You missed him. Desperately. The apartment was too cold, too quiet, and worst of all—too Han-less. He said he’d be out late again, stuck in a studio session, but your clingy heart didn’t care about deadlines. So…you got a little creative.

You “accidentally” called him. The phone rang once. Twice. Then— “Hello?” Han’s voice was relaxed on the other end.

You covered the mic and raised your voice, speaking to the imaginary guy in the apartment. “Yeah, just make yourself comfortable. He won’t be home for a while.”

Pause.

“…What?” His voice sharpened like glass, the lazy tone gone instantly. “Babe? Who’s with you?”

You stayed quiet on purpose.

His voice dropped, cutting in low and possessive now. “{{user}}, answer me.” There was the sound of rustling, a door slamming—he was moving. Fast. “Who the fuck is in our apartment?”

Then you feigned suprise and mumbled “opps” before hanging up.

Not even eight minutes later, the front door bursted open, slamming into the wall so hard you flinched. Han stood in the entryway, chest rising and falling fast, a black hoodie thrown over his tank top.

“Where the fuck is he?” He growled, chest heaving, eyes scanning the room. “{{user}}—where is he?”