EVANESCENT

You fell into step beside him as he headed for the package lockers. “You said the desk was big. Figured you might want actual help instead of just narrating the struggle.”

Heeseung, Evan on camera but still just Heeseung when it was the two of you, huffed a quiet laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, a familiar little habit. The sleeves of the gray shirt pulled tight over his biceps every time he moved. “There’s a space for packages that are delivered. It’s over there.”

He found the right locker, opened it, and immediately froze at the size of the flat box.

“I don’t think I can do it,” he muttered, half to the camera, half to himself, the words coming out with that soft, almost resigned honesty he always had when something looked harder than expected. Then Heeseung squared his shoulders, got a grip, and hauled it out anyway. The second the full weight settled in his arms his biceps flexed hard under the gray fabric.

“Oh, that’s heavy.”

You stepped in and took one end without being asked. “I’ve got it. Just tell me if I’m about to walk you into a wall.”

Together you angled it toward the elevator.

“I can’t see like this, though,” he said, peeking around the side of the box the same way he had on camera. A soft “Ha… ha… urgh” escaped him as he adjusted his grip, the sound small and a little embarrassed. “Like Toy Story.”

“It’ll be faster to carry it,” you offered, and he nodded, concentrating in that quiet, slightly furrowed way he got when he was determined not to drop something.

By the time you got the box into the studio and laid it on the floor so it would be easier to open, both of you were a little out of breath. He tapped the camera off the moment the door shut for a moment, the red light dying. The shift in him was immediate: shoulders dropping, voice losing the faint performance edge.

“Okay,” he said, rolling his shoulders. The gray shirt stuck faintly to his stomach from the effort. “Now the fun part.”

Heeseung crouched and started opening the packaging as the camera rolled back on. “YESSS.” The triumphant little sound was pure him, soft, genuine, a little childish in the best way. “I need to assemble it.”

You knelt beside him. The next stretch of the afternoon followed the exact messy timeline of the footage. He lifted the tabletop with a pair of soft “Hya… hya,” then, “The tabletop.” You steadied it while he worked on the legs.

“Okay. Other side!”

A metallic scrape made him freeze. “Hm?”

“Oh…” Heeseung peered at the bracket, lips pressing together the way they always did when something wasn’t cooperating. “Hm. I need two for this one. Oh, other side.”

“Okay,” he murmured to the metal itself a minute later, voice quiet and almost coaxing. “Please don’t fall.”

You bit back a smile. “You’re really out here negotiating with furniture.”

He glanced over, caught you watching the way the gray sleeves kept pulling tight over his biceps every time he braced or twisted, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that small, slightly shy smile of his.

“You’re staring again, princess.”

“Your arms are doing a lot of work today.” You reached over like you were passing him a screw and let your fingers brush the inside of his arm instead, right where the muscle curved. “Hm. Strong. Ten out of ten. Would help assemble furniture again.”

He let out a soft, involuntary sound, half laugh, half something warmer, and the screwdriver slipped. “We still have to finish it.”

“Do we?” you asked, leaning in a little closer than necessary. “Because I can think of better ways to use this desk once it’s done.”

He didn’t answer with words. He finished the last leg with renewed focus. “When I complete a side the other side always falls apart,” he muttered, and kept going through the familiar complaints about the pegboard nightmare and “The floor, whoa!” until finally:

“I’m done… Like this.”

He stood, gave the white desk a careful push to test it, then looked at you with the same small, satisfied expression from the video. The second the desk was steady against the wall he turned, caught you by the waist with both hands, and boosted you up to sit on the edge of it. The new surface was cool under your thighs. He stepped between your knees, gray shirt still slightly wrinkled, and kissed you. It was soft at first, then deeper when you kissed him back, the quiet, pleased sound he made vibrating against your mouth. Heeseung’s hands stayed on your waist, thumbs stroking under the hem of your shirt in slow, absent-minded circles. Every time he leaned in closer his biceps flexed under the sleeves.

You made out like that for a long minute. It was messy, unhurried, the kind of kissing that usually led to more but deliberately stayed right on the edge. When he finally pulled back, his mouth was a little red and his eyes were dark, but there was still that soft, almost shy curve to his smile.

“Okay,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “If we keep going I’m going to forget we still have the rest of the room to deal with and a manager who thinks I’m being productive.” He pressed one more quick kiss to the corner of your mouth, lingering half a second longer than necessary. “Rain check. Properly. Later.”

“Oh. I’m holding you to that,” you said, hopping down with a small smirk. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

You both went back to the remaining packages.

Heeseung opened them with the same slightly chaotic energy from the later footage. He was ripping tape, muttering about how crowded the room was getting, holding up a hanger and deciding it was cute in that earnest way of his, tilting things and declaring they looked better left as they were. You handed him tools and let him talk through the vision the way he always did when the camera was off: colorful, comfortable, full of the little things that made him happy. Every so often his hand would brush yours, or he’d lean in and steal another quick kiss like he couldn’t quite stop himself, then pull back with a small, almost embarrassed huff of laughter.

Eventually he checked the time, stretched (the gray shirt pulling tight across his arms again), and said, “Heh, I need air. And food. Come with me?”

“Only if you’re buying,” you answered, already reaching for your bag. “And only if you promise the rain check still stands.”

The Hangang River looked exactly like it had in the footage. Open sky, water catching the late light, the kind of easy quiet that made the city feel farther away than it was.

“I think it’s been six months,” he said when you asked when he’d last been here, the same soft answer he’d given on camera. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tipped his face up to the breeze, eyes half-closing. “It’s so nice outside so I’m happy right now.”

“You look it,” you said. “Less like someone who just spent an hour arguing with a desk.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound quiet and genuine. You walked side by side, close enough that your shoulders brushed but not close enough for anyone to look twice. While you walked you lifted your phone and took a couple of quick, casual shots of him from the side. His gray shirt was soft in the light, his profile turned toward the water (we all know those pictures), the small content expression he wore when he thought no one was watching too closely. He noticed the second click and glanced over, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“Already?”

“The light’s good,” you said simply, lowering the phone. “And you look happy. It’s worth keeping.”

He didn’t tell you to delete them. He just looked away again with that small, pleased tilt to his mouth.

He talked as the camera was filming him. Honest, a little dreamy, the words coming out slower when he was thinking.

“I want to perform in a small theater,” he said when the conversation drifted that way. “Other venues can fit a lot more people so I think it’d be fun to perform somewhere small. Where the fans are closer.”

“That suits you,” you told him. “You always get quieter in big spaces. Smaller ones let you actually look at people.”

He glanced at you, something soft and a little shy in his expression, then nodded.

A few minutes later he veered toward the convenience store near the path with sudden purpose.

“Oh, this is a must,” he declared, the exact same energy from the video, voice lifting just a little. “A must!”

Inside he went straight for the ramyeon shelf, picking two cups without much debate, then paused at the small refrigerated section.

“They even have eggs nowadays,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased as he added two boiled eggs to the basket. He paid, filled the cups with hot water at the machine, and carried everything outside to the low tables near the entrance where people usually sat to eat.

You both settled there with the river in view. He peeled the lid back on his cup carefully, steam rising between you, and passed you a pair of chopsticks.

“Baby. Careful, it’s still really hot,” he said, the same gentle warning he always gave.

“I know. You always say that.” You stirred yours and waited a minute longer than him before taking the first bite. “This is perfect after all that furniture.”

He hummed in agreement, already halfway through his, the sound soft and content. For a while you just ate, the quiet comfortable. The eggs got peeled and split between you. A light breeze came off the water.

While he was focused on his noodles you lifted your phone again and took another picture. He was looking down at the cup, chopsticks in one hand, the soft late light catching the side of his face and the gray shirt. He glanced up just as the shutter clicked and raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

“Eh? Eating pics now?”

“Yah. You look too content. It’s rare. I’m collecting evidence.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed, soft and a little bashful.

“I used to come here a lot when I needed to clear my head,” he said after a while, blowing on another bite. “Before everything got so scheduled. Feels different now, but still good.”

“Different how?”

“Ah… Less time to just sit. More people who might recognize me if I stay too long.” He glanced at you sideways, voice quieter. “But it’s nice today. Having company helps, Y/N.”

You hummed in agreement and took another bite. “We should do this more. Even if it’s just convenience-store ramyeon by the river.”

“Mhm.” He leaned back a little once his cup was empty, watching the water, the soft contentment still sitting on his face. “I’d like that.”

After the last of the noodles and eggs were gone you pulled out your phone one more time. “Stay like that for a second. The light’s still good.”

He let you take a few more pictures for Instagram. Nothing too staged, just him looking out at the river, then glancing back at the camera with that small, private smile he only ever gave you. A couple of shots with the empty ramyeon cups still on the table. One where the breeze caught his hair. He reviewed them over your shoulder, made a soft approving sound, and mentally picked the safest ones to post on his Instagram later with a simple caption that gave nothing away.

“You take better photos of me than I do,” he said, watching you delete the ones that felt too soft for public eyes, voice low and a little shy about the compliment.

“Well, that’s because you stop making the stiff idol face when it’s just me.”

He didn’t argue. He just looked at you for a second longer than necessary, then glanced away with that small, crooked almost-smile.

The whole time the secret sat between you like another unopened package: precious, carefully held, completely invisible to anyone walking past.

By the time you got back to his place the sun was gone and the city lights were on. He dropped his keys in the usual dish, toed off his shoes, and headed straight for the bedroom with his phone already in hand.

“Yah! Help me pick,” he said, collapsing onto the bed on his stomach and patting the space beside him. The request came out soft, almost lazy. “I took too many. Manager’s going to ask which ones are going up.”

You climbed on next to him. The second you settled he shifted closer, one arm sliding around your waist so he could press against your side from shoulder to knee. He didn’t let go. Even while you scrolled through the Hangang photos together he stayed clinging. His cheek rested against your upper arm, fingers loosely hooked in the fabric of your shirt, the warm solid weight of him half-draped over you like he had no intention of moving anytime soon. Every so often he would make a tiny sound of contentment against your arm, almost like a quiet hum.

“Ahhh! This one,” you said, pausing on a shot of him looking out at the water. “This one. The light’s soft and you don’t look like you’re posing.”

“Mm.” His voice was quiet against your arm. He nuzzled a little closer. “What about the one where I’m holding the chopsticks?”

“Too obvious we were eating together. My purse is visible here.”

He made a small sound of agreement and tightened his arm around you. You kept scrolling, deleting a few, marking others. Every so often he would shift just enough to press a lazy kiss to your shoulder with an exaggerated “mwah” through your shirt, or drag his thumb in a slow circle against your side. The clinging never stopped. It only grew heavier, more intentional, until the phone felt secondary and the heat of him along your body was the only thing you could really focus on.

“Hee,” you said after a while, voice softer but direct. “You’re not looking at the pictures anymore. (?)”

“I know.” He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. The gray shirt was still on, slightly wrinkled from the day. His expression had gone quieter, darker around the edges, but still soft in the way only he managed. “I’m looking at you, pretty.”

“Good.” You set the phone aside yourself and turned more fully toward him. “Because I’ve been waiting for that rain check since the desk.”

He leaned in and kissed you. Slow at first, careful, the same unhurried way he had on the desk earlier. You kissed him back harder, one hand sliding up into his hair, the other finding the hem of his gray shirt and pushing it upward. A soft sound left him when your fingers met bare skin. The arm around your waist pulled you fully onto your side so he could fit against you properly. His free hand slid under the hem of your shirt in return, warm palm mapping the skin of your waist in long, lazy strokes.

Heeseung took his time undressing you. Your shirt came off first, peeled upward with both hands while he kept kissing the newly exposed skin of your stomach, your ribs, the soft underside of one breast. Soft gasps and quiet whimpers escaped you every time his mouth found a sensitive spot. He didn’t rush to the next piece of clothing. He stayed there, mouth warm and open, making quiet little sounds against your skin every time you shivered or let out another breathy noise. Only then did he move to your jeans, unbuttoning them slowly, dragging the zipper down, easing them and your underwear off together in one careful motion. A low, needy sound left you when the cool air hit your bare skin. He sat back on his heels for a moment just looking at you, eyes dark, before pulling his own gray shirt over his head and shoving his jeans and underwear down. The soft exhale he let out when he was finally bare was almost a whimper.

He reached for the nightstand drawer, found a condom, and rolled it on with the same easy familiarity as always. Then he settled between your legs again, but he didn’t push inside right away. Instead he braced himself over you on his forearms and kissed you deeper, slower, while the head of his cock rested against you, just barely pressing, not quite giving you what you wanted. A low, breathy sound vibrated in his chest. You answered with a soft, frustrated “Hee…” that made him smile against your mouth.

“Hee… Come here,” you repeated.

You rolled your hips up to meet him, a quiet, deliberate invitation. A low sound left him.

“Shhh… We have time,” he murmured against your mouth, still soft even now. “Let me feel you first.”

He rubbed against you in slow, deliberate strokes, coating himself in how wet you already were. Soft, broken sounds kept spilling out of you. Quiet “ah… ah…” every time the head of him caught against you just right, breathy little whimpers when he pulled back instead of pushing in. One of his hands slid down between your bodies so he could touch you properly, two fingers circling your clit with unhurried pressure. A soft breath left you at the first proper touch. When your hips lifted more insistently and you said, quiet but clear, “Hee... Please–” he made a low, pleased sound and finally pushed into your pussy.

It was slow. One long, controlled thrust that seated him all the way in a single motion. He let out a low grunt that cracked into a soft whimper against your neck. You answered with a quiet, open exhale as you felt every inch of him.

“Ah– fuck–” Another quiet whimper from him as he stayed still, buried deep, giving both of you a second to feel it. His breath was warm and uneven against your throat. “I needed this, Y/N. Spent the whole day carrying that box, fighting the desk, walking by the river, eating ramyeon, picking photos with you… and all I could think about was getting inside your tight hole and staying there.”

He started to move the same way he’d entered. Slow, deep, every stroke deliberate. His hips rolled rather than snapped. Soft sounds slipped out of both of you when the angle was especially good, his quiet whimpers and low grunts, your breathier answers, but the room stayed mostly filled with the quiet rhythm of movement and breathing. His biceps flexed every time he braced his weight or adjusted the angle.

“Feel how deep I am?” he murmured, voice rough. “That’s where I wanted to be all day.” A soft sound left him when your eyes rolled back. “Yeah. Yeah… Like that.”

He kept the rhythm unhurried for a long time. Every time you got close he seemed to know, slowing further, grinding deep until the edge receded, then starting the long strokes again. You didn’t stay quiet about what you wanted, making soft, direct requests of “deeper,” “stay there,” and “don’t stop,” and he listened every time, adjusting with that quiet focus of his. Your quiet “mmh… ah… hah– mixed with his soft whimpers and rough grunts. Every few thrusts a higher, shakier noise would leave you when he pressed especially deep, and he would answer with a breathy “nnh–” or a low “hah…” against your neck. His hand stayed busy between you when he wanted it to, then moved away again so the only sensation left was the thick, slow drag of him inside you.

“Nnh– fuck– look at me, princess,” he said at one point. When you did he kissed you and rolled his hips in a particularly deep stroke. “Missed having you like this. Missed being able to stay inside you without watching the clock.”

He talked in the same low, filthy stream as always, but quieter, more broken up by the sounds he couldn’t quite hold back.

“F–Fuck… your cunt is so tight.” A soft whimper punched out of him when you tightened around him. You answered with a shaky moan. Heeseung continued. “Ah… yeah baby. Do that again. Just like that. You take me so well every time… Missed the way you clench when I go fast like this–”

He finally let the pace build, still controlled but harder, deeper. Your sounds rose with it. Soft cries, shaky moans, breathy “yes… there–” when he angled just right. His hand found your clit again and stayed there, rubbing in the exact tight circles he knew would tip you over. The dual sensation: his cock dragging slow and deep in and out of your pussy, his fingers outside working steadily pushed you higher until you came with a broken sound, clenching hard around him.

“Good girl…” He didn’t stop. He worked you through it with the same steady rhythm, whispering soft praise against your mouth between the sounds. “That’s it… just like that… so good for me” while your oversensitive whimpers and shaky “ah… ah…” filled the space between you. Only when the oversensitivity made you twist under him did he let himself follow. After a few final deep thrusts, a punched-out groan that broke into a long, soft whimper, he came. His forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard and uneven. A last, quiet sound left you as you felt his warmth pulse inside the condom.

He stayed inside your hole for a long moment afterward, still making tiny, quiet sounds with every exhale, like the aftershocks wouldn’t quite leave him alone. You answered with soft, tired little noises of your own every time he shifted. You could feel his heart hammering against your skin, the rhythm slowing only when his breathing finally steadied. When he finally pulled out, it was careful. He took care of the condom, cleaned you both up gently with a tissue from the bedside table. Heeseung shifted his weight off you with a soft sigh, pressing a lingering kiss to the center of your chest before he sat back.

You watched him walk to the attached bathroom, the soft glow of the vanity light spilling out into the dark bedroom. Water ran for a minute. When he came back, he had disposed of the condom and brought a warm, damp washcloth. He knelt on the edge of the mattress and gently nudged your knees apart again.

“Let me,” he murmured, voice still thick and gravelly from sleepiness and satisfaction.

He was incredibly gentle, wiping you clean with slow, careful strokes. He took his time, making sure you were comfortable, and pressed a soft, warm kiss to the inside of your thigh when he finished. He tossed the cloth toward a laundry hamper and climbed back into bed, pulling the heavy duvet up over both of you without bothering to put any clothes back on.

The second he was settled, he reached out and dragged you against his chest. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side, while his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. He tucked your face into the crook of his neck. It was the exact same way he had held you while you were looking at the photos earlier: clinging, warm, and entirely unwilling to put any real distance between you.

He pressed soft kisses to your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. His fingers traced idle patterns on your bare shoulder, mapping the curve of your collarbone in the quiet room.

“You good, princess?” he asked, the check-in quiet and genuine. “Wasn't too much?”

“I'm perfect,” you answered, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “That was definitely worth the wait…”

A small, contented hum vibrated in his chest. “Mhm… Yeah. It was.” He shifted just enough to tangle his legs with yours, pinning you closer. “I could stay right here for the rest of the night. No more furniture. No more cameras.”

“Just us,” you whispered.

“Just us, Y/N,” he echoed softly. His thumb brushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “You really helped today. With the desk and everything. Thank you.”

“You did all the heavy lifting. Literally.”

He let out that familiar soft huff of laughter. “I was trying to show off a little bit.”

“I noticed. The shirt was very distracting.”

His arm tightened around you, his quiet laughter vibrating against your skin again. He didn't say anything else for a long time, just breathed in the scent of your shampoo and kept tracing those slow, hypnotic circles on your shoulder. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, heavy and grounding.

Outside, the city kept moving. Inside his apartment, the gray shirt and jeans were in a heap on the floor, the Hangang pictures were already chosen and waiting to be posted, the new studio desk was waiting for its next update video, and Heeseung held you like the secret was the easiest thing in the world to keep when it looked like this.

The first day in his new space had ended exactly the way it should have. The furniture was finished, the river walk was done, and the two of you were finally alone where no camera could turn itself back on.