It’s an hour when Seoul runs on soju cups and lamplights, and there’s a kind of stillness that sweeps into the room just as the final strains of elastic-rubber laughter are falling over deaf ears. Spread out on the round glass table are splayed chopsticks, crumpled napkins and several bowls of jajangmyeon, stained from heart to rim with black bean dregs and missionary disquietude.

Minwoo and Jun Jin had excused themselves hours ago on account of their schedules. Hyesung has been sleeping on the couch for a while now, his soundless breaths tickling the hem of your collar. It's late enough that your own schedule for the next day is in danger of imploding, but somehow you cannot bring yourself to fall asleep.

The threadbare jacket covering Hyesung is a miserable substitute for a blanket and you should wake him up and ask him to leave, but something of a cloying knot grows in your throat and instead you get up to fetch something with more thermal efficacy. When you return you find that Hyesung had shifted his position, taking up the entire couch. You know he’s a light sleeper so you’re careful not to wake him. The linen sheet fits perfectly around his shoulders, draped in slender acuity and hebetudinous grace, as if it’s right where it belongs.

As if it’s meant to be.