The hotel room was dim.

City lights blinked through the window. The hum of traffic was distant. The bed was a mess of blankets and her knees were tucked over his thighs as she leaned into his chest, her hair tickling his jaw.

Minho had his arms around her waist, bare skin warm under his fingers.

“You smell the same,” he mumbled, nose in her neck. “Like comfort. And sin.”

She laughed softly, swatting his shoulder. “You were doing so well.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded. “I always do well. Ask the bed frame later.”

She smacked him again. “Minho—”

He smirked. Not even sorry.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, clearly not. “Just haven’t seen you in forever. My brain’s in dangerous territory. Like—you bend over to grab something and I forget how to act.”

She gave him a look.

He just pulled her closer, thumb sliding under the hem of her shirt without thinking — soft, slow, adoring.

“You don’t get it,” he murmured, voice lower now. “I missed everything. The way you talk. Your hands on me. Your stupid little socks.”

Her eyes softened.

“…Also the noises you make when I—”

“LEE MINHO.”

He broke into laughter, forehead dropping to her shoulder.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, baby. I’m just…” he looked up again, slower this time, and his voice quieted. “I’m really happy you’re here.”

His hand slid up her back. His thumb brushed the side of her neck.

“Tour sucks without you. My pillow doesn’t smell like anything. The guys are loud. I’ve been annoying on purpose.”

She laughed. He kissed the sound.

“Let me keep being annoying. Please. I missed your laugh more than sleep.”

Then—

“And also your—”

She tackled him with a pillow.

He let it happen.