𝓢𝓱𝓲𝓷 𝓨𝓾𝓷𝓪 | 𝓘’𝓶 𝓗𝓸𝓶𝓮

The front door doesn't just open—it practically hits the entryway wall with a loud, echoey thud, signaling the frantic, unapologetically chaotic arrival of ITZY's youngest member back to her favorite place in the world.

First comes the heavy clatter of oversized hard-shell suitcase wheels sliding across the smooth hardwood floor, followed by a long, theatrical, soul-crushing groan of sheer relief. Then comes Yuna herself: wearing a dark, oversized airport hoodie half-zipped over a casual cropped tee, her passport still tightly clutched in her hand like a security blanket, her dark hair a gorgeous, messy post-sixteen-hour-flight disaster, and her giant designer tote bag sliding off her shoulder to crash unceremoniously onto the rug.

She doesn't even bother kicking her sneakers off properly. She simply steps right out of them in the middle of the hallway, leaves her entire travel setup blocking the front entrance, and marches straight toward you with the laser-focused determination of a homing missile finding its target.

"Okay. Executive order number one," Yuna announces loudly, her voice noticeably raspy from endless flights and venue screaming as she crashes full-force into your chest, wrapping her long arms tightly around your waist like a secure, unyielding vise. "You are legally forbidden from going anywhere for the next hour. Maybe two hours. Maybe the next three full days. I haven’t fully decided on the exact timeline yet, but do not test me."

Without waiting for your response, she reaches past your shoulder, snatches your favorite oversized grey hoodie off the back of the dining chair, and immediately pulls it over her head, burying her face in the familiar collar for a brief, deeply comforting second before spinning back around with both of her warm hands planted firmly on your shoulders.

"The international flights were an absolute psychological nightmare. The last stadium show in Seoul was completely insane. Chaeryeong stole my portable charger twice in three days, and I swear the airline lost my vanity kit for three agonizing hours in Tokyo," she rambles at a hundred miles an hour, her eyes wide and sparkling with energetic post-tour chaos. "I am going to tell you every single dramatic detail while I eat literally everything edible in your fridge, and also while I am lying directly on top of you on the couch. Multi-tasking, darling. It's called peak efficiency."

She doesn't even wait for you to agree or walk toward the living room. She grabs you firmly by the hand, drags you backward toward the sofa, and shoves you down onto the cushions before immediately climbing into your lap, draping her entire body across your chest like an extremely talkative, warm weighted blanket.

Her phone is already unlocked, held directly in front of your nose as her thumb flicks rapidly through her camera roll.

"Look at this one—this is me almost slipping off the stage riser in Melbourne because the pyrotechnics went off too early. This is the crowd lights in LA looking like a sea of stars. This is my exact face when management told us we had three encores left," she chitters away continuously, tapping her manicured nail against the glass. "You are not allowed to scroll past a single one. I literally spent two hours organizing this exact slideshow presentation on the plane ride here just for you."

A soft, quiet beat of stillness finally settles over the room. The rapid-fire pace of her voice slowly winds down, her head sinking comfortably into the crook of your neck, her body melting completely into yours as her hands tangle loosely in your shirt.

"...Also," Yuna whispers softly against your skin, her voice dropping into an unexpectedly sweet, vulnerable murmur, "I missed your stupid, handsome face so much. Like, ridiculous, embarrassing amounts. Don’t make it weird or make fun of me for being soft. Just hold still and let me be annoying for a while. I more than earned this."

The heavy front door slams shut with a dull thud, and the apartment is instantly filled with the frantic rustle of abandoned bags and tumbling shoes. Yuna’s expensive leather travel duffel is left sitting right in the middle of the hallway, her sneakers kicked off mid-stride, but she couldn't possibly care less about her luggage right now.

What had started three seconds ago as a warm, sweet, long-overdue reunion hug near the entryway had rapidly escalated into a deep, desperate, bruising kiss that completely derailed any civil plans of talking about her trip.

Now, Yuna has you backed up flat against the wall by the hallway mirror. Her arms are wrapped tightly around your neck, her fingers tangled deep in your hair, and her hands already sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt—her warm palms pressing firmly against your bare skin like she’s double-checking that you’re actually real and standing right in front of her.

"I was going to be normal... I swear to God I was going to walk in and act like a completely normal, civilized girlfriend," Yuna pants breathlessly against your mouth, letting out a soft, low laugh before leaning right back in to bite your lower lip with sharp, needy intensity. "Then I walked through the door, saw you standing there looking at me, and every single normal thought completely left my brain."

She presses her body flush against yours, leaving zero space between you. Despite the visible fatigue etched around her eyes from days of relentless travel, her entire body is buzzing with a hot, hungry, completely focused intent.

"Weeks of stages. Weeks of living out of sterile hotel rooms. Weeks of only getting to hear your voice through a stupid cracked phone screen across twelve-hour time differences," Yuna whispers, her dark eyes flashing with a bright, possessive spark as her hands slide up your chest. "I am completely done being patient. Bedroom. Or the living room rug. Or right here on the couch. I genuinely do not give a fuck which one—I just need you under me or over me in the next thirty seconds."

She grabs your hand, tugging you aggressively toward the living room furniture. Before you can even sit down properly, she strips her dark airport hoodie straight off over her head, letting it tumble to the floor along with her shirt, standing before you in just her lace bralette with zero trace of shyness.

"Clothes off. Mine too," she commands, her voice thick and raspy as she immediately climbs into your lap the second you hit the couch cushions, straddling your thighs and gripping your face between her hands. "I’ve spent every single lonely night on that tour bus thinking about your hands and what they feel like against my skin. So put them on me. Properly."

You open your mouth to suggest taking a breather—maybe asking if she wants to shower or eat something first after such an exhausting flight—and Yuna instantly narrows her eyes, leaning down until her forehead rests heavily against yours.

"If you try to go slow or tell me 'you must be exhausted from your flight,' I swear I will bite you," she murmurs, her voice dropping into a low, sultry purr as her hips shift against yours with agonizing, deliberate slowness. "I am not that tired. I missed you. I missed this exact feeling. Don’t you dare make me wait another second."