Living with Keeho had its perks. He was funny, loud enough to chase away awkward silences, and surprisingly neat for someone who ran on caffeine and chaos. But there was one minor complication—your growing tendency to “borrow” his clothes.

Okay…maybe not so minor.

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon. Rain tapped gently against the windowpanes, and the soft hum of lo-fi music buzzed from the speaker as you padded around the apartment, hair tossed into a messy bun. Wrapped in an oversized black t-shirt that hung halfway down your thighs, you were halfway through making ramen when the front door clicked open.

“Yo, I’m home!” Keeho’s voice called out, light and familiar. You froze, chopsticks hovering mid-air.

He rounded the corner with his backpack slung over one shoulder—and immediately stopped in his tracks. His eyes dropped to your shirt. Specifically, the bold block letters on the front: KEEHO.

“…Is that my shirt?” He asked, one brow raised, already amused.

You turned your head slowly, feigning innocence. “…No?”

He crossed his arms, biting back a grin. “That’s literally the shirt from the P1Harmony shoot last month. You’re wearing my name like a brand deal.”

You glanced down. Damn. Busted.

Keeho raised a finger before you could stammer out a defense. “Wait, let me guess—your laundry machine broke, you spilled something tragic on all your shirts, or…” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “You just missed me that much.”