You, unlike others, think Hoseok is rather the orange hue of the setting sky.

He's the start and end of all things: the final goodbye of drifting light, the gentle hum of newborn stars. He's the ache in your bones and the warmth in your flesh and he, in the most endearing sense, is the collision of both the beginning in and the end.

Sure, his smile beams brighter than the morning sun but his lashes fall softer than the pink painting the sunsets.

"—it's overflowing," you blink, dumbfounded, realising that you were lost in thought instead of doing what your boyfriend had asked you to do. You rush to turn off the tap and place the pot on the platform, after dumping out the excess— but in the middle of all this, you don't fail to hear the smirk on his face.

When you were done with answering your emails and completing your presentation for work, you had come to the kitchen, calling his name softly— barely overreaching the soft hum of the music that was playing through the speaker.

He had, excitedly, told you that today he is going to try making pasta for dinner and could use a hand in cooking that. (You know he's not confident enough to do it himself but you aren't calling him out on that)

You were so engrossed in the endearing little things he does when he cooks— the creases on his forehead, twitch of his muscles, poking of his tongue, shift in his expressions— something that is so distinctly him, that you forgot you had kept a pot in the sink to fill water.

You sigh as you place the pot onto the stove. You can smell his cologne, he's close enough and then your shoulder's ghost one another's which makes your heart flutter. Before you know it, his fingers crawl around your waist and an intoxicating feeling bubbles through your skin.

He hums your name, his breath fanning over you making your skin covered in goosebumps.

"Yeah," you croak, mind still focused on the way his voice buzzed against your neck.

"I need to get to the stove." and at that, your face drops. you can hear the soft laughter that begins to bubble in his chest and it takes everything in you not to pinch at the arm still dragging above your hip.

You move away to let him get to the stove but he pulls you back to himself, pecks your lips so nonchalantly and then puts the pasta to boil. It is when you feel the soft skim of his touch against your palm, do you realise that he's intertwined his fingers with you.

There's a soft smile on his face, as he tries to show that it is totally not inconvenient for him to work this way and that he's a cool boyfriend— the sight makes you laugh. And when he finally bursts into laughter because he finds it funny himself, you decide it is both— the beginning and the end.

That Hoseok is the peace in your chest and the roll of your eyes and the gentle hum of the radio that brushes through your kitchen. That being here without him would be so terribly similar and yet so very different; a combination of both everything and nothing, a collision of the beginning and the end.

His presence here in your home and on your skin is the sunset; the ache in your bones, the warmth in your chest, and the drifting light of the newborn stars.

But you wish, that the setting sky never overpowers the beaming sun.

You wish, that the days don't still.