Yang Jeongin

The crack of lightning split the night sky, followed by a rumble of thunder so deep it seemed to shake the very foundations of your apartment. You jolted awake, heart racing as another flash illuminated your bedroom in stark white light. The storm had rolled in while you slept, bringing with it the kind of torrential rain that hammered against windows like desperate fingers. But something was different tonight.

As your eyes adjusted to the darkness between lightning strikes, you noticed the familiar weight on the other side of your bed wasn't where it usually was. Jeongin typically kept to his side—aloof and proud as any demon should be—maintaining the pretense that your soul-binding was merely a matter of convenience for him. Tonight, however, he was practically pressed against your back.

Another thunderclap shook the building, and you felt him tense behind you. In the brief moment of silence that followed, you could have sworn you heard the faintest whimper—so quiet you might have imagined it.

You remembered the day you'd first met him so clearly—a curious ten-year-old with a book of "harmless" spells found in your grandmother's attic. You'd mispronounced the ancient words, drawn the summoning circle slightly crooked, and used birthday candles instead of proper ritual ones. By all accounts, nothing should have worked. But somehow, in that cluttered attic space filled with dust motes and afternoon sunlight, you'd managed to tear a hole between worlds and drag one very irritated demon through it. The binding that followed was equally accidental—your blood from a paper cut mixing with the chalk circle when you'd stumbled in shock. Now, years later, here you both were.

You turned slowly, careful not to disturb him, and found yourself face-to-face with a sight that made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Jeongin, the demon who had been accidentally summoned by your younger, more reckless self, was buried face-first in your pillow, his dark hair splayed across the white fabric. His usually perfect posture had dissolved into something small and vulnerable.

His shoulders were drawn up near his ears, and with each rumble of thunder, they seemed to pull tighter. The mighty demon who could command shadows and bend reality to his will was... hiding from a thunderstorm. Without thinking, your hand moved of its own accord. Your palm found the space between his shoulder blades, and you began to rub gentle circles against the thin fabric of his sleep shirt. The motion was instinctive, comforting—the same way you might soothe a frightened animal.

The effect was immediate and startling.

Jeongin's back arched under your touch, a graceful curve that reminded you distinctly of a cat pressing into a favored caress. The tension in his shoulders began to melt away as your hand continued its slow, steady movements. A sound escaped him—not quite a purr, but something close to it, vibrating low in his throat.

For a moment, the storm seemed secondary to this revelation. The demon bound to your soul, who had spent years maintaining his superiority and otherworldly composure, was responding to your touch like any creature seeking comfort.