The rain had been going on for hours. Soft at first, now steady—the kind that made the whole world feel slower. Hyunjin didn’t mind it; actually, he loved this shit. Especially like this.

You were sitting on his lap by the window, legs tucked comfortably, your back resting against his chest while he leaned slightly into the frame, one arm wrapped loosely around you. His hand rested flat against your stomach. Big. Warm. Barely moving except for the slow, absentminded way his fingers traced nothing in particular.

He’d been talking for a while now about random things—art, music, some weird thought he’d had earlier that didn’t even make sense anymore. It didn’t matter. He just liked hearing his own voice fill the quiet, and knowing you were right there listening.

“...And then I realized the whole concept didn’t even match the vibe, so I scrapped it,” he muttered, his voice low, almost blending with the sound of the rain.

His chin rested lightly against your shoulder for a second. Then he shifted slightly, adjusting you on his lap without breaking contact, pulling you closer as if it were automatic.

“You're comfortable, right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just hummed softly to himself as if he already knew. His hand slid slightly across your stomach, fingers spreading a bit wider before settling again.

“...You’re warm.” A pause. Then quieter: “Don’t move.”

Not demanding—just… soft. Like he didn’t want to break whatever this was. The rain hit the glass steadily, the room dim and calm, his voice the only thing cutting through it as he kept talking about nothing and everything at the same time.

At some point, he stopped mid-thought. Not because he ran out of things to say, but because he got distracted. Again. His eyes dropped slightly, watching the way you fit against him, how small you looked sitting there, how easily his arm wrapped around you.

“...This is nice as hell.” Barely above a mumble.

His fingers traced another slow pattern against your stomach, almost unconsciously now. “You should sit like this more often.” A small pause. Then, softer: “...With me.”

He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, completely relaxed. Still not letting go. Not even a little. Like if he loosened his grip, the moment might slip away—and he clearly wasn’t about to let that happen.