shelves of fantasies

You pretended to be startled, the rush you felt through your system having nothing to do with his sudden irruption. The truth was you had hoped he'd still be there. You had been thinking about a good reason to walk away by yourself the moment you had sat down on the soft carpet of your friend's room. You would have been contempt with catching a glimpse of him glued to his videogame in the living room, the way you had seen him when you and your friends had come through the door that afternoon. He had turned his head in a lazy greeting before doing a double take with vague interest. Your heart had wanted you to think his eyes had set on you that second time, but you had looked away too quickly for you know. It didn't matter how long you had known San for, being normal around him still felt like a performance. You could never hold his gaze for longer than it took you to give him an awkward smile. While not unwelcome, the sight of him leaning against the doorframe, lips curling with the ghost of his own joke was way more than you could handle.

"I just wanted a glass"

"You guys playing with a ouija board in there?"

"No... for water"

"Oh"

San walked into the kitchen, his hand hesitating for a moment before hitting your shoulder with a friendly pat. He opened one of the wooden cupboards where the glasses were neatly organized. He reached for one of the them, his black worn out t-shirt lifting a bit, enough for you to catch a glimpse of his soft skin above the elastic of his underwear.

"How thirsty are you?"

You felt your heart drop to the bottom of your feet.

"What?"

San shook the glass on his hand, his other opening the faucet and letting the water run.

"How much do you want me to fill it up"

"Oh, uhm. Surprise me"

You didn't have time to torture yourself for that answer before you felt the familiar pressure of San's gaze on you. His brow creased over his eyes, expression twisted in a confused smile.

"Okay, weirdo"

He cut the water with one swift motion and turned around to offer you the glass. It was almost filled to the brim, a few droplets of water carelessly falling through the surface, wetting San's fingers and dropping to the kitchen floor. He didn't seem to care. You took it with both hands, worried that the slippery glass would fall from your grasp and also so you could feel the warmth of San's hand even if for just a second. It was embarrassing really, how scared yet starved you were of any sort of contact. You would come into the house to see him but fold under his gaze, seek his presence and look away the moment you locked eyes with him as he sat in his room, place your hands around his fingers as you held the glass and feel your skin burn at the thought he might be onto you.

"You have to drink all of it"

His tone was mockingly threatening, a tune you had become accustomed to a long time ago. You avoided having to answer with anything but a choked chukle as you took a sip from the glass. You were glad you could still hear the game in the background, if you had had to stand there in complete silence, only interrupted by noisy gulps you would have died inside. A drop slipped from the corner of your mouth and down your chin, your free hand hurrying to wipe it away before he could see. Everything felt embarrassing in front of him, from drinking noises to the way you stood, everything felt wrong. Everything was a reason you gave yourself to justify and convince yourself he didn't find you remarkable. And yet you took it, all of it. You replayed it in your mind for days, every short interaction, every empty conversation about the weather, every quick glance. They meant everything to you, even if they meant nothing at all.

"It's good"

Your face twisted ever so slightly, stopping yourself before he could tell how embarrassed you had been from that idiotic comment barely a quarter of a millisecond after it had left your lips.

"Yeah?" he mocked "Is it good water?"

It ripped a genuine smile out of you, half amusement, half embarrassment. You placed your hand over it, muffling your voice.

"It is"

Scared you'd embarrass yourself further with your poor attempts to conversation you placed the glass to your lips, cold water barely making it past them when another burst of giggles came over you. You turned away, San laughing behind you as he saw your shoulders shake in silent laughter.

"What is wrong with you" he laughed "Are you guys doing anything in there that I should know about?" You grabbed onto the kitchen counter with your free hand as you calmed yourself, swallowing your laughter and breathing in deeply. San saw your head shake twice, then you took another sip of the glass. "You don't actually have to drink all of it if you don't want. I was joking"

You had missed the sound of his feet approaching you, but there was no way you could miss how heavy his proximity felt as he stood next to you. His hand reached for the glass and took it from you so casually it embarrassed you how much strength it would take from you to ever even get this close to him without feeling your lips go dry and your heart slam against your ribcage. As if hearing your silent pleas for help, your friend's voice called your name from her room. San took a step back and when you finally turned towards him he was resting his lower back against the edge of the kitchen counter, glass in hand and eyes set on you.

"That's me"

"I know"

Your lips tensed into a stiff smile, the type that until a few minutes ago he had been sure was the only kind you could give. Crossing the kitchen entrance and walking down the hallway you felt the pressure of his pressence physically lift from your shoudlers as you let out a deep sigh. San stood in the kitchen for a bit longer before walking back to the living room, the familiar tune of defeat coming from his videogame having played on loop for a while. He lifted the half empty glass and held it against the sunlight. He turned it at an angle a few times until he found the faded marks of your lip gloss pressed like a ghostly kiss against the rim of the glass. San shamelessly placed his own lips over them and took a small sip of water before placing the glass over the table. He picked up his controller and sat down on the couch at an angle that gave him a partial view of the door. He still had around seven rounds before he could accidentally catch a glimpse of you as you walked out the door to go home.

He was watching you with that dangerous little smile, the one where his dimples pressed deep and his eyes went all soft and predatory at the same time.

His hand had been resting on your ankle, thumb stroking lazy circles, but the longer you talked gesturing wildly with the sleeve paws of his hoodie, voice pitching higher with excitement the tighter his grip became.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy describing the cat’s little white socks.

“So then I was like, ‘Hi baby, do you have a home?’ and she—”

He made a low, strangled noise.

You blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, but his jaw was tight and he was biting the inside of his cheek like he was physically restraining himself.

His free hand came up to pinch your cheek gently, then not so gently, squishing the soft skin between his fingers.

“Cheollie, I’m trying to tell you about the cat—”

“You’re killing me,” he groaned, voice rough.

“You’re actually going to kill me.”

You tilted your head, confused and a little pleased.

“What did I do?”

“You’re talking with the hoodie paws. You’re using voice cracks. You called a stray cat ‘baby’ in that voice.”

He sat up suddenly, pulling you closer by the ankles until you were half in his lap.

“You’re being so fucking cute I can’t breathe.”

Your face heated. “I’m just talking—”

“Exactly.”

He cupped your cheeks with both hands now, thumbs brushing your skin almost reverently. His eyes flicked all over your face like he couldn’t decide where to look your sparkling eyes, your slightly puffed cheeks, the way your lips kept moving even as he held you. “You talk too much and it’s lethal. I’m having cuteness aggression. Medical emergency.”

You giggled, trying to squirm away half-heartedly.

“You’re so dramatic—”

He cut you off with a kiss.

Not a soft one. Not the gentle little peck he usually gave you when you were being silly.

This was sudden and deep and hungry, like he’d been holding back for the last ten minutes and finally snapped.

His lips moved against yours with purpose, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to tilt your head just right.

You made a surprised little sound that only seemed to make it worse.

“Cheol—” you tried to say between kisses, but he swallowed it, kissing you harder. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you fully into his lap until your knees bracketed his thighs.

The hoodie rode up your legs and his warm palm slipped underneath, resting possessively against the bare skin of your lower back.

“You’re so cute it hurts,” he mumbled against your mouth, barely pulling away enough to speak.

“Every time you get excited like that… fuck, I just want to kiss you stupid.”

“Then do it,” you whispered, dizzy and grinning.

He did.

The next kiss was slower but no less intense tongue brushing yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip, the kind of makeout that made your fingers curl into his hair and tug. He groaned softly at the pull, the sound vibrating through you.

One of his hands slid up your spine under the hoodie while the other stayed on your cheek, thumb stroking like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together.

“Hi,” you said softly, a little breathless, cheeks burning.

Seungcheol’s eyes were dark, lips kiss-swollen, but the fond smile that broke across his face was pure sunshine. He squished your cheeks again, gentler this time, and planted three rapid little kisses on your puckered lips.

“My baby,” he murmured, voice wrecked.

“My cute, talkative, lethal baby. Keep talking. I’ll just keep kissing you every time I can’t handle it anymore.”

You laughed, bright and giddy, and leaned in to kiss him again soft this time, sweet, the kind of kiss that tasted like promises and quiet nights in.

He smiled against your mouth, arms tightening around you like he never planned on letting go.

Outside, the city kept moving, but in here it was just you, his favorite hoodie, and Seungcheol’s endless, adorable, slightly feral love.

Taglist 🥂

“You act forty-two and divorced.”

“I’m literally in a relationship.”

“Exactly,” she’d pointed accusingly. “You’ve become boring because you’re happy.”

And honestly? Maybe she wasn’t completely wrong. You and Mingyu act like an old married couple.

Most nights consisted of takeout on the couch, Mingyu sprawled across you like an oversized clingy dog while you watched movies he never paid attention to because he was too busy touching you somehow at all times.

Your social battery had practically retired. Clubbing felt like a lifetime ago.

But Yeri had persisted. And persisted. And persisted until eventually you’d sighed dramatically and agreed.

Now you’re regretting it a little. Not because the night is bad. Actually, Itaewon is very much alive tonight.

Music spills out from every doorway you pass, bass vibrating beneath your feet as crowds flood the streets under neon signs and cigarette smoke and flashing lights.

People laugh too loudly. Someone’s singing terribly outside a bar. The air smells like perfume, alcohol, grilled food from a nearby stand.

You’d forgotten how much energy Seoul nightlife had. And maybe that’s why you loosen up after the second bar. Then the third. Not drunk. Just lighter.

You’re leaning against the counter waiting for drinks while Yeri dances somewhere behind you when a guy slides beside you.

“Are you alone?”

You already know where this is going. You glance at him politely. “No.”

“But your boyfriend isn’t here.”

Bold. You almost laugh.

“He exists though,” you reply.

The guy grins. “Still. Can I get your number?”

You should say no. Really. But something mischievous sparks in your brain. Maybe it’s the tequila.

Maybe it’s because Mingyu had annoyed you earlier by refusing to let you leave the house without kissing him at least four times first.

Maybe you’re just evil. So you smile sweetly and type a number into his phone. Mingyu’s number.

“There,” you say innocently.

The guy looks pleased with himself immediately You nearly choke trying not to laugh as you walk away.

It should’ve ended there. It absolutely should’ve ended there.

But somehow the night turns into a repeat cycle of men approaching you everywhere you go.

At the rooftop bar. Outside the convenience store. Near the bathrooms. One guy literally interrupts you while you’re mid-sip.

“You’re seriously the prettiest girl here.”

Another says, “Your boyfriend’s lucky.”

One asks if you’re a model. Another says you look familiar. And every single time, you give them Mingyu’s number.

At first it’s funny. Then it becomes hilarious. By guy number five, even Yeri is wheezing beside you.

“You are actually insane,” she laughs.

“He’ll survive.”

“You’re literally setting him up.”

“I’m improving his social life.”

“You’re going to die.”

Probably. But in the moment, the idea of Mingyu opening his phone to a flood of random men texting him makes you laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

You don’t think about the consequences. Not until two hours later.

Not until you finally stumble out onto the street near midnight, heels clicking unevenly against the pavement while you tug your jacket tighter around yourself.

And then you see his car parked near the curb. Your stomach drops a little. Because Mingyu’s sitting in the driver’s seat looking still. Too still.

One hand gripping the steering wheel. Jaw tight. Yeri sees your face and immediately bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God,” she says. “You’re fucked.”

“Shut up.”

“You better update your will.”

You glare at her before opening the passenger door carefully.

The second you sit down, warmth hits you from the heater, along with Mingyu’s cologne and suddenly you become very aware of how short your skirt actually is.

Mingyu doesn’t drive immediately. He just looks at you.

“…Hi?” you try. Nothing.

Then finally, “Care to explain,” he says calmly, way too calmly, “why I’ve had seven different men texting me in the last two hours?”

You press your lips together to stop yourself smiling. Because unfortunately, this is still funny. Mingyu notices instantly. His eyes narrow.

“You’re laughing.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“I tried really hard not to.”

“Baby.” The warning in his voice sends heat creeping up your spine.

You glance over at him and immediately regret it because he looks unfairly attractive right now. Black hoodie. Sleeves shoved up his forearms.

Annoyed Mingyu is hot. Especially quiet annoyed Mingyu. You bite back another smile. “Okay but in my defence—”

“My phone was vibrating nonstop in the studio.”

“…Oops.”

“First guy says you looked cute at a bar.”

You cover your face with your hands immediately.

“Second guy asked if you got home safe.”

Yeri is literally crying laughing outside the car before finally shutting the door and yelling goodbye through the window.

Traitor.

Mingyu continues, “Third one sent me a fucking shirtless mirror pic.”

You choke. “What?”

Mingyu finally looks at you fully. His expression is almost offended. “He had no abs.”

You burst into laughter. Actual uncontrollable laughter. You’re bent forward in your seat while Mingyu stares at you in disbelief.

“You think this is funny?”

“Yes.”

“I almost called one of them.”

That makes you stop. “…You did not.”

“He asked if you wanted to get drinks next weekend.”

You stare at him.

“And?”

Mingyu’s jaw ticks. “And I nearly agreed.”

Mingyu reaches over the console, grabbing your thigh hard enough to make you suck in a breath.

“Were they touching you?”

Your laughter fades slightly. “No.”

“Flirting?”

“…Obviously.”

His hand tightens. “You flirt back?”

“A little.”

“Mm.”

That low sound goes straight to your stomach.

Mingyu finally pulls away from the curb, one hand driving while the other stays possessively high on your thigh like he physically cannot stop touching you now.

The silence in the car shifts.

“Are you cold?” He suddenly asks, reaching for the temperature button.

You grin slightly. “A little”

“Because of your skirt, which I told you to change.”

“You did tell me to change.”

“You ignored me.”

“Because you’re dramatic.”

“I know how men think.”

“You are a man.”

“Exactly.” The honesty makes you laugh quietly.

Traffic lights paint across his face in flashes of red and gold while he drives.

“Show me.” You suddenly say.

“What?”

“The messages.”

“You really wanna see them?” He glances at you.

“Yes. Show me.”

He hands you his phone and you immediately unlock it. You start scrolling through his messages.

And the more you read, the harder it is for you to not laugh.

“‘You have really pretty eyes.’”

Scroll.

“‘Text me when you get home princess.’”

Scroll.

“Princess?” Mingyu repeats incredulously.

You’re trying not to smile again.

The possessiveness only gets worse when you get home.

The second the apartment door shuts behind you, Mingyu crowds you against it.

Big hands gripping your waist. Warm body pressing into yours. “You had fun tonight?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

“Getting hit on?”

“Mingyu.”

“Answer the question.”

You roll your eyes. “It was harmless.”

His gaze drags slowly over your face. Then lower. To your outfit. Back up again.

“You know how hard it was not to go to Itaewon and drag you out myself?”

Heat blooms in your stomach.

“You’re being dramatic again.”

“You gave seven men my number.”

“…When you say it like that—”

“Seven.”

You’re smiling now despite yourself. Mingyu notices immediately and exhales sharply through his nose before suddenly burying his face into your neck.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters against your skin.

Then quieter. “I hated imagining them looking at you.”

That soft confession catches you off guard slightly.

Because beneath the jealousy and possessiveness. Mingyu’s always painfully sincere with you.

You slide your arms around his neck. “I only wanted you in my bed tonight anyway.”

He lifts his head slowly, his lips tugging up to a small smirk. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.“

“And next time?”

You grin.

“I’ll give out Wonwoo’s number instead.”

"You put that piece upside down."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I've built furniture before." You looked over the top of your phone. The shelf was, indeed, upside down.

You burst out laughing. Seungcheol narrowed his eyes.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing."

"Y/N."

"Nothing, grandpa."

Silence. Dead silence. Slowly, his head turned toward you.

"Excuse me?" You immediately regretted everything. But only a little. "Grandpa," you repeated.

His jaw dropped.

"GRANDPA?". You nodded seriously.

"Well, you did say you've built furniture before."

"I'M THIRTY-ONE."

"Exactly."

"THAT'S NOT OLD." You gasped dramatically.

"Careful, Cheol. Don't raise your voice. Your back might give out."

His mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

The offended expression on his face was so ridiculous that you started laughing harder. "You think this is funny?"

"A little."

"A little?"

"A lot." Seungcheol pointed at you.

"You better run."

You immediately sat up. "Oh no."

"Oh yes." The look in his eyes was enough warning. You jumped off the couch.

He stood up.

You screamed.

Then sprinted. ---"GET BACK HERE."

"NO."

"YOU CALLED ME OLD."

"BECAUSE YOU ARE."

"I'M LITERALLY YOUNGER THAN SOME OF YOUR FAVORITE ACTORS."

"AND THEY'RE OLD TOO."

"Y/N!"

You were laughing so hard you nearly ran into the kitchen island. Unfortunately for you, Seungcheol had years of idol training.

And unfortunately for you ,he was faster. A pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist. You shrieked.

"SEUNGCHEOL."

"Gotcha."

"No fair."

"It's completely fair." He effortlessly lifted you off the ground despite your dramatic protests.

."You know what happens to people who call me old?"

"What?"

"They face consequences." You immediately started struggling.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

Then his fingers found your sides. The scream you let out could've shattered glass.

"SEUNGCHEOL!"

"There she is."

"STOP."

"You called me grandpa."

"I TAKE IT BACK."

"Too late." You dissolved into helpless laughter as he mercilessly tickled your sides.

"CHEOL—"

"Who's old?"

"YOU."

"Wrong answer."

"AHHHH." More tickles.

More laughter. More fake suffering.

Until eventually your legs gave out completely.

Seungcheol finally stopped and collapsed onto the floor beside you. Both of you were breathless. You glared at him.

He grinned.

"You deserved that."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

Unfortunately. He was right.---A few minutes later, you were curled up together on the couch again.

This time with your head on his chest. The abandoned shelf sat in the corner. Still backwards. You noticed it immediately.

A smile tugged at your lips.

"Cheol."

"Hm?"

"The shelf is still wrong."

He groaned. "Don't start."

"Maybe it's because your eyesight is getting bad."

The silence that followed was immediate .Dangerous. You looked up. His eye twitched.

"Y/N."

"You know, it happens with age."

"Y/N."

"I heard there are vitamins for tha—"

Before you could finish, he pulled you closer until you were trapped against him. You laughed.

"Cheater."

"Say one more thing."

"Old man." His arms tightened around your waist.

"You have exactly three seconds."

"What happens after three seconds?"A mischievous smile appeared on his face.

"The tickles come back." You gasped. Then immediately buried your face in his chest.

"Okay, okay."

"That's what I thought." For a moment, the room fell quiet.

Warm.

Comfortable.

Safe.

Seungcheol pressed a kiss against the top of your head. Then another. And another . Just because he could. You smiled into his shirt.

"Love you, grandpa."

His horrified gasp echoed through the apartment.

And your laughter followed right after.---

Milli says: This man would absolutely start a full wrestling match over being called grandpa. Meanwhile reader has zero survival instincts and keeps doing it anyway 🤚🏻💀

Taglist 🥂

“The breakfast is almost ready - can you get the plates?” your voice brings him out of his reverie. He abandons his mug and stands up, making his way to you, to murmur a sure against the apple of your cheek before planting a kiss there.

He sets the table: two plates, two mugs already waiting, utensils. Simple enough. He looks over the table, the flower in the center, the waiting dishes, the picture hanging on the wall and the window. He feels the breeze slither into your home, the bird songs drifting inside along with it.

Jihoon turns back into the kitchen. His steps are quiet enough that you jump in surprise when you feel his arms around you and his chin hook over your shoulder. The heat coming off the stove kept you warm it seems, and in turn you make him feel warmer than being curled around his cup of tea could.

“Hungry?” you ask with a chuckle.

He only responds with a small hum. Usually he’d feel like he’s starving but for some inexplicable reason, all that he feels right now is a comfortable sense of satisfaction. His thoughts don’t race, his mental checklist for the day is clear. And most confusingly - he doesn’t feel any suspicion towards the sudden peace.  

“I was thinking we could go for a walk later,” he says. He can’t explain why, especially since he likes lazing around with you in the comfort of your home. There’s plans he had, other plans, chores to do, projects to start. But they feel too burdensome for today.

“Sounds nice,” you smile. 

You turn towards him. The angle is too awkward to decipher the look in your eyes, but he can feel the emotions radiating off of you. Confusion, surprise - something between concern and amusement.

“It’s going to be a nice day,” Jihoon avoids the unspoken question, “We should enjoy it.”

You laugh again, shaking your head before turning back towards the breakfast that by now looks finished. His stomach growls. Maybe he really is starving just like any other day.

“We could have a picnic,” you suggest, “Grab some snack at the store, so we don’t have to spend time making anything.”

“Sounds perfect,” his own lips curl up. He kisses the slip of exposed skin on your shoulder.

He helps you bring the food to the table. As he does, he can’t help the feeling that this feels like a dream. So after he wolfs down the breakfast, he holds your hand. Real and warm, your skin smooth under his thumb as he strokes the back of your hand. 

🤎

“Can we go now?” you whine quietly, pouting your best, but Jihoon shakes his head, tossing his hair out of his eyes.

“I still have half my routine left. Sorry. Go walk on the treadmill or something.” And he sets his water bottle down and walks away.

The nerve.

So you follow him across the gym.

Jihoon glances up from the weight rack as you lean against it. His brows furrow.

“What are you –”

“Just do your workout. Ignore me.” You smile. Jihoon side-eyes you, but picks up his weights.

He readies his stance, then starts his set of weighted lunges.

You wait.

Then, as he’s settling into the stretch, you lean over and ruffle his hair.

He loses his balance and almost topples over before he can catch himself. You bite your lip, holding back a smile as he shoots you a glare.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. I’m just waiting.”

Jihoon narrows his eyes. “Wait somewhere else.”

But he picks his weights back up and starts back into his lunges.

And again, you reach out and bury your fingers in his soft, fluffy hair.

This time the weights hit the ground, and he shoots to his feet, glaring again.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop – touching my hair.”

He’s frowning, but there’s an adorable tinge of red creeping over his cheeks. You have to fight to keep your face neutral as he glances around the gym. There’s a few other people. Not too many.

You just blink, looking as innocent as you can, and Jihoon grunts and returns to his weights. His muscles really do look good, flexing as he adjusts his grip, and you consider grabbing his bicep this time, but you’ve already gone this far with the hair. And his hair is fluffy, and you do want to bury your hands in it.

And also head home. You would like to head home.

So you inch closer again and slip both your hands into his hair, scratching light circles against his scalp, and his breath hitches so hard he starts coughing.

“Stop!” he hisses between hacks, struggling to set the weights down and get his feet under him. People are looking now, curious glances darting through exercise machines, and Jihoon’s cheeks are flaming by the time he finally regulates his breathing again. He grabs the weights and doesn’t look at you as he nearly slams them back on the rack.

“What –” you start, but Jihoon shakes his head.

“We’re leaving. Come on.”

He stalks off towards your stuff in the corner, swiping both your bag and his into his arms. You hurry to catch up, reaching to take your bag off his hands, but he tugs it back and slings it over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry?” you say as he shoves his hip into the door to open it. He just jerks his chin out into the parking lot and waits until you step outside to let the door shut.

It’s not until you’re both in the car that he lets out a long groan and drops his head against the top of the wheel.

“You,” he mutters, “are going to be the death of me.”

You let out a small breath. The tension drops from your shoulders. He turns his head enough to shoot you an exasperated but undeniably fond look, and you smile sheepishly and shrug.

“I wanted to go home.”

“No kidding.”

Jihoon pauses then, scanning your face with something unreadable in his eyes. You look back for a moment, and then it’s too much, and your gaze drops to your lap.

“Hey.”

You look up to find him leaning in, his hand suddenly hot under your chin, and then he’s kissing you – rough at first, fingers gripping your jaw, but then it melts into something softer, his lips moving gently against yours in a way that has your mind reeling.

When he finally breaks away, it takes you a moment to open your eyes.

“There,” Jihoon says, satisfaction dripping from his voice.

He drops another smack on your lips, loud noise included, then sits back and starts the car. You blink, trying to wake up your brain. “So, do you wanna go home badly enough that picking up dinner isn’t an option?”

Oh. So he’s being normal now. Two can play at that game. “Ooh, no. I want Chick-fil-A.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

San is on stage, body burning with movement. Veins stand sharp along his forearms, along his neck. Sweat traces familiar paths down his skin, catching the light every time he turns.

The crowd chants his name like prayer, thousands of voices folding into one, loud and endless in a city that is not yours.

Another country. Another night. Another borrowed stage.

You watch from the side.

Not in awe. In recognition.

He moves like he belongs to everyone. Like the stage was built for his feet, like the lights know his name.

He has learned how to give himself away in pieces, city after city, until the map of his body is scattered across the world.

But you notice the small things. The things no one else is looking for.

The way he rolls his neck between songs, slow, controlled, like he is easing something tight inside him.

How his smile drops the second the lights dim, just for a heartbeat, before he puts it back on.

The way his hands flex at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he is holding tension there, like he does not know where else to put it.

San is tired. You know he is.

His eyes flick backstage once.

They find you.

The fire does not dim. It softens for a second.

Just for you.

The final song ends in a rush of sound and light. Applause crashes, endless and loud. San bows, breath heavy, hair damp and clinging to his forehead. He grins, wide and bright, all teeth and confidence. The beast they came for. The man who leaves nothing behind on that stage.

You know better.

By the time he disappears into the wings, you are already waiting.

Backstage is chaos. Voices overlap. Staff move quickly, calling names, handing out towels, water bottles, schedules. Members laugh too loud, riding the adrenaline. Someone bumps into you and apologizes without really looking.

Then San is there.

He walks to you like gravity decided early.

He does not hug you yet. He stops close, close enough that you feel the heat still clinging to him, close enough that his breath ghosts your cheek. He leans in, forehead nearly touching yours, like he needs to steal your air for a second.

You smile up at him.

“You okay?”

His voice is lower now. Tired. Real. “Now I am.”

“Good to hear.”

His eyes flick over your face, slow, familiar. “You were staring.”

“You were glowing.”

He scoffs softly, a corner of his mouth lifting. “Liar.”

“Never.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours, light and playful, affection disguised as teasing. As if the room is not full of people. As if this is just another quiet hallway, another night.

You start walking with the others, and his hand brushes your lower back. Brief. Intentional. Gone before anyone could call it out. The kind of touch that says more than it shows.

He still belongs to the room. To the noise. To the people calling his name.

But his body is already inching home.

The car hums softly as it pulls away.

The send-off is done. Doors closed, goodbyes waved through tinted windows. The city opens up around you, lights streaking past. Neon smears across glass. Streetlamps pulse in slow rhythm.

Driver in front. Yeosang and Wooyoung sharing the ride with you. They are talking quietly, laughter still loose from adrenaline. The radio plays low, almost an afterthought. Yeosang’s familiar voice hums along under it, barely there.

You and San sit side by side.

Your legs touch. Not by accident.

San’s posture is still perfect. Back straight. Shoulders squared. Idol-mode clinging to him like a second skin. When Wooyoung asks him something, he answers politely, voice steady, smiling just enough. The professional version of him still doing its job.

But there are cracks.

His leg presses fully against yours, no longer hovering.

His fingers hook into the fabric of your sleeve, just the tips, like he needs to anchor himself.

Each breath he takes grows longer than the last.

You smell sweat and hairspray and the faint citrus of his cologne underneath. Heat rolls off him in quiet waves. The car is warm, loud, alive with movement, yet something small and sealed forms between you.

You notice it before he does.

The moment his head tips back against the seat. The moment his eyes finally close. The moment his jaw unclenches like he has decided it is safe to let go.

Streetlights pass over his face in slow flashes, illuminating the soft dip under his eyes. With every light, he looks less like the man on stage and more like the one who comes home with you.

Wooyoung keeps talking to the driver, animated, hands moving. Someone laughs. The world continues.

You let your pinky brush San’s.

Immediately, without opening his eyes, he laces your fingers together and tucks your joined hands under his jacket, hidden from view. Not secretive. Just private. Because it belongs to the two of you and no one else.

You lean closer, resting your head on his shoulder, whispering. “Tired?”

“…Mm.”

You smile, thumb brushing his knuckles. “You did so good.”

There is a pause. Not hesitation. Something heavier.

“Thank you, love.”

He does not say more. He does not need to.

His thumb begins to stroke the inside of your wrist, slow and grounding. You trace the scar near his knuckle, the one he got making you dinner for an anniversary a couple years ago. The one you kiss when he gets nervous. 

His grip tightens, just a little.

The others keep talking. The city keeps moving.

Inside this small shared space, he exhales like he has been holding it all night.

And for the first time since the lights went up, he starts to land.

The hotel corridor is quiet.

Not home. But close enough to breathe.

The carpet swallows the sound of your steps. Doors line the hallway like closed eyes. The chaos of the venue feels far away now, sealed behind concrete and distance.

San walks closer than before, shoulder brushing yours, no space left for politeness.

His hand settles fully at your waist.

No cameras. No staff. No need to hold himself upright for anyone else.

When the door shuts behind you, the click echoes louder than it should.

Silence.

That is when the second layer drops.

He doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, shoulders finally sagging, letting out a loud sigh. Then he steps into you from behind and lets his forehead drop to your shoulder. Almost defeated. Definitely exhausted.

His arms wrap around your hips. Tight. Desperate.

You rub slow circles into his forearm, fingers warm and steady. The tension drains out of him in real time. His weight sinks fully into you, spine no longer rigid, hands gripping you like you are the only thing keeping him upright.

The room is dim, unfamiliar in shape but familiar in feeling. Not home, but enough. The kind of place where routines still work. Where you know how to take care of each other without needing to think about it.

You move together without talking.

You turn in his hold, slow and careful, until you’re facing him. Your hands come up to his face, thumbs brushing the edges of his jaw, grounding him. You kiss him softly. Not deep. Just a quiet peck, then another, like punctuation marks.

He hums into your mouth, a small, happy sound that escapes him before he can stop it. His eyes close on instinct. He kisses you back just as gently, lips warm and unhurried, like he’s thanking you without words.

Then you start helping him undress.

Your hands work slowly, deliberately. You ease his jacket off his shoulders. Tug his shirt up and over his head. Each layer gone feels less like getting naked and more like setting something down. Like you’re peeling the concert, the lights, the noise off him and leaving it somewhere on the floor.

He lets you at first, pliant and trusting, watching you with soft eyes. But halfway through, he huffs a quiet laugh and reaches up to help, fingers clumsy with tiredness as he takes over, shedding the rest himself.

He pauses, then tilts his head, eyes flicking toward the bathroom. “You… wanna shower with me?”

Not bold. Not suggestive. Just hopeful. Like the idea of losing sight of you for even a minute feels wrong.

His hand finds yours again immediately, thumb rubbing over your knuckles as if to anchor the question there. He stays close, always close, as if the exhaustion might swallow him whole if he lets go for too long.

By the time the bathroom fills with steam, he is already softer.

San steps under the spray and closes his eyes immediately.

The water is hot. The mirror fogs. The world shrinks to tile and breath and the steady sound of water hitting skin.

You reach for his hair first, fingers sinking in, scratching gently the way he likes. His breath stutters on instinct. His head tips forward, then sideways, chasing your touch. His shoulders finally drop, heavy and loose, like they have been waiting all night for permission to stop holding themselves up.

He leans into you without hesitation. All his weight. No apology. No restraint.

“San,” you murmur, laughing softly as he presses closer.

He hums in response, low and content, arms sliding around your waist like he has decided this is where he lives now.

Water runs down his back, tracing muscle and familiar paths. Your hands follow, slow and careful, trying to rinse, trying to work. But he keeps moving. Keeps finding you.

His fingers drift over your sides, warm and lazy. He traces shapes he knows by heart. He kisses your shoulder. Your collarbone. A quick, absent peck to your cheek like he can’t help himself.

You tilt your head away just as he kisses again. “Hold still,” you say, amused.

He tries. For all of three seconds.

Then his mouth finds your neck, soft and clumsy, and he laughs breathlessly when water splashes up and hits his lips instead. He coughs, blinking, clearly betrayed by his own lack of coordination.

You snort. “That’s what you get.”

He grins, eyes still closed, water dripping down his lashes. “Worth it.”

You rinse his hair properly this time, fingertips working through, but he keeps stealing touches in between. A hand at your waist. Fingers brushing your ribs. A kiss dropped wherever he can reach before you dodge again.

He’s not trying to start anything. He’s too tired for that. This is just need. Just closeness. Like if he lets go, even for a moment, he might float away.

Eventually he gives up trying to kiss and settles for pressing his forehead to your shoulder, arms snug around you, breathing you in. His grip tightens when you shift, protesting the idea of distance even though you’re still right there.

On stage, he is all power and fire and precision. Here, under the water, he folds completely.

He shivers, and you know it isn’t from the cold.

After a moment, he lifts his head, hands wet and warm as they cup your face. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, slow and reverent, like he’s relearning you all over again. He kisses your temple. Your cheek. Finally your mouth.

The kiss is sleepy. A little clumsy. All feeling.

Just perfect.

When he rests his forehead against yours again, eyes still closed, he exhales like he has nowhere else he needs to be. And you know, without him saying it, that this version of him belongs to you alone.

Eventually, you manage to finish. Somehow.

You dry off in quiet motions after, the kind that don’t rush anything, while he stays close enough to make every small task take twice as long. And you don’t complain.

San pads into the room first.

Sleeping pants slung low on his hips. Bare chest still warm from the shower. Damp hair pushed back with no real care for how it falls.

He makes it to the bed and drops onto it with a soft, final thud, like his body has reached the end of its patience. The mattress dips. He stills for a moment, then opens his arms wide, dramatic and hopeful, like this is the only plan he has left.

Eyes closed. Waiting.

You don’t come.

Instead, you keep moving. Not hurried, not fussy. Just doing what needs to be done the way you always do. You gather the damp towels and hang them properly. You nudge shoes into a neat line by the door with your foot. You adjust the lights until the room feels softer, quieter. You check the AC, then the windows.

Behind you, the bed creaks faintly as he shifts.

A sigh follows. Long. Overdone.

“Baby,” he mumbles.

“One minute,” you answer easily, already crossing the room again.

“You said that already.”

“I say a lot of things.”

You reach for the remote, then your phone. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Whatever.”

“That is not a food.”

He cracks one eye open to watch you. “Anything you pick.”

“You always say that.”

“Because you’re always right.”

You hum under your breath as you scroll, a soft line from one of their songs slipping out without you noticing. It’s quiet. Casual. Familiar.

San watches you like you’re doing it on purpose.

“Why are you still over there?” he asks after a moment, voice low and a little wounded, like the distance is personal.

“I’m making the room comfortable,” you say. “So you can actually rest.”

“I am resting.”

“You are lying dramatically.”

“I am resting without you,” he corrects.

You glance over your shoulder, amused. “You are very needy tonight.”

He lifts one arm higher, fingers curling slowly in the air. An invitation. A plea. “Come here.”

“San, I need to order food.”

“I can eat later.”

“You told me in the car you were starving.”

He shrugs without opening his eyes. “I was being honest then.”

“And now?”

“I just want you.”

That slows you for half a second.

You grab the water bottle and step toward the bedside table. “Let me put this down and—”

His hand reaches out and closes around your wrist.

Not rough. Not urgent. Just certain. Warm fingers anchoring you before you can finish the sentence. He tugs once, gently but decisively, and you lose your balance with a small laugh as he pulls you onto the bed.

The mattress dips again. Your body lands against his chest, heat immediately blooming between you. Your thin shirt and shorts do nothing to stop the feeling of him.

He hums, satisfied.

“Got you.”

“You are impossible,” you laugh, trying to prop yourself up.

His arms wrap around you instantly, tighter now. “No. Stay.”

“I still need to—”

“No.”

“San.”

He buries his face into your stomach, voice muffled, softer. “Please.”

It isn’t demanding. It isn’t sharp.

It’s tired. And small. And honest.

You sigh, already giving in, fingers sliding into his hair. “If one of us trips in the dark tonight, I’m blaming you.”

He smiles against you, barely awake.

“I would crawl to you,” he murmurs.

You laugh again, quieter this time, and he shifts so you are fully on the bed with him. He tugs you down with him, guiding you to his side like it’s instinct.

Your cheek ends up pressed against his chest, half on his shoulder, half against the firm warmth of him. Your arm drapes over his stomach. One of his slides under your head automatically, the other wrapping around your back, palm settling at your waist.

His leg hooks loosely over yours. Not trapping. Just keeping.

“You take care of me too much,” he murmurs, eyes closed again, thumb tracing slow circles along your side.

“Someone has to,” you reply, voice muffled slightly against his skin.

He opens his eyes at that. You don’t see it, but you feel the shift in him. The way his chest rises deeper beneath your cheek.

“I notice, you know.”

You lift your head just enough to brush your knuckles over his jaw. “Good.”

“You steal the blankets every night,” he continues softly, “and still wake up to pull them back over me. You remind me to drink water like I forget I’m an adult. You read my moods before I even understand them.”

His fingers tighten slightly at your waist.

“And when it gets bad,” he adds, voice quieter now, “you don’t push. You don’t ask me to explain. You just sit with me. You hold my hand like that’s enough.”

He swallows.

“No one’s ever done that for me like you do.”

Your cheek presses back against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your ear. Your hand rests flat over it without thinking.

He nudges his nose lightly into your hair. “So just stay like this,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you for once. Just five minutes.”

You sigh like you’re weighing the offer, even though you’re already melting further into him.

“Five minutes,” you murmur.

San doesn’t answer with words.

His hand slides gently to your jaw, thumb warm beneath your ear, coaxing your face up from his chest. He lifts his head just enough to meet you halfway, like even that small effort matters.

The kiss is soft at first. Testing. His lips brush yours, barely there, as if he’s asking permission he already knows he has.

“If I could,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with sleep and something deeper, “I’d stay like this forever.”

You smile into the kiss. “You’d get bored.”

His lips hover there, breath warm against yours. His eyes open just enough to look at you like you’ve said something absurd.

“Never of you.”

The words land heavy and gentle all at once.

Something shifts then. Not sharp. Not urgent. Just heavier. The quiet kind of gravity that pulls without warning, when neither of you is pretending you’re about to sleep anymore.

His mouth drifts to your cheek. Then to your jaw. The corner of your lips. He kisses like he has nowhere else to be, like he’s learning the shape of you all over again, memorizing texture, warmth, the way your breath stutters when he takes his time.

His hand slides to the small of your back, fingers spreading there, pulling you closer. Your bodies press together fully now, heat against heat. Breath mingles. The room feels warmer, thicker.

The curtains lift and fall with the breeze, and for a second it feels like the whole room is breathing with you.

You giggle softly when he kisses your neck, because he always takes the long way there. He smiles against your skin, pleased with himself, and presses another kiss just below your ear, slower this time.

“You’re not sleeping,” you whisper.

“Don’t want to,” he murmurs.

The five minutes he promised are long forgotten.

When you feel him melt into you again, really melt, the kisses deepen. Still unhurried. Still gentle. But fuller now. His lips linger longer, parting just enough to breathe you in, to steal warmth, to press the meaning of the day out through touch instead of words.

He kisses you like he’s tasting something familiar and still discovering it.

“Just us now,” he says against your lips, voice lower, steadier.

You run your fingers through his damp hair and tug gently. He exhales into your mouth, a quiet sound that makes your stomach flutter. His grip tightens at your waist, instinctive, not letting you move even an inch away.

You shift closer, hand sliding across his chest, fingertips tracing warm skin, following muscle and bone. He shivers faintly when you drag your nails down slowly, not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him you’re here.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Love sits openly in his eyes. No filter. No stage lights. Just him.

“You’re staring,” you tease softly.

“Let me,” he says, almost pouty. “My girl is so pretty.”

“You say that every day.”

“And I mean it every day.”

His fingers wander again, slow and thoughtful. They trace along your shoulder, stopping at the small mole he loves so much. He brushes it with the tip of his finger, like he’s committing it to memory. Then his hand drifts lower, finding the faint childhood scar on your back.

He always pauses there.

His thumb smooths over it gently, over and over.

“Still my favorite part,” he murmurs. “Means you lived.”

Your breath catches just a little. You smile.

“And you’re still here to notice.”

You tilt your head and press your nose against his neck, tracing the freckles scattered there. You kiss one. Then another. He swallows when your mouth reaches the spot beneath his jaw, the one that makes his Adam’s apple bob and his shoulders drop instantly.

A soft hum slips out of him.

“Not fair,” he mutters, already half-gone.

“You started it.”

He smiles lazily, eyes drooping, but his hands stay strong around you, keeping you tucked close. Your lips meet again, slower this time. Softer. Lingering in the space between kisses.

No rush. No destination.

Just warmth. Skin. The quiet reassurance of belonging.

He brushes his thumb across your cheek mid-kiss, like he can’t help touching you everywhere at once. You laugh softly against his mouth.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re clingy.”

“Correct.”

You kiss him again to stop his grin.

Eventually the kisses slow. Pauses stretch longer between them. Foreheads rest together. Noses brush. His hands never leave you, even as sleep tugs at him again.

He studies your face one last time, thumb stroking your jaw gently.

“Stay,” he whispers, even though you’re already there.

You press a kiss to his nose. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His arms tighten around you in response. This time, when his eyes close, they stay closed. His breathing evens out, finally settling, like the day has loosened its grip at last.

Then something shifts.

You feel it before you understand it. A sudden spark of intention under the exhaustion.

His hand slides to your shoulder and, with surprising determination for someone half asleep, he gently pushes. Not rough. Just enough.

You blink as you tip backward onto the mattress.

“San?”

He doesn’t answer. He just follows you down, climbing over you in one fluid, sleepy motion until he’s sprawled across your chest, cheek pressed right over your heart like that was the goal all along.

Your hands land automatically on his back to steady him.

You stare down at him, amused. “What was that?”

He adjusts, satisfied now, arms circling your waist. One leg hooks over yours. He exhales deeply, as if this position makes more sense to his body.

No gap. No space.

A soft, pleased sound escapes him. Almost a purr.

His mouth pulls into the faintest pout, eyes still closed, like he’s bracing for you to protest even though he knows you won’t.

It clicks.

You shake your head softly, already smiling. Of course.

“Can you,” he murmurs, voice low and shy and already drifting, “scratch my back?”

You raise a brow down at him, fingers hovering just above his shoulder blades. “So that’s why you tackled me?”

He fakes a tired sigh, a little dramatic huff. His arms squeeze you tighter in response.

“I work so hard,” he mumbles into your shirt. “I deserve this.”

His back arches just slightly against your palm, shoulders giving the tiniest wiggle, that silent, impatient plea he’s perfected over the years.

You give in immediately.

You always do.

Your nails drag slowly down his back, light at first, never breaking contact. He melts further into you as you do, safe, like your touch gives his body permission to let go.

As your fingers trace the familiar lines of his muscles, his hands begin to move too, unthinking, instinctive.

When you reach the top of his back again, your knuckles brush over his skin, soft and soothing. At the same time, his thumb starts to trace your side in lazy arcs, a mirror of your care, like his body knows how to answer even as he drifts.

You find the knot above his shoulder blade without looking. You always do. Your thumb presses there, slow and firm.

San exhales against your chest, long and shaky, like something finally loosens inside him.

“There,” you murmur.

His response is a quiet, breath-warm “thank you,” barely there, muffled by your skin.

He pecks just above your chest, absent and sweet, then nuzzles his nose into your neck. His cheek rubs along your shirt, a soft, claiming motion, like a cat settling somewhere familiar. He doesn’t stop touching you while you don’t stop touching him. Neither of you thinks about it.

You keep scratching. Slow. Intentional. Loving.

He takes your free hand then, threads his fingers through yours while your other hand keeps moving over his back. The grip is soft but certain, grounding you both.

His fingers drift again. Trace. Pause.

They circle your ring finger, absent, thoughtful, like the thought reaches him before the words do.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, voice barely holding together, “i think… if the world ended tomorrow, i’d be fine.”

You glance down at him, fingers still combing gently through his hair. “Why?”

“Because I found you already.”

He does not explain. He does not have to.

His arm tightens around you just a little, not sudden, not urgent, like he’s made a quiet decision and tucked it somewhere safe for later.

You smile, heart full and steady, and press a kiss to the top of his head. The hotel shampoo clings to him, clean and familiar. Home, even here.

Sleep drifts closer, slow and unannounced.

Your breaths begin to match without effort. His weight grows heavier, warm and grounding, a living blanket settling into place. 

It’s summer, the room is already warm, but you don’t move. You feel chosen. Needed. Like he found the only place he wanted to be and claimed it without hesitation.

You keep pampering him the way you always do, present and gentle, until the last threads of tension finally slip free.

He sinks into you with quiet trust.

His body gives in first. You feel it when his hold loosens for a breath, just a second of slack in his arms, and then tightens again. Not because he’s lost. Not because he’s searching.

Because even here, on the edge of sleep, he refuses to let you feel forgotten.

His grip isn’t about needing somewhere to belong. It’s about making sure you never doubt that you are it.

At some point, his hand slips under your shirt.

Not urgent. Just warm, needing to feel you.

His palm settles flat against your skin, and he exhales the second he feels you there.

You feel the textures register under his touch, the lotion you rubbed in earlier, the faint trace of summer heat that never quite leaves, even after a long shower. Your skin is soft, warm, unmistakably yours.

His fingers flex once, like he’s reacquainting himself with something sacred.

They drift upward, mapping the familiar slope of your side, the gentle rise of your ribs. He pauses there, thumb brushing the soft curve beneath your breast, barely there, no pressure at all.

You shiver.

Not from want. Not from heat. From meaning.

From how his touch carries nothing but care. From how gentle he is even while half-lost to sleep. From the way he holds you like something precious, something to be protected, not taken. Like he understands exactly how much strength he has in his hands and chooses, every time, to be careful with it.

He cups you only as much as he needs to. Never crossing into hunger. Just warmth. Just devotion. Just proof.

He shifts closer in his sleep, nose pressing into your chest, breathing you in like he’s memorizing this version of you too. The quiet one. The private one. The one no stage lights ever touch.

You know this language.

He loves loudly when the world is watching. Proudly. With bold smiles, steady hands at your waist, eyes that never hide what you are to him. But here, in hotel rooms and quiet nights after wild concerts, he loves like this.

Soft. Certain. Almost overwhelming in its quiet.

Even half-awake. Even exhausted. Even with his voice worn thin from singing too hard and laughing too loud.

He still reaches for you.

Still needs you to feel how lucky he thinks he is.

You run your hand through his hair again, and he hums faintly, cheek rubbing against you, content.

He doesn’t need an audience. He just needs you to know.

“Mine,” he murmurs, rough and soft all at once.

Not possessive. Not claiming. Devoted.

You chuckle quietly into his hair, soft enough not to wake him fully, because if you take it too seriously you know your chest will ache too much.

“Yeah,” you whisper back, smiling. “I know.”

His arms tighten in response, satisfied, like that was the right answer.

You kiss the crown of his head without thinking. You don’t move. You wouldn’t dare. He chose you, even here, even like this, and it feels sacred.

Not home. Never needed to be.

Because this is where he rests best.

Because this is where he lets go.

Because tonight, and every quiet night after, he sleeps safest when you are the one holding him together.

masterlist

taglist: @bloomyroses @livonianmaia @keels-8 @darjeelinglemontea @uchihabbynic @matznana @renjinki @answer-the-sirens

✨ my taglist and requests are open right now. ✨ drop me a message! i love seeing your ideas and making them come to life. 💖

© All rights reserved. Do not edit, or translate without permission. Credit to @mingi-buffering-24-7.

═════════════════════════

tired!cheol who becomes unmovable as soon as he makes contact with you and just needs to touch you. his hands and legs and whole body must be on you the whole time because he feels like he deserves it after a day of no you 💔

tired!cheol who is literally the biggest baby ever like this. if you try to move away or even if you stop like rubbing his back or something for a split second he’s letting out a little grunt or a whine for you to keep going. if you don’t respond to his noise he will look at you with a pout slowly growing across his face

tired!cheol who genuinely knocks out in the span of ten minutes laying on you and then he sleeps like a rock until you coax him back awake to which you will be met with more complains from him

tired!cheol who likes to lie on you like full on dead weight. his head has to be on your chest or tummy or in the crook of your neck he literally wants to inhale you and feel you everywhere and you let him bc who doesn’t love a big and soft and warm blanket of cheol on you 😮‍💨

tired!cheol who demands either head scratches or back scratches when he’s like this or both because he’s a princess and you can’t deny him when he looks so sleepy and cute

tired!cheol who is too tired to eat until you force him to sit up and eat whatever food that's prepared and he complains at first but legit gobbles the food down bc he's starving but stubborn