Shared Spaces & Hidden Desires • Seungcheol

90 - Nest

We chatted a bit longer—updates about home, questions about food and flights and what we were going to do with the rest of our break. Eventually, everyone said goodbye with a mix of warmth and playfulness.

"Take care of each other," her mom said.

"Always," we both answered in unison.

The call ended, and the room went quiet again. We both stared at the ceiling for a beat before she turned her head toward me.

"I miss them."

"You're lucky my parents like you more than me."

She grinned. "I mean, I am the better half."

"No argument there," I said, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

She shifted to rest her head on my chest, the popcorn bowl now abandoned on the coffee table. I wrapped an arm around her, and we sank deeper into the couch, the world outside still paused.

"This feels weird," she murmured.

"What do you mean?"

"Like... not quite vacation, not quite normal life. Just... the soft part in the middle."

I looked down at her, brushing her hair away from her face.

"I think that's where I always want to be with you," I whispered. "In the soft middle. Where it's quiet. And we can just... be."

She smiled without opening her eyes.

"Then let's stay here a little longer."

And we did.

YN

The days blurred in the most beautiful way.

It was like time didn't follow the usual rules anymore. There were no alarms, no assignments, no urgent to-do lists. Just sunlight slipping through the blinds, the rustle of sheets, his arms still warm around me when I woke up.

Every morning started slow—tangled in each other, faces still soft from sleep, kisses shared in whispers and touches rather than words.

Sometimes we stayed in bed well past noon, just talking, just... existing. My fingers tracing the slope of his collarbone. His lips pressed to the inside of my wrist like a habit.

Other days, we ventured out.

One afternoon we packed a small bag and drove to a trail. He held my hand the entire way, even on the uphill. I teased him about being out of breath halfway through, and he just grinned, saying, "Can't help it. You still take the air right out of me."

Another day, we rode our bikes to a little lakeside café we used to love. He kissed me over a shared slice of lemon pie and held my face in his hands like he needed to relearn it.

But mostly—we were home.

Home in the truest sense of the word. Wrapped in a cocoon of blankets on the couch. Making out in the kitchen. Listening to old records in the living room while the sun went down.

And we touched. Always.

Not just in the way that sparks desire—though there was plenty of that too, slow and sweet and insatiable—but in the way that says, I'm here. You're mine. Still.

He'd press soft kisses to my back while I stood at the sink, wrap his arms around my waist and nuzzle into my neck like he couldn't get enough. I'd curl into his lap with a book, only to abandon it halfway because his fingers would start tracing circles on my thigh and suddenly reading didn't matter anymore.