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Sangwon learned early on that Leo never asked for anything.
Not out loud, at least.
If Leo were a cat (and Sangwon had privately decided that he was) then he was the kind that sat a careful distance away, tail wrapped neatly around his legs, pretending the sun on the windowsill was more interesting than the human nearby. The kind that never meowed unless absolutely necessary. The kind that would rather starve than admit the bowl was empty, but would stare at it just long enough for someone attentive to notice.
Sangwon noticed everything.
He noticed the way Leo lingered in doorways, pretending to scroll on his phone while his eyes flicked up, checking if Sangwon was still there. He noticed how Leo’s shoulders softened when Sangwon brushed past him in the kitchen, how his breathing changed—just slightly—when Sangwon pressed a mug of warm tea into his hands without asking.
Leo never said thank you for those things. He didn’t have to.
Cats didn’t thank you when you understood them. They simply stayed.
Sometimes, Leo stayed too close.
Not obviously. Never obviously.
If Sangwon talked to someone else—on the phone, maybe, or laughing with a friend who came over—Leo would drift into the room like he had just happened to be passing by. He would sit nearby, arms crossed, expression neutral.
Uninterested.
Except his eyes never left Sangwon.
If the conversation went on too long, Leo would sigh quietly and start doing something deliberately unnecessary. Rearranging books that were already neat. Wiping a counter that was already clean. Standing directly between Sangwon and whoever else existed in the room, pretending to check something on his phone.
Sangwon noticed that too.
“Are you bored?” He would ask, tone light.
Leo wouldn’t look up. “No.”
“You’re reorganizing the same shelf for the third time.”
“I like symmetry.”
Sangwon would hum, amused. “You like attention.”
That usually earned him a look—sharp but not angry. Just… exposed.
Leo would retreat then, sitting on the couch, pretending he didn’t care. But the moment Sangwon sat beside him instead of continuing the conversation, Leo would relax, shoulders dropping.
Cats didn’t like sharing their humans. They just pretended they didn’t mind.
Of course, mornings were the clearest example.
Leo always woke up first. He claimed it was habit, that he liked the quiet before the world started making noise, but Sangwon knew better. Leo woke up early because he liked the way the apartment felt when it was just the two of them breathing in sync, the sky still pale and undecided.
He would slip out of bed carefully, as if afraid of startling Sangwon, even though Sangwon always woke up anyway. Not fully—just enough to register Leo’s absence, the cold spot beside him, the faint clink of a mug in the kitchen.
A cat leaving the bed, thinking its owner wouldn’t notice.
Sangwon would wait exactly five minutes before getting up.
By then, Leo would be standing by the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair still messy, staring into the kettle like it might reveal the meaning of life if he stared long enough. He always made tea the same way. Always for two.
Sangwon never commented on that.
Instead, he would walk up behind Leo and press his chin lightly against Leo’s shoulder, not wrapping his arms around him—not yet. Just existing there. Giving Leo time to decide if he wanted to be touched.
Leo always leaned back.
It was never obvious. Just a shift of weight, a subtle surrender. Like a cat pretending it didn’t care that you sat next to it, while inching closer all the same.
“You’re up,” Leo would say, voice calm, neutral, as if Sangwon hadn’t known he would be.
“You’re loud,” Sangwon would reply, just as calmly.
Leo would huff softly, almost offended. “I’m literally standing still.”
“You think I don’t hear you thinking?”
That earned him a sideways glance. Not annoyed—never annoyed. Just curious, like Leo was deciding whether to allow the teasing.
“You’re projecting,” Leo muttered.
Sangwon smiled and leaned in closer. “You like that I notice.”
Leo didn’t answer.
But when Sangwon reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Leo’s ear, fingers lingering just a second too long, Leo didn’t move away either. His ears would turn pink anyway.
Cats liked being petted. They just wanted it on their terms.
And Leo hated going out.
Not because he disliked the world—he just liked Sangwon’s presence more than anything else it had to offer.
Whenever Sangwon suggested leaving the apartment, Leo would respond with a neutral, carefully controlled, “Do we have to?”
“We’ve been inside for three days,” Sangwon would say.
“And?” Leo replied, already curling further into the couch.
Sangwon recognized the behavior instantly. The way Leo tucked himself in. The way his gaze flicked up just long enough to check if Sangwon would insist.
A cat pretending it didn’t care, while hoping desperately not to be moved.
So Sangwon would kneel in front of him and gently take his hands.
“Come with me,” he’d say. “Just for a bit.”
Leo would hesitate. Always. Long enough that Sangwon could feel the internal battle.
“…Fine,” Leo would sigh. “But if it’s crowded, we’re leaving.”
“Deal.”
Outside, Leo stayed close. Too close. His shoulder brushed Sangwon’s arm constantly, steps unconsciously matching his pace. If anyone came too near, Leo would subtly shift, positioning himself between Sangwon and the stranger. Protective. Possessive.
Sangwon pretended not to notice.
But when they returned home, Leo would immediately relax, tension melting away the moment the door closed. He would follow Sangwon from room to room, pretending he wasn’t.
Cats didn’t like unfamiliar territory. They liked knowing where home was.
Leo liked routines. Sangwon liked accommodating them without ever pointing it out.
Leo liked his mugs warmed before tea was poured in. Sangwon did it automatically.
Leo liked sitting on the left side of the couch, legs tucked under himself. Sangwon always took the right.
Leo liked silence, but not loneliness. Sangwon mastered the art of quiet presence—being there without demanding attention, existing like a steady warmth nearby.
When they watched movies, Leo never leaned first. He would sit perfectly straight, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed on the screen like he was deeply invested in the plot. Sangwon knew better. He could tell by the way Leo’s fingers twitched every so often, reaching for nothing.
So Sangwon would stretch, casually, like it was unintentional. His arm would drape across the back of the couch, his fingers just barely brushing Leo’s shoulder.
That was all it took.
Leo would hesitate—always that pause, that internal debate—and then he would shift closer, just enough that his shoulder pressed into Sangwon’s chest. He would stay there, still pretending nothing had changed, even as Sangwon’s fingers began tracing slow, absent-minded patterns along his arm.
“You’re distracting,” Leo murmured once.
“Mm?” Sangwon replied, not stopping.
Leo didn’t elaborate. He melted into touch quietly. Like a cat that started purring without realizing it.
Sometimes, when Sangwon pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, Leo would freeze for a moment. Then he would relax, leaning more fully into Sangwon’s chest, eyes fluttering shut.
He never asked for kisses.
But he stayed very still when they happened.
Sometimes, jealousy came in small, quiet ways.
If Sangwon laughed too loudly at his phone, Leo would glance over, unimpressed.
“If it’s that funny,” Leo said once, “you should marry it.”
Sangwon raised an eyebrow. “Are you jealous?”
“No.”
Leo then stood up, crossed the room, and sat directly in Sangwon’s lap, blocking the phone entirely.
Cats didn’t get jealous. They reclaimed what was theirs.
Leo hated rains. Not in a dramatic way (he would never admit to fear, anyway) but Sangwon could see it in the way Leo moved closer, how his calm became too rigid, too forced. Like a cat pretending not to be scared of thunder while sitting suspiciously close to its human’s legs.
On those days, Sangwon would cancel plans without announcing it. He would draw the curtains halfway, leaving just enough light. He would put on some instrumental music they both like, low enough to blend with the sound of rain.
Leo would notice all of it. He would say nothing.
Instead, he would sit on the floor, back against the couch, knees pulled to his chest. Sangwon would join him a moment later, handing him a blanket as if it were an afterthought.
Leo always took it.
Eventually, he would lean sideways, head resting against Sangwon’s shoulder. Sangwon would tilt his head just enough to rest against Leo’s hair.
The thunder would roll. Leo would flinch—just barely.
Sangwon would respond by threading their fingers together, thumb rubbing slow circles into Leo’s knuckles.
“You okay?” he would ask, softly.
Leo would nod. Always nod.
“…Stay,” Leo added quietly once.
Sangwon smiled. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Cats never liked loud noises.
They liked knowing someone was there. Someone they can rely on, completely.
Leo craved praise in the same way cats craved sunlight.
He would never ask for it. He acted composed, self-sufficient, like he didn’t need validation from anyone. But Sangwon saw how Leo lingered after finishing a task, how his eyes flicked up, searching.
So Sangwon gave it freely. But quietly (This is important. Very much.)
“Good job today,” he’d say, passing by.
“You handled that really well.”
“I like the way you think.”
The praise was never dramatic. Never overwhelming. Just enough.
Leo would pretend to brush it off, like, it wasn’t a big deal.
But later, Sangwon would find him closer than usual. Sitting beside him. Touching him absent-mindedly. Staying.
Like a cat that had been fed and decided to nap nearby as a reward.
At nights, Leo slept curled inward, like he was protecting something precious inside himself. Sangwon slept facing him, arm draped over Leo’s waist, hand resting warm and solid.
Sometimes, Leo would wake up first again. He would lie there, listening to Sangwon breathe, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.
He would inch closer, slowly, carefully, until his forehead rested against Sangwon’s collarbone.
Then he would stop moving.
Sangwon always tightened his hold, even in sleep.
Cats trusted like that. Quietly. Completely.
Once, Sangwon asked, half-joking, “Do you know you act like a cat?”
Leo raised an eyebrow. “Do you know you’re rude?”
Sangwon laughed and reached out, scratching gently behind Leo’s ear.
Leo froze.
Then, after a moment, he leaned into it.
“..Don’t stop,” he muttered.
Sangwon smiled, warm and fond.
He never did.
And Leo stayed, purring silently, finally allowing himself to be exactly what he was. Loved. Understood. And home. Always.
[Epilogue]
Leo got clingy when he was tired.
He would deny it if asked. He would insist nothing had changed, that he was simply “comfortable.” But Sangwon had learned the signs well enough to recognize them even in the dark.
It started with proximity.
Leo stopped pretending to sit beside Sangwon and instead pressed fully against him, shoulder to chest, knee hooked over Sangwon’s thigh. If Sangwon shifted, Leo shifted too, following unconsciously like gravity itself had decided Sangwon was the center of the room.
If Sangwon stood up, Leo would glance up immediately.
“Where are you going?” he’d ask, casual but quick.
“To get water.”
“Oh."
Leo would watch him leave anyway. And more often than not, Sangwon would feel Leo’s presence at his back moments later, standing in the doorway, pretending he had something else to do there.
Cats followed their humans when they were tired.
They didn’t like losing sight of them.
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That night, Sangwon had friends over. Nothing loud, nothing wild—just conversation, laughter drifting through the living room like warm air. Leo sat beside him on the couch at first, quiet, polite, posture composed.
Too composed.
Sangwon noticed how Leo’s hand had crept onto his knee and stayed there. How his thumb traced slow, possessive circles that had nothing to do with absent-mindedness.
When one of Sangwon’s friends laughed a little too hard at something Sangwon said, Leo’s fingers tightened.
Not painfully. Just enough.
Sangwon glanced down. “You okay?”
Leo didn’t look at him. “Mm.”
Five minutes later, Leo shifted closer. Ten minutes later, he leaned fully into Sangwon’s side. Eventually, he gave up entirely and rested his head against Sangwon’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded.
Sangwon wrapped an arm around him without thinking.
Leo relaxed instantly.
Territorial, but quiet about it. Like a cat curling up on your lap in front of guests, daring anyone to question it.
Later, when the door finally closed behind the last visitor, Leo exhaled deeply and sagged against Sangwon.
“They were loud,” he said.
“They were fine,” Sangwon replied gently.
Leo hummed, unconvinced. Then, after a pause: “You laughed a lot.”
Sangwon smiled. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” Leo said immediately.
Then he added, softer, “I just like it when you laugh with me.”
Sangwon didn’t tease him for that. He just pressed a kiss into Leo’s hair and held him closer.
Leo didn’t pull away.
By the time they crawled into bed, Leo was already half-asleep. He curled in immediately, back to Sangwon’s chest, limbs tucked close, leaving no space between them.
Sangwon wrapped himself around Leo easily, like it was instinct.
Leo made a small sound, barely there, as Sangwon’s arm settled around his waist.
“Too tight?” Sangwon murmured.
Leo shook his head, face buried against Sangwon’s chest. “Stay.”
“I am staying.”
“No,” Leo said, voice thick with sleep. “Like this.”
Sangwon tightened his hold.
Leo sighed.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Sangwon thought Leo had already fallen asleep when he felt Leo’s fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping like he was afraid Sangwon might disappear if he let go.
“Won-ah,” Leo whispered.
“Yeah?”
There was a long pause. Leo’s breathing was uneven, caught somewhere between waking and dreaming.
“I don’t like it when other people have you,” Leo said quietly.
Sangwon stilled—but didn’t pull away.
“I know, hyung.” he said gently.
Leo swallowed. “I know that’s not… fair.”
Sangwon brushed his thumb along Leo’s arm, slow and reassuring. “You don’t have to be fair with me.”
Another pause.
“I pretend I don’t care,” Leo admitted, voice barely audible now. “Because I don’t want to be… annoying.”
Sangwon’s chest ached.
“You’re not.”
Leo shifted, turning just enough to press his forehead against Sangwon’s collarbone, nose tucked into the space he fit perfectly.
“I want you to choose me,” Leo said, words slurred with sleep. “Even when I don’t ask.”
Sangwon bent his head and kissed Leo’s temple.
“I do,” he said. “Every day.”
Leo’s grip tightened.
“…Promise?”
Sangwon didn’t hesitate. “I promise, sweetheart.”
The tension drained from Leo all at once. His shoulders softened. His breathing evened out.
After a moment, he whispered, almost embarrassed, “I like it when you touch me.”
Sangwon smiled against his hair. “I know.”
“I like when you notice me,” Leo continued, eyes closed now. “And when you stay. And when you don’t make me ask.”
Sangwon held him like he was something precious. Like something that had trusted him completely.
“You don’t have to ask,” he said softly. “I’m yours.”
Leo’s lips curved faintly, sleepy and satisfied.
“…Good,” he murmured.
Within minutes, he was fully asleep, still clutching Sangwon’s shirt, body pressed close, claiming warmth and safety without apology.
A cat, finally asleep in the arms of someone who understood him.
Sangwon stayed awake a little longer, listening to Leo breathe, fingers tracing slow, gentle lines along his back.
He didn’t move.
He never would.
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