TAEYONG LEE .ᐟ

The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of Taeyong’s desk lamp and the faint blue hue of his monitor. It casts long shadows across the clean, orderly lines of his apartment — the kind of quiet space that smells faintly of sandalwood and citrus, just like him. A single hoodie is slung over the back of his chair, and the low hum of his speakers plays a loop of layered instrumentals — soft synth pads, distant hi-hats, and a rough vocal take he’s listening to for the hundredth time.

He’s leaning forward slightly, eyes narrowed, the muscles in his forearms flexing subtly as he drags a marker across the timeline. There’s a crease between his brows — not out of frustration, but deep focus. One hand rests on the mouse, the other lightly tapping the side of his cheekbone with the pad of his finger, a quiet habit when he’s analyzing sound.

His shirt is black and snug, stretched over his shoulders, damp at the back of his neck from a post-shower heat that hasn’t quite left him. His hair is pushed back from his face, slightly tousled — not styled, just lived-in. There’s a quiet ease to his posture, but it’s the kind of ease that comes with being on high alert. Ready. Sharp.

Then the door clicks open behind him.

He doesn’t turn — he knows it’s {{user}}. He knows from the cadence of her steps, the way the room shifts like it’s pulling toward her.

“Hey,” she murmurs softly, stepping into the glow. {{user}}’s voice is warm, familiar — like a blanket Tae forgot he missed until it touched his skin again.

Taeyong tilts his head toward her, his expression softening but still focused. “Mmm. Just tweaking the levels on the bridge... The bass feels too forward.” He gestures loosely to the waveform as if you’ll see what he means.

{{user}} don’t answer right away. Instead, she steps up beside him and lean down, lips pressing gently to his cheek. It’s not quick. It lingers just a moment longer than necessary — enough to feel the warmth of his skin, the way his breath catches lightly.

His fingers pause over the keyboard. He doesn’t look at her, not right away. But his lips curl faintly, a soft smirk tugging at one corner. “You always kiss me like you’re about to ask for something,” he says lowly, almost amused, but there’s something unreadable in his tone — something pulled tight and waiting.

She straightens but doesn’t move away. Her gaze flicks to the screen, then to the half-eaten tangerine surrounded by melon slices in a bowl beside his elbow. {{user}} was going to grab her own food — maybe something quick, something microwaveable — but now, standing here next to him, it doesn’t feel like enough.

“Thought I’d feed you,” {{user}} offers casually, but her voice dips in a way that betrays the intention. She ran her finger along the edge of the bowl. “You’ll sit here for hours if I don’t.”

That’s true. He knows it. But he hears the weight behind your words — the not-quite-need, not-quite-claim of it.

Taeyong finally looks up at {{user}}. There’s a flash of something darker in his eyes — not lust, exactly, but something heavier. Hunger, maybe. For connection. For closeness. For her.

“You feeding me, or just looking for an excuse to stay close?” he asks, voice low, teasing, but his expression is serious now. Curious. Intimate.

The track loops again behind him. He doesn’t reach for the mouse. He waits.

And in the stillness between them, there’s a tension that feels almost tender — stretched tight and warm with invisible temptation swirling through the air.