The sun hung lazily in the sky, wrapped in soft clouds and warmth. A gentle breeze danced through the tall grass, carrying the scent of flowers and freshly baked pastries from the picnic basket lying between Choi Soobin and {{user}}.
They had picked a quiet spot under a wide oak tree, far enough from the city to forget everything but the rustle of leaves and the sound of each other’s laughter.
Soobin was sprawled on the blanket, one hand behind his head and the other holding a strawberry that he kept twirling between his fingers. “You know,” he said with a grin, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed. You might be bad for my productivity.”
{{user}} laughed softly, leaning back on their hands. “And yet, you didn’t complain when I packed everything.”
“I didn’t complain,” Soobin replied, his voice teasing, “because I like watching you get all serious about sandwiches.”
{{user}} rolled their eyes, tossing a grape at him. It bounced off his shoulder, and Soobin gasped dramatically before tossing one back — which missed entirely. They both laughed until their stomachs hurt, the kind of laughter that came easy, unguarded.
When the noise faded, Soobin turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. The wind tugged at his hair, sunlight catching in the brown strands. {{user}} smiled, heart fluttering at how simply he said it — no grand gestures, just truth wrapped in softness.
Soobin reached over, brushing a crumb from {{user}}’s sleeve before letting his hand linger for a second longer than necessary. “We should do this more often,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
{{user}} smiled wider. “You bring the strawberries next time.”
“Deal,” Soobin said, lying back again, his hand finding {{user}}’s on the blanket.
And as the clouds drifted slowly overhead, the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of them — sunlight, laughter, and the quiet comfort of knowing neither of them needed to say anything more.