WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 03
˗ˏˋmiki ˎˊ˗
Butterflies are stupid and his couch is stupidly comfy—so much so, sleeping there feels more like home than anything you've experienced in five years of careful independence.
next | index
—chapter details
word count: 8.2k
content: instant ramen as currency, professional artistic collaboration that feels decidedly unprofessional, Hoseok in glasses (devastating), meet Miki the cat-succubus, vulnerable positioning and careful touches, falling asleep during work sessions, Momo's official seal of approval, and the dangerous comfort of being understood by someone who used to know all your secrets.
Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.
✧ author's note ✧
It's finally here!!! I know, I know. This one took a minute. I sat with this chapter longer than usual because I really wanted to get the tone right—specifically the dialogue. There's this particular ache I was trying to translate, that bittersweet flavor of a reunion that almost feels like comfort, but doesn't quite fit right anymore because too much time has passed and neither of you are the same.
I wanted you to feel that dissonance she's sitting in—the "yes, but no, but… yes?"—that weirdly intimate kind of safety that feels dangerous when nothing's felt safe for the last five years. You know that unsettling familiarity when someone you used to know just was part of your life by default, and now you're seeing them again… changed? Sharper, older, realer. And suddenly you catch yourself wondering, if we'd met now instead of then, would things be different? Would romantic interest be on the table?
And you don't even realize you're mourning a version of you that never got to find out. That timeline that's already gone. She's not thinking that outright—narration never says it, because limited POV—but the vibe is there. She feels it. You feel it. I feel it. We are all just crawling around inside that ambiguous grief together.
Honestly, I think I did a good job (if I do say so myself) at making it uncomfortable in a way that forces you to just… sit with it. Am I a masochist for liking that? Probably. But also, this is literally my 10th slowburn. You're still here. Who's the real masochist. Be honest.
Unless this is your first story of mine—in that case, welcome. Come in. Sit down. The train to slow burn hell has already departed, and you're in excellent company. Ask for the peanut cookies. They slap. (Unless you have an allergy, in which case please do not. Or do. But also, I'm legally absolved of any consequences because you clicked past the author's notes and content warnings, which is basically a pact of zero liability. Sorry bestie.)
Anyway. Once again I've derailed. Shocking absolutely no one.
Also? That whole conversation about Miki? The ancient ones know exactly what I'm doing. You've seen the blueprint before. For the new readers: nothing in Kiki Nation exists without intention. Let that marinate. Digest it. There will be a pop quiz in your feelings later.
And finally… Momo. Sleeping on Y/N’s bag? That moment of being chosen by something small and vulnerable that doesn’t trust easily? Yeah, sit with that too. Sometimes acceptance comes from the most unexpected sources, and sometimes the smallest gestures carry the most weight.
That's all for now. See you in the next one. May Osaka's neon lights guide you forward. Mwah.
—read on
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The ramen packets are sweating in your hands.
You're standing outside Hoseok's door like some kind of convenience store offering sacrifice, holding two packs of instant noodles because showing up empty-handed felt weird but bringing actual food felt too much like you were trying.
The ramen splits the difference perfectly—practical, cheap, and just thoughtful enough to avoid looking like you care.
Which you don't.
Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you shift the noodle packets to check the screen. The message thread from today stares back at you, a digital paper trail of your questionable decision-making skills.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:23 AM): 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:47 AM): 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚆𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:48 AM): 𝚂𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜? 𝙸'𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:15 PM): 𝟽. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (2:16 PM): 𝙼𝚎? 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍? 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚕.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:20 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 PM): 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛? 𝙾𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:35 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:36 PM): 𝚂𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝙾𝙳! 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠! ＼(^o^)／
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:37 PM): 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:38 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜! 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐!
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:39 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:40 PM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎! 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚙! 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗!
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:42 PM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.
You'd been replying between peptide copy edits, because apparently writing compelling marketing copy about anti-aging molecules is exactly as mind-numbing as it sounds. Davidson had spent the entire afternoon explaining the importance of 'consumer-centric biochemical messaging,' which is just corporate speak for 'make science sound sexy without actually explaining anything.'
At least you'd made a friend today. Sort of.
Yuki from accounting had appeared at your desk around lunch with a cup of coffee and a conspiratorial whisper about how Davidson once spent forty minutes in a meeting discussing the 'synergistic potential of collaborative ideation platforms'—which turned out to mean 'maybe we should use email more.'
She'd lingered by your cubicle, making dry observations about the office dynamics while you pretended to work on peptide enthusiasm, and for twenty minutes you'd felt almost normal. Like maybe you could actually exist in this corporate hellscape without losing your entire mind.
But now you're here, standing in front of Hoseok's door with instant ramen and a stomach full of butterflies that you're aggressively ignoring.
Because butterflies are stupid.
And this is just… helping an old friend with a work project. Very professional. Very normal. The kind of thing adults do for each other without making it weird.
Except your hands are definitely shaking slightly, and you can't decide if it's nerves or caffeine withdrawal, and the butterflies are doing some kind of interpretive dance routine in your chest that feels distinctly non-professional.
You shift the ramen packets again, plastic crinkling in the hallway silence.
Someone's cooking curry behind one of the other doors, and the building's ancient elevator is making that grinding sound that suggests it's one mechanical failure away from trapping someone between floors.
Normal Tuesday evening. Normal friend visit. Normal absolutely-not-a-big-deal modeling session for your childhood friend's pornographic manga.
God, when you put it like that, it sounds even worse.
You raise your hand to knock, then pause.
Because once you knock, this becomes real.
Once that door opens, you're officially Y/N-who-poses-for-hentai instead of Y/N-who-just-moved-to-Osaka-and-happened-to-reconnect-with-an-old-friend.
The ramen packets are getting warm from your death grip.
Through the thin walls, you can hear movement inside the apartment—footsteps, something being dragged across the floor, what sounds like Hoseok talking to himself in rapid Japanese.
Probably setting up his 'very professional workspace' with the same level of organization he applied to everything else in his life, which is to say, chaotic good at best.
Your phone buzzes again.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (6:58 PM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛? 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎.
Shit.
You knock before you can change your mind, three sharp raps that echo through the narrow corridor.
The movement inside stops immediately, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps and what might be Hoseok tripping over something.
"Coming!" his voice calls through the door, muffled but distinctly flustered. "Just a second! Don't leave!"
The 'don't leave' hits differently than it should, like he's genuinely worried you might bolt.
Which is ridiculous, because you're here, aren't you? Standing in his hallway with convenience store dinner like some kind of domestic goddess of questionable life choices.
Although, to be fair, bolting is exactly what every rational part of your brain is suggesting right now.
The door opens, and there's Hoseok—hair messy like he's been running his hands through it, wearing paint-splattered sweatpants and a washed out t-shirt that's seen better days, grinning at you like you're the best thing that's happened to him all week.
"Capy!" He's slightly out of breath, eyes bright with what looks like genuine excitement. "You actually came!"
"I said I would." You hold up the ramen packets like evidence. "I brought dinner."
His grin somehow gets wider. "She brings food! She stays! She might actually be the perfect woman!"
"Don't push it, Ott."
But the butterflies are doing something complicated in your chest at the way he's looking at you—like you showing up with instant ramen is somehow the most wonderful surprise in the world.
Which is ridiculous.
But also kind of nice.
Which is dangerous.
"Well," you say, because standing in the hallway analyzing your feelings about his expression is definitely not what you're here for, "are you going to let me in, or should I just model in the corridor for your neighbors' entertainment?"
"Right, yeah, come in." He steps back, gesturing you inside with unnecessary flourish. "Welcome to my professional artistic studio."
You step past him and immediately forget how to function like a normal human being.
Because apparently, while you weren't paying attention yesterday through your alcohol-induced haze, Jung Hoseok went and got... attractive.
Not that he wasn't before. He was always decent-looking in that gangly, hyperactive way that made middle school girls giggle and write his name in their notebooks.
But this is different. This is grown-up attractive. This is the kind of attractive that makes you forget why you came here in the first place.
The grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, soft and worn in a way that suggests they're his favorite. His t-shirt is faded black with some band logo you can't quite make out—Radiohead, maybe?—stretched across shoulders that are definitely broader than they were at seventeen.
But it's his hair that really gets you.
You hadn't noticed yesterday. Too focused on the shock of seeing him again, the surreal experience of Jung Hoseok existing in your new reality.
But now, standing in the warm light of his apartment, you can see that he's grown it out. It curls slightly at the nape of his neck, longer than he ever wore it in school, and it's not the black you remember.
It's brown now. Cinnamon, almost. Like he's been spending time in the sun, or dyeing it, or just letting time change him in ways you weren't around to witness.
And he's wearing glasses.
Black, rectangular frames that perch on his nose like they belong there, even though you're pretty sure they didn't exist five years ago. They should look ridiculous. Sixteen-year-old you would have laughed yourself sick seeing Jung Hoseok in glasses. Called him a nerd, stolen them off his face, made some comment about four-eyes.
Instead, you're staring.
Like an idiot.
Because somehow, impossibly, they suit him. Frame his face in a way that makes his eyes look wider, more serious. Less like the hyper kid who used to climb trees to impress you and more like...
Well. Like a man who draws pornographic manga for a living and just invited you over to pose for him.
Fuck.
"You're staring at my face," he says, and there's amusement in his voice that makes heat creep up your neck.
"I'm staring at your glasses," you correct, because admitting you were staring at his face feels too much like admitting something else entirely. "When did you get glasses?"
"Oh, these?" He reaches up and pulls them off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "About two years ago. Turns out staring at tiny manga panels for twelve hours a day isn't great for your eyesight. Who knew?"
"You used to brag about having perfect vision."
"I used to brag about a lot of things." He squints at you without the glasses, and the gesture is so familiar—so purely Hoseok—that something twists in your chest. "Remember when I told everyone I could see individual leaves on trees from like a kilometer away?"
"You said you had hawk eyes. You made it your entire personality for like three months."
"Hey, I did have exceptional distance vision! I could spot your mom's car from six blocks away!"
"Because it was bright yellow and shaped like a brick. A blind person could have spotted it."
He laughs, that same too-loud sound that used to embarrass you in public. "Okay, fair point. But still. Peak visual acuity, right there."
"And now you can't see your own hand without assistance."
"I can see my hand just fine, thank you very much. It's the small print that gets me. And computer screens. And basically anything requiring detail work, which is unfortunately my entire career."
He slides the glasses back on, and you have to look away because the simple action shouldn't be that... noticeable.
"So," you say, holding up the ramen packets like a shield between you and whatever the hell your brain is doing right now. "Dinner?"
"Right. Food. Very important." But he doesn't move toward the kitchen immediately.
Instead, he stands there for a moment, looking at you looking at anything except him, and the silence stretches just long enough to become noticeable.
You both blink.
The butterflies in your stomach decide this is an excellent time to reminder you of their existence, doing some kind of acrobatic routine that makes you want to press a hand to your chest and tell them to calm the fuck down.
You look away first, studying the manga stacks like they're the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.
He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck—a gesture so achingly familiar that you feel something crack in your chest.
"Kitchen's this way," he says, nodding toward the narrow galley. "Hope you're hungry. I may have accidentally forgotten to eat today. Time got away from me."
"Accidentally forgot to eat? How do you accidentally forget to eat?"
"Very easily when you're trying to perfect the angle of someone's... uh, shoulder blade. For artistic accuracy."
You trail behind him, checking the way he moves through his space—comfortable, loose-limbed, like he belongs here in a way you've never belonged anywhere.
"Shoulder blade," you repeat. "Sure."
"Hey, shoulder blades are surprisingly difficult to draw! There's all these muscles and the way the light hits them and—" He stops, glancing at you sideways. "You're going to mock me for caring about anatomical accuracy, aren't you?"
"I'm going to mock you for a lot of things, but anatomical accuracy isn't one of them."
"Wow. Actual respect for my craft. I'm touched, Capy. Truly."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"So," he says, nodding toward the kitchenette. "Hungry? We could eat first, before… You know. The thing."
"The thing?"
"The professional artistic collaboration thing."
"Just call it what it is, Ott."
"Fine. Before you pose for my dirty manga."
"Better."
You follow him to the kitchen area, which is basically just a counter with a hot plate and a sink the size of a soup bowl. He's already clearing space, moving art supplies and what appears to be a collection of empty coffee cans.
"Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting you for dinner when I set up my sophisticated meal preparation station this morning."
"It's instant ramen, not a five-course meal."
"Still counts as hosting. I'm being very domestic right now. Very adult."
You hand him the ramen packets, trying not to notice how his fingers brush yours when he takes them.
"If this is your idea of domestic, I'm concerned for your future."
"Hey, I'll have you know I've kept myself alive for five years. That's basically domestic mastery."
"The bar is on the floor."
"And I'm stepping over it with grace and style."
He fills a pot with water, and you lean against the counter, watching him move around the tiny space.
It's weirdly… hypnotic, the way he navigates the cramped kitchen, the familiarity of someone who's learned to live alone.
He glances at you over his shoulder.
"Do they look stupid? Be honest."
You frown. "The glasses?"
He nods.
"They look..." You pause, because good is not a safe word here. "They look like glasses. On your face. Very glass-like."
"Wow, Capy. Such poetry. I'm moved."
"You asked for honesty, not flattery."
"I asked for honesty. You gave me evasion."
He's not wrong, but you're not about to admit that the glasses actually work for him. That they make him look more... mature? Professional? Like he could be someone who does important things instead of drawing cartoon people having sex.
The water starts boiling, and he drops in the ramen noodles in the pot like he's performing surgery. You watch him tear open the flavor packets, stirring everything together with a fork because apparently he doesn't own proper cooking utensils.
"Gourmet dining at its finest," he announces, dividing the noodles between two bowls. "Five-star presentation."
"Michelin would be impressed."
"They should be. This is my signature dish."
You take your bowl and follow him to the low table, settling on the floor cushions he's apparently arranged for the occasion.
The ramen is exactly what you expected—salty, artificial, perfectly mediocre.
But there's something weirdly nice about eating it here, in his space, while he makes exaggerated sounds of appreciation like it's the best meal he's ever had.
"So," he says between bites, "how was day two of corporate hell?"
"Day two of wondering why I ever thought marketing was a good career choice. I spent three hours writing copy about peptides, and I still don't know what a peptide is."
"Sounds very important and scientific."
"It's anti-aging cream. Apparently peptides make your skin young forever, but only if you describe them with enough enthusiasm."
"And do you have enthusiasm for age-defying peptides?"
"I have enthusiasm for paychecks. The peptides can go fuck themselves."
He laughs, nearly choking on his ramen.
"There's the Capy I remember. Always so passionate about skincare."
"I made a friend, though. Yuki from accounting. She seems normal, which is a minor miracle in that place."
"Normal how?"
"Normal like she also thinks Davidson is an idiot and doesn't pretend otherwise. Normal like she brought me coffee without making it weird. Normal like she might actually be tolerable to eat lunch with."
"Look at you, making friends. Very socially adjusted."
"Don't make it sound like an achievement. I'm a perfectly normal, likeable person."
"You're many things, Capy. Likeable is... debatable."
You kick him under the table. "Rude."
"Accurate."
"I'm charming and delightful."
"You're sharp and terrifying. It's not the same thing."
"Sharp and terrifying are excellent qualities."
"For intimidating coworkers and small children, maybe."
"And for keeping annoying childhood friends in line."
"Is that what you're doing? Keeping me in line?"
The question comes out lighter than it should, but there's something underneath it that makes you look up from your ramen.
He's watching you with that expression again—the one that makes your stomach do complicated things.
"Someone has to," you say, aiming for casual and missing by miles.
"Lucky me."
The way he says it makes the air in the tiny apartment feel thicker somehow. Like you're both suddenly aware that you're sitting on his floor, eating instant noodles, about to do something that definitely falls outside the bounds of normal friendship.
You focus very hard on your ramen.
"This is good," you lie, because the silence is getting dangerous.
"It's terrible," he corrects. "But it's cheap and it fills the void."
"Poetic."
"I'm a man of many talents."
"Right. Speaking of which." You set down your chopsticks, trying to inject some professionalism into your voice. "How exactly does this... process work? The reference thing?"
He blinks, like he forgot why you're actually here.
"Oh. Right. The work thing."
"The work thing."
"Very professional work thing."
"Hoseok."
"Right." He runs a hand through his hair—the longer, brown hair that you're definitely not thinking about touching. "Basically, I just need to see how a real person would naturally position themselves in certain... scenarios. For accuracy."
"Scenarios."
"Character scenarios. Plot-relevant positioning."
"Uh-huh."
"Nothing weird! Just... you know. Natural body language. Realistic expressions. How someone would actually move in—"
"I get it, Ott. You need reference photos. You don't have to make it sound like a nature documentary."
"Reference sketches, actually. I don't do photos."
"Why not?"
He looks genuinely surprised by the question.
"Because sketching is more... interpretive? I can capture the feeling of a pose, not just the literal anatomy. Photos are too static."
"Huh."
"What huh?"
"Nothing. Just... that actually makes sense. From an artistic perspective."
"You sound shocked that I have artistic perspectives."
"I'm shocked that you explained it without making a single inappropriate joke."
"The night is young, Capy. Give me time."
And there it is—the grin that makes your chest do that annoying warm thing. The same grin that used to convince you to climb trees you couldn't get down from and steal candy from corner stores and lie to your parents about where you'd been all afternoon.
Dangerous then.
Dangerous now.
"So," you say, standing up and collecting the empty bowls before this gets any more domestic than it already has. "Show me this very professional workspace of yours."
He scrambles to his feet, glasses sliding down his nose before he catches them.
"Right. Work. Professional work space. Very legitimate artistic endeavor."
"It better be, Ott. Because if this is some elaborate scheme to get me naked, I'm going to murder you with your own art supplies."
"Noted," he says, grinning. "Death by paintbrush. Very avant-garde."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are. That's what makes it funny."
You follow him toward the work area (which is his bedroom), trying to ignore the way your pulse is picking up speed.
This is fine. This is normal. This is just you helping an old friend with a professional project.
Except nothing about this feels professional.
His bedroom is... not what you had expected.
You had been bracing yourself for some kind of stereotypical artist's den—paint-splattered walls, canvases stacked everywhere, maybe some pretentious black-and-white photographs of naked women he'd claim were 'artistic studies.'
Instead, it's surprisingly organized. Clean, even.
The bed is made, which is more than you can say for your own apartment most days. There's a proper desk setup against the window—not just a folding table, but an actual wooden desk with multiple drawers and a lamp that looks like it cost more than your monthly train pass. Art supplies are arranged in neat containers, pencils sorted by type, brushes standing at attention in glass jars.
"Wow," you say, because the alternative is standing there gaping like an idiot. "You actually clean."
"I'm a professional, Capy. I told you." He's moving around the space with that same easy familiarity, clearing some sketches off a chair. "Can't work in chaos. Well, I can, but it's not optimal for the creative process."
"The creative process," you repeat, settling into the chair he's indicated. "Right."
The desk is positioned so you're facing away from the bed, which is probably intentional. Less distracting that way. More professional.
Except now you can't stop thinking about the fact that his bed is right behind you, and that's somehow worse than if you could see it.
"So," he says, pulling out a thick portfolio from one of the desk drawers. "Meet Miki."
He opens the portfolio, and you're immediately confronted with...
Well. A lot of things at once.
The first thing you notice is that the art is actually good. Not just technically competent—though it clearly is—but genuinely engaging. The character designs are distinctive, the linework confident, the compositions dynamic in a way that draws your eye across the page.
The second thing you notice is that the main character is definitely not human.
"She has cat ears," you observe, because stating the obvious seems safer than processing the rest of what you're seeing.
"And a tail," Hoseok adds helpfully, flipping to a character sheet that shows the full design. "She's half-succubus, half-nekomata. It's a whole thing."
"A succubus." You lean closer, studying the character design. "Like, a sex demon."
"Technically, yes. But she's more complicated than that."
The character—Miki—is drawn in various poses and expressions across the page. She's definitely designed to be attractive, but there's something more nuanced in her face than typical anime girl proportions. Her eyes have an almost wolfish quality, but also a softness that makes you want to keep looking.
"She feeds on sexual energy," Hoseok continues, settling into his own chair and pulling out what looks like a script. "But unlike traditional succubi, she forms emotional attachments to her... food sources."
"Food sources."
"The people she feeds from. Usually it's supposed to be impersonal—take what you need, move on. But Miki keeps getting attached, which creates problems."
You flip through more pages, getting a sense of the story.
The art style is more sophisticated than you'd expected from hentai manga, with detailed backgrounds and character expressions that actually convey emotion beyond basic lust.
"So what's the conflict?" you ask, because despite yourself, you're curious. "She's a sex demon who catches feelings?"
"Basically. She's trying to figure out if she can have genuine relationships when her fundamental nature is predatory. Can someone love you if they know you literally need to feed off them to survive?"
There's something in his voice when he says it that makes you glance up at him. He's focused on organizing his drawing supplies, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.
"Heavy themes for porn," you comment.
"It's not just porn," he says, and there's a defensive edge to his tone. "I mean, yes, there are explicit scenes, but they serve the story. The sex isn't just gratuitous—it's integral to her character development."
"Okay, okay. I didn't mean to insult your artistic integrity."
"You did, but I'll forgive you." He grins, but it's a little strained. "The publisher likes it because it has crossover appeal. Female readers connect with the emotional stuff, male readers get the explicit content. Everyone wins."
You turn back to the portfolio, studying a page that shows Miki in what's clearly a more intimate scene. The positioning is definitely explicit, but there's something almost tender in the way it's drawn. The focus isn't just on the physical act, but on the characters' faces, their emotional connection.
"She's actually... kind of relatable," you admit reluctantly.
"Yeah?" His voice perks up with genuine interest. "How so?"
"The whole thing about being afraid someone will reject you if they see who you really are. That's pretty universal, isn't it?"
"That's exactly what I was going for." He leans forward, animated now. "She puts on this confident, seductive front, but underneath she's terrified that her true nature makes her unlovable. So she keeps people at a distance, even when she craves connection."
You study another page, this one showing Miki alone in what looks like a small apartment, curled up on a couch with an expression of profound loneliness.
"The cat thing," you say. "Why cats specifically?"
"Nekomata are traditionally shapeshifters in Japanese folklore. They can appear human but retain feline characteristics. It fits with her dual nature—she's caught between two worlds, never fully belonging to either."
"And the succubus part?"
"Succubi are also shapeshifters, traditionally. They appear as whatever their target desires most. So Miki is constantly shifting, constantly adapting to what others want from her, but she's lost track of who she actually is."
You flip to another page, this one showing Miki moving her hands in what you guess is a… cat manner? If that makes sense?
"So where do I come in?" you ask. "What kind of reference do you need?"
Hoseok clears his throat, suddenly looking less confident. "Well, the thing is... I'm good at drawing male anatomy. I understand how men move, how they express emotion physically; and I so happen to have a dick—"
"I'll murder you."
"—but female anatomy, especially in... intimate situations... I struggle with making it look natural."
You narrow your eyes now. "Natural how?"
"Like, how would a real woman actually position herself in this scenario? What would her facial expression be? How would her body language change based on her emotional state?" He's talking faster now, the words tumbling out. "I can copy from photo references, but they're all posed, artificial. I need to see how someone would naturally move, respond, react."
You look back at the manga pages, blinking.
"You want me to pose like her. In these situations."
"Just for reference! Nothing weird, just... showing me how the anatomy would work, how the positioning would look realistic."
"Hoseok." You set the portfolio down, fixing him with a stare. "These are sex scenes."
"Well, yes, but—"
"You're asking me to pose for sex scenes."
"For reference! For art! It's completely professional!"
"Professional sex scene posing."
"It's not—okay, when you put it like that, it sounds weird, but it's really not. It's just figure drawing with more specific requirements."
You lean back in the chair, processing this.
On one hand, it's clearly ridiculous.
On the other hand, the art is genuinely good, and you can see how having realistic references would improve it.
And on the third hand—the hand you're trying very hard to ignore—there's something about the idea that makes your pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with artistic appreciation.
"What exactly would this involve?"
"Basic positioning, mostly. Like, if Miki is supposed to be in this pose," he points to a page showing the character in a suggestive but not explicitly sexual position, "I need to see how a real person would naturally hold themselves. Where the weight would distribute, how the muscles would engage, what the facial expression would actually look like."
"And the more... explicit stuff?"
He shifts in his chair, suddenly very interested in his pencil collection.
"We'd work up to that. Start with basic poses, see how it goes. Nothing you're not comfortable with."
"Comfortable with," you repeat. "Right."
There's a moment of silence where you both pretend to study the manga pages, but you're actually trying to figure out if this is the stupidest idea you've ever considered or just the most complicated.
"The character," you say finally. "Miki. She's supposed to be seductive, right? Confident?"
"On the surface, yeah. But under it all, she's vulnerable. Scared. She uses the seduction as a defense mechanism."
"Sounds familiar."
"Does it?"
You ignore the question, flipping through more pages.
The story is actually engaging, despite—or maybe because of—the explicit content. Miki's internal struggle feels genuine, her relationships complex and emotionally fraught.
"How long have you been working on this?" you ask.
"About eight months. It's supposed to be a twelve-chapter series, and I'm on chapter six now. The deadline pressure is getting intense."
"And you've been struggling with the female anatomy this whole time?"
"Getting worse, actually. The later chapters are more... intimate. More complex emotionally and physically. I keep getting stuck on scenes that should be straightforward."
You study a page showing Miki in what's clearly a moment of distress.
"She's not what I expected," you admit.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Generic anime girl with cat ears? Typical male fantasy bullshit?"
"And instead?"
"Instead she's..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "She's actually a character. With depth. With real problems that aren't just 'oh no, I'm so sexy and everyone wants me.'"
"That was the point. I wanted to create something that elevated the genre, you know? Something that used the explicit content to explore genuine emotional themes."
"And you think I can help with that?"
"I think you understand her," he says quietly. "The way you described her just now—you get what I'm trying to do with the character. That's what I need for the reference work. Not just someone who can hold a pose, but someone who understands the emotional context."
You look at him, really look at him, and see something you hadn't noticed before.
This isn't just a job for him.
This is work he cares about, work he's proud of, even if he's embarrassed by the genre.
"Okay," you say, before you can talk yourself out of it.
"Okay?"
"I'll do it. The reference thing. But we start small, and if it gets weird, I'm out."
His face lights up with genuine relief and excitement. "Really? You'll actually do it?"
"Don't make me regret it, Ott."
"I won't. I promise. This is going to be so helpful, you have no idea."
"Yeah, well." You close the portfolio, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. "Just remember—I'm doing this for art. For your artistic integrity and professional development."
"Absolutely. Completely professional."
"Good."
"Good."
You both sit there for a moment, the weight of what you've just agreed to settling between you.
"So," you say finally. "Where do we start?"
"Basic expressions first," Hoseok says, pulling out a fresh sketchpad and selecting a pencil from his organized collection. "Just... be yourself, but think about Miki's emotional state."
"Be myself while thinking about a cat-succubus. Sure. That's totally normal."
"You know what I mean." He settles back in his chair, pencil poised. "She's guarded, right? Like she's always ready to run or fight. But she's also trying to appear confident."
You shift in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of your own face.
"How exactly does one look like a confident cat-succubus?"
"Just... think about how you look when you're trying to convince someone you don't care about something you actually care about a lot."
The accuracy of that hits uncomfortably close to home. "Rude."
"Accurate," he corrects, already sketching. "Tilt your chin up slightly. Yeah, like that. But soften your eyes a bit—she's not actually angry, just defensive."
You adjust your expression, trying to find the balance between aloof and vulnerable.
It's weird, being studied this intently. His eyes keep flicking between your face and the paper, analyzing, cataloging.
"Good," he murmurs, pencil moving across the page. "That's exactly the look I was going for. Like you're daring someone to get too close while secretly hoping they will."
"I don't look like that."
"You absolutely look like that. You've been looking like that since we were sixteen."
"I have not—"
"Don't move," he says quickly. "That expression right there—that's perfect. The little frown, the way your eyebrows pull together. She does that when someone calls her out on something true."
You hold the pose, trying not to think about what it means that he can read your expressions so easily.
That he's been reading them for years, apparently.
"Okay, now hands," he says after a few minutes of sketching. "Miki's very tactile, but she's also careful about touch. Like she wants to reach out but stops herself."
"How do I pose that?"
"Lift your hand like you're going to touch something, but pull back at the last second. Like you changed your mind."
You raise your hand, extending it toward an imaginary object, then curl your fingers back slightly.
"More hesitation," he says, not looking up from his sketch. "Like you want something but you're afraid of what will happen if you actually take it."
You adjust the position, letting more uncertainty creep into the gesture.
"Perfect. Hold that."
The pencil scratches against paper, and you find yourself watching his face as he works.
His expression is completely focused, serious in a way you rarely see. Behind the glasses, his eyes are intent, studying the curve of your fingers, the angle of your wrist.
"You're actually good at this," you say quietly.
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised. I'm just... I don't know. Seeing you work is different than I expected."
"Different how?"
"More professional. More... real."
He glances up at you, something unreadable in his expression.
"What did you think it would be like?"
"I don't know. Messier? More chaotic? You were always so scattered in school."
"I grew up, Capy. People change."
There's something in his tone that makes you study his face more carefully.
"Do they?"
"Some things change. Some things don't."
You're both quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft scratch of pencil on paper.
"Okay," he says finally, setting down the pencil. "That's good for basic expressions. Now I need to see how you'd naturally position yourself in some of the more... interactive scenes."
"Interactive."
"Like, if Miki is supposed to be sitting close to someone, or reaching for them, or..." He trails off, flipping through the portfolio to find a specific page. "Here. This scene. She's supposed to be leaning toward her partner, but not quite touching. Intimate but hesitant."
You study the page. It's not explicitly sexual, but it's definitely suggestive—Miki positioned close to a male character, her body language indicating desire but also uncertainty.
"So I just... lean forward?"
"Yeah, but naturally. Like you would if you were actually in that situation."
You shift in your chair, leaning toward where an imaginary partner would be sitting.
It feels weird and stupid.
"It looks forced," Hoseok says, frowning at his sketch. "Like you're posing for a photo instead of actually wanting to be close to someone."
"Because I am posing for a photo. Essentially."
"Right, but... here." He sets down his pencil and stands up. "Can I show you?"
"Show me how?"
"The positioning. It'll be easier if I demonstrate."
Before you can fully process what he's suggesting, he's moving toward you, and suddenly he's right there. Close enough that you can smell the citrusy notes of cologne that cling to him.
That has changed, too.
It's yuzu.
"Like this," he says, his voice quieter now. "If you were actually drawn to someone, you wouldn't just lean forward mechanically. You'd angle your whole body toward them."
His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching.
"Can I...?"
You nod, not trusting your voice.
His hands settle on your shoulders, warm and careful, adjusting your position.
"Turn slightly this way. Yeah, like that. And drop your shoulder a bit—you're holding tension here."
His thumb brushes against your collarbone as he adjusts your posture, and you both freeze.
It's barely contact. Just his thumb against the edge of your shirt, the barest hint of skin-to-skin touch.
But something electric shoots through you at the contact, making your breath catch.
"Sorry," he says quickly, but he doesn't immediately pull away. "I just—the positioning was—"
"It's fine," you manage, even though it's not fine at all.
It's the opposite of fine.
It's your childhood friend's hands on your shoulders and his face inches from yours and your heart doing something complicated in your chest.
"Better," he says, his voice slightly rough. "That's much more natural."
"Hoseok," you say, and his name comes out softer than you intended.
"Yeah?"
"You should probably..." You gesture vaguely at his hands, still resting on your shoulders.
"Right. Yeah. Professional distance."
Then he steps back, running a hand through his hair, and the spell breaks.
"That's the position," he says, settling back into his chair and picking up his pencil with hands that aren't quite steady. "Much better. More believable."
"Good," you say, trying to ignore the way your skin still feels warm where he touched you. "Professional artistic collaboration."
"Exactly. Very professional."
But when he starts sketching again, you notice the way his eyes linger on your face, the way his pencil moves more slowly across the paper.
This is fine, you tell yourself. This is just helping a friend with work.
The fact that your pulse is racing and your skin feels too warm and you keep thinking about the careful way he touched you—that's all completely irrelevant.
Professional.
Artistic.
Totally under control.
"Next pose?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds.
"Right," he says, flipping to another page. "This one's a bit more... close contact."
And despite everything you just told yourself about staying professional, you find yourself leaning forward slightly, curious to see what he'll ask for next.
Hoseok's couch is, begrudgingly, comfortable.
The next pose requires you to lie on your side, one arm stretched above your head, the other curved around an imaginary partner.
"This is for chapter five," Hoseok explains, flipping through his reference sheets. "Miki's supposed to be in this post-intimacy moment, maintaining some of her feline independence."
You settle onto the couch, adjusting your position until it feels natural. Which is a task in itself, because it's not precisely roomy despite being comfy, and your own disastrous bun (which you ended putting up after hair kept getting in the way) is making it impossible.
The cushions, luckily, are softer than you expected, worn in a way that suggests this is where he actually sleeps most nights rather than bothering with the futon.
"Turn your face toward me slightly," he says, pencil already moving. "Good. Now soften your expression—she's content but still guarded."
The pose is comfortable enough, but holding it for extended periods makes your shoulder ache. You shift slightly, trying to maintain the position while relieving the pressure.
"Sorry," Hoseok says, noticing your discomfort. "This one's taking longer than usual. The lighting is perfect right now, but I know it's not easy to hold."
"It's fine," you lie, because the alternative is admitting that lying on his couch in a pose that suggests post-coital intimacy is doing things to your pulse.
The apartment has settled into its evening rhythm.
The neighbors' TV provides a muffled soundtrack through the thin walls, and the vending machines outside cast a familiar glow through the window. The dining room light is dim enough to bathe you in relaxed shadows.
"Tell me about her," you say, partly to distract yourself from the growing ache in your shoulder, partly because you're genuinely curious. "Miki. What happens to her in the end?"
Hoseok's pencil pauses.
"I'm not sure yet. The editor wants a happy ending, but..."
"But?"
"But I don't know if that's realistic. Can someone like her actually find what she's looking for? Or is she always going to be caught between worlds?"
The tone he uses makes you study his face more carefully.
In the lamplight, his expression is more serious than usual, no hint of playfulness this time.
"What do you think she's looking for?" you ask.
"Someone who sees all of her. The monster and the person. Someone who isn't afraid of what she needs to survive."
His phrase hangs in the space between you, loaded with meaning that neither of you acknowledges directly.
"That doesn't sound impossible," you say quietly.
"Doesn't it?" He looks up from his sketch, meeting your eyes. "When your fundamental nature is to take from people, how do you build something real with them?"
You're both quiet for a moment.
"Maybe," you say finally, "it's not about changing what you are. Maybe it's about finding someone who understands what you need and chooses to give it anyway."
Hoseok stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he looks back down at his sketch, pencil moving with renewed focus.
"Hold that thought," he murmurs. "And that expression. That's exactly what I needed."
You maintain the pose, but your mind is elsewhere, turning over the conversation.
Because the way he talked about Miki felt less like discussing a fictional character and more like... something else entirely.
The evening promptly stretches on.
Hoseok works with unusual intensity, occasionally asking you to adjust your position or expression, but mostly just drawing with the kind of focus you remember from when you were kids and he'd disappear into his art for hours.
You find yourself relaxing into the couch, the warmth of the apartment and the gentle scratch of pencil on paper creating a surprisingly soothing atmosphere.
Your shoulder has stopped aching, or maybe you've just gotten used to it.
"Almost done," Hoseok says, but his voice sounds distant, like he's talking to himself more than to you.
The building settles around you with its familiar creaks and sighs. Someone's cooking curry in another unit, the smell drifting through the walls. A train passes in the distance, its whistle barely audible but somehow comforting.
Your eyelids are getting heavy.
The couch is stupidly more comfortable than your own bed back at the corporate housing, and there's something deeply peaceful about lying here while Hoseok works, the two of you existing in comfortable parallel focus.
"Just a few more minutes," he says softly, and you make a sound of acknowledgment that comes out more like a hum.
The last thing you're aware of is the gentle scratch of his pencil and the warm weight of sleep pulling you under.
You wake to silence and the unfamiliar sensation of something soft covering you.
The apartment is dark except for the glow from the vending machines outside, and it takes you a moment to remember where you are.
Hoseok's couch.
His blanket—the expensive one he splurged on—tucked carefully around your shoulders.
You sit up slowly, disoriented.
The dining room light is off, his art supplies put away.
No sign of Hoseok himself, though you can hear the soft sound of breathing from the direction of his futon.
Your phone shows 3:47 AM.
Shit.
You fell asleep during the pose session, and he just... let you sleep. Covered you with his blanket and went to bed without waking you.
The thoughtfulness of it makes something warm and complicated twist in your chest.
You fold the blanket carefully, setting it on the couch arm, and gather your things as quietly as possible. Your bag is on the floor by the door where you left it, but when you reach for it, you freeze.
Momo is curled up on top of it, a tiny ball of fur using your bag as a makeshift bed. She's never done that before—usually she stays in her cage or on Hoseok's shoulder, treating you with polite indifference at best.
But now she's chosen your bag as her sleeping spot, and when you gently move to pick up the strap, she doesn't scurry away. Instead, she opens one sleepy eye, looks at you with what might be recognition, and settles back into her nap.
You carefully extract your bag from under her, and she simply relocates to the floor, still unbothered by your presence.
It's a silly thing, really… But the way she chose specifically to sleep on that spot makes you absurdly feel like you're being accepted into the ecosystem of this tiny apartment.
Chosen.
You slip out as quietly as possible, closing the door with barely a click.
The hallway is empty, lit only by the emergency exit sign at the far end.
Your footsteps echo softly on the worn carpet as you make your way to the elevator, which thankfully decides to work at this ungodly hour.
Outside, Osaka at 4 AM is a different city entirely. The streets are mostly empty except for the occasional taxi and the dedicated salarymen stumbling home from late nights. The air is cooler, carrying the scent of rain that might come later.
You walk the seventeen minutes back to your corporate housing, your mind turning over the evening.
The conversation about Miki. The way Hoseok looked at you when you talked about finding someone who understands what you need. The careful way he'd covered you with his blanket.
And Momo, sleeping on your bag like you belong there.
By the time you reach your building, the sky is starting to lighten at the edges, that pale pre-dawn glow that means morning isn't far away.
You have three hours before you need to be awake for work, but you know you won't sleep.
Instead, you lie in your narrow bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the weight of his blanket and the sound of his pencil on paper and the way he'd talked about Miki like she was a real person with real problems.
Like she was someone worth understanding.
Your phone buzzes with a text.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:23 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:24 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎-𝚋𝚞𝚝-𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.
You stare at the messages, something fluttering in your chest that you refuse to name.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:26 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:27 AM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚠.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:28 AM): 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚐𝚕𝚢.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:29 AM): 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.
You reach up automatically, realizing your hair is loose around your shoulders. You'd had it up for the pose session, but it must have come undone while you slept.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:30 AM): 𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚝. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:31 AM): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚎: 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:32 AM): 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝙾𝚝𝚝.
𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜.
You set your phone aside and close your eyes, but sleep doesn't come.
Instead, you lie there thinking about the way he'd said 'sweet dreams' like he meant it, and the careful way he'd tucked the blanket around your shoulders, and the fact that Momo had chosen your bag as her sleeping spot.
Small things. Tiny gestures that probably don't mean anything.
But they feel like something anyway.
goal: 200 notes.
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