The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt like a soft blanket. Wonwoo sat cross-legged on the couch in his old track pants, glasses slipping down his nose as he scrolled through the TV options. You curled beside him with your knees tucked up, already surrendering to the warmth of the evening.

“Notebook again?” you teased, leaning your head on his shoulder.

He chuckled, low and soft. “You always say you hate it, then you end up crying halfway.”

You rolled your eyes, but when he pressed play, you didn’t protest. Halfway through, you found yourself sniffling, and he glanced down with that knowing smile, pushing the tissue box closer. You muttered something about the movie being “ridiculous,” and he only reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, saying nothing.

Hours melted without either of you noticing. Dumb conversations about nothing in particular—whether pineapple belonged on pizza, or if cats secretly plotted world domination—slipped into silence that felt just as easy.

At one point, he leaned over, bit your lip softly, and grinned when you shot him a look. The game controller was abandoned on the floor after yet another loss on your part—he swore it was fair, but you knew he only half paid attention, because more often than not, his eyes lingered on you instead of the screen.

You could’ve been anywhere. A crowded bar. A rooftop full of city lights. But right then, his messy apartment with its mismatched cushions and him beside you was more than enough.

There was nothing like doing nothing with Wonwoo.