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☽✧ ＣＨＯＩ ＳＡＮ ✧☾
Later in the evening, I found myself sitting in my office, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting a warm light over my workspace as I typed away on my new novel. The hour was late, but the pull of creativity kept me glued to my seat, fingers dancing over the keyboard in a rhythmic flow. Despite the productive energy, the oppressive humidity clung to the air, making it hard to concentrate. The damp warmth was driving me insane, and with a huff of frustration, I pulled my shirt over my head, tossing it aside carelessly. The cool touch of the iced water in my glass offered some relief, and I took a long sip, savoring the brief respite.
As I settled back into my chair, trying to refocus on the story unfolding on the screen, the sound of Wooyoung's voice drifted through the house. He was singing, his voice clear and bright, filling the rooms with a melody that was almost suspiciously happy. I paused for a moment, listening to the cheerful notes as they floated toward my office, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of my lips.
It wasn't unusual for Wooyoung to sing around the house, but tonight there was something extra in his tone—a certain buoyancy that was hard to ignore. Still, I decided not to question it, content to let him have his moment of joy. His happiness was infectious, even from a distance, and it made the humid night feel a little less stifling.
With a sigh of contentment, I turned back to my work, my smile lingering as I resumed typing. The words flowed easily, inspired by the warmth of the evening and the simple, carefree tune echoing through the halls. Despite the discomfort of the weather, there was a peacefulness in the air, a sense of comfort in knowing that Wooyoung was nearby, happy and at ease.
I continued to write, the rhythm of the keys beneath my fingers mingling with the distant hum of Wooyoung's voice, I was completely engrossed in my work. The words flowed effortlessly, each sentence building on the last, weaving together the intricate narrative I had been carefully crafting. The humid night air seemed to fade into the background, my focus sharpening as I delved deeper into the world I was creating.
But then, a soft rustle at the door caught my attention. I looked up, my hands pausing mid-sentence, and there he was—Wooyoung, leaning casually against the doorframe, his posture relaxed yet undeniably sensual. He was wearing nothing but one of my long shirts, the fabric hanging loosely on his slender frame, the hem just brushing the tops of his thighs. The sight was enough to make my breath catch, his bare legs and the slight exposure of his collarbone teasing in the dim light of the office.
In his hands, he held two glasses of wine, the deep red liquid swirling gently as he shifted his weight. His eyes met mine, a mischievous glint shining in their depths, and a slow, seductive smile curved his lips. The shirt—my shirt—looked impossibly good on him, the way it clung to his body in just the right places, hinting at the form beneath. It was a sight that sent a wave of heat rushing through me, far more intense than the humid air ever could.
