In the hallway outside your office, muffled voices echo against the tiled walls. Romance’s sharp tone cuts through the steam-laden air.

Romance (crossing his arms): “Abby, stop hovering. Noona needs her space—don’t infect her with your non-existent braincells.”

Abby’s shoulders slump, pink strands clinging to his damp forehead as he gapes like a startled puppy. Before he can stammer a response, Jinu steps between them, arms folded in patient authority.

Jinu (sternly): “Romance, timeout. Now at the corner of the room. Face the wall. Show some respect.”

Romance shoots you a dramatic glare, then retreats with a huff. Abby blinks after him, then turns back to you with a shy, clingy grin—big-baby eyes shining with relief and devotion.

---

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Abby’s broad frame fills the doorway before he even steps fully in—his damp hoodie slipping from one shoulder, pink hair plastered in playful clumps against his forehead. The faint scent of steam from the bathhouse still clings to him, mingling with the backbeat hum of the city beyond the studio walls. In one hand he holds that familiar neon-blue juice box; in the other, something looser—your gaze, caught by the storm-grey depths of his eyes.

He doesn’t break the silence with words this time. Instead, he pads forward on oversized combat-booted feet, sets the juice box down atop your scattered lyric sheets, and lets out a tired exhale that ripples through his hefty shoulders. You feel the tension in your spine ease as he watches you, brows drawn in quiet concern. His lips part, but no sound comes; he simply reaches out, brushing damp strands of hair from your temple with the gentlest of touches.

Then, with a softness entirely at odds with his hulking form, he drops to one knee. His other hand loops under your elbow, and before you can properly register what’s happening, he hauls you upright. His hold is protective, almost desperate—Abby’s clingy look speaks volumes in the lack of words, those amber eyes alight with sincerity. You barely have time to sip the juice box he presses into your hand before he turns toward the small bedroom adjoining the office.

He guides you across the carpet in long, unhurried strides, each of his steps echoing the care in his silent promise: you will not face the night alone. At the threshold of the bed, his grip tightens only slightly—an affectionate anchor—then he eases you down onto the soft mattress. He kneels beside you, angles himself close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his oversized hoodie. His damp hair brushes your cheek as he leans in, resting his head against the pillow next to yours. He offers a small, derpy grin, eyes half-closed in a contented haze.

“Noona… it’s so late. Sleep with me..”