It was well past three in the morning, the dorm quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint slurp of coffee. Chan sat at the kitchen counter, clutching his mug like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His eyes were heavy, but he refused to give in.

Across from him, Minho sat curled up on a chair, hoodie sleeves hanging over his hands — Chan’s hoodie, way too big on him. He had a manga open, but he was clearly rereading the same page.

“You know,” Minho said without looking up, “normal people sleep at this hour.”

Chan raised the mug. “Normal people aren’t leaders of eight idiots.”

Minho flipped a page lazily. “Normal leaders don’t try to survive off coffee either.”

“Fuck you,” Chan muttered, taking a long sip.

“Fuck you more,” Minho shot back, eyes finally lifting from the book. His smirk was lazy but sharp. “You look like a zombie, hyung.”

Chan leaned on the counter, glaring. “Says the brat wearing my hoodie like he owns it.”

Minho tugged on the sleeve dramatically. “It’s mine now. Smells better on me anyway.”

Chan choked on his coffee, half laughing. “You’re such a little shit.”

“And you love it,” Minho teased, flipping another page without looking at it.

Chan narrowed his eyes, then leaned across the counter. “Maybe I should make you shut up.”

Minho arched a brow. “What, gonna pour coffee on me?”

“No,” Chan said, tugging the manga down and kissing him quick, just enough to wipe the smirk off his face.

Minho blinked, then smirked wider. “That all you’ve got, hyung? Weak.”

Chan grinned back, grabbing the hoodie sleeve and pulling him closer for another kiss, this one slower, deeper, the coffee between them forgotten.

When they broke apart, Minho muttered, “Still think you’re a dumbass, but… my dumbass.”