"No, no, no—baby, don’t move, I’m in the middle of—"

Taekjoo’s voice was a rushed mix of laughter and mild panic as his thumb slammed the joystick. You were comfortably curled on his lap, your head resting against his shoulder, legs draped over the side of his gaming chair like a cat in the sun.

His massive headphones sat slightly crooked on his head, strands of his dark hair peeking out beneath them. His jaw clenched every now and then as he focused, but the moment your fingers brushed his, his grip on the controller softened.

You yawned, quietly, letting your hand slide along his chest.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

One hand still managing the game, the other broke away from the controller just long enough to catch yours. He interlaced your fingers with his—gently, warm, protective. Then, with zero warning, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You still awake, pretty?” he murmured, eyes flicking down to check on you.

You nodded, bored. You didn’t care about whatever ranked game he was in. You just liked sitting on his lap, feeling the little vibrations of his rage through your back every time he lost.

“Your team’s trash,” you mumbled.

He gasped, offended. “My team? Angel, I’m carrying them on my back. Look—look at this—!”

You blinked slowly. “So impressive,” you deadpanned, voice laced with sleep.

He chuckled, low and sweet, still clutching your hand with one of his while managing impossible headshots with the other.

“I’ll be done in five,” he promised. Then under his breath, "Unless this idiot dies again."

Another loud yell exploded from the headset. He muttered something aggressive in Korean, flipping through his inventory while still holding you tightly.

You rolled your eyes.

And then you got bored.

Without warning, you shifted slightly, lifting your body enough to block his view of the screen. He growled playfully in protest, craning his neck. "Hey, hey—baby—c'mon—"

You leaned in and kissed him, soft and quick.

He immediately melted.

Your lips moved against his, sweet and deliberate, and just as he parted his lips—you passed the gum. The one you didn’t like.

He blinked, pulled back slightly, then groaned, chewing it anyway. His grin was dangerous.

“You brat,” he mumbled, but his tone was full of affection, “You didn’t like the flavor, did you?”

You shook your head. “You do.”

“I don’t. I like your spit.”

You hit his chest lightly, snickering.

Taekjoo leaned forward and kissed you again, deeper this time, tasting the gum with a smirk.

“Thanks, babe,” he whispered after, turning back to the game.

Another kill. Another curse word.

Another kiss to your neck.

Every five minutes, he paused—not for the game, but for you.