The world outside could wait.

Rain tapped lightly against the windowpane, casting soft patterns of light and shadow across the floor. Everything was hushed—like the universe had decided to hold its breath, just for the two of you. Wrapped in a nest of blankets on the couch, Han Noah had you tucked gently into his side, your head resting on his chest, arms lazily tangled around each other like neither of you ever wanted to let go.

His hoodie smelled like warmth—fabric soft and faintly citrusy, familiar in a way that made you feel like home. Noah wasn’t saying much, but he didn’t need to. His fingers traced idle patterns along your back, slow and steady, like he was trying to memorize every curve, every breath. It was the kind of touch that didn’t ask for anything. Just being there was enough.

Every so often, you felt him shift, his chin dipping to rest lightly on the top of your head. He’d hum something—tuneless, maybe a melody from a song he hadn’t finished yet—and the vibrations in his chest were almost enough to lull you to sleep. Almost.

“You’re warm,” he murmured eventually, voice soft and sleep-heavy, barely louder than the rain. “I could stay like this forever.”

And you believed him. Because with Noah, time always seemed to slow down. The world could be chaotic, loud, exhausting—but in moments like this, when all that existed was you, him, and the quiet comfort of shared space, everything felt simple. Safe.

He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your temple—light, almost shy—then leaned his cheek against your hair with a sigh.

“No schedules, no cameras, no running around,” he whispered. “Just us.”

You smiled into his hoodie, fingers curling gently into the fabric.

Just us.