snail ✷

He knew about the late-night drives, the missed curfews, the sound of a car engine idling outside your house fifteen minutes after you were supposed to be home. He knew Seonghyeon smiled his way through trouble instead of avoiding it, and somehow always managed to drag you directly into the middle of whatever terrible idea he’d had.

By the third time Seonghyeon had shown up at your house past midnight, and the second time your father had caught him trying to quietly drop you off only to nearly reverse into the mailbox, any chance of him being viewed as a respectable influence had disappeared completely.

So when you’d first brought up the idea of a sleepover your father had looked at you like you were insane.

"No," he'd said.

Then no again.

Then absolutely not.

Then not in this house, not while I'm breathing, not over my dead body, and did you think he was born yesterday?

You'd persisted anyway. You'd brought it up at dinner, pushing peas around your plate while your mother hid a smile behind her wine glass. You'd caught your father in the hallway before bed, in the kitchen over his morning coffee, in the garage while he swore at something under the hood of his car. You'd asked so many times that your brother had started mimicking you: "Dad, can Seonghyeon sleep over?" in a high-pitched whiny voice that made you want to throw a pillow at his head.

You even attempted dramatically insisting that everyone else’s parents allowed it, which only earned you a long look and a “I’m not everyone else’s parents.”

All of these attempts earned you nothing but your father's disapproving gaze and, consequently, the slow squashing of your heart. Every time you brought it up, he'd fix you with that look that said don't push your luck, and you'd feel your hopes deflate a little more.

Eventually, you'd recruited your mother.

Your father had always been weak when it came to her. It was something only years of love could really create—that quiet power she held over him, the way he'd soften around the edges whenever she asked for something. He'd deny you for weeks, but she could undo all his resolve with a single look across the dinner table.

Maybe you and Seonghyeon would be like that when you were older.

Not that you ever thought about that, obviously. That would be crazy. You were only seventeen. You definitely hadn’t ever dreamed what it would be like to have your own house with Seonghyeon. Not at all.

But your mother was your secret weapon and over the following days she slowly wore him down.

"He's a good student," she'd mention the next night, stirring her coffee. "I saw his report card. You saw it too, didn't you?"

Your father would grunt.

“They’re good kids.”

Another grunt.

“You used to sneak out too, you know.”

That usually got a longer silence.

And every single time, you’d watch your father try very hard not to look affected while your mother hid a tiny smile behind her coffee cup.

It took nearly three weeks.

Three weeks of promises. Three weeks of “we’ll stay apart.” Three weeks of “the door will stay open.” Three weeks of your father looking personally exhausted by the entire situation.

But eventually, somehow, he caved. Not happily or gracefully, but he did.

The conditions came immediately after.

“Guest room,” your father had said firmly, pointing directly at Seonghyeon from across the living room. “Down the hall.”

Seonghyeon had been sitting on the couch so stiffly it was almost painful to watch, hands flat on his knees, posture straight like he was interviewing for a scholarship instead of asking to sleep over at his girlfriend’s house.

“Yes, sir.”

“Not her room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not near her room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And absolutely no funny business upstairs.”

At that, you’d nearly choked trying not to laugh while Seonghyeon nodded with suspicious seriousness.

“No funny business,” he repeated solemnly, like he was signing a legal contract.

Your father narrowed his eyes immediately, clearly unconvinced by how agreeable he sounded.

The worst part was that Seonghyeon looked entirely too amused underneath it, like he was enjoying this.

Your mother had stepped in before your father could change his mind completely, patting Seonghyeon lightly on the shoulder as she stood.

“He likes you,” she’d whispered kindly once your father disappeared into the kitchen.

Seonghyeon had glanced toward the doorway your father had vanished through before looking back at her. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is,” your mother insisted. “He would have killed you by now if he didn’t.”

“That’s comforting.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

You’d had to look away because you were already starting to laugh.

Even now, hours later, lying awake in bed, you could still picture the expression Seonghyeon had worn all through dinner afterward: trying and failing to hide his smile every single time your father repeated one of the rules.

Which was exactly why sleep felt impossible now.

The house had been quiet for almost an hour.

The movie downstairs had ended. Your father had fallen asleep in his armchair halfway through it, your mother eventually nudging him awake while Seonghyeon tried very hard not to laugh. Everyone had gone upstairs after that, lights shutting off one by one until the whole house settled into silence.

And Seonghyeon was right down the hall.

Not far enough away to ignore.

You rolled onto your side again with a sigh, tugging the blankets higher before immediately kicking them back down again.

It was ridiculous, you saw him almost every day and yet somehow knowing he was only a few rooms away made you feel restless in a way you couldn’t fix.

The worst part was that the two of you had actually behaved all evening. Mostly.

You’d sat together on opposite ends of the couch at first, which was your father’s idea obviously, but little by little Seonghyeon had started inching closer whenever nobody was paying attention.

A shift of his knee against yours under the blanket. His shoulder brushing yours when he leaned over for popcorn. His hand lingering just slightly too long when he reached into your bowl instead of his own. Tiny, barely noticeable things.

Except your father noticed everything. Every single time your knees touched, you could practically feel your father narrowing his eyes from across the room without even looking away from the television.

At one point, Seonghyeon had leaned over to whisper something in your ear during the movie, and your father had immediately gone: “What was that?”

“Nothing,” both of you answered at the exact same time.

Which honestly only made it worse.

By the time everyone finally headed upstairs, you’d barely even gotten a proper goodnight. Just a quick glance, a small grin from him halfway down the hall, and a quiet: “Sleep well.”

Like that was actually possible now.

With a quiet sigh, you sat up in bed, throwing your blankets aside and pushing your hair back from your face as you stared toward your bedroom door.

This was ridiculous. You weren’t twelve. He was literally just a few doors away. You’d survived entire weekends without seeing him before. So why did knowing he was in your house suddenly make sleep impossible?

You flopped back dramatically for half a second, staring at the ceiling again. Then you immediately sat back up.

Just for a minute. That was all.

You’d go down the hall, see him, complain that you couldn’t sleep, maybe make fun of the guest room your father had stuck him in, and then come right back upstairs before anyone noticed.

Easy.

You slipped carefully out of bed, the floor cool against your feet as you crossed the room. The whole house had that deep, late-night stillness to it now, where every tiny sound suddenly felt dangerous.

The hallway outside your room was dark, lit only faintly by the pale moonlight spilling through the window at the far end. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards, the old house creaking softly around you as if it were settling deeper into sleep.

You reached for your doorknob slowly, trying not to make noise.

The hinges gave the faintest creak as you pulled it open—

—and froze instantly.

Seonghyeon was already standing right outside your room. For a second your brain genuinely stopped working.

He looked equally caught off guard, though far less guilty about it. One hand was half-raised like he’d been about to knock, his hair slightly messy from sleep or from running his hands through it too many times.

You just stared at each other silently in the dark hallway. Then his eyes flicked over your face once, and the corner of his mouth pulled upward slowly. “You too?” He whispered.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“You’re supposed to be down the hall.”

“And you’re supposed to be asleep.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again because unfortunately, it really wasn’t. He looked far too pleased about that realisation.

You tried crossing your arms, aiming for annoyed, but it lost some effect considering you were standing there in oversized sleep clothes staring at him in the middle of the night.

“You weren’t supposed to leave the guest room,” you whispered again, quieter this time.

“And you weren’t supposed to open the door.”

His voice stayed calm and low, but there was amusement tucked into every word. You rolled your eyes automatically, though your heartbeat had already started picking up.

He noticed, even in the darkness, how you were unable to meet his gaze for a moment.

Of course he noticed. Despite the impression you gave about not getting nervous around him, small parts of yourself that only he noticed ratted you out to him every single time. He’d known you long enough to tell.

Seonghyeon took a small step closer, enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent from the sweatshirt he’d changed into earlier. “You couldn’t sleep either?” He asked.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. “Maybe.”

“Mm,” he murmured, clearly not believing you for a second.

Then, before you could think too hard about it, his hand slid around your waist naturally, easily, like it belonged there. The movement pulled you closer in one smooth motion and your breath caught before you could stop it.

He leaned down slightly, giving you barely enough time to realise what he was doing before his mouth met yours.

Soft at first, careful enough that you almost thought he was trying to behave.

Though that lasted about three seconds because the second you kissed him back, his grip tightened slightly at your waist, and you felt him smile against your mouth like he’d just proven himself right about something.

Your fingers curled instinctively into the front of his sweatshirt, bunching the fabric lightly, and you melted into him, making a small sound against his mouth, a sigh of relief. He chuckled slightly. You could feel it, the small gust of air that escaped him, and you wanted to stay here forever.

But then you remembered where you were, how your parents' bedroom was at the end of the hall that now felt increasingly small and dangerous

You pulled back and his mouth chased yours, his eyes still closed, his lips still parted. He leaned in for another kiss until you put your hand on his chest, pushing him back gently.

His eyes opened and he blinked, confused. His lips were pink, slightly swollen, he was looking at you like you'd just taken something vital away from him, a frown forming on his face. “Why?” He whispered, sounding genuinely betrayed by the interruption.

You stared at him incredulously before pointing toward your parents’ bedroom farther down the hall. “We cannot get caught,” you mouthed carefully.

He glanced once in that direction, then looked back at you completely unbothered. “They’re asleep.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“And I was right last time.”

“You almost got hit with a shoe.”

“That wasn’t that serious.”

You gaped at him quietly. “My dad threatened to kill you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered thoughtfully. “But he says that every time he sees me now.”

Which was, annoyingly, true.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You like me.” The smugness in his whisper made you roll your eyes again, even though the warmth climbing into your face completely ruined the effect.

Unfortunately, he noticed that too. His expression softened instantly, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Before he could lean down again, you grabbed his wrist suddenly. His eyebrows lifted in surprise as you tugged him backward down the hallway. “Wait—where are we going?”

“Shh,” you whispered immediately. You started guiding him carefully toward the stairs, both of you moving slowly to avoid the loud spots in the floorboards.

The old house creaked anyway. Every single noise made you freeze for half a second before continuing. At one point, the stair beneath Seonghyeon’s foot let out an especially loud groan, and you whipped around so fast you nearly ran into him, only to find his shoulders were already shaking silently with laughter.

“This isn’t funny,” you mouthed.

“It kind of is.”

You glared at him while trying not to laugh yourself.

By the time the two of you finally reached the bottom of the stairs, the house had gone still again.

Moonlight spilled through the living room windows in pale strips, turning everything soft silver-blue. The furniture looked different at night somehow: quieter, softer around the edges. Even the air felt still.

For a second, neither of you said anything. You could hear the faint ticking of the clock in the kitchen alongside the hum of the refrigerator somewhere down the hall.

Seonghyeon glanced around slowly before looking back at you, hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Now what?” He whispered.

You shrugged, trying to act like dragging him downstairs in the middle of the night had been a completely normal decision. “I don’t know,” you said quietly. “You’re the one lurking outside my bedroom.”

A small grin tugged at his mouth immediately. “I was being romantic.”

“You were standing in the dark outside my door.”

“Romantically.”

You snorted softly, shaking your head. He wandered away before you could answer, moving toward the vinyl cabinet beneath the stereo system in the corner of the room. Immediately, suspicion hit you. “Oh, don’t touch those.”

Too late.

Seonghyeon crouched in front of the cabinet anyway, flipping through your father’s records with the kind of confidence people only had when they absolutely should not be touching something. “You own, like, fifty sad old man albums,” he murmured.

“My dad likes music.”

“Your dad likes depression.”

You rolled your eyes, moving closer as he continued flipping through them one by one.

“What even is this?” He whispered, holding up a record sleeve covered in dramatic black-and-white photography.

You glanced at it. “I don’t know.”

“That guy looks miserable.”

“He’s probably singing about heartbreak.”

“Yeah, well. He should cheer up.”

You laughed quietly through your nose, quickly covering your mouth when the sound echoed slightly too loud in the room. Seonghyeon looked very pleased with himself for causing it.

He kept searching until one particular record made him pause. Slowly, he pulled it free from the shelf.

“My Love Will Never Die,” he read under his breath.

You immediately groaned. “Oh my god.”

“What?” He asked, already grinning.

“You cannot be serious.”

He turned the sleeve over in his hands dramatically. “This is perfect.”

“It’s ancient.”

“Barely.”

“It literally belonged to my parents before I was born.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Classic.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself while he carefully slid the vinyl from its sleeve. For all his usual recklessness, he handled it surprisingly gently.

“That thing’s older than both of us,” you whispered.

He glanced up at you while setting it onto the player. “Still works better than your dad’s rules.”

“You are obsessed with annoying him.”

“He makes it easy.”

A soft crackle filled the room as the needle settled. Eventually the music started low and warm, instantly making the whole room feel slower.

‘I know, I know I love you (love you)

And I really love you so, need you (love you)’

Something about it changed the atmosphere immediately. The teasing quieted a little and the darkness around you suddenly felt softer instead of sneaky.

Seonghyeon stood there for a second listening before turning toward you again and holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”

‘And I'll never let you go, honey (love you)

My love for you will never die, ooh, ooh’

You stared at him immediately. “Absolutely not.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Why not?”

“Because this is embarrassing.”

“It’s literally just dancing.”

“In my living room. At like one in the morning.”

“Exactly,” he whispered. “Makes it better.”

You crossed your arms. “No.”

“You dragged me downstairs.”

“That does not mean I owe you a dance.”

“You’re hurting my feelings.”

“You don’t have feelings.”

“Wow.”

You tried to stay serious, but his smile was already ruining it. Especially because he looked completely unashamed standing there holding his hand out like some dramatic movie character. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“Still waiting.”

You let out a quiet sigh, already losing the argument.

‘So, come on over (love you)

I want you to hold my hand, tell me (love you)’

Before you could properly refuse again, he stepped closer and took your hand himself. Your stomach flipped stupidly fast at the contact. “You’re so annoying,” you whispered.

“You’re still dating me,” he murmured, pulling you gently toward him anyway.

One of his hands settled naturally against your waist whilst the other stayed wrapped loosely around yours, and just like that something softened. The teasing faded a little around the edges.

You could feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, could feel his thumb moving absently against your side while the music drifted quietly through the dark room.

Neither of you were really dancing properly. Just swaying slowly in place, being close enough that your slippers kept brushing against his socks every few seconds.

The floor creaked once beneath your feet and both of you froze instantly before trying not to laugh.

“Oh my god,” you whispered through a grin. “We’re actually going to get caught.”

“We’re fine.”

“That’s exactly what you said before my dad almost killed you.”

“He didn’t almost kill me.”

“He threw a shoe at your head.”

“And missed.”

You laughed quietly again, shaking your head as he smiled down at you.

‘That I'm your lover man, darling (love you)

My love for you will never die (ooh)’

For a little while, neither of you said anything after that. The music played softly around you while moonlight stretched across the floorboards. Somewhere outside, a car passed faintly in the distance before everything settled quiet again.

Seonghyeon looked down at you after a minute, his expression softer now, less teasing. “This song’s ridiculously old,” he murmured.

You glanced up at him. “You’re literally dancing to it.”

“Yeah,” he said easily. His hand shifted slightly at your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “Because you’re here.”

And somehow that was worse than his usual flirting, because he said it so simply like it wasn’t even a line to win you over, it was just the truth embedded so deeply into his soul he couldn’t help but share.

Your eyes dropped away from his immediately, warmth rushing into your face as you tried very hard to focus on literally anything else besides the way he was looking at you.

Which only made him smile a little more. You hated when he did that: looking at you like that afterward, all quiet and unfairly sincere, like he knew exactly what it did to you.

You glanced down at the front of his sweatshirt instead, fingers curling lightly into the fabric near his shoulder. “Don’t say stuff like that,” you muttered.

“Like what?”

“You know what.”

A small pause passed between you before he spoke again, quieter now: “You get shy.”

Your head snapped back up immediately. “I do not.”

“You do,” he whispered, smiling a little wider now. “Right now.”

“I’m literally looking at you.”

“Yeah, after avoiding eye contact for like thirty seconds.”

“It was not thirty seconds.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head slightly. “Felt long.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the effect was ruined by the fact that he was still holding you close in the middle of your dark living room while some ancient love song played softly behind him.

“This is why my dad doesn’t trust you,” you informed him.

“He didn’t trust me before this.”

“That’s true.”

“See?”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh again.

‘Love's so necessary (wow)

That's why I just gotta be your man, oh, come on’

The record crackled softly between verses, the sound warm and familiar in the quiet house. Seonghyeon swayed lazily with the music, more interested in watching you than actually dancing properly.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “your mom definitely knew we were gonna sneak downstairs.”

You looked up immediately. “No, she didn’t.”

“She definitely did.”

“She wouldn’t allow that.”

“She likes me.”

You snorted. “She tolerates you.”

“She offered me more dessert at dinner.”

“She felt bad for you because my dad kept threatening your life.”

“Still counts.”

You rolled your eyes, but he only grinned.

‘Oh, girl (love you)

I want you to hold me tightly, kiss me, baby (love you)’

The song kept playing low through the speakers while the two of you moved slowly across the living room in uneven little circles. Every now and then the floor creaked beneath your feet, and both of you would instinctively freeze before dissolving into muffled laughter when nobody came downstairs.

At some point, his hand slipped lower against your waist, settling against your hip.

“So this is your definition of ‘no funny business?’” You whispered.

His eyebrows lifted innocently. “We’re dancing.”

“You are absolutely pushing it.”

“Your dad specifically said no funny business upstairs.”

You stared at him and he stared back completely serious for about two seconds before the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, trying not to laugh too loudly. “You’re horrible.”

“Still won you over though, huh.”

You groaned quietly, dropping your forehead briefly against his shoulder as he laughed softly under his breath, the sound warm and sleepy.

The living room smelled faintly like dust and laundry detergent and your father’s aftershave lingering in the furniture. Outside, wind brushed softly against the trees near the window, and somewhere far off, a car drove past on the main road. Everything felt suspended somehow, as though the whole world had gone quiet around the two of you.

Your eyes drifted half-shut for a second before you felt Seonghyeon shift slightly.

“You tired?” He whispered, his lips just grazing your hair as you hummed in response.

“A little.”

“You should sleep.”

“You first.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You yawned like six times during the movie.”

“That was acting.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him incredulously, your eyebrows drawing together. “Why would you fake being tired?”

He shrugged lightly. “Wanted your mom to think I was innocent.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You are actually unbelievable.”

“Worked, though.”

“No it didn’t.”

“She called me sweet.”

“That’s because she doesn’t know you.”

He grinned. “You do.”

Unfortunately.

That stupid warm feeling hit your chest again. You looked away before he could notice it this time, but his hand squeezed lightly at your waist like maybe he already had.

‘And make me know how much you love me (love you)

My love for you will never die (ooh)’

The record neared its end, music softening under the crackle of vinyl, though neither of you moved to stop it.

Seonghyeon rested his chin lightly against the top of your head for a second, voice quieter when he spoke again. “You know your dad’s gonna blame me if we get caught down here.”

“He blames you for everything already.”

“Fair.”

“You breathed too loud at dinner and he looked ready to fight you.”

“I was nervous.”

You blinked, pulling back slightly. “You were nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“You? Nervous?”

He looked down at you like the answer was obvious. “Your dad scares me.”

You burst into quiet laughter immediately. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He threatened me with a garden tool last month.”

“That was one time.”

“It was a rake.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

You giggled slightly, forehead dropping against Seonghyeon’s shoulder for a second.

Upstairs, your father’s eyes opened immediately. He laid there for half a second, listening. Another faint laugh drifted up from downstairs and your father sat upright. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Beside him, your mother groaned softly, hands rising to rub her eyes. “What now?”

“They’re awake.”

He was already throwing the blankets off when your mother sat up and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t.”

“They’re downstairs.”

“So?”

“So?” He repeated in disbelief. “It’s one in the morning.”

Your mother squinted at him sleepily. “And?”

“And he’s down there with her.”

“You allowed him over.”

“That is suddenly feeling like a mistake.” Another muffled sound floated upstairs completely incoherent; for all he knew Seonghyeon could be plotting sneaking you out again. Your father pointed toward the floor. “You hear that?”

“I hear two teenagers.”

“I hear bad decisions.”

Your mother snorted softly, letting go of his wrist and lowering herself back onto the mattress. “You used to climb through my bedroom window.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Your mother smiled a little, already pulling the blankets back up. “Leave them alone. Let them have this.”

Your father stared at the bedroom door for another long second, clearly still considering marching downstairs anyway. Then he sighed heavily and dropped back onto the mattress. “If he breaks my record player, he’s dead.”

“Sure, honey.”

Your father grumbled something under his breath before dragging a pillow over the side of his head dramatically. “I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered.

Your mother laughed quietly beside him, reaching over to switch the lamp off again while downstairs, completely oblivious, the static kept playing softly through the house, the two of you in your own world.

"This is nice," Seonghyeon finally spoke again, his voice muffled against your hair.

"Mm."

"We should do this more often. It’s much easier sneaking downstairs than climbing through your window."

"You're going to get us killed."

"Worth it."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. The streetlight caught the side of his face, illuminating the soft curve of his smile and the way his eyes were half-closed like he was already half-asleep. You reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. It fell right back, the way it always did.

"Come on," you whispered. "We should actually go to bed. Before he comes down here with a baseball bat."

He groaned but let you step back. His hand lingered on your waist for a moment longer, then dropped to his side. You walked together to the stairs, your bare feet silent on the cold floor, his heavier behind you. At the top of the stairs, you stopped, turning back to face him.

"Goodnight," you whispered.

"Goodnight."

Neither of you moved.

"You first," he said, a soft smile resting on his face.

"No, you."

He smiled—that slow, lazy smile that always made your stomach flip. His eyes softened in the dim light, crinkling at the corners, and for a moment, he just looked at you like he was trying to memorise the shape of your face. As though he wanted to remember this exact second.

Then he leaned in.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, gentle but sure. His thumb brushed against your temple and you felt your eyes flutter closed before his lips even touched your skin.

When they did, it was soft. Softer than you expected. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and they pressed against your forehead with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He stayed there longer than he needed to, just breathing you in, and his breath warmm against your hairline. You could feel the faint tremor in his fingers where they rested against your scalp, could feel the way his chest rose and fell with a slow, steady breath, like he was trying to steady himself.

Your own hands had found the fabric of his t-shirt at some point, your fingers curled into the soft cotton, holding on without meaning to. You could feel the heat radiating off him, and you never wanted to let go.

When he finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant even. His lips brushed your skin one last time before he straightened, and his hand slid from your hair to your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. His eyes were dark in the dim light, soft, and he looked at you as though you were something precious.

"Goodnight," he whispered. His voice was low, rough, barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Then he let go. His hand dropped to his side and he took a step back, then another, his bare feet silent on the carpet. The hallway was dark, but you could see the outline of him: the slope of his shoulders, the mess of his hair, the way he kept his eyes on yours even as he moved away.

He reached the guest room doorway and paused. His hand rested on the frame. He looked back at you one last time, and something warm and unspoken passed between you.

Then, eventually, he stepped inside, and he was gone.

You walked to your room, climbed into your own bed, and pulled the blanket up to your chin, still feeling the warmth of his hands in your hair. The house was silent again, the needle of the vinyl player resting in the final groove, evidence of the events of what had just happened right under your father’s nose.

You closed your eyes and, for the first time all night, felt sleep pulling at the edges of your mind.

In the master bedroom, your father lay on his back with his arm over his eyes, pretending not to have heard the faint creak of the stairs twenty minutes ago. Beside him, your mother smiled into her pillow and said nothing.

The fight had been simmering in you for a while now, waiting for the right spark to strike aflame.

That spark came when Keeho texted you saying he would come home late from work for the nth time this past month. It struck just the right nerve inside of you, so now you wait patiently on the couch for him with flames licking around beneath your skin, angry but patient.

The clock above the TV ticks away obnoxiously, mocking you with every second that it moves towards 11pm. This is the latest he’s ever been. And there was no follow up either.

Normally he’d send another text a few hours later— or call you if you’re lucky— to let you know if he won’t make it by dinner but today you've been sitting by your phone like a pathetic fool waiting for a text you’re not even sure you want anymore.

You’re not sure what you were hoping for. You’re not sure why you expected things to go your way. Lately, nothing did. Dates always got pushed back far enough until they were forgotten. You could barely plan an evening together even just at home before he would get spontaneously pulled away by his management. You knew he was a busy man but busy people could still make time for their partners.

When the clock strikes eleven, you pull yourself up to your feet and make your way to the stove to make dinner for one.

You hear him enter the apartment when you’re aggressively scrambling eggs. 

“I’m home,” he calls, voice weak and gruff from exhaustion.

You don’t respond. Not even when he calls your name. And not when he wraps his arms around your waist and plasters himself to your back.

“Baby?” He asks, nudging his mouth against the slope of your jaw. He feels liquid as he relaxes against you, warm and solid. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say tightly as you plate your eggs, trying to lean out of his hold but he’s persistent enough to follow you with his body.

He freezes at the tone of your voice. “There’s something wrong,” he states after a tense silence. When there’s no response from you, he turns you around, holding your arms down so you can’t get away easily. There’s a concerned furrow between his brows.  “What is it?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to meet his eyes. You push against his forearms to shove his hands off of you. “What, you can’t figure it out?”

The concern on his face makes way for shock and then irritation. It comes quicker than you thought it would; the late night has probably worn his inhibitions down. It’s definitely not the right time to be doing this but he’s not the only one who’s tired.

His jaw tenses and his brows dip further, eyes narrowing as he tries to read you clearer. “Well if you don’t tell me, how am I supposed to know?”

You scoff, finally meeting his eyes. “Think, Keeho,” you say, fashioning your tone into something patronizing. “Just think! You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can figure out what could possibly have been making me upset all these days. Or are you really that dense?”

There’s a flash of anger you see flit through his eyes. “How about you stop being so immature and just tell me,” he snaps. His eyes widen a little as he says it, like the words weren’t meant to come out that way but his exhaustion must have rewired the filters in his brain.

“Oh, I’m being immature now?” You ask through grit teeth, taking a step forward. “You practically abandoned me for, like, a month! So yeah, excuse me if being upset about that makes me immature.”

Any regret you might have seen in his face is gone. His expression becomes a stony one, hard and cold, and you can see the anger brewing again in his eyes. “You know how work has been recently,” he says, slowly and quietly; an attempt to keep himself under control.

“Oh, spare me the bullshit,” you spit, pouring as much vitriol as you can into your words. “What, because you’re busy with work that means you get to just ignore me?”

His restraint starts to crack and his voice rises steadily with each word. “Oh for fuck’s sake, I wasn’t ignoring you!”

“We can’t even hang out recently without you getting pulled into work. When was the last time we went on a date?”

“A date?!” He scoffs. He’s starting to look a little manic now, like he’s in absolute disbelief of what he’s hearing. Like you’re being crazy. “All of this over a fucking date? It’s just a few weeks of extra hours and you’re already throwing a tantrum over dates?”

You dig your nails into your palms and take a sharp breath to wind down the storm rattling in your head. “I’m not throwing a tantrum and you know this isn’t just about dates. I’m just saying—“

“No, you are,” he cuts you off. “You know I have more important things to worry about right now—“

“More important?” You repeat, feeling your heart climb up your throat. “More important than us?”

He throws his head back, bringing his hands up over his face. “Fuck!” He yells into his palms before he slides them down and looks at you— glares at you. “There you go twisting my words now,” he seethes.

Your throat feels tight and there’s a sting behind your eyes. “I’m not twisting anything,” you say slowly, hoping maybe then he would just listen.

But he’s not hearing you, he’s pacing away to the living room with his hands digging into his hair. “I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t deal with you right now. Not when you’re being so fucking needy.” He says it like you’re a burden. He’s ranting to himself now, and the next words come under his breath but you can hear them clear as day. “So fucking unnecessary.”

Every inch of your body feels hot with rage and sorrow, a living thing that crawls under your skin and cries for you to get out. “Fine,” you say. You’re calm as you collect your phone and your car keys from the counter on the way to the door. “Don’t deal with me anymore.”

You’re shoving your feet into your shoes when you hear him call your name but you’re out the door before you can let yourself turn back.

The drive to your brother’s apartment is a short one, thankfully, because you’re a hazard on the road with blurry eyes, shaky hands, and a distracted brain. The way up to Theo’s apartment is a blur and you don’t even let him ask you what’s wrong before you sink yourself into his arms and sob into his chest.

For once, he doesn’t shove you away or call you a gross, snot-nosed gremlin. All he tells you is that you’re staying here for the night before he makes sure you go to sleep hydrated and with company.

You wake up to poorly hushed voices arguing outside the bedroom and Theo’s bedside clock flashing past 3am. You’re not able to distinguish the voices through your sleepy haze as you drag yourself out of bed and step out of the room. 

“Taeyang?” You ask groggily, blinking your eyes open. When they adjust, you immediately wish you hadn’t left the bed.

Keeho shoves past Theo in the entryway to reach for you. “Baby—“

“Don’t touch me,” you snap, flinching back from him when he gets in your space.

Keeho looks like he’s been physically punched by the words as he reels back, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air before they slowly drop back to his sides.

“Keeho,” Theo says from behind him, voice low and ready to strike. “You should go.”

“No,” Keeho says, his eyes wide in panic. You only realize now that they’re puffy and rimmed red. His cheeks are flushed too and his lips look bitten raw. “No, not yet, baby, please—“ He shifts like he’s about to reach for you again but stops himself and pulls back. The words tumble out of his lips, staggered and rushed. “Please, just let me talk— a few minutes, that’s all I ask.”

You feel your heart wrench around in your chest. His callous words from before rattle around in your head, the acid in his eyes in the way he’d looked at you flashing before your eyes.

Keeho’s face breaks open when you don’t respond. His lips start to wobble and his eyes start to well and the sight alone hurts you more than anything else. “Please,” he says through a restrained breath.

Theo’s eyes meet yours over Keeho’s shoulder. He gives you a minuscule nod before he steps out of the front door, closing it behind him.

As soon as he hears the front door shut, Keeho falls right to his knees with a gut wrenching sob. He’s saying things to the floor that you can’t hear through his heaving and crying and you can’t stand the sight of it.

“Keeho,” you say, taking a step forward to haul him up to his feet but as soon as you get within reach again, Keeho’s arms are around your thighs and he’s looking up at you with brown eyes drowning in tears and his pretty face twisted in anguish. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts and you can’t get a word in before he’s spewing off through hiccups and sniffles. “I didn’t mean it, any of it. I was— idiot, I was so stupid. I was stressed and I didn’t know what I was saying but— fuck— none of that matters!” He squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head down to hide his face as he presses against your stomach. “Doesn’t fucking matter… I hurt you. With things I didn’t even mean— stupid, I was so—“

“Keeho,” you try to say, reaching down to lift his head back up because he’s starting to become unintelligible again.

His eyes snap back up to yours with such an intensity that you nearly flinch back, but his arms tighten around you, keeping you close. “You’re not needy. You weren’t twisting my words,” he says through uneven breaths, looking and sounding a little more sane, but he’s still as desperate. “You weren’t throwing a tantrum, I was. I was being an asshole and I wasn’t listening, and I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness but please—“ He breaks down again with a fresh wave of tears but he refuses to look away from you. HIs voice is small and nearly a whine as he pleads with you. “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.”

You’re not sure how he does it; wearing down your resolve with just one look and a few words. But you can feel it cracking away with each of his sobs.

You reach behind yourself to grasp his wrists and unwrap his arms from you. 

He bristles when you do, that panicked look back in his eyes. “No, please—“

“Keeho,” you say firmly, going down to your knees in front of him. That shuts him up, and he finally starts to listen. He watches the words from your lips as they fall into the thick air between you two. “I need you to promise me something.”

He doesn’t hesitate; he nods immediately as he shuffles closer on his knees. The heavy breaths from his parted lips land warmly against your lips as he looks down at you, waiting.

“Please don’t raise your voice at me again,” you find yourself saying. Your eyes water with no warning and your voice starts to shake against your wishes. “I know I was being unfair too, and I should’ve just told you what was wrong but…” You lower your head, weak to keep his eyes. “Calling me needy and talking to me like I was crazy—“ You take a sharp breath to stop the tears from falling just yet. “It made me feel so small. Like what I was saying didn’t matter at all. You didn’t even let me explain properly why I was upset. I know that you were tired and you were stressed but you made me feel like shit. I don’t ever wanna feel like that again.” You squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to keep the threatening tears back. “All I did was miss you and you just…” You break away with a shaky breath, picturing the way he had twisted with such anger towards you; anger that you’d never seen from him before.

You open your eyes again when Keeho’s forehead presses against yours. His eyes are fixed down with a faraway gaze and there’s a steady stream of tears still slipping down his face. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispers, quiet and honest. “I let my anger get away from me and it hurt you.” He reaches for your hands in your lap, moving slow and questioning. When you don’t pull away, he lets his hands envelop your smaller ones. “I hate myself for it. But it’ll never happen again.” His hands squeeze down on yours like he’s physically sealing the promise. “If it does, you can walk away and never look back. I won’t stop you.”

You let out the breath that’s been stuck in the recesses of your lungs, and along with it, the heaviness that settled in your chest some weeks ago. “Sounds like a plan,” you say lightly, and your eyes meet his again.

The relief that washes over his face is instant. He drops his head down to your shoulder as his arms snake around your waist to pull you flush against him. “I don’t deserve you,” he mumbles into your neck.

“No, you don’t,” cuts in Theo as he walks back in through the door. “Are you two done? I’m tired.”

Despite his snappy tone, Theo looks at you with eyes softened in a silent question. When you give him a small smile and a nod, the tension in his shoulders releases.

“Yeah,” you say aloud, wrapping your arms around Keeho’s shoulders, who’s still buried away in your shoulder and shut away from the world except you. “Just about.”

“Cool,” Theo says passively as he walks past you both towards the living room. He kicks the side of Keeho’s leg as he passes, not lightly. “Get to bed.”

Keeho doesn’t even react to Theo. Instead he pulls back and shuffles up to his feet, pulling you into his arms as he lifts. Your legs wrap around his waist as he brings you into the bedroom and drops you down on your back, easing himself down with you. 

You accept his weight on top of you with a grunt but you don’t push him away. Your chest feels tight again, but it’s for the better this time.

He presses his forehead to yours and you reach up to wipe away the wetness from his cheeks with your palms. “I don’t deserve you,” he says again, the cadence of his voice delicate now.

You shake your head slightly, tilting your chin up to brush the tip of your nose against his flushed one. “Don’t say that. We both could’ve handled that better.”

“No,” he says firmly, his brows pinching. “No,” he repeats, softer. “Just… Let me deserve you again. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll quit my job.”

You laugh a little at how earnestly he says that. “No, silly. If you do that you can’t take me out on expensive dinners anymore.”

The lightness of your voice gets the smallest of smiles out of him. “True,” he says, then buries his hands under your— Theo’s— hoodie; not with intent, but just to feel you against him without barriers. A quiet reminder for himself that you’re still here, with him. “I’ll take you on a date tomorrow. I’ll leave work on time from now on. I won’t even look at my phone.”

You smile at his words, but he doesn’t stop there. He plants a soft kiss to your brow. Then one to your eyelid. And a myriad more, gentle and fluttery, down your face as he rattles off again.

“I’ll buy a new phone for my managers and then block them on my personal one. I’ll tell them to fuck off if they try to take me away from you again. I’ll lie and tell them you’re pregnant so they’ll actually leave me alone and then if it gets too far we’ll just say the test was wrong and we didn’t realize—“

“Keeho!” You cut him off with a baffled laugh, grabbing his cheeks to stop him from continuing to attack your face with unrelenting kisses. 

There’s a pout on his lips now, a tiny thing that you want to kiss off of him. “What? I need to be thorough.”

The grin you give him eases him down into a smile. “You’re ridiculous,” you say through your smile.

“I’m proactive,” he corrects, dropping his head down to yours again. His eyes fall to your lips, but he hesitates.

You smooth your hand down the hair at the back of his head, a touch that grounds both him and you. His eyes are soft now, all harsh edges faded into nothing but tenderness as he peers down at you, questioning.

“Come here,” you urge him forward with your hand and he leans down to kiss you like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him. 

It is.

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