★mochijeno

Hi~ i'm lili★. jeno, chenle and anton ult!!!

i write for nct and riize for now.

i don't write smut(nothing against it, i just suck at writing it).

requests are open!!!

: masterlist will be updated(someday lol)

(⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆

happy nono day!!! a/n; not me spawning cause its his bday lol...enjoy!!

You’d been at the company for almost a year now, but somehow Lee Jeno still made your stomach flip like it was your first day all over again. Maybe because he was your first day.

When you first joined—nervous, overdressed, clutching your laptop like a shield—your manager assigned Jeno to show you around. Three years into the company, he was already one of the most trusted employees. Reliable, sharp, calm under pressure.

And unfortunately for you, devastatingly handsome.

He wore suits like they were made for him. Crisp shirts, polished shoes, fitted slacks that made your thoughts deeply unserious. He smiled like he knew exactly what it did to people.

And worst of all? He was kind.

“New jobs are scary enough already,” he’d said that morning, handing you a coffee you hadn’t asked for. “You shouldn’t have to survive one without caffeine.”

That was the moment your life got difficult. Because no one should be allowed to look like that and act like that too.

Almost a year later, your crush had only gotten worse.

Your coworkers knew. They’d known for months.

“You need to ask him out.”

“I need to be left alone.”

“You stare at him in meetings.”

“I observe professionally.”

“You once called his waist disrespectful.”

“That was private.”

They were unsympathetic.

And if you were being honest, your crush had progressed into dangerous territory. You no longer just admired office Jeno. Now you constantly wondered about outside-work Jeno.

Did he wear hoodies? Loose grey sweatpants? Did he push his hair back when washing dishes? Did he wear glasses at home? Did he own rings? Did he lounge around in black t-shirts that stretched over his shoulders?

Did he—

“You’re smiling at your spreadsheet again,” your friend said.

“I’m reviewing numbers.”

“You’re imagining Jeno in casual clothes.”

You said nothing.

Because yes. Obviously.

Then came the promotion opportunity.

A major campaign project. If you led it successfully, it would move you up in the company. You needed a partner from another department.

Your friends practically dragged you to your desk.

“This is fate.”

“This is networking.”

“This is workplace romance with benefits.”

“This is HR’s nightmare,” you hissed.

Still trembling, you typed one name.

Lee Jeno.

Your manager approved instantly. Apparently Jeno had accepted before they even finished asking.

Jeno had liked you since your first week.

He liked the way you listened carefully when people spoke. How you thanked everyone—from interns to cleaners—with the same sincerity. How your face brightened whenever you got excited over an idea.

He liked how shy you were too.

Though it made things difficult, because your shyness looked exactly like disinterest.

So he kept his distance. Stayed polite. Helpful. Professional.

Then your manager told him you had personally requested him for the project.

Jeno had to hide how quickly he said yes.

At first, it was awkward.

You could barely call him.

“Hi Jeno, sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me.”

“No, right, okay. Sorry.”

“You’re apologizing again.”

“…Sorry.”

He laughed softly through the phone, and somehow that only made it worse.

Soon, meetings became routine. Conference rooms. Coffee shops. Late lunches. Shared documents.

Then overtime.

And overtime became your thing.

The two of you staying late after everyone else had gone home, office lights dimmed, city glittering beyond the windows.

One night, you were staring at a budget report like it had personally insulted you when Jeno placed an iced coffee beside your laptop.

“You looked like you were losing a fight,” he said.

“I was.”

“With Excel?”

“With life.”

He smiled and sat beside you.

Not across.

Beside.

Close enough that your elbows brushed every time either of you moved.

You didn’t absorb a single number after that.

The office after hours felt intimate in ways it shouldn’t have. No chatter. No footsteps. No coworkers interrupting. Just the hum of air-conditioning, keyboard clicks, and Jeno’s low voice beside you.

Sometimes he loosened his tie around midnight, fingers sliding under the knot and tugging it loose in one smooth motion. Sometimes he undid the first button of his shirt. Sometimes he rolled his sleeves to his forearms.

Sometimes he leaned over your laptop, one hand braced beside you as he pointed at the screen, chest close enough to warm your shoulder.

“Focus,” he murmured once.

“You’re the problem,” you muttered.

He turned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

His mouth curved.

“That’s what you always say.”

Eventually, it made sense to work elsewhere.

“Your place or mine?” he asked casually.

You nearly dropped your pen.

“My place,” you blurted.

He nodded. “Okay.”

You spent the rest of the day panicking.

When he arrived that evening, your soul nearly left your body.

Because outside-work Jeno was somehow worse.

Black hoodie. Faded jeans. White sneakers. Hair soft and falling over his forehead.

No tie. No polished shoes. No office composure.

Just warm, handsome, casual Jeno standing at your door with convenience store bags.

“I brought snacks.”

You stared.

“Are you going to let me in?”

“Sorry.”

He laughed as he stepped inside.

Working at your place was impossible.

He sat cross-legged on the floor by your coffee table, glasses low on his nose while reading reports.

Glasses.

You hadn’t known he wore glasses.

You almost passed out.

“What?” he asked.

“You have glasses.”

“…Yes?”

“That’s rude.”

He laughed for a full minute.

Later, when you kept rubbing your shoulders, he stood behind the couch.

“Relax.”

Warm hands settled gently on your shoulders. His thumbs pressed slow circles into the tension there.

You froze.

“Too much pressure?” he asked softly.

“No.”

You sounded strangled.

He smiled against your hair.

The next week was at his apartment.

And it was somehow even worse.

His place looked exactly like him. Clean, warm, organized. A blanket tossed on the couch. Books stacked neatly. Shoes by the door. A mug left near the sink.

Small domestic details that made your heart ache.

Then he came out of the kitchen wearing a loose white t-shirt and grey sweatpants carrying two bowls of ramen.

You forgot every professional skill you had.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You answered too fast.”

“Yes.”

He laughed again.

At some point, the project stopped being the main reason you were there.

You still discussed deadlines and reports.

But now you also knew his favorite midnight snack. The scar near his wrist from falling off a bike. That he hummed absentmindedly while cooking. That he checked if you got home safe every time. That he noticed when you were tired before you said anything. That he always gave you the bigger half of everything.

One rainy Friday night, you were both working at his dining table.

You reached for the same file at the same time.

Your fingers touched.

Neither of you moved.

You looked up.

Jeno was already looking at you.

The room suddenly felt too small.

“Sorry,” you whispered, trying to pull back.

He caught your wrist gently.

“Why do you always apologize?”

His thumb rested over your pulse. You were sure he could feel how fast it was beating.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly.

“Then stop.”

He let go slowly.

Neither of you looked at the file again.

The presentation went perfectly. The campaign was praised. You got the promotion. Jeno was recognized too.

Your friends nearly cried with relief.

Then immediately cornered you.

“If you do not confess tonight, we will.”

“I hate all of you.”

Later, Jeno walked you home.

The streets were quiet. Cool air brushing past.

Outside your building, you turned to him.

“Thank you,” you said. “For helping me. For everything.”

He looked at you for a long moment.

“I didn’t take the project for the promotion.”

You blinked. “Then why?”

He stepped closer.

“Because it was you.”

Your breath caught.

“I liked you before the project,” he said softly. “I just thought you weren’t interested.”

“I liked you since my first day,” you blurted.

His brows lifted.

“The coffee?”

“The suit,” you admitted weakly. “And the coffee.”

He laughed, warm and bright.

Then he cupped your face gently.

“Can I kiss you now?”

You nodded too quickly.

He kissed you slow.

Warm lips. Careful hands. Smiling into it when you instinctively grabbed the front of his coat.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low. “All those nights at your place and mine…”

“Yes?”

“I had to use a lot of self-control.”

Your face burned.

He grinned.

“Cute.”

Then kissed you again.

Now he brought you coffee openly every morning. Your coworkers were disgusted by how cute you were together. He squeezed your hand under meeting tables. Fixed your necklace before presentations. Asked if you’d eaten lunch.

And at home, he loved sitting with you tucked into his lap while answering emails, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up.

“You wasted a whole year,” he murmured one evening, tugging you closer by the waist. “You liked me and said nothing.”

You buried your face in his neck.

“You liked me too.”

The practice room was washed in deep blue light, the kind that softened edges and hid details. The mirrors were dimmed, curtains drawn tight, LEDs humming low along the floor. Your phone sat on the tripod, angled carefully...no reflections, no giveaways.

Anton adjusted the black mask over his face, eyes meeting yours through the shadows.

“You’re sure this is necessary?” he asked.

You nodded, walking closer to fix the strap near his ear. “Fans notice everything. This is just… extra safety.”

He exhaled, amused. “So now I’m a mystery man.”

“A very handsome one,” you said. “But yes.”

He chuckled. “I still can’t believe you almost convinced me this was for Sohee.”

You pretended to check the lighting. “I didn’t convince you. You convinced yourself.”

“Wow,” he said dryly. “So this is what betrayal feels like.”

You laughed. “You survived.”

“For now.”

You stepped back, clapping once. “Okay. Remember...face down, shoulders loose. Hands are fine. Neck is fine. Mask stays on.”

He nodded. “Got it. Anonymous. Tragic. Heartbroken.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” he asked, stepping closer. “You really had me thinking another guy was about to put his hands on you like that.”

Your lips twitched. “And how did that make you feel?”

He paused. “…I didn’t like it.”

The confession sat heavy between you.

You pressed play.

Say by JUNNY slid into the room, smooth and slow. You moved first, letting the music pull you in, hips rolling, arms fluid. The blue lights caught the lines of your body, shadows doing half the work.

Anton stayed still until you backed into him.

His hands hovered for half a second.

“Touch me,” you whispered. “It won’t look real if you don’t.”

He placed his hands on your waist, firm but careful. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe,” you said. “You sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he replied quietly. “I’m territorial.”

That made your breath hitch.

You glanced at the phone screen. “Remember...mask. Head down.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “No one gets to see me.”

His grip tightened slightly as the choreography grew closer, more intimate. His masked face dipped toward your neck, never quite touching, the tension doing more than any move could.

“You know what’s funny?” he said softly.

“What?”

“If this went online, people would lose their minds trying to figure out who this is.”

You smiled. “Good.”

“And they’d never guess it’s your boyfriend,” he added.

You leaned back into him. “My secret boyfriend.”

His thumb brushed your hip. “I don’t like secrets.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But this one’s worth it.”

The song slowed near the end, movements smaller, controlled. His hands guided you like he knew exactly where you’d end up before you moved.

When the music faded, neither of you spoke.

You stopped the recording and turned around, hands resting on his chest. The mask made his eyes look darker, more intense.

“Okay,” you said. “Tell me the truth. You were jealous.”

He sighed. “Yeah. I was.”

Your smile softened. “Good.”

“Good?” he repeated.

“It means you care,” you said. “And it means you still trusted me enough to dance with me anyway.”

He pulled you closer, hand firm at your lower back. “Next time you want to test me...”

“I know,” you said quickly. “No Sohee.”

He laughed, forehead resting against yours, mask brushing your skin. “And next time…”

“Yes?”

“I’m keeping the mask,” he murmured. “But only because I like how close I can get without anyone knowing it’s me.”

Your heart skipped.

A short Anton drabble

Also Happy Birthday to me!!!

The movie’s been playing for a while, the kind you put on more for the noise than the plot.

You’re curled up under the blanket, legs tangled with Anton’s, his arm resting lazily around your waist. Every now and then he absentmindedly traces small shapes on your sleeve while pretending to watch the screen. The room smells faintly like popcorn and fabric softener.

At some point, the clock on the cable box quietly switches to 12:00.

Anton reaches for the remote and pauses the movie.

You glance up at him. “Why’d you stop it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans forward and pulls something out from beside the couch, setting it gently in front of you.

“Happy birthday.”

You blink, confused, then open the case.

“Oh.”

Your voice comes out softer than you expect. A bass guitar. The bass guitar. The one you’d been talking about for weeks, the one you always said you’d get “when the time feels right.”

You look at him, a little stunned. “Wow… you really do listen.”

Anton shrugs like it’s nothing, but the smile he’s trying to hide gives him away. “You make it easy.”

You run your fingers over the strings, still processing. “I didn’t even think about presents,” you admit. “I wasn’t really planning anything. I was just… happy knowing I’d be with you all day. As long as you’re by my side, I don’t really care about anything else.”

He goes quiet for a moment, then gently pulls you back into his chest, chin resting on your head.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you say things like that and then act surprised when I think you’re the cutest person alive.”

You smile, leaning into him as he presses a soft kiss into your hair. The bass rests nearby, the movie forgotten, the room warm and calm.

Your birthday starts like this—

Jeno ver(part 2)

Jeno almost didn’t lift the tablecloth.

He’d dropped his phone, sure—but he would’ve just left it there if he hadn’t seen shoes that didn’t belong to anyone standing. Small. Tucked in. Like someone was hiding.

When he crouched down and saw you, under the table, holding grapes like they were the most important thing in the world, something in his chest shifted.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… oh.

You looked surprised. A little embarrassed. A little hopeful in a way that felt too private to witness. And Jeno knew—knew—that this was going to matter.

He didn’t say it out loud, obviously. He just smiled and asked if you were okay, because that felt safer than admitting he already wanted to stay there with you until the world ended.

Jeno thinks about you a lot after that night.

More than he should, probably.

He thinks about how your eyes lit up when you talked. How serious you were about the grapes. How you looked at him like he wasn’t just some guy who accidentally interrupted your wish.

When he sees you again at the café, it feels unreal. Like the universe is nudging him forward, saying Go. This one.

He’s careful with you from the start.

Jeno has always loved quietly. Fully. The kind of love that waits. So he doesn’t rush, doesn’t grab, doesn’t push. He just shows up. Listens. Remembers.

He notices things.

How you scrunch your nose when you laugh. How you get quiet when you’re thinking too much. How you pretend you don’t need reassurance even when you do.

On dates, he wants to hold your hand so badly it almost hurts. When he finally does, his thumb brushes your knuckles like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. You don’t. He thinks about that for days.

He wants to kiss you first.

But he waits.

Because Jeno doesn’t want to be another person who takes. He wants to be someone you choose.

He falls for you in the small moments.

Watching you cook, standing too close on purpose. You asleep on his shoulder during a movie. You humming while doing something boring.

Domesticity sneaks up on him and ruins him completely.

Sometimes, when you’re not looking, he imagines a future so clearly it scares him. Mornings. Shared spaces. You wearing his clothes like they belong to you.

One night, when you’re curled up against him, Jeno almost says I love you.

It sits on his tongue. Heavy. Real.

Instead, he traces circles on your arm and whispers things that feel safer. Almost-sentences. Soft truths.

“I like being with you,” he says.

What he means is: I want to build a life around you.

Jeno kisses you like you’re fragile. Not because you are—but because what he feels is.

He kisses slow. Deep. Like he’s been waiting his whole life and doesn’t want to waste a second of it. His hands stay warm, steady, grounding. Like he’s anchoring himself to you.

When you kiss him back, really kiss him, he almost loses it.

He pulls away just enough to breathe, forehead against yours, eyes closed like he’s praying.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he admits quietly.

What he doesn’t say is: I was lonely before you. What he doesn’t say is: You make everything feel possible.

Next New Year, Jeno watches you from the couch.

The grapes are in a bowl between you. You look happy. Content. Real.

He thinks about the night he found you under the table and wonders how he got so lucky.

When midnight hits, he doesn’t make a wish.

He already has you in his arms. Your head on his chest. Your fingers laced with his.

Jeno presses a kiss to your hair and thinks—

reader ver(part 1) im back I guess!!!

You’re under the table.

Which—first of all—was not the plan. You genuinely thought this was a group activity. Like okay, everyone hides under the table, eats twelve grapes, makes wishes, boom—romance secured.

Apparently not.

Everyone else is standing, laughing, glasses raised, already counting down. And you’re crouched on the floor with a small bowl of grapes like you’re performing some ancient ritual.

You sigh.

Because honestly? You’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. How you’ve done everything right. You’re pretty. You’re smart. You’re successful. You’re not lacking. But still—there’s this empty space. Like you’re missing that one person who chooses you without hesitation.

You don’t want grand gestures. You just want someone who loves you softly. Intentionally. Someone who makes you feel like you’re not asking for too much.

“Ten!”

You pop the first grape into your mouth.

Please let me love and be loved.

Another grape.

Someone gentle.

Another.

Someone who stays.

You barely notice the noise above you anymore. By the time you’re on your last grape, your chest feels tight and hopeful and stupid all at once.

“Three… two—”

The tablecloth lifts.

You freeze.

There’s a guy crouching too now, eyes wide, lips curved like he’s trying not to laugh. He looks warm. Comfortable. Like someone you could accidentally fall in love with.

“Uh,” he says softly, “are you… okay?”

“…Hi.”

“Hi.” He smiles. “I’m Jeno.”

Fireworks go off. Everyone cheers. Midnight happens.

And under the table, with grape juice on your fingers and your heart doing something weird, Jeno looks at you like this exact moment makes sense.

You meet again a few days later.

Coffee shop. Raining outside. You’re reading something on your phone when someone asks, “Is this seat taken?”

It’s him.

Jeno remembers you. Remembers the grapes. Remembers your name. He laughs when you tell him why you were under the table, but it’s not mean—it’s fond. Like he already likes you a little.

Dating him feels natural. Like slipping into something that already fits.

Jeno is attentive in quiet ways. He walks you home even when it’s out of his way. He texts you good morning. Good night. Did you eat? Did you get home safe?

He listens. Really listens. Watches your mouth when you talk like your words matter.

On dates, he’s shy but steady. Hand hovering before holding yours. Glances that linger too long. When you lean into him, he stiffens for half a second like he can’t believe he’s allowed to.

He yearns. Badly.

Your favorite moments are the domestic ones.

Ordering takeout and eating on the floor. Folding laundry together while music plays. You brushing your teeth while he stands behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder.

Jeno kisses like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he rushes. Slow, careful, hands warm on your back. Sometimes he just holds your face and looks at you, like he’s memorizing.

One night, you’re half-asleep on the couch, head on his chest. His fingers trace patterns on your arm.

“Can I tell you something?” he whispers.

You hum.

“I think about you all the time,” he admits. “Like… future stuff. Boring stuff. Waking up next to you. Grocery shopping. New Years.”

Your heart flips.

“I don’t want to scare you,” he adds quickly, almost nervous.

You lift your head and kiss him before he can overthink it.

He melts. Completely. Arms tightening, breath shaky, forehead resting against yours.

“I really like you,” he says, like it’s a confession.

Next New Year, you’re not under the table.

You’re on the couch, legs tangled with Jeno’s, blanket over both of you. The room is calm. Safe.

He hands you a bowl of grapes with a smile.

“For luck,” he says.

You laugh, eating one.

You don’t make wishes this time.

Because Jeno presses a kiss to your temple, holds you a little closer, and looks at you like you’re everything he ever asked the universe for.

And you think— Maybe you should eat grapes every New Year.

Just in case.

I kinda miss doing this fic thing and about that jeno fic lol, i never wrote it actually i did but i only fiinished a chapter and got hit witth a writers block...but anywho maybe i'll get back to blogging😮‍💨

You were kind of excited when Anton mentioned the idea.

“A pool date,” he said. “Nothing fancy. I’ll teach you some proper technique.”

You could already swim — decently, anyway. But apparently, knowing how to not drown wasn’t enough when your boyfriend used to swim competitively.

So here you were, tied-up hair, goggles on, already waist-deep and regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

Anton, of course, looked like a water god. Effortless. Smug. Shirtless, which honestly was its own distraction.

“Okay, start with breaststroke,” he said, demonstrating the arm movement above water. “Then kick like—no, not like that. You’re doing frog legs.”

“I thought that was the point,” you muttered, moving awkwardly beside him.

“It’s the point, but not like a frog who’s panicking.”

You huffed. “I should’ve just stuck to floating on a donut float.”

“Too late. You signed up for the full swimmer’s experience.” He gently fixed your arms again. “You got this.”

Fifteen minutes in, your goggles were foggy, your legs were sore, and Anton was still explaining something about glide and timing.

You stopped moving, holding onto the edge of the pool with a dramatic sigh. “Okay. No offense, but I give up.”

He blinked. “You were doing fine—”

“I came here to swim, not to become a Navy SEAL.”

Anton let out a breathy laugh, pushing his wet hair back. “So what now?”

“We race.”

“You want to race me.”

“Exactly.”

“You realize I used to—”

“Five-minute head start or I’m walking out and getting ramen without you.”

He stared at you, then nodded. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.” You were already pushing off the wall, sprinting forward in your chaotic, half-right freestyle.

Anton leaned on the ledge, counting out loud. “One Mississippi… two Mississippi…”

By the time he dove in, you were halfway across and running out of energy. You could feel the water shifting behind you — Anton cutting through it like he was the current.

You reached the end, slapped the wall, and gasped for breath right as he touched it beside you.

You looked over. “Don’t say it.”

He grinned. “I wasn’t going to.”

You narrowed your eyes. “But you were thinking it.”

“That I slowed down on purpose to let you win?” he said, smirking. “Never.”

You shoved him lightly and started heading to the ladder. “Come on. Rinse off time.”

He followed without question, because of course he was the one who insisted you always rinse properly after pool days — something about “chlorine ruining your skin” and “you always skipping it when I’m not around.”

So now it was tradition: one wide shower stall, warm water, no pressure.

He stood behind you while you wrung out your hair, occasionally reaching to flick water off your shoulder or mess with your ponytail. It was calm. Just quiet voices and steam and the occasional soft splash.

After, you walked home — damp hair tucked into your hoodie, Anton holding your bag just because, ramen bags swinging in his other hand.

You sat on the floor, legs stretched out, eating right from the container.

Anton nudged your knee with his. “Still mad I didn’t let you win?”

You gave him a lazy look. “I did win.”

“Right.”

You slurped your noodles. “Also, I’m never learning butterfly. Don’t even try.”

you could run through those tags and see what other writers are tagging too to get inspo!!!

Sure. I really haven't put much thought into the tags, i kinda like the idea of my blog being like a "hidden gem" lol.

But now that you've mentioned it, I sure will add more tags(⁠◠⁠‿⁠・⁠)⁠—⁠☆.

Busy

I'm running out of titles😭

The music in the studio felt louder than it used to.

You weren’t sure if it was the bass vibrating under your feet or the nerves buzzing quietly in your chest. Months had passed. Long ones. Ones filled with stages and flights and interviews where you’d smile for cameras while dodging quiet questions about Lee Jeno.

“We’re both too busy right now,” you had agreed — two schedules that couldn’t seem to line up anymore, no matter how much you both tried.

So you let each other go.

At least for a while.

And now, somehow, here you were again.

The door to the booth slid open with a quiet click. You didn’t even have to turn around. You already knew the sound of his footsteps, quieter than most. Jeno always walked like he didn’t want to disturb anyone.

You heard him clear his throat, voice slightly raspy like he hadn’t spoken much yet today.

“Hey.”

You turned slowly.

His hair was a little longer. Same earrings. Same eyes — maybe a little more tired now. Or maybe that was just the way he was looking at you.

“Hey,” you breathed.

For a second, it was awkward. A careful silence. Both of you standing there like two strangers dressed in old memories.

And then Jeno did what Jeno always did. He smiled. Quiet and soft. Like nothing had changed.

“You’ve been doing well,” he said, voice gentler than any interview clip.

“So have you.” Your fingers curled into your sleeves. “It’s been… a while.”

He stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see the little scar on his jaw he always covered with foundation. The same silver chain you bought for him hanging low around his neck.

“Too long,” Jeno admitted. “I kept thinking about calling.”

You exhaled, feeling your heart stutter the way it always did around him. “Me too.”

His laugh was quiet, almost sheepish. “I guess we really were busy.”

The unspoken part hung in the air. Busy… but maybe not enough to forget each other.

Your hands brushed first. Then his fingers slid over yours, cautious like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to yet. But you didn’t pull away.

“I missed you,” he said. Plain. Honest. Like it wasn’t a big, breaking thing.

You swallowed hard, eyes dropping to where your hands were now fully laced together.

“I missed you too.”

This time, there were no cameras. No schedules. Just two singers in an empty studio, relearning the sound of each other’s voice.