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The afternoon sun slanted in through the window, casting honey-gold light across the cluttered room. Dust floated lazily in the beams, settling over stacks of half-read books, scattered paper cups, old photographs, and a desk overtaken by forgotten knickknacks and a battered microwave. The walls were plastered with notes, drawings, newspaper clippings, and scribbles—each one a fragment of some obsessive, beautiful chaos. At the center of it all, half-sunken into a nest of tangled brown sheets and flattened pillows, lay Sieun.
He was asleep.
His face, usually so still and unreadable, was softened now—lips slightly parted, lashes long against pale cheeks, his brow unfurrowed for once. The air smelled faintly of dust, ink, and laundry detergent that had probably been sitting in the bottle too long. And Suho couldn’t stop smiling.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, one leg tucked underneath him, watching the other boy breathe. Quietly, carefully, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Sieun’s forehead. His fingers lingered longer than necessary, slipping gently through the dark strands like it was the most fragile thing he’d ever touched.
He’d never say it aloud—not in the way Sieun would surely brush off—but in quiet moments like this, Suho let himself linger on the details. The boy’s skin held a soft, clean glow even under harsh lights, like moonlight filtered through fog. There was something almost painfully youthful about the way his cheeks rounded slightly, always tense with the effort of holding back emotion. He rarely smiled, not fully, but his lips were shaped like they were meant to—full and unspoken, always on the edge of trembling or firm resolve.
“You’re not nearly as scary like this,” Suho murmured, a fond grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Sieun shifted slightly at the sound of his voice, brow twitching faintly, but didn’t wake. The sun caught the slope of his jaw, the dip of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder under a rumpled t-shirt that definitely didn’t belong to him. It was Suho’s, and it was far too big. Suho liked it that way.
He leaned back on one hand, letting the moment stretch out around them like the sunlight creeping across the room. It was the kind of messy space that might’ve made someone else uncomfortable—but not Suho. The chaos felt lived-in. Honest. It was a reflection of the quiet unraveling that happened only here, only when no one else was looking.
Sieun’s fingers, usually stiff and poised around a pencil or a book, were curled loosely now against the pillow. Vulnerable. He was always so careful, so calculated—like letting his guard down might let something slip he couldn't take back. But here, in the haze of sleep and quiet clutter, he was just a boy. And Suho loved him like this: unarmored, breathing softly, pressed into the blankets like he belonged there.
Suho exhaled and leaned down, pressing a slow, silent kiss to Sieun’s temple.
He stayed there for a while, playing idly with a loose thread in the comforter, letting the warmth of the room settle in his chest like something permanent.
Sieun stirred, brows twitching slightly before his eyes blinked open—groggy and unfocused. The light in the room had shifted, slanting further across the walls now, warmer, heavier. His gaze darted sleepily toward the window, then landed on Suho sitting beside him.
Sieun’s eyes—those were something else entirely. Dark, almost glassy with intensity, they always seemed like they were looking just past you, calculating and scanning, always thinking. But right now, in this quiet space where Suho could study him freely, they looked vulnerable. Just a little red around the edges, like he’d been holding back more than just sleep. Quiet fury. Exhaustion. Maybe sadness. Maybe even fear. All buried under that practiced stoicism.
And his hair, damp and slightly disheveled, framed his face with a sort of messy elegance. It softened him. Made him look more real, less untouchable. Suho had always found himself wanting to reach out and brush it away from Sieun’s eyes, just to see if he'd flinch or lean into it.
“You’re awake,” Sieun mumbled, voice rough and small from sleep. He blinked again, slowly, as if trying to process the scene around him. “What time is it?”
Suho grinned down at him, tilting his head playfully. “Time you stayed in bed…with me, obviously.”
Sieun squinted, then groaned softly and pushed himself up a few inches, rubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I need to get up. I have to study—”
But Suho gently pressed a hand against the back of his head, guiding him back down with practiced ease. “Nope,” he said, fingers slipping into Sieun’s hair and combing through it slowly. “You’ve got sleep debt the size of a small country.”
“I can’t—” Sieun began to protest, but Suho leaned over and tugged him into his chest, tucking Sieun’s face against the soft fabric of his hoodie.
“You can and you will,” Suho murmured, voice close to his ear, warm and teasing. “Sleep now. I’ll help you tomorrow.”
Sieun let out a soft, muffled laugh against Suho’s shoulder. “I can’t remember a time where you were even half conscious in class,” he said, the words barely more than a breath. “You’d be no help.”
Suho smirked, brushing his fingers through the strands of Sieun’s hair again, slow and calming. “Moral support.”
Sieun made a soft, reluctant sound—half a whine, half a sigh—but didn’t move. His hands had fisted lightly in the front of Suho’s hoodie without him even noticing. He was warm. Comfortable. Held. His eyes fluttered once more, then shut again.
The cluttered room hummed with quiet, their breathing slowly falling into rhythm. Pages rustled gently from the fan nearby. Outside, someone passed by humming off-key, but the moment inside was sealed—soft, private, golden.
Suho leaned his cheek on top of Sieun’s head, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Just ten more minutes.”