Work Text:
Junghwan still remembers the pause.
It was a fracture in time so brief—so paper-thin—that maybe no other pair of eyes in that studio even caught it.
The studio lights felt too aggressive that day, washing everything in an artificial, clinical white. Staff scurried through the shadows behind the cameras, faint laughter echoed in the corners of the room, and Youngjae sat right next to him, fingers busy fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.
The interview was flowing with a predictable rhythm, until the interviewer asked—half-joking—if their conversation the night before had really just been about borrowing a towel.
Youngjae laughed first. It was a loose, clear, and utterly annoying sound.
Then, with a casual smirk that seemed to soften the very gravity of the room, he let it slip:
“15 years into marriage?”
Junghwan’s world froze.
Just for a split second. A tiny anomaly in his heartbeat that suddenly skipped, leaving a strange, stifling sensation in his chest.
Junghwan hated how Youngjae said it like it was the lightest thing in the universe. As if the word marriage carried no weight at all beyond some comedic flavor to mask the fact that they were, indeed, far too used to one another.
It doesn’t matter if we’re home or not. We can’t do without each other.
Youngjae was still laughing when those words left his lips. And that was the problem: Junghwan hated him just a little bit more in that exact moment.
He hated it because he knew Youngjae wouldn’t give it a second thought once the studio lights dimmed. Youngjae was just like that—tossing out narratives that sounded too close, too intimate, and too dangerous, then leaving them to rot into an obsession inside Junghwan’s head for days.
Though, objectively, the analogy wasn’t wrong.
They were a heap of tiny habits that had hardened into a routine. Youngjae still kept the welcome mat Junghwan gave him even though it was worn out; hoodies were accidentally swapped only to end up permanently in each other's closets; towels changed hands without permission.
And the peak of it all: how Youngjae would always crash first, then magnetically shift, seeking out Junghwan’s body heat in the middle of the night like a survival instinct.
Oddly, there was no awkwardness. Only a comfortable silence.
They had reached a stage where words were just decorations. Junghwan only needed to hear the way Youngjae turned the key in the lock to know how exhausted he was. Youngjae only had to see how Junghwan set down his phone to know when to give him space.
Lately, everything felt calmer. Easier. They had learned to dampen their egos, to fix the way they spoke, and to prune the thorns of misunderstandings that used to draw blood.
But it was exactly that stillness that was terrifying.
Because now, when everything felt so right, Junghwan couldn’t stop replaying the recording of Youngjae’s voice in his head.
15 years into marriage.
It was like Youngjae had just leaked a massive secret they’d been sweeping under the rug for years, only to laugh it off before Junghwan could even confirm if it was actually a joke.
And maybe Junghwan would have succeeded in burying that obsession, if only Youngjae hadn't decided to post those photos a few weeks later.
That night, the dorm was wrapped in an unsettling silence. The other members were probably still stuck in the living room or hadn't come home at all, leaving a quietness broken only by the rapid-fire pings of Instagram notifications from Youngjae’s phone on the bed.
Junghwan didn’t mean to snoop—initially.
Until the screen lit up, displaying a series of pixels that made his breath hitch in his throat.
A black and white striped tank top. Shoulders exposed and vulnerable, as if challenging the bedroom light.
And Youngjae—with a destructively naive energy—seemed completely unaware of how intimate those photos felt.
One shot showed Youngjae on a hotel bed with a tangerine between his teeth—a gesture that, for some reason, felt way too provocative to Junghwan’s eyes. The next was an absurd mirror selfie, typical of him. But the last one was the worst: Youngjae crouching on a dimly lit floor, wearing a loose tank top that showed far too much skin with every slight movement.
Junghwan stared at the screen for too long, as if trying to delete the photo with his mind.
Then, a movement at the doorway made him gasp softly. Youngjae stepped out of the bathroom, busy drying his hair with Junghwan’s towel—a grey cloth that now felt like an extension of their intimacy.
“You alright, Hyung?”
Youngjae asked lightly, his voice cutting through the silence as he wiped the stray droplets from the nape of his neck.
Junghwan didn't answer immediately. His tongue felt like lead.
Because the problem wasn’t just the aesthetic beauty of the photo. The problem was that Junghwan recognized thisversion of Youngjae all too well. Too deeply.
This was the "at-home" version. The sacred one.
The version that walked around the dorm in whatever clothes he found without caring who saw. The version that borrowed his towel and left it in random places. The version that would sneak into his bed when insomnia hit during those raw, late-night hours.
This was the version that had always felt too private—too Junghwan’s—to be shared for free with millions of strangers.
And damn it, Youngjae was still standing there with an expression of honest confusion.
As if Junghwan wasn't currently wrestling with a storm of possessiveness that had been making his chest tight for the last fifteen minutes. As if Youngjae didn't realize that with a single post, he had just wrecked the very last of Junghwan's defenses.
Junghwan’s gaze dropped involuntarily—just for a second, a betrayal by his own eyes—toward Youngjae’s knees brushing the edge of the bed. He stared at that casually exposed skin with a sense of pressure, as if the space between them had suddenly shrunk, robbing him of the oxygen he needed to stay cool.
Junghwan shook his head slowly, a futile attempt to banish the image. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Liar. And Youngjae, with that sharp instinct that was often so annoying, caught it instantly.
A small furrow appeared between Youngjae’s brows—the look he gave when he knew Junghwan’s walls were going back up. Lately, they rarely found themselves here. They had learned too much about the art of communication to go back to the exhausting labyrinth of silence.
So, Youngjae took a step closer.
The movement was natural, effortless, as if gravity simply always pulled him toward Junghwan. The mattress dipped slightly as Youngjae sat on the edge; a position that brought their knees inches from touching. The scent of body wash crept into Junghwan’s senses, suffocating him.
Junghwan held his breath for too long. His lungs began to protest.
“Hyung, you said we’re supposed to talk things out,” Youngjae’s voice softened. There was no teasing tone now, only a sincerity that felt like a blade. “So, are you really not gonna be real with me right now?”
Junghwan was forced to look up.
Shit. Youngjae was way too close.
With his messy, half-dry hair, that look of confusion mixed with a faint tenderness, and his hands mindlessly fiddling with the towel in his lap. He looked so utterly oblivious to the destructive effect he was having on Junghwan’s sanity.
“It’s just the photos,” Junghwan finally spoke, his voice low and raspy.
Youngjae blinked. He glanced back at his phone still glowing on the bed, as if he was just now connecting the dots.
“Oh.”
His voice got smaller. He got it, finally.
But instead of pulling back to give him space, Youngjae stayed put. Right there in the danger zone. Junghwan could see a stray drop of water tracing a slow path down the curve of his collarbone. He could feel the heat radiating from Youngjae’s body. Every time Youngjae shifted slightly, the fabric of his shirt hitched up, showing even more of what Junghwan wasn't supposed to be noticing.
“Do you... hate the photos?”
The question should have been simple. Instead, Junghwan let out a short, dry laugh, devoid of any humor.
Because the problem wasn't that he hated them. It was the exact opposite.
Junghwan worshipped how Youngjae looked in them. He just hated the fact that the beauty meant to be a secret behind these bedroom doors was now being consumed by millions of other eyes.
Maybe Youngjae started to sense that restlessness, because his gaze slowly changed. It softened, deepened, stripped of any lingering playfulness. He just sat there, watching Junghwan’s face like he was trying to read a fragile, difficult manuscript.
“...I just thought they were normal shots.”
Junghwan nodded slowly. He knew that.
Youngjae was always like that—giving pieces of himself to the world without ever realizing how precious those fragments were. And Junghwan, for a long time now, had started to get selfish; hoping some parts of Youngjae could just stay here, and belong to him alone.
Junghwan finally gave in to the gravity pulling him to watch Youngjae’s livestream from under his own covers.
The room lights were mostly off, leaving only the pale glow from his desk and the reflection of his phone screen on his face, creating sharp shadows that hid his complicated expression.
Youngjae was only in the next room—a distance that meant nothing physically, yet felt so strange when he had to touch that person through a cold glass surface.
On screen, Youngjae wore a black top that contrasted with the softness of his light brown hair under the dim studio lighting. Slim glasses perched casually on his nose, and every time he let out a little laugh—playing the role of a mock-serious, witty professor—his two front teeth peeked out for a second.
Adorable. A word too simple, yet lethal to Junghwan.
He felt like the universe was playing him. Just hours ago, he was nursing a grudge over Youngjae’s Instagram post, but now he was trapped in an obsessive cycle; watching the way a flush crept up Youngjae’s cheeks when he read the comments, or how his voice automatically dropped into something lower and sweeter when interacting with fans.
That was the great paradox of Youngjae.
He had a dominant silhouette—broad but lean shoulders, large hands capable of holding so much, and long limbs that always seemed to fill up a sofa or a bed. But beneath that masculine frame, Youngjae never lost his core of softness. A sweet side that was too transparent, too warm, and too easy to make Junghwan lose his way.
And maybe that was why Junghwan’s sanity was fraying at the edges. Because he realized he wasn’t the only one worshiping the view.
The comment section was moving at a dizzying speed.
so cute youngjae boyfriend material marry me your cheeks are red ㅠㅠ
Junghwan clicked his tongue, a baseless spark of possessiveness throbbing in his temple. He rolled over, facing the cold wall, trying to cut the connection.
But it only took a few seconds before he flipped back and opened the stream again.
Fuck.
On the screen, Youngjae laughed while adjusting his glasses—a tiny gesture that felt like a heart attack to Junghwan.
15 years into marriage.
That crazy narrative echoed again, haunting every corner of his mind.
And for some reason, that sentence pulled his mind straight back to a certain afternoon in April.
Cherry blossom season.
Junghwan had suddenly invited them out—a suggestion made for reasons far too casual for something that ended up sticking in Junghwan’s memory longer than it should have.
He could still see it so clearly: the way Youngjae stood under that tree, laughing softly with strands of hair dancing in the wind, and the way he naturally, instinctively, always stood just a little too close. As if personal space was a rule that simply didn’t apply to them.
Junghwan had never really stopped considering it "normal," even after he realized that it was exactly that comfort—that ease—that was the most dangerous thing of all.
By the time Youngjae finally made it back to the room near midnight, the atmosphere had settled into something far more quiet.
The door opened with a soft click.
Youngjae stepped in, letting out a long sigh that sounded like he was shedding a heavy burden, before collapsing into his chair.
“I'm drained...” he muttered under his breath, his voice raspy and swallowed by the silence of the room.
Junghwan, who had been pretending to be busy with his phone, only spared a glance through the corner of his eye. “Your live finished?”
“Mm.”
Just one syllable. No explanation, no small talk.
But that silence only reinforced the analogy Junghwan hated; they had reached the stage where words were a luxury they no longer had to force. Just being physically present in the same space was enough to fill any void.
Youngjae started changing his clothes with casual, almost reckless movements. The curtains that usually partitioned their beds had been taken down weeks ago—some practical excuse about new ones not arriving yet that had turned into a curse for Junghwan.
Because from where he was sitting, Junghwan could see way too much detail.
He saw the faint exposure of Youngjae’s thighs as he sat haphazardly on the edge of the bed. He caught glimpses of his pale stomach every time Youngjae’s shirt rode up while he stretched. He saw the messy hair after he’d washed his face, and the ghost of a small smile still lingering on his lips as he re-checked the comments on his phone.
Those two front teeth peeked out again. Wrecking Junghwan’s defenses one more time.
Junghwan exhaled heavily, trying to clear the tightness in his chest.
Youngjae finally climbed into bed, lying down while still clutching his phone. One knee was hitched up, making his shorts slide even higher without him realizing—or maybe he just didn't care.
Junghwan looked away with a movement far too jerky to be considered normal.
“Hyung.”
Youngjae’s voice sounded like a whisper in the dim room.
“Yeah?”
“Are you still in a bad mood?”
Junghwan froze. Youngjae was peeking at him from behind a pillow that covered half his face. Strands of hair fell over his eyes, giving him a fragile look that contrasted sharply with his tall frame.
“No,” Junghwan finally answered, his voice coming out flatter than he intended.
Youngjae frowned slightly, weighing the answer. Then, in a tone so light—almost like a sleepy murmur but carrying the impact of an explosion—he said softly:
“If you keep looking at me like that… you’re gonna make me blush.”
Junghwan’s heart felt like it stopped for a second. The oxygen in the room suddenly felt thin.
Youngjae kept his eyes glued to his phone screen as if he hadn't just shattered Junghwan’s peace of mind. But Junghwan could clearly see the tips of Youngjae’s ears turning a deep, vivid red.
And that was far more dangerous than any confrontation.
Junghwan swallowed hard, his throat feeling bone-dry. “How exactly am I looking at you?”
Youngjae finally let out a small laugh. Soft. So sweet it actually hurt.
“Like that.”
Without further explanation, he clicked his phone screen off and rolled over, turning his back to Junghwan and blanketing himself in the dark. As if he hadn't just left a massive disaster inside Junghwan’s head.
The room went silent again, leaving only the hum of the AC and the soft rustle of blankets.
But for Junghwan, the darkness felt way too bright. Because behind his closed eyelids, he could still see everything with terrifying precision: the curve of Youngjae’s thigh in the low light, the lethal arch of his lips, and how the man could dismantle every inch of Junghwan’s self-control with one casual sentence.
As if, for Youngjae, destroying Junghwan was something he could do with his eyes closed
Junghwan finally gave up about twenty minutes later.
Or maybe longer—he’d lost the ability to count seconds when every breath felt weighed down by Youngjae’s presence. He’d spent too long staring at the dark ceiling, trying desperately to ignore the existence of the man in the next bed. An impossible mission, given that the lack of curtains now exposed everything without mercy.
Youngjae was still awake.
Junghwan knew it without needing to look; just from the faint friction of the duvet against skin, or the dim glow of a phone screen occasionally reflecting off the wall, creating a silhouette that disturbed his calm.
Then, before logic could take the wheel, Junghwan was already up.
His footsteps were nearly silent on the cold floor as he cut through the dim silence of the room.
Youngjae looked over exactly as the bed dipped slightly under Junghwan’s weight. There was no surprise in his eyes. No barrage of questions. With a movement that was far too practiced, Youngjae simply shifted inward, tossing back a corner of his signature blue blanket—a silent invitation, as if they were always meant to share this narrow space.
And maybe they were.
Junghwan slid into that warmth without a word.
Immediately, the heat radiating from Youngjae’s body hit him. Close. Way too close, until Junghwan could feel his own heart starting to race erratically.
Youngjae turned off his phone, letting the darkness take over again, then turned slowly toward Junghwan under the faint light of the AC.
His face looked so much softer in these raw hours. Hair falling messily over his brows. Lips still looking slightly damp, a remnant of his habit of biting his lip before bed. And for some reason, whenever Youngjae was quiet like this—stripping away his idol persona, dousing his loud laughter—Junghwan always found himself spellbound.
Beautiful. A definition that left Junghwan feeling powerless, mostly because Youngjae never really realized the destructive power of his own face.
His gaze was calm, yet there was a fragment of vulnerability tucked away there tonight. Something that made Junghwan’s chest feel tight just because they were trapped in eye contact for too long.
“Why’d Hyung move over here?”
Youngjae’s voice was low, raspy with the sleepiness that was starting to pull at his consciousness.
Junghwan didn’t answer right away. His eyes were glued to the little details in front of him—the way Youngjae’s eyelashes fluttered when he blinked, the damp lips just inches away, and the pale line of his neck peeking out from the loose white tee.
Shit.
“...can’t sleep.”
Youngjae let out a small laugh that was more like a breath. Then, silence crept back in.
The quiet between them was never awkward; it felt like a long-known embrace. Too comfortable, to the point where Junghwan sometimes lost track of exactly when the boundaries between them started to blur.
Youngjae pulled the blanket higher, covering both their chests. A gesture that was too domestic. Too familiar.
And once again, that narrative surfaced uninvited.
15 years into marriage.
Junghwan finally let out a small, bitter laugh at his own expense.
Youngjae frowned slightly. “What?”
Junghwan stared at the ceiling for a moment before whispering softly, “That interview.”
“Hm?”
“The one about being married for fifteen years.”
Youngjae chuckled immediately. Of course. To him, it was just joke-ammo to lighten the mood in the studio.
“You’re still thinking about that?” His tone sounded fond, as if he couldn't believe Junghwan was still carrying the weight of such a trivial line.
Junghwan turned his head slowly.
And that was a fatal mistake. Because Youngjae was already watching him from this close.
Their eyes locked in the darkness of the room. Youngjae didn’t look away.
“We are weird, though,” he murmured softly. “Sometimes I think… we’re just way too used to each other.”
Junghwan felt his throat go dry. Youngjae said the truth so casually, even though every word was capable of toppling the walls Junghwan had worked so hard to build.
“I don’t even remember the last time we were actually shy around each other.”
Youngjae smiled small. Soft, tired, and looking almost vulnerable. And Junghwan suddenly realized he wanted to lock that expression away, making it a secret only he knew.
“Hyung.”
“Yeah?”
Youngjae seemed to hesitate for a second before continuing. “If I hadn't said that thing about fifteen years of marriage,” his eyes dropped to the heap of blanket between them, “would you still be looking at me the way you are right now?”
Junghwan’s chest felt like it was hit by something heavy. The question was too honest, too stripping.
Youngjae tried to keep his cool, though Junghwan could see the flush starting to creep up the tips of his ears, betraying the fake calm he was putting on.
Junghwan watched him for a long time. A very long time. Until Youngjae started biting his lower lip—a nervous habit that was both sweet and agonizing.
Fuck it.
Junghwan finally reached out, his fingers moving slowly to brush a strand of hair away from Youngjae’s eyes. It was just a small tuck, a light touch that should have meant nothing.
But Youngjae suddenly went still. His breath caught in his throat.
And for the first time that night, under the cover of darkness, Junghwan felt them both finally stop acting. They stopped pretending they didn't understand the magnetic pull they had always labeled as "habit."
Junghwan didn't know who finally gave in to the gravity that had been pulling at them.
Maybe it was him reaching his limit. Maybe it was Youngjae finally stopping that soft-eyed gaze—replacing it with something darker, hungrier. Or maybe it was just too late the moment that word marriage was thrown out.
Because a second later, the distance between them vanished.
The first kiss felt hesitant, almost careful. Like they were peeling back the protective layers of something that had been too sacred to acknowledge for too long. But the warmth of Youngjae’s slightly damp lips immediately incinerated the rest of Junghwan’s sanity.
Junghwan let out a low groan, his fingers tangling into Youngjae’s soft brown hair, pulling him deeper.
Youngjae instinctively shifted, letting himself be swallowed by Junghwan’s embrace under the blue duvet. His body seemed to have its own memory—one that knew exactly where to lean.
The kiss heated up, no longer slow. Junghwan had been bottling this up for too long; pretending that the hunger to consume Youngjae entirely was just a side effect of "living together too long."
“...you’ve been driving me crazy lately, Youngjae.”
Junghwan’s voice broke, low and gravelly between their breaths. Youngjae let out a small, choked-up laugh as his cheeks flushed hard.
“You’re driving me crazy too, you know.”
The tone was light, but his gaze was wrecked—vulnerable in a way that made Junghwan want to mark every inch of his skin.
Junghwan moved down. He didn't care about boundaries anymore. He kissed Youngjae’s sharp jawline, then moved to his neck, sucking on the pale skin there until it left a reddish mark.
Junghwan’s hand slid under the loose white tee Youngjae was wearing. He slipped his hot palm inside, feeling the smooth, trembling texture of Youngjae’s stomach. With one firm touch, he shoved the shirt up, trapping Youngjae’s arms and exposing the parts of his body that had been flashed on Instagram earlier tonight.
Junghwan’s face landed in Youngjae’s exposed underarm. The scent of body wash mixed with Youngjae’s natural scent—warm, masculine, and intensely intimate—flooded his senses. Junghwan didn't just inhale it; he pressed his nose there, hungrily kissing the sensitive skin of Youngjae’s armpit.
“Hyung—ngh, not there—”
Youngjae tensed up hard. His voice broke into a faint moan he couldn't hold back. His hands gripped Junghwan’s shoulders, but his legs moved restlessly under the blanket, rubbing against Junghwan’s limbs.
Junghwan ignored the weak protest. He pulled Youngjae’s shirt even higher, his fingers finding a small point on Youngjae’s chest. He rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, applying pressure that made Youngjae arch his chest and let out a long moan.
“This is your fault,” Junghwan whispered, his voice vibrating with lust as he went back to kissing Youngjae’s underarm, sucking the skin until Youngjae almost lost the strength to breathe.
“Why... ngh, why is it my fault...”
Youngjae was completely overwhelmed. His breathing was a mess, his chest heaving rapidly as Junghwan toyed with his nipple without mercy. Junghwan then lifted his head, looking at Youngjae’s completely wrecked face beneath him.
Swollen, parted lips, eyes hazy with desire, and hair a mess against the pillow. It was the most intimate sight Junghwan had ever witnessed.
Outside the room, the dorm had gone dead silent.
Youngjae, with hands trembling slightly, reached for the bedside table and grabbed his phone. He put on a random playlist, cranking the volume high enough to drown out the sounds they were about to make.
Junghwan let out a disbelieving chuckle, a low, predatory sound. “What are you doing?”
Youngjae turned his head away, hiding the flush that had now spread all the way to his chest. “The others... aren't asleep yet, Hyung.”
Too adorable to leave alone. Junghwan kissed the corner of Youngjae’s mouth, then his hand moved to Youngjae’s waist, squeezing hard to stop his restless squirming.
Junghwan’s hand then moved to the waistband of Youngjae’s shorts. He slipped his fingers inside, starting to pull them down slowly, exposing more of the skin he’d only ever imagined in the dark.
Youngjae let out a long sigh, a sound of surrender that almost sounded like a prayer. He spread his legs wide under Junghwan’s weight, giving full access to his most private space.
His fingers locked tight around Junghwan’s neck, pulling his face back for a demanding kiss, while his legs wrapped around Junghwan’s waist, as if trying to fuse every atom in their bodies together.
Junghwan kissed Youngjae again as he guided his hard, throbbing length right toward Youngjae’s entrance. He could feel the inviting warmth there.
“Slowly, Hyung... please, go slow,” Youngjae whispered, his voice raspy, eyes brimming with moisture as he felt Junghwan’s hard tip start to press slowly against his nervously twitching anal.
And maybe everything really would have ended in an uncontrollable explosion of passion that night—a raw, urgent union—if the universe hadn't decided to pull the emergency brake.
Right as Junghwan gave a firm, steady push to enter him—
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound of the door being rapped hit the silence like a grenade blast.
Both of them froze instantly. Every muscle in their bodies tensed up, creating a suffocating silence amidst the soft music still playing from the phone.
Knock, knock.
“Hyung?”
The voice of one of the members sounded faint but clear from behind the wooden door. Maybe Jihoon, or maybe Kyungmin.
“You guys still awake?”
Junghwan squeezed his eyes shut. He dropped his face into the crook of Youngjae’s neck with a soft sound of pure, unadulterated frustration. He was still pressed right up against him, throbbing for the release that had just been snatched away.
Youngjae let out a tiny gasp, his body shaking between exploding embarrassment and lingering, unfinished heat. He automatically clapped a hand over his own mouth, holding back a hysterical laugh mixed with a tiny sob.
God damn it.
Junghwan could feel Youngjae’s heart hammering wildly under his lips. The beat was in sync with the unfulfilled ache in his lower body.
“...I literally hate this so much,” Junghwan growled into Youngjae’s neck, his hot breath burning the sensitive skin.
Youngjae let out a shaky, breathless laugh—a sound far more fragile than usual. His face was entirely red now, the heat spreading down to his exposed chest. His white tee was bunched up at his neck, his shorts were gone who-knows-where, and his breath was still coming in short bursts against the now-messy blue pillow.
Junghwan didn't even want to think about how wrecked the view below was; how they were both on the absolute edge before that ridiculous interruption.
Youngjae swallowed hard before whispering, “Hyung... answer him.”
His voice was tiny, raspy, and full of the remnants of moans that hadn't quite faded.
Junghwan let out one more frustrated groan before finally forcing himself up slightly. He was still positioned between Youngjae’s weak, spread legs, trying to steady his voice so he didn't sound like a man who just failed to cross the finish line.
“What’s up?” he called out toward the door, forcing a lazy, bored tone.
Outside, the other member let out a small chuckle. “Thought you guys were asleep. Music’s pretty loud, Hyung.”
Junghwan closed his eyes, his head throbbing.
Youngjae immediately buried his face in the pillow below him, his shoulders shaking with extreme embarrassment. He was well aware of how risky their position was if that door wasn't locked.
“Go to bed already,” Junghwan muttered quickly, trying to shoo the distraction away as fast as possible.
A few seconds later, the sound of footsteps finally retreated and vanished down the dorm hallway.
The room went quiet again.
Junghwan knew if he wanted to, he could just keep going; claim what was already laid bare in front of him. But seeing how Youngjae’s shoulders were still shaking from the shock and how his gaze was now filled more with acute embarrassment than pure lust, Junghwan decided to pull back.
He didn't want their first night to feel like something rushed, full of anxiety, or tainted by the fear of getting caught.
The hot atmosphere that had been burning just moments ago had cooled artificially, leaving a strange emptiness. Junghwan stayed over Youngjae’s body for a few more moments, too emotionally drained to move immediately. He leaned his forehead back against Youngjae’s shoulder, which was still damp with a thin layer of sweat.
Youngjae let out a long, shaky breath. “This is your fault.”
Junghwan laughed weakly against his skin, feeling both bitter and amused. “How is this possibly my fault?”
Youngjae didn't answer with words. His hand moved up slowly, curling around the back of Junghwan’s neck, his fingers playing softly with the hair at the nape—a soothing gesture that had been an automatic reflex between them for years.
And that—strangely—felt way more intimate and suffocating than their kiss earlier.
A few minutes passed. The music was still playing low in the corner. Junghwan lifted his head slightly, looking at Youngjae, who still looked flushed and beautiful.
Beautiful. So beautiful it made Junghwan’s chest ache.
Youngjae, flustered and pushed by embarrassment, finally nudged Junghwan’s shoulder with what little strength he had left. “Stop staring at me.”
“Why?”
Youngjae let out a soft groan, pulling a pillow over his wrecked face.
Junghwan almost lost it again seeing that surrender. But this time, he only leaned in to press a long kiss to Youngjae’s temple. A calm kiss, full of promise, as if sealing a secret deal.
Youngjae finally opened his eyes a bit, the spark in them clearer now though the heat still lingered.
“...next time,” he murmured, almost inaudible.
Junghwan went quiet for a moment, processing that. He let out a small, disbelieving laugh before leaning his forehead back against Youngjae’s shoulder, inhaling the scent that had become his new addiction.
“There has to be a next time,” he said with a low emphasis.
Youngjae smiled small under the dim light. He didn't say anything, but his fingers didn't stop stroking Junghwan’s hair in a steady, loving rhythm—as if they really were destined to belong to each other, for fifteen years, and for every year after that.
And maybe that was the terrifying part of it all—how Junghwan had long since forgotten what it meant to look anywhere else when Youngjae was right there.