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Minho and Jisung's dorm always smells ridiculously good. Chan knows this. Minho cooks for him whenever he goes to visit and they kick Jisung put so they can have "alone time," and the smell wafts everywhere. Somehow, Chan still isn't used to it, and he loves Minho's cooking a little too much.
Chan unlocks the door quietly and slips inside the dorm. Jisung is already gone. Outside, cicadas hum, but inside it's quiet—peaceful, warm, and still.
Minho is standing barefoot in front of the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pot of ramen with practiced ease. Not the instant kind, but the real stuff—fresh noodles, homemade broth, a soft-boiled egg already waiting on the cutting board, and thick slices of pork belly searing in a pan off to the side. He doesn't do this every night, but when he does, he does it right.
He doesn't hear Chan come in at first.
There's a shuffle of socked feet across the floor, a lazy rustling of fabric, and then two warm arms snake around Minho's waist. A chin rests on his shoulder, and Minho doesn't even flinch. He just exhales, the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You weren't on the couch," Chan mumbles into the fabric of Minho's shirt.
"I was cooking."
Chan hums. "Ramen?"
"You smelled it."
"You always make ramen when you're trying to spoil me."
Minho gives a small shrug and doesn't answer. The broth bubbles low, steam rising in gentle curls. He lifts the lid, gives it one last stir, and drops the noodles in with a quiet satisfaction. Chan doesn't let go. His arms stay wrapped tight around Minho's middle, body pressed flush against his back like he's trying to melt into him.
"You're gonna overheat," Minho deadpans.
"You're warm," Chan counters. "And I've had a long day."
He's wearing a baggy black shirt—one Minho's pretty sure he stole weeks ago—and a cap pulled low over his eyes, hair likely a mess underneath. His voice is still heavy with exhaustion, the kind that clings even after a shower and a few hours on the couch. Minho doesn't ask what made it hard. He knows Chan will tell him when he's ready. Or maybe he won't. Either way, Minho lets him hold on.
"Dinner's almost ready," he murmurs.
Chan gives a small nod, but doesn't move. His hands slide down slightly, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of Minho's shirt like they belong there.
"Missed you," Chan says, quieter this time. "Even though we've been home all day."
Minho swallows. Something about that hits deeper than it should. He turns the heat off and sets the spoon aside, letting the silence sit between them for a beat.
Then he turns around in Chan's arms, the soft cotton of the hoodie brushing against his palms. Chan looks up at him, eyes shadowed by the cap, lips parted like he wants to say more but doesn't know how.
"You're clingy today," Minho says, but it's not a complaint.
Chan shrugs. "You're letting me."
Minho leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Of course I am."
Chan closes the gap, kissing him back fully this time—slow and sweet, with just the tiniest hum of want. It's the kind of kiss that feels like a thank you. Like I'm tired, and I love you, and this is all I need.
Minho smiles against it.
When they part, Chan's arms are still locked loosely around him, thumbs brushing gently against his hips.
"You made enough for both of us?" he asks, glancing toward the stove.
"No," Minho deadpans. "I made three servings. Because you eat like a trash bin."
Chan laughs, eyes crinkling, and for a second, the fatigue slips off his shoulders.
"I love you," he says before he can stop himself. Not dramatic, not teasing. Just soft. Real.
Minho's face doesn't change. He just lifts a hand, brushing the edge of the cap up slightly to see him better.
"I know."
Chan lets out a breath that sounds like a smile and finally lets go. He helps Minho ladle the ramen into bowls, adding the pork belly and egg, sprinkling the scallions with a little flourish. Their hands brush a few times, but neither of them says anything about it.
They eat at the small table by the window, knees touching beneath it, legs tangled like always. The ramen is hot and rich, a little spicy, a little sweet, with just the right amount of bite in the noodles.
"This is so good," Chan groans after the first bite.
Minho hides his smile in his chopsticks. "You say that every time."
"Because you're a genius. A kitchen wizard. A noodle god."
"Stop talking with your mouth full."
Chan grins and slurps another mouthful dramatically. He doesn't care if he looks ridiculous—not here, not with Minho. And Minho doesn't mind. Not when Chan looks at him like that, with sauce on his lip and soft adoration in his eyes.
They eat slowly, talking about nothing. The sunset fades fully into night, and the cicadas are joined by the low hum of the city outside. Dishes pile up in the sink behind them, but neither of them moves to clean yet.
After the last bite, Chan leans back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach like he's just conquered something.
"I'm full. You've fed me. Now what?"
Minho tilts his head. "Now you wash the dishes."
Chan groans dramatically, slumping further. "Nooo."
"You offered."
"When?"
"Every time you say 'Now what?' after eating."
"That's not a binding contract."
Minho shrugs and stands. "Fine. I'll do them."
Chan scrambles up and grabs his wrist. "No, no, no, come back. You cooked. I'll do them. Slowly. And badly. But I'll do them."
Minho smirks. "As long as it's not me, I'm happy."
Chan kisses his cheek in silent apology and turns to the sink, rolling up his sleeves with exaggerated effort. Minho leans against the counter, watching him fumble with the soap and stack the bowls like he's never done it before in his life.
"You're so dramatic," Minho mutters fondly.
Chan peeks over his shoulder, grinning. "And yet you love me."
Minho just shakes his head and steps forward, wrapping his arms around Chan from behind now. He rests his chin on his shoulder, mirroring the way Chan held him earlier. His hands rest lightly on Chan's stomach, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the room settle in his chest.
Chan pauses his dishwashing to lean back into him, sighing contentedly.
"You're warm," he murmurs.
"So are you."
They stand like that for a long time—soft music from the living room echoing faintly, the water running, steam still clinging to the air. Their bodies fit together perfectly, and everything else—dirty dishes, tomorrow's schedules, the weight of the world—fades into something distant and unimportant.
Minho kisses the back of Chan's neck, and Chan doesn't even flinch.