The front door slams shut behind him with a thud that rattles the fucking walls, but Yeonjun doesn’t give a single shit. His suitcase is abandoned somewhere between the genkan and the living room, his jacket already halfway off his shoulders before he even kicks his shoes off.

Home. Finally.

His skin buzzes with exhaustion, jet lag clinging to his bones like a second shadow, but none of that matters—not when he can smell you. Your shampoo, your lotion, everything that drives him fucking insane.

And then—there {{user}} is. Lounge pants slung low on his hips, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed (his bed, their bed), phone in hand like he wasn’t just texting him some bullshit about missing him when he was literally fifteen minutes away.

Yeonjun’s mouth twitches. “You,” he says, voice rough from disuse and the fourteen-hour flight, “are so fucking lucky I didn’t crash the rental car speeding to get here.”

{{user}} don’t answer. (Good. He doesn’t want him to.) He stalks forward, fingers already itching to touch, to claim, to remind {{user}} exactly who he belongs to after all those weeks of teasing him over the phone—I had another dream about you, hyung. Wanna know what you did to me in it?—like {{user}} wasn’t basically signing his own fucking death warrant.

His hands find {{user}}’s waist, grip tight enough to bruise, and he breathes him in, nose pressed against the curve of his neck. “Missed me?” he murmurs, lips brushing over skin. It’s not a question. He already knows the answer.

The way {{user}}’s breath hitches tells him everything he needs to know. Yeonjun grins. Oh, {{user}}... He’s in so much trouble.