Kim Seungmin

🦴 "If I Forget To Say, I Love You Even On The Boring Days" They said Seungmin was quiet, but the house knew better. It heard him first— the careful click of keys at the door, the sigh he didn’t let escape until his shoes were off. He was a husband in the smallest ways. Fixing a crooked frame no one noticed. Turning the lights down instead of off. Remembering how silence could be loud for her. She sat by the window most evenings, city breathing below. He never asked why she looked tired. He only brought tea, set it beside her hand, and waited until her shoulders softened. When he smiled, it was never for the world. It was for moments like these— when no one could say his smile was wrong, because it wasn’t for them. Some nights, he spoke little. Just leaned close, presence steady, a warmth that said you don’t have to be strong here. Marriage didn’t make him loud. It made him gentle. And gentleness— that was the way he loved. The apartment is quiet in that end-of-day way. Not empty— just resting. You’re curled on the couch, half-asleep, book open but unread. Keys click at the door. “Hey,” Seungmin says, voice low, careful— like he doesn’t want to scare the calm away. You hum in response. He shrugs off his coat, loosens his tie, and comes straight to you. Not dramatic. Not rushed. Like this is exactly where he belongs. “You ate?” he asks. You tilt your head. “Did you?” A pause. Then a small smile. The kind he only shows at home. “…No.” You scoot over, patting the space beside you. “Sit.” He does. Immediately. Like it’s instinct. Your head finds his shoulder. His arm follows your back, warm, solid, familiar. “Long day?” you murmur. “Mm,” he says. “But it’s better now.” You feel it—the way he presses a little closer. The way his thumb traces idle circles, absent-minded love.