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The stairs creaked softly under Junho’s weight as he descended, barefoot, his damp hair falling slightly over his eyes. The oversized black sweatpants hung loose around his hips, cinched just enough not to fall, and Kim’s gray shirt draped over his frame — the hem brushing low on his thighs, sleeves just barely clinging to his wrists.
It smelled like fresh laundry and cedar soap.
Comfort. Safety. Kim looked up from the kitchen as the soft footsteps reached the final step. The light from the hanging bulbs above the dining table cast a warm halo over Junho, and for a moment, Kim’s breath caught.
The shirt fit him in the way comfort clothes should — too big in all the right places, shoulders slouched, the collar dipping just enough to show a hint of his collarbone.
Kim’s lips curved into a soft smile. Unspoken, gentle.
He looked... home.
But he didn’t say anything. Afraid that him staring at Junho for too long would make the younger boy uncomfortable. He just turned back toward the stovetop, finishing up the last stir of the stew, giving Junho space to settle.
Junho hovered for a second, awkwardly tugging at the hem of the shirt like he wasn’t used to being seen this quietly. Vulnerably.
Then, without a word, he padded over and sat down at the dining table, folding his hands in front of him like a schoolboy trying not to intrude.
Kim placed a steaming bowl of soondubu jjigae in front of him, the smell of tofu, soft spice, and anchovy broth rising into the air. Beside it, he set down a bowl of freshly steamed rice and small side dishes — kimchi, sautéed spinach, and a single fried egg.
“Eat slowly,” Kim said softly, placing a spoon down next to him.
“It’s hot.”
Junho nodded once — barely — but didn’t meet his eyes. Kim took the seat across from him, resting his arms lightly on the table, watching.
There was no rush. No questions. Just presence.
Junho picked up the spoon quietly and took a tentative bite of the stew. His lips parted slightly at the warmth — not too spicy, but deep and savory. Just nice. The tension in his shoulders began to soften, just a little. Kim watched him for a second longer before breaking the quiet, voice low and warm.
“You always make that face when you’re trying not to admit something tastes good.”
Junho gave him a faint, tired glare. But his spoon dipped back in, and he didn’t stop eating. And Kim, still smiling softly, looked down at his own bowl. It was crazy how Kim remembers every small details about Junho.
They didn’t need to say much.
The silence between them was no longer heavy. It was healing.
The clink of spoons against ceramic was the only sound for a while. Junho kept eating — slow, steady — as if his body had finally realized it was allowed to relax.
Kim watched him from across the table, chin resting in his palm, eyes warm.
Junho cleared his throat halfway through the meal and muttered without looking up. “…You didn’t have to make this much food.”
Kim raised a brow, smirking slightly.
“Didn’t realize feeding a half-starved wolf would count as ‘too much.’”
Junho glanced up at him, unimpressed. “You calling me a wolf now?”
Kim sipped his water, deliberately casual. “Brooding, dangerous, eyes full of tragedy… yeah, checks out.”
Junho gave a low, reluctant snort — the closest thing to a laugh Kim had seen on him. He tried to hide it behind another bite of rice.
Kim leaned back, pleased with himself. “See? That almost looked like a human emotion.”
Junho swallowed, then muttered dryly. “You’re hilarious. You should do stand-up.”
Kim grinned. "I’m dragging you with me.”
Another tiny laugh — real this time — escaped Junho’s lips, barely a breath, but it echoed in the warmth of the dining space like a breaking dawn. He leaned back a little in his chair, spoon resting in his bowl now.
“This shirt smells like you, by the way,” he said, eyes not quite meeting Kim’s.
Kim blinked, then leaned forward, feigning concern. “God. Do I smell bad? Should I be offended or flattered?”
Junho shrugged, playing it off, but his ears had turned slightly pink. He started to ease a bit now. “I’ll let you know if I start to choke on soap and righteousness.”
Kim laughed — a deep, quiet laugh that started in his chest and made the corners of his eyes crinkle.
For a few moments, everything felt light again. Not erased — but bearable.
After the plates were nearly empty, Kim stood and began collecting the dishes.
“Don’t even think about helping. You’re a guest and emotionally compromised.”
Junho raised an eyebrow. “That’s profiling.”
Kim chuckled as he walked toward the sink. “That’s love.”
Junho blinked — just once. Love. The room suddenly felt warmer than the food.
He didn’t respond. But his eyes followed Kim’s every movement. And his lips stayed curled in the smallest, quietest smile.
The clink of utensils and the low trickle of running water filled the space between them now. The quiet had changed — no longer heavy or hesitant, but gentle. Comfortable.
Junho stood beside Kim at the sink, drying plates with a worn gray towel, still dressed in the oversized shirt and sweatpants. He worked in silence, moving slowly, eyes occasionally flicking to Kim but never holding for long.
Kim washed the dishes with efficient care, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms damp. Occasionally, their arms brushed. Neither said anything.
But something passed between them each time they did.
Not tension — just warmth. Like two people remembering they were still here, still alive, still allowed to share a space without everything breaking.
At one point, Kim handed him a dish and Junho took it, fingertips grazing his for a second too long.
Still, neither spoke.
They just kept cleaning — together — like they’d done it a hundred times before.
Once the last plate was stacked neatly, Kim shut off the light above the sink and leaned against the counter, drying his hands on his sweatpants.
He glanced over at Junho, who was standing by the table now, looking… unsure. Looking like he had nowhere to go. Other than being in Kim's embrace.
“You don’t have to go,” Kim said softly, tone more invitation than offer. “It’s late. You’re dead on your feet. Just stay.”
Junho hesitated, thumb brushing the edge of the counter.
“You sure?”
Kim tilted his head, as if really? “You’re wearing my clothes, dried my dishes, and took my last piece of tofu.” A small smile tugged at his lips.
“You’re halfway moved in by the way.”
Junho huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hmm… the last one sounds very personal but, alright.”
Back in Kim's bedroom, the soft golden lamp lit one corner of the room. The rest lay in shadow. Junho sat on the edge of the bed, toweling the last bit of dampness from his hair. Kim stood at his drawer, grabbing another pillow and tossing it onto the bed.
“You kick?” Kim asked casually, pulling back the sheets.
Junho blinked. “What?". His confusion was too genuine that it almost sent Kim laughing.
“I mean, when you sleep. Should I be afraid of sudden violence? A feet pushed into my mouth the next morning? ”
Junho shot Kim an annoyed look and leaned back, falling into the bed with a sigh.
“I’m emotionally stable now, thanks to your tofu. I promise not to punch you in your sleep. I already even gave you a limb.”
Kim smirked, climbing in beside him, tugging the blanket over both of them.
They lay side by side in the quiet, inches apart, breathing steady. The clean scent of eucalyptus still lingered from the bathroom. The warmth of the sheets and the softness of the mattress wrapped around them like something sacred.
For a moment, neither said anything.
Then, in a quiet voice, Kim murmured. “You scared the hell out of me today, y’know.”
Junho stared at the ceiling, voice low. “…I scared myself too.”
Another silence.
Then Junho turned slightly, eyes meeting Kim’s in the low light. Feeling like he hadn't gave Mim enough gratitude for everything that had happened.
“Thank you… for... everything. For not pushing me away. For not hating me." It was strangely difficult for Junho to spit out those words from his throat.
Kim looked at him — calm, steady — and simply said. “You were never too much, Jun. Just… hurting too loud for anyone else to listen.” His gaze softened on the spot everytime they land on Junho.
Their eyes held for a beat, then, Junho let out a slow breath, as if something inside him had finally let go.
“…Goodnight. Kim. ” he whispered. Eyes were droopy as if a rush of sleepiness just kicked in.
“Goodnight, Junho.” Kim replied, softer now as he watched the other boy slowly disconnected from the real world.
And as they lay there, two quiet bodies beneath one blanket, they didn’t touch — but the space between them pulsed with the quiet understanding of two people who had carried each other without ever saying it out loud.
Sleep came slowly.
---
It was sometime past 3 a.m. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside and the slow tick of Kim’s bedside clock.
Then —
Junho jolted upright with a ragged gasp, chest heaving.
Sweat clung to his skin beneath the shirt. His hand gripped the sheets tight enough to whiten his knuckles. The room looked warped in the dark — shadows curling like the smoke that still haunted his memories. The gunshot was still ringing in his ears. The blood. The voice he couldn’t save.
“No—” he whispered, eyes wide and distant.
“Don’t—don’t go—”
“Junho?”
Kim’s voice was low, groggy, and laced with immediate concern. A soft rustling of sheets, then a hand gently touched his shoulder. Grounding. Warm. Real.
Junho’s breath hitched.
“Hey — hey, you’re okay.” Kim sat up, reaching for him instinctively. “It’s just a dream. You’re safe. I’m here.” Junho didn’t respond — just closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to swallow the panic like it hadn’t already flooded his entire chest. Kim’s hand slid to the back of Junho’s neck, thumb brushing against the damp skin there. Slowly, without asking, he pulled Junho into him — an arm wrapping securely around his waist, the other behind his head.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, “Breathe. Just breathe.”
Junho hesitated — tense, shaking — then finally leaned in, collapsing silently into Kim’s chest like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. His head tucked beneath Kim’s chin, fingers clutching the fabric of Kim’s shirt like it might vanish if he let go.
“I saw it again,” he mumbled, voice breaking.
“The mission… my brother… you bleeding out—”
Kim tightened the embrace just slightly. “Shh... I’m here. I didn’t leave. I’m not leaving.”
They stayed like that — tangled in the dark — until Junho’s trembling slowed, his breathing evened out, and his grip finally loosened.
Even so, Kim never let go. And eventually, Junho fell asleep in his arms, curled against the only thing that felt real.