Chapter Text
The apartment is quiet in the way only lived-in places can be.
Not empty—never empty—but settled.
Like it knows how to wait.
The living room light is still on when Geonwoo unlocks the door, the soft yellow spilling into the hallway before he even steps inside.
He pauses for half a second, keys still in his hand, briefcase hanging low at his side.
Sangwon must have fallen asleep again.
He slips his shoes off quietly, lining them up next to Sangwon’s pair by habit, and moves further in.
The air smells faintly like fabric softener and something warm maybe the instant noodles Sangwon promised he wouldn’t eat this late.
The clock on the wall reads 12:37 a.m.
Too late.
Again.
Sangwon is curled up on the couch, one leg tucked under the other, blanket half-slid down his shoulder.
The TV is still on, volume turned low, playing something Geonwoo can’t quite identify.
Sangwon’s phone rests face-down on his chest, his fingers loosely curled around it like he’d meant to send one last message and never did.
Geonwoo exhales, the tension in his shoulders loosening without him realizing it.
He stands there for a moment, watching.
Sangwon looks softer when he sleeps. His brows relax, the line between them smoothing out.
There’s a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, like he’d almost smiled at something right before drifting off.
Geonwoo reaches for the remote first, muting the TV. Then he crouches beside the couch, careful not to wake him, brushing a strand of hair away from Sangwon’s forehead with the back of his fingers.
“You promised you’d go to bed,” he murmurs, not expecting an answer.
Sangwon shifts slightly, nose scrunching for a second before he settles again.
His grip tightens around the phone.
Geonwoo considers waking him.
He really does. But the thought disappears as quickly as it comes.
Instead, he slips an arm under Sangwon’s knees and the other behind his back, lifting him slowly.
Sangwon stirs this time, a quiet sound escaping him as his body instinctively leans closer.
“Gonu…?” he mumbles, eyes still closed.
“It’s me,” Geonwoo says softly. “Go back to sleep.”
Sangwon hums, forehead resting against Geonwoo’s shoulder. “You’re late.”
“I know.”
“You said you’d be home by eleven.”
“I know.”
There’s no accusation in Sangwon’s voice.
Just fact. Just awareness.
Geonwoo carries him down the short hallway to the bedroom, the familiar weight grounding in a way the long day hadn’t been.
He lowers Sangwon onto the bed, easing his shoes off and tucking the blanket around him.
Sangwon doesn’t let go immediately.
His fingers catch the sleeve of Geonwoo’s shirt, grip loose but intentional. “Don’t disappear,” he whispers, barely audible.
“I won’t,” Geonwoo replies, just as quietly. “I’m just going to shower.”
That seems to satisfy him. Sangwon’s hand relaxes, falling back onto the mattress as his breathing evens out again.
Geonwoo stands there a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
Then he turns off the light.
The shower runs hot, steam fogging up the small bathroom mirror almost instantly. Geonwoo rests his forehead against the tile, letting the water run over his neck and shoulders.
Work had been relentless, meetings stacked on meetings, emails he didn’t finish answering, conversations that felt like they never reached a conclusion. He scrubs at his skin like he can wash the day off entirely.
By the time he steps out, towel slung low around his waist, the exhaustion has settled deep into his bones.
The bedroom is dark except for the small lamp by the bed, left on low. Sangwon is still asleep, curled onto his side now, blanket pulled up to his chin.
Geonwoo changes quietly and slides under the covers, careful not to jostle the bed too much. Sangwon shifts almost immediately, drawn closer like it’s instinct, like his body recognizes the space Geonwoo fills.
Their legs tangle. Sangwon’s back presses against Geonwoo’s chest, warm and familiar.
Geonwoo exhales, one arm resting loosely around Sangwon’s waist.
Outside, the city hums softly, distant traffic blending into a constant background noise. Inside, everything slows.
This, Geonwoo thinks, this is what it means to come home.
Morning comes gently.
Light filters through the curtains, pale and unhurried. Geonwoo wakes to the sound of movement, soft footsteps, the faint clink of ceramic.
He blinks, reaching out instinctively, fingers brushing against cool sheets.
Sangwon is already up.
The smell hits him next: coffee, faintly burnt toast, something sweet. Geonwoo pushes himself up, rubbing at his eyes, and follows the sounds into the kitchen.
Sangwon stands at the counter in one of Geonwoo’s shirts, sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly messy like he hasn’t fully woken up yet. There’s a small frown on his face as he concentrates on the pan in front of him.
“You’re awake,” Sangwon says without turning around.
“Mm.”
“You slept through your alarm.”
“I don’t regret it.”
Sangwon snorts, finally glancing over his shoulder. “Sit. Breakfast’s almost done.”
Geonwoo does as told, settling into the chair by the table, watching as Sangwon moves around the kitchen like it’s second nature. There’s something comforting about it—about the way this space belongs to both of them now.
Plates are set down. Coffee poured.
They eat together in comfortable silence, legs brushing under the table, the morning stretching out in front of them with no urgency.
Outside, the day begins.
Inside, they stay.