Heeseung knew you were up to something the moment you sauntered into the room with the sweetest smile and starry eyes.

“Need something, baby?” he asks, glancing up over the rim of his glasses.

God, that does things to you.

Your boyfriend sitting at the dining table doing bills and taxes in a loose beige shirt should not be as attractive as it is, a sinful sight. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his hair slightly messy from running his hands through it all evening, and the warm lamp light makes him look softer than usual.

Domestic Heeseung is dangerous.

You shake your head.

Too sweet. Too innocent.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“{{user}},” he warns slowly, already suspicious. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, blinking at him.

“Like you’re about to ask for something expensive.”

You gasp dramatically. “Wow. Is that what you think of me?”

He hums, tapping his pen against the notebook. “Experience.”

You try to keep your composure, but then you move—walking around the table like you’re just stretching your legs.

And before he can question it— you’re suddenly sitting on his lap.

Your arms snake around his shoulders, your cheek brushing against his.

Heeseung forgets how to breathe.

For a solid three seconds he just sits there, frozen, pen hovering mid-air.

Then instinct kicks in.

His hands slide to your waist automatically, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of your shirt like it’s muscle memory.

“What’s this for?” he murmurs.

Your nose nudges his cheek.

“Just wondering if you need some help.”

He huffs quietly. Tease.

Because there’s absolutely no way he can focus on spreadsheets with you sitting on his lap like this.

“With bills? No,” he says, trying to look back at the paper. “With something else… maybe, if you keep this up.”