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The kettle had only just begun to whisper when the bedroom door creaked open. Sunlight slipped through the blinds in thin, pale lines, cutting across the kitchen floor and the bare feet standing there. Juhoon looked half-dead with sleep, hair crushed on one side, hoodie hanging off one shoulder as he dragged himself toward the coffee machine without saying a word. The chair legs scraped when he pulled one out.
Martin watched him for a second longer than necessary, lips twitching like he had just remembered something funny. Then he leaned back against the counter, folded his arms, and said it casually into the quiet apartment.
“Good morning, babygirl.”
Juhoon stared at him in disbelief, eyes wide and unblinking, as if the words needed time to find a place to settle somewhere behind his eyes.
"Excuse me?”
The kettle clicked off with a soft, final tch. A thin plume of steam curled lazily into the morning air between them, obscuring the space for a heartbeat.
Martin was already grinning, leaning back against the counter with a relaxed, easy confidence.
“What? I’m being polite.”
“You just called me babygirl .”
He gave a casual shrug, reaching past the other man to pluck a mug from the cabinet as if nothing unusual had happened.
“Yeah. Good manners. My parents raised me right.”
A damp dish towel flew across the kitchen, smacking him squarely in the shoulder with a heavy thud.
“Shut the hell up.”
Martin laughed and ducked low when an empty coffee spoon followed immediately after, clattering harmlessly against the cabinet doors. For the both of them, it was just a stupid habit, a bit of mindless static that filled the gaps in their shared silence. It was usually something tossed carelessly across the kitchen between hurried bites of toast and the low-level hum of the old refrigerator.
“Morning, babygirl.”
“Eat shit.”
It never actually meant anything. It was just another dumb, comfortable thing that lived in the space between them, like the stack of mail on the counter or the pile of dishes they both pretended not to see.
Everything was normal until it almost happened in front of other people.
Martin swore it was accidental, or at least it felt that way in the heat of the moment. A handful of their friends had crowded into the small apartment, filling the cramped kitchen with loud, overlapping voices and the greasy smell of cheap takeout containers. Someone was leaning back against the counter while someone else sat precariously on the edge of the table.
Juhoon moved through the fray, ducking his head as he grabbed a drink from the fridge, his shoulder brushing firmly against Martin's on the way back out.
The words rose automatically to his tongue, fueled by habit.
Careful, babyg–
Martin stopped abruptly. His mouth snapped shut, the half-formed word dying in his throat. Instead of saying it, he just nudged the refrigerator door shut with the toe of his shoe and stepped aside to let the crowd through.
Later, when the last guest had finally gone and the apartment had fallen back into its familiar, heavy quiet, the bedroom door creaked open on its hinges. Sleepy, dragging footsteps wandered back into the kitchen, cutting through the silence. The kettle clicked on, beginning its slow whistle.
Martin leaned back against the counter, watching the shadow of his roommate move in the dim light.
"Goodnight, babygirl.”
“Jesus,” Juhoon groaned, scrubbing a tired hand over his face and pushing his hair back.
“You’re still doing that?”
“Obviously.”
“Thought you finally grew out of it.”
Martin didn’t offer an answer. He just stood there and watched Juhoon reaching into the cupboard for a mismatched mug.
After that night, the word stayed strictly between them. Martin would never let it slip when their friends were over, or when they ran into classmates outside the building, or even when they crossed paths in the middle of a crowded, bustling hallway. However, the very second the apartment door clicked shut behind them and the world was locked out-
“Morning, babygirl.”
Or sometimes, just the word itself.
Babygirl.
It was soft and casual, sounding like something that had always belonged in the corners of their home. Slowly, without either of them ever pointing it out, the word started to change its shape. It began to slip into places it had never been invited before.
Juhoon came home on a Tuesday evening, looking pale and sickly, a thin sheen of sweat coating his forehead and his jacket hanging haphazardly off one shoulder. He dropped his bag by the door with a heavy thud and managed only three staggering steps into the apartment before leaning his entire weight against the hallway wall.
Martin glanced up from the couch, the casual greeting dying on his lips as he took in the sight.
“You look like shit.”
"Feel like it, too."
The kitchen light flicked on, casting a sharp, clinical glow across the room. Martin heard the rush of the tap, the clink of glass, and then he was there, standing over Juhoon. He reached out, pressing the back of his hand tentatively against his roommate’s forehead. The skin was too warm, a dry, radiating heat that told the whole story.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine,” the other man lied, though his knees were visibly trembling.
“Yeah, clearly.”
Martin didn't let go. Instead, he steered Juhoon toward the couch, guiding him with a firm, steady hand and pushing him down gently onto the cushions before he could fall somewhere more dangerous. Juhoon collapsed into the fabric, blinking slowly, and entirely unfocused in the dim light of the living room.
"You’re staring,” Juhoon accused, his voice thick and slightly rasped.
“I’m staring because you’re about ten seconds away from a faceplant.”
“I’m not–”
The protest died halfway through, his energy simply evaporating as his head tipped back against the top of the cushion. He let out a long, ragged sigh, his throat moving as he swallowed against the dryness of the night.
“Water,” Martin said, already moving toward the kitchen.
“No.”
“Yes.”
"No."
The glass was pressed into Juhoon's hand a moment later, the condensation slicking his palm. He stared down at the water like it had personally offended him, his brow furrowing in a confused pout.
“Drink it.”
“…You’re annoying.”
“Drink it.”
"No."
“Don’t start acting tough now."
Another stubborn pause followed. The silence of the apartment was punctuated only by the distant, muffled sound of a car passing on the street below. Then, a quiet huff of breath, more of a surrender than a laugh, escaped from him.
“Fine.”
Martin watched in silence as Juhoon swallowed a few mouthfuls, the water disappearing in clumsy, greedy gulps. He reached out and took the glass back before it could slip from the other man's loosening grip. For a long second, neither of them spoke. The tension in the room was blurred around the edges by the darkness and the exhaustion. Then, almost absently, as if the word were simply a natural part of the air they breathed-
“Good job, babygirl.”
Juhoon's eyes slid shut. There was only a long, tired exhale as he slumped deeper into the couch, his body finally going still as he settled into the safety of the word.
End.