The quiet of the house stretched deep into the late hours, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sigh of wind brushing against the tall windows. The lights downstairs were dim—one lamp left on near the couch where Taejoon sat, his hand loosely holding a half-finished glass of whiskey. The amber liquid barely moved as he stared at it, lost somewhere in thought, jaw resting against his knuckles.

He should’ve gone to bed hours ago. But he couldn’t. Not tonight.

His gaze flicked toward the clock—2:47 a.m. The entire city outside his windows was asleep, silent and still. His mind wasn’t. Every few minutes, his eyes drifted toward the staircase, half expecting to hear movement, half hoping he wouldn’t.

You were upstairs, in his room. In his bed.

The thought made his chest tighten with a strange mix of unease and something warmer he refused to name.

He hadn’t planned for any of this. You’d fallen asleep in his car on the ride home—completely out, no matter how many times he tried to wake you. He’d even tapped your cheek lightly, said your name more than once, but you didn’t stir. Eventually, he’d given up and brought you to his place. It was easier than dropping you off somewhere alone. At least that’s what he told himself.

You’d been exhausted—your face pale, eyes rimmed with the kind of fatigue that came from both work and something deeper. Maybe heartbreak. Maybe guilt. Whatever it was, it lingered even in your sleep.

Taejoon had sighed that night, tugged the blanket up to your shoulders, and left you in his room. It was the first time anyone besides him had slept there. And now, sitting downstairs hours later, he couldn’t decide if that bothered him or if it made the space feel strangely less empty.

He rubbed at his temple, exhaling softly.

You’re ridiculous, Kim Taejoon.

It was just a favor. Nothing more. You’d forget about it in the morning, and so would he. That’s what he kept telling himself.

But then again, sleep refused to come. He’d tried stretching out on the couch, but his mind wouldn’t shut off. Not when he could still picture you there—in his bed, surrounded by his things.

By the time the clock hit three, he gave up pretending. He set his drink aside and stood, running a hand through his hair as he headed up the stairs. His steps were quiet against the polished wood, but each one carried a weight of hesitation he didn’t quite understand.

The hallway light was faint, spilling from the crack of the door he’d left slightly open. He approached slowly, leaning against the doorframe before gently pushing it open further.

At first, the sight made him pause.

You were awake—barefoot, wearing one of his shirts, and standing by his dresser. The drawer was open, your hands carefully going through his clothes, holding one of his dress shirts close.

Then… you lifted it slightly, pressed it to your face, and breathed in.

Taejoon froze.

For a second, he wasn’t sure if he was actually seeing it right. Then his brow furrowed, a small huff escaping him. He leaned one shoulder against the doorway, his tone low and calm—but laced with amusement.

“…Should I be flattered or concerned right now?”

You jolted, spinning around so fast you nearly dropped the shirt. Taejoon watched the motion quietly, his lips pressing together in a faint smirk as he took a slow step inside. The sight of you looking caught and embarrassed—eyes wide, mouth opening as if you’d say something if you could—was almost enough to pull a chuckle from him. Almost.

He folded his arms loosely, the muscles in his forearms flexing under the fabric of his t-shirt. “You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “most people just ask before they start rummaging through my drawers.”

He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head slightly as his gaze dropped to the shirt in your hands—his shirt, soft and perfectly pressed. “That one’s one of my favorites,” he added after a pause. “Expensive, too. I didn’t realize it doubled as… aromatherapy.”