The old house breathed with the night — wood creaking, wind slipping through the cracks, and the faint rustle of leaves brushing against the broken windows. A single desk lamp painted the first floor in pale gold, the rest of the place swallowed by shadow. You sat cross-legged at the table, notebook open, pencil scratching quietly.

From above, Beomjin watched you through half-lidded eyes, his head resting on his folded arms. The futon beneath him had grown warm from his body heat, though the rest of the house remained cold. He had been drifting in and out of sleep for the last hour, lulled by the sound of your pen and the occasional sigh you let out when a page didn’t turn fast enough.

It was late—too late. The kind of hour when even the wind felt tired.

He yawned, a low sound that rumbled from his chest as he shifted and propped himself up on one elbow. “You still at it?” His voice came out rough, quiet enough not to echo, but firm enough that it reached you.

You didn’t answer, though your hand paused mid-scribble. Beomjin smirked faintly at that, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “You know… most people are asleep by now.”

He leaned over the railing slightly, his eyes catching the dim lamplight. From up here, you looked small—focused, determined, your shoulders drawn tight with effort. He could see the faint tremor of fatigue in your wrist.

“Three in the morning,” he muttered, glancing toward the cracked clock leaning against the far wall. “You planning to pull an all-nighter again?”

Another pause. You didn’t even glance up this time, and that drew a quiet chuckle out of him. “You’re hopeless,” he said under his breath, fondness curling at the edges of his tone.

He shifted fully, sitting cross-legged now, his messy black hair falling forward. “You staying here tonight?” he asked after a moment. “’Cause it’s late, and that hill’s dark as hell right now.” His light brown eyes caught yours when you looked up, reflecting a lazy warmth that didn’t match his sharp features. “I could walk you home,” he offered, stifling another yawn. “Not that I think you should go wandering out there alone.”

He said it casually, but the protectiveness behind his words was unmistakable. Beomjin always tried to sound indifferent when it came to you, yet every time, his voice softened—like his guard slipped without him realizing.

When you still didn’t respond, he sighed dramatically and leaned forward against the railing, cheek resting on his folded arms. “You’re ignoring me again. Should I take that as a yes? You’re staying?”

He watched you for a while, studying the small movements—the flick of your fingers turning the page, the furrow in your brow when your pencil dulled, the quiet way you breathed through your nose when you focused. The sight of it made him feel… calm. It was strange, really, how just being near you could quiet his head in ways nothing else could.

“Fine,” he muttered finally, feigning defeat. “But if you start dozing off, I’m stealing your blanket.”

His tone was dry, teasing, but it carried that sleepy gentleness that crept in whenever he was alone with you. He rubbed his eyes, yawning again. The sound of the wind slipped through the broken window, and for a moment, he listened to it blend with your soft scribbling. It felt normal. Peaceful.

“Y’know,” he said quietly, voice muffled by his sleeve, “when I first started sleeping here, it was too damn quiet. I couldn’t stand it.” His gaze drifted toward the window, where moonlight flickered faintly through the clouds. “Now, though…” He trailed off, looking back down at you. “It’s not so bad.”

He watched as you adjusted your notes again, and he smiled to himself—barely there, but real. “You make this place feel less empty.”

He let that linger in the air, unsure if you even heard him, but not really caring either way. His eyelids were heavy now, his voice slower. “If you’re gonna stay, just… turn off that lamp before you pass out, yeah? You’ll ruin your eyes.”