Song :Good Intentions
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The raven-haired man tapped his phone screen.
12:20 a.m.
The numbers glowed in the dark.
"Oh, damn."
He shot up from his chair, hastily gathering his things.
Focusing on the song he'd been working on had taken up so much time that he completely forgot someone was waiting for him.
Minho. A foolish smile tugged at his lips the moment the name crossed his mind.
His lover probably hated the thought of him coming home late. That meant there was a high chance he'd get an earful.
At the entrance of his apartment, he kicked off his shoes, shrugged off his coat, and slid his bag off his shoulder.
The space wasn't big.
Right across from the door was a small kitchen, separated by a partition. A little further ahead was the living room, with a large gray couch adorned with violet cushions.
It didn't match his taste at all, but knowing his lover had chosen every detail made it feel like home.
He was about to head to their bedroom when something—someone—caught his eye.
Behind the couch, in the empty space where a small dining table and two chairs sat, a figure was slumped over.
Minho.
Fast asleep, using his arms as a pillow.
Guilt settled deep in Chan's chest as he sighed softly and reached out to brush a hand over Minho's back.
"Minho, baby."
The younger stirred, blinking drowsily. He was exhausted, and if it weren't Chan waking him, he wouldn't have bothered lifting his head.
Rubbing his eyes, he mumbled, "You're late."
"Again."
"I'm sorry, baby," Chan whispered, crouching to his level.
"Idiot," Minho muttered, his voice laced with grogginess. Without another word, he stretched his arms out, pulling his lover into an embrace.
Chan chuckled, wrapping his own arms around him, pressing a few light kisses along his neck.
Then, with ease, he lifted Minho off the chair. The younger instinctively wrapped his legs around Chan's waist, letting himself be carried.
"Is my beautiful baby tired?"
"My whole body is stiff."
"Hmm, well, you know I have magic hands," Chan teased, squeezing Minho's thighs under the guise of adjusting his grip.
Minho stifled a laugh against the crook of Chan's neck, warmth settling deep in his chest.
"I miss you, Chan."
His voice was small.
"I know you're busy, but I really need you."
Chan lowered them onto the bed, settling Minho beside him. His fingers traced along the curve of Minho's neck, pausing when he felt dampness against his skin.
"Are you crying?"
Minho shook his head quickly, but his glossy eyes betrayed him.
"I just love you," he murmured, his voice catching. "And I want to see you more."
Chan's heart clenched.
Minho wasn't the type to say things like this. He usually expressed himself differently—with teasing, with playful hits or sharp bites.
But right now, he looked desperate.
Lifting a gentle hand, Chan tilted Minho's chin up, making him meet his gaze.
His thumb brushed over his lips, smoothing out the small frown.
"My love, I'm sorry for making you feel this way." His voice was low, sincere. "I'll be more careful."
He leaned in, pressing soft kisses along Minho's cheeks, his eyes, the tip of his nose.
"I love you, Minho," he whispered, before finally sealing their lips in a kiss—tender and delicate, just like his beloved.
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I know I come home a little too late
Waking you up and making you wait.