(no) Strings Attached

Almost There

"You always touch me like you already know what I need," Wooyoung whispered, breath trembling against his jaw.

San didn't answer. He just held him closer. Pressed his mouth to Wooyoung's collarbone and breathed him in.

Wooyoung's shirt came off next. Then San's. Their chests touched—bare, burning—and everything softened.

Wooyoung threaded his fingers through San's hair, grounding himself in it. "You don't have to be gentle," he murmured.

San pulled back just far enough to look at him. "But I want to be."

That made Wooyoung's breath catch for the nth time.

Because fuck, he knew that voice. Knew that look.

This wasn't San trying to win him back or prove a point. This was San letting himself feel.

Wooyoung nodded slowly. He guided San's hand to the waistband of his sweatpants. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

And they gave in.

Not because they couldn't resist—but because they chose to. Because the ache in their bodies had finally caught up to the ache in their hearts.

San moved with care but not hesitation—pressing Wooyoung back against the couch cushions, hands and mouth worshipping him like this was sacred. Like every inch of skin was a word unspoken, a promise made late but still true.

Wooyoung arched beneath him, thighs trembling, mouth parted in something between a gasp and a sob. "You don't know how much I missed this," he choked. "Missed you."

"I do," San murmured against his chest. "God, I do."

Their hips moved in quiet sync, the kind of rhythm born from memory and years of want left untouched. It wasn't frenzied. It wasn't polished. It was raw—honest in all the ways their words hadn't always been.

San mouthed along Wooyoung's shoulder, his breath catching when Wooyoung pulled him closer by the waist, legs wrapped loosely around him now, drawing him in with nothing but skin and longing. Their eyes met, hazy and open. There wasn't a single wall left standing.

"I'm scared," Wooyoung whispered, voice cracking just a little.

San didn't flinch. He kissed the space between Wooyoung's brows, then rested their foreheads together.

"Me too," he admitted. "But not enough to let go."

That was the only permission they needed.

It wasn't perfect—not the way their bodies fit, or the quiet stumbles in rhythm, or the way Wooyoung's breath hitched from nerves instead of just pleasure. But they didn't pull away. Didn't cover it up with cocky grins or cheap jokes the way they used to.

Every sound was real.

Every shift, every tremble, every gasp.

San took his time to treasure this moment for once. No, not that he didn't before. But then he used to lie to himself that it wasn't anything special to him. Not today, though. Not again.

Never again.

With a deep breath, he snuck a hand under Wooyoung's chin and lifted his head. He initiated the heated eye contact, his other hand that supported his weight on the elbow tangled in the soft mop of brown.

Wooyoung's whole expression softened to something vulnerable for a split moment, his fingers tightening the hold they fisted around San's waistband.

"I love you, Woo. I really do and I'm done playing." The older whispered so lowly, as if afraid he'd wake up from a dream if he was louder.