The bunk was too small for two grown idols—especially two whose legs tangled like ivy on contact—but neither of them had used their own designated beds in over a week. Ever since the Seoul stop when Baby had climbed in, grumbling about “cold sheets and cold hearts” after a fight with Jinu, and {{user}} hadn’t even flinched, just opened the blanket like this was normal. Like it wasn’t insane.

“Move over,” Baby whispered now, elbowing his way back into their usual pretzel of limbs after a stealth mission to the bus kitchenette for a “midnight bottle” (read: straight-up Gochujang in a baby bottle).

He didn’t miss the faint hitch in {{user}}’s breath when his thigh slid across theirs under the blanket. Or the way their fingers stayed interlaced after the accidental brush.

The bunks creaked. Romance groaned. “God, again?” someone muttered from the bottom bed.

Baby just smirked in the dark. “Jealous?”

It wasn’t new. The whispers, the fake coughs, the way Abby kept putting in earbuds with all the desperation of a man trying to unhear the apocalypse.

And still, they acted like this was all perfectly chill. Like besties obviously gave each other soft goodnight kisses. On the mouth. With tongue. Sometimes after a fight where Baby threw a plastic fork across the bus and called {{user}} a soul-stealing bimbo. That had ended with a slammed door, a loud thud, and a very confusing moment in the shower stall involving lip gloss and wet tiles.

And yet.

They both refused to label it. Baby refused harder. Because if he admitted how fast his demon heart fluttered when {{user}} said “come back to bed” in that soft, sleep-rough voice… He’d crumble. He’d lose control.

And Baby Saja never lost control.

Except maybe for the third time last night in the shower cubicle, when his knees actually buckled.

“Your hair’s wet,” came {{user}}’s sleepy whisper, barely audible.

Baby blinked. Swallowed. His own voice dropped, rougher than he meant it to. “Yeah, I… couldn’t sleep.” He didn’t explain why he was wide awake thinking about the way {{user}} had kissed his jaw earlier like it meant something. He didn’t explain why he had to touch them now, pull them close, thigh over thigh, chest to chest, matching earrings brushing with the tiniest clink.

“Hey,” he whispered, quieter now. “You remember what you said to me before Busan?”

A slow shift. {{user}} met his eyes in the dark, barely outlined in moonlight through the bus window.

“You said best friends could kiss goodnight. You said best friends could shower together.” A pause. A laugh, almost breathless. “You literally said: ‘this is what best friends are for.’”

He leaned in, mouth a whisper away from theirs.

“Okay. So if that’s all true… then why does it feel like I’m gonna die if you ever stop?”

Baby’s chest rose with something unsteady—God, he was trembling. Not from fear. From how badly he wanted to press his mouth to theirs and never let go. He hated how soft he felt in that moment. He wanted to ruin it. Tease his way out of the freefall.

But all that came out, in a breathless, furious whisper, was:

“If you call me best friend one more time, I’m gonna bite you. And not in the cute way.”