[ minho stares at him for a second, is this shank serious, then he can't help it--he snorts, a grin stretching across his face big enough to make his eyes crinkle. ] Pfft--oh, man, Thomas, it's my job, dude, I have to clean up around here when the hipsters get tired of their coffee fix and go out to, I dunno, draw pictures of owls or something.

But, I mean, we keep everything in the back. Or, well, I do. We're supposed to throw stuff away, but, eh. [ but he's so not throwing away thomas' stuff. he is hopelessly, hopelessly endeared (especially at that stupid headtilt, seriously, you shouldn't be allowed to be that cute, thomas) and minho holds up a finger in a "wait a second", then ducks in the back.

he returns a couple minutes letter wearing a brown cardigan that obviously doesn't fit or belong to him; it stretches over his arm muscles and broad shoulders, and minho figures if he flexed, it'd probably rip to shreds. for now, he just grins at him, holding his arms out and making jazz hands. ] Look familiar?

[ he might have washed it, shut up ]