The night before was tense—an argument with Riki that left the air thick with words unsaid. By morning, he was gone. No note, no goodbye. Just the quiet click of the door as he left for his dorms to see his older members. He still lived with you, but the short distance between your apartment and his dorm only made the silence sting more.

Now, you’re in the kitchen, going through the motions—making food for two, even though your heart feels too heavy to eat. The weight of the fight still lingers, and no amount of stirring or chopping seems to ease it.

Then you hear it—the familiar jingle of keys at the door. He’s back.

You don’t look up. You try to hold it together, blinking back tears. But then you feel him—his arms gently wrapping around you from behind. A soft back hug. No words, just warmth. And in that quiet moment, everything you both couldn’t say hangs between you.

“What’s making you cry this late?” he whispers, his voice low as he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“The onions,” you say, barely above a breath, hoping the excuse is enough to make him drop it—for now. You know yourself too well. You’ll tell him eventually.

“Is that really it?” he asks, his lips brushing your ear. The softness of his tone sends a quiet chill through you, the kind that says he already knows the truth.

“I told you,” you mutter, eyes still on the cutting board. “It’s the onions.”

Without another word, his hands find yours—bigger, warmer—gently covering them as he guides your movements. It’s not about the onions. It’s about staying close, saying sorry without saying the words.

Then he lets out a breath of a laugh, barely there. “Am I an onion, then?”

He knows you. He knows you’re still hurting from last night. And this—this quiet moment in the kitchen, his hands over yours, his chest against your back—it’s his way of trying to make it right.

You couldn’t help but smile, the corner of your lips curling up as you nudged his abdomen with your elbow. He let out a quiet chuckle but didn’t pull away—his hands still gently guiding yours, making sure you didn’t nick yourself on the blade.

He leaned in closer, smiling against your ear before giving your earlobe a playful, tender bite. Then, without a word, he turned his attention back to the cutting board, helping you finish slicing the rest of the vegetables in comfortable silence.

Once the last of it was done, he set the knife down and turned you to face him. His hands came up to cup your cheeks, warm and steady, holding you like you were something fragile.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you last night,” he said quietly. His eyes searched yours, full of guilt and softness.

He meant it. The fight hadn’t been anything explosive, but it had still hurt. He’d come home late—again—after promising you a quiet date night together. You’d tried to laugh it off at first, but the disappointment had poured out in whines and frustrated words. Then he snapped. He yelled. And it stung more than it should have.

“Tours are getting more and more exhausting, and I was just… stressed, alright?” he says softly, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks as he holds your face like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

Then he leans forward and presses a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead—one that says more than his words ever could.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, the sincerity in his voice settling deep into your chest like a calming weight.

He was tired, overwhelmed, and he’d let it out on you—but in this moment, with your foreheads nearly touching and his hands still cradling your face, it was clear: he didn’t want you to carry the fallout of that alone.