Seungho blinked.
“I’m serious,” Haneul said, softer now. “You’re drunk. You probably don’t even know what you’re doing right now.”
“I know what I want.”
“That’s not the same.”
Seungho’s eyes narrowed. Not angry—confused.
“I’m a man,” Haneul said, voice sharpening again. “M.A.N. You’re not into that, remember? You do girls. Pussies and perfume and polite sex. You don’t know what to do with someone like me.”
Seungho didn’t argue.
But he didn’t move, either.
Haneul sighed. Tension broke with a long exhale.
Then, muttering: “Go to sleep, skyscraper. Before you say something that makes me stupid.”
He reached out, gently shoved Seungho’s shoulder. Tried to stand.
Seungho’s arm wrapped around his waist, anchoring.
His face pressed into Haneul’s flat belly. Warm. Heavy. Hair smelling like sandalwood and sweat.
“Let go,” Haneul mumbled. “You’re like a furnace.”
Nothing.
“Just five minutes,” Seungho mumbled against his stomach, voice half-buried and impossibly warm. “Then you can go back to hating me.”
“You weigh a ton,” Haneul muttered. “I’m not dying here on the couch like your personal cushion.”
No answer. Just the slow, steady drag of Seungho’s breath through his shirt.
Haneul stared down at the mess of raven-black hair against his ribs, exhaled through his nose, then grumbled, “Fine. But if you puke on me, I’m feeding you to Ji-ho.”
He hooked his arms under Seungho’s shoulders and started hauling.
A battle in miniature: five-foot-seven of lean stubbornness versus one exhausted, drunk monolith.
“Move, mountain. You’re supposed to walk.”
Seungho mumbled something that might’ve been “no.”
“Yeah, well, too bad,” Haneul hissed, dragging him anyway, half-lifting, half-cursing, inch by inch toward the open bedroom door.
By the time they reached the bed, Haneul was sweating, swearing, and laughing under his breath.
He shoved Seungho’s legs onto the mattress, kicked off his own socks, and dropped beside him with a growl.
“There,” he panted. “Horizontal. You are welcome.”
Seungho murmured something low, almost content, and rolled just enough to bury his face against Haneul’s chest again.
Heat bled between them; sandalwood and sweat and whatever it was that made the night heavy with almosts.
“Just five minutes,” Haneul warned, already failing.
