Haechan flops back onto your bed like it’s his. Like he owns the sheets, the air, the space between your thighs.

Arms behind his head, hoodie riding up just enough to flash a strip of warm skin, he watches you — eyes heavy, mouth tugged into that familiar, shit-eating grin that means he’s about to say something you’ll pretend to hate.

“So…” he drawls, voice low, teasing, lazy like honey, “You still telling people we’re just friends?”