#practical

The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall glass windows of the café, turning the wooden tables into warm amber patches. 

Outside, the streets of Seoul buzzed with an unusual energy for February 13th—couples everywhere, laughing, arms linked, carrying those telltale red-and-pink paper bags from florists and chocolatiers. Bouquets of roses wrapped in cellophane rustled against coat sleeves; heart-shaped boxes peeked out from under scarves. 

It was as if the city had decided to rehearse Valentine's Day a day early, everyone eager to beat the crowds tomorrow. 

You sat across from Taehyun at a small corner table, your iced Americano sweating rings onto the coaster. He was slouched comfortably in his chair, legs stretched out under the table so his sneakers brushed yours every now and then. His black button-up shirt  was pulled up his elbows just enough to show his veins whenever his hands flexed as his observant eyes flicked toward the window every few seconds.

A young couple passed right by the glass, the girl clutching an enormous bouquet of white peonies and red tulips like it was a trophy. The guy beside her balanced a gold-foil box of chocolates in one hand and her waist with the other. They were giggling about something, heads bent close.

Taehyun's gaze lingered on them for a beat longer than necessary then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"They're a day early, aren't they?" he said, voice low and amused. "Valentine's isn't until tomorrow. What's the rush?"

You followed his line of sight, watching the couple disappear around the corner. "Maybe they just couldn't wait. Or they hate lines."

He snorted softly, the sound more exhale than laugh. "Still. Flowers wilt in like, twelve hours if you don't put them in water right away. And chocolate? Melts if you carry it around too long in this weather. Not practical at all." 

He tapped his fingers once against the table, decisive. "Waste of money if you ask me."

You couldn't help but chuckle, the sound bubbling up warm and familiar. It was classic Taehyun—cutting straight through the sentimentality with that razor-sharp logic of his. Always observing, assessing, and deciding what actually made sense. No fluff, no wasted effort.

He'd always been like this, ever since the early days when he'd show up at your door with a single rose and a box of dark chocolate truffles, eyes bright with that boyish excitement. Back then, you'd smiled politely, thanked him, and after a few dates gently nudged him toward practicality.

"You know I'd rather you just... got me something useful," you'd told him once, laughing to soften it. "Like coffee. Or that new phone case I needed. Flowers are pretty for a day, but then they're just trash."

He'd looked at you for a long second, processing. Then he nodded once, sharp and final. "Got it."

And that was that. The flowers stopped and the chocolates became rare treats only on your birthday or when he felt like spoiling you with zero occasion.

Instead, he started showing up with your favorite iced latte on stressful days, or a new pair of wireless earbuds when yours broke, or tickets to that indie band you'd mentioned once in passing. 

Practical. 

Efficient. 

You never regretted saying it because you were the same as he was. Practical. Thoughtful in the way that actually lasted.

But sometimes, on days like today when the city smelled like roses and sugar, a tiny, secret part of you wondered what it would feel like to be one of those girls carrying armfuls of petals home.

Taehyun caught your expression—the slight softening around your eyes as another couple walked by with matching red heart balloons. He tilted his head, studying you the way he studied everything: quick, thorough, no detail missed.

"What?" he asked, voice teasing but gentle. "You want one?"

You rolled your eyes, nudging his foot under the table. "Don't start. You know I'd just complain about the pollen."

"True." He grinned, all teeth and mischief. "You'd sneeze for three days straight and blame me."

"Exactly." He leaned back again, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up just enough to show a sliver of toned stomach. Casual. Effortless. The kind of movement that still made your pulse jump after all this time.

"Anyway," he said, dropping his arms and picking up his own drink, "we're not doing any of that tomorrow."

You raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"Nope." He set the cup down with a soft clink. "Got something better planned."

"Better than flowers and chocolate?" you teased.

He met your eyes, steady. "Way better."

There was no elaboration. Just that quiet confidence, the kind that came from already having everything mapped out in his head. Taehyun didn't do vague promises; when he said something was handled, it was.

You let it drop, content to let the mystery sit. That was another thing about him—he loved surprises, but only the kind he controlled. The kind where he could see the variables, calculate the outcome, and know it'd land perfectly.

The two of you finished your drinks in comfortable silence, his foot still brushing yours every so often like an absentminded anchor. When you stood to leave, he automatically grabbed your bag before you could, slinging it over his own shoulder. 

Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of street food and exhaust. Couples were still everywhere, posing for photos with their bouquets, laughing as petals caught in the wind. Taehyun slipped his hand into yours without fanfare, fingers threading through yours with the ease of long habit.

"Tomorrow," he said as you walked, "wear something comfortable. No heels."

You glanced at him sideways. "Mysterious."

He just smirked again. "You'll see."

That night, you lay in bed replaying the café moment, the way his eyes had flicked to those couples, the quick logic that dismissed the romance as inefficient, the easy way he'd shut down any hint of wanting it himself. 

It didn't sting, exactly. You knew him. Knew he showed love in actions that stuck around longer than a vase of flowers ever could. Still, as you drifted off, you let yourself imagine—just for a second—what it would be like if he ever decided practicality could include a little impracticality.

The next morning was Valentine's Day and it dawned cold and clear and you woke to the smell of coffee already brewing in your kitchen. 

Taehyun must have used his spare key; he did that sometimes when his schedule let him steal early hours. You padded out in oversized sweats and fuzzy socks, hair still messy from sleep. He was at the counter, pouring two mugs, wearing a black hoodie paired with dark jeans and sneakers that looked ready for walking. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered recently, and the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

"Morning," he said without turning around. "Coffee's ready. Black, like you pretend to like when you're trying to be healthy."

You laughed, sliding onto a stool. "I do like it black sometimes."

"Sure you do." He turned, sliding your mug across the counter. Then he leaned against the edge, arms crossed, watching you take the first sip.You noticed the small paper bag on the counter beside him—simple brown kraft, no ribbon, no hearts. Practical packaging.

"What's that?" you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze, then shrugged one shoulder. "Open it later. After we eat."

Breakfast was quick with toast, eggs he'd scrambled with precision, and fruit sliced into neat pieces. He ate standing up, scrolling through his phone with one hand, occasionally glancing up to make sure you were eating too.

When the plates were cleared after he insisted on washing them himself, he finally picked up the bag and held it out.

"Here."

You took it curiously, noticing how it was heavier than it looked. Inside, nestled in tissue paper was a pink thermos, matte finish, the kind that kept drinks hot for twelve hours or cold for twenty-four. Engraved on the side in small silver lettering was your name.

You looked up at him, eyebrows raised and he rubbed the back of his neck, a rare flicker of something almost sheepish crossing his face. 

"You always complain your coffee gets cold when we're out. Figured this would fix it."

You turned the thermos over in your hands, feeling the solid weight of it. It was exactly your style—minimal, functional, thoughtful. 

"It's perfect."

"Good." He nodded once, satisfied. "Now grab your coat. We're leaving in ten."

The surprise unfolded piece by piece, the way Taehyun liked things: controlled reveals, each step building momentum. First, he drove you to a quiet park on the outskirts of the city, a small wooded area with winding trails and a frozen pond that reflected the sky like glass. He pulled a backpack from the trunk and slung it over one shoulder.

"Hiking?" you guessed.

"Sort of." He took your hand again. "Trust me."

The trail was easy at first, crunching leaves underfoot, the air sharp with pine. He walked ahead sometimes, pointing out little things like a bird's nest tucked in branches, a frozen stream that looked like twisted glass, his voice low and excited in that understated way of his.

.Halfway up, he stopped at a clearing. Someone had set up a small pop-up tent—nothing fancy, just insulated walls and a portable heater humming softly inside.

A folding table held a spread: sandwiches wrapped in parchment, fresh fruit, a thermos (that matched yours, but in a sky blue color) of hot chocolate, and—unexpectedly—a small Bluetooth speaker playing soft music.

You stared. "You planned this?"

He shrugged, but his eyes were bright. "Scouted it last week. Owner lets me use it sometimes when it's empty. Figured it'd be better than fighting crowds downtown."

Inside the tent, it was warm, cozy. Blankets on the floor, cushions. You sat cross-legged, watching him unpack everything with efficient movements before he reached into the backpack again.

This time, he pulled out a bouquet. It wasn’t huge nor extravagant. Just a tight bundle of deep red camellia and a few sprigs of eucalyptus for green contrast tied with plain twine.

Your breath caught as he held it out, casual as if handing you a water bottle.

"For you."

You took it slowly, fingers brushing his. "Taehyun..."

"Don't make a big deal," he said quickly, looking away toward the heater like it needed adjusting. "They're not roses. Roses are cliché and overpriced. These last longer, don't smell, won't make you sneeze. Practical."

You stared at the flowers, then at him. He was still avoiding your eyes, jaw tight like he was bracing for teasing but you didn't tease. 

Instead, you set the bouquet carefully on the blanket beside you, then leaned forward and kissed him—soft at first, then deeper when his hands found your waist and pulled you closer.

When you pulled back, his pupils were blown wide, breath uneven."You said you didn't like flowers," he murmured against your lips.

"I said I didn't like wasteful ones." You touched the camellias gently. "These... aren't wasteful."

He exhaled a laugh, low and relieved. "Good. Because I wasn't sure. I kept thinking about yesterday—how you looked at those couples. Figured maybe I was missing something."

You shook your head. "You weren't. You just... you always give me what lasts."

He studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. "Yeah. But sometimes lasting includes a little stupid romance, right?"

"Right."

He kissed you again—this time slower, hands framing your face like he was memorizing it. When he pulled away, he reached into the bag one last time. A small box of dark chocolate truffles. The expensive kind he used to bring in the beginning of your budding relationship.

"Last surprise," he said. "Not practical. Just... because."

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder as you leaned into him. "You're ridiculous."

"Logically ridiculous," he corrected, wrapping an arm around you.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, the heater hummed, the music played softly, and the camellias sat bright against the blanket—proof that even the most practical heart could bend, just a little, when it mattered.

The rest of the day passed in lazy perfection: eating, talking, stealing kisses between stories. He told you about scouting the spot, how he'd tested the heater twice to make sure it wouldn't fail. You teased him for over-planning a "spontaneous" date and he just grinned, unbothered.

As the sun dipped low, painting the snow gold, he packed everything up with the same efficiency he'd arrived with. But before you left the tent, he picked up the bouquet and pressed it into your hands again.

"Keep them," he said. "Even if they die eventually. At least they lasted longer than the cliché ones."

You smiled, holding them close. “Of course,” you murmured, smiling small and soft. “I’m not letting these go anywhere.”

He nodded once—sharp, satisfied—then bent to zip the backpack. But he didn’t stand right away. Instead he stayed crouched there for a beat, looking out through the open tent flap at the trail disappearing into the shadowed trees. The first stars were already pricking through the violet sky, faint and cold.

“I wanted to stay longer,” he said suddenly, almost like the words had slipped out before he could catch them. “Watch the stars come out properly with you. Lie back, point out constellations, the whole thing.” 

He huffed a short laugh, self-deprecating. “But the trail’s not lit. No markers past the first bend. If we wait too long we’ll be stumbling around in the dark, and I didn’t bring headlamps. Or a map. Or backup batteries.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture quick and familiar. “Not worth the risk. We’d end up cold, lost, and then I’d have to carry you out piggyback while you complain on my back.”

You laughed—the sound bright against the quiet—and reached out to tug lightly on the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Always planning three steps ahead.” 

He squeezed your hand once. “Next time,” he said, voice low and certain, “we stay for the stars.”

You smiled, holding the camellias a little tighter. “Next time,” you echoed.

His decision was practical, yes. But also, undeniably, romantic in the way only Taehyun could be: deliberate, thoughtful, and surprising.

The walk back down the trail felt different—not just because the light had shifted to that soft, bruised purple of late winter dusk, but because the camellias were still in your hands. Their petals caught the last slivers of sun like small dark flames. 

Taehyun walked beside you, his pace deliberately slowed so you didn’t have to hurry. One hand was in his pocket, the other holding yours as he squeezed every few minutes like he was checking if you were still there.

He didn’t speak much on the descent but it wasn’t awkward. Silence was normal for him after something emotionally high-stakes. He processed in silence, turning the afternoon over in his head the way he’d turn a Rubik’s cube until every side matched.

You could almost see the gears moving behind his eyes—did the heater stay warm enough? Was the chocolate too bitter? Did the flowers feel like too much after all these months of steering him away from them?

You broke the quiet first. “You really planned all of this in a week?”

He glanced over, mouth quirking. “Ten days, technically. Had to wait for the owner to confirm the tent wasn’t booked.” A small shrug. “Wanted to make sure everything lined up. Weather forecast, sunset timing, how long the trail takes at your walking speed.”

You laughed under your breath. “You timed my walking speed?”

“Rough estimate.” He tapped his temple. “I pay attention.”

Of course he did. He always did.

He noticed you shivered when iced drinks sat too long, so he bought the thermos. 

He noticed you always forgot gloves in winter, so last December he’d slipped a pair of thin, touchscreen-compatible ones into your coat pocket without a word.

The parking lot was nearly empty when you reached it. Only two other cars, both with couples still inside, windows fogged, probably stealing the last few minutes before heading home to whatever Valentine’s dinner they’d booked.

Taehyun unlocked the doors with a quiet beep and opened the passenger side for you out of habit. Before you could slide in, he stopped you with a light touch on your elbow.

“Wait.” 

You turned. He was looking at the camellias again, then at you, expression unreadable for a second.

“I almost didn’t bring them,” he admitted. Voice low, like the confession cost him something to say out loud. “Kept thinking about what you said back then—how you’d rather have something practical. I didn’t want to… I don’t know. Make you feel like I wasn’t listening.”

Your chest tightened. “Taehyun—”

“But then yesterday at the café,” he continued, cutting himself off before you could interrupt, “you looked at those people with the big stupid roses and I could see it. Not jealousy, exactly. Just… curiosity? Like maybe part of you wondered what it felt like to be given the cliché thing anyway.” 

He noticed that too, you thought.

He exhaled through his nose, short and sharp. “So I figured—worst case, you laugh at me and we use the flowers as kindling later. Best case…” He gestured vaguely at the bouquet. “You smile like that.”

You hadn’t realized you were smiling until he pointed it out.He rubbed the back of his neck again—the same nervous action from earlier in the tent. 

“Anyway. Point is, I’m not gonna make it a habit. Flowers every week would be wasteful and you’d get sick of them in like, two months. But once in a while? When it actually means something?” He met your eyes, steady. “I can do that.”

The cold air stung your cheeks, but you barely felt it.

“You’re allowed to want things that aren’t one-hundred-percent logical, you know,” you said softly. 

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, well. Working on it.”

You stepped closer, rising on your toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Thank you. For all of it. Even the illogical parts.”

He caught your waist before you could pull away, kissing you properly this time—slow, thorough, the way he did when he wanted to make sure you felt every second of it. When he finally let go, his forehead rested against yours for a beat.

“Get in,” he murmured. “Heater’s already on. Don’t want you freezing while I’m trying to be romantic.”

You laughed and slid into the passenger seat, cradling the camellias carefully on your lap like they were made of glass. 

The drive back into the city was quiet again, but comfortable. Taehyun kept the radio low—some chill R&B playlist he’d made months ago because he knew you liked certain tracks. Every so often his fingers would find yours over the center console, thumb brushing your knuckles absentmindedly.

When you reached your apartment building, he parked but didn’t turn off the engine right away.

“Still early,” he said. “You hungry for actual dinner or…?”

You tilted your head. “You didn’t book anything?”

“Didn’t want to lock us into a time slot in case you hated the tent idea and wanted to bail early.”

Of course he’d think of that too. Contingency plans for everything. 

“But there’s that ramen place you like” He continued, “the one with the spicy broth that makes your nose run. Or we can just order in. Your call.”

You considered it. The idea of sitting in a crowded restaurant right now, surrounded by other couples doing the full Valentine’s performance, felt suddenly exhausting. You wanted more of this—the two of you, no audience, no pressure.

“Let’s order in,” you decided. “And you’re staying, right?”

He looked almost offended that you’d asked. “Obviously.”

Upstairs, the apartment smelled faintly of flowers from the candle you’d burned last night. Taehyun kicked off his shoes by the door, hung both your coats, then disappeared into the kitchen like he lived there. 

Which, functionally, he practically did.

You set the camellias on the dining table, arranging them in the only vase you owned—a plain white ceramic cylinder he’d bought you last summer because ‘your old one leaked and stained the wood.’

While he scrolled through the delivery app, muttering about how the restaurant always forgot extra chili oil unless you wrote it in all caps, you slipped into the bedroom to change. 

Comfy sweats, one of his old oversized hoodies he left in your apartment months ago, and fuzzy socks. When you came back out he was already on the couch, legs spread, phone balanced on his thigh, looking completely at home.

He glanced up. Paused. His gaze did that slow sweep it always did when you wore his clothes—possessive, appreciative, a little smug.

“Looks better on you,” he said simply.You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the flush.

“Flattery isn’t practical.” you huffed.

“Doesn’t have to be.” He patted the cushion beside him. “Come here”

You curled into his side, head on his shoulder, legs draped over his lap. He wrapped one arm around you automatically, thumb rubbing slow circles against your upper arm through the fabric while the other kept scrolling until he hit submit on the order.

“Twenty-eight minutes,” he announced. “Plenty of time.”

You blinked, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “Plenty of time for what?”

He didn’t answer with words.Instead he surged up, one hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you exactly where he wanted, the other sliding to your hip with a bruising grip, and kissed you hard.

It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming—teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to sting sweetly, tongue sweeping in deep and wet and possessive, stroking against yours in slow, deliberate drags that made your head spin.

You made a small, helpless sound into his mouth; he swallowed it greedily, tilted his head to take the kiss even deeper, licking into you like he was trying to taste every corner.

His hands then started roaming.

Everywhere.

One palm shoved up under the hoodie you were wearing, rough fingertips skating over the soft skin of your ribs, then higher, cupping one breast fully through the thin bra.

He squeezed firmly, his thumb unhurriedly circling the already-pebbled nipple until it ached, then pinching just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. The other hand slid down the curve of your spine, fingers splaying wide over your ass, kneading the flesh before pulling you down harder against the thick, insistent ridge of him straining behind denim.

You rocked instinctively, grinding down on the hard length of him; he groaned low and guttural against your tongue, the sound vibrating through your chest and straight to your core. He broke the kiss only to drag his open mouth along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your throat, teeth scraping over your racing pulse before he sucked a mark there—hard enough to bloom purple by morning, soft enough that you arched into it instead of pulling away.

“Plenty of time,” he repeated against your skin, voice rough and wrecked, lips brushing with every word, “to get you so wet I can feel you soaking through my jeans before the food gets here.”

The bluntness delivered in that calm tone sent a fresh gush of heat between your legs. He shifted you in one fluid motion, flipping your positions so your back hit the cushions and he loomed above you, one knee braced between your thighs, the other planted on the floor for leverage.

The hoodie rode up to your ribs and he didn’t bother fixing it, shoving it higher with both hands, bunching the fabric under your armpits, exposing the lace of your bra and the way your chest rose and fell in shallow pants.

His gaze dropped, dark and ravenous. “Look at you,” he muttered, more to himself, voice thick. 

One hand closed over your left breast again, kneading slowly while the other yanked the bra cups down in a single rough tug. Your breasts spilled free into the cool air, nipples already tight and flushed. 

He made a low, appreciative sound in his throat before leaning down and took one peak into his mouth. Tongue flat and hot, he circled once, twice, then sucked—hard, rhythmic pulls that matched the slow, deliberate roll of his hips down into yours. 

The rough denim scraped against the thin barrier of your sweats, friction brutal and perfect against your swollen clit. You threaded your fingers into his dark hair, tugging hard. He growled around your nipple, before switching sides—teeth grazing the sensitive bud just enough to make you cry out before soothing it with slow, wet laps of his tongue.

His free hand slid lower, under the waistband of your sweats and past the damp lace of your underwear, straight to where you were already slick and throbbing. Two fingers parted your folds, slid through the wetness with obscene ease, then pressed flat against your clit in a slow, firm circle that made your hips buck.

“Fuck,” you breathed, head falling back against the cushion.

“Language,” he said against your breast, voice muffled and dark. “But I’ll give you a pass since that’s the response I want.” 

He rubbed again—tighter circles now, pressure steady. “Twenty-five minutes left.” He breathed. “Plenty of time to map exactly how many times I can make you come before the doorbell.”

He sounded almost proud of his own ruthless efficiency. You would have laughed if your breath weren’t already coming in short, desperate pants. 

You arched harder, chasing his fingers. He rewarded you by slipping one inside—slow, deliberate—curling immediately to that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Another,” you managed, voice cracking and hee didn’t hesitate. Second finger joined the first, stretching you beautifully, pumping in a steady, deep rhythm while his thumb took over your clit—small, relentless circles that never faltered. 

The wet, filthy sounds of his fingers moving inside you filled the room, louder than your own ragged breathing. He lifted his head to watch your face—eyes locked on yours, pupils blown so wide only a thin ring of iris remained.

“Twenty-two minutes,” he rasped, voice wrecked but still steady. “You’re clenching so fucking tight already. Gonna come for me like this? All over my hand before the noodles arrive?”

You could only nod, words gone, hips rocking desperately onto his fingers. He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every broken whimper as he worked you faster. Fingers curling deeper with every thrust, thumb pressing harder, the rhythm never faltering. 

Practical.

Precise. 

Devastating.

When you shattered it hit like a freight train, your back bowing off the couch, thighs clamping around his wrist, a choked cry tearing from your throat as pleasure ripped through you in sharp, blinding waves. He didn’t stop, just slowed his movements, curling gently to draw it out until you were trembling, oversensitive, gasping against his shoulder.

Taehyun withdrew his fingers slowly, glistening with your release, and brought them to his mouth—licking them clean with slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue while holding your dazed gaze shamelessly satisfied with what he’d done. Then he glanced at his watch.

“Eighteen minutes left,” he said, already working his belt open with one hand, the metal clinking softly. “Enough time to fuck you properly… and still have time to wash my hands before I tip the delivery guy.”

You laughed—breathless, dazed, thighs still shaking. He leaned down, kissed you softer this time, almost tender as he reached for the waistband of your sweats, tugging them along with your soaked underwear—down your thighs in one efficient motion.

“Lift,” he instructed, voice rough with want and you followed.

He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough, freeing his cock—thick, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. The sight of him made your mouth water, made fresh heat coil low in your belly. 

He notched himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself until he glistened.

“Condom?” you asked, even as your hips lifted toward him instinctively.

“Already on the table,” he said, nodding toward the small foil packet he’d apparently placed there sometime in the last few minutes—because of course he’d prepared. “But if you want me bare tonight…”

You swallowed hard. “Yes. Please.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, something almost feral flashing in his eyes.Then he pushed in slowly, letting you feel every thick inch as he stretched you open, until his hips met yours and he was buried to the hilt.

You both groaned—low, broken sounds that mingled in the quiet room.He stayed still for a heartbeat, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “So tight… so wet… so…perfect.”

“Language” you teased, repeating his words earlier and he just groaned.

Then he started moving.Slow, deep rolls at first—pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, grinding against your clit with every thrust. Each stroke dragged against that sensitive spot inside, building the pressure again impossibly fast.

“Feel that?” he rasped, voice wrecked. “How deep I am? How you’re taking every inch?”

You could only whimper, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. He picked up speed—harder now, hips snapping forward with controlled force, the couch creaking under you both. One hand braced beside your head, the other slid between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts.

“Fourteen minutes,” he growled against your ear. “Gonna make you come on my cock before the timer runs out. Then I’m gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me all night.”

The filthy promise tipped you over the edge, coming with a cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him, milking him as wave after wave crashed through you. He fucked you through it, hips stuttering only when your spasms pulled a low, guttural moan from his throat.

When the aftershocks finally faded he slowed, grinding deep instead of thrusting, letting you ride the lingering pleasure.

Then he pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the loss, and flipped you onto your stomach, tugged your hips up, and slid back in from behind in one smooth stroke.

“Last one,” he murmured, voice strained. “Gonna come inside you now.”

He thrusted hard then—fast, deep, one hand wrapped around your hip, the other sliding up your spine to fist in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your back. The new angle let him hit even deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot with every brutal thrust.

You pushed back to meet him, desperate, needy sounds spilling from your lips.He reached around, fingers finding your clit again—rubbing fast, merciless circles.

“Come with me,” he ordered, voice breaking for the first time. “Now.”

You shattered a third time—harder than before, vision whiting out, body shaking as you pulsed around him. He followed seconds later—hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself deep as he came with a choked groan, spilling hot and thick inside you, pulse after pulse until you were both trembling. 

He stayed buried inside you for a long, suspended moment, chest heaving against your back, forehead pressed to the nape of your neck. His lips found your skin there—soft, reverent kisses scattered along the sweat-damp curve, as though grounding himself in the aftershock. His arms bracketed you, one hand splayed wide over your stomach, holding you close while the other braced beside your head to keep his weight from crushing you.

Then he exhaled a long shaky breath and glanced at his watch one final time.

“Three minutes to spare,” he murmured, voice hoarse but satisfied. “Plenty of time to clean up… and still answer the door like nothing happened.”

He pulled out slowly—carefully—both of you hissing sharply at the sudden emptiness and the flare of oversensitivity. The slick heat of his release immediately began to slip out, warm and thick, trailing down your inner thighs. You felt it—intimate, messy, undeniable—and a fresh shiver ran through you at the sensation.

Taehyun noticed instantly.

Without a word he shifted back just enough to reach the side table. He’d already placed everything he might need within arm’s reach earlier—because of course he had: a small stack of soft tissues, a clean hand towel folded neatly, and an unopened bottle of water.

Practical. Ruthlessly prepared. Always three steps ahead.

“Stay here,” he murmured, voice still rough around the edges but steady again. “Don’t move yet. I’ll get the food. And a towel. And water.”

You nodded weakly, limbs heavy, body humming with aftershocks. The couch cushions were cool against your flushed skin as you collapsed fully onto your stomach, cheek pressed to the fabric, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne that clung to everything he touched.

He moved with that same efficient grace—jeans tugged back up just enough to be decent, belt loosely buckled, hair still a beautiful disaster. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and you heard the faucet run, the soft rustle of a fresh towel being pulled from the cabinet. Then, he was back, kneeling beside you on the floor.

He draped the warm, damp towel over your lower back first then gently guided it between your thighs, cleaning you with careful, unhurried strokes.No awkwardness, no hesitation; just quiet focus, like this was simply the next logical step in the sequence he’d already mapped out.

“You okay?” he asked softly, thumb brushing a soothing circle over your hip where his grip had left faint pink imprints earlier.

“More than okay.” You managed to say, releasing a small, blissed-out hum.

Without a word, he reached for the rucked-up fabric bunched around your ribs, now twisted high enough that your breasts and stomach were fully exposed to the cool air of the apartment. His fingers gathered the hem gently, tugging it downward in one slow, careful motion.

The soft cotton slid over your skin like a whisper—first covering your breasts, then gliding past your navel, finally settling at mid-thigh where it had always belonged on you. He smoothed it flat against your sides with both palms, fingers lingering at your waist for a second longer than necessary, as though making sure every inch of you was shielded again. The gesture was simple, almost absentminded, but the care in it made your chest tighten.

“There,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice low and rough from overuse.

He leaned down, kissed your temple, then stood again. The doorbell rang right on cue as he glanced at his watch, a tiny satisfied quirk to his mouth. 

“Right on time.” he said, voice steady again, though his hair was still a complete disaster and there were faint red crescents from your nails on his shoulders. He adjusted himself one last time, smoothed his shirt down, and headed for the door—calm, collected, utterly composed.

You watched him go, boneless and blissed-out, legs still weak, a stupid, happy smile tugging at your lips as the scent of spicy ramen began to drift in from the hallway.

He set everything on the coffee table, then came back to you with a bottle of water already uncapped.

“Drink,” he said, sliding an arm under your shoulders to help you sit up slowly. “Hydration first. Then food.”

You took the bottle with shaky fingers, sipping while he arranged the containers—chopsticks, extra chili oil (he’d remembered to request it in all caps), napkins fanned out neatly. Only when you’d taken a few solid swallows did he finally let himself sit beside you, pulling you gently against his side.

The ramen was perfect—broth spicy enough to make your eyes water, noodles springy, extra chashu because he remembered what you liked, and it was still steaming as he handed you your bowl first, then took his own. 

You ate in a companionable quiet for a while, the only sounds were the soft slurp of noodles and the occasional satisfied hum from him when he got a particularly good bite. Halfway through your bowl you caught him watching you again.

“What?”

He shook his head once. “Nothing. Just… glad you liked today.”

“I loved today.”

“Good.” He set his chopsticks down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because I was ninety-two percent sure you would, but there’s always that eight percent margin for error.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd”

“Maybe” He leaned back, stretching both arms along the couch behind you. “But it made today successful. I calculated the weather, your mood after work yesterday, whether you’d think the tent was weird instead of cozy, whether camellias would feel like a cop-out compared to roses…” He ticked them off on his fingers. “High confidence overall.”

“You’re insane.”

“Logically insane,” he corrected, the smirk returning—slow, self-satisfied, the same one he’d worn when he’d announced the twenty-eight-minute countdown earlier.

You leaned over and kissed the smirk right off his face, tasting the lingering spice of chili oil that still clung to his lips from dinner. He hummed into it, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the soft skin just below your ear in a gentle, absent rhythm.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads resting together, his breathing was steadier but his eyes were still dark, pupils blown wide in the dim lamplight.

Even when the practicality included making sure you came three times, came inside you exactly as promised, cleaned you up efficiently with warm towels and careful touches, and still had the ramen piping hot when it arrived—he’d managed all of it without ever breaking that calm, deliberate focus of his.

You shifted then, swinging one leg over to straddle his lap properly again, thighs bracketing his hips. The bowls were already safely on the coffee table; there was no risk of knocking them over. The hoodie he’d tugged down earlier bunched comfortably at your waist now, soft cotton riding up just enough to let his hands settle on your lower back, palms warm through the fabric, holding you close without any urgency.

He exhaled softly against your mouth, the sound almost a sigh of contentment.

“Still think flowers are impractical?” he murmured, voice low and rough, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke.

You laughed—weak and happy, the sound muffled against the crook of his neck where you’d tucked your face.

“I think you’re allowed to be a little impractical sometimes,” you whispered back, fingers threading lazily through the damp strands at his nape. “Just… don’t make it a habit. I’d hate to lose the version of you who times everything down to the second.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Deal,” he said simply.

He leaned in and kissed you once more—slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world now that the countdowns were over, the ramen bowls sat empty on the coffee table, and the apartment carried the quiet, intimate perfume of spicy broth, lingering sex, and the clean notes of camellias drifting from the side table. 

His mouth moved against yours with deliberate tenderness— lips brushing, parting, tasting, no rush to deepen it further. Just savoring. One hand slid up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your ear in lazy, soothing arcs; the other stayed splayed at the small of your back, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep you anchored against him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

When he finally drew back only far enough that your breaths mingled, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded and dark with something softer than hunger now. The lamplight painted warm shadows across his sharp features, turning the faint red marks from your nails into quiet proof of everything that had come before. 

He didn’t speak right away but exhaled once, long and steady, like he was letting the last of the day’s careful calculations slip away.

Outside the window, the city glittered with Valentine’s lights in pink and red and white. Couples were probably still walking around with wilting bouquets and half-eaten chocolate boxes but you didn’t care.

You had camellias on the table that would last another week at least, a thermos that would keep your coffee hot until next winter, and a boy whose heart operated like an extremely well-calibrated machine—precise, efficient, ruthless in its logic and still, somehow, capable of the softest, most surprising acts of love when it mattered.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby” he said, voice barely above a whisper, like the words were just for the space between you. 

You rested your forehead against his again, breathing him in.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Taehyun.”

And for once, he didn’t bother calculating the odds.