Chapter Text
Shinyu met Youngjae on a windy afternoon in early spring, years ago now, when campus still smelled like fresh rain and coffee. Youngjae was sitting alone under a crooked tree near the literature building, knees drawn up, reading with a level of focus that made Shinyu pause.
Shinyu didn’t talk much back then—he didn’t talk much now either—but something about Youngjae pulled at the quiet in him. Maybe it was the way his brows pinched while reading or the way he smiled faintly at the words on the page like they were telling him a private joke. Shinyu sat down a few feet away and pulled out his earbuds, letting the silence settle between them.
Youngjae didn’t flinch. He didn’t even glance up. He just kept reading.
From that day on, they kept finding each other. Not deliberately, not at first. Shinyu would stop by the campus café and Youngjae would already be there, book in hand, glasses sliding low on his nose. Or Youngjae would walk into the library and find Shinyu curled up in the corner chair with headphones and his notes. Their silences merged easily. Their words, when they came, felt unforced.
They never declared they were best friends. It just happened.
Shinyu, the quiet upperclassman who cooked like a chef and had a stare sharp enough to cut tension with a single glance. Youngjae, the younger one—soft-spoken but firm, composed, always watching, always noticing more than he let on. Where Shinyu retreated inward, Youngjae reached outward. He read people like books. And somehow, he read Shinyu best.
They were opposites, sure, but opposites that fit. Shinyu never had to explain why he couldn’t sleep, why he sometimes disappeared into his room for days. Youngjae just showed up with tea and a blanket. And Youngjae never had to explain why he got overwhelmed, why he sometimes laughed too hard when he was really just hurting—because Shinyu saw it. And said nothing. He never forced Youngjae to open up. He just stayed.
Over time, their rituals formed: late-night walks with no destination, morning coffees made in silence, games played on Shinyu’s old console with their knees bumping on the carpet. They watched storms from the window and shared space like it was second nature.
Youngjae started crashing at Shinyu’s place more and more. Sometimes it was because of a missed train. Sometimes it was just because the world felt too loud and Shinyu’s apartment was quiet. Safe. Warm in its own strange way.
Shinyu gave him a drawer. Then a spare toothbrush. Then a mug with Youngjae’s name on it, even though he claimed it was just a leftover from some café.
Youngjae would laugh at that. He laughed at a lot of things Shinyu did—his deadpan comments, his terrible jokes when he was tired, the way he refused to fold laundry until it climbed into a mountain on his bed.
They shared a rhythm. That kind of closeness that wasn’t loud or dramatic, but lived in the small things: the glances, the habits, the way Shinyu cooked an extra portion just in case Youngjae came by. The way Youngjae always texted, “you up?” when he was two stops away.
But for all their years of friendship, for all the sleepovers and shared silences, they had never shared a bed.
Not yet.
Not until the rainstorm.
Not until Youngjae showed up soaked through, teeth chattering, warmth in reach—but not without cost.
And Shinyu, who always seemed to appear when Youngjae needed him most, opened the door with a towel, a change of clothes, and no questions.
Because that’s what they were.
That’s what they’d always been.
Something steady.
Something more than just friends.
Even if neither of them had said it— yet .
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.
.
.
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The rain hadn’t been in the forecast. It came suddenly—loud, impatient, and soaking through everything it touched. By the time Youngjae stepped outside the café, it was already too late. The sky was a deep slate gray, heavy with clouds that had already broken open. Fat droplets pelted the pavement in a relentless rhythm, and Youngjae stood there, still as the wind picked up around him, the collar of his shirt clinging to his neck, water trickling down the back of his spine.
He could’ve made it to the subway. The station was only three blocks away. But in just those few steps to the edge of the sidewalk, he was already drenched—his bag damp, his hair flattened against his forehead, jeans soaked through. The idea of sitting on a freezing train in wet clothes, transferring lines, walking the rest of the way home… it felt impossible. Too cold. Too far.
And he had forgotten his umbrella.
Youngjae sighed, long and quiet, his breath visible in the cool night air. He took a step back under the café’s awning, shaking his head like a cat who had been caught in a bath. A little self-directed laugh escaped him—tired, mostly.
His fingers were numb as he pulled out his phone and hovered for a second over Shinyu’s name. He didn’t even think about it too long. He knew he didn’t need to.
[9:34 PM] Youngjae: you home?
The response came just a few seconds later.
[9:35 PM] Shinyu: yeah
[9:35 PM] Shinyu: door’s open
[9:35 PM] Shinyu: come in
Simple, as always. But that was Shinyu—no fuss, no questions, just a quiet offer of shelter.
By the time Youngjae reached the apartment complex—just two blocks away—his shoes squelched with every step. The front door stuck a little, like always, and the elevator was slow, humming under the storm. He didn’t bother knocking once he reached the unit. Just turned the handle and stepped inside.
Warmth met him immediately—dry air and the faint smell of leftover dinner. Shinyu's place was dimly lit, as usual. A lamp on the side table cast a soft, amber glow over the living room, throwing long shadows over the couch and the pile of unfolded laundry tossed lazily on the armrest. Shinyu wasn’t in sight, but Youngjae heard the quiet sound of something shifting in the kitchen.
Youngjae stood there for a moment in the entryway, dripping quietly onto the floor, letting the warmth settle into his bones. His shirt clung to his frame, transparent in places. He shivered slightly and slipped his shoes off before calling softly, “ Hyung ?”
Shinyu’s voice drifted out from around the corner—low, even, a little surprised but not unkind. “You're soaked.”
Youngjae stepped further in, brushing his damp hair back with one hand. “Forgot my umbrella.”
Shinyu finally appeared, casually dressed in sweats, his usual quiet expression softening just a bit when he took in Youngjae’s drenched state.
“Bathroom’s free. I’ll grab you a towel.”
And just like that, Youngjae was home—just not his own.
Shinyu handed over the familiar clothes without a word—his oversized tee and a pair of soft, well-worn sweatpants Youngjae had borrowed more than once. Youngjae gave a small, grateful nod before slipping off to the bathroom.
The sound of running water filled the apartment. Outside, the rain hadn’t let up. It tapped gently against the windows now, quieter than earlier, like it had settled into a rhythm. Shinyu moved around the kitchen in that silent, efficient way of his, setting the kettle on the stove and pulling two mugs from the cabinet. He didn’t even ask how Youngjae liked his tea. He already knew.
By the time Youngjae stepped back out, towel-drying his hair, the place smelled faintly of chamomile. He padded into the living room, bare feet brushing against the hardwood, Shinyu already handing him a warm mug.
But Youngjae paused mid-step and gave a sudden shiver that shook his shoulders, despite the change of clothes.
“Is it just me, or is it freezing tonight?” he asked, teeth nearly chattering as he curled one hand around the mug for warmth.
Shinyu sipped from his own, calm as always. “Radiator’s out in here. It’s been acting up.”
Youngjae raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
Shinyu nodded, then gestured toward the hallway. “Bedroom heater works fine. You can sleep in there if you want. It’s warmer.”
The offer came so casually, like it was no big deal. But Youngjae hesitated.
It wasn’t about the bed.
He stood there quietly, still damp-haired, still cold, clutching his tea, staring past the steam. Shinyu had already disappeared down the hallway, back to his room, probably assuming Youngjae would follow without question.
But Youngjae’s mind was racing.
It wasn’t like he didn’t want to share a bed with Shinyu.
That wasn’t it at all.
He just… had a little habit.
Okay, maybe not so little—habit. He didn’t sleep with underwear on. Or pants. Just a tee. Always had, even before he met Shinyu, even before college. It was just how he felt comfortable. He always got too warm, too tangled in fabric, too... aware. Sleeping like this helped him rest.
And whenever he crashed here on Shinyu’s couch—after late-night hangouts or when he missed the last train—he’d wait until he was sure Shinyu was asleep in his room. Then he’d quietly peel off the sweatpants and underwear and slip under the throw blanket with only the borrowed tee.
He never thought much of it. It wasn’t like Shinyu ever saw.
But this… this was different. Sharing a bed. With Shinyu. In the same space, under the same sheets.
Youngjae sank onto the couch, pulling the hem of the oversized tee over his thighs. His fingers curled into the fabric, tugging nervously. The sound of the rain ticking against the windows filled the silence, broken only by the soft hum of the fridge and the steady thrum of his thoughts.
He could stay out here, sure. Freeze his ass off and wake up with a sore back. Or—he could go in there, into Shinyu’s room, into the warmth. Into unfamiliar closeness.
His stomach fluttered uneasily.
He stared down the hallway like it held a question only he could answer. The couch under him felt colder by the second. The tea helped a little, but not enough.
He exhaled, low and slow. Either he stayed out here like an icicle or risked the warmth—and everything it might mean—with Shinyu.
Eventually, he stood. Still silent, still undecided.
But he was already walking down the hall.
The hallway light cut a sharp line across the bedroom floor when Youngjae stepped in.
Shinyu was already in bed, leaning back against the headboard with the blanket kicked low. He was bare-chest, his usual sleeping attire, calm and unbothered. His skin caught the amber glow of the bedside lamp. Shinyu didn’t even glance up at first, as if this whole situation—this silent, shared moment—was entirely ordinary.
And maybe to him, it was.
Youngjae had seen him like that countless times. Shirtless. Relaxed. Stretching after a shower. Padding barefoot across the apartment with half-lidded eyes and sleep-ruffled hair. There was nothing new about it. And yet, Youngjae still couldn’t quite get used to the way it pulled at something quiet and anxious in his chest.
He stood just inside the room, the door clicking shut behind him, still as a statue. Clutching his breath like it might give him away. The borrowed shirt hung loose on his frame, barely brushing past his hips. The weight of his decision pressed down on him, heavier than the damp clothes he’d left behind in the bathroom.
Shinyu finally glanced over, his face unreadable, dark lashes blinking slow.
Youngjae didn’t move.
Shinyu blinked again, then—quietly, almost gently—shifted toward the far edge of the bed. He didn’t say anything. Just gave Youngjae more space. Maybe he thought Youngjae needed room. Maybe he was trying to be kind. Maybe he didn’t want to ask questions.
But that small gesture—so simple and so typically Shinyu—hit harder than it should’ve.
Youngjae’s chest tensed. His mind screamed for him to stay where he was, to just get back to the couch, pull a blanket over his doubts, and deal with the cold.
But his body disobeyed. His feet moved.
He crossed the room slowly, heart pounding in the quiet. He stopped beside the bed, looking down at Shinyu—then lower, to the blanket, then to the space that waited for him.
Youngjae let out a slow, unsteady breath.
And then, without a word, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the sweatpants.
Shinyu didn’t speak, didn’t blink.
Youngjae pushed the pants down, quietly, steadily. His legs bare. Then came the briefs—slow, deliberate. The air felt ten degrees colder on his skin, but his face burned.
He stood there for a second too long, exposed in more ways than one, the oversized tee brushing just beneath his hips.
Shinyu saw. He definitely saw.
Youngjae didn’t meet his eyes.
He climbed into the bed in silence and slid beneath the blanket, careful, trying not to brush against Shinyu even though the bed dipped with the shift of their weight.
Then, in a voice muffled into the pillow, Youngjae mumbled, “Just… Don’t look.”
And before Shinyu could say anything—anything at all—Youngjae turned away and closed his eyes. Within moments, he was curled up on his side, breathing deep and even, already asleep.
Shinyu remained still. Breath shallow.
He could still feel the ghost of movement, the heat where Youngjae had laid down beside him, too aware now of the soft rustle of sheets, the sound of Youngjae’s breathing already evening out into sleep.
He didn’t look. Not anymore. But his mind wouldn’t stop playing it back—Youngjae’s bare legs in the dim light, the quiet way he stripped down, the soft urgency behind the words “don’t look.”
Shinyu stared at the ceiling.
Sleep wouldn’t come easy for him that night.
Not with Youngjae tangled in his sheets, skin so close, warmth so near, and a thousand questions spiraling quietly through his chest.
He lay perfectly still, eyes wide in the dark.
But the heat under the blanket had grown unbearable. His heart thudded a little too loud, his thoughts a little too fast. He stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, trying to think about anything but the fact that Youngjae—calm, composed, always-put-together Youngjae—was stark naked from the waist down, inches away from him.
His brain tried to rationalize it. You’ve seen him in towels before. Swim trunks. Who cares? Just skin.
But there was something different about this . Maybe it was the context. Maybe it was how casual Youngjae had been. Or maybe it was just the unfair fact that Youngjae looked so goddamn peaceful next to him, soft hair against the pillow, shirt riding up over his waist as he turned in his sleep—
Shinyu’s breath caught.
The blanket had shifted. And so had Youngjae.
One leg was bent, the other extended just enough to pull the fabric of the shirt upward—higher, and then higher still, until it rested just above his hips. Shinyu didn’t dare look directly. But he couldn’t not see it.
He blinked. Looked away. Then looked back again, against all better judgment.
There was nothing left to the imagination. Every inch of pale skin on display. The dip of his waist, the soft line of his hip bone, and lower—the very thing Shinyu had not wanted to see, now front and center.
Shinyu stared at the ceiling again, blanket pulled to his chin, jaw clenched.
Okay. Okay. Don’t think about it. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Think of taxes. Think of laundry. Think of Youngjae fully clothed. In a parka. In three parkas.
But every now and then, his gaze flicked sideways. Drawn like gravity. He hated himself for it.
He shifted, tried to roll away—but Youngjae stirred, turning toward him slightly, murmuring something in his sleep.
Shinyu froze. Again.
He closed his eyes. Counted backwards from a hundred. Opened them. Still there. Still Youngjae. Still very, very naked.
The rain kept falling. The radiator hummed softly. And Shinyu?
Shinyu didn’t sleep a single damn minute.