It’s late but you’re not sleepy. Chris is laid up between your legs, head resting on your chest as he scrolls through Bubble. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails scratching gently against his scalp in that way that usually makes him practically purr like a cat.

“Amor,”

“Hmm?” He hums, shifting his head to look up at you, phone screen illuminating his face in the dim bedroom.

“If we broke up tomorrow, what would you do?”

He really shouldn’t be surprised given how many times you’ve asked him questions with a similar pattern. It’s become almost a love language at this point, your weird hypothetical questions that range from adorable to absolutely unhinged.

‘Would you still love me if I was a worm?’

‘Would you peel tangerines for me?’

‘If Hyune separated a perilla leaf or peeled shrimp for me, what would you do?’

But this question has thrown him a little bit because what do you mean by if you break up tomorrow? You two are solid. Rock solid, at least he thinks so.

“Baby? Did you hear me?”

“Mhmm, why are we talking about hypothetical breakups though?” There’s a careful edge to his voice that you almost miss.

“Just answer the question. What would you do?”

He pauses for a bit, and you watch something flicker across his face—calculation, maybe mischief—before he replies with, “I’d go back to my ex.”

You stare at him like he’s grown another head. The gentle motion of your fingers in his hair stops abruptly.

“Qué?”

“If we broke up tomorrow I’d get back with my ex.”

The playful atmosphere shifts instantly. Your fingers still completely in his hair and you can feel your heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest—a twist, a squeeze—something that makes your breath catch.

“Your…ex?” The words come out flat, careful. You’re trying to keep your voice neutral, but there’s an edge creeping in that you can’t quite control. “You’d just…go back to her? Just like that?”

Chris is still looking up at you with those big brown eyes, and you can’t read his expression. Is he serious? Is this another one of his jokes that’s going to make you want to smack him? Because if it is, it’s not funny. Not even a little bit.

“Chris, I’m being serious right now.” You pull your hand away from his hair entirely, and the loss of contact feels significant somehow. “Which ex are we talking about? And why would that be your first move?”

Part of you wants to push him off entirely, but another part is frozen, waiting for him to explain himself. Because surely there’s an explanation. There has to be. This is the same Chris who gets pouty when you don’t text him back within five minutes, who plans dates weeks in advance, who looks at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars just for him.

Right?

“You have like thirty seconds to explain yourself before I actually consider making this hypothetical very real,” you add, and you’re only half-joking.

“What?” He has the audacity to look confused, like he hasn’t just said the most unhinged thing possible in response to your admittedly unhinged hypothetical question. Like this is a completely normal conversation to be having at—you glance at the clock—11:40 PM on a Tuesday.

Your hand moves from his hair to his forehead, pressing against it like you’re checking for a fever. “Are you feeling okay? Did you hit your head? Because that’s literally the worst fucking answer you could have given.”

“Is it though?” He’s still scrolling through Bubble with one hand, the other resting on your thigh, acting way too casual for someone who just threatened to get back with an ex. The audacity. The absolute audacity of this man.

“Yes! Obviously! The correct answer is ‘I would never let us break up’ or ‘I’d fight for you’ or ‘I’d be miserable forever’ or literally anything except ‘I’d go back to my ex’!” You’re starting to actually get mad now—even though he’s looking at you with those stupid pretty eyes—you need him to understand the severity of his answer. “Like, that’s literally the one answer that’s completely off limits!”

He shifts, turning onto his stomach so he can look at you properly, chin resting on your chest. His phone is finally set aside, which should be a good sign, but the look on his face says he’s far too pleased with himself. “Why wouldn’t I get back with my ex? Do you know how much she’s done for me? Brains, beauty, the entire package. She’s literally perfect. I’d be stupid not to go back.”

Your jaw drops. “Christopher Chahn Bahng. I’d shut my mouth if I were you.”

“Why? You asked a question and I gave an answer.” He responds, moving to sit up and look at you properly now. His hands rest on either side of your head, holding his weight up as he watches the way your facial expression changes from shocked to hurt to angry.

“Get off me.” You mumble, pushing at his chest and moving to get off the bed. You need distance. You need to not be touching him right now because your emotions are doing something complicated and messy.

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up, where are you going? You can’t seriously be mad at me for answering a question you asked.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gentle but firm.

You yank your arm back. “If we break up tomorrow, Christopher, what would you do?” You ask one more time, giving him a chance to fix it. To take it back. To say literally anything else.

“Go back to my ex, I told you.” He says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, and that’s what breaks something in you.

You scoff, a sound that’s half-laugh, half-disbelief, and successfully snatch your wrist out of his hand. “Unbelievable.”

Chris watches you slide off the bed, and there’s this little smirk playing at his lips that makes you want to throw a pillow at his face. Hard. Maybe two pillows. Maybe your fucking chancleta would be better.

“Baby, wait—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me right now,mamaguevo.” You’re across the room now, arms crossed defensively over your chest, and you hate that your eyes are stinging a little. It’s stupid, it’s just a hypothetical question. You asked it but the way he kept doubling down, the way he looked so casual about it, like the idea of leaving you and going back to someone else was just…easy.

“You’re really not going to let me finish?” He’s sitting up now, legs hanging off the edge of the bed and he has the nerve to look amused. Like this is funny. Like your heart isn’t currently doing gymnastics in your chest.

“Finish what? Finish telling me about how amazing your ex is? About how perfect she is? About how you’d run right back to her the second we were done?” Your voice cracks a little on the last word and you hate it. You hate that he’s getting to you like this over a stupid hypothetical. “I asked you a stupid hypothetical question, Chris. The kind couples ask each other when they’re being cute and gross. And you—”

“And I told you the truth,” he interrupts, standing up now. He takes a step toward you and you automatically take one back, your back hitting the wall. His expression softens, something tender creeping into those eyes. “If we broke up tomorrow, I’d go back to my ex. I’d chase after her, beg her to take me back, do whatever it took. I’d show up at her place with flowers, I’d write her songs, I’d probably embarrass myself completely.”

“Dios mío, stop talking pu—”

“Because you’re my ex in this scenario, pretty.” He says it so simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like you should have seen this coming from a mile away. “If we break up tomorrow, that makes you my ex-girlfriend. And yeah, I’d absolutely go back to my ex. I’d fight like hell to get her back because I’m not stupid enough to let the love of my life go without a fight.”

You freeze.

The words hang in the air between you, and suddenly your brain is doing the math, rewinding the entire conversation, replaying every answer with this new context.

Oh.

Oh.

“You—” You start, but your throat feels tight and your eyes are definitely stinging now but for a completely different reason. “You absolute asshole.”

The smile that breaks across his face is so fond, so completely and utterly Chris, that you don’t know whether to kiss him or actually throw that pillow. Maybe both. Probably both.

“Had you going though, didn’t I?” He closes the distance between you, hands gentle as they find your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles against your hip bones. “Did you really think I’d just casually tell you I’d move on? Me? Mr. ‘I-get-separation-anxiety-when-you-go-to-the-bathroom’? Mr. ‘I-texted-you-seventeen-times-during-my-lunch-break’?”

“I hate you,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him, hands coming up to rest against his chest where you can feel his heart beating steady and strong.

“No you don’t.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then hovers just above your lips, close enough that you can feel his breath. “You love me. Almost as much as I love you and if we ever broke up—which we won’t, by the way, I’m never letting you go—I’d be the most pathetic ex-boyfriend in history. I’d write albums about you and everything. The guys would have to stage an intervention while simultaneously roasting me for fumbling you.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“But I’m your annoying,” he grins, finally kissing you properly, soft and sweet and tasting like the hot chocolate he made earlier. “Now come back to bed so I can continue scrolling through Bubble while you play with my hair and pretend you’re not soft for me.”

“I’m not playing with your hair anymore. You lost that privilege.”

“You will in like five minutes.”

“Will not.”

“Will too.”

He’s right. You hate that he’s right.

But as you let him pull you back to bed, tucked safe against his chest with his arms wrapped around you and his fingers drawing patterns on your skin, you can’t help but smile. He starts scrolling through Bubble again, showing you fan messages, and your hand automatically finds its way back to his hair.

“See?” he says smugly.

“Shut up.”

“For the record,” he murmurs into your hair a few minutes later, voice gone soft and serious, “If you ever think about breaking up with me just know I’d be back on your doorstep before you could even think about changing your relationship status. Probably before you even finished the breakup conversation, honestly. I’d just stand there like ‘okay but what do you wanna eat?.’”

“That’s actually kind of creepy, Chris.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

And damn it, you do. You really, really do.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, nails scratching against his scalp the way he likes.

“I’m lucky I have you,” he corrects, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Even when you ask me unhinged hypothetical questions at midnight.”

“It’s not midnight yet.”

“Give it five minutes.”

You both fall quiet, the comfortable kind of silence that comes from being with someone who feels like home. His breathing evens out, and you think he might be falling asleep until he speaks again.

“Hey, amor?”

“Hmm?”

“If I was a worm, would you still love me?”

You pinch his side, making him yelp. “Go to sleep, Christopher.”

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