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everything we are ᯓ h.vc [m]

— synopsis: following an abrupt break-up that has lasted a year, you find yourself standing in front of the very apartment where your past lover sleeps, and where you once used to call home. two birthdays, several holidays and one sullen, teary 'could've been' anniversary later — you're ready to face him and ask the unexpected. – genre: exes to ??? ; angst, smut, fluff. — pairing: ex-boyfriend!hansol vernon chwe x fem!reader – word count: 12k. — rating: 18+. minors do not interact! – warnings: seungkwan plot device! lots of tears, breakups, mentions of food/eating, mentions of alcohol. smoking (weed), swearing, kissing, exes being exes that can't let go. smut warnings: unprotected sex (yeah yeah don't do it), pet names (babe, baby, etc.) ; brief oral/fingering (f.rec), dirty talk (sorry), body worship, slight breeding kink, ruined orgasms, clitplay, creampie. that's about it i think. enjoy? — what to listen to: iris - the goo goo dolls ; the only heartbreaker - mitski ; supercut - lorde ; if you leave me - seventeen ; winterbreak - muna ; perdoname - yoskar sarante ; beg for you (remix) - charli xcx, rina sawayama, a.g. cook, vernon. – author's note: [special thank you to @diamonddaze01, @hannieoftheyear + @ikeukiss for beta-reading most of this before i finished it off tonight!] he's bald! he's bald and he's falling in love with people who have hair! as previously stated, i could not finish off 2025 without thee hansol vernon chwe making his debut on my blog, and i'm incredibly excited to dedicate this one to none other than @sailorsoons ! i'm not going to get sappy because i'm not good at it and i know you don't like it, but please know i love you and i hope your birthday was a blast. here's to you, to 2025 and hansollie's debut on haologram! happy birthday, halali! ♡

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

You don’t have an answer for him; your hand clenched inside your jacket pocket, the other gripping the handle of your umbrella. You look up at him from under the rim of the pink shade, his eyes boring into your face. He looks upset, but perhaps...not with you.

Maybe the circumstances.

“I’m not sure,” you mumble back, your throat burning as you step back slightly.

He stays silent as he averts his gaze to your boots, muddy from the rain and possibly jumping in every puddle available. You always liked doing that when the rain was light, and it usually ended up with him offering you a pair of sweatpants when you got home.

Or, to his apartment. It’s not home to you, not anymore.

He doesn’t say anything as he moves to the side, opening the door wider for you to step inside. You’re seemingly rooted in place until he turns his head to face the inside of his apartment. Slightly messy, with blankets and sweaters strewn everywhere. Candles burning on his coffee table fill the place you once called home with smells of salted caramel, vanilla and a hint of cedarwood.

You’re quiet as you slip your feet out of your pink rain boots, your mismatched yellow and purple socks doing nothing to keep you warm from the freezing tile of his foyer. You shake off the umbrella, wrapping it closed and leaning it against the brick of his building.

“No one will take it, right?” “You know no one will.”

You shove your hand in your pocket as you duck into his apartment, feeling the sting of tears prick at your eyes as you look around his living room. He’s got his journal open on the coffee table, the list of films you promised you’d watch together displayed in his handwriting. Smudges of blue and splats of ink from what you presume to be tears cover the page.

The Netflix account you once shared is paused forty minutes into Mary and The Witch’s Flower.

“I thought we said—” “We said a lot of things, let’s not go down that rabbit hole.”

You suck in a breath, nodding as he shuts the door. You hear the lock click, before hearing him skirt into the kitchen.

“Drink?” “Any soju?”

A scoff is heard, before the familiar clinking of the green bottles you know he hasn’t touched and possibly been sitting since you left. Hansol never did like to drink alone.

Even if it meant drowning in every sinking thought he had about you.

He comes out of the kitchen with the bottled gripped between his knuckles, and a bottle of juice in his other hand. It’s new, and it’s one of your favorites. One that he hates.

“Force of habit, huh?” “I guess.”

You inch towards the couch, the Persian rug beneath your feet soft and cushiony. You remember buying it with him, browsing a website he’d gotten from Seungkwan and buying three things while stoned out of your mind. The tiger blanket draped across the couch was one of the three, and a personalized cushion with your initials was the other.

That was nowhere to be found.

You perch on the edge of the couch, suddenly feeling hot as he sets the drinks on the coffee table. He still smells the same, soft aftershave and cotton deodorant.

Cotton deodorant you used to buy for him, in bulk at Costco.

He had half a stick on the vanity before you left. He’s had to have bought more since.

He’s almost too close as he opens the bottles, flicking the caps onto the table and leaning back into the couch. Your fingers brush the sweating neck of the soju bottle as you grab for it, cold and slippery. He takes it from you abruptly, a bit of it spilling down his hand as he shakes his head.

“Wrong one.”

You look at the bottle in his hand, his fingers just barely covering the word Fresh scrawled on the label. Your cheeks heat as you nod, grabbing for the other one.

Yogurt.

“Do you need a glass?” “No, I’m okay.”

He hums, picking at the label on his bottle with his ringed forefinger. He doesn’t press play on the movie; he doesn’t move to comfort any sort of awkward situation. Hansol knows you’ll speak when you’re ready.

“What’s the movie about?” “The kid’s a witch.” “Oh, cool.” “Yep.”

Silence.

Agonizing, excruciating, debilitating silence.

“Do you hate me?” “What?”

His eyes are wide as he quickly faces you; your eyes glued to the burning flame of the salted caramel candle on his coffee table. You bought that one. You bought it at a home goods store, and you remember scowling at him when he raised an eyebrow at you when you beelined for it – you'd told him you’d just wanted to get new pillows for the bed.

Pillows you left behind.

“Do you hate me, Hansol? I’d hate me?” “I could never hate you.”

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the bottle of soju. He sighs, setting his down on the coffee table before running a hand through his hair. Or lack thereof, he’s buzzed it off since – chocolate brown hair you’d run your fingers through before bed or swipe out of his eyes when he was too concentrated on Mario Kart.

He looks good.

He looks...tired.

“I could never hate you.” He repeats, and suddenly, the air feels thicker around you. Everything feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, your chest tight as you force yourself to look up at him. His eyes are rimmed with unshed tears, your jaw dropping slightly as you inch forward.

He looks away, wiping his eyes quickly before clearing his throat.

“You did what you thought was best. I can’t hate you for taking care of yourself, that’s what you’re supposed to do.” He mumbles thickly, shrugging his shoulders as he traces the spout of the bottle. You follow his fingers carefully, your heart sinking at the slight tremble in them.

“I’m sorry I disturbed you tonight, Hansol.” You murmur back, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans, still damp from sprinkles of the rain. He shakes his head, sighing. You’re both staring at the condensation dripping on his coffee table.

His coffee table that you bought together. His bottle of juice that he’s never going to drink. His television, and the remote that you always changed the batteries to because he would forget.

His apartment. Speckled with you, everywhere. Everywhere you looked, you saw yourself.

“You didn’t.” “I did.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel, Y/N. I’m so tired of everyone telling me how I feel, or how I’m supposed to feel, or whatever. I’m human, too. I can feel whatever I want. And you didn’t disturb me, okay? I wouldn’t have opened the door if I didn’t want to.”

Your chest aches at the sound of your name from his lips, eyes wide as you look at him; his own still trained on the condensation gathering on his coffee table. You watch him as his eyes follow the drops sliding down the bottles, your tongue darting out slowly to wet your lips.

“Why...did you?” “Why did I what?” “Open the door.”

“It’s storming. You only like rain when it’s light.” He whispers to himself, before glancing at you. “You still...right? You still don’t like thunder?”

It’s only been a year, but he acts like it’s been an eternity.

Maybe it has been.

Maybe it’s been a millennia for him, as it has been for you.

“Right,” you nod, picking at your nail polish as your leg starts bouncing. He used to stop you – when he was your boyfriend. He’d splay his hand on your kneecap; his thumb would rub gentle circles into the side before giving it a squeeze. You found solace in the touch.

Now? He’s more than a cushion and a half away, and the space between you is hot; it’s burning hot. And you so badly want to close the gap, to feel his hand on your knee and feel the comfort of him spread through your body.

In any way. You’d allow it in any way.

“It’s been a year. Today.” You clear your throat, and he closes his eyes – folding his hands in his lap as he leans back into the couch. He nods before resting his head on the back of his couch and opening his eyes to look at you.

“...Is this where we do the whole ‘how have you been’ bullshit?”

There is a lilt of a smile in his voice, but it doesn’t show on his face. You shake your head, shrugging your shoulders.

“I don’t know.” “You don’t know how you’ve been, or you don’t know if—”

“I miss you, Hansol.” You blurt, wincing inwardly as you shove your hands under your thighs; your fingers cold from the bottle and the rain and the way all the blood in your body rushes to your chest to aid the fire of anxiety in growing. You shift, wondering how long you could stare at the coffee table before your eyes wore holes into it.

“...Is that why you’re here?”

You suck in a shaky breath, opting to close your eyes. If you’re going to cry, you don’t want to see his reaction to it. You don’t want to see the flame in his eyes when he tells you to get out, to leave – that you’re too little, too late.

That he doesn’t want you anymore, and you’ll have to live with the regret of leaving him for the sake of nothing for the rest of your life.

“I know I don’t get to say that. I know it’s my fault. I left, and I...I’m sorry, Hansol. I’m sorry that I was a coward and I jumped ship when things started getting serious. I was a douche, and you don’t have to miss me. You don’t have to feel anything, I just...” Your tongue darts out to lick your lips, the salty taste of a stray tear coating the tip.

“I wasn’t even in the neighborhood. I was six blocks away; I’d gotten coffee with Seungkwan. He told me you still lived here, and that you were good. That you were doing well.”

“And you wanted to...what? Check and make sure for yourself? Ruin it, if I was?”

There’s no poison in his voice. Hansol has always been diplomatic, respectful. Sometimes you wondered if there was a single bone in his body that ever felt rage. The urge to make everything look like a war zone, the subtle need to want to destroy every relationship he’s ever built from the ground up.

Sometimes, you feel that kind of rage.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, tightly squeezing your eyes shut as you feel him shift on the other edge of the couch. A roll of thunder is heard outside, your fingers gripping the fabric of the cushion beneath your thighs as it fades.

You don’t catch the way he instinctively reaches for you, before sinking back into the cushion.

“I don’t know what I wanted to do. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

He hums, and you sniffle. One of your hands reaches to swipe at your face, wiping the tears on your jeans as you face away from him. You open your eyes, looking at the wall through the blur of tears. All the frames on the wall are still the same, and they hold all of your pictures together. Your face is still cemented in the memories, and you wonder how he felt looking at those pictures every single day.

“Do you want to talk about everything?” He asks softly, and you glance over your shoulder to see him resting his cheek on his palm. His eyes are just as gentle and understanding as they’ve always been.

As warm as they’ve always been.

“It could help you...uh, figure yourself out.”

Help you figure yourself out.

“What is there to talk about? I left for no reason.” “Don’t do that. You left to find yourself. You left to take care of you.”

“And it was selfish,” you scoff, and he clicks his tongue.

“You think so?” “I know so.”

“I think it would’ve been worse if I kept begging you to stay, knowing you wouldn’t have been happy here. I mean, look around,” he gestures to the apartment. There is so much of you, and so much of him. “Everything in this apartment was a display of what our relationship was. Everything was you and me, me and you and us. It was never just Y/N, and it was never just Hansol. I could not, in good faith, keep you here if it was me that was suffocating you. It was not fair.”

“You could never suffocate me,” you mumble to yourself, feeling a few tears trickle down your face as you speak.

It’s silent for a moment.

“What about you, Sol?”

The nickname slips from your bitten lips, and he sighs.

“What about me, Y/N?” “If the tables were turned. If I had begged the way you did, would you have stayed?”

It’s not a fair question. You know it’s not, and you can tell he thinks it’s not as his eyes shut, and he silently nods his head. He tongues his cheek, running a hand over his buzzed hair and down his face.

“That’s not a fair question.” “I know.”

You nod, choosing to refocus your gaze on the coffee table. There was a sticker you’d peeled off an apple a few weeks before you left, still stuck to the table leg. It looks glossed over, like it’d come unstuck and somehow been put back. Glue, maybe. Clear nail polish.

“Why didn’t you change the apartment?” “In case you ever found your way back.”

There was a hint of hope in the back of his throat, and you realize that he’s wearing the same hoodie he wore the day you left. Baby blue, over a white t-shirt. You bought it for him, just a few weeks before you decided that things were too overwhelming. That the idea of forever was too similar to the feeling of impending doom, that seeing him so irrevocably in love with you when you couldn’t even understand the ache in your chest when you looked at yourself in the mirror...it felt unfair. It felt unfair to lose yourself in him.

It felt unfair to have the goodness of Hansol’s heart in the palm of your hand.

And it was unfair to get to break it into pieces as he knelt in front of you that very day, his forehead pressed against your thighs int he very same jeans you’re wearing now. The way his tears soaked through the material the same way the rain had, and how you bit back your own sobs as you carded your fingers through his hair that night – before untangling his arms from around your knees and walking out of the navy grey door you wish would open so you could bolt out right now.

“If I beg now—” “You never have to beg for anything. Not from me.”

You felt your throat ache as you forced yourself to swallow, holding back a sob as he sighed quietly.

“Can I...talk about what it was like not having you around?” His voice is tentative, almost like he was talking to a deer he didn’t want to spook. You nod in silence, letting the tears drip onto your pants freely as you continue to stare at the coffee table.

“I still go by the grocery list you left on the fridge. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam and that gross fucking juice.”

His words are enough to get a snorted laugh out of you, your hand reaching to dig into your pocket for the napkin you’d taken from the café you’d been at earlier. You wipe the tip of your nose with it, shaking your head.

“I haven’t used pots or pans. I bought a crappy set from the dollar store to get myself through the days alone. I haven’t used the silverware, but I haven’t polished it either...so it’s just gathering dust in the drawer. I haven’t slept in the bedroom, either. I usually sleep here, on the couch. You left a tube of lipstick on the bathroom counter, and your shampoo is still in the shower caddy.”

He nods, and you can feel the heat of his gaze leave your face. You peek at him through the corner of your eye, seeing him looking behind you – at the wall of photos.

“I bought a sample size of your perfume, so the bathroom would still smell like it did in the morning when you would leave for work.”

You can feel your chest ache; almost like someone had reached into your ribcage and squeezed your heart so tight, it could burst in their hand.

“I refill the same disposable soap you bought the week you left. The detergent is still the same cotton scent, because you said that the other scents made your head hurt. I bought a new air freshener a few months ago but went back to return it because it was Febreze, and you don’t like Febreze unless it’s the Linen & Sky scent. I replaced the baking soda in the refrigerator, but the only food in there is what I mentioned earlier. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam.”

“And the juice,” you utter, and you can sense a dull ache start to thump at your temples. You bring your fingers up to your face, rubbing slow circles. Your eyes are low as they flicker up to the wall next to the door – his caps are hung up in the exact order they had been when you left. His navy New York Yankees, blue Texas Rangers, black Chicago White Sox and a pink one he rarely wore unless the two of you were going somewhere together.

It had your initials embroidered on the bill.

“I left everything exactly the same. I wanted it to still feel like home to you, if you ever came back.”

You turn to face him, seeing his eyes brimming with tears as he clears his throat, but interrupt him before he can speak.

“I carry a Polaroid of us in my wallet,” you start, running a hand over your face as you bring your knees to your chest, leaning back fully into the couch. “I carry a Polaroid of us, and I would show it to guys when they asked me if I was dating anyone. I couldn’t bring myself to delete any of our photos, so I put them all in a locked folder and forced myself to never look at it. I’ve eaten so much peanut butter, and it doesn’t even taste good. I hate it, actually. I hate peanut butter.”

He covers his mouth with his fingers, pursing his lips so as to not let his laughter out. You feel a smile try to fight its way onto your lips, but you swallow it down as you pick at a loose thread on the couch. You used to snip them when you still lived here. You’re sure if you reach just under the middle cushion, the gold pair of sewing scissors would still be tucked away safely.

“I left, and I was miserable. I was miserable because I was doing everything to let go of something...of someone I was so sure I didn’t deserve. I was trying to erase you from my life, but you were already missing. I would order too much food and wonder what to do with the leftovers. I would see a poster for a new indie movie I thought you’d like, and I’d go to text you, typing in the message box before I realized I couldn’t just do that. It wasn’t fair.”

“I saw the bubble pop up a lot,” he confesses softly. You must look confused, because he clears his throat before shrugging, “I once opened the chat while I was in the grocery store. I was going to ask you if we needed anything else. You were typing and then you stopped. I cried in the dry cereal aisle, a little girl called me a wimp, and I left without groceries. It’s kind of funny, now that I think about it.”

“I’m sorry.” “That’s the last time you say that to me. I’m sick of hearing it.”

His eyes are serious, no longer glazed with tears. You nod slowly, before you run your tongue over your lips for a third time. It’s suddenly too dry in his apartment, and you feel your skin start to itch as you clear your throat.

“I miss you, Sol.”

You feel your eyes flood, a fat teardrop splatting onto your hand. You wipe it off on your jeans, before sniveling one last time and pushing off the couch.

“Thank you for listening, and for letting me in.”

He nods silently, before standing up. He doesn’t move towards the door – instead beelining for what used to be your shared bedroom. You wipe at your eyes haphazardly, drying your hands of what few tears were left on the back of your jeans. You can hear him rooting around, and you opt to move towards the hallway mirror to check your reflection.

In the corner of the mirror’s frame is a Polaroid of you and him. Your cheeks squished together, with your birthday scrawled in blue marker across the bottom in his handwriting. A lopsided heart follows the date.

It’s been so many years since that photo. It feels like so long ago.

He’s wearing the same blue hoodie, and your shoulders brave the same hot pink windbreaker.

He’d spotted it at a thrift store, the windbreaker. And the jeans you have on. And the t-shirt you wear to bed, still sullied with the scent of his deodorant and his toothpaste stain that doesn’t come out no matter how many times you wash it.

And you realize – that you are entangled.

You are everything he is, and he is everything you are. You mirror one another – from the love of cinema to the way you find each other in every universe; whether it’s in a baby blue hoodie and a hot pink windbreaker, in bottles of Fresh and Yogurt soju, or in a pink cap with your initials embroidered on it and the locket he got you with his engraved.

It burns the skin of your chest under your shirt.

Your bedroom at your mother’s house is riddled with more of him – from the single love letter you took when you left, to the odd collection of his shirt and hoodies you’d stolen from him over the years. He picked the forest green paint on the walls a few summers ago, and he made you a shitload of tchotchkes to line the floating shelves he’d helped you put up. You’d escaped there when you left him a year ago.

Only a few miles from him.

From home.

You bring your hand to your chest, feeling around for the gold locket and finding it twisted in your cleavage. It held two pictures – one of him as a baby, and one of you together. Close to your heart, close to your soul – you carried him.

You would beg. God, you would beg.

You would – if it meant you didn’t have to leave. If it meant you could leave your umbrella outside and know that Mrs. Kim next door would borrow it in the morning to get her newspaper before putting it back. You would beg on your hands and knees if it meant that Hansol wrapped his arms around you in this very moment, and let you breathe in the cotton and salted caramel and vanilla and everything he’s ever been.

You would beg, plead, pray to whatever God was out there to feel the warmth of his lips against your forehead. To hear that he missed you, he misses you. To stay up well into the night watching Princess Mononoke on his iPad in the kitchen while you bicker about how bad he is at polishing the silverware.

To lay in bed with him and count his eyelashes. To stuff a towel on the windowsill so you can open the window and breathe in the petrichor but not ruin the paint. To throw the duvet off the bed and run your hands under his shirt, likely stained with splatters of kimchi stew and the juice he fucking hates but drinks because it reminds him of the way you taste.

But it’s much sweeter when he thinks of it that way, he told you once. It tastes a lot better when it’s on your lips.

He loves that gross fucking juice when it’s lingering on your tongue.

You sigh, finally looking at your face in the mirror. Hansol is standing behind you, brows slightly furrowed as he seemingly stares at the back of your head. You jump, your hand splaying on your chest as you suck in a breath too quickly.

“You jerk, you scared me!”

“I’ll wear a bell next time,” he rolls his eyes, before holding up something in the mirror. Purple with white flowers, yellow with cats – your socks.

Ones you lost a year ago.

“Where did you find those?” “Mrs. Kim next door found them in her basket after she pulled her clothes from the dryer yesterday. She said she remembered you running in your underwear for the newspaper and you were wearing the purple ones.”

Your eyes widen, “I’ve never run outside in my underwear! And I had shorts on that day!”

“My boxers do not count as shorts,” he snorts, before holding them out to you. “Underwear is still underwear, no matter who wears it.”

“Pft. Whatever.” You mutter before hesitating to take the socks. It could mean the end of whatever this was – you would have to stuff them in your pocket and walk towards his front door. You would have to turn his doorknob and hold onto the threshold of his apartment as you slipped your feet back into your wet rain boots. You would have to stand in his stoop as you shook out and opened your umbrella.

You would have to look into his eyes and say goodbye.

And for how long?

How long will goodbye be this time?

You reach behind you and carefully take the socks, your thumb brushing him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t react – only watching as you tuck the socks into the pocket of your windbreaker. His eyes return to the mirror, the Polaroid in the corner catching his attention.

“I haven’t looked at that photo in so long,” he murmurs, stepping forward slightly. You can feel the heat of his body on your back, before nimble fingers pluck the photo from the corner of the frame. He looks like he’s in pain as he takes it, as if it hurts him to move anything that was there when you left.

His thumb wipes dust off the photo, particularly off your face. You look at the mirror and see the perfect outline of the Polaroid, formed by the dust. You reach over and wipe it off, before wiping your hand on your jeans.

I’m ready to come home.

Please. Ask me to come home.

He glances up at the motion, tonguing his cheek as he manages to place the picture back perfectly.

“Nice try.”

You don’t respond, but he doesn't say anything else, either. He simply stares at the photo before sighing softly. He looks hesitant, and you continue to let your eyes linger on the heart-shape of his smile in the photo as you mutter under your breath.

“It’s still raining.” “It’s only going to get worse. I’m surprised you agreed to go out with Seungkwan at all.”

You nod, before your eyes flit back to the mirror. He’s not looking at the photo anymore – but at you. His eyes are full of emotions you can’t place as he scans the entirety of your face, as if he’s taking you in; as if he can’t believe you’re real.

As if he can’t believe you’re home.

“You changed your mascara.”

You blink, opting to clear your throat as you nod, “how’d you know?”

“The other one was kind of blue, I think. This one is brown.” He shrugs, “I liked the blue one.”

“I’ll wear it more often,” you reply smoothly, before realizing it was one of the responses you’d give him when he complimented something you donned during your relationship. The hot pink windbreaker, the jeans you have on, OPI polish in Cos-mo Money on your fingernails.

“I mean, I didn’t...ugh. Sorry.” “Mhm.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and you feel your throat dry as his eyes continue their path around your face. Eyes, nose...

Lips.

“I miss you,” he murmurs.

You feel your back stiffen as he shifts away, hearing his footsteps round the edge of the couch. He doesn’t sit down – instead, blowing out his candles as he gathers the bottles of untouched soju and tucks the unopened juice under his arm as he speaks.

“I miss you, and I don’t want you to leave. I understand if you have to, and I’ll be here when you’re ready to come home.”

You’re rooted in place as you watch him slink away into the kitchen, hearing him pour the liquor down the drain. The clinking of the bottles is mocking you as he rinses them, before sliding them into the glass-only recycling bin. The sound of the refrigerator opening pains you, hearing the clunk of the heavy juice bottle being slid into the door before it shuts again.

For what seems like the thousandth time today, you feel your eyes sting with tears. Your nose burns as you wait for him to slip out of the kitchen, your fingers toying with the zipper of your windbreaker before it gets the chance to start feeling too sticky on your skin. You tug it off, bunching it up and tossing it over the back of the couch before running your hands over your face in frustration.

“Too sticky?”

He appears next to you; eyes rimmed red as he sidles up. Or at least you wish he would – he's a good foot and a half away. The tip of his nose is pink, and there is a soft sheen on his cheeks – from tears finally spilling, you assume.

It makes you ache.

It makes your teeth hurt, the bittersweet pain of watching the man who you were sure put the stars in the sky every night feel like he had to act like you were a stranger while still yearning for you – just to make you comfortable. Why does he do that?

How can he do that?

“Hansol?” “Mmh?”

You should feel pathetic, selfish, with the way the words crawl up your throat so easily.

“Can I stay?”

He doesn’t respond; his eyes glancing at the clock above the television. It was one of the first things you bought together – at yet another thrift store. It had a badly painted version of Shrek and Donkey on the face; the numbers shakily smeared, but the two of you bought it for giggles. It became a statement piece; your friends always commented on how ugly the thing was in comparison to everything else in your home.

But it was so you, and it was so Hansol.

So, who cares?

“Please. Please, let me stay, Sol.”

“You don’t need to beg. This is your home.” He shakes his head, and you can feel your voice shaking before you can even get the words out.

“You don’t have to miss me because I miss you. You don’t have to love me, because I love you. It’s not transactional.”

You almost miss the way he rolls his eyes, before he glances down at you by the slope of his nose. His brow is raised, your skin prickling at the sight.

“Don’t tell me how to feel.” “I’m not.”

He shrugs, perching on the back of the couch. His hands are hidden in the pocket of his hoodie, and the proximity is enough to make your knees grow weak – worsening as a hint of that soft aftershave floats up your nostrils.

“You are. I’m allowed to miss you, you know. I’m allowed to think about you before I go to bed at three in the morning. I’m allowed to feel the twist in my stomach when I look at the toothbrush you left that I haven’t had the balls to replace, as if you’re still here. I’m allowed to still love you, after all this time.”

“I was gone for a year. You should hate me.” You lament, absently picking at your cuticles, “an entire year, Hansol. Two birthdays, yours and mine. So many holidays so many special events...all over my own insecurities of not knowing who I was and if I was even worth your time.”

He scoffs, shaking his head, “a year, ten years, a millennia. My heart has only ever been my own when you’re not the one holding it. Only then, could you have told me how to feel, and I still wouldn’t have listened to you. I will love you even if you do not love me, and even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. Even when you know who you are, and especially when you don’t. Because I know.”

You feel your lip jut out in a pout as you try to hold back the pathetic sob in your throat, only to see his hand slip out of his pocket and stop you from picking at your skin. He’s warm, like he always is.

He’s warm, inviting. Comforting.

You look up cautiously, only to see the same gaze you’d been used to in the mornings just a year ago. Soft, gentle, loving. Unadulterated adoration.

Glazed over with a hint of uncertainty. Of the present, of the future.

Of us, and everything we are. Everything we could be, and everything we are.

You look around the apartment, the weight of his hand on yours seeping into your bones. You take everything in again – the coffee table, the condensation left from the bottles, the remote. The television. The journal, with smudged blue ink. The candles. The hideous Shrek clock.

Your coffee table that you bought together. Your television, and the remote you always changed the batteries to because he would forget. The journal you bought him at a bookstore while he was preparing to visit his sister in New York City. The candles you bought around the time of that trip, because they reminded you of him – though he smells like cotton and they smell like candy.

The blanket you knitted yourself when he complained about being cold one evening – it took you four months, but it was well worth it to see the giddy grin on his face when you finally threw it over him before bed. The glass chess set that had been gathering dust in the corner for far longer than you’d been gone – one that you lost three games to him on, and sulked for hours as he peppered kisses all over your face.

Your bright red coat hung by the window, one that you’d gone frantic looking for as the colder months crept in – right next to his black one.

Coats you bought together.

“Can I see the bedroom?”

He nods silently, pushing off the back of the couch as you nervously intertwine your fingers. He says nothing, only squeezing your hand softly as he leads you down the hall – as if you’d never been there. He twists the doorknob open; the room illuminated only by the gloomy sky outside.

You reluctantly let go of his hand to step inside, your fingers flexing at your sides as you walk on the soft beige carpet. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed and watching you stare at the floating shelves on the walls. Everything is still where you left it – wooden plane models, a few Smiski figurines, a singular LEGO wildflower bouquet. A deck of tarot cards that you used to fool around with him on long nights, stoned and flipping your bar of selenite through your fingers while he actively asked what upright Lovers meant.

The bed is made – the sage green sheets neatly tucked and folded under the mattress. The pillows are fluffed and stacked exactly the way you left them the day you went out the front door. Your pitcher of water had been refilled, and the glass wasn’t fogged over – it was new water.

Clean water.

The window is open, and a familiar pink towel is rolled carefully and stuffed onto the windowsill – the room smells of petrichor and your perfume. You spot the wall still lined with your shared collection of vinyl records, the player still holding Dizzy Up the Girl by The Goo Goo Dolls.

He bought you that one the day before you left. You remember laying on the floor with him, your head on his stomach while his fingers ran through your hair. You had told yourself you wouldn’t cry that night – but you did anyway, at half past four in the morning as he lay asleep in your arms.

Your fingers gently run over the needle, before you pick it up carefully and place it on one of the grooves. The first few notes of All Eyes on Me play through the small speakers before you lift the needle and stop it. You let it fall back into its slot in front of the record, before folding your hands behind your back and turning to face him – your eyes immediately dropping to the floor.

“Are you ready to come home?”

You look up wearily, feeling your breath catch in your throat.

“I love you, Hansol.” “That doesn’t answer my question, Y/N.”

You move forward abruptly, circling your arms around his waist and tucking yourself into his chest. He reciprocates carefully, almost as if he’s afraid.

His hands tremble slightly as they ghost over your back, your own fisting the back of his hoodie as you press your face into the fabric. You feel his cheek rest on the top of your head, hearing a sigh slip from his lips as his hand slides up your back. Your voice is muffled as you speak into his chest, but you know he can hear you just fine.

Hansol has always understood you, deeper than words.

“I have to pick some stuff up from my mom’s.” “Y/N. Answer the question.”

“I’m ready to come home, Sol.” You murmur, before feeling the tips of his fingers move your hair away from your neck. He smooths it down your back with one hand, the other swiping stray tendrils from your forehead. You look up at him, resting your chin on his chest as he pads his thumbs over your cheeks.

“I hate it when you cry. It makes my stomach hurt.”

His honesty makes you snort, and you struggle not to roll your eyes as he continues to caress your face. He runs his thumbs over your brows, across your eyelids, down your cheeks...

On your lips.

“You cut your hair,” you whisper, and he nods.

“I was having one of those moments. Like when girls give themselves bangs because they need to feel in control of something,” he shrugs, before his eyes light up slightly. “Didn’t you bleach—”

“Shut up. You promised me we wouldn’t talk about it after it happened. Plus, you look like Buzz Lightyear. Leave me alone.”

“I’ll have you know that being called Buzz Lightyear is actually a compliment,” he gloats, making you huff.

“Yeah, because being compared to a delusional space cowboy is the way to go.” “You did not just call him a delusional space cowboy, bro.” “You did not just call me bro, Hansol.”

He bites back his smile, carding his fingertips through your hair. You close your eyes at the sensation, preening at the way it sends subtle shivers down your spine.

“Call me babe, or something. Honey. I like doll, too, that was a good one.” You’re murmuring into his sweater, hoping you’ll open your eyes, and he won’t suddenly disappear. Your fingers reflexively tighten around the fabric of his sweater in your fists, and you hear the rickety laughter you’ve missed so much ring through the air.

“I’m not going anywhere, just relax.” His fingers tug gently at the hair on the nape of your neck, making you scowl. Your lip juts out as you look up at him through damp lashes, eyes full of guilt.

“Do you forgive me?” The words weigh on your tongue, and you feel the tiniest bit pathetic laying yourself out like this – but it’s Hansol.

“Nothing to forgive, you know.” “You don’t resent me at all?” "Not one bit.”

Your eyes scan his; narrowing at the hint of mischief in the depth of them as you pull back slightly. Your brows furrow, a scoff leaving your lips as you poke your finger into his chest.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not. If anything...I just missed you.” He admits quietly, pressing his forehead to the top of your head before wrapping his arms around your neck and pulling you close, “I miss seeing you when I come home from work. I miss finding you passed out while folding laundry on the carpet. I miss holding you, like this.”

He sighs, shaking his head as he tucks strands of your hair behind your ears before thumbing at your pierced earlobes. Small hoops loop through them – gold ones, a gift from him many years ago.

“I miss sleeping next to you, in our bed. That couch has awful cushions, why did we buy it?”

“...We didn’t. Seungkwan made us take it when you moved out, remember? Because we...you know. On it.” You glance up at him quizzically, his cheeks tinging pink as the memory settles in the forefront of his mind. He grimaces, baring his teeth slightly as he shudders.

“I still can’t believe he didn’t knock.” “It was his apartment, Sol.”

“...And it was his couch, huh?” He snorts, glancing down at you. You nod, letting a smile paint your lips as your laugh slips out. He smiles at the sound, leaning slightly closer. His fingertips tug on your earrings lightly.

“You missed me, right?”

“Is this when you fake me out two or three times before you kiss me?” You raise a brow, palms clammy as he shrugs.

“I could, or I couldn’t. Depends on your answer, and how much.” His face is ever so slightly closer to yours, and you never really know how to react to this side of him – now, or a year ago – despite being the only receiver of it for over half a decade. Everyone views him as someone so cool, so calm, so collected – no one really understands how easily flustered you get at his subliminally flirtatious comments, or the way he looks at you like he could eat you alive...or the way he eggs you on with his provocative insinuations and those stupid eyes of his until you fold like a house of cards.

He’s an enigma of a man, a lover, a soul.

“A lot.” “A lot.” “So much. I’ll get a billboard and make it say I love Hansol Chwe.”

“Oh, you missed me so bad.” He chides, making you scoff as you dig your fingers into his sides lightly. He squeals, his hands grabbing your wrists and holding them away from his body, “don’t do that!”

His eyes are considerably lighter than when you’d arrived – and you feel your cheeks grow warm as he lets your arms go, once more carding his fingers through your hair.

“You’re still awful at detangling,” he murmurs, before cradling your face in his hands. “Horrible, awful, no good at detangling your hair.”

“Yeah, well...” you huff, crossing your arms as you look away. “You kind of get used to someone else doing it for you.”

He hums, “do you need to go get your stuff tonight?”

You shake your head, glancing up at him with a small smile, “if I go tonight, the silverware won’t get polished. And we need that, so we can have dinner.”

“I am not polishing silverware tonight.” “Oh, yes, you are. I can’t imagine how dusty my forks are.”

“Our forks, first of all. Second of all, we’re not polishing them tonight. We have other things to do,” he rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

You swallow the hitched breath in your throat, feigning nonchalance as you raise a brow at him.

“Oh, do we? What other things, Hansol?”

“The usual, you know.” He plants another kiss to your temple, “first order of business is actually ordering takeout.”

“Takeout, he says. Have you got money for that?” You close your eyes as his lips brush the soft arch of your brows, your eyelids, forehead...the tip of your nose. “Last I checked, we were very frugal. Eggs, bread, strawberry jam.”

“You made us expand our budget for your nasty ass juice. I think takeout can be an option tonight,” he mumbles against your cheek, and you feel your stomach start to flutter as he brushes his lips against it. “Second order of business is actually a shower. We can listen to that true crime podcast you like while I detangle your hair. This is just unacceptable.”

“Maybe I should shave my head.” “I’d hate for you to think that you’re a delusional space cowboy, babe.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the pet name, but he doesn’t allow you to speak as he presses his lips to yours softly – smooth with the scent of strawberry lip balm. It’s chaste, it’s fast.

Too chaste, too fast for your taste.

“Third order—” “No, no. Kiss me.”

He raises a brow, but does as you ask. His lips mold against yours, your hands finding home on his chest. He moves to pull back, but you chase after him – pulling him back and deepening the kiss. You feel like you’re on fire as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him; your fingers pawing at his sweater as you slip your tongue into his mouth.

The groan from his throat still tastes like home.

He still tastes like home; like strawberry jam and your disgusting juice. Sweet, tart. Loving.

“I missed you, Sol.”

He doesn’t reply, his hand gingerly wrapping around your throat as he pulls you back in. The way he kisses you is desperate; holding you against him tightly as he pushes off the doorframe. He starts moving you backward, your hands wrapped around his wrist as the back of your knees hit the foot of the bed.

“Sol—” “Shh.”

His lips never leave yours, his hand moving from your neck to the back of your head, tangling in your hair. He lays you back against the comforter gently, your hand fisting the collar of his hoodie. You tug at it as he licks into your mouth, a soft groan falling from your throat as his fingertips breach the hem of your t-shirt and graze over the skin of your belly.

You pull back from his lips with a quiet pant, your own swollen as you blink up at him. You feel his fingers squeeze your side carefully, eyes searching your face.

“Y/N?”

His voice is soft as he hovers over you lightly, his knee slotted between yours, and you feel your throat burn as your hand strokes his jaw.

“I’m sorry for leaving.”

He shakes his head, his hands moving to hold your face, “stop it. Stop being sorry for taking care of yourself. I love you. I know you, and I know that if you felt the need to leave...you had to do it. Please stop being sorry. Just...just let me love you, even if you have to leave again in another year. In ten years, in a month...tomorrow.”

You breathe out shakily, peering at him through teary eyes. His gaze is still everything it’s ever been.

Warm, gentle.

Home.

“Please, just let me.” “I love you.” “I know, babe. I know.”

You sit up abruptly, your hand moving to pull at the hem of his sweatshirt. He obliges, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the side as you move up the bed. His lips find yours again as your head hits the pillow, slower than before. Like he’s savoring the moment, his fingers toying with the button of your jeans before he pops it free. He breaks the kiss briefly, pulling your jeans down with ease. You kick them off the edge of the bed as his hands slide up your thighs slowly, warm and soft. A finger snaps the waistband of your underwear against your hip, making you scowl as you swat his hand away.

“Don’t be mean.”

“M’not being mean, baby.” He bites back a smile, watching as you sit up on your elbows, feeling the bed sink slightly under him as he hovers over you, the tip of his nose brushing yours. You look up at him through your lashes, moving to bridge the gap as he pulls back slightly.

“Sol?” “I love you.”

Your chest heats as he presses his lips against yours, his hand pushing your thighs apart slightly. It slides up your hip; his thumb rubbing circles into your lower belly before he slips it under the hem of your shirt. He deepens the kiss, pushing your shirt up to the bottom of your breasts as the cool air makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. You move to pull it over your head, tossing it somewhere across the bedroom before pulling him back to your mouth, slipping your tongue between his lips.

His hands wander, softly clawing at your sides and enveloping your hips in the warmth of his fingers as your own pull at the short ends of his hair. His lips trail up your jaw, soft and feathery, before his teeth nip at your earlobe. Your knee digs into his side as he tugs lightly at your earring, and you twist away from him – only to feel the scrape of his teeth against your neck, earning a whine from your throat as your legs tighten around his hips.

“Take your pants off,” you whisper, a frown tugging at your lips as you feel him shake his head.

“Not yet,” he speaks against your skin, his lips trailing down your neck and across your clavicle. His hold on your hips loosens as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them further to slot himself between them as he peppers kisses down your chest – flattening his tongue on your nipple before you can speak. A choked sound leaves your mouth as he rolls his tongue over the sensitive bud, his thumb brushing over your neglected nipple with precision. He’s gentle, your thighs trying to close around his hips as he hums against your skin.

“Missed seeing you like this,” he murmurs, switching sides and pulling your nipple into his mouth with a soft suck. Your breathing is shaky, embarrassingly shaky – and you feel him smile against your skin, “really? Already? I’m flattered.”

“Shut up,” you bite, earning a chuckle as he trails his lips back up your neck with a tentative roll of his hips against yours. Your cheeks grow hot, feeling the weight of his cock against your clit through your flimsy underwear. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders lightly as you try to grind your hips up against him, only for him to pin you to the mattress.

“God, I missed you.” His voice is gravelly, rutting his shaft against you harder before his hand suddenly slips between your legs and slide over the damp patch of arousal soaking through your panties. He presses his fingers against it, a gasp catching in your throat – your cheeks burning as you feel him pull away from your neck. Your fingers move to pull at his sweatpants, but he moves your hand away with a quick shake of his head as his hands slide down your legs. He follows their path with his lips, dragging open-mouthed kisses up your thighs and calves, even pulling your socks off to kiss the sides of your feet.

His fingertips hook around the cotton fabric of your panties, his eyes flickering up to meet yours as he pulls on them gently. You lift your hips to let him pull them down entirely; the fabric flung somewhere across the room as he spreads your thighs, settling between them with a kiss to your hip. You cover your face with shaky hands as his lips trail across your skin, peering up at you through his lashes as he ghosts over your center. You peek out from between your fingers to see him biting back a smile as he shakes his head, “baby, it’s just me.”

“Yeah, well—” Your sentence is cut short with a choked gasp as he flattens his tongue against your cunt, licking a fat stripe through your folds and gathering your arousal before sucking your clit into his mouth carefully. His eyes flutter shut at the taste, your teeth sinking into your lip to stop the embarrassing whine trying to claw its way out of your throat. He sucks harder, your fingers flying to his hair and tugging the short strands as best as you can before you feel his fingers prodding at your entrance. They slide in easily, your thighs closing around his head with a soft whimper. He forces them apart with his shoulders, pinning your rutting hips to the mattress with his arm as he curls his fingers inside you, his tongue working you over almost painfully slow — and the warmth in your lower just starts to spread as he pulls away.

“Did you touch yourself while you were gone?” His voice is much steadier than you trust your own to be, his fingers expertly working you open as you nodded, feeling his lips trail down your shoulder. “Did you think about me while you did it?”

“E-Everyday,” you hate the meekness in your tone, your nails digging uselessly into his bicep as he smiles against your skin. His free hand trails up your arm, gently pulling your hand away from his body and kissing your knuckles.

“Show me.”

You force yourself to peer at him through your lashes, eyes low as he brings you closer to the edge — only to see him kiss the tips of your fingers, before pulling them into his mouth. Your lips part with a soft groan, rolling your eyes as you feel his tongue slide between them, perfectly coating them with his salvia before pulling them out and snaking your hand between your thighs. His eyes are dark — desperate, even. Needy.

“Show me.”

His fingers slow inside you as you swallow hard, dragging your fingertips through your folds, spreading them slightly and circling your swollen clit. His eyes don't leave yours as you cover your mouth with your hand, your thighs twitching at the stimulation. You break eye contact, your body feeling hot as you let your head hit the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut as the mix of your fingers with his bring you closer to the edge.

“Sol, I’m—”

He didn’t let you finish your sentence, pulling his fingers out of you just as the taste of your orgasm tried to hit the back of your tongue. You let your lips part, brows furrowing as the feeling died right at his fingertips. His fingers are wet against your thigh, and he has a small smirk toying with the corner of his lip as you pout.

“Sol…” your voice is whiny as he trails his lips up your body, ghosting over your chest as you huff. “I thought you said you weren’t mad at me.”

“Oh, I’m not.” He shakes his head quickly, but he’s not looking at you. His hand pulls at the waistband of his sweatpants, low enough to let his leaking cock spring free. It’s hot and heavy against your thigh, your mouth watering slightly as he looks up at you, “I could never be mad at you.”

“Then why—”

“Because I can,” he interrupts, wrapping his fingers covered in your juices around himself. He brushes a kiss to your lips, “because I want you to ruin me all over again.”

Your eyes fluttered as he rolled his hips against yours, his length dragging through your wet folds and his tip bumping your puffy clit with a hiss from his lips. Your hands fist the sheets as he speaks against your jaw, “I thought about you every single day. Just like this.”

“Sol—”

“Fucked my hand thinking about you. Every night. Even the smell of your perfume made me want you, I missed you so much.” He’s whispering, and you can hardly hear him over the blood rushing to your ears, “missed seeing your pretty lips all swollen after sucking me off. Will you? Have I earned it?”

He doesn’t let you respond, his hand gently tilting your chin up to slot your lips with his before snaking down your bodies and wrapping around his cock. He guides himself through your slit, teasing the thick head against your hole as you gasp into the kiss.

“Please—”

“Don’t beg.” He mutters against your mouth, “I won’t do anything if you beg.”

“Sol, please—” “Y/N.”

His tone is warning as he circles your entrance, smearing beads of precum on your slick skin before gently easing himself inside you. Your thighs close around his hips instinctively, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as he slowly sheathes himself in your gummy walls — before he stops, not even halfway in as he looks you dead in the eyes.

“Tell me you missed me." His hands hold your thighs tightly, the rings on his fingers digging into your skin. Your mouth falls open as he gives a tentative roll of his hips, but he pulls right back out before you can savor the feeling. He shakes his head with a click of his tongue, "tell me you missed me, Y/N."

"Missed you," you whisper, tears pricking at your eyes as you tilt your head up to kiss him. He lets you, slotting his lips with yours as you wrap one leg around his hip, "missed feeling you. Haven't stopped thinking about you."

The admission is enough to make him grind his cock against you, the fat head bumping your clit over and over as you slip your tongue in his mouth. The kiss is all teeth and tongue as he rocks against you, a groan falling from your throat as you taste yourself all over him and making you clench around nothing. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you roll your hips with his, only for him to pull away with a chaste kiss to your lips, still ghosting over your face as he peered at you through thick lashes.

"I love you." Your hand cups his jaw gently, his own trailing up your arm to wrap around your wrist. He kisses your palm, leaning into your touch as his eyes close, "I love you, Y/N."

You pull him down to you, brushing your lips to his, "I love you, Sol."

He nods, tapping your hip with his hand and squeezing the flesh, "turn around."

You roll your eyes, a smile trying to fight its way onto your lips as his hands slide up your hips, helping you turn onto your belly, "you never change."

"Man of habit, what can I say?" His voice is low as he presses his lips to the dip of your spine, your skin littering with goosebumps as he moves your hips flush to his. He drags his mouth up your back, his fingers caressing the skin of your sides as he moves them up to your shoulders, gently wrapping his hand around your throat with a soft squeeze, "missed you so much. Missed touching you…kissing you. Having you."

"I'm here." You whisper back as he presses kisses to the side of your face, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips brush your eyebrow. "Have me."

"M'not gonna last very long," he murmurs against your cheek, your hand reaching back and tugging gently at his hair. His hand snakes between you, wrapping around his cock and dragging it up your slit with a hiss. You push your hips back against him, biting down on your lip as he nudges your clit, his lips pressing kisses to the curve of your jaw, "might not last at all, actually."

"Just wanna feel you," you let him tilt your head back, brushing your lips with his as he pulls you up, your back flush to his chest as he finally bottoms out. You clench around him, his nose buried in your neck as he inhales shakily. His hand falls away from your throat, slipping down to cup your tits, squeezing gently as he gives an experimental roll of his hips. You're embarrassed at the tremble in your thighs, the sharp breath you suck in as he mumbles against your skin, "there she is…missed this."

"Have it…use me," you whisper back, your jaw falling slack as he starts moving his hips into you. He keeps you close as he grabs at your soft skin, kissing up the slope of your shoulder, inhaling deeply at the dip of your neck before gently pinning you to the mattress. Your fingers grip the sheets as he kisses down your spine, hiding your face in the pillows as you meet his thrusts halfway. His rings are digging into your skin as he palms at your ass, the sharp sound of the smack registering before the sting of his palm, soothed by his grip as he kisses your shoulder.

You feel yourself growing fuzzy, your limbs melting into the fabric as he sucks the sweet spot just under your ear — his cock dragging perfectly against your walls and making your skin litter with goosebumps, the pillow absorbing your whines as your skin muffles his.

"Just take it, please…" he breathes out, his fingertips digging into the meat of your hips as his movements grow sloppy, "it's yours. I'm yours."

"M-Mine," you mewl weakly, and he only groans as he pulls out abruptly, flipping you onto your back and slotting his lips with yours as he slides back in. Your nails dig into his back, sinking down the expanse of his shoulders as he swallows your whimpers — the kiss is all teeth and tongue as he spreads your thighs with his hands, his lips trailing down your jaw and nipping at your earlobe.

"Should've knocked you up years ago, fuck." He buries his face in your neck, mouthing at the skin there as your breathing grows shaky, your walls clenching around him. He nips at your collarbone, "need to fill you up every day. Make you mine forever…you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Y-Yeah," your voice is full of air as your cunt squeezes around him, earning a spent laugh from his throat. His hand snakes between your bodies, thumb finding your puffy clit and making you jerk as he rubs tight circles into it, the coil in your belly threatening to snap. You let out a shuddered whimper, feeling his lips brushing the column of your throat, "missed this pussy so much, baby. So perfect for me. Made for me."

His lips are frantic, kissing every inch of skin he can reach as your breathless pants fill the room, the air smelling like sex and sweat as you wrap your legs around him. He snakes his slips into your mouth in a sloppy kiss, your thighs tight around his hips as you let go, soaking his cock in your release with a whine pouring into his mouth. He twitches inside you, mumbled reassurance as your thighs tremble, his forehead damp against your shoulder as he spills inside you.

He kisses the dip of it, stamping his lips along the column of your throat as he runs his hands up and down your thighs, squeezing softly as he meets your mouth again.

"I love you," you murmur, cupping his face in your hands as he hovers over you slightly. He nods limply, kissing you smoothly as his hands spread your thighs, holding your knees to your chest as he gives another slow roll of his hips — making you jolt with overstimulation as he lets out a weak laugh.

"Gotta make sure it takes, baby." He speaks into your mouth, kissing you chastely as your legs shake around him, "love of my life. I love you."

He mumbles something else, but it's lost as he kisses you firmly, overstimulating you both as he keeps making a mess between your thighs. You pull away, holding him away from you by the short hair, "what did you say?"

He blinks at you, raising a brow before his cheeks tinge with embarrassment. He shakes his head, trying to brush a kiss to your lips but you move away.

"Don't let me ruin this, Y/N." He sighs, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead to yours. He peels them open again, the swirl of adoration and worry circling the light amber of his irises. You give him a pointed look, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, "what did you say?"

"…Please don't leave me again." He buries his face in your neck, your eyes burning as he whispers against your skin, "please, please, please…don't leave."

You pepper your lips to the side of his face, pulling him away from your neck to connect your lips. Tears wet your lashes as you hold him close, your hands pressing against his cheeks as you pull back.

"Don't beg," you mumble, your voice thick as tears brimmed his eyes, "you never have to beg for anything. Not from me, never again."

"I love you, Y/N." "I love you, Sol."

YOU'RE ANXIOUSLY SCRUBBING PANS THE NEXT MORNING WITH A JOINT HELD BETWEEN YOUR LIPS.

You know he said you could come back, you know he said that you can stay…but something about it makes you nervous. The way his shirt barely covers the curve of your ass but still smells like him, the way you've relit all the candles around the apartment as he sleeps soundly in your shared bedroom. His lips were pouted when you slipped out of his arms early that morning, your body sore in places it hadn't been in months. The bathroom mirror confirmed the tightness of his grip — bruises littering your hips, nips of his teeth along your ass and thighs, even a mark sucked into the dip of your hip.

You foolishly texted Soonyoung if he could drop off something to take the edge off at the apartment — and you realized you'd forgotten to tell him that you would be there. His jaw had dropped as he held out the bag of pre-rolls, expecting to see Hansol in his comfortable sweatpants glory — only to see you, in the shirt that didn't even remotely cover the black fabric of your underwear. You'd paid him in a wad of cash and closed the door before he could say anything, shooting him a text the moment you lit one of the pre-rolls to please keep his mouth shut.

The vibrations of your phone on the counter, messages from your groupchat and Seungkwan — told you that he hadn't been able to do that for very long.

You'd opened the windows, the sky still gloomy but the air fresh and cool — settling the anxiety in your stomach as you dried the last pan. He'd been right — he hadn't touched them since you left, the dust settled on them from sitting in the cabinet for so long. You fumbled around the kitchen, pulling the silver polish from the top shelf of the pantry when you felt hands on your waist. You jumped, your hand settling on your chest when you realized it was him.

"You really need to get a bell," you mutter, feeling his lips curve into a smile against the back of your neck as he takes the silver polish from your hand and tosses it somewhere on the counter. His arms wrap around you, pulling your back to his chest as he squeezes gently.

"Called Soonyoung?" His voice is raspy, the way it always is when he's just woken up. You smell mint on his breath, and you figure you must've not noticed when he started moving around in your anxious state. You nod, holding the joint out to him over your shoulder as he sways you both.

"He already ran his mouth, can't keep a secret to save his fucking life." You mutter as you feel his lips brush your fingers, wrapping around the end of your joint and pulling back. He grimaces, "is this that gross ass strain you like?"

"Everything I like is gross to you. My juice, my weed, my favorite PopTart." "I'm not gross, and Brown Sugar Cinnamon isn't even close to being the best." "I'm gonna ignore that, and good thing I don't like you, Sol."

"I know you think that's a compliment and sick segue to say you love me, but not liking me is embarrassing as fuck," he snorts, gingerly placing the gross thing back between your lips. "Keep that shit to yourself."

"You're so fucking annoying," you mutter, smiling despite yourself. Your skin prickles slightly as you feel his hands slide down your hips and bunch his shirt under his palms. He slips his hands under it, thumbs barely hooking on the waistband of your panties before he presses his lips just under your ear.

"You wanna polish all this shit now?" "We didn't do it last night." "I'd argue we did better things last night—"

"Get off me, you little freak." You huff, trying to wiggle out of his hold but failing miserably as he only turns you around. You tongue your cheek, tapping the joint out on an ashtray you'd fished out from under the double-decked coffee table before letting him pull you close again. "You're not getting out of doing this today, Chwe. I mean it."

"Seungkwan invited us to lunch," he murmurs, caging you between him and the counter. You raise a brow, "Seungkwan invited us?"

"You, my girlfriend, and me, your boyfriend. Me and you. Us. We," he gestures between the two of you, "are cordially invited to lunch at the Boo Seungkwan residence. Expect ridicule, badgering and half a cold pizza slice because Soonyoung is already over there and stoned out of his mind."

You stopped listening after me, your boyfriend.

"You love me, right?" You ask softly, tugging at his shirt gently. Another plain white one, but there's a red stain on the collar that belonged to you. Red lipstick that didn't come out after you washed it twice, leaving a lingering of your presence behind.

Just like the bruises that littered your hips, and the toothpaste stain on your shirt that belonged to him. Just like your initials on his cap, the locket around your neck, the windbreaker, the hoodie. His journal, the stickers from your apples stuck to the leg of your coffee table. The sample bottle of your perfume that you'd seen sitting on the bathroom counter, and every single vinyl in your collection. The gross juice in your fridge that he didn't like but you loved, the Shrek and Donkey clock, the chess set…and everything you are. Everything he is.

You and him.

Him and you.

Together, in everything. Lingering, cohabitating, sharing…

Entangled, enamored, bounded by souls not willing to be apart…

Cosmically meant to exist as lovers.

"I do. I love you, Y/N." "I love you, Sol."

"…Enough to not polish the silverware tonight?"

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