It's winter. You duck past a few of Taehyung's men, who grasp large and heavy cardboard boxes of your belongings. You carry a small box yourself. But it's the smallest one there. It's somewhat annoying actually—or rather, embarrassing. They refuse to let you carry anything over the weight of one grocery bag.
You barely take two steps into the new penthouse before a black-capped mover swoops in front of you, snatching the box swiftly and lightly from your hands, head bowed in the deepest respects. Your jaw drops.
"Ms. Kim, don't worry about that. I got it."
"No, but..."
The men move efficiently around you, heading mechanically up the polished white staircase, buzzing back and forth between one another. You're left standing where you are, just inside the doorway. Feeling absolutely useless.
You finally notice your husband on the far side of the room. He looks half-asleep, the eyelids of his slim almond eyes almost completely shielding his irises. You shoot a sharp stare over at him. You frown, as he simply stands there dumbly before you and the troop of specially hired movers. Taehyung's hands are snug in his woolly jacket pockets, his expression sullen, posture idle. Upon feeling your heated stare, his eyes flick over to you. Only then does he react; he raises his eyebrows slowly, eyes widening with question. You can tell he's tired because of his utterly defeated drainage of energy, in even this small gesture.
He manoeuvres sluggishly between men loading in boxes and luggage, finally stepping up on your right.
"What? What is it?" He asks. You knew it—he hadn't even noticed what was happening.
"Tell them I can handle my own things," you order beneath your breath. "Half of my stuff is in arm-length boxes. And there's only six of them! The rest is yours!"
"I thought the rest is for the rest of the place," he rebuts smoothly. He slides a large, cool hand around your coated waist and pulls you closer to him. His voice—thick with sleep—smiles teasingly. "Right, dear?"
"Tell them I want to move my own books and clothes," you say, ignoring the joke. "They're going to mess up the arrangement."
"Baby, it's fine. Just let them handle it."
"Don't baby me—Baby? Really?" The truth is, you kind of like it. (But you would never tell him that.)
"Whoa there! Baby!" he jokes. The whisper caresses your ear. "Don't worry. They're paid to do this. It'll only take another ten minutes. And don't worry about organisation stuff, there are people for that too."
"There are?"
"Mhm."
You sulk, "I thought I was your wife."
"You are my wife!" He persists, breathing his words into your hair. He presses a kiss into your temple and you smile despite yourself. "It's just, this isn't beyond affordability. It's still pretty reasonable, you know. And... well, it's stupid to go lugging things around, getting cramps in our backs, if there's an alternative."
"Stupid?"
"Precisely."
You scoff a faint, mocking laugh, the sound hissing into the cold air in front of you. Behind, nearly all space is absolved between two warm bodies. His hand is still around your waist, now rubbing you gently, slowly—as if lost in thought with the mesmerising circular motions. You lay your cheek quietly against his shoulder, "You're stupid."
"Fine then. I'm stupid," he admits promptly . The tiny smile on your mouth cracks into an grin as you suppress laughter. His cheekbones lift into a smile above you upon hearing you laugh. "Okay... okay. How about we tip them? If it makes you feel better."
"I guess that's the best we can do, since I'm married to you."
"Yeah, I guess so."
"I'll do the tipping, okay? You give me the card. Right?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever, whatever. My card."
"Thank you, baby."
"Your welcome, baby," he whispers back.
The last thing you feel before you drift to sleep—wedged comfortably between the warmth of his smooth collarbone and flushed cheek, pillowed by his woolly jacket—is a second kiss on your hair. His lips are gentle. And then a third onto the cold skin of your forehead, teasing you now. And then a fourth.