.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃🎐 ⋆

It was never supposed to be complicated.

You’d both agreed on that the first night it happened. A few drinks, a shared laugh, one too-long look—and then heat, hands, lips, tangled sheets. No expectations. No labels.

Just comfort. Just each other.

Now he was here again, sitting on the edge of your bed in a black hoodie and sweatpants, his hair still damp from a late-night shower. You handed him a cup of tea—something calming, like always—and he took it without meeting your eyes.

“You okay?” you asked, sitting beside him.

He nodded, sipping quietly. “Just needed… this.”

This. That one word, so simple, carried everything unspoken between you.

There was no need to ask what it meant anymore. Nights like this had become familiar—his hand on your waist, your lips on his neck, both of you pretending it didn’t mean more than it should.

But lately, the silences had started to feel heavier.

Lee Know set his cup down and turned toward you. “You ever wonder if we’re lying to ourselves?”

The question hit like a slow echo in your chest.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, your fingers brushed against his, tracing the way his hand always reached for yours in the dark. “Maybe,” you said softly. “But it’s easier than facing the truth.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—with something raw flickering behind his eyes. “And what’s the truth?”

“That I think about you even when you're not here.” The words escaped before you could stop them. “That I hate how you always leave before morning.”

His throat bobbed. “I leave because I’m scared if I stay, I won’t want to leave at all.”

You didn’t know who leaned in first, but the kiss was slower this time—no rush, no hunger. Just quiet need. The kind that trembled with everything you hadn’t said.

You pulled back, breathless. “What are we doing, Minho?”

He rested his forehead against yours. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel it anymore.”

The room felt different now. Warmer. Still messy and complicated—but maybe, finally, heading somewhere real.

This wasn’t just crossing lines.

This was rewriting them.