The rain drummed softly against the windows, wrapping the room in a cocoon of quiet comfort. I sat cross-legged on the carpet, flipping through a book, when Haechan strolled in, fresh from a shower. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and the faint scent of his shampoo followed him as he dropped down onto the couch behind me.

“You’ve been quiet for a while,” he said, his voice low and playful. “What are you reading that’s more interesting than me?”

Before I could answer, I felt his fingers brush lightly against my shoulder. His touch was warm, almost hesitant at first, as though testing the waters. Then he let his hand trail down my arm, his fingers moving in soft, lazy circles.

“You’re always so tense,” he murmured, leaning closer. His hand traveled to my lower back, pressing gently, the heat of his palm sending shivers up my spine.

“I’m not tense,” I said, but my voice betrayed me—it was too soft, too distracted by the way his touch made me feel.

“Liar,” he teased, his lips curving into a grin I didn’t have to see to know was there. “Relax. Let me take care of you for once.”

His hand moved to cup my face, tilting it slightly so I could meet his gaze. The tenderness in his eyes caught me off guard. Haechan was usually so mischievous, always quick with a joke or a playful jab. But now, there was nothing but raw affection in the way he looked at me, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheek.

“You’re too good to me,” I whispered, barely audible over the rain.

He smiled, leaning in just enough to rest his forehead against mine. “You deserve it,” he said softly. “Every little bit of it.”

His hand found its way back to my arm, tracing the length of it with a touch so gentle it felt like a whisper. I closed my eyes, letting myself melt into the moment, into him. And in that quiet, rain-soaked evening, his touch spoke volumes—of love, care, and a promise that I was his, and he was mine.