The dorm was absolute chaos the night before the trip. Clothes were everywhere, bags half-packed, and voices overlapping like a storm. Hyunjin was yelling about how none of his hoodies looked good, Felix was sneaking chips into his backpack when he thought no one was watching, and Changbin was telling everyone to “pack light, for fuck’s sake” even though his own suitcase looked like it was about to explode.

Minho was sitting on the floor by the couch, folding his clothes with irritating precision. Next to him, Chan sat hunched over with a notebook, scribbling down a checklist. His hair was a mess, his brows knitted together, pencil tapping so hard against the paper it looked like it might snap.

“Hyung, you need to chill the fuck out,” Minho said, not even looking up from the T-shirt he was folding.

Chan glanced down at him, already defensive. “Chill out? If no one remembers the chargers or the speaker or water bottles, who do you think they’re gonna blame? Me. Always me.”

Minho zipped his duffel shut and leaned back, finally looking at Chan. His eyes softened in a way that made Chan falter. “Still. You don’t have to kill yourself over it. You’re my only hyung. The only one I actually fucking listen to.”

The pencil slipped from Chan’s fingers, landing on the notebook with a dull thud. He blinked at Minho, unsure if he’d heard that right.

“…That’s a lot of pressure, you know,” Chan muttered, trying to cover the way his chest suddenly felt too tight.

Minho smirked, pushing himself up to his feet and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, but you can handle it. You always fucking do.”