Archive of Our Own

The kitchen in the dorm always looked bigger when nobody was actually using it.

Tonight, it was a battlefield.

The overhead light buzzed with that faint, tired hum it always had, like even the bulbs were bracing for chaos. The counters had been wiped down—mostly. A cutting board sat crooked near the sink. A bag of flour was already open, its paper mouth folded back like it had given up on being contained. A dozen little bowls waited in a neat line like Minho had watched one too many cooking videos and decided Mise en Place was going to save them.

It wouldn't.

Minho stood in front of the stove with the posture of a man preparing for war. Sleeves rolled up, dark hair shoved back by a headband he definitely had not owned yesterday. His eyes flicked between the recipe on his phone and the ingredients spread out like evidence.

Jisung sat on the counter beside him, legs swinging, socked feet tapping against the cabinet door with the easy rhythm of someone who wasn't carrying the weight of feeding seven other men.

He had a handful of shredded cheese.

Not, like, a polite pinch.

A full fist.

He popped it into his mouth in two bites, cheeks rounding as he chewed, eyes bright and innocent as if he hadn't already "taste-tested" half the prep.

Minho didn't look up. "Stop snacking."

Jisung's voice came out muffled by cheese. "Mmph."

Minho sighed like he'd expected nothing else from the universe. "That's not a yes."

Jisung swallowed, then lifted his hand again—another pinch of cheese dangling like he was offering tribute. "Do you want some?"

"I want you to stop eating our dinner before it becomes dinner."

Jisung hummed, unbothered. "Okay."

He ate the cheese anyway.

Minho's hand paused mid-reach for the salt. Slowly, he turned his head.

Jisung blinked at him, eyes wide. Angelic. A menace.

Minho pointed at him with the measuring spoon. "You are the reason recipes say 'serves four' and it still doesn't."

Jisung smiled sweetly. "I'm supporting you."

"You're sabotaging me."

"I'm emotionally supporting you," Jisung corrected, and leaned down like he was about to whisper something important.

Minho leaned in automatically, because he was weak and Jisung knew it.

Jisung pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Minho's mouth instead, then pulled back with a grin. "See? Support."

Minho stared at him for one long second, then tried very hard to look back at his phone like his ears hadn't gone pink. "We're making—" he cleared his throat "—we're making that thing. The ambitious thing."

Jisung squinted at the phone screen. "It's... what is it? A... béchamel?"

"Don't say it like that," Minho muttered.

"I'm saying it like it's a spell. Because it sounds like one." Jisung tried again, dramatically. "Bay. Shuh. Mell."

Minho flicked his forehead with two fingers. "Stop. It's not that serious."

Jisung rubbed his forehead like he'd been gravely wounded. "We are cooking like adults tonight. Like... like responsible grown men who nourish their bodies."

Minho glanced at the cheese bag, now visibly lighter. "You've consumed a cow."

Jisung looked offended on behalf of cows everywhere. "That was not a cow. That was—" he checked the bag "—'Mexican blend.'"

Minho made a sound that might've been a laugh, if he'd let it live. Instead, he busied himself with the pan, setting it on the burner, adjusting the flame with careful precision. "Okay. We're doing this right. No chaos. We follow the steps. We feed the boys. Everyone's impressed. We get praised. We feel accomplished."

Jisung watched him with that soft focus he got sometimes, like Minho doing something normal—standing at a stove, reading instructions—was still somehow the most fascinating thing in the room.

"You're cute," Jisung announced.

Minho's shoulders stiffened. "Don't."

"Why?"

"Because you'll distract me."

Jisung leaned closer, voice dropping. "Maybe I want to distract you."

Minho turned his head just enough to give him a look. It was supposed to be stern. It was... not convincing, mostly because his mouth kept threatening to smile.

Jisung's legs swung again, and then—like he couldn't help himself—he slid off the counter.

But he didn't land on the floor.

He landed directly in Minho's space.

Jisung hooked his legs around Minho's waist from the side, like it was the most natural thing in the world, ankles crossing behind Minho's back. His hands settled at Minho's shoulders, fingers warm through the thin fabric.

Minho froze with a wooden spoon in his hand.

Jisung's chin tipped up. "Hi."

Minho's voice went a shade quieter. "You're going to make me burn something."

"That's fine," Jisung said, unbothered. "We can call it 'char.' Fancy."

Minho huffed, and tried to turn back to the stove. It was hard, though, with Jisung basically glued to him like a clingy koala.

"I can't stir like this," Minho said.

"You can," Jisung argued, and tightened his legs a little like he was proving a point.

Minho's hand tightened on the spoon. His jaw worked once, like he was wrestling with the part of him that wanted to be responsible.

He lost quickly.

Jisung's smile turned victorious, like he'd known he would.

Minho attempted to stir anyway, shifting his hips to keep balance while Jisung clung to him. It was ridiculous. It was domestic in a way that made Minho's chest feel too full, like he was breathing in warmth.

He poured butter into the pan. It sizzled, the smell rising instantly—rich, sharp, comforting.

Jisung leaned in and inhaled dramatically. "Mmm. Smells like... victory."

"It smells like butter."

"Exactly."

Minho added flour.

This was the moment everything went wrong.

The flour puffed up like a tiny explosion, a pale cloud rising and drifting with all the slow menace of a horror movie. It coated the air. It dusted the counter. It drifted into Minho's hair, into the folds of his shirt, onto his forearm.

And right onto his cheek.

A perfect white streak, like someone had swiped him with a paintbrush.

Minho didn't notice immediately. He was too busy coughing once, waving his free hand like he could shoo flour out of the atmosphere.

Jisung, however, went perfectly still.

His eyes tracked the flour on Minho's cheek with the intensity of a man who had just been given a mission by fate.

Minho glanced at him. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Jisung's voice came out reverent. "You have flour."

Minho blinked. "Where?"

Jisung didn't answer. He leaned in instead.

Minho's breath hitched purely out of reflex—because Jisung kissed him a lot, yes, but the way Jisung kissed him when he was in the middle of doing something always felt like a theft. Like Jisung was stealing a moment out of the world and making it theirs.

Jisung's lips pressed to Minho's cheek, right over the flour streak.

A soft kiss.

Then another, just under it, because he was dramatic.

Minho's eyes fluttered shut for half a second before he forced them open again. "Jisung."

Jisung pulled back, lips dusted with the faintest white. He smacked his lips like he was tasting fine cuisine. "Tastes like you."

Minho stared at him. "It tastes like flour."

Jisung shrugged. "Still you."

Minho's mouth twitched. "You're—"

"A genius," Jisung supplied.

"A menace."

"A genius menace," Jisung agreed happily, and kissed him again—this time right at the corner of his mouth, quick and bright.

Minho tried very hard to regain control of his brain. He turned back to the stove, stirring with more force than necessary.

Jisung tightened his legs like he was anchoring himself. "Okay, chef. What's next?"

Minho read from the phone, lips moving silently. "We make a roux. We cook it until it smells nutty. Then we add milk slowly so it doesn't clump."

Jisung nodded solemnly like he was about to take notes.

Minho glanced at him suspiciously. "You're going to listen?"

"Of course," Jisung said. "I'm helpful."

Minho didn't trust that sentence as far as he could throw it.

Jisung reached behind him, snagged something off the counter, and popped it into his mouth.

Minho's eyes narrowed. "What did you just eat."

Jisung chewed thoughtfully. "A... noodle."

Minho stared at the box. "Those are dry."

Jisung shrugged. "Texture."

"You are going to be sick."

"I have a strong stomach," Jisung said proudly, and then reached for another.

Minho caught his wrist. "Stop. Please."

Jisung's eyes flicked down to Minho's hand around his wrist. Something warm and pleased moved through his expression. He leaned in and kissed Minho's knuckles.

Minho's grip loosened automatically. "That's cheating."

Jisung grinned. "Works though."

Minho went back to stirring like he was trying to stir the fluster out of himself.

From the living room, someone yelled something that sounded like Seungmin arguing with Changbin about whether a game controller was "sticky" or "seasoned."

Minho called out without looking away from the pan. "Wash your hands before you come in here!"

"WE DID!" Changbin yelled back immediately.

Seungmin's voice followed. "He did not!"

Changbin: "I licked it clean!"

Minho: "That's not—"

Jisung leaned closer, mouth near Minho's ear. "That's not clean."

Minho shuddered. "I hate it."

Jisung kissed the side of his neck, soft and quick. "You love it."

Minho made a sound that wasn't an argument.

The roux thickened, turning smooth under the spoon. Minho added milk—slowly, carefully, like he was trying to defuse a bomb.

It still clumped a little.

Minho stared at the lumps like they'd personally betrayed him. "Why?"

Jisung tilted his head. "Maybe it's—like—rustic."

Minho looked like he wanted to throw the spoon into the sink and walk out into the night. "I hate the word rustic."

"Okay," Jisung said quickly. "We can call it... artisanal."

Minho's eyes narrowed further. "You are not helping."

"I'm helping emotionally," Jisung insisted again, and then leaned forward to blow gently on the sauce like it was a candle he could wish on.

Minho blinked. "What are you doing?"

Jisung's eyes were earnest. "I'm encouraging the lumps to leave."

Minho stared at him. Then—despite everything—he laughed. It came out quietly, like it surprised him as much as it did Jisung.

Jisung brightened instantly, like Minho laughing was a reward. He hugged tighter, pressing his forehead against Minho's shoulder for a beat.

And then the kitchen door swung open.

Felix appeared first, peeking in like a cautious animal entering unfamiliar territory. His blond hair was slightly damp like he'd just showered, and he had that airy, curious energy that always preceded trouble.

His eyes immediately landed on the counter.

Then on the open cheese bag.

Then on Jisung's suspiciously satisfied face.

Felix gasped. "Oh my god. Are we making food food?"

Minho's shoulders straightened instinctively, chef pride flaring. "Yes."

Jisung, still wrapped around him, lifted a hand in greeting. "Hi, Lix."

Felix stepped fully inside, drawn like a magnet to the stove. He leaned over the pan with a level of trust that should've been illegal. "What is it?"

Minho hesitated. "It's... it's supposed to be—"

"A béchamel!" Jisung announced, like he was announcing a royal title.

Felix's eyes widened. "A WHAT."

"Don't yell," Minho muttered.

Felix looked at the sauce like it might bite him. "That sounds fancy. That sounds like... restaurant."

Minho nodded, relieved someone understood. "Exactly."

Felix leaned closer. "Can I taste?"

Minho and Jisung spoke at the exact same time.

Minho: "No."
Jisung: "Yes."

They stared at each other.

Felix blinked between them like he was watching tennis.

Minho's jaw tightened. "We are not feeding the boys half-cooked sauce."

Felix looked crushed. "Just a little..."

Jisung sighed like he was carrying the burden of compassion. "Okay. One taste."

Minho turned his head slowly. "Jisung."

Jisung kissed Minho's cheek again—now flour-free, but still dangerous. "One taste. For morale."

Felix perked up. "For morale!"

Minho exhaled sharply through his nose. Then, with the resignation of a man outnumbered, he scooped a tiny bit onto a spoon and held it out.

Felix took it like it was holy. He tasted.

His face shifted through a series of emotions.

Hope.
Confusion.
A brief flicker of fear.

Then he nodded very, very slowly. "It's... it's good."

Minho's eyes widened. "Really?"

Felix added quickly, "It's good in the way that—" he searched for words "—it has potential."

Minho squinted. "That's not a compliment."

"It is!" Felix insisted. "It's like... a trainee. A strong trainee."

Jisung burst into a giggle, burying his face in Minho's shoulder like he couldn't handle the metaphor.

Minho tried not to smile and failed.

Felix reached for the cheese bag again like he couldn't help himself.

Jisung slapped his hand lightly. "No. I already ate half."

Felix's mouth fell open. "You ate half?!"

Jisung shrugged, unapologetic. "I'm supporting."

Felix looked at Minho with sympathy. "Hyung..."

Minho sighed. "Pray for me."

Felix grinned, then—like he'd completed his task—he snatched a single shredded cheese piece anyway and darted out of the kitchen like a gremlin escaping capture.

Minho watched him go, deadpan. "He literally stole one."

Jisung, still clinging, kissed Minho's jaw. "Everyone's supporting."

Minho muttered, "Everyone's a criminal."

The kitchen door opened again almost immediately.

This time it was Jeongin.

Jeongin didn't enter the room so much as he drifted in with the slow confidence of someone who fully believed the world existed for his entertainment. His hair was slightly messy, and he was holding a phone like he was ready to document whatever happened next.

He paused in the doorway, eyes scanning.

Flour cloud remnants? Check.
Sauce? Check.
Jisung wrapped around Minho? Definitely.

Jeongin's brows lifted. "Wow."

Minho didn't look away from the stove. "If you record me, I will throw a spoon at you."

Jeongin's smile widened. "I'm not recording you. I'm recording this."

He pointed the phone at Jisung's legs around Minho's waist.

Jisung waved cheerfully. "Hi, Jeongin."

Jeongin zoomed in. "This is indecent."

Minho's ears went pink again. "It's not indecent. It's—he's in the way."

Jisung tightened his legs like he was proving the opposite. "I'm helping."

Jeongin walked closer, peering into the pan like he was a food critic. "What are we attempting?"

Minho read off the phone again, as if naming it would summon success. "Baked pasta with béchamel."

Jeongin's face shifted into something like impressed concern. "Why would you do that?"

Minho's glare could've curdled milk. "Because I wanted to."

Jeongin nodded slowly. "Brave. Foolish. Like... like going live without makeup."

Minho opened his mouth, offended, but Jisung snorted so hard he almost fell off Minho.

Jeongin circled the counter, nosy as promised, and lifted the spoon resting on a towel. He poked the sauce like it was a suspicious substance.

Minho slapped his hand away. "Don't touch."

Jeongin put on a wounded expression. "I'm supervising."

Minho stared. "You don't supervise anything."

Jeongin lifted his chin. "I supervise the vibes."

Jisung nodded like that made sense. "He does."

Minho looked betrayed. "You're on his side?"

"I'm on everyone's side," Jisung said, and then—because his brain was powered by impulse—he leaned forward and stole another kiss from Minho.

It was meant to be quick.

But Minho turned his head.

And then it wasn't quick.

Minho's hand, still holding the spoon, dropped to his side. His other hand—free—slid to Jisung's lower back, steadying him. Jisung's fingers curled into the fabric of Minho's shirt like he wanted to anchor himself there.

The kiss deepened with that soft inevitability they always had, like they were both always one second away from giving in.

Jeongin made a noise of disgusted fascination. "Oh my god."

Minho didn't stop.

Jisung didn't stop either—if anything, he smiled into it, like he was delighted to be caught.

Jeongin muttered, "I am witnessing something I didn't consent to."

Minho finally pulled back, breath a little uneven, forehead nearly touching Jisung's.

Jisung's eyes were bright. "Hi."

Minho's voice came out rougher than he meant. "Hi."

Jeongin cleared his throat loudly. "HELLO."

Minho blinked, reality returning like cold water. He turned his head slightly, just enough to see Jeongin.

Jeongin was still holding his phone. Still filming.

Minho's expression sharpened. "Stop filming."

Jeongin's smile was pure evil. "I'm not filming you. I'm filming—"

Minho lunged with the spoon.

Jeongin yelped and dodged, laughing, scrambling backward like a kid who'd poked a bear and was thrilled to be alive.

The door swung again.

Hyunjin walked in without warning, like he'd simply been summoned by the sound of commotion.

He took one step.

Saw Jisung wrapped around Minho.

Saw Minho mid-lunge with a spoon.

Saw Jeongin laughing like a villain.

Saw, very clearly, the lingering softness in Minho's face that only existed when Jisung was pressed up against him.

Hyunjin's brain visibly processed the scene in real time.

His eyes widened.

He made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a regretful cough.

"Oh—"

He turned immediately, instinctively trying to leave the way he came.

But he turned too fast.

His shoulder clipped the door frame with a dull thunk.

Hyunjin froze.

The kitchen went silent for half a second.

Then Jisung's laughter exploded first, loud and helpless, his head falling onto Minho's shoulder.

Jeongin cackled like he'd been waiting his whole life for this.

Minho's mouth twitched, eyes softening. "Hyunjin—are you okay?"

Hyunjin held his shoulder, face burning. "I'm fine."

Jeongin, still laughing, pointed. "You walked in on the kiss and the spoon attack."

Hyunjin's ears went red. "I didn't walk in on anything. I walked in on—" he gestured vaguely "—crime."

Jisung wheezed, clutching Minho tighter. "Sorry—sorry—"

Hyunjin muttered, "I'm leaving. I'm leaving. I don't want to be here."

Minho called after him, trying to sound serious. "Don't run. You'll hit another wall."

Hyunjin stopped in the doorway, turned his head slowly with a glare that had no real heat in it. "I hate all of you."

Jeongin chirped, "Love you too!"

Hyunjin disappeared.

And then, from down the hall, his voice echoed back, louder: "WHY IS THERE FLOUR ON EVERYTHING?!"

Minho looked down at himself.

At the counter.

At the air.

He blinked. "Oh."

Jisung laughed again, softer this time, and kissed Minho's cheek right where the flour had been earlier, like he was leaving a memory there.

Minho exhaled, tried to refocus. "Okay. We need to actually cook."

Jeongin leaned against the counter, still filming because he feared nothing. "This is the best entertainment we've had all week."

Minho pointed at him again. "Leave."

Jeongin looked offended. "What? I'm supervising the vibes."

Jisung nodded solemnly. "He is."

"Jisung."

Jisung kissed his lips quickly, like punctuation. "Okay, fine. Jeongin, go away."

Jeongin gasped. "Betrayal."

"Go," Jisung insisted, smiling.

Jeongin narrowed his eyes suspiciously, then glanced at the pan. "Before I go—are we eating soon?"

Minho hesitated. The sauce bubbled a little, uneven. The pasta on the counter was still mostly dry. The oven wasn't even preheated.

His pride wavered.

Jisung, sensing the crack, slid his hand up Minho's neck and squeezed gently. "We're eating soon," he said brightly, lying with confidence.

Jeongin stared. "That's not an answer."

Minho muttered, "We're trying."

Jeongin smiled like a shark. "I'm going to tell everyone to prepare for disappointment."

He sauntered out, phone still raised like he was broadcasting a live report.

Minho watched him go, then stared at the pan again, jaw tight. "We can still do this."

Jisung's tone softened. "We can."

Minho looked at him, and something in him eased, like the pressure wasn't so heavy when Jisung believed in him.

"Okay," Minho said, firmer. "Next step. We mix it. We bake it. We serve it."

Jisung nodded. Then promptly reached for a piece of ham.

Minho caught his hand again. "Please."

Jisung's mouth tilted. "I'm hungry."

"You are always hungry."

Jisung leaned in and kissed Minho's wrist again, like that was his response. "And you're always cute when you're bossy."

Minho's eyes softened despite himself. "If you keep doing that, I'm never going to finish."

"Maybe I don't want you to finish," Jisung murmured, voice brushing against Minho's ear.

Minho swallowed, breath catching just a little.

The kitchen felt suddenly smaller, warmer.

Jisung's legs tightened, his body pressed closer, like he was building a private little world around them even with the chaos still sitting on the counters.

Minho's hand slid to Jisung's thigh without thinking, grounding himself. "Jisung..."

Jisung's eyes flicked to his, bright with mischief and something softer underneath. "What?"

Minho's voice went low. "If we don't make dinner, Seungmin is going to complain for hours."

Jisung smiled. "Seungmin complains anyway."

Minho huffed, then leaned in and kissed Jisung again—this time on purpose, like he was the one stealing a moment now.

Jisung made a pleased sound and kissed back like he'd been waiting.

The kiss started gentle, then grew a little heated, the way it always did when they forgot to pace themselves. Jisung's fingers slid into Minho's hair, tugging lightly. Minho's hand tightened on Jisung's thigh.

Somewhere behind them, the sauce made a faint ominous pop.

Minho broke the kiss abruptly, eyes widening. "Oh my god."

He turned back to the stove just in time to see the sauce beginning to spit.

Jisung giggled, breathless. "It's jealous."

Minho grabbed the spoon again, stirring quickly. "It's burning."

"Just call it char," Jisung said helpfully.

"Stop saying char."

Jisung kissed his shoulder. "Char."

Minho groaned.

He poured the sauce into a bowl, added it to the pasta, tried to mix it like he knew what he was doing.

It looked... questionable.

It wasn't inedible, probably. It was just... not what the recipe photos promised.

Minho stared at the mixture like he could intimidate it into greatness.

Jisung leaned his head on Minho's shoulder. "It's okay."

Minho's pride flickered again. "It's not okay. It looks like—like—"

Jisung squinted thoughtfully. "Like something you'd eat at 3 a.m. and then not talk about."

Minho glared.

Jisung lifted his chin and kissed him, soft, reassuring, like he was pressing comfort into Minho's mouth. "I'd eat it."

Minho's voice came out small despite himself. "You'd eat anything."

Jisung smiled. "True."

The kitchen door opened again.

This time it was Chan.

He stepped in with a quiet presence that always felt like the room shifted slightly around him. Laptop nowhere in sight, which meant he was either taking a real break or someone had forcibly removed it from his hands.

He looked at the counters.

The flour dust.

The suspicious pasta mixture.

Jisung latched around Minho like a decorative accessory.

Chan's brows lifted. "How's it going?"

Minho opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Jisung, brightly supplied, "Great!"

Chan looked unconvinced. "Do you need help?"

Minho's pride tried to stand up again.

Jisung stepped on it casually. "Yes."

Minho shot him a look.

Jisung smiled sweetly. "What? We're a team."

Minho muttered, "You're the saboteur."

Chan walked closer, peering into the bowl. His expression stayed politely neutral in a way that somehow felt worse than judgment.

He asked carefully, "What was the plan?"

Minho cleared his throat. "Baked pasta. Béchamel. The... fancy kind."

Chan nodded slowly. "Ambitious."

Jisung beamed like he'd been complimented. "Right?"

Chan looked around. "Where's the rest of the ingredients?"

Jisung pointed vaguely. "In our stomachs."

Minho made a pained sound.

Chan's mouth twitched. "Okay."

He leaned against the counter. "So. Timeline."

Minho glanced at the oven that still hadn't been turned on.

Then at the clock.

Then at his dignity, lying dead in the corner.

He exhaled. "We... might not make it."

Jisung nodded like he'd been waiting for this moment. "We should order takeout."

Minho's eyes widened. "Already?"

Jisung blinked innocently. "Minho, love of my life, the noodles were dry."

Minho looked betrayed. "You're still on that."

Chan's expression softened, amused now. "Ordering takeout isn't a failure. It's strategy."

Jisung gasped dramatically. "He said the word!"

Chan gave him a look. "Don't start."

Jisung started anyway, grinning. "Stray Kids dinner night. Featuring: us admitting defeat."

Minho muttered, "We're not admitting defeat. We're pivoting."

Jisung pointed at him like he'd won. "See? Strategy."

Chan nodded once, decisive. "Okay. What do we want?"

Minho opened his mouth.

Jisung cut in instantly. "Chicken."

"Something with vegetables."

"Chicken."

"Vegetables."

"Chicken."

Chan raised a hand like he was refereeing. "We can order both."

Minho blinked like he'd forgotten compromise existed.

Jisung grinned. "Chan is smart."

Minho muttered, "Chan is enabling you."

Chan pulled out his phone. "I'll place it."

Minho protested, "No, I can—"

Chan looked at him calmly. "Minho."

Minho stopped.

Chan's gaze flicked to the flour-covered counter, to Jisung still wrapped around him, to the pasta mixture that looked like regret.

Chan's tone was gentle. "Let me."

Minho exhaled. "Fine."

Jisung kissed Minho's cheek again like he was celebrating surrender. "We tried."

Minho's voice softened despite himself. "We did."

Chan tapped on his phone, ordering with the quiet efficiency of someone used to keeping seven chaotic men alive.

Meanwhile, Minho stared at their failed dish.

Then he straightened, pride returning in a different form.

"Okay," Minho said, voice firm again. "If we're ordering takeout, then we're still going to plate this."

Jisung blinked. "Why?"

Minho looked offended. "Because we made it."

Jisung stared at the questionable pasta. "We made... something."

Minho pointed at him. "We are plating it. Nicely. Like it's on purpose."

Jisung's eyes lit up, delighted. "Oh my god. Like a joke."

"It's not a joke."

"It's a joke."

"It's—"

Jisung kissed him mid-sentence, cutting him off with a smile.

Chan, without looking up from his phone, said dryly, "Please don't make out on the food."

Jisung pulled back, grinning unapologetically. "No promises."

Minho muttered, "There are always promises."

Jisung looked at him like he wanted to argue, then just leaned in and stole another small kiss, softer this time, like he couldn't help it.

Minho's expression softened.

Then he turned to the cabinet, grabbed plates.

He started portioning the pasta out carefully, using a spoon like he was sculpting art.

Jisung watched, impressed despite himself. "You're plating it like a Michelin chef."

Minho nodded solemnly. "Presentation is half the meal."

Jisung leaned in. "What's the other half?"

Minho looked at him. "Not eating half the ingredients."

Jisung laughed.

The kitchen door opened again.

Changbin barreled in first, loud energy filling the room. Seungmin followed behind him with a towel over his shoulder like he'd been cleaning up some disaster elsewhere.

Changbin stopped dead when he saw the plates lined up.

His eyes widened. "FOOD."

Seungmin sniffed the air suspiciously. "Why does it smell like... burnt milk."

Minho's posture stiffened. "It's béchamel."

Seungmin's expression turned immediately judgmental. "It smells like regret."

Jisung laughed so hard he almost slid off Minho, then tightened his legs again reflexively. "It's okay! We ordered takeout too!"

Seungmin's shoulders relaxed like he'd just been told the building wasn't on fire. "Thank god."

Changbin leaned over the plates anyway, poking at the pasta. "Is this edible?"

Minho's eyes narrowed. "Yes."

Changbin took a forkful like he feared nothing, shoved it into his mouth.

He chewed.

His face went blank.

Seungmin leaned in eagerly. "Well?"

Changbin swallowed slowly. "It tastes like... effort."

"That's not a compliment either!"

Jisung giggled. "Everyone keeps calling it potential."

Seungmin took a bite too, because he couldn't resist. He chewed, then immediately reached for water.

Chan asked calmly, "How is it?"

Seungmin coughed once, then said, "It's—" another cough "—it's giving... survival."

Minho's face went red. "Stop."

Changbin, mouth full, nodded. "I like it."

Everyone stared at him.

Changbin shrugged. "I like weird food."

Seungmin pointed at him. "You once ate cereal with orange juice."

"It was fine!"

"It was not fine!"

Minho finally laughed, tension easing, and leaned his forehead briefly against Jisung's.

Jisung kissed his temple. "You did good."

Minho murmured, "Did I?"

Jisung nodded firmly. "Yes. And you're cute."

Minho tried to look annoyed. He failed. "You always say that."

"Because it's true."

Seungmin watched them for a second, then made a gagging sound. "Okay. Enough. Where's the real food?"

Chan lifted his phone slightly. "On the way."

Changbin clapped his hands together. "I'm starving."

Jeongin's voice echoed from the hallway before he even appeared. "I have evidence."

Jeongin drifted into the kitchen again like a ghost with a phone, smug expression fully loaded. "Update: Minho and Jisung attempted cuisine. Hyunjin concussed himself. Dinner is now funded by capitalism."

Minho pointed at him. "Put the phone away."

Jeongin grinned. "No."

Jisung leaned toward Jeongin, sweet as anything. "If you put it away, I'll give you a bite of the chicken when it gets here."

Jeongin's eyes narrowed. "Bribery."

"It's strategy," Jisung said proudly.

Chan's mouth twitched again.

Jeongin slowly lowered the phone. "Fine."

Minho blinked at Jisung like he'd just watched him perform magic.

Jisung kissed Minho's cheek. "See? Genius menace."

Minho muttered, "You're impossible."

Jisung smiled. "You love me."

Minho's voice softened. "I do."

Jisung's grin turned bright, satisfied, like he'd won something important.

The kitchen door opened again, slower this time.

Hyunjin reappeared, rubbing his shoulder, face still faintly pink like he'd been thinking about his own humiliation the entire walk down the hall.

He stepped in cautiously, eyes immediately scanning for threats.

Jeongin raised his phone again like a weapon.

Hyunjin pointed. "Don't."

Jeongin smiled. "I already got it."

Hyunjin groaned. "Of course you did."

He walked toward the counter, sniffed the air again. "It still smells like—"

Seungmin cut in, deadpan. "Regret."

Hyunjin nodded like he accepted that as truth. "Yeah. That."

Minho, defensive again, "It's béchamel."

Hyunjin stared at him. Then at Jisung hanging off him. Then at the flour on the counter.

His expression softened into something almost fond. "You two always look like you're one second away from ruining each other's lives in the cutest way."

Jisung beamed. "Thank you."

Minho muttered, "That was not a compliment."

Hyunjin shrugged. "It was to me."

Jisung leaned closer to Minho again, voice dropping. "He's right though."

Minho's breath caught slightly. "Jisung..."

Jisung kissed him again, slow enough that Minho forgot the kitchen was full of people.

Seungmin made an exaggerated gagging sound. "I'm leaving."

Changbin shouted after him, "You're not leaving! You're hungry!"

Seungmin yelled back, "I can be hungry in my room!"

Hyunjin watched Minho and Jisung for a second longer—then promptly decided he was done being traumatized. He turned too fast again, shoulder bumping the door frame a second time with a smaller thunk.

The kitchen erupted.

Hyunjin froze, eyes wide with horror. "I DID IT AGAIN."

Jeongin screamed laughing.

Jisung buried his face in Minho's neck, shaking with silent laughter.

Minho finally let himself laugh fully, shoulders loosening, head tipping back a little like he couldn't help it.

Hyunjin stood in the doorway, mortified. "Stop laughing!"

Changbin cackled, "You're allergic to doors!"

Hyunjin muttered, "I hate you."

Chan, calm as always, said, "Try turning your body slower."

Hyunjin glared at him. "Thank you, father."

Chan's eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't call me that."

Jisung's laughter softened. He lifted his head, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from giggling. He looked at Minho like he was the funniest person he'd ever known.

Minho looked back at him, the fondness in his face so obvious it bordered on embarrassing.

"Okay," Minho said, finally catching his breath. "Everyone. Sit. The takeout will be here soon."

Jeongin perched on a stool immediately, still nosy. "Are we still eating the failed dish?"

Minho nodded, pride stubborn. "Yes."

Seungmin's voice shouted from the hallway, "NO WE'RE NOT."

Minho shouted back, "YES WE ARE."

Jisung laughed, then kissed Minho's cheek again, softer. "You're cute when you're stubborn."

Minho leaned closer, voice low enough that it felt like a secret despite the chaos. "You're cute all the time."

Jisung blinked, surprised—like he wasn't used to Minho being the one to say it first.

Then his smile turned slow and warm. "Yeah?"

Minho nodded once, eyes steady. "Yeah."

Jisung's legs tightened around Minho's waist again, like he couldn't help pulling closer. "Kiss me."

Minho glanced around at the kitchen full of gremlins, the door frame that had personally attacked Hyunjin twice, the flour still dusting everything like winter.

Then he looked back at Jisung, and the noise fell away in his head like it always did when Jisung asked for something plainly.

He kissed him anyway.

Not quick.
Not shy.

Just a real kiss, steady and warm, like Minho didn't care who saw because this was theirs, and the world could deal.

Someone—probably Jeongin—made a dramatic gagging noise.

Someone else—probably Changbin—wooed.

Hyunjin muttered, "I'm going to stand very still and not hit anything."

Chan sighed like a man who had accepted his fate.

Minho pulled back finally, forehead resting against Jisung's for a beat.

Jisung smiled, breath soft. "We're going to feed them. Even if it's takeout."

Minho's mouth curved. "We're going to feed them."

Jisung's fingers brushed the flour still clinging faintly to Minho's sleeve. "And we're going to clean."

Minho groaned. "Don't remind me."

Jisung kissed his nose. "We'll do it together."

Minho's eyes softened again. "Yeah."

Then the doorbell rang.

Instantly, the entire dorm shifted like a pack of wolves sensing prey.

Changbin shouted, "FOOD'S HERE!"

Seungmin appeared like he'd been summoned, suddenly in the kitchen again, towel still over his shoulder. "Move."

Jeongin practically teleported toward the front door.

Felix popped back in too, eyes wide. "TAKEOUT?!"

Hyunjin, carefully, slowly, turned away from the door frame. "I'm going to walk like a normal person."

Chan headed toward the entrance with the calm inevitability of someone used to managing the chaos.

Minho stayed by the counter for one second longer, looking at the plates he'd arranged so carefully—their failed pasta portioned like it belonged somewhere fancy.

Jisung stayed wrapped around him, chin on his shoulder. "You really plated it."

Minho nodded, stubborn. "I'm not wasting the effort."

Jisung smiled, soft. "I love you."

Minho's breath caught in that quiet way it always did when Jisung said it like that—simple, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I love you too," Minho said, and then nudged Jisung gently. "Now get off me so I can carry food without dropping it."

Jisung laughed, finally unhooking his legs and sliding down, but not before stealing one more kiss—quick, bright, triumphant.

"Support," Jisung whispered.

Minho shook his head, smiling despite himself. "Menace."

They joined the chaos in the living room, arms full of takeout bags, everyone arguing over who ordered what, Felix already trying to steal fries, Jeongin narrating like a sports commentator, Hyunjin moving with exaggerated caution, Seungmin complaining loudly while still reaching for food, Changbin laughing with his mouth full, Chan reminding everyone to grab plates.

And when they finally sat down—takeout spread out, the failed pasta served proudly like a side dish nobody asked for—Minho watched Jisung take a bite of everything with blissful commitment.

Jisung chewed, eyes bright, then leaned toward Minho and whispered like it was the biggest compliment in the world:

"This is the best dinner we've ever made."

Minho stared at him, then laughed, and when Jisung smiled back—cheese thief, chaos demon, his—Minho decided that even if the kitchen looked like a flour bomb had gone off, the night still felt like a win.

Because the boys were fed.

The dorm was loud.

And Jisung's hand found Minho's under the table like it always did, warm and sure.

Adorable disaster, plated nicely.