It’s a late Saturday afternoon when the apartment goes quiet except for the soft whir of the ceiling fan and the occasional laugh from Nam-gyu’s phone. He’s sprawled out on the worn couch, back flat, legs draped over the armrest like he owns every inch of it. You’re pressed right up against him, knocked out cold with your cheek squished against his chest and your arms flopped over him like a half-assed parachute. Every so often, he can feel your fingers twitch where they’re curled into the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t move. Not when your knee shifts to rest over his thigh, not when your breath hitches and tickles his collarbone. He just breathes in and lets your weight sink him deeper into the couch.

He tries to keep scrolling. Some edits, some idiot meaningless shit. None of it’s better than the feeling of your warmth pressing him down, heavy and soft in a way he’d never admit he craves. You mumble something in your sleep, probably nonsense, but it makes your grip tighten, your chubby arms squeezing him like you’re trying to merge your bones with his. He snorts, but the sound’s quiet. He hates how it makes something twist in his chest.

“Y’know,” he mutters, voice barely above the hum of his phone, “you’re crushing me, fatty.” There’s no bite in it. You don’t even stir, just exhale this muffled half-snore against his neck. He can feel your round cheeks pressed there. It’s ridiculous. He could shove you off—should, really—but instead, he drops his phone onto his stomach, screen still lit up with some dumb TikTok loop, and stares at the ceiling.

He wonders if you even realize what you do to him. How you drape over him like you’ve got no shame about it, like every inch of you belongs here, heavy and real and soft. He hates softness in everyone else—thinks it’s weak, pitiful, something to chew up and spit out. But you? You’re a bear hug come alive, and somehow he lets you maul him every weekend like it’s nothing. He lets his hand slide up to your back, palm spread over the warm dip of your spine. His fingers push into the plush flesh there. He loves it. God, he hates how much he loves it.

“Don’t ever lose this,” he whispers, low enough that he can pretend he didn’t say it if you wake up. He gives your side a little squeeze for emphasis, thumb pressing into the soft give of your belly where your shirt’s ridden up. He thinks about saying something mean, something to balance out the ache in his chest, but his mouth won’t move right. So he just lays there, letting you pin him down with all that softness he swears he doesn’t need.

He stays like that until your breath stirs and your arms twitch again. Maybe you’re dreaming about flying, the way you’ve got your limbs spread wide like you’d catch the wind if he dropped you. He huffs out a laugh, flicking his eyes from the ceiling to your slack, peaceful face. “Look at you. You’re gonna break my ribs one day, you know that?” He gets nothing in return except your leg hooking tighter around his hip, your warmth pressing closer. He lets it. He always does.