Chapter Text
Wooyoung wakes slowly, the soft hum of the city outside filtering into his apartment. His face is buried in his pillow, and he groans as he shifts slightly, feeling the dull ache in his body that makes him freeze. He'd slept on his stomach again, for obvious reasons.
The small, single bed feels colder than usual, more empty without San next to him. He's used to sprawling out, limbs tangled together, but last night was different. He sighs heavily into the pillow, his mind replaying the weekend. Saturday had been... intense.
Even if they didn't end up going to that stupid event, the aftermath lingered. San had spent all of Sunday fussing over him, babying him in ways that were sweet but humiliating. Every look from San—those soft, dark eyes full of concern—had Wooyoung alternating between wanting to punch him and melt into his chest.
Now, it's Monday morning, and there's no avoiding the inevitable: he has to go to work. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal, but today, it feels like a cruel joke.
It's not the workday itself that bothers him—it's getting there. His bike is locked up just outside his apartment, waiting for him. Wooyoung knows he could call San for a ride. San would come running, teasing him relentlessly but still doing it with that warm, steady reliability that made Wooyoung's heart ache.
But something stubborn in him refuses.
No. He's not calling San. He can do this.
After brushing his teeth and pulling on a pin stripe suit that fits him perfectly, he grabs his backpack and heads out. Every step feels like an effort, but he makes it to the small bike rack outside without any real mishaps. His bike gleams in the morning sun, neatly locked up, as if mocking him.
Wooyoung unlocks it with a heavy sigh, fingers fumbling slightly with the key. He sets the lock aside and swings his leg over the frame, bracing himself. The moment his weight settles on the seat, he yelps. The pain is sharp and immediate, and he stands up so fast the bike wobbles beneath him.
He hisses, gripping the handlebars tightly as he tries to breathe through it.
There's no way he can sit down. Not like this. He shifts awkwardly, testing the pedals with his feet while standing. The position feels ridiculous, but it's his only option. He pushes off, wincing as the bike starts to roll forward.
The ride is slow and awkward. Wooyoung stands on the pedals, his thighs burning from the extra effort as he weaves through the quiet streets. Each movement sends a faint throb of pain through him, a constant reminder of why he's in this situation in the first place.
"Why did I even argue with him?" he mutters under his breath, glaring down at the pavement as he pedals. The memory of San's smirk flashes in his mind, and he grits his teeth.
He passes a few other commuters on their bikes, doing his best to look normal, like this is just a casual ride. But his legs are shaking, sweat dripping down his back despite the cool morning air.
By the time he finally reaches his office building, his entire body feels like it's on fire. He hops off the bike carefully, wincing as his feet hit the ground. He locks it back up and adjusts his bag, taking a moment to catch his breath.
Staring up at the building, Wooyoung shakes his head. Maybe calling San wouldn't have been so bad after all.
The elevator dings softly as it reaches San's floor, the doors sliding open with an almost ceremonial swish. Wooyoung steps out, his feet heavier than usual, though his resolve pushes him forward. He keeps his head high, ignoring the slight discomfort radiating from his lower half. His hands are empty—a glaring omission that feels like a statement all its own.
No coffee in hand, no peace offering, no words carefully prepared for what he's about to say. Just him, his lingering soreness, and the simmering annoyance at the man waiting at the end of this walk.
When he reaches them, Wooyoung doesn't hesitate. His hand grips the handle, and he pushes the doors open without so much as a knock, the sound of them swinging inward breaking the relative quiet.
San looks up immediately from behind his desk, his pen pausing mid-signature. For a moment, his sharp features shift into something softer—surprise mingling with that ever-present affection in his eyes. Then, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, a subtle curve that makes Wooyoung's stomach twist in ways he won't admit.
"What, no coffee?" San asks, leaning back in his chair with a raised brow. There's a touch of genuine confusion in his voice, but the amusement shines through, as if Wooyoung showing up empty-handed is some kind of joke.
Wooyoung stops in his tracks, standing stiffly on the other side of the desk. His hands drop to his sides, clenching into loose fists before he crosses his arms over his chest. His eyebrows furrow, lips pursing into a pout as he glares at San.
San blinks at him, his brow furrowing slightly as though he's piecing something together. Then his lips twitch again, his voice dipping into that teasing tone Wooyoung both loves and hates.
"Oh, no. Tell me what's wrong. Don't be a brat."
Wooyoung bristles instantly, his jaw tightening as he straightens his posture. How dare he? His face flushes, both from indignation and the faint embarrassment creeping up his spine.
"My ass hurts," Wooyoung huffs, the words spilling out before he can stop them. His pout deepens, and he fixes San with a glare that could cut glass.
San's reaction is instant. His smile widens, a spark of amusement lighting up his dark eyes. He lifts a hand, pressing his fingers to his lips to stifle a laugh, but it's useless. Wooyoung can see his shoulders shaking slightly as he tries to hold it in.
"I'm serious," Wooyoung snaps, stomping one foot like a petulant child. "No more coffee until I can ride my bike without crying."
San's hand lowers just enough to reveal the grin he's still failing to hide.
"Did you cry?" he asks, his tone teetering on the edge between teasing and genuine curiosity.
"No," Wooyoung snaps again, his voice pitching higher in frustration. "But I almost did."
That sets San off entirely. He lets out a soft laugh, low and warm, leaning back in his chair with an ease that only makes Wooyoung's irritation grow.
"Almost, huh?" San says, smirking as he eyes Wooyoung up and down. "That bad?"
"Yes, that bad," Wooyoung says through gritted teeth. He shifts on his feet again, trying to find a comfortable position, but even the smallest movement makes him wince. San catches it immediately, and the teasing in his expression softens.
"C'mere," San says, his voice gentler now, though the command is still there.
"No," Wooyoung snaps, taking a step back.
"Wooyoung," San sighs, his tone low and coaxing. "C'mere."
Wooyoung hesitates, his arms tightening around himself as he glares at San. But the look in San's eyes—steady, calm, and just a little smug—pulls him forward against his will. He steps around the desk with a huff, coming to stand next to San's chair.
San doesn't waste a second. His hand slides around Wooyoung's waist, pulling him close enough to trap him in place. The touch is warm, steady, and maddeningly comforting.
"Next time," San murmurs, his voice dropping to a low rumble, "just call me for a ride. No one's making you suffer except yourself."
Wooyoung glares down at him, but it lacks any real heat. "If I call you, you're just going to make fun of me."
San grins, his hand giving Wooyoung's waist a light squeeze. "I'm making fun of you now, and I didn't even have to drive."
Wooyoung's lips press into a thin line as he glares at San, but the tension in his body gives him away. He's trying to hold onto his defiance, trying not to give San the satisfaction of knowing just how much this moment is unraveling him.
San's hand rests lightly around Wooyoung's waist, his fingers brushing just above the sensitive skin he's careful not to touch. It's deliberate—comforting in a way that feels almost mocking, as if San knows exactly how to disarm him without a single word.
"You hit hard," Wooyoung mutters, his voice low and tinged with embarrassment. His cheeks burn, but he refuses to look away.
San raises an eyebrow, his expression calm and unreadable.
"You were the one who needed to be reminded," he replies evenly, his tone leaving no room for argument. Wooyoung bristles, his body stiffening in San's hold, but San doesn't let him pull away. His fingers stay firm, grounding him in place.
"Why don't you just work in here?" San suggests after a beat, his voice softer now, though no less authoritative. "You can lay on your stomach."
"What?" Wooyoung's eyes widen as he looks down at him, trying to meet his gaze, but San's focus stays locked on his waist. The fitted fabric of Wooyoung's work clothes hugs his frame, and San's eyes linger there for a moment too long, no doubt noticing how well the suit accentuates his small waist.
"People will ask questions," Wooyoung protests, his tone sharp but faltering under San's steady gaze. "They've already seen me come in."
"No one will ask," San counters, finally looking up to meet Wooyoung's eyes. His calm confidence is maddening. "I'll tell them you got a stomachache from coffee."
"A stomachache?" Wooyoung repeats, blinking at him in disbelief.
San's lips quirk into a faint smirk, unbothered. "It's plausible."
"So I'll just... lay here in your office?" Wooyoung presses, his eyebrows furrowing as he gestures around the room. "On the floor?"
"It's clean," San replies, his tone casual, as if it's the most reasonable solution in the world. Wooyoung stares at him, at the way he's completely unfazed by the suggestion. The nerve of him.
"I'm not lying on the floor of your office like some sick pet," he huffs, crossing his arms.
"You wouldn't be on the floor," San says, his smirk growing. "I'd give you the couch."
Wooyoung glances over at the sleek, leather couch near the corner of the room. It does look clean, pristine even, but the thought of lying there under San's watchful eye makes his stomach flip. He narrows his eyes at him.
"This is ridiculous."
"And yet, here you are," San replies smoothly, his hand giving Wooyoung's waist the smallest squeeze. His voice drops a little lower, the teasing edge softening. "Let me take care of you."
Wooyoung's resolve falters. He hates how easily San gets under his skin, how his words seem to wrap around him like a warm blanket, softening all his sharp edges. After a moment of silence, he exhales a long, drawn-out sigh.
"If I do this, you're buying me lunch," he mutters.
San's grin widens. "Deal."
And so, Wooyoung sprawls onto San's couch, the black leather fitting perfectly into San's minimalist, no-nonsense aesthetic. The material is cold against his skin, a stark contrast to the lingering burn beneath his clothes. But at least he isn't sitting directly on the raw skin, and the relief is enough to keep him there.
The cushions barely give under his weight, and as he settles, the faint creak of the leather is the only sound in the room aside from San's pen scratching on paper. Wooyoung shifts slightly, trying to find a position that feels natural, though every movement reminds him of his tender state.
"I can move some meetings around," San announces suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet.
Wooyoung, who has just managed to get comfortable, props himself up on his elbows and peers over the armrest. His brow furrows slightly as he watches San jot something down, his tone as calm as ever but carrying an underlying suggestion.
"I want to go," Wooyoung says, his voice steady but tinged with something defensive.
San's hand pauses mid-motion, his head lifting to give Wooyoung a sharp, pointed look. It's the start of a warning—a silent reminder not to push himself too far.
"I can sit down," Wooyoung continues, keeping his gaze steady and his tone matter-of-fact. "Just not for long periods. And with Seonghwa's tour, you need all hands on deck."
San stares at him for a moment, his gaze unwavering as he weighs Wooyoung's words. Wooyoung tries to keep his expression neutral, not challenging but resolute. It's the truth, after all, and he knows San needs him there.
"If you can't sit, you'll excuse yourself and come back here," San says finally, his voice firm and leaving no room for argument. The words are a compromise, but the tone makes it clear: Wooyoung is not to push beyond what his body can handle. If it hurts, he leaves. Even if his pride tells him otherwise.
"I will," Wooyoung nods, his voice quieter now but full of assurance. He meets San's eyes with a hint of vulnerability, letting him know he understands. He'll do what San asks, even if the thought of excusing himself in the middle of a meeting makes him cringe internally.
San's gaze softens slightly, and he exhales through his nose.
"Then just lie there until the meeting starts," he instructs, his tone still carrying authority but gentler now.
Wooyoung lowers his head back onto the couch with a quiet huff. He knows what San is really doing—forcing him to rest, probably worried he went too hard. But lying there doing nothing feels unbearable, even in his current state.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocking it with a few swipes, and starts answering emails. His fingers move quickly across the screen as he replies to inquiries, reviews documents, and organizes the rest of his day. It's work, but easy enough to do from the couch.
San glances up from his desk, catching the soft glow of Wooyoung's phone reflecting on his face. He doesn't say anything, though the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, almost as if he knows Wooyoung can't sit still.
For now, it's quiet. And Wooyoung works from the couch, pretending the sting doesn't still linger in every small shift of his body.
Wooyoung works from his phone for at least an hour—he's sure of it—but eventually the tiny screen starts to strain his eyes. The words blur slightly, and a faint ache builds behind his temples. Maybe he should have asked San to grab coffee after all. San would have gotten it without hesitation, not even a single complaint.
With a sigh, Wooyoung slumps deeper into the couch, letting his body sink into the cold, unyielding leather. His head turns to the side, cheek pressing into the smooth surface. It smells clean, almost sterile, like it's never been used. Knowing San, that's probably true. Wooyoung's never seen him sit here, not once. It's just another piece of furniture in this perfectly curated office, untouched and pristine.
His eyes start to drift closed, heavy with the lack of caffeine and the faint exhaustion of an early morning. A small smile tugs at his lips as a thought flutters into his mind—something mischievous, something to break the silence and entertain himself.
"San," he calls lazily, his voice muffled against the couch.
"Hm?" San hums without looking up, the sound of his pen scratching against paper steady and rhythmic.
"I want to cut my hair," Wooyoung says, deadpan but loud enough to be heard.
"What?" San's voice is sharp, startled, and Wooyoung has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He lifts his head just in time to catch the wide-eyed look of disbelief on San's face.
It's priceless. The way San's dark eyes widen, his pen frozen mid-air, his usually composed expression crumbling into something adorable and full of worry. Wooyoung feels his heart clench, equal parts amused and fond.
"You want to?" San asks again, this time softer, his voice tinged with hesitation. Wooyoung grins, unable to help himself.
"Not super short," he says casually, tilting his head to the side as if he's considering it seriously. "Just... off my shoulders."
San's eyes flicker to the ends of Wooyoung's hair, studying the way it falls past his shoulders, then back to his face. His brows draw together in concern, and it's so cute.
"If—if you want to," San stammers, his voice uncharacteristically unsure. San never stutters, never hesitates, and the rare moment of uncertainty makes Wooyoung chuckle.
"It'll grow back," Wooyoung says, his tone light and teasing. "I can't keep eight inches of hair down my back forever, San."
It's an exaggeration but San's jaw tightens slightly, his lips press into a thin line like he's trying not to say something. Wooyoung watches as his boyfriend's gaze drifts back to the ends of his hair, his fingers twitching as if he's resisting the urge to touch them.
"It's just hair," Wooyoung adds, laughing softly. "You're acting like I told you I want to shave my head."
San lets out a small, quiet sigh, his shoulders relaxing just a little.
"I just like your hair the way it is," he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. Wooyoung feels his cheeks warm slightly, his grin softening into something more genuine.
"You'll like it no matter what," he teases, his voice gentle. San looks at him, his gaze steady but tender.
"Of course I will," he replies, his tone firm. Then, after a beat, he adds, "But don't expect me to book the appointment. That's all you."
Wooyoung thinks that's fair—that if he's going to cut his hair, San won't have any part in it. Still, as he lowers his head, hair falling forward to frame his face, he finds himself mulling over the idea. He's always liked his hair longer; there's something undeniably pretty about the way it falls just past his shoulders, soft and silky to the touch.
It wasn't always this way. When he was younger and his hair was short, it was so much easier to deal with—no knots, no fuss. But back then, he hadn't cared much about looking pretty. Now, he knows the power his appearance holds, the confidence his hair gives him. Even now, with the ache in his body and the soreness that refuses to fade, he still feels a little vain. He tilts his head slightly, letting the strands sway forward like a curtain.
"Do you want to go to the meeting or stay here?" San's voice breaks through his thoughts, calm but deliberate.
Wooyoung blinks, looking up at him.
"I'll go," he answers quickly, determined to push through the discomfort.
The second he stands, though, his body protests. Pain flares up, stretching raw skin with each small movement, but he forces himself to keep his face neutral.
San doesn't say anything, but the sharp way his eyes track every motion doesn't go unnoticed. Wooyoung knows that look—it's worry, plain and simple. San won't voice it, not here, not in front of others, but it's there all the same, written in the tight set of his jaw and the slight downturn of his lips.
Wooyoung brushes him off with a flick of his hand, walking to his desk with measured steps. He pulls open the drawer and grabs his notebook, but when he glances up again, San's still watching him. The concern in his eyes is more evident now, a silent question hanging in the air.
"San?" Wooyoung raises his eyebrows, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation.
San nods once, but his shoulders remain tense. The worry hasn't gone anywhere.
Wooyoung hesitates for a beat, wanting to say something to ease his mind, but they're surrounded by people. Everyone on this floor can see them—his coworkers, San's subordinates.
This isn't the time to kiss him and really show that he's alright.
Instead, he straightens his posture and says, "I'm ready, sir. Are you?"
The word sir lands with precision, snapping San out of his thoughts. His professional demeanor returns almost instantly, the shift so seamless that Wooyoung nearly grins.
"Yes, sorry," San replies, his voice clipped and brisk, the picture of composure.
Satisfied, Wooyoung nods. He knows San is still worried—he can feel it in the way his gaze lingers a second too long—but for now, it's enough.
As San turns to lead the way, Wooyoung follows a step behind, his eyes drifting to the clean lines of San's gray vest. The fabric hugs his frame perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and the subtle taper of his waist. Wooyoung knows that waist far too well—he's traced it, held it, admired it in ways no one else ever will.
He clears his throat, dragging his gaze upward. Now is not the time for thoughts like that.
They step into the elevator together, and Wooyoung instinctively takes his usual place behind San. The doors slide shut with a quiet whoosh, sealing them in the small space as the elevator begins its descent.
The silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft hum of the machinery. Wooyoung's eyes flicker to the back of San's head, then lower to the curve of his neck and shoulders. He bites his lip, trying to ignore the warmth spreading across his cheeks.
"I can handle myself," he says suddenly, his voice quiet but steady. His gaze lingers on the back of San's waist, and he hesitates before adding, "I won't slip in the workplace... I don't even think I could slip without you."
The last part comes out softer, almost shy. His cheeks flush pink despite the fact that San isn't even looking at him.
San's shoulders shake slightly, and then he lets out a low chuckle, the sound warm and rich as his head dips forward.
"What?" Wooyoung narrows his eyes, a mixture of curiosity and irritation sparking in his chest. "Why are you laughing?"
The elevator dings, the doors sliding open just as San steps forward into the hall.
"I'll tell you later," San says over his shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"That is so unfair," Wooyoung huffs, quickening his pace to follow. But despite his words, there's a small smile playing on his lips. He doesn't know what San's thinking, but he can't deny that he likes the sound of his laugh.
Wooyoung sits away from San in the meeting room, positioning himself a row behind his boyfriend. The office chair beneath him feels like torture, the firm plastic pressing mercilessly against his sore skin. He shifts uncomfortably, his ass burning as if the cherry-red color it's no doubt sporting is a heat source in itself.
He forces himself to focus, flipping open his notebook to skim through the notes he'd written earlier. Seonghwa's upcoming tour logistics... Jongho's variety show schedule... It's all there, meticulously outlined. But the dull ache in his body and the constant awareness of San sitting just ahead of him make it hard to concentrate.
"Mr. Choi, we missed you at the event this weekend."
The voice cuts through the low hum of chatter, freezing Wooyoung mid-note. His pen stills above the page, a faint tremble in his fingers as he glances up. Of course, someone would mention the event. The very event they'd both planned to attend, dressed to the nines, before everything fell apart because of his own big mouth.
He doesn't dare look at San, but he can feel the weight of the attention in the room shift to the man at the head of the table. What can San even say to that? It's not like he can explain the truth:
Oh, my boyfriend was being a brat, so I spanked him so hard he couldn't sit down, and we didn't go.
San's voice comes smoothly, like water over polished stone.
"I think I had food poisoning or something. It was not pretty." He chuckles lightly, his tone easy and practiced. "I figured Wooyoung didn't have to go if I wasn't going."
Wooyoung bites the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting. The lie rolls off San's tongue so naturally it almost makes him believe it. It's clever, too—plausible. San having food poisoning? Completely believable.
Even if Wooyoung makes his meals now, he wouldn't purposely give him food poisoning but for all of these workers who know nothing about him, it's enough.
The room seems to buy it without question, a few polite laughs rippling through the group before San moves to cut the conversation short. "Let's get this meeting started," he says, his tone brisk and commanding, signaling the end of pleasantries.
Wooyoung exhales slowly, tension melting from his shoulders. The attention shifts away from them as the meeting begins in earnest. He grips his pen tightly, his knuckles faintly white as he writes down everything San goes over. Logistics, deadlines, task assignments—it's all second nature to him, even with the persistent throb that refuses to fade.
For a moment, the pain dulls, reduced to a manageable ache that he almost forgets is there. But then he shifts—just slightly, without thinking—and a sharp, biting pain shoots up his spine, startling him into a stiff jolt.
He freezes, willing himself to keep his expression neutral. No one's looking at him, but the last thing he needs is for anyone to notice his discomfort. Especially San.
Instead, Wooyoung grits his teeth and refocuses on the page in front of him. He's good at his job, and he'll be damned if he lets something like this stop him from performing. But still, he knows this meeting will feel like the longest hour of his life.
The meeting ends, and they file out into the hall. Wooyoung's ass feels like it's been through a war. It throbs with every step, the sting flaring up with each shift of his body. He grits his teeth and straightens his posture, keeping his hands clenched by his sides. He tells himself that this is fine, that he can manage it, even as the ache radiates through him.
He follows San into the elevator, standing a step behind him as usual. The silence stretches between them, the soft hum of the elevator filling the space. Wooyoung stares at San's back, the tailored suit jacket perfectly framing his broad shoulders. He can't decide if he's grateful or annoyed that San doesn't look back at him.
By the time they reach San's office, Wooyoung is ready to collapse. He shuts the door behind him, clicking the lock shut with a sense of finality.
San doesn't seem to notice—or care. Wooyoung doesn't wait for him to say anything, already making his way to the couch. He sprawls out on his stomach, letting the cool leather soothe some of the heat still lingering on his skin. His cheek presses into the couch, and he lets out a soft, frustrated sigh.
Behind him, San stops just short of his desk.
"Honey?" he asks, voice gentle but cautious.
"It'll pass," Wooyoung mumbles, though he doesn't sound convinced even to himself. San doesn't move for a moment, then he takes a step forward.
"I went too hard." His voice is soft, tinged with regret, and when Wooyoung lifts his head just enough to see him, San is walking over. He kneels beside the couch, his hands careful as one comes to rest against the side of Wooyoung's head.
"I'm sorry," San murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over his temple. His dark eyes are full of something that makes Wooyoung's heart clench—guilt, softness, love.
Wooyoung meets his gaze, the intensity of it almost overwhelming. He feels his cheeks heat, but he doesn't look away.
"I liked it," he whispers, his voice quiet and tinged with embarrassment. His eyes drop for a moment before flickering back to San's. "I really did, San."
San's brow furrows slightly, his lips parting as though he wants to say something, but he stops himself. Instead, his thumb continues its slow, comforting motion, and his other hand moves to rest lightly against Wooyoung's forearm.
"I know," San says softly, his voice so tender that Wooyoung feels his chest tighten. "But still, I'll be more careful next time."
Wooyoung hums, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the soreness in his body. "Next time, huh?"
"Yeah, next time," San murmurs softly, the words almost lost in the quiet of the room. His voice shifts, as if contemplating something new, something that might make Wooyoung forget the pain. "Maybe I'll change it up though. You're in pain."
Wooyoung raises an eyebrow, his eyes still focused on the couch, but his mind snapping back to the present.
"What did you expect when you beat my ass fifteen times?" he says, his voice more playful than he feels. "Sixteen if you count that time in the limo."
San laughs softly, and the sound is low, like he's reliving the memory in his head.
"You looked so cute," he whispers, almost dreamlike, as if the memory is a treasure he's holding onto. "Teary-eyed... embarrassed..."
Wooyoung's cheeks burn instantly, the heat spreading to his neck. He's thankful that San can't see the full extent of his reaction, so he turns his head, pressing his face into the other side of the couch. It's the safest place to hide his blush, away from the sharp gaze of someone who never seems to get embarrassed, always so in control, always so put together.
The contrast between them feels more evident now. Wooyoung's hand instinctively goes to his hair, fingers pulling through the strands in an attempt to steady himself.
But then, that familiar warmth. A soft hand threading through his hair, the same gentle pressure he knows so well. San's fingers tug lightly at the strands, smoothing and calming him in a way that makes his breath catch. Wooyoung rolls his eyes, knowing that if San could see his face, he'd be getting a scolding for his attitude.
Still, the touch is soothing, like a balm to the rawness he's feeling inside.
"Let me take you home."
The words hang between them, soft but insistent. Home. Wooyoung's chest tightens at the thought. They've never called either of their apartments "home" before, not in any real sense. But there's something in the way San says it that makes Wooyoung believe he's referring to his apartment.
"Now?" Wooyoung murmurs, his voice still tinged with that reluctant professionalism. "We have work."
San's hand stills in his hair for a brief moment before resuming its gentle motion.
"If you keep sitting on it, it'll get worse." His tone is almost like a soft command, something Wooyoung can't ignore. Wooyoung swallows, the truth of San's words sinking in. The pain in his body is only going to intensify if he stays here.
"Fine," Wooyoung murmurs, his voice low and slightly strained, as though conceding feels like defeat. He lifts his head just enough to shoot San a pointed look. "This doesn't mean anything. I am still capable and able to work."
"Of course," San replies smoothly, though the faintest hint of a smirk dances at the corner of his lips. His hand, still tangled in Wooyoung's hair, tugs just a little harsher. The sharp pull sends a jolt through Wooyoung, who lets out a soft, involuntary sound.
"You're a very good boy," San says, his tone dipping into something warmer, sweeter.
"San," Wooyoung hisses, his cheeks burning hot enough to rival the sting in his ass. He glares, but it doesn't have the edge he wants it to, not with the way his heart stumbles at the words.
San chuckles, low and teasing, and finally pulls his hand away, smoothing the strands of Wooyoung's hair like an afterthought.
"Come on, sweet boy," he murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing now. "I'll get you home."
Home.
The word hits Wooyoung like a sudden wave, pulling him under for a moment. Home? He doesn't miss the way San says it so casually, so naturally. He doesn't mean Wooyoung's apartment—no, San is referring to his own place.
San. His apartment. Home.
The thought makes something stir in Wooyoung's chest, a quiet, unspoken warmth that he quickly tries to shove down. Instead of answering, he lets out a small huff and pushes himself up off the couch, wincing as his sore body protests.
San stands and waits, holding his hand out to Wooyoung as though it's the most normal thing in the world. And for them, maybe it is.