#have

The world outside your apartment is a smear of charcoal and silver. The heavy rain is relentless, a rhythmic drumming against the floor-to-ceiling glass that turns the city into a distant, underwater kingdom. But inside the bedroom, the air is stagnant and warm, heavy with the scent of Heeseung’s skin and the lingering sweetness of the vanilla candle that burned down to a nub overnight.

Heeseung is a fever-heat anchored against your back. He’s been awake for a while—you can tell by the steady, deliberate way his hand is moving. His long fingers are tracing the delicate topography of your hip, his touch light as a ghost until he dips his hand beneath the waistband of your silk shorts.

Every time he breathes, his chest expands against your shoulder blades, a solid, grounding pressure that makes you feel utterly possessed. You try to shift, a half-hearted attempt to find a cooler patch of sheets, but the moment you move, his arm tightens around your waist tightens.

"Don't," he mutters. His voice is a wreck—a low, bedroom rasp that vibrates through your spine and settles somewhere deep in your core. "The world doesn't start until I say it does."

You turn in his arms, your skin sliding against his with a friction that makes your breath catch. In the dim, watery light of the room, Heeseung looks like a masterpiece of shadows. His hair is a chaotic, dark mess against the white pillows, and his eyes—hooded and dark—are already fixed on you with a hunger that feels brand new every single morning.

"We were supposed to be productive today, Hee," you whisper, though your hands are already finding the familiar, soft touch of his hair.

"I am being productive," he counters, his voice dropping an octave. He shifts, hovering over you now, his weight a delicious burden that pins you to the mattress. He brushes a stray hair from your face, his touch reverent before his gaze drops to your lips. "I’m reminding you that you belong in this bed. With me."

He leans down, and for a moment, he just lingers. He breathes your air, his nose brushing against yours, his lips ghosting over yours without actually touching. It’s a specialized form of torture he’s perfected—the slow burn, the high-tension wire of anticipation.

"Loving you is so easy," he says softly, the words he says to make you fall asleep the previous night. "It’s strong. It’s loud. It makes it impossible to think about anything else."

Finally, he closes the distance. The kiss isn't soft. It’s deep and possessive, a release of all the professional distance you both had to maintain throughout the week. His tongue slides against yours with a rhythmic, demanding heat, mapping the inside of your mouth as if he’s searching for a secret only you can give him.

You whimper into his mouth, your back arching off the bed as his hand slides from your waist to your thigh, his palm hot and calloused against your skin. He pulls your leg up, hooking it over his hip to pull you flush against him. The feeling of his bare chest against yours, the silver chain he wears cold against your collarbone, creates a sensory overload that makes your head spin.

He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down to your neck. Heeseung doesn't just kiss; he marks. He finds the sensitive cord of your throat and sucks the skin there, a slow, bruising pressure that you know will be a blooming violet mark by noon.

"Hee... stop, someone might see tomorrow," you gasp, even as you pull his head closer.

"Let them," he grunts against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone in a sharp nip that makes your toes curl. "Let them know exactly where my mouth was all weekend. I’m tired of sharing you with the rest of the world."

His hands slide under the hem of your shirt, his thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts with an agonizing slowness. The air in the room feels like it’s being sucked out, replaced by the sheer, electric gravity of his presence. Heeseung is usually so composed, the calm center of every storm, but right now, he’s raw. He’s desperate. He’s reaching for you as if you’re the only thing keeping him from drowning.

He pulls your shirt over your head and tosses it somewhere into the shadows. When he looks back at you, his pupils are blown so wide his eyes are almost entirely black.

"You're so beautiful like this," he whispers, his voice trembling with a rare vulnerability. "All mine. Do you have any idea what it does to me? To spend all week watching you from across a room, knowing I can't touch you like this?"

He leans down again, his mouth finding your chest, his tongue swirling in slow, punishing circles that leave you shivering. Every touch is a claim. Every mark is a promise. He moves lower, his hands sliding your shorts down your legs until there is nothing left between you but the humid air and the sound of the rain.

Heeseung moves between your knees, his hands anchoring your wrists above your head. He looks down at you, his chest heaving, his skin glowing with a faint sheen of sweat in the blue light.

"Tell me," he commands, his voice vibrating in his chest. "Tell me you're addicted to this. Tell me you want me to finish what we started."

"I'm addicted to you," you sob out, your head thrashing against the pillow. "Heeseung, please... I don't want to be anywhere else."

He lets out a low, guttural growl—a sound of pure, unadulterated satisfaction—and buries his face in the crook of your neck one last time before the world outside the bedroom finally, mercifully, ceases to exist.

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An hour later, the room is silent again, save for the muffled sound of the rain. The air is cooler now, but the heat between you hasn't fully dissipated. You’re tangled together in a messy knot of limbs and damp linen, your head resting on his chest, listening to the slow, steady deceleration of his heart.

Heeseung’s fingers are idly playing with your hair, his touch soft and protective. He kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a long time.

"We missed the market," you murmur, your voice thick with exhaustion and content.

"The market was a lie anyway," he says, a small, tired smile in his voice. "This was the only thing on the schedule today."

He pulls the duvet up, tucking it around your shoulders and shielding you from the grey light of the window. In the dark sanctuary of the bed, with the frequency of his heart matching yours, the "not easy" parts of the world feel a million miles away.

"Go back to sleep, love," he whispers, his hand finding yours under the covers and interlacing your fingers. "I'm not going anywhere."