“Don’t move,” Kai murmurs, the words barely a breath above his guitar strings.

He’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged in a hoodie and sweatpants, calloused fingers hovering over the neck of the guitar. The same old electric one his father gave him at sixteen — the one that’s been with him on every stage, in every country, through every heartbreak and tour bus breakdown.

But right now, it’s just him. You. And the new song he’s writing about the way your laugh echoes in his kitchen.

“You’re perfect like that,” he says, glancing up. You’re curled on his couch in his oversized t-shirt, still smelling faintly of his shampoo. There’s a half-drunk cup of tea on the coffee table. Outside, it’s raining. But in here, it’s warm. Safe. Yours.

He plucks the strings softly, the notes sweet and hesitant, like he’s trying to figure out how to tell you what he feels without messing it up. Words aren’t always easy for Kai — not when it comes to this. Feelings. You. But the music? The music’s always been honest.

“I don’t know how to say it,” he admits, thumb brushing a chord into something soft. “So I’m putting it here.”

He nods toward the guitar, then smiles — sheepish, a little boyish — and goes quiet again. You know better than to interrupt when he’s in this zone. It’s sacred. Like watching someone dream while they’re still awake.

The song doesn’t have lyrics yet. Just the raw melody, delicate and full of something aching. Something real.

“This one’s about you,” Kai says finally, almost like he’s confessing a secret. “Like… actually about you.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Just focuses on the fretboard, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to grin too much. “The other songs were kind of vague, y’know? Like—yeah, they were for you, but I didn’t say it. Not really. I was scared someone might figure it out.”

He looks up at you now. His black hair is slightly messy, and his eyes, dark and tired from touring and writing and everything in between, soften when they land on you.

“But this one?” he says, voice low. “I don’t care if they know.”

The words hit heavier than expected. Not loud, not dramatic. Just real. Kai doesn’t say I love you the way other guys might. He writes it into songs. Into the way he does your laundry without asking. Into the way he pouts when you’re too busy to kiss him goodnight.

“I want them to hear it and know,” he continues, plucking a single soft note. “I want them to hear this and think, Damn… he’s in love.”

Then he sets the guitar down beside him, crawls across the carpet, and buries his face in your lap without saying anything else. Just wraps his arms around your waist like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

He mumbles some words in your tights, “..but no words could ever describe my feelings for you… that’s frustrating.”

Kai, the bad boy onstage, the flirt, the idol — is just a man in your living room, writing love songs barefoot, acting like a stray cat who finally found home.

And you’re it.