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The thought of coming home and taking a bath was the only thing that had gotten you through the day.
First it began with getting called in – that was an inevitable reality of being a nurse sometimes. You could live with that. But then things went wrong, one after another; screw ups, paperwork, hassles, nightmares. You skipped your lunch break to have a brief cry in an empty break room before wiping your cheeks clean and composing yourself enough to help out with rounds again. More bodily fluids ended up on you than you ever cared to contemplate. Another nurse – one you normally got along swimmingly with – was short-fused from also being overworked, and snapped at you, and this time you didn’t have a break to cry in the bathroom, instead wiping your eyes intermittently on your jacket sleeves as you searched for missing files.
By the time your shift was over – if it could even have the decency to be called a shift as opposed to a quarter-life crisis straight from hell – you couldn’t even bring yourself to leave the parking lot. You simply folded your arms on the steering wheel, thought about Hoseok’s gentle smile awaiting you at home, and sobbed for an indeterminate amount of time until you were startled by a crow landing on your hood.
There was no fighting the fact that he would smell the salt on you the second you were close enough. No amount of perfume or freshening up would do that for you, and you had resigned yourself to your fate of having to have him fret over you all damn night, which was very nice but also stressful in its own way, because you hated, detested worrying him. He had a face meant for smiling. Seeing his brow knit and mouth frowning was emotional lemon juice, and more and more often you found it frustrated you that you couldn’t be the same crutch for him that he was for you, no matter how much he swore it was the other way around.
You would never wrap your head around that one.
To the surprise of no-one, you pull up into your designated parking spot in your complex without a soul in sight. It’s close to midnight, and in the meager time it takes to turn off your engine and unbuckle, you lift your head and almost have a heart attack at the sight of a figure hovering just outside your door.
“What happened, precious?”
It takes incredible effort not to fling yourself into Hoseok’s gently opened arms and let the tears drip anew. Instead, you give him a weak smile and shut the door behind you, and walk at a completely reasonable pace into his embrace.
“Hiya Hobi,” you muffle into his shirt as his presence washes over you. There is no feeling describable in the way your blood seems to hum as soon as you’re breathing the same air as him; you feel warmer, more awake, more real. Everything from your marrow to your heartstrings light up deliciously and you nuzzle the thin cotton of his white t-shirt, taking a deep lungful of his scent (clean laundry and cracked leather and rain, somehow) and letting all of it go straight to your head. “Missed you.”
Hoseok is almost inconsolable. Silently so, but still – you’re hyperaware of how rigid his muscles are under your touch, and how anguished energy seems to radiate off of him in waves as he lifts you up like you weigh nothing. Maybe if you were less depleted and exhausted and super into this, you might be self-conscious about someone potentially seeing your… boyfriend? Partner, significant other thing, hauling you upstairs like a koala bear, but for now you just hide your face into the safe crook of his shoulder and bring yourself not to care.
“I think I had a feeling all day you weren’t doing so hot,” Hoseok mumbles dejectedly as his free hand runs tiny circles over your back soothingly. His other arm, flexed tight, is scooped under your bottom to hold you up effortlessly. It makes you feel like you’re two years old instead of twenty-something, but something about that was strangely comforting at the moment. You could live with that. “I made you fettuccine for dinner. Do you want to watch some more Bojack after we get you in the shower?”
He opened up your front door and carried you inside, but didn’t set you down. You half-smiled against his collar bone and quipped, “‘We’?” teasingly.
If Hobi could have blushed, he would have.
“You know what I meant,” he whined.
“I think I want a bath,” you giggled your answer instead, thinking about how you only wanted to be swallowed up by his arms, warm water, and blankets for the next eighteen hours. Preferably at least two at the same time.
“A bath! That’s a perfect idea. You are a perfect woman. Come come, let’s get you all wet…”
You choose, pointedly, just let your stammering heart do the talking rather than mention anything regarding his word choice. Hoseok lets it all slide with a slightly-embarrassed whistling on his way down the hall; you distract yourself with the yummy scent of the pasta on the stove, already sure it will taste scrumptious. Hobi hadn’t been cooking too long, but once both of you figured out that he could simply smell if a recipe needed adjustments rather than hope for the best, he got frightfully good very quickly. Who knew vampires would make great housewives?
In the bathroom, he moves to sit you on the closed toilet seat, but you decide you don’t want to let go yet. The mere idea of not being held by him is unacceptable at the moment. You are determined to be babied for as long as you can, no matter how pathetic or selfish, and let yourself sink into the muddled feelings of loving him more than anything on the planet. It energizes you from deep in your bones and sets the world right. So you cling to him as he bends over, frowning, and stifle a laugh as he realizes your intent and merely stands up straight again.
“I’d say you were trying to make things difficult for me, but…” There’s a twist and pitched sound of water rushing through the pipes before it splatters into the tub. “…I can’t say I mind this.”
“Good,” you pout. “You should just stay like this forever.”
The thought enters your mind, then; why doesn’t he? At least for now. If you could coerce Jung Hoseok into that bathtub with you… Your whole body vibrates with anticipation and a flush of forbidden pleasure at the fantasy of it. It didn’t have to be sexual – in fact, you were sure it wouldn’t be, because he had very clearly and nervously told you very early into the baby steps of your relationship that he simply couldn’t do that kind of thing in good conscience for certain unspoken reasons. And that was fine. It hurt, and stung, and was frustrating and disheartening, but you understood and it was fine.
But what you really wanted was just to have him with you in your bathtub for even a few minutes.
“What are you conniving?”
He’s in the middle of screwing the drain shut when he calls you out, and you grin sheepishly, shrugging.
“That’s not an answer, honey,” he grouses, checking the water on his hand to make sure the temperature is just right.
There’s really nothing to lose at this point.
Gingerly, you crane back. You’re dangling precariously over the bathwater, hair falling behind you as you gaze unsurely up into Hoseok’s eyes. You can almost feel him bracing himself for whatever you’re about to drop on him.
“Will you take a bath with me?”
The water keeps running, steadily steaming up the room and fogging the mirror. You can see all the conflicting emotions swirling in his stare – doubt and want and things he’ll never say aloud. You just bite your lip and hope, foolishly, that you haven’t pushed the wrong buttons.
“Please?” you coax timidly. “I’ll keep my hands to myself. I think you washing my hair sounds nice right now. I don’t want you to go anywhere yet.”
“I can wash your hair just fine from outside of the tub, you know,” he counters, but it’s half-hearted and his irises are tinting with the faintest blush of begonia.
“Yeah, but…” Taking a calculated risk, you shut your eyes and lean in just enough to brush your lips against his – only to cower at the last second and aim for the space between the apple of his cheek and jaw as your voice drops to a whisper. “Wouldn’t it be nice?”
Hoseok, to his credit, does not answer. He merely gives you a look – not a bad look, just a look – and maneuvers to the cabinet to pull out the bubble bath (eucalyptus and chamomile and lavender, from the organic store on the corner). He pours it in and starts humming a song lightly under his breath as the solution froths and piles and piles generously up, and from somewhere in the ether of your thoughts you recognize it as The Beach Boys, and recall all the lyrics that follow with a deep flush that works its way through your chest and up your neck. Whoops.
“Let’s get you in first,” he says with unexpected huskiness in his throat, and plays it off with a small cough. Vampires don’t cough.
You can hardly speak as he finally puts you on your feet.
You’re surprised, stock-still as Hobi begins peeling away your jacket and undressing you himself. Mouth parted in silence, you watch feebly as he carefully averts his gaze at anything but your body, and you can’t even change your mind, can’t tell him wait, you don’t have to do this, I was just kidding, it’s okay, because then he’s leaning down and your skin fizzes with a hot rush of anticipation at what that motion could mean one day, maybe, in the future as he kneels before you and his head is level with your waist.
“Step,” he prompts curtly, and you frantically move to help get out of your scrub bottoms. Every article of clothing is folded neatly in one swift motion and then placed off to the side until you’re left in only your bra and underwear, unmatching.
Neither of you breathe a word. The quiet is thick and charged, not yet uncomfortable, but strangling in its intensity and the slowly building potential, the what-ifs. Feet heavy, you shift until you’ve turned around, and bow your head to move your hair and give him access to the hooks on your bra.
For a second, everything is paused. Then you flinch at the icy contact of his fingertips on your skin sending a gust of goosebumps up your skin and he makes quick work of the straps.
“There you go,” he murmurs, and you barely manage to croak out a squeaky thank you.
With impeccable timing, Hobi preoccupies himself with taking your bra and delicately folding it without any of his prior speed. You recognize him buying both of you time – you to get your panties off and get into the bath, him to give you space and privacy – and with hurried awkwardness you stumble out of them and dip your toes into the water.
Holy hell.
It takes less then five seconds to submerge yourself in the heavenly mess. He had gotten the temperature literally perfectly, and your muscles all sang as the hot water sunk into your soul and drained you of your physical tenseness. You almost forgot about your boyfriend lurking a few feet away, scooting your flawlessly stacked and folded pile of dirty clothes on the counter.
When he turned to you, you breathed in sharply and unconsciously hid further in the heaps of bubbles. His face was nigh unreadable; smooth and composed, neither amiable nor concerned. He’d looked like that the first time you met him, thinking back, and your heart flutters with an aching twist at the unintentionally attractive sight.
“Joining me?” you ask in a small voice. There’s a flash of temptation and torment again, and his chest heaves with a dead laugh that doesn’t reach his lips.
“Are you… sure you want me to?” he responds instead. The happy voice in your head screams and sings in disbelief. He was really considering it. This was really happening.
“Yes,” you say far too quickly, and then cover your cheeks shyly with your wet hands to repress the blush. “There’s room. I still want you here. Is that… okay?”
You watch Hoseok undress for the first time in your life.
He doesn’t rush, to your exhilaration. You can barely form coherent sentences in your head, let alone say them aloud; all you can do is watch raptly as he reveals miles of cool skin and tightly-wound muscle around his figure. You’ve seen him shirtless, but not… like this. In this situation. And once he’s in only his boxers, your eyes catch the faintest trail of fine hair just at the hem and you’re looking away before you can help yourself, heart hammering wildly like a thunderstorm in your chest.
You don’t look. You thank every star in the heavens that he finishes the job instantly, and quickly curl up to make plenty of space for him when his shadow crosses over the bubbles.
Lithely, you feel him move behind you as he immerses himself in the bubble bath. The water encroaches up and over your breasts fully, and you shiver when he tentatively lets his legs fold around you.
“Can I… sit back?” you venture softly, and his voice is equally tight when he tries to chirp back, “Sure.” You take the utmost care, as if you’re handling glass, as you creep back to let yourself nestle against him and between his knees. Hoseok is frozen in place, and markedly colder than the rest of the water, but the moment you make contact with the bare skin of his chest to your back it’s like Christmas.
“Good?” you whisper.
“Great.”
And he winds his arms around you like it’s no big deal at all. Naked and cuddling in the bubble bath.
You’re fully aware that he can hear your frazzled heartbeat and staccato breaths. Your pulse is public knowledge where he’s involved, right down to where you are in your cycle as of late, and it’s still something that makes you self-conscious but he never teases or chides you for it. Hoseok, understandably, is probably far too good for the likes of you.
It’s easier to think about that than it is what part of his anatomy is pressed against your lower back.
True to his word, he washes your hair with tender thoroughness and combs through it with his fingers. You even earn a massage that you didn’t ask for, and promptly fall asleep somewhere in the middle of that only to be woken up by him reaching around you to drain the bath of now-lukewarm water.
“Wha?” you ask sleepily. “We’re done?”
“It’s been almost an hour, my love.” He’s all-smiles, now, at least. Rubbing your eyes, you give him a soft-hearted glare and on second thought, scoop up a handful of bubbles and plant them on his head.
“Take that.” You retort.
He does take it. He makes no moves to remove the white crown, until suddenly you notice his arms are on either side of you and gathering huge wads of foam that suddenly smush to your cheeks as he cups your face and leans in close to kiss you straight on the mouth.
You’ve kissed Hoseok many, many times. You kiss him good morning and good night, you kiss him goodbye and welcome home, you kiss him as a thank you and you kiss him when you feel like it. But it’s always chaste; always a peck. Something fleeting and cautious. Rare was the occasion when you truly kissed Hoseok.
And this was the rarest of them all: Hoseok kissing you.
His fingers held you steady as his mouth worked against yours. The burn was slow and powerful and he moved with the utmost calculation, never rushing, only taking his absolute time as he fully kissed you for what might have been the first time you could recall. He tasted like hints of the water under a cascade of that same petrichor you always caught on his scent. All at once, your body reacts in a fit of want in every way, shape and form – you want him closer, too close, you want everything and only him, and in the middle of subconsciously crawling into his lap and reaching out to brace yourself on his surprisingly broad shoulders he pulls away with a quiet smack where your saliva had met.
Hoseok’s eyes are dark fire, only flecks of that warm crimson persisting in the places just around his dilated pupils. His breathing is almost considered labored. You want, painfully and rampantly, to kiss him again, but he’s holding you back with as gentle a firmness as he can manage as he regains his composure and smiles crookedly.
“We should probably get out,” he murmurs. The only thing keeping you decent is the bubbles clinging to your breasts and trailing generously down your front as the last of the water grumbles down the drain.
“Why?” you whine, half-determined in your lustful delusion to see if you can pry another measly kiss out of him – anything would do. Hoseok just laughs, weak and husky and he lets his head drop back in defeat before reaching for a towel and keeping you firmly at arm’s length.
He humors you, though, with one long last look that has you weak in the knees for days.
“I believe the fettuccine‘s cold.”