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You heard the door click open, then the familiar shuffle of Haechan’s steps. Your heart did this stupid thing it always did when he came home—a little leap, a little ache. The sound was soft like he was trying not to wake you up.

You were curled up on the couch in one of his big hoodies, the sleeves pulled over your hands, face half-buried in the worn fabric that still smelled like him.

The TV was still playing something, the volume low, a show you weren’t really watching. You didn’t move. Just listened.

Keys hit the ceramic dish by the door. A plastic bag rustled. The unmistakable scent of garlic and fried something drifted through the air, and your stomach rumbled.

You haven’t eaten since lunch.

“YN?” his voice was quiet, a little scratchy from laughing too much probably. “Baby, you awake?”

You didn’t answer right away, your throat felt thick from not having spoken in hours. You sat up slowly, rubbing at your eyes like you’d just woken up. 

“Hi,” you said, clearing your throat. “You’re back late.”

Haechan walked in, a little flushed from the cold and the alcohol he drank, dark hair tousled and cheeks pink. He was holding a plastic bag from your favorite spot; the one that always forgot the extra sauce unless he asked for it.

“Mark wanted dessert,” he said, setting the bag on the coffee table and crouching down beside you. “We argued for twenty minutes about cake versus ice cream, and somehow Johnny ended up being both.”

You gave him a tiny smile. “Sounds fun.”

“I bought back some good stuff for you that I thought would make you happy. Some things are new so we can try them together—”

“You brought me food?” you asked in shock.

Haechan halted his movements, stared at you in a frown for a moment like you’d just grown two heads and nodded. 

“Yes,” he answered, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Did you eat today?”

“Not since lunch.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. He reached into the bag, pulled out the container you always got, your exact order—down to the extra dumplings you only got when you’ve had a hard day.

“I thought maybe you didn’t,” he murmured. “So, I got your favorite. It’s still warm,” he passed you the container. “By the way, Mark has officially stolen your menu. He said he’s only going to order that from now on, so maybe try teasing him about having no personality. It’d be funny—are you crying?”

You shook your head, brushing your tears away with your (his) sleeve. “No. I’m just—god, I’m sorry. I am not crying over dumplings, I swear.”

He reached out, cupping the side of your face gently, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. 

“Yeah, you are,” he said, smiling a little. “But it’s okay, baby. You can cry over dumplings. Especially if they’re good ones.”

You laughed through your tears, the sound watery and embarrassed. “You’re too nice to me.”

“Actually, I think I’m not nice enough to you,” he said softly. You leaned into his hand, eyes closed, the scent of food and him and something safe wrapping around you all at once. The warmth of it—of him— settled in your chest like a balm.