MATZ AU YOU ARE HONGJOONG

Over and over again, it happens the same way. Hongjoong pushes through sleepless nights, eyes heavy but hands still moving over the keys, the faint hum of unfinished beats filling the room. And over and over again, Seonghwa finds you there — head resting against your desk, headphones slipping off, the glow of the monitor painting your tired face in soft blue light.

It’s 3AM again. The door opens quietly. He steps inside without a sound, his presence calm, familiar. Warm hands brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead, fingers tracing the faint ink stains on your skin. A small sigh leaves him — not of frustration, but of fondness.

He moves gently, lifting you from the chair as if you were made of glass. Your body instinctively leans into him, half-asleep, trusting. The studio light flickers once before fading to darkness, the only sound left is Seonghwa’s quiet footsteps and the rhythm of your breathing against his chest.