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It began, as most of their anniversaries now did, without ceremony.
The fourteenth of February announced itself not with roses nor with expectation, but with the pale winter light filtering through gauze curtains and settling quietly over the familiar disarray of their bedroom—over the half-folded laundry resting at the foot of the bed, over the stack of books on Sieun’s nightstand. The world outside remained indifferent; the sky hung low and silver, the air held that thin, suspended cold particular to late winter. If one did not know the date, nothing in the morning would have betrayed it.
Suho knew, though.
He did not move immediately when he woke. Years of marriage had taught him the art of stillness—the delicate patience of observing without disturbing. Beside him, Sieun slept curled toward him, one hand resting unconsciously over the space where Suho’s warmth had been during the night. There was something profoundly intimate about that small, unguarded gesture; something that made grand declarations seem not only unnecessary but almost vulgar in comparison.
The calendar on the wall opposite the bed bore a discreet red heart around the date. Sieun had drawn it weeks ago, absentmindedly, while on a phone call. Suho had noticed and said nothing.
He let his gaze linger on the faint crease at the corner of Sieun’s mouth, the soft fall of hair over his forehead, the rise and fall of his breathing. There had been a time—years ago, before vows and shared leases and merged bank accounts—when Valentine’s Day had arrived freighted with the anxiety of performance. There had been reservations to secure, flowers to order, gestures to calibrate so that affection might appear both spontaneous and sufficiently extraordinary.
Now, married long enough that their rings bore the fine scratches of daily life, they had come to understand that the extraordinary did not reside in effort but in repetition—in the deliberate choice to stay.
Sieun stirred.
The transition from sleep to wakefulness was always gradual with him; his fingers tightened briefly against the mattress before finding Suho’s wrist instead. He did not open his eyes at once. Instead, he drew Suho’s hand toward his chest, pressing it there as though to confirm something essential.
“Good morning.” Suho murmured, his voice low enough that it barely disturbed the quiet.
Sieun made a soft, indistinct sound in response, something between a hum and a sigh. Only then did his eyes open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as recognition settled in.
There was no flourish, no theatrical greeting. Only the faintest curve of a smile.
“Morning.”
He did not let go.
Instead, he shifted closer, closing what little distance the night had allowed between them, and slid his leg carelessly over Suho’s, trapping him there with a familiarity that belonged to habit—one refined over years of waking like this, tangled and unhurried.
“Stay,” Sieun murmured, though Suho had made no move to leave.
“I am staying.”
“For five more minutes.”
“You say that every morning.”
“And every morning you agree.”
Suho exhaled something that was almost a laugh, lowering his forehead until it rested lightly against Sieun’s. Up close, he could see the faint imprint of sleep along his cheek, the crease left by the pillow. He brushed his thumb there absentmindedly, smoothing it away.
There had been nothing forced about those earlier Valentine’s Days. If anything, they had been luminous with a kind of trembling sincerity that only first love can sustain. They had been adolescents standing awkwardly at the threshold of something vast and unnamed, startled by the miracle of being chosen in return. Back then, celebration had not been performance—it had been astonishment.
They had marveled at one another.
Suho remembered the first bouquet he had ever bought—how his hands had shaken slightly as he held it out, uncertain whether the gesture would appear excessive. He remembered Sieun’s expression, a mixture of disbelief and delight so unguarded it had felt like witnessing sunlight breaking through clouds. They had not known how to contain their happiness then; it had spilled outward in laughter too loud for restaurants, in photographs taken at unflattering angles, in long messages written past midnight simply because neither of them wanted the day to end.
It had not been exhaustion that altered them.
It had been growth.
Love, when allowed to endure, sheds its urgency but not its intensity; it learns to breathe differently.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” Sieun murmured, eyes half-closed again.
Suho smiled faintly. “Am I?”
“Yes. Your face does that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That reflective, tragic hero thing.”
“I do not have a tragic hero face.”
“You absolutely do.”
Sieun lifted his hand and pressed his palm against Suho’s cheek, flattening it slightly in a way that rendered the expression impossible to maintain. The gesture was ridiculous, affectionate, entirely devoid of dignity. Suho caught his wrist before he could pull away and kissed the inside of it, slow and deliberate.
Sieun’s breath stuttered—not dramatically, not with surprise, but with the quiet awareness of being wanted in a way that had never diminished.
“Good morning.” Suho repeated, softer this time.
“Happy Valentine’s Day.” Sieun replied, and this time the words were intentional.
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment—not searching, not uncertain, but steady.
“You know,” Sieun continued, voice still thick with sleep, “I used to get nervous.”
“Nervous?”
“Back then. Every year I’d think—what if this is the one where it feels different? Where it fades.”
Suho’s hand stilled where it rested at Sieun’s waist.
“And did it?”
“No.” A faint smile. “It just changed.”
He traced the line of Suho’s collarbone through the thin fabric of his shirt, thoughtful rather than restless.
“It felt huge when we were younger,” Sieun said quietly. “Like something that could break if we didn’t hold it carefully enough.”
Suho considered this, then nodded.
“We were learning how to love.” he said.
“And now?”
“Now we know how.”
The simplicity of that answer settled between them like warmth.
Sieun leaned forward first this time. The kiss was not fevered; it did not seek to prove anything. It was deep and lingering, built of familiarity—of knowing precisely how the other would respond, how much pressure to apply, when to soften. Suho’s hand slid from Sieun’s waist to the small of his back, drawing him closer until there was no distinction between embrace and rest.
When they parted, it was only because breath required it.
“You still get nervous?” Suho asked quietly.
Sieun shook his head. “Not about us.”
A pause.
“About everything else, maybe.”
Suho pressed another kiss to his temple, then to the corner of his mouth, then to the faint crease that appeared whenever he smiled too long.
“You don’t have to protect it anymore,” he murmured. “It’s not fragile.”
“I know.”
And he did.
They lay there for several minutes more, the conversation dissolving into touch—the absent-minded tracing of fingertips along arms, the slow combing of hands through hair. At some point, Suho shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at him properly.
“You drew the heart.” he said.
Sieun blinked. “What?”
“On the calendar.”
A faint flush colored his cheeks. “Oh. That.”
“You thought I wouldn’t notice?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters.”
Sieun studied him for a moment, then reached up and hooked his finger lightly through the chain of Suho’s necklace, tugging him closer again.
“I don’t need roses,” he said softly. “Or reservations. I liked those things when we were younger because they meant you were choosing me. But you still choose me. Every single day.”
Suho’s throat tightened—not painfully, but with the quiet gravity of truth.
“I would still buy you roses.” he said.
“I know.”
“And make reservations.”
“I know.”
A small, teasing smile appeared. “Would you wear that awful tie again?”
Suho groaned softly. “Absolutely not.”
Sieun laughed, the sound bright and unguarded in the morning stillness, and pulled him down into another kiss—this one less composed, edged with the remnants of sleep and something playfully insistent. Suho let himself be pulled, let himself fall into the familiarity of it, into the certainty that this—this unremarkable room, this shared warmth, this steady, evolving affection—was not the diminished version of what they had once felt.
It was the refined one.
“We should get up,” Suho said, though he did not move.
“In a minute.”
“Didn’t you say five?”
“Shut up.”
Suho huffed a quiet laugh and rolled them gently so that Sieun found himself half-buried against his chest instead. He wrapped both arms around him, holding him there with deliberate firmness.
“We don’t have plans tonight, do we?” he asked.
“No,” Suho replied. “Just dinner. At home.”
“Good.”
“Is that disappointing?”
“Not even a little.”
He reached up and brushed his lips once more against Suho’s.
“It’s still special,” Sieun added after a moment. “Just… not because it’s loud.”
Suho nodded, understanding entirely.
Outside, the winter light had strengthened, turning the room from silver to pale gold. Inside, they remained entangled a little longer, unhurried and unashamed of the time they took.
Sieun shifted first, though only slightly — enough to adjust his weight, enough to press his face more comfortably into the curve of Suho’s shoulder. His fingers had slipped beneath the hem of Suho’s shirt at some point, resting flat against warm skin. He traced absent, lazy patterns there, as though mapping something he already knew by heart.
“We should get up,” Suho murmured after a while.
“Mhm.”
Neither moved.
Another quiet stretch of stillness passed.
“Coffee…” Suho added gently.
That, at least, made Sieun lift his head.
“Now you’re convincing.”
Suho smiled faintly and brushed his thumb along Sieun’s jaw. “Come on.”
Untangling themselves was never abrupt. It happened in stages — a hand sliding away only to return briefly, knees brushing as they shifted, one last kiss pressed to a cheek almost unconsciously. When they finally stood, the bed remained warm behind them, sheets creased with the shape of their bodies.
Sieun tugged his sweater more securely around himself and followed Suho down the short hallway toward the kitchen, steps still slow with lingering sleep.
The apartment carried the faint chill of morning beyond the bedroom. Suho reached automatically to adjust the thermostat before moving to the counter. The small click of the kettle being filled broke the quiet.
Sieun leaned against the doorway at first, watching.
“What are you making?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep.
“Coffee.” Suho replied.
“I meant with it.”
Suho glanced over his shoulder. “Something that requires minimal thinking.”
“Ambitious.”
“You’re welcome to take over.”
Sieun pushed off the doorway with a soft huff and crossed the kitchen to stand beside him. Their shoulders touched immediately — not by accident: the space was large enough to avoid it, they simply didn’t.
Sieun reached for the mugs, selecting his favorite ones without hesitation: one slightly chipped at the rim, the other faintly stained from years of use. He set them side by side, handles aligned in the same direction.
The kettle began its low hum.
Suho cracked eggs into a bowl with practiced efficiency, while Sieun reached for a fork to whisk them, their hands overlapping briefly at the utensil drawer.
“Careful,” Suho murmured, though he didn’t move away.
“You’re the one in my way.”
“You came into my kitchen.”
“Our kitchen.”
Suho conceded that with a small nod.
Sieun whisked the eggs slowly, absentmindedly, gaze lowered in concentration. A loose strand of hair fell forward over his forehead. Without thinking, Suho reached out and brushed it back.
The touch lingered.
Sieun looked up.
There was something disarmingly open in his expression that early in the morning — no performance, no guarded edges. Just him.
“What?” he asked softly.
“Nothing.”
But Suho leaned in anyway, pressing a brief, unhurried kiss to his lips.
It was gentle, familiar.
When they parted, Sieun nudged him lightly with his hip. “You’re distracting.”
“You’re the one who stopped whisking.”
The eggs hit the pan with a soft hiss. Butter melted, scent blooming into the air.
They moved around each other easily — a small choreography built over years. When one reached for a cabinet, the other shifted instinctively. When Suho stepped back from the stove, Sieun filled the space without needing instruction.
They didn’t sit at the table. Instead, they remained standing at the counter, close enough that their thighs brushed occasionally as they ate.
Steam rose from the mugs, curling faintly between them.
Sieun took a sip and closed his eyes briefly. “That’s good.”
“Of course it is.”
“You say that every time.”
“And I’m right every time.”
A smear of yolk caught near the corner of Suho’s mouth. Sieun noticed immediately. He stepped closer — closer than necessary — and wiped it away with his thumb.
He did not pull his hand back right away.
Suho turned slightly and pressed a soft kiss to the pad of Sieun’s thumb in response.
A small, almost embarrassed laugh escaped him. “You’re insufferable.”
“You married me.”
“I did.”
They finished slowly, without rush. Plates were left in the sink for later. The toaster cooled with faint metallic ticks.
The morning did not shift into anything symbolic. It simply continued.
The coffee cooled. The light strengthened. The clock advanced with indifferent precision.
Sieun worked for a while in quiet concentration, one foot tucked under the other, brows slightly drawn together. Suho moved about the apartment with the ease of someone who knew exactly where everything belonged—not because he was meticulous, but because he had lived here long enough for the space to feel like an extension of himself.
At some point, while passing behind Sieun’s chair, Suho let his fingers skim lightly over the back of his neck.
Not enough to interrupt but just enough to be felt.
Sieun leaned back instinctively into the touch.
“You’re hovering,” he murmured.
“I live here.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Suho’s hand slid down to rest briefly at Sieun’s shoulder, thumb pressing gently into a knot he must have noticed forming there.
“You’re tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re tense.”
Sieun sighed, finally looking up. “If you’re going to massage me, at least commit.”
Suho raised an eyebrow. “Bossy.”
“Effective.”
So he did: he set his hands properly on Sieun’s shoulders and began working with slow, deliberate pressure. The kind of touch that came from knowing exactly how much force the other preferred.
Sieun’s posture softened almost immediately. “Better…” he admitted.
Suho leaned down slightly, brushing his lips over the crown of Sieun’s head without pausing the motion of his hands.
“You’re impossible to take care of,” he murmured.
“You married me.”
“Yes.”
“And you enjoy it.”
Suho did not deny that.
After a minute, Sieun reached back, catching one of Suho’s wrists and tugging him around to face him properly. He stood, abandoning the chair entirely this time.
Without a word, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Suho’s neck.
The latter exhaled softly and folded himself around him in return.
They stood like that in the middle of the living room, neither of them counting the seconds. Sieun’s cheek rested against Suho’s chest; Suho’s chin settled lightly in his hair.
“Are you working today?” Sieun asked quietly.
“Later.”
Sieun tightened his hold briefly, as if punctuating the word.
It was an ordinary Saturday, that was the point.
After a while, they separated without comment. Sieun returned to his laptop; Suho opened his own on the couch. Silence settled again—but it was not empty. It was the kind built from comfort, from the knowledge that proximity did not require performance.
Midday arrived without announcement.
They ate something simple—leftover rice reheated in a pan, vegetables thrown in without much thought. Suho stood at the stove while Sieun leaned against the counter, stealing pieces before they were properly finished.
“You’re not even waiting,” Suho said, swatting lightly at his hand.
“It’s called quality control.”
“You’re impatient.”
Sieun leaned forward and kissed him quickly, catching him off guard.
“That’s also quality control.”
Suho blinked once, then turned slightly, pressing him back against the counter with one hand braced beside him. The movement was unhurried but decisive.
“And what’s the verdict?” he asked quietly.
Sieun’s lips curved. “Acceptable.”
Suho kissed him properly this time—slow, warm, lingering just long enough to make the air shift.
When he pulled back, Sieun’s fingers were still loosely curled in the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re burning the rice,” Sieun said softly.
Suho did not move immediately.
“Worth it.”
They laughed, easy and unselfconscious.
Lunch was eaten side by side on the couch, knees touching. At some point, Sieun rested his head against Suho’s shoulder again, and Suho adjusted automatically, angling his body to make the position more comfortable.
“Are we being particularly clingy today,” Suho asked mildly, “or is this standard?”
Sieun considered. “Standard.”
“Good.”
In the early afternoon, Sieun lay down fully, stretching out across the couch and dragging Suho with him by the wrist. There was barely enough room; one of Suho’s legs hung awkwardly over the edge.
“This is impractical Sieun-ah.” Suho noted.
“Be adaptable.”
Sieun shifted until he was half on top of him, cheek pressed against Suho’s collarbone. Suho slid a hand under the back of his sweater, fingers resting against warm skin.
They didn’t speak for several minutes and Sieun traced absent shapes over Suho’s chest, absent-minded, rhythmic.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
“Only slightly.”
Sieun smiled against him and shifted just enough to relieve the pressure on Suho’s leg. “There.” he said.
The afternoon passed like that—fragmented into small movements. A nap neither of them fully admitted to taking. A brief return to work. A shared glass of water passed back and forth without comment.
Once, while Sieun was folding laundry on the bed, Suho came up behind him and wrapped both arms around his waist again, resting his chin on his shoulder.
“You’re very attached today.” Sieun said, though he leaned back into him.
“You’re not objecting.”
“I’m observing.”
Suho pressed a kiss to the side of his neck and at that the other turned slightly in his arms, lifting one hand to cup his jaw.
“You don’t have to make it special,” Sieun said quietly.
“I’m not.”
He brushed his thumb lightly across Suho’s lower lip, then leaned in and kissed him—slow, steady, unhurried: just affection.
By late afternoon, the light had thinned into something softer, almost translucent. The apartment felt warmer than it had that morning, lived-in in a way that came not from objects but from movement — doors opened and closed, cushions displaced, a glass left on the table and retrieved later without comment.
Sieun stood near the entrance tying his shoes, shoulders slightly hunched in concentration. Suho watched from the kitchen doorway.
“Baby, do we actually need anything,” Suho asked, “or are we inventing an excuse to leave the house?”
Sieun straightened, slipping his coat on. “We need strawberries.”
“That’s very specific.”
“And cream.”
Suho’s mouth curved faintly. “Ah…Sieunnie…”
Sieun caught the look immediately. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I simply read your mind.”
Outside, the air was crisp but not biting. The city moved around them with its usual indifference — people carrying tote bags, someone arguing lightly into a phone, a bicycle cutting too close to the curb. It felt reassuringly ordinary.
They walked side by side at first without touching; then Suho slipped his hand into Sieun’s pocket instead of taking it outright, where their fingers intertwined, hidden in the warmth of fabric.
They didn’t speak much on the way, because they didn’t need to.
Inside the grocery store, fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead. The produce section was bright, almost aggressively so — rows of color stacked with methodical precision.
Sieun moved toward the strawberries immediately.
He crouched slightly, examining the cartons one by one, tilting them to inspect the fruit from different angles. His focus sharpened in a way Suho recognized — the same expression he wore when choosing books, when evaluating something small but important.
“These look good,” Sieun murmured.
Suho leaned beside him.
The strawberries were almost unnaturally red — glossy, full, seeds pale against the surface. They looked heavy with sweetness, as though the slightest pressure might split them open.
Sieun picked up one carton, then another, comparing.
“You’re judging them like they have moral character.” Suho observed.
“They do.”
“Based on?”
“Color. Density. Possible sweetness.”
Suho laughed quietly under his breath.
Sieun finally selected one and handed it to him. “These.”
Suho weighed it in his palm. “They’re ripe.”
“Exactly.”
For a moment neither of them moved away.
There had been a time, years ago, when he had learned — almost by accident — how much Sieun liked sweet things.
Not in some pivotal revelation, just an offhand remark, a passing complaint that most desserts weren’t sweet enough, that strawberries tasted better with cream because they deserved softness.
Suho had shown up the next day with a small container of strawberries and a cheap carton of whipped cream, awkward and slightly embarrassed.
Sieun had eaten almost all of them.
He still remembered the look on his face — surprised, pleased, trying not to show how pleased.
Now, standing in the produce aisle, Suho reached past him and added a second carton to their basket.
Sieun looked up. “Why two?”
“You’ll finish one.”
“I will not.”
“You will.”
Sieun rolled his eyes, but at that, Suho only smiled.
They moved on to the refrigerated section for cream. The cold air spilled outward as Suho opened the glass door. He scanned the options, then selected a small carton without hesitation.
“Full fat?” Sieun asked lightly.
“Obviously.”
“You’re indulgent.”
“You’re the one with the sweet tooth.”
Sieun didn’t deny it. Instead, he stepped closer, shoulder brushing against Suho’s arm as he closed the fridge door. The contact was brief but deliberate.
“Thank you,” he said quietly — not for the cream, not exactly.
Suho met his eyes.
“For what?”
Sieun shrugged one shoulder. “For remembering.”
Suho’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “I don’t forget things you love.”
They finished the rest of their shopping without urgency, but their basket remained light.
At checkout, Suho absentmindedly rested his hand at the small of Sieun’s back while they waited in line. His thumb moved in slow, unconscious strokes through the fabric of Sieun’s coat.
The walk home felt shorter: the sky had deepened into early evening blue, streetlights flickering on one by one; the bag of groceries swung gently from Suho’s hand; while Sieun carried the strawberries carefully, as though guarding something fragile.
Back inside, warmth enveloped them again.
Sieun set the strawberries on the kitchen counter and peeled off his coat, leaving it draped over a chair. Suho moved past him to unpack the rest, but paused when he felt fingers hook lightly into the back of his sweater.
He turned.
Sieun stepped closer, close enough that their foreheads almost touched.
“You didn’t have to buy two.” he said softly.
“I wanted to.”
Sieun studied him for a moment, then leaned in and kissed him slowly.
When they separated, he reached for the carton and opened it, inspecting the fruit again under the warmer kitchen light.
“They’re perfect.” he murmured.
Suho came up behind him, arms circling loosely around his waist.
“They are.” he agreed.
But he wasn’t looking at the strawberries.
Suho waited until Sieun had disappeared down the hallway before he allowed himself a small, private smile.
“Go change.” he had said lightly, nudging him toward the bedroom.
Suho rolled up the sleeves of his sweater and turned his attention to the strawberries. He washed them carefully under cool water, fingers deliberate, turning each one as though inspecting it for flaws. Droplets clung to their red surfaces, catching the kitchen light.
He dried them one by one, then, he selected a wide ceramic plate — the one with the faint crack along the rim that Sieun refused to throw away — and began arranging the strawberries in a loose spiral. Not perfectly symmetrical; he wasn’t aiming for artistry. But there was intention in the spacing, in the way he angled them so their color deepened against the white of the dish.
Then the cream.
He poured it into a small bowl, thick and pale, and whisked it gently by hand until it loosened slightly, until it held soft peaks. He tasted a bit from the spoon, considering, then added the faintest touch of sugar.
Not much, the fruit would do the rest.
After a moment’s hesitation, he reached into the cupboard for a small bar of dark chocolate.
He broke it carefully into pieces and set them in a glass bowl over a pot of simmering water. The chocolate softened slowly, edges collapsing inward, turning glossy. He stirred it with quiet patience, watching as it transformed into something smooth and molten.
When it was ready, he drizzled just a little over a few of the strawberries. Enough to make it feel indulgent without overwhelming the simplicity.
When he finished, he carried the plate and bowl into the living room, setting them on the low coffee table. He dimmed the lights slightly, just enough that the atmosphere shifted into something softer.
Then he reached for his phone, putting on their playlist, the one that had grown gradually, song by song, never announced as anything official, yet both of them knew what it was: the music that had filled quiet evenings, long drives, shared headphones on bus rides. The songs that had woven themselves into the background of their life.
He pressed play.
The first notes slipped into the room gently, almost unnoticed at first.
Suho sat on the floor, back resting against the couch, waiting.
The bedroom door opened down the hall.
Sieun stepped out barefoot, sleeves of a soft knit sweater pushed up to his forearms, hair slightly tousled from changing. He looked relaxed in a way that made Suho’s chest tighten faintly.
He took a few steps into the living room before stopping.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
He simply stood there, taking it in — not with surprise exactly, but with the understanding that this, too, was part of the language they had built together.
Suho tilted his head slightly. “You’re staring.”
Sieun’s lips curved slowly.
“You even melted chocolate.”
“Only a little.”
Sieun walked closer, lowering himself onto the floor across from him. Their knees brushed immediately. Then, he reached forward and picked up one of the strawberries drizzled lightly in chocolate. He dipped it once into the cream, then held it up toward Suho instead of himself.
“For you.” he said.
Suho leaned forward and took a bite, careful not to let the cream spill. The sweetness bloomed slowly — fruit first, then chocolate, then the soft richness of cream.
He swallowed, meeting Sieun’s gaze.
“Good?” he asked.
“Very.”
Sieun nodded once, satisfied, and then took another strawberry for himself.
They ate like that for a while — passing pieces back and forth, occasionally feeding one another, sometimes simply watching the other taste. Their knees remained pressed together. At some point, Sieun shifted closer, until their shoulders touched too.
The music shifted seamlessly into the next song.
Sieun leaned sideways, resting his head lightly against Suho’s shoulder.
“You didn’t have to,” he said softly.
“I wanted to.”
The room felt smaller now, warmer — music low, lights dim, the faint scent of chocolate still lingering in the air.
After a while, Sieun turned slightly, climbing closer until he was half in Suho’s space. He opened his arms automatically, drawing him in and Sieun settled against his chest, one leg draped loosely over his, while Suho brushed his fingers slowly through the other’s hair.
The playlist shifted.
A breath of guitar threaded through the room — soft, suspended, almost fragile.
Suho felt it before he consciously registered it.
Sweet by Cigarettes After Sex.
The opening notes seemed to dissolve into the dim light, into the faint scent of chocolate still lingering in the air. The apartment did not grow louder or darker or more dramatic; instead, everything softened. Edges blurred. Time stretched thin.
Sieun stilled mid-reach: his fingers hovered above the plate before lowering slowly, deliberately. He lifted his eyes to Suho, and something there — something tender and knowing — curved into a small smile.
“You did that on purpose,” he said quietly.
Suho tilted his head, feigning innocence. “It came up.”
“It never ‘comes up.’ You always put it.”
Suho’s lips twitched, but he didn’t deny it.
The vocals entered — low, intimate, almost whispered.
Sieun exhaled through his nose, a breath that was nearly a laugh but not quite. The sound seemed to settle between them, woven into the melody.
He picked up a strawberry, turning it slowly between his fingers. Its surface gleamed in the low light, impossibly red. He dipped it into the cream with exaggerated care, letting the white gather thickly along one side.
When he lifted it, he did not bring it to his own mouth.
He leaned forward instead, again.
“For you.” he murmured.
Suho’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary before he leaned in. His lips brushed the tips of Sieun’s fingers as he bit into the fruit, and the contact — fleeting, warm — sent a subtle shiver up Sieun’s arm.
The sweetness unfolded slowly on Suho’s tongue.
He swallowed, still looking at him, and Sieun’s expression softened further, the faintest flush rising along his cheekbones.
The song drifted on.
You look so pretty and I love this view…
Suho let out a quiet breath — almost a hum — and without fully realizing it, he began to sing along under his breath, voice low and unpolished but steady.
“You look so pretty and I love this view…”
He didn’t sing loudly. The words were for the space between them.
Sieun’s eyes flickered at that — something vulnerable passing through them.
“You’re ridiculous.” Sieun said gently.
Suho shook his head slightly. “It’s true…”
He reached for a strawberry this time — one drizzled lightly with chocolate — and dipped it into the cream with slow precision.
He held it up to Sieun’s mouth.
Sieun hesitated only a second before leaning in: he took the strawberry slowly, lips closing around it, teeth breaking the surface with a quiet sound that seemed amplified in the hush of the song. A trace of cream caught at the corner of his mouth.
Suho noticed immediately.
His thumb lifted without thinking, brushing gently against the edge of Sieun’s lip. The pad of his finger lingered there before sweeping the cream away.
“But it’s because I am deeply in love with you.” he said, eventually.
The chorus rose, soft but fuller now.
It’s so sweet, knowing that you love me…
The lyric seemed to hover in the air between them.
It was Sieun who leaned forward first.
The kiss was not abrupt: it began as a brush — lips touching softly, tasting faintly of strawberry and cream. Then it deepened, slowly, like the song itself gathering weight. Suho’s hand slid from Sieun’s mouth to the side of his face, fingers threading gently into his hair.
Sieun’s hand found Suho’s collar, fisting lightly in the fabric as though to anchor him closer.
The world outside the room dissolved into background noise.
The kiss lengthened, Suho tilted his head slightly, deepening the contact, and Sieun answered instinctively, pressing closer until their knees knocked and the plate shifted faintly on the table.
Neither cared.
The music swelled again.
It’s so sweet…
Suho broke the kiss only to breathe, forehead resting against Sieun’s. Their noses brushed lightly.
He let out a soft, almost disbelieving exhale.
“You are.” he murmured.
Sieun’s brows knit slightly. “I am what?”
“Sweet.”
A faint laugh escaped him, embarrassed and fond all at once. “You’re the one who bought two cartons.”
“You’ll finish them.” Suho replied gently.
Sieun shook his head, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer — climbing into Suho’s space fully this time, settling half against his chest. Suho’s arms came around him automatically, one hand sliding along his back, the other resting at his waist.
They stayed like that as the song continued, bodies aligned easily, breathing gradually syncing.
After a moment, Suho began humming again — not the chorus this time, but softer, almost absent-minded.
“I would gladly break it… I would gladly break my heart for you…”
His voice was barely more than air.
Sieun felt it against his skin more than he heard it.
He tilted his head up, eyes searching Suho’s face.
“You don’t have to break anything.” Sieun whispered.
Suho smiled faintly and leaned down, pressing another kiss to his mouth.
The strawberries sat half-eaten on the plate beside them. The cream had begun to melt slightly at the edges. The chocolate had cooled into thin glossy ribbons.
And as the final notes of the song lingered in the air, Sieun didn’t lift his head immediately. His nose brushed lightly against the side of Suho’s throat, breath warm against his skin. One of his hands had slipped beneath the hem of Suho’s sweater at some point, palm resting flat against his stomach as if claiming the warmth there.
Suho’s fingers moved slowly through his hair, where he traced the same path again and again — from temple to nape, from nape to temple — until Sieun’s body grew heavier against him.
“You’re quiet.” Suho murmured softly.
Sieun hummed faintly. “Listening.”
“To what? The song ended.”
“To you, I can feel your heartbeat.”
Suho smiled, though Sieun couldn’t see it.
Suho adjusted slightly, sliding one hand up Sieun’s back and pressing his palm there, firm and steady. He could feel the slow rise and fall beneath his touch.
“You’re warm.” Sieun whispered.
“So are you.”
“No,” he insisted softly, tightening his hold. “You’re warmer.”
The room felt smaller now. The plate of strawberries had been forgotten entirely.
Another song had begun quietly in the background, but neither of them paid attention to it.
Suho tilted his head down, brushing his lips against Sieun’s hair. “Did you like them?” he asked.
“The strawberries?”
“Yes.”
Sieun shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at him. There was still a faint sheen of sweetness on his lips.
“They’re perfect,.” he said.
Then, after a second: “You’re worse.”
Suho blinked. “Worse?”
“Sweet.” Sieun clarified, voice barely above a whisper.
Something in Suho’s chest tightened. So he cupped Sieun’s face gently, thumb brushing along his cheekbone.
“Come here.” he murmured.
Sieun frowned faintly. “I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
Sieun huffed a quiet laugh but obeyed, climbing fully into his lap. His knees settled on either side of Suho’s hips, sweater bunching slightly at his waist. The movement wasn’t dramatic or charged — it was natural, practiced.
Suho’s hands settled instinctively at his waist.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other, but it was Suho who leaned first this time: the kiss was softer than before, his lips moved against Sieun’s with patience, as if memorizing the shape again.
Sieun answered with equal gentleness, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Suho’s neck. His thumb traced the fine hairs there, sending a subtle shiver down Suho’s spine.
When they parted, it wasn’t because they needed to.
It was because they were smiling.
Sieun rested his forehead against his, their noses brushing lightly. “I can’t believe we almost didn’t buy chocolate.” he murmured.
Suho laughed under his breath. “That would have been tragic.”
There was a pause. Then Sieun’s fingers slipped down to intertwine with Suho’s. He lifted their joined hands slightly, examining the quiet fit of them.
“We didn’t do anything extraordinary.” he said softly.
“No.”
“And it’s still my favorite.”
Suho’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. “That’s because it’s us.”
Sieun’s eyes flickered, tender and certain.
He leaned down once more — not for a long kiss this time, but a small one.
“Next year,” Sieun murmured sleepily, “we’re buying three cartons.”
Suho smiled into his hair. “Of course we are.”