You should’ve known Minho’s movie pick was a trap.

“Totally plot-driven,” he said with a smirk as he hit play.

Twenty minutes in, the plot was forgotten. Your thighs tangled with Newt’s, Minho’s hand creeping up under your shirt, and Thomas sprawled at your feet—red-faced and frozen.

On screen: breathy moans and tangled limbs.

Off screen: chaos.

Minho’s fingers slid higher. Newt noticed and dropped a possessive hand on your leg, thumb tracing maddening circles.

Thomas groaned, voice muffled. “This is literally porn.”

Newt smirked. “Didn’t hear you complain when you were drooling over her five minutes ago.”

Minho’s lips brushed your neck, voice low. “Want a live show?”

Thomas grabbed your hand and pulled it into his lap. “You’re the worst.”

Newt leaned in, breath hot on your cheek. “Pause the movie. Someone’s gonna moan on the remote.”

Minho rolled his eyes and flung the remote across the room. “Problem solved.”

Gally walked in, froze, eyes wide. “Nope.”

Chuck appeared at the door, blinking like he’d seen a crime scene. “Should I—”

“Leave,” the boys said in unison.

From the kitchen, Teresa sighed, sipping wine. “You guys can’t watch a single movie like normal people.”

Alby passed by, glanced once, then turned sharply. “I saw nothing.”

Morning came with judgment.

Frypan stared at the couch like it betrayed him. A shirt draped on the lamp, boxers half-hidden under cushions—evidence of last night.

Minho strolled in, shirtless and smug. “Mornin’, Chef.”

Thomas trailed behind, yawning, your hoodie slipping off his shoulders, neck painted in love bites.

Newt followed with coffee, bruises dotted his neck.

You entered last, wearing Minho’s shirt and little else.

Frypan set down his mug, eyes narrowing. “This is a shared house. Not a porn set.”

Minho grinned. “Breakfast in bed, anyone?”

Thomas kissed your cheek lazily.

Newt smiled. “We’ll behave.”

Frypan scoffed. “You said that last time.”

Teresa appeared, glass in hand. “I heard things. Unholy things.”

Gally muttered, “We all need therapy.”

Chuck peeked in, worn. “Can I come back in now?”

Alby’s voice boomed, “NO.”

Later, you perched on the counter, legs wrapped around Minho’s waist. “You’re gonna get us banned,” you whispered.

Minho smirked, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your thigh. “Worth it.”

Thomas froze mid-sentence, then blinked. “Again?” He kissed you, claiming your lips.

Newt appeared, saw Thomas’s hand under your shirt, slid beside you.

Thomas muttered, “We’re not making it to dinner.”

Then—

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

Frypan stormed in with a spray bottle.

He squirted Minho in the face.

“I’m not a cat!” Minho blinked.

“No sex zones,” Frypan hissed. “This is a kitchen!”

Thomas grinned. “Define ‘sex.’”

Frypan screamed into a dish towel.

That night, you were banned from the couch. Naturally, you all ended up back on it.

Minho’s hands slid under your shirt again. Thomas sat on your lap, fingers twining with yours.

Newt’s mouth was hot on your neck.

Teresa walked by, smirking. “Y’all need Jesus.”

Then Frypan returned, spray bottle ready, threat clear: “Stain this couch again and I burn it to ashes.”

Next morning: No couch. Gone. Just… gone.

Frypan sipped tea like a king surveying his kingdom.

Thomas rubbed his eyes. “What did you do?”

“No couch. Bedrooms locked. Laundry room only.”

Minho growled, “This is war.”

Frypan smiled coldly. “This is hygiene.”

Newt tilted his head. “We’ll adapt.”

You grinned. “Laundry room?”

Minho winked. “I’ll grab the blanket.”

Thomas smirked. “I’ll grab the lube.”

Newt chuckled. “I’ll steal Frypan’s wine.”

Chuck passed by, exhausted. “I want to move out.”