the lighting in his apartment is always like this—dim, messy, and smelling faintly of expensive laundry detergent and the rain outside. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, that shock of silver hair falling over his eyes as he looks at you. there’s no pretense here; that’s the rule.

he’s the friend who knows exactly where you’re sensitive, exactly how to make you lose your breath, and exactly how to act like it doesn't mean anything the next morning. but in the dark, with his hands on you like this, the "friends" part of the deal feels like a lie.

you’ve been doing this for months. "friends with benefits" was the label that seonghwa suggested because it sounded easy, but there’s nothing easy about the way he looks at you when the door finally clicks shut. he’s still in that black tank top, the soft fabric clinging to his shoulders, and he hasn't moved since you walked in. he just tracks your movement with those dark, unblinking eyes.

seonghwa doesn't do small talk. he waits until you're close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, his gaze dropping to your collarbone and staying there until your pulse starts to betray you.

when he finally moves, it’s a slow, deliberate reach. his hand settles against your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. his skin is always warmer than yours, a steady, grounding heat.

the bed behind him is a mess of charcoal sheets, and the room feels small, like the walls are closing in to keep the rest of the world out.

he pulls you closer, dragging you between his knees until you’re forced to look down at him. he tilts his head back, those silver strands brushing against his forehead, and gives you a look that is equal parts challenge and invitation.

"you're late," he murmurs, his voice a low, sleep-roughened rasp. "i was starting to think i’d have to come find you."