Work Text:
The first time you met Yunho, you were holding a grocery bag that was definitely going to rip.
It was one of those late summer evenings where the air felt thick and lazy, cicadas buzzing like they owned the neighborhood. Mom had sent you on a “quick” run to the corner market—quick meaning you somehow ended up carrying two overstuffed reusable bags and a carton of eggs balanced precariously on top.
You had just turned onto your street when the inevitable happened.
Riiip.
The bottom of one bag gave out in dramatic betrayal. Oranges rolled in every direction. A bottle of soda clattered across the pavement. You froze for half a second before dropping to your knees.
“Oh my god, no, no, no—” you muttered, scrambling after a runaway apple heading straight for the curb.
A sneaker stepped into its path.
The apple stopped.
You looked up.
The boy standing there was tall—like, unfairly tall—with soft brown hair falling into his eyes and the kind of smile that appeared slow and bright, like he wasn’t used to frowning much.
“You dropped your fruit,” he said gently, crouching down and picking up the apple.
“I noticed,” you replied breathlessly, trying to scoop up oranges before they staged a second escape. “They’re staging a protest.”
He laughed. It was warm and low and entirely too distracting.
“Here,” he said, already gathering the rest with long, easy movements. “I’ve got this.”
For a second, you hesitated. You didn’t recognize him. And you definitely would’ve remembered someone who looked like that living on your street.
“Are you new?” you asked, brushing your hair out of your face.
“Yeah. Moved in yesterday.” He nodded toward the blue house two doors down—the one that had been empty for months. “I’m Yunho.”
He held out the rescued apple like an offering.
You blinked at it, then at him, then wiped your hand quickly on your shorts before shaking his hand instead.
“Y/N,” you said. “I live… unfortunately… right there.” You pointed to your house, where the porch light flicked on dramatically, as if summoned by your embarrassment.
Right on cue, the front door opened.
“Y/N!” Mom called. “Did you get the eggs?”
Your soul left your body.
Yunho’s smile widened. “Eggs secured?”
You glanced down.
The carton was still somehow intact, cradled in his other hand like something precious.
“Miraculously,” he said. “I think we survived the crisis.”
You huffed out a laugh you couldn’t quite contain. “Thank you. Seriously. I owe you.”
“You don’t,” he said quickly. “But if you insist, you could show me which house has the least scary dog on the block. I met one earlier and I think it tried to evaluate my life choices.”
“That’s Mrs. Park’s,” you said immediately. “He judges everyone.”
“Good to know.”
You both stood there for half a second too long, the air suddenly quieter than it had been moments ago.
Mom leaned halfway out the door now, eyes narrowing in curious suspicion.
You cleared your throat. “I should go… before she comes down here.”
“Right,” Yunho said, handing you the salvaged groceries. His fingers brushed yours briefly—warm, steady. “Thanks for welcoming me to the neighborhood. Even if it was… chaotic.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Welcome to Maple Street.”
As you walked back toward your house, balancing the bags carefully this time, you risked one last glance.
He was still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you with that same soft smile.
And when you nearly tripped on the curb?
He laughed again.
It was the kind of laugh that made you think—just maybe—dropping that bag had been the best accident of your life.
You pushed through the front door before you could overthink it.
“You were gone forever,” your brother’s voice called from the kitchen. “Did you grow the oranges yourself?”
“San,” you warned, kicking the door shut behind yourself.
From the dining table, San looked up with a grin that was way too knowing for your comfort. He was already seated, sleeves pushed up, stealing pieces of chicken off a plate that definitely wasn’t meant for him yet.
Mom swooped in immediately. “Are the eggs okay?”
You lifted the carton like a trophy. “Secured. Protected. Heroically.”
“Heroically?” San repeated, eyebrows lifting.
You avoided his eyes as you set the groceries on the counter. “The bag broke.”
San gasped dramatically. “Tragic.”
“Some of us were forced to survive,” you shot back.
Dad chuckled from the head of the table. “Did anyone help you?”
You paused.
Just for a second.
San noticed. Of course he did.
“…A neighbor,” you said, keeping your voice casual as you started unloading oranges. “He just moved into the blue house.”
San straightened slowly. “The blue house?” He turned in his chair to peer out the window like he could somehow see through the walls and down the street. “Tall?”
Your heart did a small, traitorous thing. “Why?”
“Oh my god,” San muttered, already grinning. “I met him yesterday. Mom made me help carry boxes because apparently I’m ‘the strong son.’”
“You are the strong son,” Mom called from the stove.
“I know, but I don’t like being reminded.”
You tried very hard to keep your expression neutral. “Cool.”
San narrowed his eyes at you. “Cool?”
“Yes. Cool. Like… good for him.”
“What’s his name?” Dad asked, reaching for the rice bowl.
“…Yunho,” you admitted.
San’s grin widened slowly, dangerously. “Ah.”
“What does ‘ah’ mean?” you demanded.
“Nothing,” he said way too quickly, grabbing his glass of water. “Just that he seemed nice.”
“He is,” you said before you could stop yourself.
San froze mid-sip.
Mom turned around. “Oh? You talked for long?”
You dropped into your chair. “Not long. My groceries attacked me. He helped.”
San leaned back, crossing his arms. “So he saved you.”
“I did not need saving.”
“Sure.”
“I did not.”
“Sure,” he repeated, smirking.
Dad looked between you both, amused. “It’s good to know we have polite neighbors.”
“Very polite,” you muttered, staring hard at your plate.
San kicked you lightly under the table.
You kicked back harder.
“Stop flirting under the table,” Mom warned without even turning around.
“We’re siblings!” you and San said in unison.
“Exactly,” Dad replied calmly.
Dinner continued with the usual rhythm—San arguing about whose turn it was to do dishes, Mom scolding him for dramatic sighing, Dad asking about everyone’s day.
But every time your phone buzzed—even though you knew it wasn’t him because he didn’t have your number—your stomach did something ridiculous.
San noticed.
Of course he did.
Halfway through dinner, he leaned closer and murmured, “He asked if there were good places to eat around here.”
You looked up sharply. “And?”
“I told him Maple Street residents get exclusive recommendations.”
Your eyes narrowed. “San.”
“What?” He smiled sweetly. “I’m just being neighborly.”
Mom set down a bowl between them. “If he’s new, maybe invite him over sometime. It’s nice to make people feel welcome.”
You choked on air.
San’s grin turned feral.
“Oh, that’s a great idea,” he said. “I’ll text him.”
“You have his number?” you hissed.
San’s expression shifted into exaggerated innocence. “Of course. We exchanged numbers when I helped him. You know. Like normal people.”
You stared at him.
“You’re evil.”
“I’m supportive,” he corrected.
From outside, faint through the open kitchen window, you heard it—
A laugh.
Warm. Familiar. Close enough to make your pulse skip.
San’s eyes flicked toward the window, then back to you.
“Oh,” he said slowly, wickedly delighted. “He’s outside.”
You refused to turn around.
You lasted exactly two seconds before you did.
Yunho was standing at the end of the walkway, hands shoved into the pockets of a light hoodie, looking slightly unsure but still smiling at something on his phone.
San’s phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
And grinned.
“You did not,” you whispered.
Too late.
A second later, there was a knock at the door.
Not hesitant.
Not too loud.
Just confident enough to make your heart slam against your ribs.
Mom looked up from the table. “Oh! That must be him.”
You nearly inhaled a grain of rice. “Must be who.”
But Mom was already walking toward the door.
San leaned back in his chair, smug. “You’re welcome.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
The door opened.
From the dining room, you could see just enough of Yunho to make your pulse spike—broad shoulders, soft smile, a polite bow of his head.
“Hi, Mrs.—” he started.
“Oh, don’t be so formal,” Mom said warmly. “You must be Yunho! San told me you just moved in. Come in, come in.”
You stared at your brother.
San mouthed: Told you.
Yunho stepped inside, slipping off his shoes neatly by the door. He looked slightly flushed—maybe from the evening air, maybe from the fact that he was being invited into a stranger’s house for dinner.
He caught sight of you at the table.
His smile widened just a little.
“Hi,” he said softly.
“Hi,” you replied, entirely too aware of your family watching.
Dad stood and offered his hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Yunho bowed slightly before shaking it. “Thank you for having me.”
“Sit, sit,” Mom insisted. “We have more than enough food. San eats like three people but we manage.”
“I do not,” San protested.
“You absolutely do,” you muttered.
Yunho laughed—there it was again, that warm sound—and took the empty seat across from you.
The table suddenly felt too small.
Conversation started easily.
Dad asked about the move. Mom asked about his parents. San jumped in with stories about helping carry boxes and nearly dropping a lamp.
“You almost dropped it,” Yunho corrected gently.
“You distracted me,” San argued.
“With what?”
“You said the kitchen was bigger than you expected.”
Yunho blinked. “That’s not distracting.”
“It was the way you said it.”
You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling.
At one point, Yunho glanced at you and asked, “So… grocery bag casualty aside, do you usually walk back from the market alone?”
Your fork froze midair.
San’s eyes snapped to you.
“Yes,” you said quickly. “I’m very capable.”
“I’m sure you are,” Yunho replied, eyes soft. “But I could carry the heavy stuff next time.”
The table went suspiciously quiet.
Mom smiled into her water glass.
San coughed to hide a grin.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” you said, heat creeping up your neck.
“I didn’t say bodyguard,” Yunho teased lightly. “I said carrier of oranges.”
That earned another laugh from Dad.
Dinner stretched longer than usual, easy and comfortable. Yunho fit in almost effortlessly—polite but funny, attentive without being awkward.
Eventually, San pushed his chair back.
“Alright,” he announced. “We’re kidnapping him.”
“Excuse me?” Yunho said, amused.
“My room,” San clarified. “You haven’t seen it yet.”
“Is that a threat?” you asked.
“Only if you hate good music.”
Yunho stood, glancing at you briefly. “I’ll survive, right?”
“Debatable,” you said.
San slung an arm around Yunho’s shoulders like they’d been friends for years. “If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, assume I’ve shown him my dance covers.”
“That’s definitely a threat,” Yunho laughed as they disappeared down the hall.
The house felt quieter without them in the room.
Too quiet.
You slipped your phone from your pocket under the table.
Y/N:
You are NOT going to believe what just happened.
Your best friend replied almost immediately.
Mia:
If this is about the cute neighbor you manifested, I’m ready.
You glanced toward the hallway before typing.
Y/N:
He’s in my house.
Eating dinner.
With my FAMILY.
There was a pause.
Then—
Mia:
GO FOR IT.
Y/N:
Go for what??? He’s literally hanging out with my brother right now.
Mia:
Even better. Built-in connection. Fate. Destiny. Romantic comedy setup.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling.
Y/N:
It was an accident. My bag broke. That’s it.
Mia:
And he saved you.
Y/N:
He picked up oranges.
Mia:
Same thing.
You hesitated, thumbs hovering.
Y/N:
It’s not like that.
The three little dots appeared immediately.
Mia:
Then why are you texting me like this?
You swallowed.
Down the hall, you could hear faint laughter—San’s loud and chaotic, Yunho’s softer but steady.
Your chest felt too tight.
Y/N:
Because he’s nice.
And tall.
And he laughs like—
You deleted that last part.
Y/N:
It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing this. He just moved in. And he’s San’s friend.
Mia:
So?
Y/N:
So I’m not making it weird.
You locked your phone before Mia could respond.
From the hallway, footsteps approached.
You looked up just in time to see Yunho reenter the room, slightly breathless from laughing.
San followed behind him.
Yunho’s eyes found yours immediately.
And for just a second, it felt like the whole house tilted.
You straightened in your chair.
Nope.
Not doing this.
Not even a little bit.
That’s what you told yourself.
It would’ve been easier if Yunho had just been polite that one night and then faded into the background of Maple Street.
He didn’t.
Over the next few months, he became… permanent.
San and Yunho clicked in a way that felt almost unfair. They studied together at the kitchen table, music spilling from San’s room at all hours. They went to the gym. They made late-night snack runs. They argued about movies like it was a competitive sport.
Yunho started showing up so often that Mom stopped asking if he was staying for dinner.
“Yunho, grab plates,” she’d call casually, like he’d always belonged there.
“Yes, ma’am,” he’d reply automatically.
And somehow, in between all of that, he made time for you too.
If he and San were heading out, he’d pause in the doorway. “Y/N, you need anything from the store?”
If you were in the living room while they were gaming, he’d shift the controller to San and lean back to ask you about your day.
He remembered small things.
The way you hated pulp in orange juice.
The fact that you always studied better with background noise.
That you pretended not to like horror movies but jumped at every single scare.
Sometimes it was the three of you sprawled across the couch, shoulders bumping.
Sometimes it was just you and Yunho in the kitchen at midnight, quietly assembling grilled cheese while San yelled at someone through his headset down the hall.
And every time you told yourself it was harmless.
He was your brother’s best friend.
He was just being nice.
You weren’t reading into anything.
Not even a little bit.
—
It was late October when he asked.
San had gone to a friend’s birthday party out of town, something he’d been planning for weeks.
The house felt different without him—quieter, softer.
Yunho had still come over.
You and him had ended up on the front porch steps after dinner, the air cool and crisp, leaves skittering across the sidewalk.
You sat shoulder to shoulder, knees almost touching.
“You know,” Yunho said, looking down the street, “I haven’t properly explored this neighborhood yet.”
“You’ve lived here for three months,” you teased.
“With a very distracting tour guide.”
You bumped your shoulder lightly against his. “Rude.”
He smiled, then glanced at you.
“Want to go for a walk?”
Your heart skipped.
“Now?”
“Yeah. It’s nice out. And I promise not to let any grocery bags betray you.”
You huffed out a laugh.
It was harmless.
Just a walk.
“Okay,” you said.
Maple Street looked different at night.
Porch lights glowed warm and golden. Crickets hummed. The world felt smaller, quieter—like it was just theirs.
You walked slowly, close but not quite touching.
At first, you talked about easy things—San’s terrible cooking attempts, a new café opening downtown, the movie you all wanted to see.
Then the conversation shifted.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” Yunho asked softly.
“Leaving?”
“Like… moving somewhere bigger. Starting over.”
You considered it. “Sometimes. But I like it here. It’s safe.”
He nodded.
“I didn’t think I would,” he admitted. “But… I’m glad I moved.”
You looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His voice was quieter now. “I wouldn’t have met you guys otherwise.”
The way he said it made your stomach flip.
You reached the small park at the end of the neighborhood—the one with the old swings that creaked if you went too high.
You didn’t sit.
You both just stood there under the dim streetlight, facing each other.
It felt different tonight.
Closer.
Yunho looked down at you like he was trying to memorize something.
Your pulse pounded in your ears.
Say something, you told yourself.
But you didn’t.
He stepped half a pace closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough to feel.
His gaze flickered to your lips.
And for one breathless second—
You thought he might.
His jaw tightened slightly, like he was arguing with himself.
He hesitated.
You saw it.
The almost.
Then something shifted in his expression.
Responsibility.
Restraint.
San.
He stepped back.
Just barely.
“We should head back,” he said softly, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s getting cold.”
The moment dissolved like it had never been there.
“Yeah,” you replied, hoping your voice didn’t shake.
You walked back slower this time.
At your front porch, he paused.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Yunho.”
Another flicker of hesitation.
Another almost.
But he just gave you that familiar, warm smile and headed down the steps toward his house.
You stood there long after he disappeared inside.
Not even a little bit, you told yourself again.
But your lips still tingled like something had almost happened.
And almost was worse than nothing.
—
The three of you were sprawled across the living room floor a week later, empty soda cans and chip bags scattered around like evidence of bad decisions.
San was on his stomach, scrolling through his phone. Yunho leaned back against the couch, one knee bent, absently tapping your socked foot every time you nudged him.
It had become normal. The closeness. The easy touches.
Too normal.
“Hey,” San said suddenly, sitting up. “You remember Jisoo from my chem class?”
Yunho nodded. “The loud one?”
“That’s half the school,” you muttered.
San ignored you. “He asked about you today.”
You blinked. “About me?”
“Yeah.” San’s tone was casual. Too casual. “Like if you were single.”
Yunho’s tapping stopped.
“Oh,” you said lightly. “And?”
“And I told him not to even think about it.”
You rolled your eyes. “You don’t own me.”
“I didn’t say I did,” San replied, defensive but measured. “I just don’t want my friends dating my sister. It gets weird.”
Weird.
The word hung in the air.
Yunho didn’t look at you.
San kept going, like he hadn’t detonated something. “It’s messy. Breakups happen. Then I’m stuck in the middle. Hard pass.”
You crossed your arms. “So I’m just supposed to date… strangers?”
“I’m saying,” San clarified, shrugging, “I’d prefer my friends stay my friends.”
Silence.
For a split second, your eyes flicked to Yunho.
He was staring at the carpet.
“Fair,” Yunho said after a moment, voice even. “Makes sense.”
You swallowed.
The night moved on. A movie started. Laughter returned.
But something had shifted.
—
A few nights later, San was out again—another late study session that was definitely not just a study session.
Yunho still came over.
“Habit,” he’d joked when Mom teased him.
You were sitting cross-legged on your bed, fairy lights casting a soft glow across your room. Yunho sat on the floor, back against your dresser, looking up at you while they talked.
It started light.
Music. College plans. Childhood stories.
Then it deepened.
“Do you ever feel,” you said quietly, “like you’re standing on the edge of something? And you don’t know if you’re supposed to jump or walk away?”
Yunho went still.
“Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “All the time.”
Your eyes held.
The air felt heavier.
Thicker.
He shifted, moving to sit on the edge of your bed instead of the floor. Closer now. Close enough that you could practically hear his pulse thundering.
He took a slow breath.
“Can I try something?” he asked.
You blinked, not fully processing the weight behind the question.
“Try what?”
He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second.
Then, softer— “Just… can I?”
Your heart was pounding, but you smiled lightly. “Okay.”
You didn’t expect him to lean in immediately.
Didn’t expect his hand to hover near your waist like he was giving you time to pull away.
Didn’t expect the way your breath would catch.
His lips met yours.
Not a peck.
Not rushed.
It was careful at first—warm and steady and real. A few seconds that stretched longer than they should’ve.
Your brain short-circuited.
He started to pull back.
And that’s when you moved.
Your hands slid up, wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his hoodie.
You kissed him back.
For real this time.
The restraint snapped.
His hand settled at your waist, firm but grounding. Your knees shifted against his thigh as you leaned closer. It wasn’t frantic—but it wasn’t cautious anymore either.
It was months of almost.
Months of swallowed looks and interrupted moments and porch-light hesitations finally crashing into something undeniable.
Your heart felt like it might burst.
Then—
The door swung open.
“Hey, have you seen my—”
San froze.
You and Yunho jerked apart like you’d been electrocuted.
San’s eyes moved from your flushed face.
To Yunho’s hand still hovering near your waist.
To the space between you that had very obviously been nonexistent two seconds ago.
Silence.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
“Are you kidding me?” San’s voice dropped, low and sharp.
“San—” you started.
“No.” He stepped fully into the room, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. “No, no, no. This is exactly what I said I didn’t want.”
Yunho stood slowly. “San, I—”
“You what?” San snapped. “You couldn’t find literally anyone else?”
“It’s not like that,” you shot back, standing too. “You don’t get to decide who I—”
“He’s my best friend!” San exploded.
“And I’m your sister!” you fired back. “Not your property!”
The room felt too small now.
Yunho looked torn in half—guilt and frustration warring across his face.
“I didn’t plan this,” he said quietly. “It just… happened.”
San laughed bitterly. “It just happened? You just happened to be in her room with your mouth on hers?”
You flinched.
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Yunho warned, voice tightening.
San’s jaw clenched.
For a second, it looked like he might actually swing.
Instead, he pointed at the door.
“You need to leave.”
“San—” you tried again.
“Now.”
The word cracked through the room.
Yunho hesitated, looking at you.
Apology in his eyes.
Conflict.
Then he nodded once and walked past San without another word.
The front door shut a minute later.
The house fell silent.
San turned to you, still furious, still hurt.
“You promised you wouldn’t make it weird.”
Your throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did.”
And for the first time since that stupid grocery bag ripped open on the sidewalk—
It didn’t feel like a romantic comedy anymore.
It felt like a fall out.
—
San went quiet.
Not loud-quiet. Not slamming-doors quiet.
Worse.
Cold quiet.
He stopped coming into your room to steal chargers.
Stopped texting Yunho random memes.
Stopped lingering at the kitchen table when Yunho came over.
Because Yunho did come over.
Once.
The day after.
He stood awkwardly in the doorway while San walked straight past him like he was invisible.
“San,” Yunho tried.
No response.
“Can we talk?”
San grabbed his keys. “I’m heading out.”
The door shut.
You felt the tension in your bones.
For the next few days, it was like living in separate worlds inside the same house. San stayed out late. Ate at weird times. Kept his door closed.
You tried knocking once.
“Can we talk?”
“Not right now.”
Yunho texted him too.
Left on read.
—
So instead, you and Yunho texted each other.
Late at night.
When the house was silent.
Yunho:
I didn’t mean for it to blow up like that.
Y/N:
Me neither.
Pause.
Y/N:
Do you regret it?
Three dots.
Stopped.
Started again.
Yunho:
No.
Your heart did that stupid flip again.
Yunho:
I just hate that I hurt him.
You stared at the screen.
Yunho:
He’ll come around. He just needs time.
But you weren’t completely sure.
—
Four days later, you were in the kitchen when San walked in.
“Tell Yunho to come over,” he said flatly.
You blinked. “What?”
“I texted him, but he didn’t read it.”
Your stomach dropped. “San—“
“I’m not going to punch him,” he muttered.
That was not reassuring.
—
Yunho arrived ten minutes later.
He looked like he hadn’t slept properly.
San gestured towards his room. “We’re talking.”
The door shut behind them.
You paced the hallway like a nervous parent waiting outside the principal’s office.
Inside, the conversation started stiff.
Then quieter.
Then—
Unexpectedly—
San sighed.
“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”
Silence.
“I was mad,” he admitted. “And I felt blindsided.”
“You weren’t supposed to find out like that,” Yunho said.
“I know.” San scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just… you’re my best friend. She’s my little sister. That’s a weird combo.”
Yunho nodded. “I get it.”
San looked at him for a long moment.
“You like her?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
San noticed.
“…She likes you too.”
Yunho’s shoulders eased just slightly.
San leaned back in his chair. “Okay. Here’s the deal.”
Yunho braced himself.
“You can date her.”
A breath left Yunho’s lungs.
“But,” San added sharply, “I do not want to see you two making out in front of me. Ever.”
“Understood.”
“And keep the touching to a minimum around me. I don’t need to witness all that.”
Yunho nodded quickly. “Yeah. Of course.”
San stood as Yunho moved toward the door.
“One more thing.”
Yunho paused.
San’s voice dropped—not angry this time. Protective.
“Hurt her and I hurt you.”
A beat.
“She is my little sister after all.”
Yunho didn’t smile.
Didn’t joke.
He met San’s eyes and said quietly, “I won’t.”
San studied him.
Then gave one firm nod.
—
A few minutes later, San stepped into the hallway.
“Y/N. In here.”
You froze.
Then walked into his room cautiously.
He looked tired.
And slightly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” he said bluntly.
Your eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“I overreacted. I shouldn’t have barged in like that. Or yelled.”
You softened immediately. “You were shocked.”
“Still.” He sighed. “You can date him.”
Your heart skipped. “San—”
“But,” he pointed a finger at you, “no making out in front of me. And keep the hand-holding to a minimum when I’m around. I don’t need to third-wheel my own house.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Okay.”
“And if my door is closed,” you added, crossing your arms, “start knocking.”
He winced. “Yeah. That’s fair.”
“Like actually knocking.”
“I said that’s fair.”
You stared at each other for a moment.
Then you stepped forward and hugged him.
He squeezed back, muttering, “Still weird.”
“I know.”
—
When you left his room, your pulse was racing again.
Yunho was sitting on your bed, hands clasped together, clearly trying not to overthink everything.
He looked up when you walked in.
“Well?” he asked carefully.
You shut the door behind yourself.
“He said yes.”
Yunho blinked. “Wait, actually?”
“Conditions,” you clarified. “No making out in front of him. Minimal touching.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “That’s exactly what he told me.”
You walked over and sat beside him on the bed.
Close.
“So,” you said, trying to sound casual but failing completely, “can we… try that kiss again?”
He stared at you for half a moment.
Then smiled, soft and relieved.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
This time, there was no hesitation.
No almost.
His hand cupped your jaw gently as he leaned in and when your lips met, it felt surer. Intentional. Warm.
You melted into him easily, fingers threading into his hair.
The kiss deepened—slow and exploring, months of tension unraveling all at once.
His other hand slid carefully to your waist, respectful but firm. You shifted closer, knees pressing against his thigh.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t reckless.
It was wanted.
When you both finally pulled apart, slightly breathless, foreheads resting together, Yunho let out a quiet sigh.
“So,” he murmured, brushing your thumb lightly against your jaw, “minimal touching, huh?”
You smiled against his lips.
“We’ll behave,” you whispered.
For now.