just kidult 🌱

The apartment was quiet when you stepped inside.Not silent never silent when Seungcheol was home.

There was always something : the soft clicking of his keyboard, the low hum of music from his speakers, the occasional sigh when he got stuck on work. Familiar sounds. Comforting sounds.

Tonight, the clicking reached you first.

You slipped your shoes off carefully by the door, shoulders aching from a day that felt ten hours too long. Your bag nearly slid off your shoulder as you walked past his office space, already planning to shower and collapse into bed without saying much. Seungcheol looked devastating.

White t-shirt. Glasses sitting low on his nose. Dark hair slightly messy from running his hands through it too much. Rings glinting against the keyboard as his fingers moved quickly across the keys.

God.

You tried not to stare.He noticed anyway. “Baby.” Your steps paused immediately.You peeked toward him. “Hm?” His eyes flickered up from the screen, softening the second they landed on you. “Come here.” “I don’t wanna disturb you,” you murmured. “You’re working.” “Come here anyway.”

There was no arguing with that voice. You walked over slowly, exhaustion practically dragging behind you, and the moment you got close enough, Seungcheol reached for your wrist gently. Before you could react, he tugged you down onto his lap with practiced ease.

You let out a tired little sound, instinctively wrapping an arm around his shoulders to steady yourself. “There she is,” he murmured quietly. The warmth of him hit you immediately. Warm hands. Warm chest. Warm voice. Home.

His arm settled around your waist while his other hand returned to the keyboard, fingers resuming their rhythm like nothing happened. “How was work?” You laughed weakly. “Horrible.” “Mm?” His brows pinched slightly. “That bad?” You nodded against his shoulder.

“One customer yelled at me because they forgot their own appointment time, my manager kept changing everything last minute, and I skipped lunch because we were busy.”

Seungcheol clicked his tongue softly under his breath. “That’s why you have a headache.” You blinked. “How did you know I had a headache?” His fingers paused for half a second before continuing again. “You keep rubbing this side of your forehead when you get one.”

The casualness of it made your chest ache a little. Because of course he noticed. Of course he did. “You ate anything at all?” he asked. “A granola bar.” He looked away from the monitor finally, giving you a look. “That’s not food.”

“I know.”

“No, baby, seriously.”

You sighed dramatically into his neck. “I knowww.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest. His hand squeezed your waist once before he continued typing, eyes scanning something on the screen while still listening carefully to every word you said. And somehow, that was the part that always got you. Not grand gestures. Not expensive gifts. Not even the way he could make your heart stop with one look.It was this.

The way he made space for you even in the middle of his own chaos. Like loving you wasn’t something extra he had to fit into his day. It was natural. Essential. “What happened after that?” he asked suddenly. You lifted your head. “You were listening?” He gave you an offended look. “Obviously I was listening.”

“You were literally answering emails.”

“And?”

You laughed for real this time, the first genuine one all day. A tiny victorious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth the moment he heard it. There it is, his expression seemed to say. That was what he’d been trying to get back all along.

You kept talking after that. About the rude customer. About your annoying coworker. About how exhausted you felt lately. And Seungcheol listened to every single thing, occasionally asking questions, occasionally kissing your temple absentmindedly while typing with one hand.

At some point, his fingers slowed. Then stopped completely. You looked at the screen.His work document was untouched for almost ten minutes. “Cheol,” you whispered, “you stopped working.”

“Mhm.”

“So finish.”

“In a minute.” He leaned back slightly in the chair, tightening his arms around you until you were practically melting into him. “You looked sad when you came home.” Something in your throat tightened painfully.

Not because he said it dramatically. Not because he tried too hard. But because he noticed. Again. His thumb rubbed softly against your side. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay around me, you know.” Your eyes burned a little from sheer exhaustion.

“I know.” He pressed a slow kiss against your forehead.“You work too hard.” “Says you.” “Yeah, but I have you to take care of me.” You stared at him for a second. Then groaned quietly and buried your face into his shoulder again. “You’re so unfairly husband-coded.” His laugh filled the room instantly. “‘Husband-coded?’”

“Yes.”

“I am your husband.”

“Exactly. It’s sickening.”

“Mm.” He kissed the top of your head. “Good.”

The first thing people noticed about her was not her face. It was her exhaustion. Not the dramatic kind idols joked about on variety shows.Not the “I slept three hours haha” kind.

Real exhaustion. The kind hidden behind oversized hoodies and half-finished iced americanos left forgotten in practice rooms.

The kind that settled beneath her eyes after years of training while everyone else slowly gave up around her. By the time BigHit officially confirmed the debut of their new girl group, she had already spent four years inside the company building.

Four years of evaluations. Four years of monthly rankings. Four years of surviving quietly.

She wasn't the best dancer. Wasn't the prettiest trainee. Wasn't even the most popular internally.

But she was the one who stayed in the studio until 3 a.m. learning production software off YouTube videos while the others slept. Music had never been a “dream” for her. It was survival.

When she was younger, she used to sit on the floor beside her father’s old radio and write fake lyrics in school notebooks because real life felt too loud. Too heavy. Music was the only place where she could turn ugly feelings into something beautiful.

So while other trainees obsessed over fancams and ending fairy poses.

She obsessed over bass lines. Song structure. Lyric phrasing.

The feeling of a chorus right before it explodes.

And somehow… people noticed. Not publicly. Not loudly. But quietly. Managers started mentioning her name in meetings. Producers noticed she stayed back to ask questions. Staff realized she was always carrying around a beat-up laptop covered in fading stickers.

One night, a vocal trainer accidentally walked past Studio 5 and found her asleep over a keyboard while a demo loop replayed softly through the speakers. That story spread faster than she expected

.By the time debut preparations officially began, one thing about her had become very clear inside the company: She wasn't becoming an idol because she wanted attention. She wanted to make music.

On the seventh floor, far away from trainee practice rooms and chaos, Yoongi leaned back in his studio chair while rubbing tiredly at his eyes. The building was quieter these days. Most groups were busy touring or promoting.

Which meant the producers finally had breathing room. For about five minutes. A knock sounded against the studio door. “Yoongi” Yoongi didn’t even look up.

“Come in.”

One of the company managers stepped inside holding a thin file and a USB drive. “We got the final confirmation.” Yoongi hummed absentmindedly. “The new girl group.” That got his attention.

Slowly, he looked away from the monitor. The manager continued carefully, already used to Yoongi’s unreadable expression.

“They want you involved in the debut project.”Yoongi stared for a second before letting out a dry laugh. “Why me?” The manager snorted. “As if you don’t already know.”

He really didn’t. BigHit had producers everywhere now. Younger ones too. Trend-focused. Fast. Marketable.

Yoongi was respected inside the company because he understood emotion in music. Because he cared about storytelling. But idol debuts? Those usually came with heavy concepts and corporate planning.Not exactly his favorite environment.

“They specifically requested your review,” the manager added.

“Who did?” “The girls.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. The manager placed the USB drive on the desk. “One of them especially.” Now that was interesting. Yoongi leaned back slightly. “What’s her role?” “Main producer unofficially,” the manager said with a grin. “Leader position isn't confirmed yet, but she’s heavily involved creatively.”

Yoongi’s expression shifted almost invisibly. That was rare. Very rare.Companies liked control too much to let rookies participate heavily before debut. “She made demos?” The manager nodded. “Stayed up for three days finishing them apparently.” “Three days?” Yoongi muttered. “She’s insane.” That finally earned the smallest twitch of amusement from him.

The manager plugged the USB into the studio computer before standing beside the monitor. “There are five tracks.” Yoongi clicked the folder open lazily.

Demo_01, Demo_02, Finalmaybe_, REAL2donttouch_, thisonenewfinalREAL

He stared. Then slowly looked at the manager.“…She named the files like this?” The manager burst into laughter. “See? I told you she’s insane.” For the first time since the conversation started, Yoongi looked genuinely interested.

He clicked the first track. Static crackled softly before piano notes filled the room. Raw. Unpolished. But emotional. Very emotional. Then her voice entered. Not singing. Humming.

Yoongi’s fingers stopped moving. The production wasn’t perfect. Some transitions were rough. The mixing needed work. But the melody…It felt honest. And honesty was hard to teach.

The second demo played. Then the third. By the fourth track, Yoongi had completely stopped pretending not to care.

The manager watched silently as Yoongi leaned forward in his chair now, elbows resting against his knees.Listening carefully.

Really carefully. That almost never happened during first reviews. Finally, the last demo ended.Silence settled inside the studio. Yoongi looked at the screen for a long moment before speaking. “…How old is she?” “Twenty.”

“Hm.”

The manager crossed his arms. “So?” Yoongi clicked back into the second demo again. “She writes like someone older.”

There was no praise in his tone. No exaggeration. Just observation. Which somehow meant more. The manager smiled knowingly. “You like it.” Yoongi ignored that completely. Instead, he replayed one specific section again.

And again. A tiny lyric layered quietly beneath the chorus.

Easy to miss. But devastating once noticed. He finally muttered softly “She understands restraint.” The manager blinked. “That serious?” Yoongi nodded once. Most young producers tried too hard. Too many sounds. Too many emotions forced into one song. But this girl knew when to pull back. When silence mattered more than noise. That was instinct.And instinct couldn't be manufactured. Yoongi finally leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on the monitor.

“What’s her name?”

The manager smiled slightly. And for some reason something in the room shifted.

There was something… different.

Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just a quiet shift in the air like the house itself had inhaled and forgotten to exhale.

Bam noticed first.

It started small. He stopped leaving your side.

Normally, Bam loved his routines morning zoomies with Jungkook, naps by the window, treats earned through shameless puppy eyes. But now? Now he was glued to you. Your shadow. Your second heartbeat. You’d stand up, and he’d stand up. You’d move from the couch to the kitchen, and he’d trot behind you, tail low but alert. You’d sit, and he’d curl right at your feet, head resting protectively against your ankles.

Jungkook noticed… eventually. “Why is he acting like you’re about to disappear?” he laughed one morning, ruffling Bam’s fur.

Bam growled.

Low. Warning. Not angry protective. Jungkook froze. “Hey what was that for?” Bam stepped between you and him. You blinked. “…Bam?”

The dog leaned into your legs, solid and warm, like a barrier. Jungkook just stared, confused, a little hurt.

“Okay, wow,” he muttered. “Did I do something?” You laughed it off, but later when Bam followed you into the bathroom and sat facing the door like a guard you stopped laughing.

Because you didn’t feel right either.

Not sick. Not exactly. Just… off. Tired in a way sleep didn’t fix. Food tasted strange. Your body felt like it was holding a secret you hadn’t been told yet.

And Bam knew.

At night, he slept closer. If Jungkook pulled you into his chest, Bam would gently but firmly nose his arm away. If Jungkook tried to kiss your stomach absentmindedly, Bam would place a paw right there. Claiming. Protecting.

“Why is my own dog cockblocking me?” Jungkook whispered one night, dramatic and offended.

You should’ve laughed.

Instead, your chest felt tight.

A week later, you woke up dizzy.

Jungkook was immediately in panic mode hoodie half-on, keys in hand, voice shaking. “We’re going to the doctor. Now.”

Bam followed. Of course he did.

At the clinic, Bam refused to sit. He paced. Watched every nurse. Every door. When they called your name, he stood so close the nurse hesitated.

“He’s very… alert,” she said gently. Jungkook forced a smile. “Yeah. He’s like that.”

The test didn’t take long. The silence after did.

The doctor smiled first. “Congratulations. You’re pregnant.”

Your world tilted.

Pregnant.

Your hands trembled as they fell to your stomach not showing yet, not different to the eye, but suddenly… everything was different.

Outside the doctor's chamber, Jungkook sat down hard in the hallway chair, hands over his mouth, eyes glassy. He laughed once. Then cried. Then laughed again.

“I’m....” he swallowed. “I’m going to be a dad?”

Bam walked up to you and sat. Proud. Calm. Like: Finally. You caught up.

That’s when it hit you.

That’s why he never left your side. That’s why he wouldn’t let Jungkook touch you too suddenly. That’s why he watched the world like it might take something from you. You started to tear up , lowering yourself to Bam's level you kissed his head and whispered “my baby”.

He’d known.

Before tests. Before symptoms. Before fear.

That night, Jungkook knelt in front of you, forehead pressed to your stomach, voice shaking. “I promise,” he whispered. “I’ll protect you both. I swear.”

Bam laid down next to him. Approval given.

You smiled through tears, one hand in Jungkook’s hair, the other resting over the tiny life inside you feeling safe in a way you’d never felt before.

Some love arrives loud.

This one arrived quietly.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

You weren’t supposed to exist to them.

Not in headlines. Not in blurry screenshots. Not in dissected TikToks with slowed audio and zoomed-in frames like you were some kind of hidden Easter egg in his life.

You were supposed to stay behind the camera.

“—and honestly, I think people forget I’m kind of a homebody,” Chris laughs, leaning back in the studio chair, all effortless charm and boyish ease.

The interviewer grins. “Captain America? A homebody? I don’t buy it.”

Chris shrugs, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips. “I mean it. Give me a couch, a movie, and—”

And that’s when it happens.

Off-set, behind the half-open curtain, you laugh.

Not loud. Not attention-grabbing. Just… real.

The kind of laugh that slips out when you’ve heard that exact line a hundred times at home, when he’s barefoot in the kitchen, trying to convince you that rewatching the same movie again counts as a new experience.

But the mic picks it up.

The camera catches the movement.

And suddenly

Everything changes.

The clip goes viral in under an hour.

“WHO IS SHE???” “Chris Evans SECRET GIRLFRIEND???” “Did you hear that LAUGH?? That’s not staff energy.”

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing.

Your chest feels tight.

Because you knew this world his world was loud and invasive and unforgiving.

And you had both agreed, silently and carefully, to keep this your quiet, steady, real safe.

Chris calls you the second he’s off-stage.

“Hey—hey, are you okay?” His voice is rushed, breathless, like he ran the whole way to his phone.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping your hoodie sleeve. “I messed up.”

“No.” Immediate. Firm. “No, you didn’t.”

“I wasn’t supposed to Chris, they saw—”

“They saw someone laugh,” he cuts in gently. “That’s all.”

But it’s not all.

You both know it’s not all.

The next few days are chaos.

Articles. Speculation. Fan theories that range from “mystery crew member” to “long-term partner he’s been hiding for years.”

Which… isn’t wrong.

But it’s not theirs to know.

Not yet.

Chris tries to dodge questions at first.

Smiles through interviews. Redirects. Deflects.

But then one interviewer pushes.

“So, Chris… fans are curious. There’s been a lot of buzz about a certain someone caught on camera recently. Care to comment?”

There’s a pause.

A rare one.

Chris exhales, running a hand through his hair, eyes dropping for just a second before he looks back up.

And something shifts.

“I—” he starts, then laughs softly, a little nervous this time. “You guys really don’t miss anything, huh?”

The audience chuckles.

But his voice steadies.

“There are parts of my life that I’ve always tried to keep… just mine,” he says carefully. “Not because I’m ashamed of them. But because they’re real. And real things deserve space to just exist without being picked apart.”

Your throat tightens watching it live.

“I care about privacy,” he continues. “Not just mine. Other people’s too.”

A beat.

“But… yeah. That laugh?” His lips twitch, softer now, almost fond. “It means a lot to me.”

The internet explodes again.

But this time, it’s different.

Less invasive.

More… curious. Softer, somehow.

You don’t see him for three days.

Schedules. Meetings. Damage control.

Or maybe… preparation.

When he finally shows up at your door, it’s late evening.

He looks tired.

But his eyes

They soften the second he sees you.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

Silence stretches for a moment before you step aside, letting him in.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “If this made things harder for you your career, your image—”

“Stop.” He closes the distance, hands finding yours. “Don’t do that.”

“But—”

“I’m tired of pretending like having something real in my life is a problem,” he says, voice low but certain. “You’re not a mistake. You’re not something I need to hide like it’s damage control.”

Your chest aches at that.

“Then what are we doing?” you whisper.

He smiles, small but sure.

“We’re doing this right.”

A week later, he posts.

No announcement.

No statement.

Just a photo.

Blurry, candid.

You, sitting on the couch, mid-laugh, a mug in your hand, hair messy, wearing one of his hoodies.

Your face isn’t even fully visible.

But it’s enough.

The caption?

“Some things are better when they’re real.”

The comments are chaos, obviously.

But also—

Supportive. Warm. Excited.

And you?

You’re sitting beside him when he hits post, your hand in his.

“You okay with this?” he asks softly.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

Because this doesn’t feel like exposure.

It feels like… choosing.

Later that night, you rest your head on his shoulder, the world still buzzing somewhere far outside your quiet little space.

“You know,” you murmur, “for a homebody… you really caused a lot of chaos.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your hair.

Jeonghan had always believed laughter fixed things.

Silences? Fill them with jokes. Tension? Dissolve it with a prank. Sadness? Distract it.

That’s how he survived trainee days. That’s how he survived pressure. That’s how he loved.

And you had always loved that about him.

He wasn’t just mischievous for cameras. He was like that at home too hiding your phone and pretending he didn’t see it, changing your ringtone to something ridiculous, swapping your sugar with salt just enough for you to notice but not hate him. It was never cruel. Never mean. Just… playful. At first, it made your long days easier.

But that was before work started swallowing you whole.

The Office

You were the youngest in your team.

Which meant:

Extra work.

Extra blame.

Zero credit.

Your senior, Mrs. Kim, had a habit of sighing dramatically every time you spoke.

“You’re still not careful enough.” “This formatting is slightly off.” “I don’t understand why this took you so long.”

It was never catastrophic mistakes. Never something huge. Just tiny things. Tiny things repeated until they felt massive. And no matter how much overtime you did staying until the office lights dimmed automatically no one acknowledged it.

One afternoon, you stayed three hours late finishing a report your senior had dumped on you five minutes before clock-out. The next morning? Mrs. Kim skimmed it and said, “You could have done better.”

No thank you. No recognition.

Just that, by Wednesday, the headaches started.

A tight band around your temples. Like someone was pressing their thumbs into your skull and refusing to let go. You started keeping painkillers in your bag,you smiled at work.

You cried in the bathroom once. You didn’t tell Jeonghan. Because he had rehearsals. Schedules. Recording. And you didn’t want to be “another thing” weighing on him.

The Pranks — Week One

The first time that week, he hid your house keys.

You were already running late.

“Han, where are my keys?”

He blinked innocently from the couch. “Keys?”

You narrowed your eyes.

He laughed and pulled them from behind his back.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

But you smiled. He kissed your forehead. “You love it.” You did.

Week Two

The pranks became more frequent.

He replaced your phone wallpaper with an edited photo of himself crying dramatically with sparkles.

He pretended to be upset because you “forgot” your anniversary which wasn’t even that day. He once hid behind the door and scared you so badly you dropped your bag.

You forced a laugh.

But that headache was still there.

And your senior had just sent you an email at 11:47 PM correcting a minor spacing issue in a document.

Jeonghan noticed you were quieter.

“Are you okay?” he asked one night.

“Just tired,” you replied.

He nodded.

He nodded.

He knew something was off. He also knew he’d been overdoing it.

He told himself that night: Tomorrow I’ll stop.

The Day It Broke

You had barely slept.

Mrs. Kim had publicly corrected you in a meeting for “lacking attention to detail” because you had written 2025 instead of 2026 in one corner of a slide.

One corner.

You apologized in front of everyone.

After the meeting, your colleague whispered, “She does that to everyone.” But it didn’t make it sting less. By the time you reached home, your head felt like it might split open.

You just wanted quiet. Silence.

Maybe Jeonghan’s arms. You unlocked the door.

The lights were off.

You frowned.

“Han?”

Silence.

You stepped inside.

Suddenly—

“BOO!”

He jumped from behind the couch, laughing.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder.Your heart slammed against your ribs. Something inside you snapped.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t laugh. You just stood there, breathing heavily. His smile faltered slightly. “Y/N?” And then it came out.

“What is wrong with you?!”

Your voice was louder than you meant it to be.

Jeonghan blinked.

“I—I was just—”

“Just what? Just trying to scare me again? Just another joke? Is everything a joke to you?!”

His expression changed. Confusion first. Then concern.

“Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean it! You never mean anything! You just keep doing it!”

Tears were already forming.

Your head throbbed violently.

“At work they treat me like I’m stupid. They dump everything on me. They scold me in front of everyone. And I come home and I can’t even get five minutes of peace!”

Jeonghan froze.

You had never talked about work like this.

“And you think it’s funny?! I’m tired, Han! I’m so tired!”

He stepped closer. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to add to your stress! You’re busy! You have your own problems! I didn’t want to be a burden!”

“You’re not—”

“I feel like I’m failing everywhere!” you cried. “I try so hard and no one sees it. No one appreciates it. I make one small mistake and suddenly I’m careless and incompetent!”

Your voice broke. “And I just wanted to come home and feel safe.”

That last word came out barely audible. Safe. Jeonghan’s chest tightened painfully.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

But you weren’t done.

“You knew you were overdoing it! I can see it on your face every time! But you still do it! Why? Why does everything have to be entertainment?!”

His eyes filled with guilt.

Because you were right.

He had noticed.

He had told himself it would be the last time.

And then did it again.

You suddenly covered your face with your hands.

“I love you,” you sobbed. “I love you so much. I just—I can’t handle it right now.”

And then you broke.

Not pretty crying.

Not silent tears.

Ugly, shaking sobs that made your shoulders tremble.

Jeonghan didn’t hesitate.

He pulled you into his chest.

And this time, there was no teasing. No laughter.

Just his arms wrapping tightly around you. You clutched his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” you kept repeating. “I didn’t mean to shout. I’m just so tired. I’m sick of trying so hard. I feel like I’m drowning.”

“Shh,” he murmured, holding the back of your head. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I yelled at you.”

“You needed to.”

You cried harder at that.

Because you expected him to be hurt.

Defensive.

Instead, he was just… steady. He pressed his cheek against your hair.

“I didn’t realize how bad it was,” he said quietly. “And I should have stopped. I knew I was pushing it. I’m sorry.” You shook your head against him. “I love your pranks. I just… not when everything else feels like an attack.” That word hit him.

Attack.

He felt sick.

He was supposed to be your safe place. Not another source of tension.

He gently guided you to the couch, sitting down and pulling you into his lap like you were something fragile. He wiped your tears with his thumb. “Look at me,” he whispered.

You did, eyes red and swollen. “You are not incompetent.”

Your lip trembled. “You are not careless.” His voice was firm now. “And you are not a burden. Not to me. Not ever.”

Fresh tears slid down your cheeks.

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

“From now on,” he said softly, “home is quiet if you need quiet. No pranks. No surprises. Just… us.”

You sniffled. “You’ll get bored.”

He huffed faintly. “I’ll survive. I’ve survived worse things than not scaring my girlfriend.”

Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you.

There it was.

That sound. But this time it wasn’t forced, he brushed your hair away from your face.

“Tell me everything,” he said. “About work. About the headaches. About Mrs. Kim and her dramatic sighing.”

You blinked. “How did you know she sighs?”

“I can just tell she’s the type.”

You leaned into him, exhausted.

And for the next hour, you talked.

About the meeting.

About the email at midnight.

About how hard you tried.

Jeonghan listened.

Not interrupting.

Not joking. Just listening.At some point, your crying softened into quiet hiccups. Your body relaxed against him.

“I’m sorry I ruined the mood,” you murmured weakly.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he replied immediately. “You trusted me.”

That made your chest ache in a different way.

He tilted your chin up gently.

“Sometimes,” he said, voice low and honest, “I use jokes to avoid serious things. It’s easier to laugh than to face how someone I love is hurting.”

You stared at him.

He rarely admitted things like that.

“I don’t want to be the person you endure,” he continued. “I want to be the place you rest.”

That was it.

You broke again.

But this time it wasn’t sharp.

It was soft.

You buried your face into his chest and whispered, “Thank you.”

He held you tighter.

“No more pranks for a while,” he murmured into your hair. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Doctor?”

“Dr. Jeonghan. Specialist in Girlfriend Care.”

You rolled your eyes weakly. But you felt… lighter.

That night, he made you tea. Massaged your temples gently. Turned off all the lights except one soft lamp. He lay beside you, pulling you into him.

No teasing.

No sudden movements.

Just warmth.

As you drifted toward sleep, you whispered, “I still love your pranks.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“And I still love making you laugh,” he said. “I just love you more.”

And this time, laughter wasn’t used to fix something.