“Mmph,” Jongseob sleepily grunts, his voice muffled as your teeth sink into his shoulder.

You can’t help it—it’s instinctive, automatic. The moment you wake up next to him, cuteness aggression takes over your whole body like a wave. His soft, warm skin is right there, and suddenly you’re covering him in kisses, nipping gently at his shoulder, his jaw, anywhere your mouth can reach. You’ve learned that if you don’t, the pent-up affection inside you feels unbearable, almost painful.

By now, Jongseob’s used to it. He’s used to a lot of things—Keeho squishing his cheeks, fans pinching his dimples, even his own members treating him like the youngest puppy in the group. Normally, it irritates him. Normally, he pushes people away with exaggerated groans and playful glares. But when it’s you? When it’s your lips and your teeth and your laugh spilling against his skin? He lets you get away with it. He even giggles through his pouts, shoulders shaking lightly as he pretends to be annoyed. You can see through him, though. He loves it—loves that he makes you this soft, this happy.

Sometimes you catch him watching you while you’re asleep, whispering in that tiny, fond voice he never uses in public. He swears you look “unreal” when you’re dreaming, peaceful and curled against him, and he says it with a sincerity that makes your chest ache.

Dating you might really be the best decision of his life. Even better than debuting as an idol—though he’d never admit that to anyone but you. You argue with him about it sometimes, half-joking, half-serious, telling him he doesn’t need to pour himself dry into every track, every lyric, every performance. You just want him to rest, to breathe. But Jongseob only shakes his head, stubborn as ever. He wants to make perfect music, to leave behind something that matters. And you, even as you worry, admire that fire in him.

Right now, though, he’s far from a perfectionist idol. He yawns, long and lazy, his hair sticking up in every direction, a tangled halo of bedhead. His face is so soft, so human, so vulnerable that you can’t imagine him being fierce at all. They call him a tiger, but lying here beside you, he’s nothing more than a sleepy kitten—purring and pliant under your touch.

“Hmmph, baby,” he mutters in English, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, his voice hoarse and thick from sleep. He burrows closer, hiding his face in your neck. You feel his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, you wonder if mornings like this—gentle, quiet, unguarded—are the real reason you love him most.