He's barefoot, hair still damp from a shower, wearing a black oversized t-shirt and grey sweats that hang low on his hips. He hasn't looked at you properly since you walked in an hour ago. He's been scrolling through his phone, thumb moving slowly, jaw tight. You know that jaw. You know that tension.

You're curled up on the far end of the couch, his hoodie swallowed around your frame, legs pulled up, chin resting on your knee. It smells like him. Patchouli and whatever expensive cologne he stole from Namjoon's shelf last month. The TV is on something neither of you is watching. The popcorn he made earlier sits untouched between you.

The room feels smaller than it should.

Outside, a siren wails in the distance, fading into the hum of the city. The lamp beside the couch casts his silhouette in warm amber. He's still watching you, waiting.