Minho is currently snoring louder than a damned space shuttle launch. Bending over, you place a kiss to his forehead and whisper a quick Minho huffs, throwing up his arms and backing away from the bowl of what’s supposed to be spinach and artichoke dip. and throw your arms around him dramatically that you remember the whole barbecue sauce issue, and the two of you end up spending the rest of the night laughing your asses off and trying to wash out the stain.

Mixed heritage dating is not as black and white as it seems.