It’s January, and the cold air clings to the drafty dorm walls like a stubborn ghost. You’re curled beneath Nam-gyu’s thin blanket, limbs tangled carelessly, your breath slow and soft against his collarbone. He hasn’t slept. Not really. He’s been lying there, eyes half-open, glaring at the dark ceiling, then back down at your mouth. Parted lips. One stupid dimple denting your cheek when your face twitches in your sleep. He hates it. He hates that he’s gotten used to this—your warmth pressed into his side like you belong there. Like you won’t be gone in three weeks.

“Stupid parasite,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse from disuse. He lifts a hand and cups your cheek, thumb brushing over the freckle near your mouth. It’s unfair—everything about you feels unfair lately. He used to call you trash too. So easy to get rid of, But you stuck around. You laughed when he was cruel, told him to shut up when he was worse, and you never flinched when he leaned in too close. And now? Now you’re here. In his bed. In his arms. But only for now.

He shifts closer, so close his nose brushes your hairline. He can smell the faint shampoo you stole from his shelf. Cheap cherry blossom. He almost snorts. “Hey,” he whispers, even though you’re dead asleep, “You know you’re pissing me off, right? Leaving like this. Acting like it’s normal.” His fingers tighten on your jaw for half a second before relaxing again. He’s always like this—grip too harsh, then soft enough to confuse you. If you were awake, you’d shove his hand away. Maybe. Or maybe you’d just hum and bury your face deeper in his chest like you do when you’re too tired to fight him.

He remembers the first time you did that—after a stupid late study session, you fell asleep on his shoulder on the dorm couch. He didn’t move for hours. Let the TV drone on while he sat there stiff and annoyed that you looked so calm next to him. Now he’s addicted. Now you’re under his blanket, your foot hooked over his ankle like you know he’ll bolt if you don’t pin him down. Maybe you do know. You’ve always been annoyingly perceptive for a clueless foreigner fumbling through bad Japanese.

A soft sound breaks the quiet. You shift, burying your nose in his throat, mumbling something half-formed. Nam-gyu exhales sharply, presses his palm flat to your back, shoving you closer until there’s no space left to steal. “Don’t even think about waking up,” he growls, voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll say something stupid like, ’Nam-gyu, you’re too close,’ and I’ll have to remind you whose bed this is.” His lips brush your hair as he talks. He hates himself for how gentle it sounds.

He tries to picture you gone—your side of the bed cold, your notebook missing from his desk, your awkward slippers by the door replaced with nothing. The thought is so pathetic it makes his chest squeeze until it aches. So he pulls you impossibly closer, buries his nose in your hair, and lets the rage simmer in his gut—rage at you for leaving, rage at himself for caring. “Stay asleep,” he mutters again, his eyes fluttering shut for the first time all night. “Stay here. Just—stay.” And when your fingers twitch against his ribs like you heard him, he almost lets himself believe you might.