Love Language ||Yeongyu/Beomjun FF||

Warmth.

That's what I noticed first.

A strange, unfamiliar kind of warmth.

It took me a second to remember why.

My eyes fluttered open to soft light bleeding through the curtains. A thin sliver of gold on the sheets. My fingers were still lightly tangled with his under the blanket.

I didn't move.

Yeonjun was still asleep.

His chest rose and fell steadily, the same quiet rhythm I'd memorized last night. His hair was a mess. One hand under the pillow. The other still wrapped loosely around mine.

And for the first time in I don't know how long...

I didn't wake up afraid.

No screaming. No cold sweat. No phantom footsteps in the hallway.

Just stillness. Just him.

I stared at the ceiling for a while, breathing slow.

Then I gently let go of his hand and slipped out of bed.

Later

I was in the kitchen when Yeonjun came down, still half-asleep, wearing a loose t-shirt and grey sweats. He looked... softer in the mornings. Less CEO, more human.

"Hey," he said, voice rough with sleep. "You're up early."

I nodded, sipping my tea.

His eyes scanned me, and then—quietly—he smiled.

"You slept."

It wasn't a question.

I looked down, hiding the smallest curve of a smile behind my cup.

He padded over and poured himself some coffee. Didn't say much else. Just stood beside me at the kitchen island, quiet and warm and real.

After a while, he spoke again. "You didn't have to let me in."

I turned to him slowly.

He met my gaze, calm but searching.

"You trusted me with something that matters," he said. "Thank you for that."

I signed, slowly, deliberately:

"You make it easier."

He blinked.

Then set his coffee down and reached over—not for a kiss, not for anything overwhelming. Just a light touch to my wrist, fingers brushing skin like a silent answer.

Something in me settled.

Like maybe this was becoming ours.

A Little Later That Day

I stayed close to him that morning.

Not in a clingy way.

Just near.

While he worked at the sleek desk in his office, I sat on the window bench, legs crossed, sketching absentmindedly in my notebook.

He didn't question it.

Didn't ask why I wasn't doing something else.

He just worked—and let me be.

Sometimes that was all I needed.

At some point, his phone buzzed. He answered briskly, his voice changing slightly—more firm, more executive.

I watched him work. The way his tone shifted. The way he carried power without ever raising it like a weapon.

And for the first time, I saw something I hadn't fully let myself believe until now:

He wasn't just protecting me.

He was teaching me, in the quietest way, that I didn't have to be small to be safe.