west-facing window.
Jisung stepped inside slowly.
For the first time since Minho opened the door, he stopped looking as though someone might ask him to leave at any moment.
He crossed to the window and looked outside.
“The company is three train stops from here,” Seungmin said from the doorway. “You could probably get there in under twenty minutes.”
Jisung nodded without turning.
Minho watched his gaze move from the window to the desk, then to the wardrobe and the outlets beside the wall.
“There’s enough room for a second desk if the shelf is removed,” Minho said. “You can move the existing furniture around.”
Jisung looked back at him.
“I can change it?”
“It would be your room.”
Something in Jisung’s face shifted.
The reaction was small, but it lasted long enough for Minho to wonder why the answer had affected him.
“You would be paying for the space,” Minho added. “You don’t have to preserve it exactly as it is.”
“Right. I know. I just wanted to make sure.”
Jisung asked before opening the wardrobe. He checked the heating, the window lock, the water pressure and whether Minho minded someone showering late. His voice steadied with every practical question.
Minho answered all of them.
From the hallway, Jeongin watched with an expression Minho distrusted.
Seungmin leaned against the wall, quietly observing Jisung instead.
When the questions finally ended, Jisung returned to the centre of the room and looked around one more time.
Hope had begun appearing in his expression.
That made Minho nervous.
Hope implied expectation, and expectation made refusal feel more personal than it should.
Jeongin seemed to sense Minho’s retreat before he made it.
“The location works for him, the rent works for both of you, and your schedules are opposite enough that you probably won’t fight over the bathroom. Seungmin has known him for years and is willing to vouch for him. This is objectively better than the mint person.”
Minho looked at him.
“Do not compare every candidate to the mint person.”
“He established a memorable standard.”
Jisung glanced between them.
“What happened with mint?”
“Nothing,” Minho said.
“He wanted to grow it in the bathroom,” Jeongin explained.
“That sounds unhygienic.”
Minho looked at Jisung.
Jisung immediately seemed to worry that he had answered incorrectly.
“Not because plants are unhygienic in general,” he added. “Just because bathrooms already have moisture and cleaning chemicals, and I don’t know whether that is an appropriate environment for something you plan to eat.”
Jeongin smiled.
Minho ignored him.
Seungmin folded his arms.
“For reassurance, if Jisung turns out to be an asshole after moving in, I will provide legal services.”
Jisung turned towards him.
“You cannot keep offering that while I’m present.”
Minho looked at Seungmin. “You are not a lawyer.”
“I have access to the internet and an excellent understanding of spite.”
“That is not a qualification.”
“It has resolved several disputes.”
“Name one.”
“I’m bound by confidentiality.”
“You invented confidentiality because you have no examples.”
Jisung stared at Seungmin, visibly offended on Minho’s behalf despite being the proposed legal threat.
“You are making me sound dangerous.”
“I’m demonstrating accountability.”
“You are presenting me as a tenant who may require litigation.”
“Every tenant may require litigation. That is why agreements exist.”
Jeongin nodded thoughtfully.
“He has a point.”
“No, he does not,” Jisung said, turning towards him. “You cannot support him simply because you share a refrigerator.”
The argument pulled him completely out of the careful quietness he had worn since arriving.
His eyes widened. His hands moved when he spoke. His voice remained soft, but it no longer sounded rehearsed.
Minho watched him for several seconds.
This, he suspected, was closer to Jisung’s actual personality.
Not silent.
Not difficult either.
Just alive in a way he had been trying very hard to contain.
Jeongin caught Minho’s sleeve.
Not subtly.
“Hyung.”
Minho looked down at the hand, then at Jeongin’s hopeful face.
He was weak to his younger friends.
That was not new information.
Felix could persuade him to cook after midnight by saying he missed Minho’s food. Jeongin could convince him to drive across the city with a single carefully timed please. Even Hyunjin, who deserved far less accommodation, usually succeeded through relentless irritation.
Minho looked towards Jisung.
The argument stopped as soon as their eyes met.
Jisung’s hands lowered. The nervousness returned, though less completely than before.
He stood in the middle of the empty room holding a folder prepared by people who clearly loved him, already bracing himself for rejection.
Minho thought about the rent.
He thought about Jisung aligning his shoes without being asked, requesting permission before opening the wardrobe and looking surprised when told that guests were allowed.
He thought about the way Jisung had immediately offered to give up speakers, noise and pieces of his routine before Minho asked him to.
Living with a producer might be inconvenient.
Living with someone determined not to inconvenience him at all might create a different problem.
Still, Minho had asked for one meeting so he could decide.
He had decided.
“You can move in,” he said.
The room became quiet.
Jisung stared at him.
“Really?”
“Yes. We’ll put everything in writing so the rent, utilities and household rules are clear. You can review the agreement before signing it, and if something in it feels unreasonable, you can say so.”
Jeongin smiled as though he had personally negotiated a peace treaty.
Jisung looked towards Seungmin, apparently checking whether he had heard correctly.
Seungmin gave him a small nod.
“When would you want me to move?” Jisung asked.
“Whenever you’re ready. I only need notice so I can be home when you bring your things.”
“I could do next weekend, but I don’t want to rush you. If you need longer to prepare the room, I can wait.”
“The room is already prepared.”
Jisung looked around.
“Then Saturday?”
“Saturday is fine.”
“Thank you.”
There was nothing casual in the way he said it.
The gratitude seemed too large for a room Minho needed someone to occupy.
Minho looked away first.
Jeongin squeezed his arm.
“I knew you would agree.”
“You did not.”
“I did. I simply applied enough encouragement to help you reach the correct conclusion.”
“You spent half the week warning me not to reject him.”
“That was preventative care.”
Minho pulled his sleeve free.
Seungmin retrieved the folder from the coffee table and held it out.
“You should keep this. His proof of income is there, and the emergency-contact page may be useful.”
Jisung groaned.
“Please throw away the last page.”
Minho glanced at him.
“I haven’t finished reading it.”
“You do not need instructions on how to handle me when I’m hungry.”
“That sounds precisely like something a roommate should know.”
Jisung looked betrayed.
For the first time, Minho allowed himself to smile without hiding it.
It lasted only a moment.
Jisung saw it anyway.
His expression changed with surprise.
Then he smiled back.
The room no longer looked entirely empty.