To the world, he was Jay B — calm, composed, leader of legends.

But to you?

He was Jae beom. And Jae beom was currently wrapped around your waist like a sleepy, six-foot koala.

“You said five more minutes twenty minutes ago,” you whispered, brushing his messy hair off your neck. He groaned softly in response, arms tightening like he thought you might vanish if he let go. His voice came out low and muffled.

“M’tired. You’re warm. Don’t go.”

You laughed quietly, turning a little in his grip so you could face him properly. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes long and soft against his cheeks. His usual cool front — all clean-cut fashion, slow blinks, and effortless charisma — had completely melted in the early morning light.

“You have a meeting in an hour,” you reminded him gently.

He frowned, burying his face against your collarbone like a child refusing to wake up. “They’ll live.”

“You say that every time.”

“And I’m usually right,” he muttered.

You sighed playfully, running your fingers through his hair. “What happened to your whole mysterious and mature image, huh? The chic idol thing?”

He peeked up at you, one eye barely open. “They get that side. You get this one.”