Namjoon is awaken slowly by the sound of his door closing.

The first thought that passes him, there’s a whiff of last-night’s coffee and the familiar whirring of his aircon. There’s also a scent. Hers. the smell hits him, subtly, and he half-dreams of a candle, and her skin, the candle heat vaporates her skin into a blur of dissolved yellow, smooth, smells nice, but skin...the image bothers him that his brain it into a shutdown and he wakes up for the second time. He inhales the air, deep, automatic, partly conscious, filling his lung and his head with it. Perhaps that’s why his nose is awake faster than his consciousness.

He rises, sleepily realizing he dozed off on the studio desk.

He wonders how long has he been asleep.

it takes a few blinks for him to register his surrounding. “Hey,” he’s hoarse with slumber, but welcoming, longing for her to come close, almost an instinct than a thought. He streches his back, Jennie is at his door for whatever reason at...2.56 AM—so his desk clock says. “What are you doing here, not—," he yawns, "—sleeping?” with his sleep-heavy voice, his words sound like an empty concern, but it's never like that with him, he always means it. Namjoon slowly feels his arm waking up. He tries turning his chair around but ends up dropping a pen he didn't notice he held.

The sound alerts him vaguely of his situation. He stares at his desk, trying to recollect whatever he left off unfinished last night, scratched lines and scattered cds; his arm wrinkles with a trace of careless snoozing, probably from being bend wrongly, and then he catches Jennie’s reflection on his desk monitor. That jacket they bought, he thinks, faintly, the jacket she said she hates, he thinks. Jennie is small in his arms and she looks small like this. There’s a photo of her pasted in the corner of his screen, taken on his birthday, front view, juxtaposed with her live reflection that only shows her back.

It takes him a staggering moment to realize that that’s all he sees for a few seconds: her back to him and her face on the door.

He frowns.

“Jennie?”

And then he hears it.

Namjoon is stupid like this: he has so much thoughts to sort, so much matters to attend to, he doesn’t see a lock in his luggage so he breaks it. He’s so focused in cutting, so focused in the edge of the knife and how it touched the onion, he doesn’t see the knife handle has finger pads so he gets it all upside down. He knocks down a mug in front of his eyes. He knocks down mugs in front of his eyes. A concrete, sensory bigger picture is not his merit, and just like that, he didn’t realize Jennie came in sobbing until he’s ready to know why she didn’t move an inch, or maybe he can blame it on his current state, but given his history, maybe not.

He stands up, wants to run but realizes it probably is impractical, given his long limbs and small studio, each sob waking him up a little more, a curse to his ignorance, a clench to his throat. He circles his hand around her waist, something his body does without thinking, exercised, but with more urgency this time. "Jennie," he manages to croak, quietly, "my Jennie," and with her trembles, she’s tinier than he remembers. In half-formed thought, Namjoon kinda wanna bury his face in her shampoo smell that makes him a little heady, whose scent he recreates with a diffuser in this room because Jennie doesn’t use perfume, and go to hell for his inability to stop his mind from wandering inappropriately when she’s vulnerable like this. Lack of sleep makes him lacks inhibition, even in the head.

He holds her close for a moment before turning her around and holds her much closer, her nose on his chest, and her cheeks, and her lips, and he feels it all, every inch of her face that he can recite without looking. What’s wrong, Jennie, who did this to you, Jennie, please tell me you didn’t come alone hauling a cab and cried all your way here, babe, there’s so much Namjoon needs to ask her but he listens to her growing sniffles and finds just as much assurance as her in her arms circling around him. There's a plea in her tightening hold: protection. She's chasing comfort, and oh if only she knows how ready he is to hand it all out.

It’s funny. She’s been outside but her hands are warmer than his.

“Sssh..," he whispers, "It’s okay, I’m here,” slowly, lowly, his left fingers relish in her strands, settling gently, or maybe not because he doesn’t know how to do gentle. Her sobs intensifies, gets uncontrollable, her hitches frequent, and he feels it, although differently, the constraint of her feelings, the clutch in his own chest. His eyes are heavy but his heart—his heart, is heavier. Namjoon doesn’t move, for it feels too much, so they stay like that for a while. He can hear the clock beeps softly and a door closes somewhere below. The stillness of the night amplifies every sound in the building.

It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here, It’s okay.

It’s okay.

I'm here.

It’s okay.

It takes quite some time for her to calm down, and for a long while that’s all Namjoon does; calming her down. No question. No guessing. Just him trying to absorb her sorrow as much as he can, as fully as he might, and he knows how to do it, he does it often for s, the people around him, but with Jennie it leaves a dent, he is not a ready punchbag this time; the hit hurts him too. Though she doesn’t know that. And he’s not ready to know that even as it happens. And still, he takes it all in. All. In. In.

Somewhere in between her last sobs, Namjoon has moved them to his sofa. The sofa isn’t small, but it’s meant for one person so Jennie is dangerously all over his body, her limbs crossing horizontally from his own. It’s not new. They do this often. He tries to use this fact to soothe his nerves and focus solely on her, but he never could with her, and he’s kinda guilty that he doesn’t feel guilty even a bit. They’re too close. His heart races. With Jennie, it’s normal.

She breathes in snubbed sounds, notably more relaxed, which is good, her head buried in his armpit, which is bad, and his hand on her neck, way bigger, fitting, unmoving, just being there. He kisses her hair. “Did you have nightmare?” he breathes, asks in hushed secrecy that wouldn’t be heard if it is any morning-er, choosing to give way to the option where it is no one’s fault. He doesn’t expect answer; he just says it to help her ends it, and she knows. He kisses her hair again. And again. And again. Jennie just lets him.

They don't say anything for a long time. Namjoon faintly realizes he dozed off when he has to open his eyes to comprehend what the nice touches he feels are, and sees her kissing his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” her lips familiar, and Namjoon’s mind clouds for a flash second. “Hm,” is all he can say before he clears his throat and murmurs, “For—what?” he looks at the ceiling, and her fingers, her small, know-it-all fingers, presses gently on his neck in her innocent attempt to hug him, and he tries, really; he tries his hardest to hold onto the last watt of consciousness to at least have the needed rationale to be considerate of her condition. He wants to hug her back but just angles his arms instead, too afraid, tentative, careful. She snucks in and he notes incoherently how she fits his neck so much.

“For waking you up.” She breathes in his collarbone, her voice muffled, and Namjoon cannot bear to inhale her scent this time, too close, too ing nice, so he turns his head against her but inhales deep nevertheless. She seems to mistake this gesture. “See, you’re—tired. I saw your desk. I must—I must have bothered your rest.” Her voice small, cautious. She now faces him, her head’s side on his shoulder and her eyes intent on his face, searching. Maybe he shouldn’t wake up. Maybe he should have faked sleep when she kisses him until sleep really takes him.

“No, you’re a nice surprise,” he slurs, reassuringly pats her, and he wills himself to stare back, and that’s when he sees it, her red eyes, and her red nose, and her swollen eyebag, so ing close, but it also reminds him of the strain in his lungs; he instantly feels ed up for even indulging to indecent thoughts when she needs him loving and sane. He kisses her gently—this one, he knows how to do. “Always been,” and he kisses her sorry, “Always will be.” Jennie hums quietly, the sound reverbrates right to his heart, hits him with fondness, and Namjoon knows, in every way that matters, only Jennie can make him feel like this. Proud. Protective. Fond. Belonging. In this level of intensity.

“Joon.” She says, only she calls him that, and it feels like a permission, so he kisses her right, her lips soft, forgiving, very familiar, and he hugs her right, because she cries again, silent, one tear at a time, and it’s her who chases, it’s Jennie who longs, and Namjoon answers every request the way he remembers it, everytime, it’s like they tune back into something they recognize by heart, and he muses in muted thought, if it is appropriate to feel indistinctly happy when kissing someone in misery. They fade into small touches and Namjoon kisses her eyes, soothing, apologetic, stays there longer than he should, knowing they both need it. He closes his eyes and touches her tears with his thumbs, memorizing it before wiping it bare.

And then they fall silent again for a long, long, long moment this time.

They watch in their own mind as something falls in place, maybe everything.

Now that they’re back cuddling very close, all settled, very right, he realizes he is indeed very tired, his eyes struggle to open. He snuggles into her, she snuggles into him, questions hanging in the air but the glitters have reached the snowglobe’s bottom and there’s too little morning to solve everything, and it’s not like she won’t tell him, and maybe it is a little uncomfortable but he is too spent to shift, moving her, and it’s not like she’s heavy but just barely.

His last sensory information before he drifts back to slumber, very drowsy, very warm, very cozy, enveloped in all familiarities he grows to love, he builds into each other, her to his studio and his music to her: her voice whispering to his shoulder, i love you so, so, so much, you idiot, stop saying corny things you can’t know, and maybe that’s enough, thinks sleepily, maybe he would be doomed to misfortune for the rest of his life for the nice feelings he gets with her, universe’s way to balance things out, and he’s okay with that, probably, probably, and then he sleeps, his chest swells, dreams of a cab and and her crying in it.