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They’d been at it all day.
Not loud — not quite — but biting. Constant. Ni-ki had a rhythm to it: a well-timed roll of the eyes, a snarky under-the-breath comment just sharp enough to sting. He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to.
And Sunghoon, for the most part, let it go.
The first time was over breakfast.
“You gonna hog the mirror all morning or is that just your new role?”
Sunghoon didn’t respond. He was tired. He hadn’t slept well. He just kept brushing his hair, pretending Ni-ki’s reflection wasn’t glaring at him in the glass.
The second time was worse — when Sunghoon tried to give a casual reminder about cleaning up after lunch, and Ni-ki responded without even looking up from his phone.
“Wow. Thanks, Dad.”
Jay blinked. Jake gave a quiet laugh that faded quick.
Sunghoon stared at him for a beat, then turned and left the room.
By mid-afternoon, the air between them was thick.
Ni-ki was pushing buttons. And Sunghoon — who usually let him — wasn’t giving him what he wanted. He wasn’t rising to it. He wasn’t reacting.
He was holding back, lips tight, eyes sharper than usual.
That only made Ni-ki worse.
The others were all in the living room by the time it happened — sprawled across the floor, scrolling, half-watching some show no one cared about. The sunlight through the windows made the whole place feel deceptively calm.
Ni-ki was standing near the counter, arms crossed, and Sunghoon was sitting on the edge of the armchair, quiet, scrolling his phone.
“Maybe if you didn’t care so much about looking perfect all the time,” Ni-ki muttered just loud enough, “you’d be less boring.”
The room shifted.
Not all the way silent — but something changed. Jake looked up. Sunoo froze halfway through peeling an orange.
Sunghoon didn’t even blink at first. He just set his phone down on the armrest, deliberately slow. Looked up at Ni-ki like he was seeing him for the first time all day.
“You’ve always had a lot to say when you’re insecure.”
There was no bite in his tone. No raised voice. Just... cold truth, delivered without even a blink.
Ni-ki’s chest seized with heat.
He stepped forward before he could think better of it and shoved Sunghoon hard, both palms flat against his chest.
Sunghoon stumbled back a step.
Not far. But far enough.
The silence after that wasn’t awkward.
It was dangerous.
No one moved.
And then — Sunghoon did.
He surged forward.
No yelling, no theatrics — just fast, calm, final.
His hand locked around Ni-ki’s waist, the other bracing around the back of his thigh. There was a shift of weight, a step, a twist of momentum —
Ni-ki’s back hit the carpet hard.
His breath caught in his throat, more from shock than pain. His shoulder ached — but it was the embarrassment that hit first, a hot spike through his chest.
He writhed under Sunghoon’s grip, tried to shove at his arms, twist his hips, anything — but Sunghoon had him pinned perfectly, knees planted, weight low and controlled like he’d done this a hundred times before.
“Get off me,” Ni-ki snapped, voice tight.
The room didn’t react the way he thought it would.
Jay didn’t jump up. Jake didn’t run over.
Sunoo was sitting on the edge of the couch with his jaw clenched, looking somewhere near the floor, eyes not meeting anyone’s.
“Guys, come on,” Heeseung finally muttered, rubbing a hand down his face without even looking up. “We’re not doing this today.”
“Seriously,” Jungwon added, tone flat, tired. “Take it to your room or drop it.”
It stung more than yelling would’ve.
Like no one was even shocked. Like they were just disappointed.
Ni-ki gave one more shove, but it was weaker this time, frustrated and sloppy. Sunghoon didn’t even flinch.
He just looked down at him — not angry, not smug, just... done.
Then he sighed.
Pulled back.
And stood.
No words. No dramatic exit.
He just rose, dusted his hands off on his sweats, and turned away like Ni-ki was nothing more than a hassle.
Ni-ki stayed on the ground.
Chest heaving. Face burning.
No one said anything else.
Jake quietly turned the volume back up on the TV like that would somehow smooth things over.
Ni-ki stared at the ceiling, heart pounding behind his ribs, the pressure building behind his eyes.
He thought pushing first would make him feel powerful.
Instead, he felt like a kid who’d lost control of his own mouth.
And now everyone had seen it.
Everyone had seen Sunghoon win — calm, unbothered — while Ni-ki was the one still on the ground, breathing like it was a sprint and not a single shove.
He hated this feeling.
Hated how quiet the room was.
Hated the way his arms trembled, not from fear — but from humiliation.
And worst of all?
Sunghoon didn’t even look back.
The next morning felt quieter than usual.
Ni-ki shuffled into the kitchen with a sweatshirt thrown halfway on, sleeves dragging, hair still messy from sleep. His body was sore in places he didn’t expect — maybe from the fall, maybe from the shame that had sat so stiff in his chest all night he could barely breathe. He thought maybe, just maybe, things would ease in the daylight. That maybe Sunghoon would look at him and roll his eyes or make some dry comment and they’d slip back into something familiar. But Sunghoon was already there, leaned back against the counter with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other, gaze locked on the screen like nothing outside it mattered.
Ni-ki hesitated. Then moved toward the fridge like normal, pretending not to notice the way Sunghoon didn’t even glance his way. He reached for the handle and muttered, “Morning,” voice soft, trying to sound casual but sounding more like guilt.
Sunghoon didn’t look up. Just hummed — a low, distracted noise that barely registered as acknowledgment. Ni-ki clenched his jaw. That hurt more than if Sunghoon had snapped. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was punishment.
The others moved around like they were walking on thin glass, giving wide space to both of them. No one brought it up. No one had to.
Later, when Ni-ki was on his way down the hall, a pile of laundry clutched in his arms, Jay stepped out from his room and blocked the path without saying a word. Ni-ki blinked up at him, tired and bracing for more. “What?” he muttered.
Jay’s voice was low, even. “You need to pull it together.”
Ni-ki frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jay didn’t move. “It means we’re not babysitters. It means you don’t get to start something, shove someone, act out in front of everyone, and then sulk like you’re the one who got hurt.”
The words hit hard, not because they were loud, but because they were right. Ni-ki hated that. He hated the dull ache that sat behind his ribs and the way Jay wasn’t even mad — just fed up.
“I didn’t mean—” he started, voice tight.
“I don’t care,” Jay cut him off. “Meaning it doesn’t matter. You did it.”
Ni-ki couldn’t meet his eyes.
Jay didn’t let up. “Sunghoon’s not saying anything, but that doesn’t mean he’s fine. You know how he is. He’s quiet when he’s angry. You humiliated him in front of everyone, and now he’s pretending you don’t exist. That’s not forgiveness. That’s him drawing a line.”
There was a pause, then Jay stepped back. “Fix it. Or don’t. But stop making it our problem.”
He walked away, leaving Ni-ki standing alone in the hallway with laundry crumpled in his arms and a bitter taste in his mouth.
He didn’t go back to the kitchen. Didn’t try to say anything else. He just turned, quietly, and went to his room. Closed the door behind him like the click could somehow muffle the weight in his chest.
Back in the kitchen, Sunghoon still hadn’t moved. He was leaning against the counter with the same mug, same phone, same steady silence. His thumb hadn’t scrolled in minutes. His jaw was locked tight.
He wasn’t ignoring Ni-ki to forget. He was ignoring him to remember exactly why he was angry.
Ni-ki waited until the others were gone — schedules, meetings, studio time, whatever — and the dorm felt still again, empty in that strange way only midafternoon quiet can feel. It had taken him all morning to work up to it. He’d paced his room twice, changed hoodies three times, stared at his phone screen with nothing typed out.
Eventually, he wandered back into the kitchen.
Sunghoon was there. Of course he was. Same posture, same phone. Like time had frozen and only Ni-ki had changed.
He stood there for a second, pretending to be looking for something in the fridge, then the cupboard, then back again. Just long enough to make his presence known. Long enough to convince himself that maybe this was just a bad dream and Sunghoon would smirk at him any second and say something dumb like you looked ugly yesterday, by the way, and it’d be fine again.
It didn’t happen.
So Ni-ki drifted closer, hesitantly, like approaching a ledge. He stopped a step away from Sunghoon, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.
“I didn’t mean to push you like that,” he said quietly.
Sunghoon didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink. He just kept scrolling through something on his phone, lips pressed into a faint line. The only sound was the soft buzz of the fridge behind them and the faint creak of the floor beneath Ni-ki’s socks.
“I was being stupid,” Ni-ki tried again, voice lower now. “I know I was.”
Still nothing.
Ni-ki’s throat felt tight. He swallowed. “Sunghoon.”
A beat. Then a faint hum. Not a word. Not even a real sound of acknowledgment — just that automatic mm people give when they want you to think they’re listening without offering anything in return.
Ni-ki looked up at him, waiting. Hoping for a glance. A reaction. Something.
Instead, Sunghoon just shifted his weight slightly and — without looking — slipped an arm around Ni-ki’s waist.
It was a casual movement. Thoughtless. The kind of thing he might do if he were bored or tired or mildly interested. His eyes didn’t leave the screen. His thumb kept moving. His body barely adjusted to the contact. But his arm stayed firm, warm across Ni-ki’s lower back, pulling him just slightly in.
Ni-ki didn’t know what to do with that.
Didn’t know if it was forgiveness or just habit.
Didn’t know if it was comfort or control.
He let himself lean in a little, standing there half-tucked under Sunghoon’s arm like he used to, but now it felt different. The weight of the arm was grounding, sure, but the silence was louder than anything else.
“You’re still mad,” Ni-ki murmured, almost like he was admitting it to himself.
Sunghoon gave another vague hum, then finally took a sip from his mug. Still no glance. Still no words.
And that was worse than yelling. Worse than fighting.
Because this was Sunghoon’s version of a wall. Not cold, not mean — just unreachable.
And Ni-ki had no idea how to climb it.
Ni-ki stayed there for a while, half held, half ignored.
Sunghoon’s arm stayed around him, warm and secure like muscle memory, but it never tightened. Never adjusted. It was just there — and Ni-ki was getting tired of pretending that counted for something.
He shifted a little in the hold, head tilting up, eyes flicking over to Sunghoon’s face. Still unreadable. Still watching his phone like it mattered more than anything Ni-ki had to say.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Ni-ki mumbled, his voice catching at the edges. “I was just... tired, and you kept going, and I snapped. You do that too sometimes.”
That got him nothing.
Ni-ki’s throat tightened, heat pricking behind his eyes. He hated how quiet Sunghoon could be. How sharp silence could feel when it was purposeful. So he bit the inside of his cheek, then let out a shallow breath. “You’re being dramatic.”
Sunghoon’s eyes flicked up.
Just a flick. But Ni-ki felt it like a warning shot.
Then — as if in slow motion — Sunghoon’s head tilted slightly to the side, phone still in hand, his brow lifting just barely. The expression wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even angry. But it was all muscle and judgment and quiet disbelief.
Ni-ki froze. He could see the shift in Sunghoon’s eyes, the tension curling at the corner of his jaw. He’d said it wrong — tried to tease his way out, like he sometimes could, and it landed with a thud instead of a laugh.
Sunghoon raised the mug to his lips, took a slow sip, then finally set his phone down on the counter.
He didn’t speak. Not yet.
But the pause was louder than any sentence, and Ni-ki suddenly felt very small standing there, back against the counter, wrapped in an arm that didn’t feel like safety anymore.
It felt like being held still.
Ni-ki’s breath caught.
The look Sunghoon gave him wasn’t explosive — it wasn’t even angry on the surface — but it was cold. Icy in the way that meant you’re about to hear exactly what I’ve been keeping to myself. And that terrified Ni-ki more than shouting ever could.
He shifted on his feet, body tensing slightly, and without even thinking, he started to pull away from Sunghoon’s hold. Just a small step back, barely more than a lean — but the arm around his waist didn’t move.
It tightened.
Not harsh, not violent — just firm. A quiet squeeze of muscle that said don’t move.
Ni-ki stilled immediately.
And that’s when Sunghoon finally spoke.
His voice was low and perfectly calm — too calm.
“Dramatic?” he repeated, like he was testing the word, turning it over between his teeth. His eyes dropped briefly to Ni-ki’s mouth, then back up again, sharp and unreadable. “You shoved me. In front of everyone. You said things you knew would get under my skin, and when I didn’t blow up the way you wanted, you pushed harder.”
Ni-ki’s chest rose and fell faster. He tried to say something, but Sunghoon didn’t pause for it.
“And now you’re standing here, acting like slipping back under my arm is enough to undo all of it. Like I’m just supposed to hold you and forget that you made a fool out of me.”
Ni-ki flinched.
“I’m not mad,” Sunghoon said, and the lie was so cleanly spoken it almost passed. But then he kept going, and the truth was in every syllable. “I’m disappointed. And I’m tired. Of you pushing to see how far I’ll bend, then pouting when something finally snaps back.”
The arm around Ni-ki stayed right where it was — unmoving, a quiet weight against his waist.
“And for the record,” Sunghoon added, his voice dropping just slightly, “if you ever try that again in front of the others—” his brow lifted, just a millimeter, “—you won’t like how I react next time.”
Ni-ki’s heart thudded in his chest. He couldn’t tell if it was fear or guilt or something more complicated, something darker and hotter that curled low in his stomach. He hated that Sunghoon could make him feel so small with just a voice and a stare. He hated that part of him didn’t want to pull away again.
He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
And Sunghoon finally — finally — let go.
The warmth left his waist, and Ni-ki felt it like cold air rushing in.
Sunghoon picked up his mug again, took a slow sip, and went back to his phone like nothing had happened.
Ni-ki stayed frozen for a second, pulse loud in his ears. The absence of Sunghoon’s arm felt colder than it should have. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to sting, then exhaled and stepped a little closer again, unsure if he was being brave or just pathetic.
“I didn’t mean any of it like that,” he said, words stumbling out too fast. “I wasn’t trying to humiliate you, okay? I was pissed, and I just—said things I didn’t think through. You always act like you’re above everything, and I guess I just… snapped.”
Sunghoon didn’t look up. His eyes flicked to Ni-ki for a second, brows barely twitching in response, then dropped right back to his phone. Still scrolling. Still unreadable.
Ni-ki felt heat rise to his cheeks — frustration, shame, something in between. “You’re just gonna ignore me now?”
No answer.
Instead, Sunghoon reached out lazily and tugged Ni-ki back into his side again with one hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like they weren’t in the middle of something raw and ugly. His fingers toyed with the edge of Ni-ki’s hoodie — slow, thoughtless tugs, brushing over the fabric like he wasn’t really thinking about it. Just something to do with his hands.
It wasn’t affection. It was possession. Or maybe boredom.
Ni-ki tried again, softer this time. “I get it, okay? I shouldn’t have said that stuff. I know I cross the line sometimes. I just didn’t think you’d really…” he trailed off, watching Sunghoon’s eyes still locked to the screen, his thumb idly stroking at the inside seam of Ni-ki’s hoodie now. Not even looking at what he was doing.
“Are you even listening?”
Sunghoon hummed — that same empty sound from before. No anger in it. No reassurance either. Just acknowledgment without investment.
Ni-ki blinked rapidly, chest tightening. “You’re mad at me, but you’re still touching me like this?”
Sunghoon looked up at him slowly, one eyebrow lifting again, expression unreadable. “You’re here,” he said, tone flat. “And you’re not running off. I figured that meant you still wanted me to.”
Ni-ki didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to fight someone who could keep him this close while pushing him so far away.
He stayed pressed against Sunghoon’s side, not sure if he should be grateful for the contact or disgusted by how desperate he was for it.
Sunghoon’s fingers kept playing with the fabric at his waist. Light. Absent. Like Ni-ki was background noise now.
And Ni-ki didn’t know what hurt more — the cold shoulder, or the warmth that came with it.
“You don’t even care that I’m trying, do you?” he asked, voice thin with disbelief.
Sunghoon didn’t respond — not really. Just another hum, eyes flicking from his phone back to the screen. His hand rested lightly on Ni-ki’s hip now, thumb tapping out some silent rhythm, a slow and easy contrast to the storm building just inches away in Ni-ki’s chest.
“You’re mad but you won’t even fight with me,” Ni-ki said, stepping back just enough to face him, though Sunghoon didn’t really let go. “You just—sit there and act like I’m annoying you. Like I’m some... dumb kid trying to get your attention.”
That made Sunghoon glance at him.
Just briefly.
And that made it worse. The way he looked at Ni-ki like he was fragile glass — something not worth throwing but too easy to crack if pressed the wrong way.
Ni-ki’s hands clenched.
“I came to talk. I came to fix this. And you’re just…” His voice broke, not quite crying, but right on the edge. “You’re touching me like everything’s fine and looking at me like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
Sunghoon didn’t move, didn’t shift — just blinked once and let out a quiet sigh. Not irritated. Not even exasperated. Just tired.
Ni-ki’s chest twisted. “Say something. Yell at me. Tell me to leave. Just—do something.”
Still nothing.
Ni-ki shoved at his chest.
Not hard. Just enough to shake him a little. Enough to break the weightless, easy contact Sunghoon kept using like a leash.
Sunghoon didn’t move back. Didn’t even blink.
Ni-ki’s voice cracked. “I said I’m sorry.”
Silence. Except the faint buzz of the phone in Sunghoon’s hand and the low sound of his thumb still scrolling.
Ni-ki felt something hot behind his eyes, stomach churning. “God, you’re such an asshole.”
And this time — this time — Sunghoon finally looked up and held his gaze.
Not angry. Not smug.
Just quiet. Flat. A little tired.
And maybe, somewhere deep under that stillness, a flicker of something sharper.
But he didn’t say a word.
And Ni-ki had no idea whether to scream or just walk out.
Ni-ki shoved him again, harder this time, hands flat against Sunghoon’s chest with no warning.
Sunghoon stumbled back a step—not because he had to, but because he let himself—and stared at Ni-ki like he was trying to make sure he’d really done it.
The air between them tightened.
“You think this is a good idea?” Sunghoon asked, voice quiet but not soft. Just controlled.
Ni-ki’s jaw clenched. His breathing was shallow, too fast. “I’m not trying to fight—”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
There was no bite in the words, but the way Sunghoon stood — shoulders squared, arms loose at his sides like he was keeping them from reacting — made Ni-ki’s stomach twist.
“I just wanted you to take me seriously,” Ni-ki muttered, voice starting to break at the edges.
Sunghoon didn’t say anything right away. His eyes stayed on Ni-ki, unreadable, not cold — just tired in that way that comes from holding too much back.
“I am taking you seriously,” he finally said. “You’re the one treating this like a game.”
Ni-ki’s expression flickered. “It’s not a game.”
“Then stop acting like it is.” Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. “You shoved me in front of everyone yesterday, Ni-ki. You said stuff you know would hit where it hurts. Now you’re pushing me again like that’s gonna fix it?”
Ni-ki didn’t answer. He looked off to the side, lips pressed into a thin line, trying to keep his face still.
Sunghoon’s voice lowered again. “You’re pissed at me. Fine. But don’t keep pushing like I’m the only one who crossed a line.”
Ni-ki stayed quiet. His hands were still curled like he didn’t know what to do with them now.
“Whatever you’re trying to get out of me—” Sunghoon’s voice cracked just slightly, and he stopped for a second before continuing. “You’re not gonna get it like this.”
Ni-ki swallowed hard. His throat burned.
Sunghoon shook his head lightly, stepping back. “I’m not doing this again unless you actually want to talk.”
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t slam anything. He just turned and walked a few steps toward the door before stopping, pausing like he was waiting to see if Ni-ki would say something — anything — worth turning around for.
And nothing ever came.
Later that evening, the dorms were quieter. A few voices carried from the living room, but most of the noise had faded. Ni-ki hovered outside Sunghoon’s door for a few seconds before finally pushing it open without knocking.
Sunghoon was at his desk, scrolling through something on his phone, earbuds in but only one in his ear. He didn’t look up right away.
Ni-ki climbed onto the bed without a word, moving slow like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. He sat cross-legged at first, then shifted, rolling onto his stomach with a soft thump against the blankets. His own phone was in his hand, but he wasn’t really looking at it — just scrolling out of habit, eyes flicking toward Sunghoon every few seconds.
A minute passed. Then another.
Finally, Sunghoon glanced over his shoulder.
His expression didn’t shift much, but his voice was clear, quiet, and a little rough around the edges. “What do you want?”
Not cold. Not exactly warm, either. Just cautious.
Ni-ki didn’t look up from his screen right away. “Dunno.” He shifted his legs behind him, resting his chin on one arm. “Just wanted to be in here.”
Sunghoon turned back to his phone, didn’t respond at first. His jaw flexed a little.
“You’re not gonna say anything else?” he asked after a second, not accusing — just asking.
Ni-ki let out a small breath through his nose, still not looking at him. “If I say the wrong thing again you’ll just get quiet on me.”
That made Sunghoon turn around in his chair. He looked at Ni-ki for a beat, eyes scanning his face, reading the way he was sprawled out like he wasn’t tense even though he clearly was.
“You shoved me.”
Ni-ki’s fingers tightened on his phone. “Yeah, I know.”
“You did it twice.”
Ni-ki nodded. Still not looking at him. “I know.”
There was a pause.
“You don’t get to crawl into my bed and act like that didn’t happen.”
Ni-ki finally looked up at that, meeting his eyes for the first time all day. “I’m not acting like it didn’t happen. I’m just…” He hesitated. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
Sunghoon’s expression didn’t soften, but something in his shoulders did. He stood, walked over to the bed, and sat on the edge, hands resting on his knees.
Ni-ki looked up at him from where he lay, lips pressed into a thin line. “I didn’t mean to mess everything up.”
“You didn’t mess everything up,” Sunghoon said quietly. “Just… enough to piss me off.”
Ni-ki let out a tiny, tired laugh. “Yeah. I figured.”
Another pause. Then:
“You can stay,” Sunghoon said, glancing down at him. “But don’t act like we’re fine yet.”
Ni-ki nodded, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “Okay.”
He rolled onto his side, close enough for his knee to bump into Sunghoon’s thigh. Neither of them moved.
Sunghoon stayed quiet for a few seconds longer, elbows resting on his knees, eyes on the floor. Then he shifted, turning fully to face the bed. Ni-ki was still lying on his side, his phone forgotten now, arms folded under his head as a makeshift pillow.
He was staring — not in a way that demanded anything, just watching, calm and unreadable. His naturally pouty lips were parted slightly, and the soft dip of his brow made him look younger than he was, even with how sharp his jaw had gotten lately. His features were all long lines and sharp angles, but in this light, they were softened — almost delicate.
Sunghoon let out a quiet sigh and reached forward, hand brushing through Ni-ki’s hair slowly, like he wasn’t thinking about it too hard. Ni-ki didn’t flinch or pull away. He just blinked, slow, letting the touch settle.
His hair was still a little damp from his earlier shower, messy and pushed back from laying on it weird. Sunghoon ran his fingers through it again, slower this time, combing out the knots that weren’t really there.
“You’re still annoying,” Sunghoon said under his breath.
Ni-ki let out a tiny hum that could’ve meant I know or you like it or just keep going.
Sunghoon looked down at him for another long second. “You really shouldn’t look at me like that when I’m trying to stay mad.”
Ni-ki’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. His eyes didn’t move, still fixed on Sunghoon’s face like he was trying to figure out if this meant things were okay again.
“You’re not mad?” he asked finally, voice low.
“I’m still mad,” Sunghoon said, fingers trailing back through his hair again. “I just like you more than I’m mad at you.”
Ni-ki blinked slowly, like he was letting that settle, then tucked his chin slightly into his arms, face half hidden.
“You’re being nice,” he mumbled.
Sunghoon huffed out a short laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”
But his hand didn’t stop moving.
hen Sunghoon’s hand moved again — slow, careful — slipping up under the back of Ni-ki’s shirt, his fingers cool against warm skin. He didn’t press or grope, just ran his hand across Ni-ki’s back like he was getting familiar with it again, like he was checking if anything had changed.
Ni-ki didn’t move. Just breathed in quiet, steady breaths.
"You still haven’t told me,” Sunghoon said quietly, voice low against the back of his neck.
“Told you what?”
“Why you thought it was okay to shove me.”
Ni-ki’s body tensed before he could stop it. The air shifted.
Sunghoon’s hand stilled on his spine, resting flat and warm there now. His voice stayed calm, but firmer. “I need to know it’s not gonna happen again.”
Ni-ki’s throat worked around the words that weren’t quite ready yet. “I just… I wasn’t thinking. You were talking to me like I was stupid, and I got pissed.”
“You got pissed and shoved me.” His hand didn’t move. “In front of the others.”
Ni-ki swallowed. “Yeah.”
A beat passed. Then Sunghoon exhaled, the kind of tired breath that didn’t mean he was done being upset — just done being surprised by it.
“I don’t care if you’re mad at me. But you don’t get to put hands on me like that again.”
Ni-ki nodded into the pillow. “Okay.”
Sunghoon’s thumb moved, rubbing gently just above his waistband.
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I mean it,” Ni-ki said, louder now, voice steady even if his ears were going red. “I’m not doing it again.”
Sunghoon hummed, finally shifting to press in a little closer behind him, the touch under his shirt turning softer again — not playful this time, just quiet. Familiar.
“I don’t like fighting with you,” Ni-ki added, voice small.
“I don’t like being shoved.” Sunghoon’s words were plain, but not cold.
He pressed his mouth to Ni-ki’s shoulder, no kiss, just contact. Then he left it there. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Ni-ki let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You do?”
“Unfortunately.”