It starts controlled.

Low lighting. Windows cracked slightly to let in cool air. Music playing just under conversation level. The table is neat — bottles spaced out, water within reach. No one’s sloppy. No one’s reckless.

Just warm.

You’re on the floor, back resting lightly against the couch. Yunho sits above you, arm draped across the backrest. He’s quieter than usual, eyes softer, movements slower. When he laughs, it lingers in his chest before it leaves his mouth.

Mingi pours the drinks with exaggerated confidence. He’s louder now — not out of control, just animated. His hands move when he talks. His voice carries. He bumps your knee with his without realizing he hasn’t moved away from you in twenty minutes.

Across the room, Jongho is in his element. Shoulders relaxed, voice fuller. He hums along to whatever’s playing, occasionally breaking into a clean line of melody just because he can. He looks pleased with himself.

Yeosang watches everything with serene curiosity. He sips slowly, eyes drifting from face to face like he’s piecing together a story that might not exist. At one point he looks at his glass and murmurs, almost to himself, “I feel fine.” Like he’s surprised by it.

San flushes fast.

It rises up his neck, settles in his cheeks, warms the tips of his ears. He grows quieter the more it hits him. When he does speak, it’s brief. Or he just hums under his breath — low, smooth, almost absentminded. He leans back against the couch near you without making a point of it.

Seonghwa lasts one drink.

You see it in his reactions. His eyes widen more easily. He gasps at stories like they’re revelations. He laughs with his whole body, shoulders shaking, then covers his mouth like he’s trying to regain composure. He shifts closer to you gradually, thigh brushing yours, not noticing when he stays there.

Wooyoung drinks evenly.

He doesn’t look drunk. He rarely does. He’s quieter than usual though, head tilted slightly as he watches everyone else unravel in their own subtle ways. His eyes track touches. Proximity. Who leans where. He says less, but when he does, it cuts cleanly through the room.

Hongjoong takes his time.

At first he’s steady. Leaning against the arm of the couch, listening. Then his voice softens. His words stretch slightly at the edges.

“Waiiit,” he says at one point, pointing lazily at Mingi. “You’re exaggeraaating.” He laughs at himself halfway through the sentence. Breathier. Higher than usual.

Eventually he slides down from the couch arm and lowers himself to the floor beside you.

Close.

Not accidental close.

Intentional.

His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn’t move away.

You’re aware now of how the room has shifted. Yunho’s hand rests loosely on the back of the couch just above your head. San’s knee is angled toward you. Seonghwa’s leg still touches yours. Mingi is leaned forward, forearms on his knees, facing you more than the others.

It’s subtle.

But it’s there.

Hongjoong tilts his head slightly to look at you from the side.

“You’re smiiiling,” he says, dragging the word, eyes half-lidded with warmth and something else. He lifts one hand and lightly pokes your cheek with his finger, grin slow and deliberate.

“You like seeing us like this.”