Chapter Text
The heat of late August clung to the campus like a stubborn second skin, the kind that made the moving boxes feel twice as heavy and tempers half as patient. Mingi stood in the middle of the new apartment’s living room, hands on his hips, staring at the mountain of cardboard like it had personally wronged him, which it had, when it had toppled over already once.
“You’re glaring like its going to unpack itself,” Hongjoong said, stepping around him with a box labeled kitchen tucked under one arm.
“It should,” Mingi muttered. “It’s the least it could do.”
Seonghwa snorted from the hallway, where he was already organizing the shoe rack with their copious amount of sneakers. “You’re the one who insisted on bringing your entire closet with you.”
“It’s not my entire closet,” Mingi said, offended. “It’s just the essentials.”
Hongjoong raised a brow. “You brought eight blankets.”
“Essentials,” Mingi repeated, as if that settled it.
The apartment smelled new from the fresh coat of paint, clean wood, the faint chemical tang of the scent-neutralizer the housing office sprayed before move‑ins. It would fade in a day or two, replaced by the familiar blend of the three of them: Hongjoong’s light, citrusy omega scent; Seonghwa’s light ginger twinge, sharper but still soft and undeniably Alpha, and Mingi’s warm, sweet cherry-laced Omega scent that always seemed to linger in corners wherever he went, no matter how many scent patches he used.
He secretly liked that. He liked being surrounded by people he trusted, and liked smelling like them, too, liked when the blend of his roommates ginger and citrus mixed with his cherries, creating a cocktail that anyone would be lunch to drink in. He like when it clung to his clothes after long nights of studying or movie marathons, making him feel settled, anchored and safe in his own space.
He didn’t say any of that out loud, of course. They already teased him enough for dragging the other omegas into his nest whenever he felt overwhelmed. Wooyoung still complained about the time Mingi had wrapped him in three blankets and refused to let him leave until he’d “rested properly.” But in reality, Mingi just thought his sweet blueberry scent went particularly well with his.
Regardless, the move‑in chaos continued for another hour before the door burst open and Wooyoung and San spilled inside like a matched set of chaos gremlins.
“We brought snacks!” Wooyoung announced, holding up a bag of chips like a trophy.
“And energy drinks to fuel the unpacking,” San added, already cracking one open.
The mix of the two hit his senses immediately, Wooyoung’s blueberry mixing perfectly with San’s spiced scent laced with a wonderful undertone of vanilla.
Mingi shook his head to clean his thoughts and pointed at them accusingly. “You two live literally next door. Why are you here already? Don’t you have your own stuff to unpack”
“Because we missed you,” Wooyoung said, flopping onto the couch. “Also, Yeosang and Jongho are arguing about who gets the bigger closet, and it was getting violent.”
“Yeosang was winning,” San said proudly.
“Of course he was,” Seonghwa murmured.
The group settled into their usual rhythm of bickering, teasing, helping move boxes then not helping when the sweat started to run down their backs again. It felt like home, even with half the boxes still sealed.
But the peace didn’t last long, because with Wooyoung there, it was a miracle it existed at all.
“So,” Wooyoung said, mouth full of chips, “are you excited for Chemistry?”
Mingi froze. “No.”
“You’re the one who didn’t get it out of the way last year, idiot,” Wooyoung said cheerfully.
“Besides,” San added, “ you’re science major?”
“Biology,” Mingi corrected. “Not chemistry.”
“Meh,” Wooyoung said. “Same thing.”
“It’s really not,” Mingi muttered, but no one listened.
---
The apartment was finally starting to look like an apartment instead of a storage unit, but Mingi’s bedroom was still a disaster zone. Half-empty boxes were stacked once again in uneven towers, half‑opened bags of bedding spilled across the floor, and his mattress sat bare and accusing in the middle of the room.
He opened the last bag of bedding, searching for a dark green set of sheets that he had owned longer than he could remember. The smell of his parents house still lingered softly, a gentle smell of honey and rosemary that made a small smile appear on his face.
Still thinking about his parents, he was halfway through wrestling the dark fitted sheet onto the corner when Wooyoung wandered in without knocking, as if the place belonged to him.
“Wow,” Wooyoung said, flopping dramatically onto the unmade bed, a corner still not covered. “This is tragic.”
Mingi didn’t look up. “Get out.”
“No,” Wooyoung said, already making himself comfortable, curling up on his side and grabbing a pillow from the floor, attempting the wrestle the pillowcase on. “I’m helping.”
“You’re lying on my bed while I’m trying to make it.”
“That’s…I’m emotional support.”
Mingi paused, squinting at him. “For who?”
“Me,” Wooyoung said, stretching like a cat, putting the pillow under his head. “Moving is exhausting.”
“You didn’t move…you and San were here all summer.”
“I supervised Sangie’s move.”
Mingi groaned and threw another pillow at him. Wooyoung caught it, hugged it to his chest, and inhaled deeply.
“Ahh. Smells like you. Very comforting.”
“Give me that back,” Mingi said, reaching for it.
“No,” Wooyoung said, rolling away and curling around the pillow like it was a precious artifact.
Mingi huffed, but there was no real annoyance behind it. This was a normal that he had secretly missed over the summer. Wooyoung had always been tactile, clingy, and dramatic, and Mingi had always been the Omega who didn’t just tolerate it, but thrived on it.
He grabbed a third pillow from a box and tossed it onto the bed. Then another, and another smaller one. Soon Wooyoung was half‑buried under a growing pile of blankets and pillows.
“Are you building a nest on top of me?” Wooyoung asked, voice muffled.
“No,” Mingi said, throwing yet another blanket. “I’m building my nest. You just happen to be in the way.”
Wooyoung peeked out from under a corner of fabric. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Maybe.”
Wooyoung stuck his tongue out at him through a gap.
Mingi ignored him and kept working, pulling out his favorite weighted blanket, the one that somehow still smelled faintly of Seonghwa’s calming scent and Hongjoong’s sharper one. (And certainly not because he hadn’t washed it all summer to keep the scent there, certainly not) He draped it over the pile, smoothing it out with practiced hands.
Wooyoung watched him with a soft, knowing expression, crawling out from under the pile. “You really like all this stuff, huh?”
Mingi shrugged, suddenly shy. “It helps me feel calm.”
“I know,” Wooyoung said, voice gentler now. “It’s cute.”
Mingi threw a pillow that had fallen to the floor at his face.
Wooyoung laughed, grabbed the pillow, and then — because he was Wooyoung — opened his arms wide. “Come here.”
“No.”
“Come on. You’re getting all scent‑flustered.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can tell you’re thinking too hard about something. You smell like stress and dust. Which let me tell you, does not smell good with cherries”
Mingi hesitated, just for a second.
Then he sighed, dropped the blanket he was holding, and climbed onto the bed.
Wooyoung immediately wrapped around him like a koala, arms and legs hooking loosely, chin resting on Mingi’s shoulder. It wasn’t romantic or weird. It was just them, two omegas who had grown up in a world where scent and touch were grounding, where closeness was comfort, where a good cuddle could reset an entire day.
Mingi let out a long breath, tension melting out of his shoulders. Wooyoung’s scent, warm, bright, a little mischievous, settled around him like a weighted hug, the fruity mix of the two settling his nerves.
“See?” Wooyoung murmured. “You needed this.”
“Shut up.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Wooyoung snorted and nuzzled into his shoulder, not hard enough to scent him, just enough to share warmth. Mingi leaned back into it, eyes drifting shut for a moment.
From the hallway, San’s voice echoed: “Are you two nesting without me?”
“No!” Mingi yelled.
“Yes!” Wooyoung yelled at the same time.
San appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, looking betrayed. “Wow. Fake friends.”
Mingi groaned into a pillow. “No more people distracting me.Get out.”
“No,” San said, stepping inside. “I’m joining.”
“You’re not an omega. This is an omega only moment,” Wooyoung huffed out.
“I’m emotionally omega,” San said, climbing onto the bed anyway.
Mingi didn’t fight it, just let San flop down beside them, adding his warm, spicy scent to the mix.
Eventually, Hongjoong yelled from the kitchen that someone needed to help him figure out the stove, and Seonghwa threatened to confiscate all their blankets if they didn’t get up.
But for a few more minutes, Mingi let himself sink into the pile of blankets and friends, surrounded by the scents he trusted most.
It was the perfect way to start a new semester.
—-
Morning sunlight spilled through the apartment blinds in thin, warm stripes, catching dust motes in the air and making the whole place feel softer than it had the night before. Mingi woke to the faint hum of the scent diffuser Seonghwa had insisted on buying and the distant clatter of someone in the kitchen.
He rolled out of bed, hair sticking up in every direction, and shuffled into the hallway to find Hongjoong standing over the stove with a pan of eggs and a look of deep concentration that was tinged with frustration as he tried to scrape the almost burned food off.
“You’re up early,” Hongjoong said without looking away from the pan.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Mingi mumbled. “Too many blankets.”
“That’s your own fault.”
Mingi grunted, grabbed a piece of toast from the counter, and wandered toward the living room where Seonghwa was already dressed, backpack slung over one shoulder, sipping tea like he’d been awake for hours.
“You look…alive I guess,” Seonghwa said.
“I’m faking it.”
“Convincingly.”
Before Mingi could respond, the front door burst open and Wooyoung and San tumbled inside, both looking far too energetic for eight in the morning.
“Walk with us!” Wooyoung announced, already grabbing Mingi’s wrist.
“I haven’t even brushed my—”
“Don’t care,” San said, pushing him toward the door. “We’re late.”
“We’re not late,” Seonghwa corrected. “You two are just being dramatic.”
“Thank you,” Wooyoung said proudly.
The five of them eventually spilled out into the warm morning air, the campus only a short walk away. The sidewalks buzzed with the first‑day energy, all students hauling backpacks, greeting friends, complaining about early classes. The scent-neutral zones near the dorms hummed faintly, a soft reminder of the campus rules.
Mingi walked in the middle of the group, listening to Wooyoung and San argue about whether breakfast counted as a “pre‑workout meal” if you didn’t go till the afternoon, while Hongjoong tried to explain the difference between a major requirement and an elective to himself.
Seonghwa walked beside Mingi, quiet but observant as always. “You’ll be fine,” he said suddenly.
Mingi blinked. “What?”
“Chemistry,” Seonghwa clarified. “You’ll be fine.”
Mingi groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“You’re smart,” Seonghwa said. “You just panic.”
“I don’t panic.”
“You panic,” Wooyoung called from ahead.
“Loudly,” San added.
Mingi shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and muttered something unintelligible. But the truth was, walking with them, surrounded by familiar scents, familiar voices, made the knot in his stomach loosen a little.
They reached the science building, its glass doors reflecting the morning sun. Students streamed inside, the air buzzing with chatter and the faint hum of scent filters.
“Good luck,” Hongjoong said, clapping Mingi on the back.
“Don’t die,” Wooyoung added.
“Text us if you need help,” San said.
“Or if you get lost,” Yeosang called from across the courtyard, Jongho trailing behind him with a coffee.
“I’m not going to get lost,” Mingi mumbled, breaking off from the group.
By the time Mingi found the lecture hall, most of the seats were already filled. The room was bright, too bright, the overhead lights reflecting off the whiteboards and making everything feel sharper than necessary.
He slid into a seat near the middle, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself as he tried to ignore the rising anxiety in his chest. He opened the syllabus on his tablet, pretending to read it while actually just staring at the same paragraph over and over.
Then a scent that was clean, cool, something like…chocolate found his senses, with only a twinge of bitterness at the edges of it. It was strong, but not overwhelming, just…almost grounding in a way that made Mingi’s breath catch.
He looked up before he could stop himself.
Three rows down. Two seats to the left.
The new guy.
He was tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair that fell just slightly into his eyes. He was an Alpha, clearly by his dark, chocolate scent, but not the…usual kind Mingi found around the campus. Not the kind that took up space on purpose, or stifled with his presence. He sat with quiet confidence, posture relaxed, attention focused on the front of the room.
Yunho? He thought that was his name. The college of sciences discord had been abuzz with welcoming the newest students the week before, one of which was a transfer.
Mingi immediately snapped his gaze back to his tablet, aware that he had probably just stared at this guys head for a minute.
Nope, he was not doing this. He was not noticing the handsome transfer Alpha. He was not letting his brain spiral into anything embarrassing.
He was here to suffer through Chemistry, not develop a crush.
He forced himself to try to read the syllabus again, but his eyes kept drifting back.
Mingi hated how aware he was of him, for seemingly no reason.
He hated even more how aware he was of Yunho’s new scent: subtle and refreshing and made his shoulders relax without permission.
He buried his face in his hoodie.
This might be a long semester.
---
By the time the professor wrapped up the first lecture, Mingi’s brain felt like it had been put through a blender. Not because the material was hard, it was the first day, after all, nothing was hard yet, but because he had spent the entire fifty minutes trying not to look three rows down and two seats to the left.
Every time Yunho shifted, every time he wrote something in his notebook, every time he pushed his hair back, Mingi’s attention flicked toward him like a magnet he couldn’t pry loose.
He hated it, but he also kind of didn’t.
“Alright everyone,” the professor said, clapping her hands once. “Before you go, lab assignments are posted outside the lecture hall. Labs begin next week, so make sure you know your partner and your section.”
A collective groan rippled through the room.
Mingi’s stomach dropped. He had forgotten about lab partners.
He shoved his tablet into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and tried to blend into the crowd heading toward the door. He didn’t want to look at the list yet, he wanted to go home, crawl into his nest, and pretend Chemistry didn’t exist.
But the universe hated him. Because the moment he stepped into the hallway, Wooyoung materialized like a demon summoned by his academic suffering.
“There he is!” Wooyoung said, grabbing Mingi’s arm. “Come on, I heard people talking about listed lab partners. Let’s see who you got.”
“I don’t want to,” Mingi said.
“Too bad,” Wooyoung said, dragging him forward.
“How did you get here so fast?”
“Oh, our professor let us out like 20 minutes early.” San said with a shrug, then turned to glare playfully at Wooyoung.
“And then this one insisted on coming here and waiting for you so we could drag you to go get a coffee.”
“Yeah I definitely need one.”
“Yeah you look like you do.” Woo nodded thoughtfully.
“Rude”
“You know it.” He said, sticking his tongue out and looping his arm with his, dragging him down the hallway towards the bulletin board.
“Maybe you’ll get someone smart.”
“I am smart,” Mingi protested.
“You’re Chemistry‑challenged,” Wooyoung corrected.
“That’s different.”
They reached the crowd gathered around the printed lab lists taped to the wall. Students were pushing, complaining, groaning, and celebrating. The air smelled like stress as a mix of scents and cheap coffee permeating from the campus-owned shop next door.
Mingi tried to hang back, the cocktail of scents making him scrunch his nose, but Wooyoung shoved him forward.
“Go on,” he said. “Rip off the band‑aid.”
Mingi took a small breath, stepped closer, and scanned the sheet.
Section B…
Song Mingi…
His eyes slid to the right. Jeong Yunho
He blinked.
The new transfer student, the tall one with the quiet posture.
The one who sat three rows down and two seats to the left.
Mingi didn’t know him and didn’t really have an opinion yet. But he remembered the way the guy had walked in, calm, steady, like he wasn’t fazed by anything. Plus he smelled amazing—
Behind him, Wooyoung leaned in, interrupting his thoughts. “Who is it?”
“No one you know,” Mingi said automatically.
San squinted. “Why do you sound weird?”
“I don’t sound weird.”
“You do,” Wooyoung said. “Like you’re trying not to sound weird.”
“I’m fine,” Mingi insisted.
“Who’d you get?” Wooyoung demanded.
Mingi exhaled. “Yunho.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Ohhh,” Wooyoung said, delighted.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” San added.
“Oh, you’re doomed,” Wooyoung added.
Mingi frowned. “Why doomed? I don’t even know him.”
“That’s the point,” Wooyoung said. “Mystery Transfer student. Probably smart. This is how dramas start.”
“It’s not a drama,” Mingi said.
“It’s always a drama if you make it one,” San said.
Mingi rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help glancing down the hallway, just once, where Yunho was standing at the opposite end of the crowd, scanning the same list on a different board.
Yunho’s expression didn’t change when he found his name. He just nodded slightly, like he was filing the information away.
Then, for a split second, his gaze flicked up, not directly at Mingi, but in his general direction, with a brief, neutral acknowledgment of the world around him.
Wooyoung was still holding onto Mingi’s arm like he was afraid he’d bolt, tugging him away from the bulletin board and toward the exit.
“Coffee,” Wooyoung declared. “Immediately. Before your brain melts out of your ears.”
“My brain is fine,” Mingi said.
San snorted. “Your brain left the building the moment you saw the syllabus.”
“There was a lot of words,” Mingi muttered.
They pushed through the crowd and out into the hallway, the nauseating scent mixture fading as they stepped into the open air. One of the campus coffee shops sat just across the courtyard, already buzzing with students and the smell of espresso.
Before they even made it halfway there, a familiar voice called out.
“Hey!”
Yeosang jogged up to them, hair perfectly in place as its long length shadowed his face despite the humidity, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. Without hesitation, he reached for Mingi’s free hand and laced their fingers together, swinging their arms gently back and forth.
Mingi didn’t even blink, for them this was normal. Yeosang was a quiet omega and didn’t love huge gestures or too much touching, but he was affectionate in small, deliberate ways, shy hand‑holding, leaning, soft touches that grounded him and whoever he was with.
His scent was light, almost similar to Hongjoong’s but with a more overwhelming orange undertone. Mingi always thought it paired nicely with everyone, but especially Jongho’s almost mulled, spiced wine scent.
“How was your first class?” Mingi asked, letting Yeosang tug him a little closer, the orange blossoming as he inhaled it greedily.
“Boring,” Yeosang said. “The professor spent twenty minutes explaining how to use the online portal.”
“That’s tragic,” Wooyoung said.
“It was,” Yeosang agreed. “I almost fell asleep. Jongho elbowed me.”
“Where is Jongho?” San asked, looking around.
Yeosang sighed. “He said something about needing a second breakfast and walked toward the cafeteria.”
Wooyoung cackled. “That tracks.”
“He didn’t even finish his first breakfast,” Yeosang added, shaking his head fondly. “He said it was ‘insufficient.’”
Mingi snorted. “He’s going to be insufferable when he gets hungry again in an hour.”
They crossed the courtyard together, the conversation drifting easily from one topic to another.
Yeosang asked, “Did you guys see the new posters for the fall festival?”
“No,” Wooyoung said. “Are they ugly?”
“Extremely,” Yeosang replied.
San perked up. “Oh, did you hear the gym’s getting new equipment?”
“No one cares,” Wooyoung said.
“I care,” San said.
“You would.”
Mingi just listened, letting their voices wash over him. The chatter was familiar, the kind of noise that made the first day of classes feel less overwhelming when he was surrounded by his people. .
Yeosang swung their joined hands again. “What about you, Mingi? How was Chemistry?”
Mingi shrugged. “Fine. Kind of a lot though.”
“First days always are,” Yeosang said.
“Yeah,” Mingi agreed. “But I survived.”
“Barely,” Wooyoung muttered.
Mingi elbowed him lightly. “I’m doing great.”
“You’re doing something,” Wooyoung said.
They reached the coffee shop patio, the smell of espresso drifting out the open door. Students filled the outdoor tables, laughing, scrolling, comparing schedules.
Wooyoung pointed dramatically. “Behold. Salvation.”
Mingi snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And caffeinated,” Wooyoung said. “Or I will be.”
Yeosang squeezed Mingi’s hand once before letting go. “Come on. Let’s get something cold. It’s too hot for hot coffee.”
“Agreed,” San said.
They headed toward the entrance together, still talking, still teasing, still wrapped in the easy comfort of a group that had been through a year of chaos and exams and late‑night study sessions together.
Exactly the kind of moment that made the start of a new semester feel manageable.
—-
The first week of classes passed in a blur of trying to keep organized, lists of assignments, and Mingi dramatically declaring he was “not built for this level of academic load.”
He survived (barely) through sheer willpower, caffeine, and the promise of probably heavy drinking on Saturday.
So when San and Wooyoung announced a “casual night out” at the new bar downtown, everyone knew it would be anything but casual.
By nine, the two apartments converged on the sidewalk outside the San/Wooyoung/Yeosang/Jongho house. The night was warm, the street buzzing with students heading toward the same cluster of bars.
Wooyoung burst out the front door first, arms raised like he was greeting a stadium.
“THE GANG IS HERE!”
“We’ve been here,” Hongjoong said dryly. “For like five minutes already.
San followed behind him, locking the door. “He’s been pre‑gaming.”
“I had ONE drink,” Wooyoung said.
“You chugged it,” Yeosang added, stepping out and adjusting his shirt.
“Semantics.”
Jongho appeared last, holding a half‑eaten protein bar. “I’m ready.”
And just like that, they were bickering, something about whether Mingi’s shoes were ugly or whether Jongho’s protein bar tasted as bad as it smelled. It was stupid, pointless, and exactly their brand of affection.
“Children,” Seonghwa sighed, herding them all into motion.
They started the walk downtown, the group splitting naturally into clusters, Wooyoung and San leading the charge, Yeosang sandwiched between them like a long‑suffering middle child, Hongjoong and Seonghwa walking close behind, hands swinging, and Mingi and Jongho still arguing about absolutely nothing.
“You’re wrong,” Jongho said.
“You don’t even know what I’m talking about,” Mingi replied.
“I don’t have to. You’re still wrong.”
Mingi shoved him lightly, but Jongho shoved back, prompting Yeosang to sigh dramatically.
“Can you two not fight for five minutes?”
“No,” they said in unison.
---
The new bar was somehow already packed when they arrived, music thumping through the walls, lights flashing in soft blues and purples. The moment they stepped inside, Hongjoong visibly stiffened.
Crowds were not his thing, and Seonghwa noticed immediately. He always did.
He slid an arm around Hongjoong’s waist, leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, then he flagged down a server and ordered a whiskey, sliding it into Hongjoong’s hand the moment it arrived.
Hongjoong exhaled, shoulders loosening. “Thanks.”
“Always,” Seonghwa murmured into his hair, pressing another kiss to the crown of his head.
Meanwhile, Wooyoung and San had managed to trap Yeosang between them in the booth, each draped over him like affectionate barnacles.
“You smell so good tonight, Sangie,” Wooyoung said, burying his face in Yeosang’s shoulder.
“Too good,” San agreed, nuzzling the other side.
Yeosang sat stiffly, arms crossed, expression flat. “I hate both of you.”
“You love us,” Wooyoung said.
“Unfortunately,” Yeosang muttered with a long heaving sigh.
Mingi slid into the booth across from them, laughing. “You look like a hostage.”
“I am a hostage,” Yeosang said.
Jongho plopped down beside Mingi. “I think he secretly likes it.”
“I do not.”
“He does,” Wooyoung and San said together.
The drinks they’d ordered arrived, cocktails, shots, something neon yellow that Wooyoung insisted was “totally safe” despite Hwa’s complaints about it. The music got louder, the crowd thicker, the air warmer with the mix of scents and laughter and weekend energy.
They talked about everything and nothing, professors they already hated, classes they were excited for, the guy in the corner wearing sunglasses indoors, the girl at the bar who had dropped her drink twice.
It was easy, the start of a night that made the stress of the week fade into background noise.
At some point, San slammed his empty glass down and stood up.
“Let’s dance.”
“No,” Yeosang said immediately.
“Yes,” Wooyoung said, grabbing his wrist.
“There’s enough of a crowd now,” San insisted. “It won’t be awkward.”
“It will be extremely awkward,” Yeosang said.
Wooyoung ignored him and grabbed Mingi’s hand too. “Omega party! Come on!”
“Why am I included?” Mingi asked.
“Because you’re an omega,” Wooyoung said.
“That’s discrimination.” San frowned.
“That’s facts.”
San tried to follow them, but Wooyoung shoved him back into the booth. “No alphas allowed! Go away!”
“But it was my idea?! San exclaimed then quirked an eyebrow. “Well, what about Hongjoong?”
“I think he’s a little busy…” Mingi said, nodding toward the corner.
Hongjoong was practically melted into Seonghwa’s lap, eyes half‑closed, cheeks flushed, scent warm and soft. Seonghwa had one arm around him, fingers stroking his hair, the other hand holding his own whiskey glass.
“Yeah,” Wooyoung said. “He’s not going anywhere.”
So the omegas went to the dance floor — Wooyoung dragging, Yeosang resisting, Mingi somewhere in the middle.
At first, Yeosang stood stiffly, arms crossed, glaring at the floor like it had personally offended him.
And honestly, Mingi wasn’t much better, swaying awkwardly, trying not to bump into strangers.
Wooyoung, however, was in his element: loud, chaotic, and dancing like he owned the place.
“Loosen up!” he yelled over the music.
“No,” Yeosang said.
“Yes,” Wooyoung insisted, grabbing both their hands and spinning them.
It was ridiculous, and still slightly embarrassing.
And it was fun.
Slowly, Yeosang’s shoulders relaxed as Mingi started laughing. Wooyoung cheered like he’d won a prize when they finally let loose.
And for a few minutes, just a few, because that's all Yeosang would give him, the three of them danced like they didn’t have homework waiting, like the semester wasn’t looming, like they were just college kids on a Saturday night.
It was perfect.