sara

Sohee’s apartment had a special kind of quiet on his days off. A really comfortable, lazy stillness. Rihanna’s “Love on the Brain” was playing softly from the Bluetooth speaker on his nightstand, the bass blending with the hum of the fridge and the muffled traffic from the streets of Seoul outside.

You were sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, mindlessly scrolling through your phone while waiting for him to finish getting ready. Going out with Sohee always took a minute. It wasn’t that he was high maintenance, he just really cared about his clothes. Fashion was his thing—a small hobby he kept up between dance practices and vocal training.

“Are you almost done?” you called out over, leaning back against the pillows. “If we wait any longer, the tteokbokki place is gonna have a line out the door.”

Sohee finally wandered out of his walk-in closet. He had on a plain black t-shirt hanging loose off his frame and a pair of perfectly faded, baggy denim jeans pooling over his sneakers. He was messing with the brim of a brown vintage cap, pulling it down just enough to hide his messy morning hair—the exact hair that got him his hedgehog emoji from the guys. He didn’t look like he tried hard at all, but the proportions of his fit were flawless. He just has that effortless, understated charisma he carried so naturally.

“Patience,” he teased. He walked over and nudged your leg with his knee. “You can’t rush art.”

You rolled your eyes, sitting up to check out his outfit. “Art? It’s a black shirt and jeans, Hee.” Teasing, knowing he looked good regardless.

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head like he was disappointed in you. “It’s about the silhouette. The fit. The vibe.” He paused, his dark eyes scanning what you were wearing. You had on a vintage oversized graphic tee and some comfortable, wide-leg sweatpants. It was your go-to lazy, day off look.

A small, mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Sohee, the one who was comfortable enough to be a little bratty in the most endearing way possible.

“You’re not just wearing that, are you?” he asked, crossing his arms.

You looked down at your clothes, raising an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with this? It’s comfortable. We’re literally just going to get spicy rice cakes and snacks from the convenience store.”

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” Sohee said, stepping closer and grabbing your hands to pull you up off the bed. “You always look good. But we can make it better. Come here.”

He dragged you into his closet, which was surprisingly organized for a guy who claimed to be so laid-back. Racks of plain tees, vintage denim, and a crazy collection of caps lined the walls.

“Sohee, I don’t need to dress up—“

“Who said anything about dressing up?” he cut in, digging through a section of jackets. “I just think if we’re going out together, we should look like we belong together.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him work. Sohee had this secret, undeniable weakness for coordinated outfits.

He pulled out a faded, oversized grey zip up jacket that looked suspiciously like the one he wore a few days ago and tossed it to you. “Put that on.”

You caught it, slipping it over your graphic tee. It was heavy and perfectly worn-in. “Isn’t it a bit warm for this?”

“It’s fall. The weather’s perfect,” he reasoned, turning back to his racks. He pulled out a grey zip-up hoodie, leaving it unzipped over his black t-shirt to match the relaxed, layered look you had going on now.

You watched, amused, as he adjusted the hood so it sat casually over his collar. Then he grabbed a navy blue beanie off a shelf and tossed it right at your head. It landed smack on your face.

“Hey!” you laughed, pulling the beanie off and glaring at him.

“Put it on,” he instructed, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Trust the vision.”

You sighed, pulling the navy beanie on and fixing it in the full-length mirror. The jacket smelled like him—clean laundry detergent and crisp autumn air.

Sohee stepped up behind you, his reflection joining yours in the glass. He had his navy cap, the grey hoodie, and his baggy jeans. You had the grey jacket over your vintage tee, your wide-leg sweats, and the navy beanie.

Sohee closed the gap between you, resting his chin on your shoulder and wrapping his arms securely around your waist. You could feel the solid warmth of his chest pressed against your back, the silver rings on his fingers cool against the fabric of your jacket. He looked at your reflection, a satisfied hum vibrating deep in his chest.

“See?” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of your neck. It sent a sudden, pleasant shiver down your spine.

You couldn’t help but smile, leaning back into his solid frame. “You just wanted us to match.”

“Maybe,” he conceded. He turned his head slightly, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your temple that lingered just a second longer than necessary. “But you gotta admit, we look good.”

He didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he just stood there for a minute, watching the two of you in the mirror. The teasing edge in his voice faded into something more settled. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone, and opened the camera app.

“What are you doing?” you asked, watching him frame the shot in the mirror.

“Documenting the vision,” he said simply. He shifted his grip on your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer so your sides were pressed flush together. He snapped a quick photo, just the two of you, faces half-hidden by the brims of your hats.

He didn’t post it. He couldn’t, obviously. But as you watched him set it as his lock screen wallpaper before slipping the phone back into his pocket, you understood.

He reached up, his fingers gently brushing your forehead as he adjusted the navy beanie one last time. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, and then he tilted your chin up.

His lips pressed against yours like he had all the time in the world, one hand still cradling your jaw while the other rested on your hip. You could feel him smile into it. That quiet, self-satisfied grin he always got when things went exactly the way he wanted.

“What was that for?” you asked with a small giggle.

The look in his eyes were so warm it made your chest ache in the best way. “Nothing. You just look really good in my clothes.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly. He caught your hand before it dropped, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles before stepping back and grabbing his wallet off the dresser. “Alright,” he said, the easygoing smirk returning. “Let’s go eat before you start complaining about being hungry again.”

He grabbed your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours naturally, his thumb stroking the back of your knuckles. As you walked out of his place and into the crisp autumn air, you caught a glimpse of the two of you in the elevator mirrors.

He glanced at your reflection, then back at you, and squeezed your hand a little tighter.

“Same time next week?” he asked, like this was a standing appointment. Like coordinating outfits with you was something he penciled into his schedule between rehearsals and recordings.

You looked up at him—this boy with his cap pulled low and his hoodie zipped halfway and his whole heart quietly stitched into the way he loved you.

“Yeah,” you said. “Same time next week.”

He pauses. Too long.

“…How do you always know?”

You sit up immediately. “NO.”

Jaehyun blinks. “I haven’t even—”

“You were thinking about it,” you accuse, pointing at him like a courtroom prosecutor. “I can feel it. You were thinking about cutting your hair.”

He laughs, a little guilty, a little fond. His hair—glorious, grown-out, brushing his collarbone—falls into his eyes as he does, and you make a distressed noise.

“See?” you say. “LOOK at that. That is ART.”

He runs a hand through it absentmindedly. “It’s getting kind of long.”

“Yes,” you say fervently. “That’s the point.”

“It keeps getting in my face.”

“That’s what hair is for.”

He tilts his head, amused. “You’re being dramatic.”

You gasp. “I am being correct.”

Jaehyun steps closer, crouching in front of you.

You’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter like you always do, legs swinging while Jaehyun stands between your knees, towel around his shoulders, hair still slightly damp.

Long. Perfect.

Threatened.

You’re brushing your fingers through it lovingly.

“I’m just saying,” you insist, “if you ever cut this without warning, I will know. And I will be devastated. Like—dramatically.”

Jaehyun hums. Too innocently.

“Mmm.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why did you ‘mmm’ like that.”

“What?” he says, reaching into the drawer under the sink.

Your soul leaves your body.

You hear it before you see it.

Snip.

You freeze.

Slowly, horrifically, you look up.

Jaehyun is holding a pair of scissors.

Open. Hovering.

Right. Near. His hair.

Your face drains of color. “Jaehyun.”

He bites his lip, clearly trying not to smile. “Relax. I’m just—”

“NO,” you gasp, sliding off the counter so fast you nearly slip. “No no no no—why do you have scissors?”

He lifts a small section of hair between his fingers, mock-serious. “I was thinking maybe just a little trim—”

Your eyes immediately well up. “You said you wouldn’t.”

“I said not right now.”

“This is right now!” you whisper, betrayed.

He makes a dramatic thinking face. “Hmm. Is it?”

Your hands come up to clutch his wrists. “Jaehyun, please. I like it. I love it. I emotionally depend on it.”

He falters for half a second.

But then—because he is apparently a menace—he raises the scissors again.

Snip.

You make a tiny, broken sound.

“…You cut it,” you say, voice wobbling.

His smile disappears instantly.

“No—no, I didn’t,” he blurts out, dropping the scissors into the sink. “I swear, I didn’t cut anything. Look—look.”

He lifts the strand. Still intact. Untouched.

You stare at it.

Then at him.

Then your lip trembles.

“Oh my gosh,” he groans. “Oh no. Baby—no, no, no.”

“I thought you—” you sniff, mortified and hurt and very much fooled. “You know I’m bad with jokes.”

He immediately cups your face, panic written all over his own. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I thought you’d yell, not—oh gosh.”

Before you can even process it, he’s kissing you.

Not one kiss.

Many.

Your forehead. Your cheeks. Your nose. The corners of your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” kiss.

“I was teasing,” kiss.

“I would never,” kiss kiss.

“I love your stupid dramatic reactions but I went too far,” kiss.

You try to stay upset, you really do, but he keeps peppering your face with soft, frantic smooches until you’re laughing despite yourself.

“Jaehyun,” you protest weakly, “stop—”

“Nope,” he says, kissing you again. “This is my apology tour.”

He presses a lingering kiss to your lips this time, slower, gentler, until the hurt melts into warmth.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m really sorry,” he says softly. “I won’t joke about it again.”

You sigh, hands sliding up into his hair—still long, still safe.

“…You scared me.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I felt awful the second your voice changed.”

You look up at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He smiles, relieved. “Extremely.”

You tug him closer by the hair, just a little. “And for the record—if you ever actually cut it without telling me—”

He kisses you again to shut you up. “I won’t.”

“…Promise?”

“Promise.”

You hum contentedly, playing with his hair again like nothing happened.

Jaehyun exhales, resting his chin on your shoulder.

Note to self, he thinks.

Never fake hair violence again.

And for the rest of the night, he lets you hold onto him a little tighter—just in case.

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