you'd looked back down at your notes and promptly forgotten every word you'd just highlighted.

now it was tuesday again.

kai tuesday, your brain had started calling it, which was embarrassing enough that you'd never said it out loud.

you were at your usual table by the tall windows, the afternoon light coming in gold and lazy across the pages of your textbook. you had a deadline. you had three chapters left to read. you had every intention of being productive.

then the door opened.

you didn't even have to look up. you just knew— some stupid, traitorous part of you had apparently memorized the particular rhythm of his footsteps, the way they were unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and was happy about it.

you looked up anyway.

kai was unwinding a light scarf from around his neck, cheeks flushed pink from the autumn air outside. his hair was slightly windswept. he was wearing that oversized cream-colored sweater again, the one with the small embroidered star near the collar that you absolutely had not noticed multiple times.

he found his usual spot— two tables diagonal from yours, just within comfortable peripheral vision, which your heart had decided was both wonderful and cruel— and dropped into the chair with a contented little exhale.

you put your chin in your hand.

your textbook stopped existing.

the thing about kai— the thing— was that he was so entirely, uncomplicatedly himself in a way that made your chest ache a little.

he laughed too loud for a library sometimes, then immediately covered his mouth with both hands, eyes wide with apologetic delight. he brought snacks in little containers and shared them with whoever was sitting near him without a second thought. once, you'd watched him spend ten full minutes helping a freshman find a book, leading her through the stacks with the focused energy of someone who had been personally appointed guardian of the dewey decimal system.

he hummed while he worked. quietly, almost under his breath, like he wasn't entirely aware he was doing it.

you were aware. you were devastatingly aware.

get it together, you told yourself, not for the first time. you've spoken to him twice. you don't even properly know him.

but that was the wild thing— it felt like you did. it felt like something about him was already familiar, like a word on the tip of your tongue, like a melody you couldn't quite place but knew you loved.

you were so deep in your very responsible daydream (you were, in this version, very cool and funny, and he was laughing at something you'd said, and there were warm drinks involved) that you didn't notice him stand up.

you didn't notice him walk over.

"hey."

you startled so hard your pen rolled off the table.

kai caught it.

of course he did.

he held it out to you, and when you looked up— properly up, right at him, close enough to notice that his eyes were warm and the flush on his cheeks hadn't fully faded— he was smiling. not a polite smile. a real one, a little crooked, like something about this moment genuinely pleased him.

"sorry," he said, not sounding very sorry at all. "you had this look on your face like you were somewhere very far away."

"i was reading," you said, with what you felt was remarkable composure given the circumstances.

he glanced at your textbook, then back at you. "it's upside down."

a pause.

"i learn better that way," you said.

he laughed— that real, unguarded laugh you'd catalogued from two tables away— and pulled out the chair across from you.

"i'm kai," he said, settling in like he'd always been there. "i've seen you here every tuesday. i keep meaning to say hi."

something warm and ridiculous unfurled in your chest.

"i've seen you too," you admitted, because apparently your mouth had decided honesty was the play. "the star on your sweater. I love it."

he looked down at it, delighted. "you pay attention."

"sometimes," you said, "to certain things"

the look he gave you then was soft around the edges, curious and pleased, like you'd said something worth thinking about. he leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table.

"tell me something," he said, like you'd known each other for years. "what were you actually thinking about just now?"

you looked at him— the windswept hair, the sweater, the smile, the easy warmth of him sitting across from you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"nothing important," you said.

you were absolutely thinking about him.

he seemed to know it anyway.

his smile went a little softer, a little more certain, and he reached over and nudged your textbook right-side up.

"well," he said, "i'm here now. so you don't have to think about nothing."

outside, the autumn light went golden. inside, you forgot entirely about your deadline. which you didn't mind even a little bit.

“nooo,” soobin whined, drawing the word as yeonjun clicked another photo across the table. “don’t send that.”

but it was simply too late.

beomgyu was ready, with phone in one hand, eyes lit with mischief as he snapped yet another picture of soobin, and sent directly to his ‘beloved’s’ number.

“hyung you’re so down bad,” kai giggled, his own face flushed a pretty pink. he flopped forward, chin landing on soobin’s shoulder. “you have been chanting yn’s name for an hour now.”

“have not,” soobin mumbled into his palms, which had migrated to cover the entirety of his pretty face. but his ears— the tips of them, burned crimson, and the flush has crept down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tank. his chest felt tight in the best, worst way. everytime someone said yn, his heart would do a little flip.

yn. yn. yn.

“you literally just said it three times in a row,” taehyun deadpanned, swirling the last of his drink. he was the most functional of the five, which meant he was only mostly drunk. soobin keened, hiding deeper into himself.

as he fished out his own phone, fumbling with the lock, struggling to unlock it under the table.

he didn’t realize he’d started chanting you name out loud again until beomgyu doubled over mid laugh.

“there he goes. ‘yn. yn. where are they? wheres my yn..’”

twenty minutes later, you pushed open the restaurant’s door, the chime signalling your very presence in the room.

the scene was exactly as chaotic as described. beomgyu and hyuka were arm-wrestling (badly), taehyun was sipping water like a disappointed father, and yeonjun was attempting to put a paper crown on soobin’s head.

but soobin—

soobin was slumped sideways in his chair, head tilted back, eyes half-closed. his cheeks were flushed all the way down to his collarbones. his lips were slightly parted, and his fingers were loosely curled around an empty glass.

“soobin,” you said softly, stepping close.

the effect was immediate.

his eyes flew open. blinked once. twice. then his entire face lit up—a smile so wide, so radiant, so painfully genuine that his cheeks must have hurt. he looked like he’d just seen the sun after a long winter.

“yn,” he breathed, voice cracking.

before you could say another word, soobin lunged forward and buried his face into your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist like a koala. he was warm, so warm, and he smelled like soju and vanilla and home.

“you came,” he mumbled into your knitted sweater. “you came.”

you laughed softly, threading fingers through his dark hair. “of course i came. you texted me, didn’t you? you ruined my nightly routine though”

“deserved,” soobin said, voice thick. “missed you. missed you so much it hurt here.” he pulled back just enough to press his palm flat against his own chest, right over his heart. “it was beating your name. thump-thump-yn-thump-thump.”

behind him, yeonjun mouthed oh my god to the rest of the table.

you cupped soobin’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing his burning cheekbones. “you’re so drunk, baby.”

“mm,” soobin agreed, leaning into your touch like a cat starved of affection. “drunk on you.” he giggled at his own stupid line, then grew serious. “no, wait. that was bad. but i mean it. i mean everything. i love—mmf.”

you gently pressed a thumb to his lips before he could confess to the entire restaurant. “is that so?” you murmured, playing along, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

“mhm. and your hands are so soft. like clouds. clouds that love me.” he turned his head, pressing a clumsy kiss to the center of your palm. then he grew serious as he struggled to stand on his own two legs. “i missed you. three hundred. no. a thousand hundred.”

he started leaning in, eyes fluttering shut, lips puckering for more than just your palm—aiming for your lips but landing somewhere near the corner of your jaw. before he could try again, a chorus of protests erupted.

you laughed, pressing one firm kiss to soobin’s forehead (he whined at the loss of your lips), then looped an arm around his waist. “c’mon, soobin-ah. time to go.”

“‘m not tired,” he mumbled, even as his head dropped to your shoulder.

“i know, baby. let’s go anyway.”

he went willingly, waving sloppily over his shoulder at the boys. “bye, friends! i love you! not as much as yn. but i love you!”

“we know,” four voices yelled back.

getting soobin home was an adventure.

he stopped to point at three different cats (“yn, look. that’s us. because you’re pretty and i’m fluffy”), tried to convince you to carry him piggyback (“i’m light, yn, i’ve been skipping carbs”), and spent a solid five minutes staring at your shared apartment door because the “color reminded him of your eyes.”

the door was beige.

but you loved him so much it made you dizzy.

inside, you guided him through the familiar motions: shoes off, his shirt and tank off as well (he pouted the entire time, cold without it), face wiped with a cool cloth (he leaned into the pressure like a cat), and a large glass of water coaxed down his throat. he threw a small tantrum when you suggested brushing his teeth—“but i’m tired, yn, and you’re being mean”—but gave in the moment you kissed his nose.

by the time you both tumbled into bed, the clock read 1:34 am. you were exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tired that comes from caring for a drunk, giant, adorable boyfriend. soobin, still flushed and loose-limbed, curled into your side like he belonged there (he did), his cheek pressed to your chest.

you ran your fingers through his hair. he sighed, content.

sleep was pulling you under, soft and heavy, when—

soobin sat up.

“soobin,” you groaned, not even opening your eyes. “bedtime.”

but he was already moving, pressing clumsy, open-mouthed kisses to your jaw, your chin, the corner of your mouth, your nose, your eyelids, your forehead—every inch of your face he could reach, each kiss punctuated by a mumbled “love you” or “missed you so much” or simply your name, breathed like a secret.

“soobin,” you tried again, voice thick with exhaustion. your hand found the back of his neck, fingers curling into the soft baby hairs there. “baby. sleep.”

“‘m not done,” he protested, pulling back just enough to look at you with those big, hazy, adoring eyes. his lips were pink and kiss-swollen, his cheeks still that beautiful drunk-flush. “i have to kiss you. it’s important.”

you laughed, soft and sleepy, and gave up.

with a gentle but firm hand, you guided him back down—not to sleep, but just enough. you tilted his chin with your thumb, leaned in, and pressed one last kiss to his lips. chaste. sweet. the kind of kiss that said i’m here, i’ve got you, we have got forever.

then you tucked his head into the crook of your arm, pulled him flush against your chest, and let your other hand resume its slow path through his hair.

“now sleep,” you murmured, already halfway gone.

soobin froze.

his brain—already sluggish, already swimming in you, already short-circuiting from the kiss and the warmth and the way you smelled and the fact that you held him like he was precious—completely crashed.

he blinked once then twice.

his heart, which had been hammering your name all night, finally just... stopped trying to form words.

oh, he thought, very intelligently. 

he didn’t move. didn’t breathe for a solid three seconds. just lay there, cradled against your chest, as you drifted off beneath him like it was nothing, like you hadn’t just rewired his entire nervous system with a single kiss and a hand in his hair.

your breathing evened out.

soobin stayed awake, staring at the soft curve of your jaw, utterly, hopelessly, spectacularly broken—in the best way possible.

“fuck,” he whispered to the dark room, very quietly, very reverently.

and then, because he was still a little drunk and a lot in love, he pressed one more kiss to your collarbone, buried his burning face against your neck, and let your heartbeat sing him to sleep.