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The morning sunlight bleeds through the bedroom curtains in faint, washed-out shades of gray, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.
Renjun wakes up to a chilling emptiness. He shifts his weight instinctively, reaching a hand out across the mattress, expecting to tangle his fingers in the familiar warmth of his boyfriend’s t-shirt. Instead, his palm meets nothing but a flat, thoroughly cold expanse of cotton sheets. The other side of the bed has not been touched.
He opens his eyes, staring at the empty pillow. The memory of last night crashes into his chest with the weight of a whole cubic of concrete stone.
It was a remarkably stupid argument. It had started over something trivial—a couple of moving boxes sitting in the hallway. They had officially moved into the shared apartment three weeks ago, and the last remnants of packing tape and cardboard were driving Renjun absolutely crazy. He had wanted to sort through them immediately after dinner. Jaemin, who had just dragged himself home from a draining ten-hour shift at the hospital, simply wanted to leave the boxes in the corner until the weekend.
A simple disagreement somehow mutated into a tense, biting exchange. Renjun’s exhaustion made him defensive, his tone clipping into a harsh accusation about Jaemin not taking their new space seriously. Jaemin, too tired to navigate the sudden hostility, threw his hands up in frustration and offered a heavily sarcastic reply. It was a foolish escalation.
Renjun had refused to yield. Wrapped in a thick layer of stubborn pride, he had spun around on his heel, marched into their bedroom, and shut the door with a distinct click.
He had expected Jaemin to follow him. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, waiting for the doorknob to turn. But minutes dragged into an hour. The apartment beyond the door remained still.
Slowly, the anger evaporated, leaving behind a cold, settling pool of regret. Renjun realized exactly how unreasonable he was being. He was demanding energy Jaemin simply did not have. He had let his own stress dictate the mood of the evening.
Swallowing his pride, Renjun had finally opened the bedroom door and crept softly down the hallway.
He found Jaemin in the living room, passed out on the cramped, unyielding cushions of the sofa. The television was off. Jaemin was still wearing his work trousers, one arm draped heavily over his eyes to block out the streetlights filtering through the window. Exhaustion had completely worn him down.
Standing in the hushed living room last night, Renjun had felt a terrible, suffocating wave of guilt. It was their very first real clash since signing the lease, their first night under the same roof spent entirely apart. He had wanted to wake Jaemin up, to drag him into the comfortable bed, but Jaemin looked so deeply asleep that Renjun couldn't bring himself to disturb him. He fetched a blanket, draped it carefully over Jaemin’s shoulders, and retreated to the bedroom alone.
Now, with the sun fully up, the guilt is tenfold.
Renjun pushes himself out of bed. His bare feet hit the cold floorboards. He walks into the adjoining bathroom, turns on the faucet, and splashes freezing water over his face to clear the lingering fog from his brain. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, watching a single drop of water trail down his chin.
He has to fix this.
The problem is, Renjun is naturally terrible at verbalizing his remorse. Stringing together an explicit, out-loud apology feels like trying to swallow a handful of dry sand. His pride constantly tangles his tongue into impossible knots. Whenever he tries to say the actual words, he usually ends up sounding defensive all over again, accidentally restarting the very conflict he is trying to end.
He needs a buffer. A peace offering. A wordless surrender.
Drying his face with a hand towel, an idea suddenly sparks in the back of his mind.
Renjun walks out of the bathroom and crosses the bedroom, stopping in front of Jaemin’s side of the wardrobe. He slides the wooden door open and sifts through the hangers. He pushes past the crisp button-downs and the heavy winter sweaters until his fingers brush against a very specific faded fabric.
It is a vintage, dark gray band tee. The cotton is practically worn thin from years of constant washing, the graphic on the front cracked and peeling. It is Jaemin’s absolute favorite piece of clothing in the entire world, something he usually guards fiercely.
Renjun pulls the shirt off the hanger. He strips off his own sleepwear and pulls the gray fabric over his head.
Because Jaemin has significantly broader shoulders and a taller frame, the shirt completely drowns Renjun. The hem falls all the way down to his mid-thigh, acting more like a makeshift dress than a t-shirt. The shoulder seams droop halfway down his biceps, and the sleeves are so incredibly long they swallow his hands, leaving only the very tips of his fingers visible. It smells faintly of Jaemin’s peaches cologne and laundry detergent.
Satisfied with the ridiculous armor, Renjun pads silently out of the bedroom and heads straight for the kitchen.
He begins the morning routine with a measured care. He fills the electric kettle and presses the switch. While the water heats up, he opens the refrigerator and pulls out the ingredients for Jaemin’s go-to breakfast. He slices a thick piece of sourdough bread, placing it in the toaster. He heats a small ceramic pan on the stove, melting a square of butter until it sizzles gently, before cracking an egg right into the center.
He moves around the kitchen counter, swallowed by the oversized gray fabric. The kettle hisses, signaling the boiling point. Renjun grabs Jaemin’s favorite ceramic mug—the one with the chipped handle—and drops a chamomile tea bag inside, pouring the steaming water over it. He adds exactly one spoonful of honey, stirring the liquid slowly. The rich, earthy scent of the tea mixes with the savory smell of the frying egg.
Down the hallway, the springs of the living room sofa groan loudly.
Renjun freezes, the metal spoon halting against the inside of the mug. Panic flaring for a split second, he quickly abandons the spoon in the tea, setting the mug down on the counter, and grabs the spatula with both hands to tend to the sizzling egg.
Heavy, dragging footsteps sound against the floorboards. Jaemin is awake.
-
Jaemin rolls his shoulders as he walks, a low, pained grumble escaping his lips. Sleeping on a narrow couch after a ten-hour shift has left his back stiff. He rubs the back of his neck, his hair sticking up in many directions. The weariness from the night before has morphed into a dull, lingering annoyance. He expects the morning to be filled with the same tense, suffocating atmosphere they left off with. He fully intends to just walk into the kitchen, pour himself a glass of ice water, and ignore his boyfriend until the air clears.
Jaemin steps through the kitchen archway, his expression drawn into a tight, unhappy line.
Then, he stops dead in his tracks.
Standing by the stove, gripping a spatula with hands completely swallowed by oversized sleeves, is Renjun. He isn't wearing his usual matching silk pajamas. He is consumed by Jaemin’s favorite, worn-out band tee. The collar hangs loosely around Renjun’s collarbones, completely exposing the smooth skin of his neck. The sleeves are drooping so far past his wrists that Renjun is struggling to hold the spatula properly, the fabric bunching up awkwardly around his grip. He looks ridiculously small, painfully endearing, and undeniably guilty.
Renjun bites his bottom lip, peering up at Jaemin through his eyelashes. He doesn't say a single word. He just carefully slides the perfectly cooked sunny-side-up egg onto the toasted sourdough on the plate in front of him. Feeling shy under the sudden weight of Jaemin's stare, Renjun turns his body away, facing the stove again to busy himself with the empty pan.
The tense, defensive wall Jaemin built up over the last twelve hours completely shatters.
It evaporates so quickly it leaves him slightly breathless. He stares at the drooping sleeves, at the warm breakfast meticulously prepared on the counter, and feels an overwhelming surge of pure, unadulterated affection. How is he supposed to stay mad at this?
Jaemin lets out a long, defeated exhale. An involuntary smile breaks through his previously hardened expression. He crosses the kitchen floor in three long strides.
Stepping directly behind Renjun, Jaemin reaches out and wraps his arms firmly around Renjun’s waist, pulling his back flush against his own chest. He rests his chin heavily on the slope of Renjun’s shoulder, burying his nose into the soft skin just below his jawline.
"I really hate the spell you have on me," Jaemin murmurs, his morning voice a deep rumble that vibrates right against Renjun’s spine. He reaches down, covering Renjun’s hands with his own, chuckling softly as his fingers sink into the excessive folds of the oversized sleeves. "It's unfair. I was fully prepared to give you the silent treatment until at least noon."
Renjun sets the spatula down on the counter. His fabric-swallowed hand twisting the dial on the stove until the blue flame clicks off.
With the burner safely extinguished, the tension drains out of his shoulders, a massive wave of relief washing over him. He leans his weight back into Jaemin’s solid embrace, melting against the heat of his chest.
Slowly, Renjun turns around within the circle of Jaemin’s arms.
He looks up. Jaemin’s dark eyes are soft, lacking any trace of the biting frustration from the night before.
"I'm sorry," Renjun finally says. "About the boxes. About being impossible. You were exhausted, and I was just projecting my own stress onto you. I shouldn't have done that."
Jaemin watches his face carefully. Then, without warning, he slides his hands from Renjun’s waist down to his hips. With a sudden, effortless lift, Jaemin hoists Renjun up, turn around and deposite his boyfriend directly onto the cool marble of the kitchen countertop.
Renjun gasps slightly at the sudden elevation, his legs instinctively parting to bracket Jaemin’s waist. He is now eye-level with his boyfriend.
Jaemin steps flush against the counter, resting his hands flat on the marble on either side of Renjun’s thighs, effectively caging him in.
"I accept the apology," Jaemin says, his tone shifting into something a little more serious, yet still gentle. He reaches up with one hand, brushing a stray lock of hair away from Renjun’s eyes. "But you need to promise me something."
Renjun nods slowly, twisting the overly long fabric of the sleeve between his hidden fingers. "What?"
"If I cross a boundary, or if I do something that actually upsets you, you have to tell me clearly," Jaemin states, his thumb tracing the curve of Renjun’s cheekbone. "Don't just twist the argument into something ambiguous and storm off, making it seem like you won the debate just to avoid talking about it. We live together now. We can't just run into different rooms every time we get annoyed."
Renjun presses his lips together, absorbing the truth in the statement. He knows his tendency to deflect is a terrible habit. "I know. I'll do better."
Jaemin dramatically squints his eyes, leaning his face an inch closer. "You have to. Because if you pull that stunt again, I am locking all my vintage t-shirts in a safe. You won't be able to use your cute tactics to manipulate me again."
Renjun lets out an offended gasp. He pulls his hand out of the massive sleeve just enough to slap Jaemin lightly on the bicep. "I am not manipulating you! It's an apology language!"
"It's a trap," Jaemin counters, though a wide, brilliant grin is already stretching across his face. "But I suppose I will work very hard to endure it. Since I love you, and all."
Renjun rolls his eyes, but a matching, helpless smile takes over his own features. “Idiot."
"Your idiot," Jaemin corrects effortlessly. He doesn't give Renjun a chance to retort again. He tilts his head, closing the final inch between them, and presses his lips against Renjun’s.
As Jaemin tilts his head to deepen the angle, his hands leave the marble counter, sliding over the back of Renjun’s thighs to pull him completely flush against his waist. The physical contrast is immediate—the freezing bite of the quartz countertop beneath Renjun is eclipsed by the radiating heat of Jaemin’s chest pressing into his own. A short, breathless sigh slips from Renjun’s throat. He loops his arms around Jaemin's shoulders, the oversized sleeves bunching at his wrists as he tangles his fabric-covered fingers into the messy hair at the nape of Jaemin’s neck. He anchors himself there, answering the slow, grounding rhythm of Jaemin's mouth with absolute devotion, letting the slide of their tongue and the solid weight of Jaemin's grip completely melt away the last bitter edges of the cold night.
The morning might be entirely still, but for the two of them, the world has finally settled right back perfectly into place.