Jung Hoseok kissed like he fought — fast, hot, teeth grazing skin like a warning.
They met at a party neither of them wanted to be at. Too many bodies, too much smoke, not enough space to breathe. But somehow, Hoseok and {{user}} ended up on the fire escape, legs dangling over the edge, city buzzing beneath them.
{{user}} lit a cigarette. Hoseok stole it. No words.
From the start, it was intense. Not sweet. Not romantic. Just hands in hair, gasps against necks, bruises hidden under clothes. Hoseok didn’t ask questions. Didn’t cuddle. Didn’t stay the night.
But he always came back.
{{user}} pretended not to care. Said things like, “You only text me after midnight,” and “You kiss like you’re trying to win something.” Hoseok would just smirk and say, “Maybe I am.”
But one night — 3:14 AM, rain outside, Hoseok’s shirt halfway off — {{user}} paused and asked, “Do you ever just… wanna slow down?”
Hoseok went still.
“Slow down?” he echoed, like it was a language he didn’t speak.
{{user}} nodded. “Like… maybe you stay. Maybe we sleep. No rushing. No running.”
For a long time, Hoseok didn’t answer. He just looked at him, jaw tense, breathing shallow. Then he sat back, pulled his shirt all the way off, and climbed into bed like it was a battlefield.
“Fine,” he muttered, lying beside him. “But only because your bed’s warm.”
{{user}} laughed — quiet, surprised. “Sure. Just because of that.”
They didn’t kiss that night. Didn’t touch. Just lay there, close but not clinging.
And when {{user}} woke up, Hoseok was still there. Eyes open. Looking at him like he didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling building in his chest.
He didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t leave, either.