Aug 2
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honey's homecoming. 15.
last chapter
mx jooheon x lilsis reader (adopted)
explicit, smut, mdni | ch 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
After receiving his mother’s unspoken blessing, you step into a new future with Jooheon and his closest brothers as he gifts you a sanctuary of your own to build a life together.
The light was different now.
It poured through the window in pale ribbons, bouncing off the snow that had settled on the sill overnight. The whole room felt brighter, cleaner, like the world had been washed white while you slept.
You surfaced slowly.
The first thing you noticed was the warmth. Jooheon's arm was draped across your waist, his chest pressed against your back, his breath warm against the nape of your neck. The second thing was the soreness—a deep, pleasant ache between your thighs that made you smile before you even opened your eyes.
You shifted, and his arm tightened.
"Don't move yet." His voice was rough with sleep, muffled against your hair.
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
You lay there, watching the dust motes drift in the winter light. The radiator clicked and hummed. Somewhere in the house, a pot clanged. The smell of coffee drifted under the door.
You turned in his arms, facing him.
His eyes were still closed, his lashes dark against his cheeks. The months of tour had carved him leaner, sharper, but in the morning light he looked soft. Younger. Like the boy who'd left this room years ago.
Your fingers traced his jaw. The stubble scraped your fingertips.
His eyes opened.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
He kissed you. Soft and slow, his lips moving against yours like he had all the time in the world. No urgency. No desperation. Just the quiet pleasure of being able to.
His hand slid up your back, pulling you closer. You melted into him, your leg hooking over his hip, the familiar press of his morning hardness against your thigh.
"We should get up," you whispered.
"We should."
Neither of you moved.
His fingers traced idle patterns on your hip. "I have to go back to Seoul in two days."
The words settled in your chest like stones.
"Post-tour meetings," he continued. "Future planning. Meetings about the next album." His jaw tightened. "I tried to push it back. They wouldn't budge."
You pressed your forehead to his. "Two days."
"Two days." His hand cupped your cheek. "But I'm not leaving you here."
Your breath caught. "What do you mean?"
"Will tell you later." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "We'll figure this out."
The words hung between you, heavy and beautiful.
"Okay," you said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, and you let yourself sink into it. The warmth of his mouth, the solid press of his body, the promise curling between you like smoke.
The kitchen was a blur of steam and motion.
His mother moved between the stove and the table, setting down plates of rice and soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables. Her apron was flour-dusted. Her cheeks were pink from the heat.
"Sit, sit," she said, waving at the table. "Eat before it gets cold."
Jooheon pulled out your chair. You sat. His hand brushed your shoulder as he settled beside you.
His mother watched.
Not with suspicion. Not with anger. Just a quiet, observant stillness as she ladled soup into bowls and set them down.
You felt her gaze like a weight.
Jooheon reached for your hand under the table. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and solid.
"Eomma," he said, "we are—"
"I know what you are." His mother's voice was soft. She sat down across from you, folding her hands on the table. "I've known her since she was a child."
The silence stretched.
Jooheon's grip tightened. "Then you know why she's important to me."
His mother looked at you.
Her eyes were warm. Tired. Understanding in a way that made your throat tight.
"He called me every week," she said. "From Tokyo. From LA. From wherever he was." She paused. "He never talked about the concerts. Never talked about the fans. He talked about you."
Your chest ached.
"What he ate. What you did that day. If you were sleeping okay." Her lips curved. "He's called me every week since he left for training camp, and I've never heard him sound like that about anyone."
Jooheon's ears were red. "Eomma—"
"I'm not finished." She held up a hand, but her eyes never left yours. "I've watched you grow up in this house. I've seen you cry over your parents. I've seen you laugh with your friends. I've seen you become the woman sitting at my table."
She reached across, covering your free hand with hers.
"And I've never seen my son look at anyone the way he looks at you."
The tears came before you could stop them.
"All I'm saying," his mother continued, squeezing your hand, "is that you don't need to hide. Not from me."
Jooheon's thumb traced circles on your palm. His voice was rough. "Thank you, Eomma."
She waved a hand, brushing off the sentiment like it was nothing. But her eyes were bright. "Enough of that. Eat before the fish gets cold."
You picked up your chopsticks.
Your hand was still trembling.
ight after lunch, Jooheon drives you into the lively, commercial downtown area of your town, stopping at a sleek, modern condominium building. The tower rose from the city like a monument to glass and ambition.
Jooheon pulled into the underground garage, the tires humming against the concrete. The parking spot was marked with a number—reserved, permanent, his.
He killed the engine.
"Close your eyes."
"What?"
"Just do it."
You closed your eyes.
His hand found yours, guiding you out of the car, through a door, into an elevator. The doors slid shut with a soft chime. The elevator hummed upward.
"Okay," he said. "Open."
The doors opened onto a hallway. One door. Private entry.
He pressed his thumb to a scanner. The lock clicked.
The door swung open.
The apartment was enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the entire far wall, showing the city sprawled beneath a grey winter sky. Snow fell in lazy spirals, dusting the glass. The furniture was modern—clean lines, neutral tones, a plush sectional that looked obscenely comfortable. The kitchen was a slab of marble and steel. A bottle of wine sat on the counter, already open.
And on the sectional, two figures rose.
"About time."
Changkyun's voice. His grin split his face as he crossed the room, pulling you into a hug that lifted you off your feet. "Missed you, little one."
You laughed, your arms wrapping around his neck. "Missed you too."
He set you down, and Hyungwon stepped forward. His hug was gentler, his hands settling on your waist like he was afraid you'd break. His face was soft, his eyes warm.
"You look good," he said.
"So do you."
Jooheon's hand found the small of your back. "Drinks?"
"Obviously." Changkyun was already heading for the kitchen. "We've been waiting for hours. Hyungwon almost drank the wine without you."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did. I had to take the bottle away."
The afternoon bled into evening.
You settled onto the sectional, a glass of wine warming your hands. Changkyun and Hyungwon flanked you, their familiar presence filling the space with warmth. They talked about the tour—the chaos of the finale, the afterparties, the exhaustion that had settled into their bones the moment the last note faded.
"Seoul was insane," Changkyun said, leaning back. "Forty thousand people. Forty thousand. And they all knew the words."
Hyungwon nodded. "The energy was... different. Like the whole arena was breathing together."
You listened, your head resting against Jooheon's shoulder. His arm was draped around you, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your arm.
"I watched the livestream," you said quietly. "I saw you."
Changkyun's grin softened. "Yeah?"
"I was so proud."
The room fell quiet. A comfortable quiet. The kind that didn't need to be filled.
Jooheon's hand slipped into yours.
"Finish your wine," he said.
The sky had gone dark.
The windows showed the city in full glitter—a sprawl of lights and moving cars, the snow still falling, dusting the glass like powdered sugar. The lights in the apartment were dim, the only illumination coming from the city glow and a single lamp in the corner.
Soft music played from somewhere. Low. Ambient.
You were sitting on Jooheon's lap, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. The sectional was warm. The wine was warm. His breath was warm against your ear.
Across from you, Changkyun and Hyungwon watched.
Their eyes were dark. Hungry. Familiar.
Jooheon's fingers found the first button of your top.
"Four months," he said, his voice low. "Four months without touching you. Without seeing you like this."
His fingers worked the button loose. Then the next. Then the next.
Your breath came faster.
Changkyun leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Take your time."
Hyungwon said nothing. His eyes tracked Jooheon's hands.
The last button came loose.
Jooheon slid the fabric from your shoulders, slow and deliberate, revealing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. He kissed your shoulder blade, his lips lingering.
"Look at how beautiful she is," he murmured, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. Jooheon worked the clasps of your bra and takes it off you, discarding it on the floor. His thumbs found your nipples, circling them, making you gasp. "Missed all of us so much."
Changkyun's voice was rough. "Show us."
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your pants, lifting your hips just enough to slide them down. Your panties followed. You were bare on his lap, exposed to the winter light and their hungry gazes.
His hands roamed your body—cupping your tits, rubbing your nipples until they peaked hard, sliding down your stomach to part your folds. He spread your wetness, showing the glisten to the room.
"So wet for us," he said.
You moaned, your head falling back against his shoulder.
He pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers. The sensation shot straight to your core, making your hips buck.
"Please," you breathed.
"Not yet."
Then he whispered something to your ears. You crawled off his lap, your knees sinking into the plush rug.
Hyungwon sat back on the sectional, his eyes hooded, his chest rising and falling faster. You settled between his legs, your hands finding his belt.
He watched you with that sleepy intensity.
You freed his cock. Long and elegant, like the rest of him. The head was flushed pink, already slick with pre-cum.
You took him into your mouth.
His breath hitched. His fingers buried in your hair, not guiding, just holding, as you worked your way down his shaft. He was long enough that you had to relax your throat, taking him deeper inch by inch.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You hollowed your cheeks, pulling back, then sinking down again. His hips twitched, a small, involuntary thrust.
Behind you, hands gripped your hips.
Changkyun's voice was a murmur against your spine. "So pretty, little one. So good for us."
His lips traced your vertebrae, kissing his way up. His fingers slid between your legs, finding your clit, slick and swollen. He circled it slowly, matching the rhythm of your mouth on Hyungwon.
You moaned around Hyungwon's cock.
Changkyun's fingers worked you expertly, spreading your wetness, pressing just inside before pulling back to circle your clit again. His tongue traced the curve of your hip.
"Ride him," Jooheon said. "Show us how much you missed him."
Hyungwon lifted you gently.
You settled onto his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. His cock pressed against your entrance, the head nudging past your folds.
You sank down.
The stretch was deep. Familiar. Perfect.
Your mouth fell open. Hyungwon's hands gripped your hips, his head falling back, a low groan escaping his throat.
You began to move.
Slow at first, rising and falling, your hands anchored on his broad shoulders. His length reached deep, hitting spots that made your vision blur. His face buried in your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his moans muffled against you.
Changkyun's chest pressed against your back.
His arms wrapped around your waist, helping lift and lower you, his fingers splayed across your stomach. He captured your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, stealing your moans while his hand cupped your breast, squeezing in time with your movements.
Jooheon sat across from you.
He was naked now, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his cock hard and curved against his stomach. He watched with pure, possessive satisfaction, his eyes tracking every movement.
"Harder," he said.
Hyungwon's grip tightened. His hips bucked upward, driving deeper.
Changkyun's fingers found your clit.
The triple sensation—Hyungwon filling you, Changkyun's fingers working your clit, his mouth on your neck—sent you spiraling. Your pussy clamped down around Hyungwon's cock, your orgasm crashing through you in waves.
Hyungwon lost his composure completely.
He lifted you off his cock, his release streaking across your stomach and thighs in hot, thick pulses. His groan was low and animalistic, his body arching beneath you.
You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against his.
Before you could recover, Jooheon murmurs "Come back to me baby," his voice a low, commanding hum that brooked no argument..
You got off Hyungwon and crawled towards Jooheon, positioning yourself on your knees on the rug. His cock was thick and heavy, the pink head glistening. You opened your mouth, and he guided himself inside.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You took him deep, your tongue working the underside of his shaft. His hand fisted in your hair, guiding your rhythm.
Behind you, Changkyun positioned himself.
His hands gripped your hips. His cock pressed against your entrance, slick from your arousal and Hyungwon's release. He pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and the fullness made you moan around Jooheon.
Changkyun fucked you deep.
His pace was steady, deliberate, each thrust hitting deep. Jooheon's hands cradled your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks as you sucked him.
The two rhythms merged—Changkyun driving into you from behind, Jooheon filling your mouth.
Jooheon pulled you up.
"You're not done," he said, his voice rough.
He laid you on the rug, the plush fibers pressing into your back. He hooked your knees over his shoulders, opening you completely. His cock pressed against your entrance, slick and ready.
He drove forward.
One heavy, continuous thrust. He buried himself to the hilt, filling you in a way that made your vision white out. The stretch was perfect. The fullness was everything.
"Four months," he said, his voice cracking. "Four fucking months."
He set a fierce pace.
His hips slammed into yours, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. His hands dug into your hips, anchoring you as he drove deeper. Changkyun knelt by your head, his cock brushing your lips.
You took him into your mouth.
The taste of your own arousal mixed with the salt of his skin. His hand found yours, holding you anchored through the intensity.
Jooheon's thrusts grew erratic.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Come with me."
You shattered.
The second orgasm hit harder than the first, your pussy clamping down around Jooheon's cock. He followed immediately, groaning your name as he filled you with his release, hot and thick, marking you from the inside.
Changkyun's hips thrust forward once, twice, and he came, his release spilling across your chest.
The room was nothing but heavy breathing and the scent of sex.
Jooheon collapsed forward, his forehead resting against yours. His breath was ragged. His skin was slick with sweat.
Changkyun moved first.
He grabbed warm, damp towels and returned, kneeling beside you with reverent gentleness. He cleaned your skin—the marks on your thighs, the spill of release on your stomach, the sweat on your brow.
Hyungwon pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, wrapping a plush throw blanket around your shoulders.
Jooheon pulled you against his chest.
His lips pressed to the top of your head. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.
Outside, the snow fell against the dark glass.
The city glittered below.
The city sprawled below, a quilt of lights and snow.
The floor-to-ceiling windows caught the reflection of the two of you—tangled limbs, a shared blanket, the steam of cooling skin. Your back pressed against his chest, his arms locked around your waist, his chin hooked over your shoulder. The snow fell in lazy spirals, catching the glow of streetlamps, dissolving against the glass. You two just finished another round of steamy fucking, this time it's just the two of you. Changkyun and Hyungwon are already asleep in one of the rooms.
You still couldn't stop touching him.
Your fingers traced the ridge of his forearm, the veins that stood out from hours of gripping you, holding you, keeping you. His hand covered yours, lacing your fingers together, bringing them to his mouth. He kissed your knuckles. Then your palm. Then the sensitive skin of your wrist.
"Again," you whispered.
He turned you in his arms.
The blanket slipped, pooling around your hips. His mouth found yours—not gentle, not restrained. Deep and searching, the kind of kiss that said I still haven't had enough. His tongue slid against yours, tasting the salt of sweat and the sweetness of wine.
Your hand cupped his jaw. Stubble scraped your palm.
"Hi," you breathed against his lips.
"Hi." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "What time is it?"
"Don't care."
He smiled. The kind of smile that crinkled his eyes, deepening the heavy dimples carved into his cheeks—those familiar, sweet indentations that made him look so much younger than the long months of tour had carved him. His forehead pressed to yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you completely. "Me neither."
Another kiss. Slower this time, more deliberate. His lips dragged across your jaw, down your neck, finding the hollow at the base of your throat where your pulse hammered. He lingered there, breathing you in.
Your legs shifted, parting to let him settle closer. The blanket bunched between you. His cock, still half-hard, brushed your thigh.
"Sore?" he asked.
"A little."
His hand slid down, palm flat against your stomach. "Should I stop?"
"No."
He laughed softly, his breath warm against your collarbone. "Didn't think so."
A moment of quiet. Just the hum of the building, the whisper of the heating vents, the distant glitter of a city that didn't know you existed.
Jooheon's hand found yours again. He held it against his chest, let you feel the steady thump of his heartbeat.
"I have something for you."
You pulled back, searching his face. "What?"
He reached for the side table—a sleek black surface scattered with the debris of the evening: an empty wine glass, his phone, a leather wallet. He grabbed the wallet, flipped it open, and pulled out a card.
Sleek. White. Digital keycard embedded with a silver chip.
He pressed it into your palm.
Your fingers closed around it automatically. The surface was cool, the edges precise. It felt important. Permanent.
"I didn't rent this place, it's not an airbnb" he said.
Your eyes lifted to his.
"I bought it." His voice was steady, but something flickered behind his eyes. Nerves. Vulnerability. "Closed on it three weeks before the tour ended. Had a realtor handle everything while I was overseas."
The card sat heavy in your hand.
"I've been looking since the summer," he continued. "Since the first week I was back in Seoul after visiting home. I wanted something private. Secure. Somewhere no one would find us."
His thumb traced the edge of your jaw.
"It's a ten-minute walk from your campus."
Your breath caught.
His voice dropped lower. "And it's an hour less driving from here to the company building. Which means I can get home faster when I want to. Which means I can see you more often."
The snow fell against the glass.
"I want you to move in here," he said. "Live here. Take care of this place while I'm gone. Fill it with your books and your clothes and whatever else you want." His hand covered yours, the keycard pressing between your palms. "I want you to have a home here. A real one. Our one."
Your throat tightened.
"No more waiting in the background," he whispered. "No more feeling like you're hiding. This is yours. You're mine."
The tears came before you could stop them.
A single drop rolled down your cheek, catching the city light. He caught it with his thumb, wiping it away with a tenderness that cracked something open in your chest.
"Oppa—"
"You don't have to answer now." His voice was rough. "I just needed you to know. I needed you to have the key before I left."
"Left?"
"In two days. For Seoul." His jaw tightened. "But I'll come back. Every chance I get. And when I do, I want this to be waiting." He pressed his lips to your forehead. "I want you to be waiting."
You looked down at the keycard.
Sleek. White. A chip that unlocked a door that led to a home that led to him.
Your fingers curled around it.
"Yes."
His eyes widened. "Yeah?"
"You bought a condo for us." A laugh escaped you, wet and broken. "You bought a condo ten minutes from my campus and you're asking if I'll move in?"
"I wanted to give you time—"
"I've had enough time." You pressed the keycard against his chest. "I've spent months waiting for you to come back. Months sleeping in your bed, wearing your shirt, counting down the days until I could see you again." Your voice cracked. "I'm not waiting anymore."
He kissed you.
Hard. Desperate. His hands cupped your face like you were something precious, something he was afraid of losing. His mouth moved against yours, tasting salt and promise.
"Move in with me," he said against your lips.
"Yes."
"Live here. Fill it with your things."
"Yes."
"Let me come home to you."
" Yes. "
He pulled back, his eyes wet, his smile wide. His thumb traced the corner of your mouth.
"We'll move your stuff tomorrow. Before I leave for Seoul."
"Okay."
"And I'll change the locks to your fingerprint. And give you access to the building security. And—"
"Jooheon oppa."
He stopped.
You lifted the keycard, pressing it between your palms like a prayer. "This is enough."
He let out a breath. Long. Shuddering.
"Okay," he said.
The snow continued to fall.
You sat there, wrapped in a blanket and his arms, the city glittering below, the keycard warm against your skin. His fingers traced patterns on your hip. Your head rested in the crook of his neck.
A thought surfaced.
"You said 'take care of it while you're gone.'" You tilted your head to look at him. "What does that mean?"
His hand stilled.
Then he smiled. Slow. Knowing.
"It means," he said, his voice dropping to something darker, "that when I'm away on schedules, I need someone I trust to keep this place warm. To sleep in my bed. To light the candles and open the windows and make sure it still feels like home when I walk through the door." His lips brushed your ear. "And it means I want you here. Not because I'm asking you to wait for me. But because I want you to have your own life, your own space, your own everything—that happens to share a wall with the man who loves you."
Your chest ached.
"Also." His grin turned playful. "Changkyun and Hyungwon have guest privileges. They'll check in on you. Make sure you're eating. Keep you company when I'm away."
"The guest suite," you said.
"The guest suite." He kissed the tip of your nose. "You'll have your own room. Your own bathroom. Your own study if you want it. The whole place is yours."
"And when you're here?"
His eyes darkened.
"Then it's ours."
The word settled between you like a vow.
You shifted, turning to face him fully. The blanket fell away, baring your skin to the winter light. His hands found your waist, pulling you into his lap.
"You have to leave in two days," you said.
"Two days." His voice was soft. "Forty-eight hours. Then meetings. Album prep. Endless schedules."
"And then you'll come back."
"Always."
Your hand found his chest. His heart beat beneath your palm.
"We should make the most of it," you whispered.
His smile was slow. Dangerous. His hands slid down, gripping your hips, pulling you closer, making his half hard cock rub against your slit.
"I was thinking the same thing."
The keycard sat on the side table as you pulled him down onto the rug.
JOOHEON: it's not over | 260722
honey's homecoming. 14.
mx jooheon x lilsis reader (adopted)
explicit, smut, mdni | chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13
After four months apart, Jooheon surprises you by returning unannounced during the season's first snow, leading to a passionate, long-awaited bedroom reunion that solidifies his return home.
The summer had bled away like water through fingers. First the oppressive humidity, then the electric hum of cicadas fading into the hum of the refrigerator. You marked time by the changing light through Jooheon's bedroom window. The way the morning sun shifted, crawling across the floorboards at a different angle each day. The way the leaves on the persimmon tree outside turned from green to gold to brown, until one morning you woke up and they were mostly gone.
October arrived with a bite.
You'd developed a ritual. A strict, unbreakable calendar of connection that spanned fourteen time zones. When Jooheon was in Tokyo, you woke at 3 AM to catch him before his first schedule. When he was in London, he called during his 2 AM insomnia, your afternoon sun streaming through the window while his hotel room was swallowed by darkness.
The video calls were brutal and beautiful.
You'd lie on his bed which is also your bed now, you supposed. Wearing the black t-shirt he'd given you. The one that had smelled like him for the first two weeks, then slowly, inexorably, faded into the scent of your own laundry detergent. The loss of his smell felt like a small death each time you pressed your face to the collar.
"Show me," he'd say, his voice crackling through the phone speaker. His face on the screen was tired, cheekbones sharper than you remembered, dark circles carved beneath his eyes. But his gaze was always hungry.
Your hand would slide beneath the hem of the shirt. His eyes would track the movement, his breathing changing, deepening.
"Tell me what you're thinking about," you'd whisper.
"Your mouth." His voice would drop lower, rougher. "The sound you make when I first push inside you. The way your back arches."
Your fingers would find your clit, circling slowly while you watched him watch you. His hand would move below the frame of the camera, his jaw tight, his brow furrowed.
"I want to hear you," he'd command. "Don't hold back."
And you wouldn't. The isolation of the room, the safety of the pixelated barrier, it stripped away your inhibitions. You'd gasp his name, moan freely, let your head fall back as you brought yourself closer. His grunts and curses through the speaker would push you higher, your orgasm building with the sound of his voice.
"I'm close," he'd say. "Come with me. Come with me. "
Your release would wash over you in waves, your pussy clenching around nothing, wishing it was him. He'd follow moments later, his face contorting, a low groan that seemed to vibrate through the screen.
Then would come the comedown.
You'd lie there, phone propped against the pillow, still connected. He'd clean up with hotel tissues, then settle back against the headboard, shirtless, sweat-damp, his breathing slowly returning to normal.
"Tell me about your day," you'd murmur.
And he would. He'd tell you about the fans screaming his name in languages he didn't understand, about the sushi he'd had in a tiny restaurant in Shibuya, about how he wasn't able to see Eiffel Tower at midnight. His voice would get softer, sleepier, until the words slurred and stopped.
You'd stay on the line until his breathing evened out. Then you'd whisper "I love you" to the dark screen and hang up.
Those nights, you'd lie awake staring at the ceiling, your thighs still slick, your heart aching with a sweetness that bordered on pain.
November painted the sky the color of dull gray.
You stood at the window, watching the afternoon light die behind the mountains. His texts had dried up over the last forty-eight hours. The last message was a blurry photo from an airport lounge in Tokyo—his sneakers, a cup of coffee, the edge of his suitcase visible in the frame.
Catching a flight. Exhausted. I'll call you soon.
"Soon" was a lie.
You'd checked your phone approximately three hundred times. You'd typed and deleted seventeen messages. You'd convinced yourself he was fine, he was busy, he was in the final stretch of a world tour that had drained him to the bone.
None of it made the ache any lighter.
The black t-shirt lay crumpled on the pillow. You picked it up, pressed it to your face, and inhaled. Nothing but fabric softener and the faint dust of autumn. His scent was gone. Completely. Like he'd never been here at all.
You threw the shirt down harder than you meant to.
"Temperature's dropping!" His mother's voice floated up from the kitchen. "They're saying it might snow tonight!"
Snow.
The word lodged somewhere in your chest.
You wrapped yourself in a blanket and stepped onto the porch. The air was sharp enough to hurt. It bit at your cheeks, your exposed wrists, the thin skin under your eyes. The mountains were dark silhouettes against a sky that couldn't decide whether to be grey or white.
The first flake landed on your hand.
Tiny. Silent. Perfect.
You watched it melt, and then another landed on your sleeve, and another. The snow began to fall in earnest—gentle at first, then thicker, the white flakes drifting against the dark backdrop like stars falling in reverse.
A whispered promise surfaced from a memory. A late-night phone call, his voice rough with exhaustion but warm with intent.
"I want to see the first snow with you."
You'd laughed, sad and disbelieving. "You'll be on the other side of the world."
"I'll find a way."
The memory made your throat tight. You pulled the blanket tighter, watching the snow accumulate on the path, on the gate, on the bare branches of the persimmon tree.
Headlights cut through the veil.
You blinked. A car was coming down the narrow road—a lone taxi, not the sleek black van you'd watched disappear four months ago. It moved slowly, cautiously, its headlights scattering the falling snow into a million glittering motes.
It stopped at the gate.
The door opened.
A figure stepped out, buried in a heavy black wool coat. A single hardshell suitcase followed, dragged onto the snowy ground. He straightened, pulling down his mask to breathe in the cold air.
The sharp jawline. The messy hair that had grown longer. The dimples that appeared as his gaze found the porch.
It was Jooheon.
He didn't text. He didn't call. He just stood there, snow dusting his shoulders, watching you like you were the only warm thing in a frozen world.
You moved without thinking.
The blanket fell from your shoulders. Your bare feet hit the snow—cold, shocking, irrelevant. You flew down the porch steps, your legs carrying you faster than thought.
He dropped the suitcase handle into the dirt.
You collided halfway down the path. His arms caught you, lifting you clean off the ground, crushing you against the freezing wool of his coat. His face buried in your neck, and he breathed a long, shuddering inhale, like a man surfacing from deep water.
He was cold. The outside of him was ice, but his skin where it pressed against yours was blazing hot. The rough wool scratched your cheek. His arms were iron bands around your waist.
"You're here," you gasped. "You're here. "
"I'm here." His voice was muffled against your neck. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes wet, his nose red from the cold. "I told you I'd find a way."
"You didn't text—I thought you were in Tokyo—I thought you forgot—"
"Never." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I wanted to surprise you. Flew standby. Three connections. Almost didn't make it before the snow."
You laughed, or sobbed, or both. "You're insane."
"I missed you." His voice cracked. "God, baby, I missed you so much."
His hands slid into his coat pockets—trying to warm them, you thought, before the movement caught. His fingers found something. His expression shifted, a flicker of recognition, a twist of something raw and private.
He pulled his hand out.
There, held between his long fingers, was the pair of baby pink lace panties you'd slipped into his pocket four months ago.
The lace was frayed at the edges. The fabric was soft and worn, handled repeatedly, carried across oceans and continents. Tokyo. Los Angeles. London. Paris. The miles were written in the faded color, the loosened threads.
He held them up like an offering.
"Carried them every single mile," he said. His voice was rough, scraped clean by the cold and the emotion he was barely holding back. "Every hotel. Every city. Had them in my pocket when I went on stage in Seoul. When I couldn't sleep in Bangkok. When I had a fever in New York and all I wanted was you."
Your vision blurred.
"Touched them every night," he continued. "Tried to remember what you felt like. What you smelled like. The sound you make when I—"
"I remember," you whispered. "I remember everything."
"Good." His eyes darkened. "Because I'm going to spend the rest of tonight reminding you."
The front door flew open.
"Jooheon-ah! "
His mother's voice shattered the moment—high, incredulous, filled with the kind of shock that only a mother seeing her son home months early could produce. She stood in the doorway, a dish towel clutched to her chest, her face breaking into a grin so wide it crinkled her eyes to crescents.
"Yah! Why didn't you tell us you were coming? The house is a mess, I haven't prepared anything—"
He set you down slowly, his hands lingering on your hips. His thumb traced a circle against the fabric of your pajama pants—a proprietary squeeze, a promise, a message meant only for you.
The mask slipped back into place. The domestic son. The teasing banter. But the look he shot you over his shoulder as his mother rushed down the path made your knees weak.
The snow was falling thicker now, coating his suitcase, gathering in his hair. The cold bit through your thin clothes.
None of it mattered.
The feral intensity in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.
Later, the house was finally quiet.
Dinner had been a frenzy. His mother had pulled out every container in the refrigerator, reheating banchan, grilling fish, insisting he eat even though he'd already eaten on the plane. She'd fussed over his weight, his hair, his complexion—"You look like a ghost, Jooheon-ah, what are they feeding you over there?"
He'd taken it all with a patient smile, stealing glances at you across the table. His foot found yours under the table. His knee pressed against yours.
Now the house settled into the deep quiet of winter night. The radiator hummed its low, rhythmic song. The window pane rattled gently against the wind. The door clicked shut behind them, and Jooheon turned the lock.
No hesitation.
He crossed the room in three strides and pinned you against the wood. His hands caught your wrists, pressing them above your head. His body was a wall of heat against yours, the heavy black coat gone, leaving him in a simple fitted long-sleeve that clung to the hardened planes of his chest.
He looked leaner. Sharper. The months of tour had carved him down, but the muscle was still there, denser, more defined. His jaw was shadowed with stubble. His hair was longer, falling into his eyes.
His gaze dropped to what you were wearing.
His old black t-shirt. The fabric worn thin from a hundred washes. The neckline stretched wide, exposing the curve of your collarbone, the top of your shoulder. It hung loose on your frame, barely reaching your mid-thigh.
The look that crossed his face was pure hunger.
His hands fisted in the fabric, pulling you flush against him. His cock was already hard—a thick, rigid ridge pressing through his jeans, pressing into your stomach. The size of him, the reality of him, made your breath catch.
He kissed you.
Not gentle. Not slow. The kiss was brutal and desperate, four months of deprivation condensed into the press of his lips, the push of his tongue. He tasted of the cold air and the green tea he'd drunk at dinner and something underneath that was just him.
Your hands tangled in his hair. His palms slid down your back, cupping your ass, lifting you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and the friction of his erection against your center made you gasp into his mouth.
"Bed," he said, the word barely coherent.
He carried you there, lowering you onto the rumpled sheets. The mattress creaked under your combined weight. He hovered above you, his knees bracketing your hips, his chest heaving.
His eyes found yours.
"Four months," he said.
"I know."
"Every night. Every video call. Every time I hung up." His voice cracked. "Felt like dying."
"Oppa—"
"I need you." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I need to feel you. All of you. Tonight."
You answered by pulling the hem of his shirt up. He tore it over his head, and you finally saw him—the sculpted chest, the ridged abs, the faint lines of new scars on his shoulders from god knows what. His belly tattoo. Every inch of him was familiar and foreign.
His mouth found your neck. Your collarbone. The exposed hollow of your throat. He kissed down your sternum, the fabric of the t-shirt bunched in his fists as he pushed it higher, exposing your stomach, the curve of your ribs.
You lifted your arms, and he pulled the shirt over your head.
His breath caught.
You were wearing the pink panties. The same ones he'd pulled from his coat pocket. The lace was still warm from your skin, the fabric damp with the arousal that had been building since you'd seen him step out of that taxi.
"Fuck." His voice was a prayer. "You knew I'd—"
"I hoped." You smiled, soft and trembling. "Wanted you to see them first."
His fingers hooked into the side of the lace, tugging the fabric tight against your clit. The friction made you gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily. He did it again—a slow, deliberate pull, dragging the damp lace across your sensitive nub.
"Please—" It came out broken.
"Please what?"
His mouth found your inner thigh. His lips traced a path upward, the scrape of his stubble making you shiver. He kissed through the lace, his tongue pressing the fabric into your folds, tasting you through the barrier.
"Moan for me baby," he murmured against your pussy. "Like you did on the phone."
His mouth sealed over your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming—the rough lace, the wet heat of his tongue, the pressure of his fingers gripping your hips to hold you still. He ate you out through the damp fabric, his nose pressing against your pubic bone, his moans vibrating through your core.
Your back arched. Your fingers clawed at the sheets. The sounds that escaped you were raw and unfiltered, exactly what he'd wanted.
He lifted his head.
"Need to taste you." He hooked his fingers in the waistband and dragged the panties down your legs. "Need to feel you."
His mouth was on you again, bare this time, his tongue flat against your folds, licking from entrance to clit. He sucked. He circled. He pushed a finger inside you, then two, curling them against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.
You came with a cry, your pussy clenching around his fingers, your hips grinding against his face.
He didn't stop. He rode you through it, lapping at your release, drawing it out until you were trembling and over-sensitive.
Then he moved up.
His jeans hit the floor. His cock sprang free—impossibly thick, flushed dark purple-pink, curved slightly, the head glistening with pre-cum. He positioned himself between your thighs, the tip pressing against your slick entrance.
He looked down at you.
"You're so beautiful." His voice was wrecked. "I thought about this every second. Every mile. Every city."
"Then come home," you whispered. "Come home to me."
He drove forward.
One heavy, continuous thrust—no teasing, no hesitation. He buried himself to the hilt in a single stroke, and the stretch was breathtaking. Your inner walls, tight from months of absence, clamped down on him like a vice. He let out a fractured groan.
"Fuck—you're so tight. Still so perfect."
His forehead dropped to yours. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, letting you adjust. The fullness was overwhelming. He filled every inch of you, reached places inside you that you'd forgotten existed.
Then he began to move.
The pace was intense from the start. Primitive. Relentless. He drove into you with a hunger that bordered on feral, each thrust punctuated by a grunt, a curse, a broken plea. The headboard smacked rhythmically against the wall. Skin met skin in wet, slapping impacts that filled the small room.
Your moans were high and breathless. Your fingers clawed red marks into his back.
He shifted, grabbing your knees and pinning them back toward your shoulders. The new angle let him drive deeper, hitting that spot inside you with brutal accuracy. His eyes were fixed on your face.
"I want to watch you come," he said. "I want to feel it."
The orgasm built like a wave. Your inner walls fluttered around him. Your vision blurred.
"Jooheon oppa—"
"Let go." His voice was rough. "I've got you."
You shattered.
The orgasm crashed through you in pulsing waves, your pussy milking his shaft in tight, violent spasms. The sound that tore from your throat was raw and animal, muffled by your hand until he grabbed your wrist and pinned it to the bed.
"I want to hear you."
Your cries filled the room. His control snapped at the sound.
He drove to the hilt and held there. His whole body tensed. His jaw locked. The veins bulged in his neck as he emptied himself inside you—pulse after hot, thick pulse flooding your core, his seed anchoring him back to the only home he'd ever known.
His groan was deep and fractured, his face buried in the curve of your neck.
The last pulse faded.
He didn't move. Neither did you. His weight pressed you into the mattress, his cock still buried inside you, his breath ragged against your skin.
The radiator hummed.
The wind rattled the window.
The snow continued to fall outside, silent and relentless, blanketing the world in white.
He lifted his head. His eyes were wet, his expression open, stripped of every mask he wore for the world.
"I am home," he said.
honey's homecoming. 13.
mx jooheon x lilsis reader (adopted)
explicit, smut, mdni | chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12
You share one last intimate morning with Jooheon before watching him leave for a world tour.
The morning heat crept in before consciousness did—a thick, humid blanket that settled over the cramped bedroom like a second skin. The fan on the nightstand whirred its mechanical complaint, oscillating left, right, left, right, pushing warm air around without offering any real relief. Dawn light filtered through the thin curtains, pale gold and hazy.
You surfaced from sleep slowly, piece by piece.
The first thing you registered was weight. An arm draped across your waist, heavy and solid. A thigh pressed between yours. Breath stirring the fine hairs at your temple. Sweat-slicked skin adhering to sweat-slicked skin where your bodies touched.
Jooheon's chest rose and fell against your back. His heartbeat thudded steady between your shoulder blades.
The second thing was the heat. Summer mornings in this house were always like this—the old air conditioner wheezing its last breath years ago, leaving only the fan to stir the stifling air. The sheets were twisted around your legs, kicked off sometime in the night. Your nightgown—a thin cotton slip that barely counted as clothing—had ridden up to your waist. His boxers were the only thing between him and nudity.
You didn't move. Didn't want to break the spell.
Because the third thing you registered was the awareness that today was the day.
Jooheon stirred behind you. His arm tightened, dragging you impossibly closer, his face pressing into the curve of your neck. His lips moved against your skin—not a kiss yet, just the shape of one, the suggestion.
"You're awake," he murmured, his voice sleep-rough and low.
"How did you know?"
"Your breathing changed." His palm spread across your stomach. "Got faster."
The heat wasn't just the morning anymore.
Your body responded to him the way it always did—instantly, instinctively. The press of his hips against your backside revealed he was already half-hard, his cock trapped between your bodies. Your thighs squeezed together, a pulse of want fluttering low in your belly.
"We should get up," you whispered, though you made no move to do so.
"Should we?"
"Mom will be in the kitchen soon. We're supposed to help with breakfast."
His mouth found the spot below your ear—the place that made your thoughts scatter like startled birds. "She won't check on us."
"Oppa—"
"Shh." His hand slid lower, fingers skimming the hem of your nightgown. "Just a little longer."
The first touch of his fingers against your inner thigh made you gasp. He traced patterns there—lazy, unhurried spirals that crept higher with each pass. Your legs parted without permission, your body making decisions your mind hadn't caught up to yet.
His cock hardened fully against your lower back. You could feel every inch of him, that thick, curved length that still amazed you every time you saw it. Remembered it. Felt it inside you.
Jooheon shifted, and suddenly you were on your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settled above you. The fan oscillated away from the bed, then back, a brief reprieve of moving air before the heat settled again.
You looked up at him.
Sweat glistened in the hollow of his throat. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes. His lips were slightly parted. His chest—sculpted from years of dance and military training—rose and fell with an intensity that had nothing to do with the heat.
"You're so beautiful," he said.
The words weren't practiced. Weren't part of some seduction routine. They fell out of him like a fact, like stating the sky was blue or the fan was loud or today was going to hurt.
Your throat tightened. "I'm a mess. I haven't even brushed my hair."
"Beautiful," he repeated, and kissed you.
The kiss was slow. Deliberate. His lips moved against yours with the patience of someone memorizing a scripture. His tongue traced your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him. The taste of sleep and last night's tea and something underneath that was just him.
His hand found the strap of your nightgown, dragging it down your shoulder. His mouth followed the path of the fabric—kissing your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the soft skin of your upper arm. The nightgown slipped further. Your nipple tightened in the open air before his mouth even reached it.
When his lips closed around the peak, you arched off the mattress with a muffled cry.
He sucked gently, then harder. His tongue flicked. His teeth grazed. His other hand palmed your other breast, thumb circling in tandem with his mouth. The dual sensation sent sparks cascading down your spine, landing in the ache between your legs.
"Jooheon oppa—" His name was a plea. For what, you weren't sure. More. Everything. One last time before the van came.
He released your nipple with a wet pop, his eyes meeting yours. "I need to taste you."
Before you could respond, he was moving down your body. His mouth left a trail of fire down your sternum, your stomach, the jut of your hipbone. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties—plain white cotton, nothing like the lace things you'd worn in Seoul—and dragged them down your legs.
The fan turned toward the bed. The brief rush of air against your exposed pussy made you shiver.
Then his mouth was on you, and the fan didn't matter anymore.
Jooheon ate you out like a man starving. His tongue flattened against your folds, licking a broad stripe from entrance to clit. He circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, then sucked it between his lips. Two fingers pressed inside you—a stretch that was familiar now but still made your breath catch—and curled upward.
Your hands fisted in the sheets. "Oh god—"
He didn't stop. His tongue worked your clit while his fingers pumped steadily, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur at the edges. The obscene wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy filled the small bedroom, competing with the whir of the fan and your high, breathless moans.
His free hand pressed down on your hip, pinning you to the mattress when you tried to buck against his face.
"Stay still," he commanded, the words vibrating against your folds.
A whimper escaped your throat.
He sucked harder. Fingered deeper. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter, pleasure building like pressure behind a dam.
Then he stopped.
"No—" you gasped. "Don't stop, please—"
But he was already moving, shifting up your body, his cock nudging against your entrance. The head pressed against your slick opening, and you both moaned at the contact. He was so thick. Even now, even after everything, the size of him made you feel impossibly full just from the head alone.
"I want to feel you," he said, his forehead dropping to yours. "I want to be inside you when you come."
"Then do it."
A single thrust.
He buried himself to the hilt in one smooth motion, and your back arched off the mattress. The stretch was exquisite—that brief moment of resistance before your body yielded, opened, welcomed him. He filled you completely. Every ridge, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat echoing through his shaft.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're still so—"
"Tight," you finished for him, a laugh hitching in your throat. "You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
He pulled back slowly, then thrust forward. The drag of him against your inner walls made you gasp. The friction was perfect—the wet slide of your arousal coating him, the way your pussy gripped and fluttered around his thickness.
His rhythm started slow. Deliberate. Each thrust was a word, a sentence, a paragraph in the conversation your bodies were having. I'm going to miss this. I'm going to miss you. I don't want to leave.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. His pubic bone ground against your clit with every stroke, and the added stimulation made your moans pitch higher.
"Harder," you begged. "Please, oppa—harder."
Something broke in him.
His control shattered, and he fucked you in earnest—deep, driving thrusts that made the headboard creak and the mattress squeak. The sounds of sex filled the room: skin against skin, wet suction, his grunts and your cries. Sweat dripped from his chest onto yours. The fan oscillated uselessly, doing nothing to cool either of you.
Your climax built like a storm. Pressure gathering. Muscles tensing. The world narrowing to the single point of his body moving inside yours.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You opened your eyes. Met his gaze.
"Come for me." His voice was rough, raw, scraped clean of everything but want. "I want to feel you."
You fell apart.
The orgasm crashed through you—pulsing, clenching, your pussy milking his cock with rhythmic contractions that made him groan. Your nails raked down his back. Your moan was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you through it, his tongue pushing past your lips in time with his thrusts.
He drove deep one last time and held there, buried to the hilt, his whole body tensing. The first pulse of his release was hot and thick, painting your inner walls. He groaned your name—not the formal version, but the intimate, shortened syllable that was reserved just for the two of you.
Pulse after pulse. Hot and thick and his.
You clung to him as he emptied himself inside you, your legs locked around his waist, your arms around his neck. Neither of you moved. Neither of you wanted to break the connection.
When the last pulse faded, he sagged against you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His breath was ragged against your neck. His cock still twitched inside you, softening but not withdrawing.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too."
He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The corner of your mouth. "I don't want to leave."
The words hung in the humid air, heavy and painful.
"I know." Your fingers traced the sweat-damp curve of his spine. "But you have to. And I'll be here when you come back."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He lifted his head, meeting your eyes. His were glossy—not with tears, not quite, but close. The vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache. This was Jooheon stripped of the idol, of the performer, of the careful image. Just a man, scared of losing what he'd found.
The fan oscillated toward the bed. The breeze brushed your overheated skin.
Down the hall, a cabinet door closed. Footsteps—soft, slippered—moving in the kitchen. The clink of a pot. The hiss of the stove.
His mother was awake.
Jooheon pressed his forehead to yours. "We should get up."
"Yeah."
Neither of you moved.
His body was still flush with yours, his weight a comfort you didn't want to lose. His release was still warm inside you, a physical reminder of the intimacy you'd shared. The sheets were a disaster. Your nightgown was twisted around your ribs. Your discarded panties lay crumpled on the floor.
He pulled out slowly, and you both winced at the loss. A thin trickle of his seed followed, cooling on your thigh.
Jooheon grabbed wet wipes from the nightstand and cleaned you gently—tender swipes that felt more intimate than the sex had been. Then he cleaned himself. Then he collapsed beside you, pulling you against his chest.
You lay there, staring at the ceiling.
The morning light had shifted from pale gold to bright yellow. Dust motes floated in the beam that cut through the gap in the curtains. The fan hummed. The kitchen sounds continued—water running, the chop of a knife against a cutting board, his mother humming a trot song under her breath.
"I used to stare at this ceiling when I was a teenager," Jooheon said quietly. "Before I debuted. Before any of this." His arm tightened around you. "I'd lie here and dream about what it would be like. The stage. The fans. The music. I never imagined this."
"Never imagined what?"
"You." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Here. With me. Like this."
Your eyes burned. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. "You're going to make me cry."
"No crying. Not yet."
"Then stop saying things like that."
A soft laugh rumbled through his chest. "Can't help it."
The cabinet closed again. His mother's voice called out something indistinct—probably asking if either of you was awake, probably wondering why the bedroom door was still shut.
"We really should get up," you said.
"I know."
Another moment passed. Then another.
Finally, Jooheon sighed and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The morning light traced the contours of his back—the muscle, the sweat, the pink lines your nails had left on his shoulder blades. You reached out and touched one of the marks, and he glanced back at you.
"Evidence," you said.
"Good." He caught your hand, brought it to his lips, pressed a kiss to your palm. "I want to take them with me."
Breakfast was a quiet affair, though not in the way mornings usually were quiet.
The kitchen table was small—a relic from Jooheon's grandmother, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and plates and spilled soup. His mother had outdone herself. Tofu stew. Grilled fish. Kimchi. Pickled vegetables. Steamed rice. More side dishes than three people could reasonably eat.
"You need to eat," she said for the fourth time, pushing the fish toward Jooheon. "Who knows what they feed you on those tours? Airplane food. Hotel food. Nothing like home cooking."
"I eat fine, Eomma."
"You've lost weight. I can tell." She clicked her tongue, already rising to fetch another container from the refrigerator. "I packed some side dishes for you. They'll last a few days if you keep them cold. And your manager needs to make sure you're eating properly. I should call him."
"Please don't call my manager."
You kept your eyes on your rice bowl, pressing your lips together to suppress a smile. The domesticity of it all—the mother fussing, the son protesting, the girl sitting quietly at the table like she'd been there forever—felt normal. Felt like any other family breakfast.
Except your stomach was in knots.
Except Jooheon's knee was pressed against yours under the table.
Except every shared glance felt loaded, weighted, heavy with everything you couldn't say in front of his mother.
"Next time you come home," his mother said, settling back into her chair with a satisfied huff, "you should bring a girlfriend."
Jooheon choked on his soup.
You froze, your chopsticks hovering halfway to your mouth.
"Don't give me that look," she continued, oblivious. "You're past marrying age, Jooheon-ah. Your father was already married at your age. I had you by thirty. If you don't start looking soon, all the good girls will be taken."
"Eomma—"
"I'm serious. There are plenty of nice girls in the neighborhood. The Park family's daughter just finished her studies. Very pretty. Very polite." She nodded firmly, as if the matter were already settled. "Next time, bring someone home. I want grandchildren before I'm too old to spoil them."
Jooheon's knee pressed harder against yours. His face was carefully neutral, but his ears had gone pink—the tell you'd learned to recognize.
"I'll think about it," he managed.
His mother beamed, satisfied, and turned her attention to your nearly-empty bowl. "You're not eating either. Here, more rice."
The thought twisted in your stomach like something alive. Bring someone home. She didn't know. She couldn't know. And even if she did—even if she somehow suspected the truth of what existed between you and her son—there was no world in which she would accept it.
You were the neighbor girl. The orphan they'd taken in out of kindness. His little sister in everything but blood.
You pushed the rice around your bowl, appetite gone.
Jooheon's hand found yours under the table. Squeezed. Held on.
he suitcases sprawled open on Jooheon's bedroom floor like open mouths, waiting to be fed.
Two massive black hardshells. A carry-on. A backpack for essentials. The wardrobe of an idol—stage outfits, casual wear, accessories, toiletries—all needing to be sorted and folded and packed with military precision.
"It's like a three-dimensional puzzle," you said, holding up two nearly identical black jackets. "I can't tell which one is which."
"The one on the left is for performances. The right is for interviews." Jooheon took them both from your hands and laid them in the suitcase with practiced efficiency. "You get used to it."
You folded a sweater—soft cashmere, the color of cream—and placed it beside the jackets. "How long did it take? To get used to it?"
"Years." He picked up a stack of jeans, rolled them tightly, tucked them into the gaps between the jackets. "After my first tour, I came home and didn't unpack for two weeks. Just lived out of the suitcase. It felt more familiar than my own room."
The confession landed somewhere in your chest, soft and sad. You thought of him in hotel rooms and airport lounges, surrounded by people but somehow alone. Living out of suitcases. Singing his heart out to faceless crowds.
Your hand closed around a shirt in the dresser drawer—a simple black tee, worn soft from countless washes. You lifted it without thinking, brought it to your face. Cedar. Vanilla. Him.
You looked up. Jooheon was watching you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Keep it," he said.
"What?"
"The shirt. Keep it." He crossed the room, his hands settling on your waist. "It looks better on you anyway."
You clutched the fabric like a lifeline. "I'll wear it to bed."
"I know you will."
You turned in his arms, pressing your face to his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear, a rhythm you wanted to memorize. Your hands fisted in the back of his shirt.
"I have something for you too," you whispered.
"Oh?"
You pulled back and reached into the drawer where you kept your sleepwear. Your fingers found the familiar lace—baby pink, delicate, the panties you'd worn to bed last night. They were still faintly warm, still carried the scent of your skin.
You held them out.
Jooheon stared at them. Then at you. His expression flickered through surprise, understanding, something deeper and hungrier.
"Put them in my coat pocket," he said, his voice rough.
You crossed to the closet where his travel coat hung—a long black wool thing he'd need for the cold European leg of the tour. Your fingers slipped the lace into the inside pocket. Hidden. A secret token only you would know about.
When you turned back, Jooheon was right there.
His hands cupped your face. His kiss was fierce and desperate—nothing like the slow, gentle kisses from the morning. This was a kiss that said I'm scared too. I don't want to go. I'll miss you every second.
You kissed him back just as hard.
The van arrived at eleven.
You saw it through the living room window—sleek, black, tinted windows. It idled at the gate with the patient menace of something official, something belonging to a world you weren't part of.
His manager texted: Here. Take your time.
Jooheon's mother bustled around the entryway, pressing containers of food into his hands, adjusting his collar, telling him to call when he landed. Her chatter filled the space where the silence would otherwise have been deafening.
"The side dishes are in the blue bag," she was saying. "Eat them within three days. And there's rice cakes in the red container. Share with the members."
"I will, Eomma."
"And don't forget to—" Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She glanced at the screen, her eyebrows rising. "Ah, it's Mrs. Park. She's probably calling about the garden." She looked between you and Jooheon, hesitating. "I should take this. Just a moment."
She stepped toward the kitchen, phone already pressed to her ear.
The moment she was gone, Jooheon pulled you into the alcove by the front door—half-hidden behind the coat rack, out of sight of the kitchen and the windows.
His arms wrapped around you so tightly you couldn't breathe.
"I'll call you," he said against your hair. "Every night."
"Even if it's just two minutes."
"Even if it's just two seconds." He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His were wet. "Wait for me."
"You know I will."
His mouth crashed into yours.
The kiss was desperate. Breathless. It tasted of the morning's bittersweet reality and the tears neither of you were letting fall. You clung to him, trying to memorize the feel of his lips, the press of his body, the way he breathed your name against your mouth like a prayer.
His mother's voice drifted from the kitchen. Still on the phone. Still distracted.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too. I love you. I—"
Another kiss. Deeper. Fiercer. A kiss that was trying to say everything there wasn't time to say.
Then his mother's footsteps, returning.
They broke apart.
Jooheon grabbed his bags. His mother appeared, sliding her phone back into her pocket. "Mrs. Park wants to know if the tomatoes need more sun," she said, shaking her head. "As if I'm an expert. Now—are you sure you have everything?"
"Yes, Eomma."
"Passport? Phone charger? The side dishes?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes." He bent to kiss her cheek. "I'll be back before you know it."
She hugged him tightly, her face pressed to his shoulder. "Be safe. Eat well. Don't work too hard."
"I won't."
Then he straightened. His eyes found yours.
The look lasted only a second—but it held everything. Every morning. Every night. Every whispered promise and shared secret and breathless confession.
Then he turned and walked out the door.
You stood on the porch, his mother beside you, and watched the van pull away.
It rolled down the dusty road slowly at first, then faster. The tinted windows swallowed him whole, gave nothing back. You watched until the black shape became a dot against the green hills. You watched until the dot disappeared around the bend. You watched until there was nothing left to watch.
"Well," his mother said with a sigh, "the house will feel empty now."
You couldn't speak.
She patted your arm, a gentle, motherly gesture. "I'll be in the garden if you need me."
Her footsteps receded down the porch steps, toward the tomato plants and the wide-brimmed hat she wore when she gardened. You stayed where you were, staring at the empty road.
The summer heat pressed down. Cicadas screamed in the trees. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
Then you turned and walked back inside.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that amplifies every small sound—the creak of floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant voice of his mother singing to her tomatoes.
You stopped in the doorway of Jooheon's bedroom.
The suitcases were gone. The floor was bare except for a few stray socks that had been left behind. The bed was rumpled, the sheets still twisted from the morning. The fan still oscillated on the nightstand, doing nothing but pushing the heavy air in circles.
You crossed to the bed and lay down on his side.
The pillow still smelled like him. Cedar. Vanilla. The faint tang of his sweat from the morning. You pressed your face into it, breathing deeply, trying to trap the scent in your lungs.
The bed was vast and cold and entirely too empty.
Your hand found the black tee shirt—the one he'd told you to keep. You pulled it against your chest, curling around it like a child with a stuffed animal.
The tears came, finally. Quiet ones. The kind that slipped down your cheeks without sound, without sobbing. You let them fall.
Three months.
Maybe four.
The fan turned toward the bed. The breeze brushed your damp cheeks.
You closed your eyes and focused on the lingering scent of cedar and vanilla, and the faint, fading warmth where his body had been.
Lee Jooheon (Joo Honey) {250x400}
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Consider buying me a coffee at ko-fi, completely optional, but very welcome! <3 // Considere me pagar um café no ko-fi, totalmente opcional, mas muito bem-vindo! <3
lee jooheon, you could be a chitra moon, but you're forgiven due to your wonderful contribution to the musical world 🙏🏻