Spring Day🌼

His hair is still damp from the running, tied in a bun. A red hairband is pulling back his greasy locks from his forehead. He hasn't changed that in at least two weeks.

"Idiot," you chuckle in response, "how was it?"

"Uh, fine I guess" Jisung answers while kicking off his grayish, damp socks along with his shoes, "Changbin-hyung fell and ate a bunch of soil, I laughed so hard I peed my pants" he snorts.

"You all act just like children," you reply with a giggle, "I'm glad you had a good time. Are you hungry? Have you had dinner yet?"

"I ate a burger with the boys . It was huuuuge, baby. Can still feel it moving in my stomach," he replies as he finally enters in the living room delivering his signature goofy smile. 

You smile as you see him patting his tummy. Jisung is very thin, almost borderline unhealthy, but a small layer of fat sits stubbornly below his belly button, and it doesn’t go away despite all of the physical exercise. Jisung says it’s okay, that he doesn't mind. But you, you love it.

"Good. You didn’t take a shower there, did you?" you ask stretching your legs on the couch and pausing the show you were watching. 

"Nah, I didn't feel like it. I'll do it in a while." Jisung answers while opening the refrigerator and fishing out a can of sprite. He opens it with gnarled fingers and brings it to his lips, chugging half of it in one big gulp. 

"Ew, Sungie" 

Jisung widens his eyes in fake shock and leans against the peninsula of the kitchen. "Ew? To the love of your life? Your boyfriend, your future husband, the apple of your ey-"

"Enough of this," you laugh as you come closer him, leaning across the peninsula. "I could count the grease stains on your hands if I wanted to. You're dirty."

"Mean," Jisung whispers drinking the other half of the sprite and hiding a burp with one fist. "I thought I'd come home and get a better treatment than this."

You burst out laughing at his words. "Uh, did you have plans? What did you expect big boy, tell me." 

Jisung chuckles again and you can see a bit of burger sauce pooled at the corner of his lips. 

"Uhh, dunno. A massage, maybe? Showing your baby you love him?”

You laugh, "You want a massage? Come here, that can be arranged." You take a couple of steps back and sit on the couch, on the peninsula side, so you can stretch your legs. Jisung looks at you with a lopsided smile and brings a hand to his head, scratching behind his ear. You can see from a distance the oily strands of hair slipping through his fingers. You should find it disgusting. You really should.

You open your arms and offer him a big smile, "Come on, baby. You must be dead tired, hmm? The boys destroyed you. Come to mama, I'll give you what you need."

Jisung gulps and giggles, wobbling closer to you and letting himself fall into the space between your thighs, abandoning his back against your chest. Then he lets himself slide forward a little, pressing the nape of his neck against the softness of your breasts under the shirt you're wearing.

"Uh, uh. That feels nice already," he murmurs adjusting himself against your chest.

"Have you had some drinks?" you ask, bringing your hands to his shoulders and pinching them lightly. The fabric is damp and smells of sweat and the spray deodorant Jisung always puts on when he doesn't feel like showering.

"Just a couple of beers with Chan-hyung," Jisung sobs as soon as your fingers sink lightly into his muscles, "that man needs to get laid."

"Don't be cocky, Sungie," you reply with a grin as your hands descend to work on the muscles in his arms, "if it wasn’t for me, you'd be jerking off to one of your tacky porns as well. Be grateful I picked you up on the streets and decided you would be mine."

Your words are light, he knows you are joking. Even though, to tell the truth, Jisung was a virgin before meeting you, and the first time you had sex he was so nervous he came before he even managed to put the tip in. Adorable.

Jisung laughs and then he lets out a breathy moan when you run your fingers up between his shoulder blades, focusing on a knot. "That’s true. But now he’s the one jacking off to a shower wall. While me, I have a beautiful girlfriend who decided I was good enough to be adopted. I still am thankful for your bad taste in men." 

"My taste in men is great, excuse you," you retort as your chin rests on his head, near the band that pulls back his hair. "I pulled the nastiest hottest boy around. I regret nothing."

Jisung laughs. "You literally call me your rat." 

"Rats are cute," you answer back piquantly. Your fingers continue to work on the knot in Jisung's back with a little more insistence. Jisung writhes softly. "You just call me that because I'm a little gross."

You lower your head to rest a kiss on his greasy hair. There's gel residue on the strands, and it's a bit crusty.

"You know how much I love that you're a little gross. Makes me feral."

"You're a freak." Jisung laughs as your hands finish massaging his shoulder blades and descend to the front, down to his chest, to caress his sore pecs.

"Maybe," you admit. "Tell me how many beers you've had again. Just the truth this time, hmm?" 

"Five. Or six. Maybe six. Ah-" Jisung gulps when you brush your thumb on his pec, grazing his nipple. "Feelin' a bit tipsy." 

"I know, my love," you whisper as you continue massaging his chest with your fingers. Jisung's head is nestled perfectly between your breasts and you feel his ribcage swell and deflate quickly, like a baby bird. "You're all wriggly. You just can't sit still when you feel good, hmm?"

Jisung laughs embarrassed before letting a faint moan out when your fingers pinch his nipple again, more insistently. “Not fair though, you're t-teasing."

You nod a few times as your face descends to his ear, kissing the skin behind it, where you know that acrid, powerful smell typical of Jisung accumulates. “As if you didn't have a different kind of massage in mind from the beginning. Don't lie to mama, Sungie."

Jisung shakes his head tentatively, “I wasn’t trying to imply any of that”.

You chuckle at his words, bringing your mouth to his earlobe and nibbling at it. “Now say it again without drooling over yourself, mh?”

Jisung hiccups and goes limp against you, giving you enough space to keep nosing at his neck. A little bit of saliva is bubbling out of his parted lips, forming a shiny coat on his skin and you just wanna suck it off.

“Well, maybe. M-maybe just a little,” he grunts while the tip of your tongue brushes on the shell of his ear. “You’re mean for real.”

“Don’t call me mean when I’m about to jack you off, Sungie. That’s just ungrateful, don’t you think?” you whisper on his skin, breathing the sweet smell of his body in. Even his sweat kinda smells like beer. That’s disgusting and hot at the same time. Maybe you’re a freak after all.

“Oh. Oh. We’re… we’re doing that? Fuck, yeah. Suuuure, cool.” And then he lets out the nervous squeak he does everytime you’re about to touch him. It doesn’t matter it’s been years, he never gets used to you been enough attracted to him to give him pleasure even if he’s dirty. But, to be fair, Jisung is always kind of dirty.

You smile against his skin and your fingers find his nipple again, rolling it between your pointer and thumb over the fabric of his top. Jisung keens at that and you can feel the goosebumps forming on his arms under you.

“Wanna kiss. Give Sungie kiss first? Can you? Please?” He blubbers while your other hand is caressing just above his navel. He turns his face to look at you, and the angle is weird because he needs to force himself in this position, but his cheeks are flushed and cute, and his eyes so big you can almost see your own reflection in them.

The first kiss on his lips is just a peck, nothing else, and you can feel that Jisung tries, he tries so hard not to be affected too much this early, but as soon as you place your mouth on him and start to nibble lightly at his bottom lip, he lets out a broken whimper. He tastes like alcohol and ketchup, and his teeth are all sticky for the sprite he just chugged. You find yourself forcing his mouth open just after a few seconds just to be able to lick at them, feeling the sugar on the tip of your tongue.

“You’re so filthy, Sungie. You’re delicious.” You tease him a bit while sucking his own wet muscle into your mouth and slowly pulling it between your teeth.

Jisung lets out the quietest yet painful moan, "Ah- please, I just...", and he starts parting his thighs just a little bit, the tiniest movement showing how he is growing hard under his pants.

You look down and he is just the prettiest, all spread out for you.

“Never denied you anything,” you mutter as you scoot forward on the sofa to place a last peck on his lips. They’re a bit chapped, and a drop of blood stains your mouth.

Jisung’s head falls back on your chest, nuzzling between the comfort of your breasts, and he looks wrecked already. His eyes are teary and his vision fuzzy while his lips pucker, as if he was trying to suck on the air.

“Fuck, you’re so cute. Wish you had something on your mouth, uh?” you ask him as your left hand puts and end to the lazy massage on his lower stomach and finally cups him through his pants.

Jisung is fully hard already but, to an untrained eye, the two inches tent his erection is struggling to maintain makes him look like he’s just sporting half of a chub.

“Uh, uh - yeah, w-wanna suck please,” he manages while your hands goes a bit lower to graze his balls. “Please, mama- gimme anything.”

“Oh, Sungie, don’t beg,” you whisper kissing the tender skin of his ear one more time. Jisung’s soft sobs always make you feel lightheaded and needy, but you cannot show him. Not now. “Mama’s gonna give you fingers, mhkay?”

Jisung nods and parts his lips as a pavlovian response to your words, his tongue lolling out diligently out of his mouth. Your pointer and middle finger pinch the fat of his bottom lip and he moans softly at the teasing. When you finally ease your fingers inside of the heath of his mouth, Jisung lets out a weak cry. “Thank you thank you thank you thank you,” he gurgles around your digits as an indecent amount of spit oozes out and coat your palm.

When you look over his shoulder, you can see the shape of Jisung’s tiny cock angrily pointing at you, still covered by his shorts. The red fabric is somehow already wet because Jisung is always eager and leaky, and what he lacks in size he makes up in liquids.

“How many minutes today, Sungie? How much can you last for mama?” you ask, tone sticky and sweet while you thrust your fingers deeper inside his mouth and brush at the base of his tongue.

Jisung chokes on the pressure and a single tear escapes from his eyes. His cock twitches and you pat it condescendingly. “Aw, poor thing. How much? Two minutes?”

“Uh- mhhf sowy” he hiccups, mouth full of fingers and saliva, “sorry, I’m not..”

You smile and you finally wrap your free hand around his balls, squeezing it. “Don’t worry, baby. Mama gets it. Wanna come already uh?”

Your face finds its way against the crook of his neck and you lick a fat portion of skin, sucking it into your mouth. He tastes like soil, dirt and sweat. But most importantly, it tastes like Jisung. Like fried food and soda, mint cigarettes to cover the smell of unwashed teeth, ingrown hair and blemishes, acne and cum.

You bite on that sensitive spot and he sobs the most pathetic whimper out as your hand slaps his clothed cock once, twice, thrice, and your fingers go deeper and deeper, almost brushing his uvula and making him drown on his own spit.

“So-oh-sorry” he cries as his cock spasms one more time under the constriction of two layers of clothes. His knees shake and he lets out the most loud and sinful noise his voice lets him. His hips tremble with the force of his orgasm and he goes completely limp against you while spurting warm ropes of cum inside of his sweaty underwear. His eyes are glassy and full of tears while he empties himself for what it seems to be a full minute. He always cums more than he lasts anyway.

You hold him close through it as his high washes over him, arm tight around his waist, and you kiss his cheek, savoring the salt on his skin.

After a minute, Jisung turns his head in search of your reassurance, and he finds you already looking at him, your fingers falling out of his mouth to let him breathe properly.

“Well, that was a record” you chuckle at the sight of his goofy smile.

Jisung huffs and rolls his eyes at you. “I said- I said I had a few beers. That’s why.” He tries to justify himself.

You wink at him and you blow a raspberry on his nose. He always try to be the bigger man, but it never works.

“Whatever you say,” you concede. “Go change your underwear now. And take a shower.”

Jisung lazily shakes his head. “Nah. Too tired. Imma do it later.”

“You’re gross, Jisung.”

“And you’re a freak.”

Bang Chan // 방찬

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re sitting on the studio floor, legs criss-crossed in that hoodie you always steal, eating spicy ramen with your hair a mess, humming quietly to the instrumental he left looping. It’s nothing fancy. No makeup. No posing. Just you, glowing under the dim studio light. You look up and smile—mouth full, eyes bright, like he’s your favourite person in the world.

His heart stutters. His breath catches. And then: stillness.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. Shit. I’m gone. I’m in love. There’s no coming back from this.”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolute silence. Like, full system shutdown. He suddenly “needs to focus” on the track, spins his chair around, fidgets with literally anything. He can't stop glancing at you in the reflection of the monitor, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling like a schoolboy.

You: “What’s wrong?” Chan: “Nothing.” Also Chan: writes 6 love songs in one night and names the folder “idk.”

🫀 How he is in love: Gentle. So, so gentle it aches. He pays attention to every detail—your snack habits, your late-night mood swings, the way your lip curls when you’re overthinking. He worries constantly. Holds you like you're something delicate and divine. He serves you, literally and emotionally.

💝 Love language: – Acts of service → makes you playlists, folds your laundry, rubs your feet at 3am. – Physical touch → forehead kisses, waist holds, late-night cuddle traps. – Reassurance → always reminding you: “I’ve got you. No matter what.”

Lee Know // 리노

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re napping on his couch, curled up in a pile of his cats and blankets. There's drool on your cheek. One slipper’s fallen off. Your hand’s loosely tangled in Soonie’s fur. And for some reason, when he walks in and sees that—that chaotic little mess of softness in his space—his chest tightens. He stands there, completely still. And just breathes. Like if he moves, the realization will hit too hard.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“...Damn it. This is love, isn’t it?”

💌 How he acts right after: Unbothered™. But that’s a lie. He acts the exact same on the outside—dry, sarcastic, lightly roasting you every five minutes. But now, when he calls you annoying, there’s a softness to it. He lets you steal his hoodies without comment. He cuts the crusts off your toast even though he always said that was “a waste.” And when he tucks the blanket tighter around you, he doesn’t say a word. But his hands linger.

🫀 How he is in love: He loves quietly. Intensely. Like it’s sacred. He watches you more than he talks, memorizes your habits like he’s preparing for a test. He won’t say “I love you” often—but the second someone else hurts you, he’s the first to stand up, fists clenched. His loyalty is undeniable.

💝 Love language: – Quality time → he wants you in the room, always. even if you're doing nothing. – Acts of service → small, exacting things. he'll fix your charger, refill your water, remember your favourite side dishes. – Words of affirmation → but only at 3am. in the dark. when you're half asleep and he thinks you won’t remember.

Changbin // 창빈

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re hyping him up after a recording session, arms flailing, voice full of chaotic praise like, “YOU’RE A GENIUS, SEO CHANGBIN. ACTUAL GOD-TIER. GRAMMY WHEN?” He laughs so hard he snorts. Then you toss your phone at him to queue your shared playlist, already scrolling to the song labelled “for binnie only 💘” like it’s just a normal thing to do.

And he just… pauses. Heart pounding. Smile fading into something softer. Because it’s not just a crush anymore. You’ve carved a home in his chest and didn’t even ask for rent.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Holy shit. She sees me. Like, all of me. And still wants to stay?”

💌 How he acts right after: He becomes a walking compliment generator.

You breathe? “You’re so cool.” You trip on air? “Even gravity loves you.” You touch his arm for 0.5 seconds? malfunction noises

He works out harder. Writes more. Smiles more. But also starts sending dramatic voice notes at midnight like,

“Hey um… not to be weird but like… your existence inspires me?? okay bye.” [hangs up instantly]

🫀 How he is in love: Overflowing. He feels big, and he loves bigger. He shows up. Every time. Front row in life for you. Loudest hype man, softest cuddle bear, always checking in even if you don’t ask. His love is protective, silly, and deeply rooted in loyalty—he doesn’t fall often, but when he does? He dives.

💝 Love language: – Words of affirmation → compliments on compliments on compliments. – Physical touch → bear hugs, back hugs, lap cuddles, full weight of his love on your body 24/7. – Gift giving → protein bars, playlists, random trinkets that “reminded me of you, don’t ask why.”

Hyunjin // 현진

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re sitting in the sun, surrounded by your own little chaos—open books, headphones half-falling out, doodles all over the margins, an untouched coffee gone cold beside you. And you’re smiling to yourself. You’re not looking at him. Not even aware he’s watching. And for the first time, he doesn’t reach for his phone to take a photo. He just… stares. Because this moment is his, and his alone.

And he realizes, with a soft kind of devastation,

“I’m already hers.”

🖋️ Inner thought:

“She’s a poem. A prayer. A painting I want to memorize in my sleep.”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolutely spirals. Draws your side profile 12 times and ruins 11 because “they don’t capture it right.” Starts journaling in half-English-half-messy-sketches. Tells Felix about it and then gets mad when Felix smiles knowingly. He gets so quiet around you for a few days—not cold, just reverent. Like he’s scared to touch the moment too hard in case it disappears.

🫀 How he is in love: Soft and dramatic at the same time. He holds your hand like it’s precious, but he also tells the moon about you like you're his eternal muse. Cries at the idea of your future together. Panics if you don’t text back in 20 minutes. Wants to show you the world, but more than that—he wants you to feel safe in his world.

💝 Love language: – Quality time → long walks. gallery dates. sitting in silence and feeling it. – Words of affirmation → whispered. written. cried into your hair at 2AM. – Gift giving → his hoodie. his poetry. flowers that “reminded me of you” and are never store-bought.

Han // 한

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re laughing so hard you almost choke on your boba. You try to tell a story but you’re wheezing between every word, face red, tears in your eyes, and instead of helping—he just starts laughing with you. Like really laughing. Loud. Unfiltered. Giddy. And then your hand brushes his and you don’t move it. Neither does he. He freezes mid-laugh and goes silent. Heart racing. Staring at your hand like it’s a bomb and he forgot the detonation code.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. No. Nope. Not allowed. Too much. Too fast. TOO—oh god I like her.”

💌 How he acts right after: 🧍‍♂️← him trying to walk normally while his brain is buffering Goes from “haha bestie 🤪” to “DO NOT PERCEIVE ME” in 0.3 seconds. Can’t look you in the eye. Drops everything he’s holding for a full week. Randomly sends memes at 2am like “HAHA this reminded me of nothing in particular bye” Starts writing lyrics with your initials in them and then panics and changes them to random letters.

🫀 How he is in love: Unhinged. Loyal. So soft he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Tells you dumb jokes because he wants to be the reason you smile. Acts like he’s chill about everything but will lose sleep over whether you liked the playlist he made you. He’s all heart, no brakes. The type to say “I’m not obsessed or anything” and then write your name 73 times in a private doc called “DO NOT OPEN I’M NORMAL.”

💝 Love language: – Words of affirmation → “you’re amazing” 24/7. calls you pretty when you sneeze. – Physical touch → clings to you like a koala when sleepy. arms around your waist while cooking. forehead touches when he’s overwhelmed. – Gifts → voice memos. notebooks full of scribbles. late-night snacks labelled “eat this or I cry.”

Felix // 필릭스

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re struggling with something—frustrated, eyes glassy, breath shallow. You try to smile through it, but he sees the crack in your voice. And instead of saying anything, you just... reach for him. Wordlessly. Trustingly. Like he’s your calm in the storm. And he holds you. No questions. No “what’s wrong?” And that’s when it clicks. You see him as your safe place. And now? He never wants to be anything else.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“I’d burn the whole world down just to keep her soft.”

💌 How he acts right after: SO SOFT. SO SHY. SO PANICKED. Starts checking in more often—"did you eat?" / "how are you feeling?" / "i saw a cloud and thought of you." Smiles at you like you’re made of glitter and stardust. He hugs longer. Texts sweeter. Starts journaling without realizing it. Cries at random songs because they "sound like you."

🫀 How he is in love: Loyal like a golden retriever. Protective like a knight. Gentle like warm tea in your hands. He wants to give—his time, his hoodie, the last bite, his full attention. He doesn’t love halfway. He pours. Will randomly whisper, “I love you,” mid-snack or during a grocery run. Just because.

💝 Love language: – Physical touch → hand-holding, pinky linking, long cuddles with your head on his chest where he can kiss your hair over and over – Words of affirmation → “you’re doing great,” “you’re beautiful always,” “you make me proud just by being you” – Gift giving → handmade bracelets, playlists with titles like “sunshine for my sunshine,” carefully wrapped little things he “just saw and thought of you”

Seungmin // 승민

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re arguing. Not seriously, just bantering over which ramen flavor is superior. You’re passionate, dramatic, refusing to back down. He rolls his eyes, calls you a menace. But then—

You crinkle your nose at him. That same look you always give him. That smug little grin. And for no reason at all, his brain just short-circuits. Because suddenly, he realizes he never wants to argue with anyone else ever again.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh god. She’s my person. She’s IT. That’s… that’s terrifying.”

💌 How he acts right after: Unchanged. Suspiciously unchanged. Keeps up the banter, calls you annoying, pretends like his heart didn’t just fall out of his chest. But he starts doing the quiet things—carrying your water bottle without asking, remembering exactly how you like your eggs, glancing at you when you laugh like it’s the last time he’ll get to hear it.

🫀 How he is in love: He doesn’t say it often—but he shows it in every micro-moment. He teases because he’s comfortable. He remembers everything you say. Stays up just to walk you home. Buys you medicine before you realize you’re sick. He doesn’t ask for much—he just wants to be the reason you feel steady.

💝 Love language: – Acts of service → does everything quietly. recharges your headphones. clears your plate. fixes your tech. – Quality time → invites you to sit with him while he works. listens when you ramble about nothing. – Words of affirmation (low volume) → slips in compliments when you least expect it:

“you’re really smart, you know.” “i like when you talk like that.” “i’m proud of you… just don’t make it weird.”

I.n // 아이엔

🌙 The moment it hits him: You’re dragging him through a bookstore, rambling about your favourite genre, talking a mile a minute. He’s not even following half of it—he’s too busy watching the way your eyes light up when you speak, the way your hands move when you’re excited. You stop mid-sentence, look back at him, and go:

“What? You’re staring.”

And he stammers some excuse—but the truth is, he just realized he wants to follow you around like that forever.

🖋️ Inner thought:

“Oh. Oh no. I’m in love. I’m so done for. What do I do. WHAT DO I DO—”

💌 How he acts right after: Absolutely panics internally. Externally? Tries to act cool. Cue awkward jokes. Random distance. More awkward jokes. Starts doing little things for you but blaming them on coincidence.

“Oh you forgot your charger? Weird that I brought an extra one for no reason.” “I totally wasn’t waiting here for you to show up. I just… happened to be standing exactly where you are now.”

🫀 How he is in love: He glows. Around you, because of you, for you. Gets bolder in bursts—sends texts like “I missed your voice today.” Wants to impress you but also wants to be vulnerable. He tries so hard not to mess it up. But love softens him, makes him gentle, open, kind in a way that’s deeply intentional. Every time you smile at him, he falls harder.

💝 Love language: – Gift giving → tiny, random trinkets. receipts with hearts. keychains. snacks he saw and thought “this is so her.” – Quality time → slow walks, late calls, staying on FaceTime even if you’re both doing other things. – Physical touch → hesitant at first, then clingy. loves resting his head on your shoulder or getting forehead kisses like he’s your baby bird.

The first thing you hear is a faint purring vibration against your ribcage. The second is Minho’s voice, low and rough with sleep: “…I think he’s trying to suffocate me.”

You crack open one eye. The sunlight has already slipped through the blinds, painting lines across the bed, your bare legs tangled in sheets. Soonie is fully sprawled across Minho’s chest, smug and immovable, his purrs growing louder with every passing second. Dori is curled at your feet, twitching in his sleep, and Doongie is perched on the nightstand like a gargoyle—staring you down like you’ve personally ruined his morning.

Minho doesn’t move. His arm is heavy around your waist, palm splayed across the soft cotton of the shirt you stole from him last night. His voice is gravel and sleep when he speaks again.

“If I die, avenge me.”

You snort into the pillow. “You’re fine. He loves you.”

“He’s kneading my sternum.”

You open both eyes now, shifting slightly just to see him. Minho’s hair is an absolute disaster — sticking up in multiple directions, pressed flat on one side from your shoulder. His eyes are barely slits, one brow twitching in mock despair. Soonie flexes his paws into Minho’s chest, tail flicking with satisfaction.

You reach over lazily, giving Soonie’s head a soft pat. “He’s your child. Suffer.”

Minho exhales dramatically but doesn’t move Soonie. His hand instead shifts along your side, fingers curling over the dip of your waist like he needs to remind himself you’re real. Still here. Still warm. A breath passes, shared between you in the early hush.

Doongie lets out a loud, pointed meow.

Minho groans. “And the hunger games begin.”

You both lie there for another few seconds, clinging to the last stretch of blanket-wrapped quiet. Then Minho slowly, dramatically, shifts — rolling onto his back and sending Soonie off his chest with a startled grunt.

“You’re a traitor,” Minho mutters at him, rubbing his own ribs.

Soonie stretches luxuriously, absolutely unfazed.

Minho turns his face toward you again. His expression is softer now, unguarded in the light. “Stay in bed. I’ll feed the gremlins.”

You make a sleepy sound of protest, but Minho is already slipping out from under the blankets. The stolen shirt on your body slides up slightly as you stretch—he catches it, eyes flicking down briefly before smirking to himself and padding off toward the kitchen.

You listen to him move: the creak of the floorboards, the clink of dishes, the cats trailing behind like a noisy parade. His voice, quiet but warm, as he talks to them like they understand every word. (You’re not convinced they don’t.)

Eventually, you swing your legs out of bed. The floor’s cold, but the shirt you’re wearing is warm and smells like him—lemons, laundry, and a hint of cologne. You shuffle into the kitchen to find Minho already making coffee, cats devouring breakfast at their bowls.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he says without looking, then turns just in time to flick a crumb off your cheek. “You drooled.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You’re a swamp creature. But you’re cute, so I guess I’ll let it slide.”

He passes you a mug. You take it just to spite him.

You lean against the counter, sipping slowly, while Minho flips pancakes with expert ease. He’s still shirtless, still rumpled, hair a fluffy mess. And he’s humming — softly, off-key, content. Something domestic and safe wraps around you in that moment like an invisible thread. It’s not just the sun or the warm mug or the smell of pancakes.

It’s him. It’s this.

“Hey,” he says casually, sliding a plate in front of you.

“Yeah?”

“I like Sundays.”

You glance up, smiling around the edge of your mug. “Yeah?”

He shrugs. “You’re here. The cats are happy. Everyone is happy."

You laugh. He smiles. And so, the day begins with the first load of laundry barely hitting the living room floor and Minho declaring himself Minister of Folding.

You arch an eyebrow from across the room. “I didn’t vote for you.”

“I’m not elected. I’m ordained,” he says, solemnly unfolding a towel like it’s a sacred scroll.

The two of you are surrounded—cornered, really—by overflowing baskets, half-dry socks, and at least three hoodies you’ve lowkey adopted as your own. The cats are already in the thick of it. Doongie’s worming his way into the warm pile of sweatpants. Dori is headfirst inside an empty laundry basket, tail twitching wildly. Soonie has chosen a freshly folded blanket to nap on, which Minho immediately frowns at like it’s a personal betrayal.

“I just folded that,” he mutters. “He didn’t even wait five minutes.”

“He knows who he is,” you say, grinning. “A menace. Like his dad.”

“Rude.”

“You’re not denying it.”

Minho scoffs but doesn’t argue. Instead, he picks up a pair of socks, folds them into that neat ball formation you always screw up, and tosses it perfectly into the basket like a basketball shot. “See that? Precision. Art.”

You mimic him, trying to copy his exact technique. You miss by a full meter.

“Tragic,” he says. “Do you try to fold things like a chaotic raccoon?”

“Yes,” you reply sweetly. “It’s how I stay grounded.”

The playlist hums in the background, soft and upbeat. The kind of songs you dance to barefoot in kitchens. Light spills through the windows, warming the wooden floor, painting lazy sun patches that the cats immediately seek out like heat-seeking missiles.

Minho grabs a hoodie—your favourite, oversized, worn-in and frayed slightly at the cuffs. “You’ve stretched this out.”

You look up from your towel folding. “That’s mine now.”

“It literally has my name embroidered on the sleeve.”

You shrug. “You gifted it to me when you left it here for five weeks.”

“That’s called forgetting, not gifting.”

You toss him a freshly folded shirt in response. It hits his shoulder and flops to the ground. Minho just looks at it, then at you. Then, with the unbothered calm of a man about to cause problems on purpose, he picks up a sock and gently flings it at your face. It bounces off your cheek with a pitiful pfft.

You blink.

“…Did you just—?”

Another sock follows. This one lands in your lap.

You narrow your eyes. “You have chosen war.”

Minho grins. Full teeth, mischief and love all wrapped into one sharp look. “I accept your terms.”

The next few minutes are absolute chaos.

Socks fly. Towels are used as shields. Doongie bolts out of the hoodie pile like he’s in a war zone. Dori, drunk on excitement, starts sprinting in circles. Soonie yells once, offended by the noise, but refuses to abandon his blanket. You’re breathless from laughing, your arms full of half-folded laundry, and Minho looks at you like it’s the happiest he’s been in weeks.

He’s flushed with warmth—not just from play, but from looking at you. T-shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, eyes bright, grinning like you’re everything good he ever stumbled into. You feel it in the air: this invisible tether between you. This softness that keeps pulling you back.

He clears his throat, straightens a hoodie with excessive seriousness. “Back to work. Laundry doesn’t fold itself.”

“Tell that to your little soldiers,” you tease, gesturing at the cats.

Dori immediately steals a sock and runs off with it like a trophy.

Minho sighs, but he’s smiling. “Why do I even try.”

You scoot a little closer to him on the floor. “Because you like folding things while I ruin them.”

His eyes flick to yours—glinting, amused. “Because I like you, even when you ruin everything.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Flattery won’t get you out of towel duty.”

“I’ll fold all the towels in the world,” he says, voice dipping, “as long as you keep stealing my hoodies and smiling like that.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. The playlist fades into a softer track. Dori flops dramatically onto his side in the middle of the clean laundry. Doongie sneezes. You’re both still on the floor, laundry half-done, surrounded by your shared life.

Eventually, the storm dies down.

Dori.... still flopped onto his side in the middle of the clean laundry. Doongie has returned to the hoodie pile with an air of disdain. Soonie, ever above it all, stretches out luxuriously atop the freshly folded towel stack like he’s earned it. And Minho?

Minho flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh, arm flung over his face like he’s just fought a great war. His shirt has ridden up slightly at the hem, revealing a sliver of pale skin just above his waistband. His chest rises and falls in lazy rhythm, hair a chaotic mess from the skirmish, one sock still in his hand like he forgot to let it go.

You stare at him from your perch beside the laundry basket, knees tucked to your chest. “I think we broke the truce,” you say after a beat.

Minho lifts his arm just enough to peek at you. His lashes catch the late afternoon light. “It was a tactical surrender.”

“Oh?”

“I had to,” he adds, “you were starting to fold socks like weapons.”

You smile, slow and full, resting your chin on your knee. “I learned from the best.”

For a long moment, there’s no sound but the soft fade of the playlist and the occasional jingle of a cat collar. You shift, crawling toward him on hands and knees, ignoring the sock minefield. He doesn’t flinch when you sit beside him, doesn’t move when you gently nudge his side with your elbow. Instead, he turns his head, rests his cheek against your thigh like it’s the most obvious place to be.

His voice is quieter now. “I missed this.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, brushing it off his forehead. “Laundry?”

He snorts. “You. Us. The calm.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You’re so good at pretending you don’t care about soft things,” you murmur.

“I care,” he says simply. “I just don’t want the cats to think I’ve gone soft.”

“Too late.”

Minho hums and lets his eyes flutter shut. You keep petting his hair, slow and absentminded, like you’re tuning into his heartbeat through your fingertips. The sun has dropped lower now, casting golden light across the room. It touches his skin, catches in his lashes, makes him look softer than any photo could capture. There’s a rare stillness to him when he’s like this — the calm after his sharpness has settled. He only shows it to you. You wonder if he even knows he’s doing it.

Then, in the silence: “I like you messy,” he says, not opening his eyes. “Like this. Laughing. On the floor. Touching my hair like it’s nothing.”

Your hand stills slightly, caught off guard.

“I like you when you ruin my system,” he continues, voice gentle. “When you toss socks at me. When you wear my clothes. When the cats listen to you more than me. When you steal my morning silence and make it louder.”

You blink.

“And I like when you shut me up with your smile,” he finishes, cracking one eye open, “so maybe do that right now.”

You lean down, kiss his forehead. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins. “But loveable.”

By the time you finish folding the last shirt, the sky outside has slipped into that deep navy blue that almost looks like velvet. The playlist is down to faint instrumentals. The cats are scattered across the room like crime scene chalk outlines—every one of them knocked out cold from their own brand of chaos.

Dori is curled inside the now-empty laundry basket like he pays rent there. Soonie has claimed the folded towels again and dares anyone to challenge him. Doongie is half under the coffee table, snoring.

The rest of the apartment has settled. Lights are warm. The air smells like fabric softener and the remnants of cocoa. Your knees are sore from sitting on the floor too long.

Minho stretches beside you, spine cracking as he raises his arms overhead. “Well,” he says. “If nothing else, we’ve achieved peak adulthood.”

You raise a brow. “You mean folding laundry with tactical precision while covered in cat hair?”

He glances down at his shirt, where Soonie’s legacy lives in soft beige smudges. He shrugs. “Exactly.”

You both ease back against the couch now, finally sitting upright after being on the floor for what feels like hours. The baskets are stacked neatly. Everything smells clean. You feel… settled. Not because the work is done—but because you did it together. Because the room feels lived-in, not just cleaned.

Minho shifts, drapes a blanket across your legs without asking. Then he leans back again and lets out a quiet breath. His fingers, idle, find yours under the edge of the blanket. No squeezing. No dramatic gesture. Just the press of knuckles—his way of saying I’m here.

“You really do fold like a raccoon,” he says, eyes half-lidded now.

“Maybe I am one.”

“You steal my hoodies. You bite sometimes. You make nests.”

You scoff. “You’re literally describing yourself.”

He hums. Doesn’t deny it.

The apartment hums with low, easy sounds—distant traffic, the fridge buzzing, a cat twitching in his sleep.

You don’t speak for a while.

Eventually, Minho’s hand leaves yours. He stretches again and grabs the folded hoodie sitting closest—one of his old ones, a little too big for you, frayed at the collar.

He tosses it to you lazily. “Here,” he says. “You always steal this one anyway.”

You catch it. “Is this you surrendering?”

“This is me streamlining the theft process.”

You smile faintly, pressing the hoodie to your chest before slipping it on. It smells like his shampoo and something warm beneath it—like worn-in comfort and skin and quiet mornings.

When you look at him again, he’s already watching you. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t say anything poetic. He just lifts one shoulder and says, “Soft things belong together.”

And that’s it.

Not a confession. Not a dramatic line.

Just Minho, telling you exactly how he feels the way he always does—direct, simple, no frills. You nod once, then lean into his side. His arm lifts instinctively to pull you in. The two of you sit like that on the couch, warm and wordless, cats all around, baskets finally empty.

It’s peaceful. Not loud. Just a space you and Minho fit into—naturally. The cats, too.

And somehow, it feels perfect.

it was nearing 3am when he stirred, his hand instinctively reaching out to the space where you should’ve been. the emptiness startled him awake, his fingers brushing cold sheets instead of your warmth. blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains, his heart sank when he realized you weren’t there.

the room was bathed in silver moonlight, spilling through the half-open curtains in soft, uneven waves, illuminating the chaos of their shared space. the indent of your body remained on the mattress, a shallow impression in the memory foam, stark and still. jisung’s fingers brushed the cooling fabric, the texture of the duvet suddenly foreign against his fingertips. it was as your absence had stripped the bed of its familiarity, leaving only muted reminders of you—your scent lingering faintly in the air, a whiff of your favorite vanilla and cinnamon moisturiser.

he pushed himself upright, the sheets slipping away from his chest like water pooling to his waist. the air felt sharper without you, slicing through the warmth he’d carried in his sleep. his eyes, still heavy-lidded and bleary, scanned the room, seeking you out instinctively. shadows gathered in the corners, their jagged edges softened by the moonlight. your absence grew louder with every passing second, an ache that started in his chest and crept into the pit of his stomach.

jisung swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet meeting the chilled floor. the hardwood creaked beneath him, a sound that might have woken you, coaxing a sleepy protest from you lips. now, it only echoed in the stillness, a reminder of how empty the space felt without you. his hands rubbed his face, chasing away the remnants of sleep as he called you softly, the syllables barely escaping his throat.

then he saw it; a faint glow seeping through the crack of the balcony door.

there you were, silhouetted against the quiet rain. the soft drizzle had dampened the balcony floor, leaving trails of silver glistening in the faint light. you were wrapped in one of his hoodies, the hem brushing against your thighs, your arms crossed tightly over your chest as if shielding yourself from a chill that wasn’t entirely physical.

he walked away from the messy bed silently, the cool floor against his feet grounding him as he padded toward the door. he hesitated for a moment, watching you from behind the glass. the way your shoulders rose and fell, your head tilted slightly as if lost in thought, made his heart ache. he knew—he always knew when something weighed on you. and tonight, it seemed heavier than usual.

sliding the door open, he stepped out. the cool night air greeted him, carrying the faint scent of rain and earth. “couldn’t sleep?” his voice was soft, almost a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile quiet around you.

you startled slightly, your head turning to see him. his eyes, dark with sleep but laced with concern, met yours. “i didn’t mean to wake you,” you murmured, your voice as fragile as the raindrops clinging to the railing.

“you didn’t,” he assured, stepping closer until he was beside you. he didn’t touch you right away, knowing better than to invade your space without invitation. instead, he leaned against the railing, his gaze following yours into the rain-drenched cityscape. “what’s on your mind?”

you hesitated. the words felt too heavy, too tangled. “i don’t know,” you admitted, though you both knew it wasn’t entirely true.

jisung’s lips curved into a faint, understanding smile. “you’re a bad liar, baby,” he said gently, his tone devoid of accusation.

you exhaled a shaky laugh, the sound barely audible. “it’s stupid,” you began, but he shook his head before you could finish.

“if it’s keeping you up at this hour, i wouldn't think it is,” he countered, his voice steady, grounding.

you shifted your weight, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the railing. “sometimes it feels like… like i’m still stuck. like no matter how far i’ve come, there’s still this part of me that's just..” your voice broke, frustration mingling with vulnerability.

jisung’s eyes softened, his heart aching at the raw honesty in your words. he took a step closer, careful and deliberate, his presence warm and steady. “hey,” he murmured, his voice low, soothing. “look at me.”

you turned to him reluctantly, your eyes glistening not with rain but with unshed tears. he reached out slowly, giving you every opportunity to move away, but you didn’t. his fingers brushed against yours, tentative, before he took your hand in his. “you’re not stuck,” he said, his voice firm but tender. “you’re healing. and healing isn’t a straight line. it’s messy and hard, but it’s still progress. you’re still moving forward.”

a tear slipped down your cheek, and jisung caught it with the pad of his thumb, his touch featherlight. “you’ve come so far,” he continued, his gaze unwavering. “and even on the days when it feels like you haven’t, i’ll be right here, reminding you that you have.”

his words unraveled something in you, the knot of tension loosening as you leaned into him. he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, his hoodie enveloping you both. the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear was a comfort, a rhythm you could anchor yourself to.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression a mix of exasperation and affection. “don’t apologize,” he said firmly. “not for this. not for feeling. not for anything actually.”

the rain continued its quiet symphony around you, the city a blurred canvas of lights and shadows. the world felt distant, inconsequential, as you stood there wrapped in jisung’s arms. his presence was steady, grounding, as if he were your anchor in a storm.

“i don’t know what i did to deserve you,” you said softly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

jisung laughed quietly, the sound warm and soothing. “you existed,” he said simply, his lips brushing against the crown of your head.

for a while, neither of you spoke. the silence wasn’t heavy, but comforting, a shared understanding that words weren’t always necessary. the rain eased into a gentle drizzle, the air cool and crisp, carrying with it the faintest hint of dawn.

eventually, jisung broke the silence. “come back to bed?” he asked, his voice soft, coaxing. “it feels empty and cold without you.”

you nodded, smiling slightly, letting him guide you back inside. the warmth of the bedroom was a stark contrast to the cool night, and as you slipped beneath the covers, jisung’s arms found your waist again, holding you close.

“we’ll figure it out together,” he murmured against your hair, his voice heavy with sleep but resolute. “always.”

and with him beside you, the world felt a little less heavy, the darkness a little less daunting. you closed your eyes, letting the sound of his breathing and the faint patter of rain lull you into a peace you hadn’t thought possible. for the first time that night, you felt like you could breathe.

the soft warmth of morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in hues of gold and amber. the rain had stopped, leaving the world outside damp and glistening, like a secret freshly unwrapped. you stirred, cocooned in the familiar scent of jisung’s cologne and the lingering traces of sleep. his arms were draped around you, one hand resting against the small of your back, the other tangled in your hair. his steady breaths tickled your neck, a gentle reminder of his presence.

for a moment, you didn’t move, savoring the rare quiet of the morning. the weight of his arm, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, felt like home. slowly, you turned your head to look at him. his face was relaxed in sleep, his lips slightly parted, his lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks. the sight made your heart swell, a quiet ache of love and gratitude.

as if sensing your gaze, jisung stirred, his hold tightening briefly before his eyes fluttered open. his brown eyes met yours, soft and drowsy, and a slow, lazy smile spread across his face. “good morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep but filled with warmth.

“good morning,” you replied, your voice just as soft. you reached up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his skin.

he closed his eyes at your touch, leaning into it like a cat seeking affection. “how are you feeling?” he asked, his eyes opening again to search yours.

“better,” you admitted, your lips curving into a small smile. “thanks to you.”

jisung’s smile widened, his dimples appearing. “good,” he said simply, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “that’s all i want.”

you shifted closer, burying your face in the crook of his neck. his skin was warm, and the faint scent of him—a mix of his cologne and something inherently jisung—wrapped around you like a blanket. “i don’t ever want to leave this spot,” you mumbled against his skin.

he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “then don’t,” he said, his hand running soothingly up and down your back. “stay here. with me. forever.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes meeting his. “forever?” you teased, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

he grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief and sincerity. “forever and then some.”

the two of you stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, exchanging soft words and lazy smiles. the world outside could wait. in this moment, there was only the two of you, tangled in love and the quiet magic of a new day.