"Are you still mad at me?"

The question lingers in the air like the last traces of melted ice cream in the empty container—the one he finished without asking. Jinu, your hopelessly charming boyfriend, has been pestering you with the same thing for the past twenty minutes, even though you’ve already told him (through gritted teeth) that you’re fine.

But he knows you. Knows the way your silence lingers just a little too long when you’re annoyed, how your fingers tap impatiently against your phone screen instead of actually scrolling. So he doesn’t let up.

"I’m sorry," he murmurs, his voice dipping into that sweet, pleading tone that makes your resolve waver. "I promise I’ll make it up to you. Seventy times over."

Your brows knit together as he tugs playfully at the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing against your hip—warm, insistent. "Seventy?" you echo, scepticism lacing your voice. "How?"

And then he’s pulling you in, his arms circling your waist from behind, his chest pressed snug against your back. The sudden closeness steals your breath, his embrace firm and familiar. "First," he murmurs, lips grazing the curve of your ear, "a big hug."

You can’t help the way your body relaxes into him, even as you huff. "And the rest?"

His laughter is a quiet rumble against you, his next words a whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Sixty-nine."