Minho had wandered a little too far down the hallway as the landlord droned on about “vintage charm” and “lots of natural light.” Chan was still outside parking the car, leaving Minho to deal with the overly enthusiastic tour guide alone.

“And this,” the renter said, stepping closer than necessary, “is the master bedroom. Perfect for… two, if you know what I mean.”

Minho blinked. Oh no. The renter leaned against the doorframe, smiling like he’d rehearsed it in the mirror.

“So… are you planning to move in alone?” he asked, gaze sweeping over Minho’s face with way too much interest.

Minho cleared his throat. “Actually, I'm here with my… husband,” he said, stumbling only slightly.

Right on cue, like fate itself craved drama, Chan appeared at the end of the hall, keys still in hand, straight but curly messy from the wind and his shirt tight.

The renter’s eyes snapped to him instantly.

“Oh,” he said, voice suddenly bright. “Oh. Well, hello.”

Chan looked between them, confused. “Hi? Did I miss something? Minho slid an arm around Chan’s waist, pulling him closer. “Just the tour.”

The renter smiled a little too much now. “Yes, well, why don’t I show you both the kitchen? Lots of space. Very… accommodating.”

Chan whispered, “Why is he staring at you like that?”

Minho whispered back“He wasn’t staring at me. That’s the problem.”