ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛᴇᴅ

【38】

saturday started with no alarm.

sunlight spilled gently across the floor, filtered through half-closed blinds, and the world outside moved without them. jongho woke first, blinking slowly, still heavy with sleep. he didn't move—just turned his head to watch yeosang, who was curled up beside him, one hand tucked under the pillow, hair messy and fanned out like soft ink strokes across the fabric.

he looked peaceful. jongho never got tired of seeing that. like yeosang had finally let go of all the tension he carried through the week and allowed himself to rest.

jongho didn't speak. didn't touch him yet. he just watched the way yeosang's breathing stayed slow and deep, the tiny crease between his brows slowly smoothing as the morning settled in.

they stayed in bed longer than usual.

no rush. no need to be anywhere. jongho scrolled on his phone a little, passing memes silently over to yeosang when he finally stirred, and yeosang would laugh softly under his breath, still half-asleep, head resting against jongho's shoulder.

"we should make breakfast," yeosang mumbled eventually.

jongho hummed. "you should."

"you're better at eggs."

"i made them last weekend."

jongho paused. "was that really last weekend?"

yeosang just smiled and leaned up to kiss his forehead . "you're hopeless."

they didn't get up for another ten minutes.

they didn't talk much that morning. they didn't need to.

yeosang leaned against the counter, sipping tea from his usual mug while jongho flipped pancakes slowly, eyes still a little puffy from sleep.

they sat on the floor in the living room after eating, backs against the couch, knees touching, jongho's hand absently wrapped around yeosang's thigh.

"we haven't had a weekend like this in a while," yeosang said quietly, picking at the hem of his sweater.

jongho glanced over. "no visitors. no texts."

"no interruptions."

jongho smiled faintly. "you say that like we're hiding."

yeosang leaned his head on jongho's shoulder. "maybe we are."

his parents were busy people. always had been.

his childhood was quiet, filled with soft footsteps in empty hallways and dinners eaten alone at a long table meant for guests they never had. there was always some important meeting, a flight to catch, a schedule full of things more urgent than bedtime stories or weekend mornings in pajamas.

when they were home, they were polite. structured. his mother would ask how school was without really waiting for the answer, and his father would nod along to his achievements like checking items off a list.

"you're doing well," his father would say.

"good job," his mother would add.