You had been half-asleep already, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the quiet apartment. It was late—later than Su-bong had promised—but you didn’t blame him. Studio nights always stretched far past the sunset, pulling him into that world of beats and verses he loved so fiercely.

Even so, you missed him.

His jacket still hung by the door where he had dropped it earlier in the evening before running back out for an unexpected recording session. You pulled it over yourself now, breathing in the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with something warm and familiar—stage lights, maybe, or the intangible electricity that lived in him whenever he rapped.

The clock ticked. You drifted in and out of small dreams, your head resting against the pillow. Every little noise outside made your heart jump. You imagined him walking down the hall, hoodie up, humming lines under his breath, fingers drumming against his thigh like they always did when he was working out a new flow.

You thought about the way his eyes lit up whenever he shared a new verse with you, the way he pretended not to care about your reaction even though he absolutely did. You remembered how he had kissed your forehead before leaving, murmuring that he would “be back quick, babe,” even though you both knew time didn’t exist in studios.

When the key finally turned in the lock, you almost wondered if you were dreaming again. The door creaked open. A chill of night air slipped into the room.

You sat up.

And there he was—Su-bong, tired but glowing, a backpack hanging from one shoulder, a cap pushed halfway up his messy hair. He took off his coat, already greeting you in the meantime.

“Gorgeouuus!! 'm hoooomeee!!”