Poker night at Jeongin’s place is a standing tradition. Every Friday, same group chat invite, same warning dropped like an afterthought. Might not be enough chairs. Same dim lighting, same low music humming through the condo, same stacks of chips clicking together while money quietly changes hands.

You learned early what that warning really meant. When the room fills up and someone jokes about seating, Jeongin doesn’t even look up. He just pats his thigh once, calm, familiar, like it’s already decided. “C’mere.”

So you do.

You settle onto his lap while the game continues around you. His arm comes around your waist automatically, resting there like it belongs. His thumb taps lightly against your side when he’s thinking, slow and absent, grounding.

He leans in to murmur commentary under his breath. “Terrible bluff.” “He’s nervous.” His chin brushes your shoulder like he doesn’t realize how close he is, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.