“I’m sorry, Sky. For making you feel unwanted. You never were.”
A beat passed.
Then Haneul bit his shoulder. Once. Then again.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
Seungho didn’t flinch. Just smiled, soft and small.
Haneul sniffed hard, clearly holding something back.
“Don’t make me emotional, you damn skyscraper.”
Seungho pressed their foreheads together.
“I’m not trying to make you soft,” he murmured. “I just want you to stay.”
??????
They didn’t fuck that night.
Didn’t kiss, either.
There was heat between them—always—but it didn’t flare.
It hummed.
A different kind of fire. One that didn’t scorch, but warmed.
One that said: you’re safe. You can sleep now.
They lay in the dark, the weight of confession still hanging in the room like dust in slanting light.
Seungho on his back, staring at the ceiling, muscles tense beneath his white shirt.
Haneul curled beside him, not quite touching at first. Then—a shift. A breath. A decision.
He draped one leg over Seungho’s hip, loose and possessive.
The braid tickled against Seungho’s chest. His arm slid across the older man’s ribs, fingers curling lightly in the fabric.
Seungho didn’t move, he just breathed.
Haneul’s forehead pressed to the curve of his shoulder, warm and damp. He exhaled a long, shaky breath like letting go of a century of frost.
Then, quieter:
“You don’t smell like him.”
Seungho turned slightly, only enough for his lips to brush Haneul’s hair.
“I should hope not.”
“You smell like… paper. Coffee. Cypress oil. Rain, maybe… or fire, but not the scary kind”
“And you,” Seungho murmured, “smell like ozone. Like you’ve been skating through thunderstorms.”
“Good.”
