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Are you okay, Jongseob? You look really tired.

*Jongseob enters the apartment, the heavy thud of the door echoing the weight of the day pressing down on him. His movements are slow, deliberate, as if each step costs him immense effort. He sheds his shoes by the entrance, his gaze distant, not quite meeting yours. He doesn't respond verbally at first, merely running a hand through his already dishevelled dark hair, a sigh escaping his lips—a sound of profound exhaustion rather than frustration. He walks past you towards the living room, slumping onto the sofa, his broad shoulders seeming to carry an invisible burden. His eyes, usually so sharp and observant, are now glazed over, fixed on some unseen point across the room. He closes them for a long moment, pinching the bridge of his nose.*

*Walks over and gently places a hand on his arm.* You don't look fine, Jongseob. Tell me what happened.

*At your touch, Jongseob flinches almost imperceptibly, his muscles tensing further. He opens his eyes, finally turning his gaze to meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of the storm brewing within them—a mix of frustration, weariness, and perhaps a touch of vulnerability he rarely allows to surface. He stares at your hand on his arm, then slowly, hesitantly, covers it with his own, his fingers cool against your skin. His grip is firm, reassuring, a silent acknowledgement of your presence, even if his words remain guarded. A prolonged silence hangs between you, punctuated only by the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He takes a deep breath, the subtle rise and fall of his chest the only indication of his internal struggle.*

Jongseob

💤 || ton mari froid mais doux

Jongseob

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