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Baby’s breath catches as Jinu leans in. His body goes rigid, bracing for a fight that never comes. The surge of adrenaline, hot and sharp, rips through him anyway, priming his muscles for impact, for escape. But there’s no enemy here. No hunters giving chase. No blow to block, no reason to run. Still, the instinct snarls beneath his skin, and swallowing it down feels like choking on fire.
His gaze flicks first to the thin veil of tissue trembling over Jinu’s lips, then up to meet his eyes. Teal meets gold, just for a heartbeat, before shimmering back to black.
The tissue rustles. Pressure brushes his mouth. Too soft. And suddenly Baby remembers what this is. What they’re doing.
Jinu. Teaching him skinship. He just had to ask the stupid question. Hey Jinu, what’s skinship? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
And Jinu, stupid Jinu, just had to always have a stupid answer for everything. Close contact and affectionate gestures between band members. Here, I’ll show you. There’s a popular game humans play where they pass tissues with only their mouths.
Stupid. Human. Games.
Unbearably stupid.
“Open your mouth more,” Jinu murmurs, “inhale, Baby. Take the tissue.”
His voice is silk dragged across the tissue, each word a vibration Baby can feel in his teeth. A wave of dizziness crashes into him, swift and disorienting. His jaw clamps tighter, every muscle locked.
“Stop. Moving.” Baby enunciates each word like a threat through clenched teeth. But it’s not Jinu he’s angry at; it’s his own body, his own traitorous awareness.
Jinu is too close. Too warm. Too much.
Even with the tissue between them, he feels everything. The shape of Jinu’s mouth, the curve of each word. The paper barrier might as well not exist at all.
Baby is drowning in sensation. Every breath, every shift Jinu makes, presses into him like a brand.
He can’t do this.
The tissue trembles.
Baby can feel the tension in Jinu’s breath, the faintest hitch as he speaks again. “Relax. It’s easy–”
Then it happens.
A flicker of motion, a breath too quick, a twitch of Jinu’s lips as Baby inhales slightly and the paper slips.
No warning. No time to react as Jinu’s lips meet Baby’s.
Baby freezes. For a moment, everything inside him halts; lungs, heart, thoughts.
Jinu’s lips are warm. Softer than he expected. Firm, but not pushing. Just there. The kiss isn’t even a kiss. It’s an accident, a mistaken collision. But it’s there all the same.
Jinu pulls back first, barely. His face is close, too close, his breath still mingling with Baby’s. Their noses nearly touch. The tissue has long since fluttered to the floor, forgotten.
Baby doesn’t move. He can’t.
His entire body is still coiled, not from fear, but from something else. Something electric. Something sharp and blooming low in his spine and simmering in his gut. Almost similar to the feeling he gets when he's consuming a soul.
Jinu blinks once, slow. His eyes scan Baby’s face like he’s reading a new language, careful and cautious, as if afraid one wrong syllable will set everything ablaze.
“That wasn’t… supposed to happen,” Jinu says, his voice rough at the edges, almost too soft to hear.
Baby’s throat works around a swallow. The world hasn’t started again yet. He should say something. He should laugh. Make a joke. Shove Jinu away. Get out of here. Do anything. But instead, he just looks at him.
Jinu’s lips are still slightly parted. His breath still tastes like grape juice and nerves.
And Baby… He’s not breathing. Because for one unbearable, silent moment… He thinks he wants it to happen again.
The word slips out before Baby can stop it.
"Again."
It lands between them like a dropped pin, quiet, almost innocent. Almost.
Jinu doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His brows twitch slightly, like he’s not sure he heard right. Or maybe he did, and he's just waiting for Baby to take it back.
Baby doesn’t. He can’t. The word is already burning its way down the center of him.
The silence stretches; all taut, humming, and dangerous.
“…What?” Jinu asks, voice low. Controlled. But not untouched.
Baby’s eyes flick to his lips again, as if the word alone pulled them into orbit. He wants to explain, maybe. Say it was a mistake. Say he’s joking. But his mouth is dry, and his fists are clenched tight at his sides, but there is one thing he’s certain of and it’s that he means it.
Jinu’s eyes narrow, like he's recalibrating. Like he’s discovering a side to Baby he didn’t know existed and it's finally sliding into the perfect view.
“You want…” Jinu begins, then stops himself, licks his lips slowly, thoughtfully. Baby follows the movement, suppressing the sudden shudder threatening to race down his spine. “You want to kiss me again?”
Baby flinches, just barely. It sounds different when Jinu says it out loud. Real. Louder than it is. And yet, he doesn’t deny it.
“I didn’t say that,” he mutters, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He didn’t even know demons were capable of blushing.
Jinu lifts an eyebrow. “You said again. That kind of implies a first time.”
“You dropped the tissue.”
“And you didn’t move.”
That shuts Baby up. Because no, he hadn’t moved. Not really.
Jinu steps closer, and suddenly Baby is all tension again, shoulders high, breath shallow, everything braced like impact is inevitable. But this time, Jinu doesn’t close the distance all the way. He just lingers. Close enough to feel, not to touch. His voice lowers, a breath against Baby’s cheek.
“You’re not good at this,” he murmurs.
Baby scowls. “At what?”
Jinu’s lips quirk. A smirk, but soft at the edges. “At pretending you don’t want things.” Another beat. A pulse of silence. And then Jinu’s hand lifts slowly, steadily and he brushes his fingers against Baby’s wrist. A test. A warning.
“So,” Jinu says. “Are you gonna kiss me, or do we need another piece of tissue to continue this game?”
Baby doesn’t answer right away.
He just looks at Jinu who’s seemingly steady, unreadable. The heat in his chest is still there, still clawing at the inside of his ribs, but beneath it, something else stirs now. A flicker of desire. A decision.
Without breaking eye contact, Baby reaches around Jinu and snatches another tissue from the pack on the table. The crinkle of the paper is loud in the silence. Deliberate.
Jinu watches, unmoving, except for the way his lips part just slightly. Like he’s trying not to smile. Or maybe trying not to hope.
Baby doesn’t break eye contact as he holds the tissue up between them. He places it over his lips, covering his mouth like a mask. Then he leans in.
The kiss is direct. Confident. This time, Baby moves first.
The paper is thin, practically nothing between them. Baby kisses Jinu through it with a slow, infuriating calm that’s worlds away from the chaotic slip of earlier. Like he’s proving a point.
Jinu makes a small, startled sound, half breath, half laugh, and Baby pulls back just enough to murmur through the veil of paper.
“You’re the one who’s not good at this game.”
Jinu blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You flinched. Dropped the first tissue.” Baby’s voice is low, smug, dangerously close to a smirk. “If we’re scoring points, that’s a loss. Imagine how disappointed the human fans would be about their precious skinship game.”
Jinu’s mouth twitches, and this time the smile breaks through. Slow. Crooked. A little impressed.
“That one doesn’t count, that was just practice,” he counters.
Baby raises an eyebrow, still holding the tissue between their mouths.
“Isn’t that only an excuse that losers say?” His tone is teasing now, laced with something sharper underneath. “I thought you were the expert.”
“Oh, I am.” Jinu steps forward, his hands sliding up to cup the sides of Baby’s face, not touching skin, not yet, just hovering. “But you’re getting cocky.”
“Maybe.” Baby’s eyes flicker down to Jinu’s nose, then back up again. “Or maybe I’m just better at your stupid human games than you thought.”
Jinu exhales a soft, shaky laugh, and that’s when Baby knows. He’s rattled him. Just a little. And it feels good.
Then Jinu says, very quietly, “Take the tissue away.”
A dare. Baby’s pulse stutters. His fingers tighten slightly against the front of Jinu’s shirt, but he doesn’t move yet. Not because he’s unsure. But because he wants to make him wait.
For a second, Baby just breathes. The tissue trembles between them, holding in place like it’s a lifeline. But it’s not. Not really. It’s just paper. Just an excuse.
And Jinu, standing there, eyes dark gold and steady, voice low with challenge. He’s not backing down. “Take it away.”
The words echo in Baby’s skull, reverberating through his spine. His pulse pounds loud in his ears, every instinct inside him crackling. Don’t do it, not yet, what if–
Screw the what ifs. He wants this. Baby tilts his head back slightly. The tissue flutters to the ground like the breath he finally lets out.
No paper. No barrier.
Jinu doesn’t move, not until Baby does.
And Baby does.
It’s not rough. It’s not even rushed. It’s slow, almost careful, like he’s stepping into something sacred and irreversible. His lips press against Jinu’s, warm, real, there, and for a second the world blurs at the edges.
Jinu exhales against his mouth like he’s been holding his breath this whole time.
Baby doesn’t know who deepens it. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s Jinu. Maybe it doesn’t matter. All he knows is that it’s no longer a lesson. No longer a game.
This is not about skinship. This is not practice.
Jinu’s hands find their way to the sides of his neck, anchoring him. Baby’s own hands curl deeper into Jinu’s shirt, gripping tight like he might float away if he lets go.
And there’s no hesitation this time. No rules. No instructions. Just heat. Breath. The dizzy, terrifying weight of want.
When they finally pull apart, it’s only by inches.
Jinu’s eyes are half-lidded, lips slightly parted, and for once he looks speechless.
Baby lets the silence stretch, lets the weight of the moment sink between them like a stone in water.
Then he smirks playfully, just a little, just enough.
“Still think I’m bad at this?” he murmurs, voice a little hoarse.
Jinu blinks slowly. “You’re worse.” But he’s smiling. Quiet and wrecked and a little too fond.
And Baby can’t look away.