I don’t like couches.

Why? Why do I secretly resent a piece of furniture that’s arguably the most comfortable and cushioned household item? 

Answer: I don’t like the memories I’ve associated with couches. 

To most, they’re a sign of social gatherings. Or maybe a lazy Sunday watching TV. Perhaps a Christmas morning, tearing open presents and cuddling with a pet. 

Couches to me mean disappointment. 

Long hours, back aching, fingers trembling, waiting on the cushioned furniture. Clock ticking, ticking, ticking, shouting at me, screaming that waiting is futile. Yet, I would sit, crisscross applesauce, on our tattered blue linen couch, waiting for a woman who would never show up. 

“!”

The exclamation makes my heart quiver, my fingers tightening around the precious bowl of cheese popcorn that I- the microwave- just made.

“Oh, ing , c’mon!” 

My eyes narrow into slits, an exasperated sigh escaping me.

I’ve found it. The one ick about Lee Jeno I dislike. 

Setting down the bowl on the coffee table, I fall to the empty space beside him, curling myself into a ball. His couch is comfy, plush, and warm, it’s like sitting on a melted marshmallow. 

“head,” Jeno grinds out, and I sit up to shove at his bicep.

Jeno swears like a drunk pirate when he’s on the PlayStation. The whole world is lost to him. The only thing that exists is his plastic controller and the color screen that might induce a seizure.

The TV flashes red, the words Game Over appearing in bold letters. Jeno slams the controller onto the couch, lips curved into a deep frown.

“I’m never playing this ing game again,” he declares. “It’s ing-.”

“In the past thirty minutes you’ve been playing, I’ve heard you use every curse word in the dictionary, Lee Jeno,” I interrupt, jabbing my finger at his stomach. He grabs my wrist and fiddles with the yellow thread bracelet he bought me, frown morphing into a pout. 

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” I guffaw, and oh boy- I’ve unknowingly set myself up. 

The goddamn pout twists into a sly smirk. “No, I kiss you.” 

Jeno pounces at me like a wild cat, and I’m forced onto my back, immobilized by his solid body that’s too big and heavy for me to shove off. 

“Jeno!” I squeak, and he pinches my lips shut, cradling my head with his free hand.

He clicks his tongue, irritation flaring in his coal pupils. “What did I say about calling me by name?” 

“You don’t like it,” I mumble, squirming violently. Jeno holds me steady by the base of my throat, and I stop breathing. The control he’s gaining over my body is getting dangerous.

“And what do I like?” He croons, sliding his fingers in my hair. 

“When I call you baby,” I recite, and his head dips lower until our noses touch. 

“I’m baby to you,” he whispers, and then he kisses me like I’m his only source of water in a hot desert.

Jeno's kisses feel like a punishment that’s dressed as a reward. His mouth attacks mine like a ing dementor souls, but his hands caress my cheeks like I’m the finest piece of china glass this world has to offer. 

Safe to say, ever since our first kiss two nights ago in front of the grocery store, he’s redefined my definition of a kiss and shot my standards into outer space. I won’t ever be able to settle for anything less. 

I claw at his back to break us apart, gasping so loud, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

“I’ll never get used to the way you kiss,” I mutter, and Jeno chuckles into my ear, teeth grazing my earlobe. 

I slam a fist on his chest. How dare he laugh at me! “You kiss like a cannibal! Like you’re going to eat me alive!” I growl and amusement contorts every feature of his lovable face.

Balancing his weight on his forearms, he hovers mere centimeters above my dainty body, our legs tangling. “Princess, the only thing I’ll eat is your-”

“Don’t!” I scream, well aware of what word was going to leave his mouth. 

Jeno snickers, kissing my flushed cheeks. “I’m excited,” he confesses while I draw circles on the mole under his left eye.

“About what?” 

“I can’t wait to corrupt you.”

His reply is so blatant, a knife straight to my windpipes. I choke on my saliva, and Jeno tucks my hair behind my ears.

“I’m going to make your pretty mouth scream all the dirtiest words in the dictionary. Mark. My. Words,” he grunts.

Jeno seals the promise with an eye smile that melts my core and I make a face at him. 

“I don’t like it when you say things like that,” I admit, and he slides his hands under my head, bringing my lips closer to his. 

“Does it scare you?” He asks softly, and I know if I tell him to stop saying such crude things, he would. 

I shake my head and tap my pointer finger on his bottom lip. He playfully chomps down on my flesh, and I giggle. 

“No, it worries me,” I reveal, my arms wrapping around his neck. “I might enjoy it a little too much,” I say against his smirk, and Jeno kisses me again.

I’m floating and falling. 

Maybe couches aren’t too bad. I only like them when I’m under him.  

Mi casa es tu casa.

The only Spanish I know.

“What is this?” I ask, strolling out of my bedroom to watch Jeno set down a rectangular box and duffel bag that looks like it’s about to explode.

“This…,” he pants, patting the package. “Is a 69 by 132-centimeter FLYSTA shelving unit in eggshell white.”

Jeno looks awfully proud of himself for giving me a detailed description, but I burst his bubble. “You could have just said it’s an IKEA shelf,” I mumble, and he scowls. “What’s it for?”

“My books, clothes, toiletries. All my stuff,” he replies, ripping open the tape with one swift motion. “I figured because I’m going to be here a lot, I should have a space for my things.”

“Oh,” I mutter, a smile fluttering to my lips. 

“I already set up your shelf in my bedroom. Stocked it for you too. Pads, shampoo, fresh towels,” Jeno rambles on, pulling an absurdly large screwdriver from his back pocket. Did he have that in there the whole time?

“Jeno,” I blurt, and he pauses, raising an eyebrow at me. “Baby,” I correct myself, and a -eating grin takes over his face.

“Yes, Princess?” 

“Thank you,” I say, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, finding the momentum to myself forward and attack him in a hug. 

When I get to him, Jeno lifts me up by the back of my thighs, my legs wrapped around his waist. Dropping kisses on his face until he’s complaining about my saliva feeling icky, my heart swells.

We build the shelf together. By we, I mean I hold the screws and bolts while Jeno pieces the whole thing together. Then we set it up beside my desk and Jeno empties the contents of his duffel bag onto the shelves.

Waiting patiently for him on the edge of my bed, chin in my palms, legs kicking the air, my gaze trails his hands as they work.

“Babe.”

“Hm?”

“Where’s your bracelet?” I ask, just now realizing his blue bracelet we got together is missing. He’s been wearing it every time I’ve seen him since Busan, but today it’s replaced by a plain silver bangle. “I see you got an upgrade,” I remark, and Jeno pauses to stare at his wrist.

Rolling his lips back, he replies, a bit too flat. “Took it off to shower. This was a present from my sister.” 

“It’s nice,” I say, steering the conversation toward the books he brought. Relief washes over me when his tone returns to normal, playful and cocky as ever. 

I hate when his voice goes flat. I hate that I know it means he’s lying.

I don’t like questions I don’t have an answer to.

“So what are you two?” Jaemin repeats, after I’ve failed for the third time to sneak my way out of answering his nosy question.

“He sleeps over at my place, I sleep over at his. We kiss, we cuddle, we call each other baby, that’s it,” I reply with a sigh, and Jaemin slams his locker shut. 

I press my cheek against the cold metal, wishing I could shrink and die because the look he’s giving me is borderline psychotic.

“That’s it?” He echoes. “That’s it? Are you two together or not? For real?” He bellows, and I frantically shush him like a manic baby on a plane.

“That’s not it,” I finally reply, patting his shoulders to keep him from running straight to Jeno and beating an explanation out of him. 

Jaemin hates relationships with unclear statuses. He’s a romantic after all, a softie for ludicrously extravagant declarations of love.

While I do enjoy the idea of romance, I also prefer riding the waves of a relationship, not fighting against it. Wherever this takes us, is my motto. 

“What else?” Jaemin barks, his spit landing on my nose.

I in a breath. “We have shelves.”

“Shelves,” Jaemin repeats, dumbfounded. 

Running a frustrated hand through my hair, I struggle to conjure the proper response because I don’t know what the right answer is.

“We’re just- Jeno and I are in a situationship, alright? We started off as a fake couple, which helped us skip the awkward courting phase. We got comfortable real quick, and now we kiss.”

“Oh lord, Jesus,” Jaemin braces himself by flattening his palms on the lockers, dramatically tilting his head back as if he is summoning Jesus to revisit Earth. 

“Jang-mi, my sweet girl, you are not meant for situationships. You’re a nester. You like to commit. Jeno-.” Jaemin’s voice drops an octave. “Jeno doesn’t commit.”

I shuffle my feet, stomach twisting uncomfortably. “Yeah, but-.” 

“And you do realize that in a situationship, you both can see other people, right?” Jaemin pinches his nose bridge. “I take back what I said. Jeno commits. But he isn’t the type to commit…to one person.”

I gulp, my frustration mutating into anger. “Stop giving me trust issues!” I bark at my best friend, swiveling around on my heel and stomping away.

“I’m just looking out for you!” Jaemin calls after me. “Take off your rose-colored glasses when you’re with him, Park Jang-mi!”

I wear rose-colored glasses because I’m afraid I can’t stomach the bad things in life.

I have the tendency to bottle every bad thing I stumble across, every clue that confirms my negative suspicions, every mark I wish didn’t exist. I bottle until I can’t take it anymore and it travels back up and shoots straight out my mouth. 

I vomit when I have a hunch.

The night when I decided Yeonjun was definitely cheating on me, I hugged a bucket to my chest. It was awful. 

I have officially created a bottle for Lee Jeno. 

I hope I have nothing to add to it. 

But so far there’s been a couple of interactions that made me scratch my head. 

I won’t say it now. I don’t want to jinx it. I don’t want it to be true. 

I flip the glass perfume bottle around in my cold hands,  the liquid violently sloshing around inside. Gnawing on my bottom lip, I sneak a glance at my reflection, which is staring at me like I have sprouted ears on my forehead.

Letting out a tired sigh, I raise the bottle of Chanel to my neck and spritz a good amount. The scent of roses wafts to my nose and I hold my breath.

“This is what Heaven smells like…,” I mumble to myself, shoving the perfume back into my backpack and shaking the thoughts from my head. “Forget about it,” I command my mind, and today I’m victorious.

I actually do forget about it, and the rest of my day is sunshine and blue skies. It’s even better in the afternoon when I’m at the library volunteering. 

“Didn’t you tell me you were dyslexic?” A voice drawls, and I flinch, almost dropping the hardcover copy of Romeo and Juliet. 

Jeno rounds the book cart with a smug smirk, and I roll my eyes at his reference to the one time I joked about being dyslexic when he told me to read a book to go to sleep. 

“Did you come in here to satiate your ual fantasies?” I retort, recalling Busan as he circles his arms around my waist from behind. The tips of my shoes are against the bookshelf, and I lean back into him. 

“Hey, I told you that in confidence,” Jeno gasps, pinching my cheek. I beam, returning the book to the shelf and reaching into the cart for another one. 

“Fine. What happened in the hot tub, stays in the hot tub,” I propose, and he nods, chin on my shoulder.

“When’s your shift done?” Jeno asks, absentmindedly messing with the hem of my shirt.

“I’m already working overtime. The other guy didn’t show up,” I explain, and a masculine growl rips from his throat.

“What’s his name? I’m going to make that bastard pay for taking your time away from me,” he grunts, a subtle whine in his tone. 

“It’s alright, I like doing this.” I pat his forearm, lines creasing his forehead. “It’s fun.”

“We really need to work on your definition of fun, baby girl,” Jeno sighs, and I guide him down the aisle, pushing the cart with me.

When we come to a slow brake, I angle my head to the side to hide my leer. “I bet you’re getting by all these books,” I tease, and Jeno rolls his eyes so far back, there’s only white. 

“Okay, I get it. There’s no need to tease me about it.” He lightly punches my side and I snort, restocking the shelves. 

“This place is so unromantic.”

“I beg to differ,” Jeno replies.

“Yeah, I think this book about Nazis is a big turn-off.” I show him the cover of the World War II textbook and Jeno shrugs to agree. 

“Valid point,” he huffs. “But I had my first kiss in a library,” he reveals and I tilt my head in surprise. 

“Oh?”

“Lost my oral ity in one too,” Jeno adds. It’s my turn to roll my eyes. 

“Fascinating,” I grumble. It truly is. I’m sure it’s a core memory of his, just like how I occasionally revisit the memories of my first ual encounters to reminisce about my long-gone innocence. But the thought about him with another girl, him on his knees for her or her on her knees for him, makes my chest constrict and my lungs burn.

Jealous, am I? No, not at all. 

Ok fine, maybe a little. 

I’m too caught up in the whirlwind of jealousy, afraid my skin will turn green, that I don’t notice Jeno turning me around. Reality punches me in the face once he backs me up against the shelf, hands on either side of my face.

“It went something like this,” he rasps, husky voice tickling my lips.

My eyes drift to his fingers that map the curve of my hips, his big hands sliding back to give my a light squeeze. I flinch, in a good way, closing the tiny gap between our bodies, my hands splayed on his chest.

Jeno likes control. No, like is an understatement. It’s so clear in the way he moves, and cages my body, that he craves it, demands it and requires my strings to be in his command. 

Like I’m his little puppet.

“Hands at your side,” he whispers, and my arms fall limp. “Don’t move, don’t touch me, okay baby?”

I nod like an airhead, and he attacks me with his lips. Hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses on my neck, my collarbone. He doesn’t kiss me, but he traces the seam of my lips with his tongu