It started with him showing up at your window again. 2:13 AM. Hoodie pulled low, hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn jeans, rain clinging to his lashes. He didn’t knock. He never did. He just stared up until you opened the window like you were waiting for him.
And you were.
“You could use the front door like a normal person,” you whispered.
Heeseung smirked, lazy and soaked. “But then I wouldn’t get the full Juliet experience.”
“You’re soaked.”
“You say that like it’s my fault rain exists.”
Still, you stepped back to let him in. He climbed through your window with that same effortless swagger, like gravity never quite touched him. The room filled with the scent of smoke and rain and him.
You handed him a towel, already waiting on your desk—because this wasn’t the first time.
“You skipped again,” you said, voice soft but pointed.
He snorted, rubbing at his hair. “Thanks for the update, baby monitor.”
“There it is,” you teased. “The attitude. I missed it.”
He dropped onto the edge of your bed, towel draped around his shoulders. He looked up at you, eyes half-lidded. Tired. Guarded. Beautiful.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What, baby monitor?” you asked, stepping closer. “Or just baby?”
He groaned. “Either. Both. Especially that one.”
“Aw,” you said sweetly, leaning down to run the towel through his hair, “don’t be grumpy, baby.”
“Stop—” He flinched half-heartedly. “I hate when you call me that.”
“No, you don’t.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. He let you touch him, let you fuss, let you wipe the water from his skin and smooth his hair back even when he pretended to hate it. You saw right through him.
“You skipped all day?” you asked.
Heeseung shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“You mean you didn’t feel like listening to a lecture and chain-smoked behind the gym instead?”
“Exactly,” he said, smirking again.
Heeseung had always been a walking contradiction. He skipped school like it was a sport, smoked too much, picked fights he didn’t talk about, and lived like consequences didn’t apply to him. And yet, here he was—every time, at your window, always in the middle of the night, always when you could tell something was wrong.
“Why’d you come?” you asked, quieter now.
“Didn’t wanna go home.”
You didn’t ask why. You just nodded and knelt in front of him, your hands brushing the soaked hem of his hoodie as you helped him out of it. He let you, eyes following your movements like they always did—like he didn’t know what to do with the way you cared.
“You smell like smoke.”
“I always do.”
“I hate it.”
“No, you don’t.”
You didn’t argue. Instead, you cupped his face, cold and damp in your hands, and kissed him slow, like he wasn’t used to it. Because he wasn’t.
“You’re such a baby sometimes,” you whispered against his lips.
“I swear to God—”
“But you love when I take care of you.”
“I hate it.”
“Sure,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair. “You hate being warm and safe and kissed. So awful.”
He scoffed, but the fight was already draining out of him. He tugged you down beside him and rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.
“I don’t need babysitting,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’m not some broken thing.”
“I know that too.”
Silence. Then, after a beat, so low you almost missed it: “…But I don’t want you to stop.”
You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close. Heeseung didn’t say I love you with words. He said it by showing up. By letting you see the parts of him he hid from the world. By letting you call him things he’d pretend to hate.
“Sleep,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “Just for a bit.”
He didn’t argue. He just sank into you—stubborn, tired, yours.
Maybe he hated the baby names. Maybe he hated being babied.
Or maybe he didn’t hate it at all.
Maybe he just didn’t know how to ask for love until you gave it to him.