You and Seungmin have been best friends since the first year of university—bonded over a shared love of sarcastic comebacks, matching dark academia pens, and the mutual hatred of your professor's existence.

Somewhere between project deadlines and late-night ramen runs, the friendship just... stuck. He became the person who knew your order before you said it, who memorized your fake laugh vs your real one. You became the person who knew when he needed space and when he needed someone to sit in that space, quietly, next to him.

And yes, you’ve had fights. He still won’t forgive you for liking the wrong baseball team.

“Wrong” being... anyone but the Giants.

You wore a cap from their rival team once to school—on purpose—and he refused to look at you the entire day. Wouldn’t even speak to you in third period.

Now, it’s summer. Classes and exams are over. You’re sprawled across the sunlit steps of a neighbourhood café, sipping iced coffee when you say it.

“Okay, don’t laugh, but... I’ve never actually played baseball.”

You meant it casually. Offhand. But his head turns so fast you wonder if he gave himself whiplash.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Not even in PE? Not even wiffle ball?”

“Not even tee-ball,” you say, grinning. “Are you judging me right now?”

“Absolutely.”

A pause. Then, almost too quickly to seem normal, he says, “Wanna learn?”

You blink at him. “Right now?”

He shrugs. “I’ve got a glove and a bat at home. The field’s, like, two blocks from here. Unless you’re scared.”

“Oh, please. I’m gonna smoke you.”

That gets a scoff. “You don’t even know how to hold a bat.”

“Teach me, then, Coach Kim.”

His mouth quirks. You pretend not to see the way he fights a smile. You always pretend.

Twenty minutes later, the sun’s hanging just low enough to stretch gold across the field. The grass is uneven in places, broken up by dirt patches and lazy summer bugs. A warm breeze skims your skin.

Seungmin stands by the first base line, glove slung over one shoulder, bat in the other. He’s in a sleeveless tee, hair swept up by the wind, and when you walk up wearing his least favourite team’s logo across your chest, he stops mid-step.

“You did not.”

You grin. “What? I figured I’d dress for war.”

“That’s not war,” he mutters. “That’s betrayal.”

“Bold of you to assume I was ever on your side.”

“Oh, you’ll be begging to switch sides once you see how bad you are.”

He tosses you the glove. You catch it with a bit too much flair, which only makes his eyes narrow. “Don’t embarrass me out here, rookie.”

“Who said I’m here for you, Giants boy?”

He rolls his eyes, spins the bat once in his palm, and says it without thinking: “You’re lucky I like you.”

You freeze. He does, too. But then he’s already walking away, toward the pitcher’s mound, calling over his shoulder: “Let’s go, traitor.”

“You really weren’t kidding,” Seungmin says, watching you hold the bat like it personally offended you.

You blink at him. “I am holding it right.”

“No, you’re holding it like it’s a lightsaber.”

“Oh come on, like you wouldn’t join the rebellion.”

He groans. “Okay. That’s it. Give me your hands.”

You expect him to just point. Maybe mimic the movement. What you don’t expect is for him to step in behind you, one arm reaching around your waist, the other curling gently over your hand on the bat.

He’s right there. Not just close—there. You can feel the heat of his chest at your back, the steady rhythm of his breath brushing your temple. One of his hands lightly adjusts your fingers, the other—hesitating for just a second—guides your shoulder into place.

“This is… okay,” he mutters, voice lower now. “Hands stacked. Elbows up. And, um, feet—hold on—”

He shifts one of your feet with his, nudging the side of your sneaker. Your brain has officially stopped functioning. So has his. Because the second he realizes how small your hand is in his, how soft your skin is, how your hair smells like you, he’s absolutely panicking. On the inside. Outside, he’s keeping it together with a perfectly blank expression, but inside?

💥🔥🚨 INTERNAL MELTDOWN 🚨🔥💥

“Okay…” he murmurs, swallowing. “Now just… swing smooth. Like—wait, I’ll show you.”

He moves with you, hips ghosting behind yours, arms guiding your follow-through. His breath stutters just slightly when your back presses against his chest.

You say nothing, just glance over your shoulder—right into his face.

He’s already looking at you. Eyes soft. A little wide.

You’re both suddenly, violently aware of how close your mouths are. You shift a little. So does he.

“Seungmin,” you whisper.

He blinks, like snapping out of a spell. Steps back so fast he nearly stumbles. “You’ve—uh. Got the form now. You’re good.” He clears his throat. “Like. Fine. Whatever.”

You lower the bat, heart thudding. “Did I pass basic training?”

He won’t look at you. “Barely.”

But you catch the flush on his ears and narrow your eyes watching him as you twirl the bat lazily in your hands, pretending not to feel the way your pulse is still echoing in your throat.

Seungmin, meanwhile, looks like he’s trying to reformat his brain in real-time. His voice is flat when he says, “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You square up again, wiggling your fingers dramatically. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

He snorts. “You look like you’re about to summon a Pokémon.”

“Don’t mock me, Coach Kim.”

“Then stop acting like I dragged you here against your will. You volunteered for this.”

“I volunteered to learn,” you shoot back. “Not to be emotionally violated in the form of public athletic humiliation.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Big words for someone who’s about to miss five pitches in a row.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

He jogs to the mound and lines up. You catch him biting the inside of his cheek as he stares you down like he’s trying really hard not to smile. Or combust.

He throws an underhand toss. You swing.

Miss.

“Okay, that one was a practice round—”

“Sure it was.”

“Again!”

Second toss. Swing.

Air.

He blinks. “You might be the worst person I’ve ever seen hold a bat.”

“Say that again and I’ll throw it at you.”

“You’d miss.”

You glare. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The words fly out before you can stop them. His entire face glitches. “Sorry—what?” he calls, hand cupped to his ear, pure evil in his grin. “Didn’t hear that.”

“I said you’re rude!”

“Not what it sounded like—”

“Just pitch, Giants boy!!”

He throws another. You hit the ball this time, barely. It rolls weakly toward the pitcher’s mound. Seungmin watches it. Then looks back at you, utterly unimpressed. “That was so sad I think the bat cried.”

“Shut up—”

You charge him. You don’t mean to. But the embarrassment burns so bad, you sprint forward to hit him with the glove—just once—just enough to wipe the smug look off his stupid beautiful face.

He dodges. Barely. Grabs your wrist before you can swing again. And you both freeze. Your chest heaves. His fingers are around your wrist light but firm. You’re closer than you thought you’d get.

Again.

“You’re kind of a menace,” he murmurs.

You raise an eyebrow. “You like it.”

He doesn’t let go. “Maybe I do.”

And suddenly it’s not a joke anymore. It’s that moment again. Too close. Too quiet. Too something. But this time, you’re the one who pulls back first. “Still hate the Giants,” you say, tossing your glove up and catching it again, acting cool. “And your pitch sucks.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

“Oh, I already do.”

“Alright, traitor. Bat up. Let’s go again.”

You plant your feet. Raise the bat. Narrow your eyes like you’re staring down a final boss.

Seungmin is unimpressed. “You look like a gremlin trying to lift Thor’s hammer.”

You flip him off with one hand. “Shut it.”

“Not even in the ballpark of intimidating.”

“That’s funny, coming from someone who looks like he skipped leg day for the past four years.”

“Excuse me?” he gasps, hand to chest like you mortally wounded him. “You take that back.”

“Make me.”

He blinks. Then smirks. “Okay.”

He pitches. You swing. You spin in a full 360 and almost fall over.

“OH MY GOD,” Seungmin shouts from the mound, cackling. “YOU SPUN LIKE A BEYBLADE—”

“I slipped!!”

“You whiffed the air like it owed you money!!”

You glare at him as you steady yourself. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Correction: I’m the only reason you haven’t knocked yourself unconscious with that bat.”

“I could knock you unconscious.”

He shrugs. “Try it. I’ll add it to your record of great achievements in failure.”

You make a face. “Wow. You really flirt like this, huh?”

That shuts him up. Only for a second.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he deadpans, walking toward you with a smirk he absolutely did not earn. “This is how I treat all my hopeless causes.”

“Excuse me!?”

“I mean—at this point, we’re not even training. We’re surviving.”

You toss the bat at him. He catches it one-handed, casually. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You’ve got the coordination of a baby deer.”

“Do not bring Bambi into this.”

He points the bat at you. “Bambi could out-swing you.”

“Seungmin.”

“I’m just saying—”

You run at him. He yelps, full squeaky scream, and takes off around the bases. You chase him halfway to third before giving up, winded, doubled over from laughing too hard.

He walks back, smug and victorious. “That’s the most cardio you’ve done all year.”

“Shut up, I’m gonna puke.”

“Should I write that on your jersey?”

You flip him off again. He just grins. And—god help you—so do you. But then, even as you are panting, you reach over and snatch the bat out of his hands, staring him down. “I wanna try again.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Even after what just happened?”

You glare. “That doesn’t count.”

He walks a slow circle around you, chin in hand like a judgmental game show host. “Mm. I don’t know. Pretty sure we all witnessed it.”

You point the bat at him. “Seungmin.”

He smirks. “Fine. Try again. For the fans.”

You scowl. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he sings.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t launch into orbit. He lobs the ball underhand. You swing. Miss. Again.

You turn to him slowly. “Okay. That was—warm up.”

He looks absolutely pained. “I thought you had your warm up.”

You stomp your foot. “Let me go again!!”

Another toss. Another miss.

“You’re… honestly…” he squints, lips twitching, “...kind of iconic for how bad this is.”

You drop the bat to your side, shoulders slumping. “I swear I’m trying,” you say dramatically, pouting. “This is humiliating. I feel like a clown.”

“You’re not a clown,” he says gently.

You blink.

“You’re the whole circus.”

“SEUNGMIN!”

He laughs, hands on his knees, nearly doubled over. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry—I just—your face!!”

You try to tackle him again but your limbs are too weak from giggling, and he easily sidesteps you.

“You’re evil,” you mutter.

“I’m honest.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m your best friend.”

And that, somehow, is the worst part. Because it’s true. Because he is. And you’re still standing there, clutching the bat like it might protect you from how warm he makes you feel.

He steps closer.

You raise your chin. “Fine. One more try. And if I miss again, I’m going home.”

He squints. “Swear?”

You nod solemnly. “Swear.”

He holds out a pinky. You stare. “Dead serious,” he says. “Baseball oath.”

You roll your eyes but loop your pinky around his anyway. “Baseball oath.”

He lets go of your pinky slowly, like it’s something delicate before speaking again. “Alright,” Seungmin says, backing up to the mound. “One more.”

You take a breath. Square your shoulders. Raise the bat.

He watches you with this half-soft, half-smug look on his face—like he’s proud and exasperated at the same time. “Don’t close your eyes this time,” he calls.

“I didn’t—”

“You did, like, two swings ago. Fully flinched like I threw a grenade.”

You grip the bat tighter. “Swear to god, if I hit this, I’m aiming for your face.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried.”

He throws the ball. You swing.

CRACK.

The ball flies. Not far, not pretty—but far enough to count.

You gasp. “OH MY GOD—”

Your body spins with the motion—off-balance, dizzy with adrenaline—and suddenly your foot catches on the dirt. You're stumbling. Tilting sideways. Falling. But Seungmin’s already running. He catches you around the waist just before you hit the ground, arms wrapped tight, pulling you up into him with a soft thud.

Chest to chest. Breathless. Too close.

You blink up at him. He’s already looking at you. His hands still on your waist. Yours braced against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering.

“I—” you start, but the words get tangled in the heat between you.

His gaze drops to your lips. Yours do the same. And without thinking—without meaning to—you lean in. Just a little. Just enough. And so does he. Your lips brush. Barely. A whisper of a kiss. A blink, a breath—then gone.

You both freeze. Wide-eyed. Neither of you moves. The sun dips a little lower. The air goes still.

You open your mouth. He lets go like he’s been burned. “Uh—y-you… you hit the ball,” he says, stumbling a step back. His voice cracks. “That was—good. I mean—you almost died, but still.”

Your cheeks burn. “Thanks, I think?”

He’s staring anywhere but at you. The bleachers, the sky, the base behind you.

You rub the back of your neck, trying not to combust. “So. Um. Did that count as first base, or—?”

Seungmin chokes on nothing. “WHAT—”

You burst into laughter, face hot, adrenaline still buzzing.

He glares. “You’re so annoying.”

“Let’s—uh,” Seungmin suddenly says, way too quickly, clearing his throat like he’s resetting his entire internal system. “One more round. For the road.”

You blink. “Training’s not over?”

“Oh, it should be,” he mutters, turning toward the mound again. “But you’ve still got the hand-eye coordination of a brick.”

“Excuse me—”

He doesn’t respond. Just throws you the ball. You catch it with a little too much force. “You better run,” you warn, winding up.

“I dare you.”

You throw it high and off-center—he still catches it, of course, just to rub it in.

You play for a few more minutes, not really focused on skill anymore. Just tossing the ball, swinging half-heartedly, talking smack. But every time your hands brush as he passes the bat back to you… you both feel it.

The static. The shift.

At one point, you lean forward to scoop a ball from the grass, and when you stand up, he’s right behind you. Not close-close, but… enough. You glance at him. He looks at you.

And nothing happens. And everything does.

Eventually, he claps his hands. “Alright. That’s enough public humiliation for you.”

You sigh dramatically. “Thank god. My dignity was hanging by a thread.”

He hums. “You had dignity?”

You throw the glove at him. He catches it one-handed again like he’s showing off on purpose. You both walk over to the bleachers. The air is cooler now, the sky smeared in amber and pink. You sit a step above him, knees drawn up, chin resting on them.

He tosses you a water bottle without looking.

You catch it. “Thanks.”

A beat of silence.

Then he says, voice low, “You hit the ball. That counts as a win.”

You glance at him. He’s not facing you, just staring out at the field, tapping his knuckles lightly on the step between his knees.

You smile. “Even if I almost ate dirt?”

He huffs. “Especially then.”

Another beat.

You sip your water. He rakes a hand through his hair. The silence is comfortable, almost. Almost. Your leg bumps against his lightly. He doesn’t move.

“I still hate the Giants,” you murmur.

“Good,” he says, glancing sideways at you. “I need something to insult you for.”

You smirk. “Oh, just say you love me and go.”

He looks at you for real this time. And for a second, just a second it almost sounds like he will. But instead he says, “Nah. I’m keeping it in my back pocket for when you strike out in front of actual people.”

You shove his shoulder. He shoves back.

A breeze drifts by, lifting the edge of your shirt sleeve, brushing your forearms. The kind of breeze that says summer’s not over yet, but something else might be starting.

You lean back on your hands, stretch your legs out. “So what now?” you ask, half-lazy, half-curious.

Seungmin shrugs. “Dinner?”

“Are you buying?”

He scoffs. “You’re the one who demanded private lessons and then delivered the most tragic baseball performance in recorded history.”

You shoot him a look. “I hit the ball.”

“Barely. I’m not even sure it moved.”

You kick his shoe lightly. He kicks back, just enough to make you wobble a little on the bench. You nudge his knee with yours again—this time slower, intentional. It lingers. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he glances at you sideways. His tone is easy, almost amused when he says, “If we do dinner, you’re not wearing that cursed team shirt.”

You grin. “Make me.”

A small silence before Seungmin blinks once, then tilts his head. “Alright.”

And finally, he stands. Just like that. Casual. Unbothered. You stay seated, watching him dust dirt from his palms.

“You coming, rookie?” he calls over his shoulder. He’s already walking, the sun catching the edge of his hair, painting him in amber. “Or do I have to carry you?”

You roll your eyes, gather your things, and jog to catch up. You don’t bring it up—the near-kiss, the way he caught you, the way his fingers stayed a little too long. He doesn’t either. But when you fall into step beside him and your hands brush again and he doesn't pull away?

You know. He knows.

It’s not nothing anymore. It just isn’t everything yet. Not yet. But maybe soon.

the living room bore every sign of a day spent in restless sickness. a half-crumpled blanket, patterned with little stars, was tangled across the couch. an empty mug, rim stained with honeyed ginger tea, perched precariously on the coffee table next to an abandoned packet of cold medicine.

the air was tinged with the faint scent of eucalyptus and lemon, the lingering evidence of an essential oil diffuser doing its best to combat the stuffiness. the heater hummed low, emitting a warmth that made the space feel cocooned and sluggish.

but the most striking sight of all was hyunjin — sprawled across the bed like a fallen monarch, wrapped dramatically in a heap of ivory sheets. his buzzcut barely peeked from beneath the folds, and his cheeks were flushed a fevered pink.

the poor man had always been a little.. theatrical when sick, but this time? this time, he looked like he was moments from composing his own funeral hymn.

y/n nearly dropped her keys as she stepped inside.

“oh my god, hyunjin!” she kicked off her shoes hastily, the door slamming shut behind her. “you look like death.”

from the depths of the pillows, a low, pitiful groan emerged. “and yet, i’m still somehow the most handsome man alive.”

y/n rolled her eyes, but a smile twitched at her lips. “god,” she murmured, already shrugging off her jacket and abandoning her bag on the armchair.

the warmth of the apartment immediately clung to her, a contrast to the chilly air outside. she ran a hand through her slightly damp hair, droplets clinging to the strands from the drizzle she’d escaped.

hyunjin’s eyes fluttered open, though his movements were sluggish. they were glassy, dazed, but still sparkling with that familiar playful mischief. his lips, a little dry from the fever, curled into a weak grin.

“y/n,” he croaked, voice raspy from sleep and congestion. “you’re back.”

“of course, i’m back!” her brows knit together, as a frown graced her lips. “you didn’t answer any of my texts.” she was already approaching, hands on her hips like a mother about to scold her child. “you could’ve told me you were dying.”

“i wasn’t dying,” hyunjin sniffled dramatically, though the slight tremble in his voice betrayed him. “i was simply… wilting. like a delicate flower.”

“oh, my poor rose,” she mocked, leaning down to press the back of her hand against his forehead. the second her skin touched his burning flesh, her brows furrowed. “jesus, hyun. you’re burning hot.”

his grin grew smug. “damn right i am.”

y/n shot him a glare, though her lips twitched with amusement. “unbelievable.”

she straightened, already scanning the room with purpose. the cluttered state of the apartment made it evident he’d been too miserable to bother tidying up. the comforter had been dragged halfway to the floor, the pillowcases crumpled and damp from sweat.

on the nightstand, a little mountain of used tissues teetered precariously. the sight alone was enough to make her sigh.

“i was going to get a kiss,” hyunjin whined weakly, watching her with puppy eyes as she disappeared into the bathroom. “where’s my ‘welcome home, my beloved’ smooch?”

y/n’s voice echoed from the tiled space. “not until i make sure you’re not actually on the verge of spontaneous combustion.”

“but i miss you,” he drawled, the dramatic edge returning. “it’s been hours. days. years, probably.”

“four hours, cuh.”

“still too long, cuh.”

when she returned, a damp towel in one hand and a thermometer in the other, hyunjin barely reacted — aside from the way his lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout.

his buzzed hair gleamed under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the sheen of sweat on his forehead making it shine.

y/n thought it was unfair, really, how he could still look so stupidly pretty while practically melting into the bed.

“come on, open up,” she instructed, holding the thermometer to his plush lips.

hyunjin obliged his lover without protest, though his eyes never left her. they followed her every move — the way her brows furrowed in worry, the soft parting of her lips as she focused.

her presence alone seemed to soothe him, like a cool breeze through a fevered haze.

after a moment, the thermometer beeped. y/n’s eyes narrowed.

“39.3 degrees,” she muttered, her heart sinking a little. “hyun, you’re literally a furnace.”

“that explains the unbearable hotness.”

“not the time.”

but even as she scolded, she couldn’t hide the tenderness in her voice. her fingers brushed over his buzzed scalp, tracing the warmth radiating from him.

the short hair suited him ridiculously well — made his sharp jawline and pretty features stand out even more. and yet, with his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, he looked more like a grumpy child than an idol adored by millions.

“i’m staying,” she declared firmly, already kicking off her socks and climbing onto the bed.

hyunjin blinked at her, eyes wide. “you don’t have to, baby. i’m fine.”

“oh sure, because i’m totally convinced by the fact that you look like a victorian orphan on his deathbed.”

“i’m merely delicate.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

but she was already tucking the blanket up to his chin, brushing damp strands of hair away from his forehead. hyunjin melted under her touch, nuzzling into the comforter with a content hum.

he was so terribly clingy when sick — and even now, his hands sought her out, fingers curling weakly around her wrist.

“you’re the best,” he murmured, voice slurred. “my beautiful nurse. my savior.”

“i’m your babysitter,” she deadpanned.

hyunjin grinned lazily. “hot babysitter.”

y/n snorted. “sleep for a bit, patient hwang.”

“whatever you say, doc.”

and with that, his eyes fluttered shut once more, the fevered haze pulling him back under. y/n stayed close, her fingers tracing gentle patterns along his buzzed scalp, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest a comforting lull. outside, the rain had begun to fall steadily, a soothing patter against the windows.

the apartment smelled like lemon balm and warmth. and despite the fever, despite the mess, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

the apartment was quiet now, save for the rhythmic sound of hyunjin’s breathing. it came slow and steady, the fever finally pulling him into a much-needed rest.

y/n watched him for a moment longer, making sure he was truly asleep. his lashes, dark against the flush of his cheeks, didn’t so much as twitch. his lips, parted slightly, had softened from their usual dramatic pouts into something innocent, almost boyish.

his fingers, which had been curled loosely around the sleeve of her sweater, finally slackened their grip.

she exhaled softly.

gently, she peeled herself away from his warmth, slipping out of the bed with careful precision. the room was dimly lit by the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp, casting elongated shadows across the walls.

the rain outside had settled into a gentle drizzle, droplets streaking against the windows like ink on parchment. the air smelled faintly of eucalyptus, a relic of the essential oils she had turned on earlier to help clear hyunjin’s congestion.

her socks padded silently against the wooden floor as she made her way out, glancing over the apartment with a newfound awareness. hyunjin wasn’t usually messy—if anything, he was meticulous about keeping his space tidy, an artist who treated both his canvases and his home with careful reverence. but sickness had a way of unraveling even the most put-together people. and today, the apartment was evidence of his fevered unrest.

his paint supplies were scattered across the living room table—a wooden palette still smeared with dried strokes of cobalt blue and burnt sienna, paintbrushes left to dry on a paper towel that had since crumpled at the edges. a few unfinished sketches were abandoned on the couch, their graphite lines smudged in places where hyunjin had likely rubbed his tired eyes.

an empty glass sat next to a bottle of vitamin c tablets, along with a half-eaten granola bar he had probably forgotten about.

y/n sighed, rolling up the sleeves of her sweater. alright. time to fix this.

she started with the living room, carefully gathering the paintbrushes and rinsing them in the sink. cool water rushed over her fingers, the bristles softening as the leftover pigment bled away, swirling in delicate patterns down the drain. she arranged them neatly in a cup by the window, letting them dry properly this time.

next, she picked up the sketches. a small smile tugged at her lips as she recognized his latest works—quick portraits, some unfinished, some detailed enough to look like they might spring to life.

one was of a woman sitting by a windowsill, her expression contemplative, lost in thought. another was more abstract, a flurry of delicate brushstrokes forming something that looked like wings. and then, of course, there was one of her.

hyunjin had drawn her dozens of times before, but it never failed to warm her heart. this one was a loose sketch, probably something he had done absentmindedly while resting—her face turned slightly to the side, strands of her hair tucked behind her ear, a soft expression in her eyes. dork.

shaking her head fondly, she stacked the papers neatly on the side table before moving on.

the bedroom came next. the blankets were still tangled from when he had shifted around earlier, his fever making him restless. she smoothed them out carefully, tucking the edges so he wouldn’t get cold.

the used tissues on the nightstand were disposed of, the mug from his previous tea taken back to the kitchen. she fluffed his pillow, letting her fingers briefly brush over the soft linen before stepping back.

the scent of eucalyptus lingered in the air, blending with the faint traces of his cologne that clung to the fabric of the bed. something warm settled in her chest.

with the apartment finally back in order, she turned to the kitchen.

the overhead light cast a soft glow over the space, illuminating the sleek countertops and the small collection of ingredients she pulled out. the rain had picked up again, tapping gently against the windowpane, a soothing backdrop to the quiet hum of the refrigerator as she rummaged through it.

soup. that’s what he needed. something warm, nourishing.

she set a pot on the stove, the sound of sizzling garlic and onions filling the air as she started cooking. the fragrance curled around her, mingling with the hints of citrus and eucalyptus still present in the apartment.

as the broth simmered, she added vegetables—thinly sliced carrots, soft potatoes, leafy greens that wilted beautifully into the golden liquid. she shredded some chicken, letting it soak in the flavors, steam rising in gentle swirls as she stirred.

the soft clink of a spoon against the ceramic pot, the occasional bubbling of the broth—it all felt strangely peaceful. outside, the city continued on, neon lights blinking through the misty evening. but here, in the cozy warmth of hyunjin’s kitchen, time felt slower, more intimate.

while the soup finished cooking, she rummaged through the cupboards for medicine. there it was—a box of cold relief capsules, the kind hyunjin always complained tasted like chalk. she grabbed them anyway, along with a fresh bottle of water, setting everything neatly on the counter.

finally, she ladled the soup into a bowl, the aroma filling the kitchen like a quiet promise of comfort. the steam curled in delicate tendrils, rising into the dim light. it smelled of warmth, of care. of home.

y/n leaned against the counter for a moment, exhaling softly.

hyunjin was still asleep, oblivious to the quiet effort she had poured into tidying his space, making sure he’d have something warm to eat when he woke.

but she didn’t mind. of course she didn't. taking care of him wasn’t a chore—it was second nature, something as effortless as breathing.

she glanced at the clock. 19:45.

the rain continued its steady rhythm against the window. the apartment was clean again, the soup was ready, the medicine waiting. everything was in place.

now, all that was left was to wait for the sleeping beauty to wake up.

in the bedroom, hyunjin was still cocooned beneath the blankets, his buzzed head barely peeking out. his fevered flush had deepened, cheeks tinged a stubborn pink. the dampness of sweat clung to his forehead, strands of hair curling against his skin. but despite it all, there was something disarmingly soft about him — his sharp features relaxed in sleep, long lashes resting gently against his cheeks.

y/n stood at the edge of the bed, a bowl of steaming chicken soup balanced carefully in her hands. the broth gleamed golden, the steam curling like tendrils of silk. it was the perfect remedy — warmth in a bowl, made with far too much love. she shifted her weight, gazing down at her sickly boyfriend.

god, he’s lucky he’s pretty.

“hyune,” she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

nothing. not even a twitch.

she lowered herself onto the mattress, the blankets dipping slightly under her weight. her free hand reached out, brushing gently over his forehead. he was still warm, though not as alarmingly so. the fever wasn’t gone, but it had relented — for now.

“hyunjin,” she tried again, this time pressing a soft kiss to his temple. his skin was dewy beneath her lips, and even in his sleep, he made the smallest noise of contentment.

still, no sign of waking.

“oh my god,” she muttered, setting the soup carefully on the nightstand. “you’re actually impossible.”

she leaned down, her nose brushing lightly against his. “if you don’t wake up, i’m taking all the blankets. and the pillows. maybe even your skincare.”

that did it.

his lashes fluttered, and with a low groan, hyunjin cracked one eye open. “you wouldn’t dare.”

y/n grinned, already cupping his face between her hands. “i would. and i’d post your bare, moisturized face on instagram. hashtag ‘fever chic.’”

“evil,” he rasped, though the corners of his lips twitched upward. his voice was hoarse, deepened further by sleep and congestion. somehow, it still managed to sound ridiculously attractive.

“you sound like you’ve been chain-smoking for a decade.”

“i sound sexy.”

“you sound like a gremlin.”

he chuckled — a low, rough sound that only made him wince. “ouch.”

“that’s what you get for being cocky while half-dead.”

hyunjin hummed dramatically, letting his eyes flutter shut again. “fine. let me die beautifully.”

y/n rolled her eyes but didn’t miss the small, teasing smile playing on his lips. “not happening. you’re getting soup. and meds. and possibly a smack if you keep up with the theatrics.”

“i thought you loved my theatrics,” he mumbled, his voice muffled as he burrowed further into the pillows.

“i tolerate them.” she carded her fingers gently through his buzzed hair, the short strands soft against her fingertips. “now come on. sit up for me, baby.”

with a dramatic groan — as though she’d asked him to scale mount everest — hyunjin finally shifted. his limbs were slow and heavy, the fever still anchoring him. y/n tucked an arm behind his back, guiding him carefully until he was propped against the pillows. the blankets pooled around his waist, the flush of his bare chest visible beneath the dim light. his skin gleamed slightly from the fever’s sheen, but the sight of him, even like this, still made her heart stumble.

“you’re staring,” he rasped, eyes half-lidded.

“i’m admiring, yes,” she corrected, fingers tracing lightly over his jawline. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“damn right i am.”

she swatted him lightly on the shoulder, earning a lazy grin. “stay put.”

reaching for the bowl of soup, she gave it one last stir before settling it in her lap. the steam curled up between them, the scent of garlic, ginger, and tender chicken filling the air.

“you cooked?” hyunjin asked, his eyes shining even through the fever haze.

“of course.” she blew gently on the spoonful of broth, then held it up. “i don’t trust you to eat without spilling it all over yourself.”

“i’m a grown man.”

“you’re a sick man.”

“same difference.”

but even as he whined, he parted his lips obediently, letting her feed him the first spoonful. the warmth of the broth seemed to melt into him instantly, his tense shoulders relaxing as the flavor settled. his eyes fluttered shut with a soft hum of approval.

“okay,” he mumbled. “that’s stupid good. you have god's hands.”

y/n grinned, scooping up another bite. “i know.”

and so it went. spoonful after spoonful, hyunjin accepting each bite with minimal complaint — though not without the occasional dramatic sigh, just to keep her on her toes. the warmth seeped into his bones, soothing the ache that had plagued him all day.

every so often, y/n’s fingers would brush against his skin, adjusting the blankets or tucking a stray strand of hair away from his forehead. each touch lingered, soft and reassuring.

“you’re the best,” he murmured between bites, his voice still low and gravelly.

“i know.”

“my angel.”

“mhm.”

“my goddess.”

“mhm..”

“my muse. my light. my—”

“i swear to god, if you say one more word, i’m mixing cough syrup into your soup.”

his eyes gleamed mischievously. “kinky.”

“says you.”

but she was laughing, her nose crinkling in that way that made hyunjin’s chest ache for entirely different reasons. she reached for a tissue, gently dabbing at the corner of his lips, and in that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. the rain could pour, the city could buzz — but here, wrapped in warmth and laughter, nothing else mattered.

“thank you,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “for everything.”

y/n tilted her head, her fingers brushing along his jawline. “you’d do the same for me.”

“in a heartbeat.”

and with that, he leaned forward, his lips brushing against hers. the kiss was gentle, fevered warmth meeting cool tenderness. he tasted like salt and broth and something undeniably hyunjin — familiar, grounding, home.

“ew,” she muttered playfully, pulling away. “you taste like sick.”

“still hot though.”

“debatable.”

but her laughter filled the space, mingling with his, and as hyunjin curled back into the blankets, y/n tucked him in without a word. the fever would pass, the mess would return, and the city would wake again.

but tonight?

tonight, they had soup, kisses, and the soft hum of rain. and that was more than enough.

Y/N grinned. She sank her fingers into the shaggy curls at the nape of his neck as she looked down at him, his eyes shooting stars from the pits of his pupils and into hers. “I didn't do anything.”

“Exactly,” Chris hummed. “Not even doing anything and you still manage to make me lose my mind. You're one of a kind, Y/N Bahng.”

Blushing, Y/N brushed her lips against the sweet smile on her husband's face. Then, looking over one of his broad shoulders, Y/N nodded towards the saucepan on the hob. “Milk's gonna boil.”

“No,” Chris sucked in a breath - one arm still holding his wife up to his body, the man quickly turned off the heat under his milk, just as it had begun to simmer around the edges. He sighed lazily, his lips quirking up into an easy smile. “Good eye.”

“Only because you were too distracted,” Y/N giggled as her husband set her down onto the counter beside the saucepan. “You'd have let it boil over.”

“See?” Chris smirked, dropping the chocolate carefully into the milk. “I told you … I'm not in my right mind because of you.”

Just then, a loud crackle outside the window made Chris and Y/N jump; they turned to look at each other in surprise, and a flash of white lit up their dimly lit cosy kitchen for a brief moment before ebbing away.

“Woah,” Chris whistled. “Full on storm out there.”

For the middle of summer, the evening was bitterly cold. The previous day, the couple had been roasting in their clothes; they had ended up stripping and laying directly beneath the air conditioning, sweltering in their own skin. But the temperature had plummeted overnight, bringing with it a downpour of heavy rain, and now … thunder.

In true Chris nature, the first thing he had done when he heard the rhythmic pitter patter on the bedroom windows was splatter his body over his wife's and declare the upcoming day to be one of his favourites - a very slow, very cuddly, ‘do nothing’ day. Which always entailed the following: a lazy morning where the both of them stayed in bed until noon, lounging around and tangled up in one another's warmth, followed by a sweet breakfast of either waffles or pancakes, piled high with berries and whipped cream for Y/N, and all manner of chocolate and caramel in a sticky, messy drizzle for Chris. Then they would take a bath … a long bath, one that often lasted for hours. Once Chris got in and felt the steaming water lap at his skin, he never could get out again. By the time they had finished messing around with vanillary smelling lotion and wrapping each other in fuzzy towels, the end of the afternoon would creep up and Chris and Y/N dressed in the softest, comfiest clothes they owned. Sometimes matching pyjamas, sometimes sharing Chris's clothes; Even Chris, who preferred to wear just his skin and nothing else, found a secret comfort in matching with his wife. With a thick blanket and the barely there material of their clothes almost silky against their bodies, the cuddles they wrapped themselves in for hours on end only got fuzzier.

“I feel bad for the animals,” Y/N pouted, shoulders sagging a little as another crack of thunder rumbled across the skies. “I know they can take care of themselves, but … what if they're all scared?”

Chris's eyes softened. His hands were warm against the sides of Y/N's arms, and he pressed a tender kiss to the centre of her forhead. “They'll be okay, baby. They're made to be out in the wild, hmm? I'm pretty sure the scared little babies have older ones to protect them too.”

Y/N's face lit up. She rather liked the thought of that.

“My soft hearted girl,” Chris hummed, kissing her nose this time. “I love that about you, you know that?”

Holding her arms out to him again as her eyes watered a little, Y/N let herself be pulled into the cradled of Chris's embrace once more. He carried her easily in the crook of one arm while he stirred the milky chocolatey mixture with a whisk with the kther hand, the both of them watching as the streaky drink blended into one uniform colour. It looked thick and velvety, and Y/N's stomach rumbled just a little in a way that made Chris chuckle.

“Am I gonna have to whip some cream now too?” Chris grinned.

“You don't have to. I like squirty cream too.”

“We can't have squirty cream on a day like this,” Chris frowned as he carried her over to the fridge. “We gotta have the full whack. Whipped cream, marshmallows, sprinkles … all of it.”

“Who puts sprinkles on hot chocolate?”

“Me.”

“You're addicted to sugar.”

“I am. I married you.”

Bursting into satisfied laughter at the look Y/N gave him, Chris squeezed her as he reached for the pot of cream. “So … cream?”

Smiling, Y/N nodded against her husband's neck. “Okay. Gimme a kiss first though.”

Only too happy to oblige, Chris moved his face closer to Y/N's. She had already lifted her head and her lips were warm when they melted under his, pliant and sweet and buzzing with a tenderness that made Chris hum into the kiss. It was a tiny sound, but it vibrated through Y/N and her breath hitched, and her arms tightened a fraction around his neck.

“Better?” Chris whispered against her lips when he pulled away half an inch. His nose was still bumping against hers and she shook her head, brows creasing.

“Want more.”

“More?” He chuckled, breath hot. His mouth closed over hers again, cushioning her lips with the plushness of his, hands squeezing her thighs. His teeth grazed her lower lip before he moved this time, biting lightly, and then his lips curved up into the softest of smiles as he peppered butterfly kisses all over her face. “That better?”

Y/N giggled. “More.”

“Baby … the hot chocolate's gonna go all cold,” Chris whined, though he planted another three, slow kisses to his wife's lips. “Let me finish all this up, and then I'll give you lots more kisses on the sofa, okay? I promise.”

Nodding, Y/N kissed his cheek. “Okay.”

Chris kissed her temple before setting her down once more on the counter. Y/N watched Chris pour heavy cream into a small bowl; he added a dash of vanilla and a sprinkle of sugar it before picking up the bowl and beginning to whisk as if his life depended on it.

“There,” Chris exhaled loudly barely two minutes later. He took out the whisk and wordlessly held it out to his wife; she immediately licked a long stripe over the whisk's prongs, collecting the cream on her tongue in a way that made Chris chuckle.

Y/N stuck her tongue out at him before licking the whisk again. Chris meanwhile reached for a small jar, tiny puffs of pink and white bouncing around as he shook it.

“Mallows?”

Y/N nodded. Chris sprinkled a handful of mini marshmallows into their mugs of still steaming hot chocolate; they had already begun to melt just a little, and he took up a spoon before carefully dolloping the whipped cream on top. it immediately began to fizz around the edges, bubbling up from the contact with the hot drink in a way that only looked more appetising.

Chris's stomach rumbled. He pressed a hand over his middle as Y/N giggled. She reached over into one of their snack bowls and retrieved a large crisp before pressing it into his mouth.

“‘M not … mmf … hungry,” Chris garbled around the crisp. He swallowed it and grinned as Y/N gave him a pointed look, hopping off of the counter before picking up her mug. “Well. Maybe a little. Only got room for this stuff though.”

“So much chocolate and cream in this I bet it'll fill you up anyway," Y/N said. She raised the mug to her lips and very slowly tipped it, fishing for the tiniest of sips so as not to burn her tongue; her eyes lit up and she groaned against the rim of the porcelain. “You always manage to make it taste like … like … “

Chris laughed under his breath. “Like what?”

“Like … liquid hugs?” Y/N said slowly. “Like it tastes like what your hugs feel like. Warm and sweet and syrupy and soothing and calming and healing and so so so addicting … “

Chris's face was the colour of berries. He had been about to pick his own mug up - but instead he stepped towards his wife and closed the short distance, plucking her mug out ftom her hands and placing it beside his before he engulfed her in his arms. He looped them around her shoulders, one cupping the back of her head, sinking into her hair, the other rubbing deep circles over the middle of her back.

“You,” Chris said, punctuating his words with kisses to her head. “Are. A. Little. Thesaurus.”

Giggling against his chest, Y/N squeezed his torso. “‘M not.”

“You are. And I love it.”

“Chris. The hot chocolate.”

“Oh, right! ‘S gonna get all cold … “

“No, not that,” Y/N grinned against her husband's arm as she caught sight of their mugs on the counter. “It's bubbling everywhere.”

“Huh?”

Turning around towards the counter again, Chris's furrowed eyebrows shot up his forehead. The hot chocolate must have still been too hot from the stove - the cream had begun to melt, and the bubbly mixture oozed over the rim of both mugs, spilling down the sides and pooling in a joint chocolatey mess on the surface.

“Looks like it's not cold at all,” Y/N laughed as she picked up her mug. Her tongue darted out and she quickly licked up the rivulets around her large mug, just as Chris mopped up the mess with a wad of tissue. “See? The hot chocolate is just like you … can't stay still either.”

At that, Chris chuckled. He did have very fidgety fingers.

“Come on,” Chris kissed Y/N's temple. “Sofa. Blanket.”

Wrapped up in one of the heaviest blankets they owned, Chris and Y/N sat side by side on the large sofa, hands curled their steaming mugs of hot chocolate. The marshmallows had long melted, swirling pink into the cream and coating the inside of the mugs in a squishy, sweat coating. More than once Y/N caught Chris using the very tip of his tongue to scoop out the globs of mallow from the sides, and it made her giggle.

“You look like a lizard,” Y/N commented.

Chris's eyes sparkled mischievously. His tongue darted out of his mouth again, and Y/N barely even registered what was happening before she felt the wet warmth of it swipe against her lower lip.

“Christopher - !”

She was cut off when the whole of her mouth was enveloped in his. It was a hot kiss, one that made her shiver, but no less sweet - both figuratively, and literally.

“Yum,” Chris grinned devilishly. “Definitely tastes better on your lips.”

Beetroot red, Y/N sank back against the sofa cushions. Her hair fell in a dishevelled curtain around her face, and under the blanket, she kicked out at him with her foot.

He was talking now. Chris's arms were cradling Y/N into his sturdy frame as if she was a teddy bear. One of his hands was in her hair, lightly scratching at her scalp, his other hand toying with the hem of her t-shirt. His words were hot puffs of air against her forehead as he kept up a steady stream of commentary for the movie they were watching, his tone of voice becoming more animated by the minute.

“I've seen this a thousand times yet I still can't believe he's gonna do that - “

“Pfft. No one acts like that in real life.”

“Think I could pull off that shirt he's wearing? That neon yellow is insane - ”

“Did you know they had to re-do this scene thirteen times because the main actor couldn't stop choking on his own laughter? I think he nearly died … "

“Are they gonna kiss?”

“Baby … baby I can't look … “

“How'd he fuck up that bad?”

Giggling for the hundredth time already just as the movie surpassed its middle, Chris lovingly peered down at his wife. Y/N had grown quiet in the past fifteen minutes, her bubbly responses to his comments fizzling down into softer hums and gentle giggles. She looked sleepy, eyes drooping against the hard press of his chest, but there was a tender smile on her face that grew the longer he spoke. Chris hadn't noticed it at first - he didn't realise just how much she had been taking comfort in his mindless rambling, how she had been looking up at him more than she had been watching the movie, analysing the softened features of his beautiful face.

“Sleepy?” Chris hummed, brushing his hand over her forehead, sweeping away her hair.

Y/N nodded, legs curling up closer to her chest until she resembled a tiny ball.

“Not bored, are you?” Chris hummed against her hair as he nuzzled his nose into her neck. “Am I talking too much?”

Y/N immediately shook her head. Her hands curled tighter into his hoodie under the blanket. “I loving hearing you yap. Don't stop. Like … ever.”

Chuckling, Chris kissed her temple. “Yeah? You're sure you're not just saying that?”

“Mhm. I love your voice. Could listen to it all day … I like when you get excited and ramble so much that you start stumbling over your words. ‘S cute. You're cute.”

He was beaming now; Chris tugged at Y/N's curled up body, trying to tuck her closer into him. A frugal effort, considering she was already glued to his hip - but the gesture alone brought him comfort, and Chris snuggled his face against the top of her head.

“I love you, y'know that?” Chris murmured.

She giggled. “Huh? Did … did Christopher Bahng actually just say that to me?”

Chris's lips turned downwards, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling as he pulled a gormless expression. “Yeah.”

“Say it again, I wasn't listening.”

“Oh, well now you're just taking advantage … “

Y/N found herself laying across the sofa, her husband's body pressing down into hers like the most comforting weighted blanket. She groaned at impact before limbs automatically curled around him, seeking more of his weight, more of the intense heat he was spilling through their clothes and into her skin.

“I,” Chris kissed her forehead, “love,” then her nose, “you.”

His third kiss landed on her lips, smooth and silky and full of all the love he didn't express as often through his words. He focused on other ways to show her instead - every touch he gave her, every gentle brush of his fingers over her cheek, the hold at the base of her spine, the nudge of his elbow to her side, every twinkle of his eyes and slow curve of his lips as he smiled at her, every task he carried out to make her life easier - they all dripped such care and affection that Y/N couldn't deny the severity of his feelings for her even if she tried.

But still … hearing those three words from him never failed to make her heart erupt into streams of confetti.

Biting her lip mischievously as she traced her fingertips over the constellation of moles over his cheeks, Y/N blinked up at him. “Sorry … what did you say?”

“Y/N,” Chris groaned, forehead dropping against hers. It was burning hot, much like the tip of his nose and the tops of his ears. “Do you like it when I say it that much?”

She just nodded. It made Chris smile, and he closed the fraction of distance between them again.

“I love you so much,” Chris breathed against her lips. “So, so, so much, my love. My darling. My sweetheart. My baby girl.”

Y/N giggled. "Now who's the thesaurus?"

"Me. And you. We're both a thesaurus because ... well ... we're one, aren't we?"

The smile on Y/N's face made Chris's chest ache. He smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks, just as she turned to kiss the inside of his palm.

“I love you more. So, so, so much more.”

Chuckling, Chris dropped his face into the crook of Y/N's neck. He stayed there for a long moment, breathing her in, his fingers tugging at her hair … but then he moved again, hovering over her with a cheeky look in his eyes.

“So … looks like you've got a little mark here,” Chris said innocently as he ran a finger over the side of her neck. He cleared his throat. “Definitely wasn't me.”

She couldn't see the subtle bruising, but Y/N brushed her touch over it anyway. “Really? It had nothing to do with you biting me earlier?”

“Nope.”

“You devious bugger. What is it with you covering me in hickeys?” Y/N whined, squeezing his thigh with her calf under the blanket.

Chris was laughing now, the back end of his laughter followed by tiny squeaks that made Y/N's chest heat up. “I didn't do it on purpose!”

“Liar. You always do it on purpose.”

“Well … yeah. I like the world knowing you're mine. But it was an accident this time!”

Y/N raised an eyebrow at him.

“I mean … I think it was?”

The sound that escaped Chris a second later when Y/N pushed him back against the cushions instead was reminiscent somewhat of a surprised animal; his laughter became a muffled buzz against her as Y/N's teeth kissed the hollow of his own throat, his skin warm and sweet and little musky in the way that made her lightheaded. The man groaned under her, hands tightening in her hair before she pulled away, grinning in triumph.

“Oops,” she giggled. “Accident.”

Chris's lips turned up into a crooked grin. “C'mere,” he tugged her down onto him, hand cupping her waist, and she fell into the curve of his arms again. Chris tugged up the blanket from before over them both once more - he rubbed her shoulders and tangled his legs with hers before holding her tight and dropping a loving kiss to the very top of her head.