武

You do.

The office is warmer than the hall outside. Your coat suddenly feels too heavy, your scarf too tight at your throat, but you leave both on because taking them off would imply some kind of intention to stay. You don’t want to imply that to him. You don’t want to imply it to yourself.

Professor Jung watches you sit with that same unnerving levelness he always has, the one that makes you feel like he can see all the sloppy, panicked parts of you and has decided not to comment on them unless absolutely necessary.

You put the envelope on his desk.

He glances at it once.

“What is this?”

“My withdrawal form.”

Jung does not touch the envelope right away. He leans back a little in his chair instead, fingers steepled loosely over his stomach, and studies you for one long second that feels like five.

“I see.”

Your fingers tighten around the second thing you brought with you.

The assignment.

The one he pushed back across the desk weeks ago and called dead with such irritating accuracy that it made you want to hate him a little for it.

You set that down too.

His eyes shift to it.

“This as well?”

Your throat works once. “I tried.”

You look at the paper instead of him. At the charcoal study that once felt like failure in an ordinary, survivable way. Now it looks almost quaint in its smallness, this stiff, careful drawing made before the whole structure of your life collapsed in on itself.

“I know you said to redo it,” you say. “I just…” Your voice thins and you make continue. “I couldn’t fix it.”

Jung is quiet.

When you finally force yourself to look up, his expression has not changed much, but something in it has settled. Not softened. Something worse than that. Something like understanding.

He reaches out then, not for the withdrawal form, but for the drawing.

Lifts it.

Studies it again. After a moment, he sets it back down.

“I’m not really…” You say, because he doesn’t say anything and the silence between you is suffocating. “I don’t think I can do this right now.”

His gaze flicks once to the assignment. “No,” he says. “I don’t imagine you can.”

That startles you enough that you look at him.

He is still watching you with that same infuriatingly level expression, but there is something else under it now. Not pity. Thank God not pity. Something closer to recognition. The kind that makes you feel, very briefly, that he has understood more than you intended to let show.

You laugh once. Small and humorless. “That obvious?”

He shrugs. “Maybe not to most. But I’ve never been like most.”

You can’t help but smile a bit at that. At least Professor Jung was still Professor Jung.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

That finally gets a real reaction from him. One eyebrow lifts.

“For what?”

You gesture vaguely at the assignment, the office, yourself. The whole waste of it.

“For wasting your time.”

Jung’s expression goes flat in a way that is almost offended. “Don’t insult me.”

You blink.

He removes his glasses, folds them once, and sets them on the desk with careful precision.

“You brought me bad work,” he says. “That is not a waste of my time. That is called teaching.” He leans back slightly. “You are leaving because you cannot stay, not because you are lazy or unserious or incapable. Those are different failures. I don’t confuse them, and neither should you.”

The sting in your eyes gets worse.

“Thank you,” you manage.

He gives one small shrug, as though gratitude is unnecessary and slightly inconvenient. Then he taps the assignment.

“What would you like me to do with this?”

You look at it.

For a second, you see the old version of yourself—the one who would have cared so much about what happened to a failed study, the one who would have taken it home and obsessed over the shadows and the deadness of it and whether Professor Jung thought less of her now.

She feels far away.

“Throw it out,” you say.

Jung studies you for a beat, then nods.

He slides the paper into a drawer without ceremony.

You watch it disappear and feel, absurdly, a little bit like you’ve just buried something very small and very stupid beside everything else.

When you stand, your knees feel weak from sitting still so long. Jung stands too.

At the door, your hand closes around the knob.

You hesitate.

Not because you have some grand final thing to say. Because leaving rooms has started to feel heavier lately, as though every threshold is secretly asking whether you’re coming back.

Behind you, Jung says, “For what it’s worth.”

You turn.

He has already sat back down, one hand reaching for the stack of critique sheets again, but his eyes are on you.

“You were one of the better ones.”

It is, somehow, the most Professor Jung version of kindness imaginable.You nod once because anything more would make a scene of it, and neither of you would survive that with dignity intact.

“Goodbye, Professor.”

He picks up his pen.

“Not necessarily.”

And then he looks back down at the next page, leaving you to stand there for one second longer than necessary with your hand on the doorknob and your heart doing something complicated and tired inside your chest before you finally open the door and let the cold hallway take you back.

Chan does not sleep.

He lies down for an hour at some point because that seems like the sort of thing a person should at least attempt before he goes and hands himself over to the rest of his life, but sleep never comes. The apartment stays dark around him, familiar in ways that have become suddenly unbearable. The hum of the fridge. The old radiator knocking once and then going quiet. Headlights passing over the ceiling in slow, diluted bands. Every ordinary sound feels sharpened now by the knowledge that he is hearing it all for the last time as a free man.

Sometime around four in the morning, he gets up.

He showers.

Shaves.

Puts on clean clothes.

There is something obscene about the care of it, about buttoning a shirt with steady hands when his whole life is about to split open in a fluorescent room in front of strangers. But he does it anyway. He wants, irrationally, to arrive looking like someone who chose this. Not someone dragged there by panic. Not someone finally cornered.

His phone sits on the counter while he makes coffee he doesn’t drink.

He keeps looking at it.

Not because he’s expecting anything. Because your number is still there. Because your last messages still exist. Because some part of him keeps imagining the impossible version of the morning where he texts you and says never mind, I couldn’t do it, I chose myself after all, and you say okay, come over, and somehow that becomes a life he can bare to live.

He does not text.

He has already told you the truth. That has to be enough.

Still, before he leaves, he unlocks his phone one last time and stares at your contact until the screen starts to dim in his hand.

He thinks of the graveyard.

Of your face wet with tears and gone strange with horror and love and the refusal to let him turn himself into the inevitable. He thinks of the way you’d folded into him anyway when he held out his arms. The way your body still knew him despite everything. The way you said, after all that he had done, that he couldn’t leave you.

That is the sentence that stays.

That, and Hyunjin.

Chan keeps seeing him younger.

Fifteen and laughing in the convenience store. Seventeen and asleep with one arm hanging off the mattress and paint on his cheek. Nineteen and mean with hunger, beautiful with it somehow, tossing a peach gummy at Chan’s forehead because Chan had fallen asleep at the desk again. Hyunjin in Chan’s hoodie. Hyunjin by the sink. Hyunjin saying his name like it was an argument and a home at once.

For one sick moment, standing in the kitchen with the untouched coffee cooling beside him, Chan wonders if Hyunjin would be proud of him for this.

The thought arrives and curdles almost instantly.

Proud.

As if there is anything noble about walking into a police station because you ran out of lies.

Would Hyunjin have wanted this or forgiven it or called it brave?

Chan braces both hands on the counter and closes his eyes.

Another thought follows right after, meaner and harder to survive: maybe Hyunjin hated him in the end. Maybe in those final days, as the messages got worse and the paranoia ate through what was left of him and Chan kept telling him to wait, to think, to be smart, maybe some part of Hyunjin looked at him and saw exactly what he was—a coward. A man who could ask the people he loved to hold them a little longer so he would not have to.

The thought does not leave.

It sits under his ribs all the way to the station.

The city is gray when he steps outside. Not fully awake yet, but no longer sleeping either. Delivery trucks. Office workers with paper cups. Cold biting through the seams of his coat. The world looks insultingly normal, and Chan moves through it like a ghost who still has errands to run.

He takes the bus.

That feels right, somehow.

Not a cab. Not anything private or ceremonial. Just the bus and the plastic seats and the overhead ads and the old woman two rows down eating crackers from a crinkled packet. He stands most of the way because sitting still feels impossible. Each stop feels both too slow and too fast. He keeps his hand in his pocket wrapped around nothing, fingers closing and opening. Closing. Opening.

When he gets off, the police station is exactly what it should be.

Plain.

Concrete.

Glass doors with smudges on them from a thousand ordinary hands.

No thunderclap. No sign from God. No sense of narrative significance beyond the one he has brought there himself. 

At the front desk, a bored-looking officer is flipping through paperwork.

Chan stands there for a second too long.

The officer looks up.

“Can I help you?”

The question is so ordinary it almost undoes him.

He thinks of turning around.

Not really. Not in any serious, executable way. But his body thinks of it. It flashes the image across his nerves anyway: the doors behind him, the cold outside, the street still there waiting, his life not yet officially ruined. A train home. A shower. A text to you. Another day of pretending there is still time to decide. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. Ican’tdothis–

Then he thinks of Jisung on the floor. Of Hyunjin vomiting at the side of the road. Of you at the grave. Of Minho’s blood in his teeth. Of the fact that if he turns around now, none of those things go away. 

Chan walks to the desk.

The officer straightens slightly, registering, at last, that something about him is wrong. 

“Yes?” the man says.

Chan opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out the first time.

He swallows and tries again.

“I need to make a statement,” he says.

The officer’s expression changes. “About what?”

Chan looks at the edge of the desk, at the cheap laminate peeling a little at one corner, because if he looks at the man’s face, the words will turn human too quickly.

His hands are steady now.

“It’s about a death,” he says.

The room seems to sharpen around that sentence. The officer sets his papers down completely now. Another person somewhere farther back in the station glances up. Chan can feel the machinery of process beginning to wake around him, impersonal and inevitable.

The officer says something—Come with me, maybe—and Chan follows because that is what there is to do now.

They take him into a smaller room.

A table.

Three chairs.

A recorder.

A legal pad.

A paper cup of water he does not touch.

He sits.

Waits.

Thinks, one last time and with an ache so old it feels structural now: Hyunjin, if you hated me for this, I understand. If you needed this and I gave it to you too late, I understand that too.

Then the officer across from him clicks the recorder on and says, “State your name for the record.”

Chan lifts his head.

Draws in one breath.

“My name is Christopher Chan Bahng.”

The graveyard looks smaller this time.

Maybe because you know too much now.

Maybe because once the dead stop being simple, the places built to honor them lose some of their shape too. The stone is the same. The winter grass. The bare trees scratching quietly at the evening sky. But nothing here feels clean anymore. Not memory. Not grief. Not love. Everything has edges now.

You stand in front of Hyunjin’s grave with your hands in your coat pockets and feel almost nothing at all.

At some point the body runs out of ways to perform devastation and settles instead into this strange, suspended numbness where everything still hurts, just farther away.

The wind shifts lightly across the cemetery. Cold enough to sting the skin under your eyes. You don’t blink against it.

For a while, you just look at his name.

At the dates.

At the little dash between them that used to feel impossibly small and now feels crowded with things you will never be able to forgive the world for fitting into one human life.

You think of the burner phone.

Of the notes and numbers and strange little shorthand that meant nothing to you until they meant everything. Of the way his life split open in retrospect, every secret casting its shadow backward over memories that had once seemed harmless. The nights he checked his phone and stepped away. The tiredness you thought was school. The distance you thought was grief. The fear you mistook for withdrawal.

You know better now.

That is the cruelty of it.

Knowing better does not make anything easier to hold.

It just makes the old memories heavier.

You let out a breath and watch it fog in front of you.

“I know,” you say quietly. Your voice sounds small in the cold. “I know now.”

No answer comes back, of course. No sign. No grand spiritual disturbance in the branches overhead. Just the same graveyard stillness, as indifferent and respectful as ever.

You stare at the stone a little longer.

Then, after a pause, you say, “And I’m sorry.”

That one catches somewhere in your chest, but not enough to break you open.

Not enough anymore.

Your fingers curl in your pockets.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” you say. “Not really. Not where it mattered.”

The numbness shifts a little at the edges.

You swallow.

“There were so many times something was wrong and I didn’t see it. Or I saw it and I didn’t understand it. Or I understood just enough to ask, and then I let you say you were fine because I wanted that to be true more than I wanted to push.” Your mouth tightens. “I thought loving you meant trusting what you gave me.”

The wind moves again, colder this time.

You keep going.

“I wasn’t there in your darkest moments.” Your gaze drops to the strip of winter grass at the base of the headstone. “And maybe you never really let me be. Maybe you had already decided I couldn’t follow you there.” A pause. “But I still should’ve known.”

Something in your throat tightens, but no tears come. You are too emptied out for tears now.

You just stand there with the ache moving quietly through you, old and bone-deep and no longer interested in spectacle.

“I keep thinking,” you say, “that if I’d loved you better, maybe…” You stop. You shake your head once and start again. “I keep thinking I should’ve been enough.”

You look at his name again, at the carved letters that used to feel like a wound and now feel like an argument you lost after it was already over.

“But I wasn’t,” you say.

Your voice doesn’t shake. That surprises you a little.

“I wasn’t enough to pull you out of it. I wasn’t enough to make you tell me. I wasn’t enough to keep you here.” Your jaw works once. “And I think maybe nobody was.”

That one hurts in a quieter way than the others.

Because it lets him off the hook a little. Because it lets you off the hook a little too. Because neither of those things feels as good as blame should.

You let the silence sit for a while after that.

Not because you expect him to answer.

Because you need the space to arrange the last thing properly in your mouth before you give it away.

When you speak again, your voice is lower. “I forgive you.”

You draw in a slow breath.

“I forgive you for lying to me,” you say. “I forgive you for leaving me with questions. I forgive you for not being the version of yourself I wanted to believe in.” Your gaze drifts down to the dark earth in front of the stone. “I even forgive you for making me love you.”

That almost feels like a laugh, but not quite. The numbness returns in a wave.

Gentle. Merciless.

You nod once, mostly to yourself.

“But I can’t keep carrying you like this.”

The cemetery stays quiet around you. No witness but the trees. No response but the cold.

You lift your chin slightly.

“I’m going to have to let you go now, Hyunjin.”

Your chest aches after you say it, but not with panic. Not with the old frantic need to take it back before it becomes real.

Just ache.

Plain and human and irreversible.

You look at the grave one last time.

At the boy you loved. 

At the stranger he had also been.

At the life he hid from you and the one he shared.

At all the versions of him you will never be able to separate cleanly now.

“I did love you,” you say.

Then, after the smallest pause:

“I just can’t stay stagnant here with you anymore.”

The sky has gone dimmer while you stood there. Blue-gray evening settling over the rows of stone. Somewhere near the gate, gravel crunches softly under somebody else’s shoes, distant and unimportant.

You take your hands out of your pockets.

Brush them once over the front of your coat.

Then you turn and walk away.

Three months into detention, Chan has started to understand that time is not the same thing as movement.

The days still pass. That is the insulting part.

Morning count. Breakfast that tastes like salt and steam and nothing. Meetings with his lawyer given to him by the state because he could not afford one. Statements repeated until language starts to feel detached from memory. Other men moving through the same fluorescent halls with their own silences wrapped tight around them. The world keeps arranging itself into hours whether you want it to or not. But movement—real movement, the kind that suggests a life is still unfolding toward something—has stopped. Everything now feels suspended, like he has been pinned in place while the rest of Seoul keeps going without him.

The homicide charge is still hanging over him, but not in the same shape it had at the start.

That had changed the day your father agreed to take the case.

Chan had known who he was, of course. Knew because you had mentioned it once early on, in the offhand, faintly irritated way daughters mention fathers they admire and resent in equal measure. A hotshot lawyer. Sharp. Expensive. The kind of man other men lowered their voices around in courtrooms. At the time, Chan had filed it away as one more detail from a life he would never really belong in. A polished-life fact. A father who moved through the world with enough authority that people listened when he spoke.

Then everything broke open, and somehow that same man had become the one sitting across from him in a detention-center interview room, legal pad open, glasses low on his nose, saying in a calm, almost conversational tone, “You need to stop trying to confess morally and start answering legally.”

Chan had stared at him.

Your father had sighed once through his nose and tapped the pen against the margin of his notes.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You are making my job harder.”

There had been no cruelty in it. No disdain. Just a very tired, very intelligent man who had clearly spent the last several weeks trying to build a defense around someone determined to walk into punishment with his hands already tied behind his back.

Chan had not known what to do with that at first.

He still doesn’t, really.

Today, the room is the same as it has been every other time. Too warm. Too bright. White walls made older by fluorescent light. A metal table bolted to the floor. Three plastic chairs. A camera in the upper corner like a bad little moon. The whole place smells faintly of paper, detergent, and recycled air.

Your father sits opposite him in a navy coat and a tie that has loosened slightly at the throat over the course of the meeting. Chan had expected cold, or judgment, or some version of restrained fury wearing professionalism like a better suit. Instead he got a man who was brisk, yes, and too perceptive for comfort, but also maddeningly decent about it.

Once, Chan would have given everything just for a father to be sat across from him in the same room, like yours is now.

Now he closes the legal pad and folds his glasses off with one hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose for a second before looking back up.

“The prosecution is still pushing the manslaughter theory,” he says. “But they don’t have enough to make it a clean shot.”

Chan nods once.

They have had this conversation in some form before. Not enough evidence. No definitive proof of whose hand triggered the shot. The destroyed camera, which would have been the clearest answer, now only adding to the murk and the suspicion. Chan’s confession helping some things, complicating others.

Your father goes on.

“The confession alone won’t carry them on that count. It can’t. They’ll use it, obviously, but they still need to prove criminal responsibility to the court, not just hear you say you feel responsible.” He sighs. “Which you very obviously do.”

Chan looks down at his hands.

They are steadier than they used to be. That unsettles him.

“And the cannabis?”

That gets a real little exhale out of your father. Something halfway between annoyance and acceptance.

“The cannabis,” he says, “is more annoying.”

Chan almost laughs.

More annoying.

As if the thing likely to put him away for up to five years has become, in the architecture of this case, the less grand but more structurally annoying beam.

“Because they can prove it,” Chan says.

“Because they can prove parts of it,” your father corrects. “Possession and sale are easier to corroborate. Old messages. Contacts. Patterns. The phone doesn’t help you. Your own statement helps them more than it helps us on that side.” He studies Chan for a second. “I’m still trying to keep the sentence from becoming a morality play.”

Chan lifts his eyes.

Your father shrugs one shoulder.

“Judges are people. People are vulnerable to atmosphere. I would prefer not to have them decide you are trying to be punished for everything at once.”

There is something so dry and measured in the delivery that Chan actually lets out a breath that almost resembles a laugh.

Your father notices.

Does not comment on it.

Instead he glances at his watch, then back at Chan.

“We’re in better shape than we were a month ago,” he says. “Which is not the same thing as being in good shape, so don’t make that face.”

“I didn’t make a face.”

“You did make a face.”

Your father is so much like you, sometimes Chan can hardly bare it.

The guard outside the door shifts. There is a muffled voice farther down the hall. The room keeps being itself.

Your father gathers the papers into a neat stack and slides them back into the folder.

For a moment, he says nothing.

Chan waits, because he has learned by now that your father is the kind of man who does not speak just to fill space. If he pauses, it is usually because whatever comes next has been weighed first.

Finally, he looks up.

“My daughter hasn’t spoken to me much since she moved out,” he says.

Chan goes still.

Your father’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in it settles lower, into a place less professional and more tired.

“We were not…” He exhales once through his nose. “I was not easy for her to live with. She was not easy for me either. That’s usually how these things go. Fathers and daughters. A fragile co-existence."

Chan says nothing.

Your father glances down at the folder, then back at him.

“But she called,” he says. “And when she asked me to take this case, she was not subtle about it.”

Something catches behind Chan’s ribs.

Your father’s mouth twitches at one corner, not quite a smile. “I believe the exact phrasing was closer to begging than asking.”

Chan looks away.

The room has gone too warm all of a sudden.

He pictures it against his will—you with your phone in your hand, voice frayed, pride swallowed whole because this mattered enough to make you do it. You, who had every reason not to lift another finger for him, still going to the one man in your life capable of helping and asking anyway.

It is almost harder to bear than if you had come yourself.

Your father watches him take that in and, mercifully, does not linger on it.

Instead he reaches down beside his chair and lifts something Chan had not noticed before.

A folded bundle of fabric.

For one second Chan only sees color and shape. Then his breath stops.

The blanket.

The same old blanket, worn soft at the edges now, the one he had given you to sit on that first day before either of you knew what would become of one another. It looks smaller folded up like this. More ordinary. Which only makes the sight of it hit harder.

Your father sets it carefully on the table.

“She asked me to give you this.”

Chan stares.

His fingers do not move.

For a moment he is absurdly afraid to touch it, as if doing so will make something final in a way the bars and the interviews and the charges have not yet managed.

Your father glances once toward the camera in the corner, then back to Chan.

“It took some convincing,” he says mildly. “But I managed.”

Chan finally looks up.

Your father is already standing, gathering the folder under one arm. He simply nods once toward the blanket and says, “That’s all from me for today.”

Then, after the smallest pause, “She didn’t say anything else. Just that she wanted you to have it.”

Chan gives the nearest thing he has to a nod.

The door closes behind him with a soft, bureaucratic click.

And suddenly Chan is alone.

Alone with the fluorescent lights and the bolted table and the cheap chair and the blanket sitting between his hands like a wound made visible.

He doesn’t reach for it right away.

He just looks.

At the faded fabric. At the familiar fold. At the place near one corner where the stitching has started to fray.

There is something unbearable about how normal it looks. How domestic. How soft. A thing from a life where warmth still came in ordinary forms and love still disguised itself as practicality.

Slowly, like he’s afraid of startling something, Chan reaches out and pulls it toward him.

The blanket is warm.

Then he lifts it.

And the smell of you hits him so hard he nearly doubles over.

Not perfume or anything deliberate.

Just you. That faint clean-warm scent of skin and home and the body he had held in a graveyard and a bed and his own hands. The scent of someone still alive in the world outside these walls.

Chan closes his eyes. Very carefully, he unfolds the blanket and draws it around his shoulders.

The gesture is instinctive.

Childish, almost.

He does not care.

The fabric settles over him with a weight so familiar it makes something inside him split cleanly at last. Three months of holding himself upright. Three months of fluorescent restraint and procedural language and steady hands and no sleep and not one single crack wide enough to let grief through.

Gone.

Chan folds forward over the table with the blanket wrapped around him and cries for the first time in two years.

It comes out of him raw and ugly and shocked by its own force, his face pressed into the crook of his arm, one hand fisted so hard in the blanket it hurts. The sound tears through the room before he can stop it, before pride can catch up, before any of the things that have kept him functioning can put themselves back together around the damage.

He cries for Jisung.

For Hyunjin.

For his aunt.

For you.

For the life he had before all of it turned into charges and evidence and consequence. For every moment he ran when he should have stayed. For every moment he stayed when he should have told the truth. For the unbearable mercy of knowing that even now, even after everything, you had thought to send him warmth.

It is the blanket that does it.

Not because it is just a blanket.

Because it smells like your neck under his mouth. Like your hair against his chest. Like the shape of a life he never got to keep.

By the time he gets himself back under control, his face is wet, his throat is wrecked, and the blanket is bunched in his fists like the only thing in the room not bolted down.

He does not let it go.

Spring has finally arrived. 

Trees bud. Sidewalk cracks fill with stubborn little weeds. The air softens at the edges. Girls in lighter coats laugh outside cafés with plastic cups sweating in their hands, and somewhere in Seoul somebody is falling in love under a sky too blue for any of this.

You arrive late for the sentencing hearing.

A little too late to be invisible and a little too early to have missed anything important, which has always felt like your talent with tragedy. You slip into the courtroom through the back doors with your heart knocking too hard and your palms damp inside your sleeves and choose the last row because you cannot bear the thought of sitting any closer than that.

The room smells like paper and polished wood and old air.

It is smaller than you imagined.

For months the hearing has lived in your head as this looming, cathedral-sized thing, all towering ceilings and cinematic silence and final judgment descending from on high. Instead it is just a room. Wood paneling. Rows of seats. Fluorescent light softened by daylight coming in through high windows. People shuffling papers. A cough in the second row. The low murmur of voices that stop one by one as you sit down.

Chan is already there, of course.

He is seated at the front beside your father. Chan is in a suit, darker than anything you ever saw him wear freely, his shoulders straighter than they used to be, his face leaner. Detention has sharpened him. Or maybe suffering has. There are some differences too intimate to name cleanly.

From this far back, you cannot see every detail.

You can still tell he looks tired.

He does not look behind him. Why would he?

The hearing resumes. The clerk reads. The judge speaks. Your father rises when he needs to and sits when he does not. You catch only half of it at first because your body is too busy being terrified. Words like defendant and count and evidence move through the room in voices trained to keep emotion out of them. It almost feels insulting.

Your hands stay folded in your lap so tightly they ache.

The air in the courtroom has gone thin.

The judge begins to read the verdict.

Each word seems to come one half-second slower than your body can bear.

The finding on the homicide count is read first.

There is a long sentence about evidence. About insufficiency. About the inability of the court to determine, beyond reasonable doubt, that the defendant alone or jointly bears criminal responsibility for the fatal discharge in the manner charged. The legal language gathers itself and gathers itself until you feel like you might actually scream at the bench to stop talking and say it plainly.

Then he does.

“Accordingly,” the judge says, “the defendant is found not guilty on the charge of manslaughter.”

Even from all the way back here, you can see Chan’s shoulder slump in relief.

Then sound comes back in pieces.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up. Relief tears through you so violently it almost feels like pain. Not joy. Never that. But something close to release. Something ugly and immediate and involuntary.

Not guilty.

Not guilty.

The words echo through you in the shape of something reprieved, something not wholly lost, something that will not be buried under Jisung’s death in the exact way you had feared.

And then the judge keeps reading.

The cannabis charges come next.

These are read more quickly, almost. Or maybe it only feels that way because there is less suspense now, less room for hope to stretch. Possession. Distribution. Sale. The court finds sufficient corroboration in the records, the messages, the pattern of conduct, the defendant’s own statement. The words stack up with the calm inevitability of bricks being laid.

The judge’s voice remains even.

“On the charge of possession and sale of cannabis in violation of the Narcotics Control Act, the defendant is found guilty.”

You look at Chan.

He has not moved.

Not visibly.

But from where you sit, you can see the shift in his profile. The minute tightening at his jaw. The way he lowers his eyes once, briefly, something inside him has clicking into place not with shock, but with recognition. As if this, at least, is a punishment he already made room for long ago.

Your father says something to him in a low voice.

Chan nods once.

The judge goes on to sentencing.

He speaks of the defendant’s voluntary surrender. Of the seriousness of narcotics distribution. Of the age of the conduct, the absence of a prior record, the defendant’s cooperation, the need for deterrence, the court’s consideration of all submitted factors. The language is dry and measured and composed, and you sit there in the last row and think that no sentence in the world has ever sounded less like justice than one carefully weighed by people who will go home afterward and eat dinner.

Then it comes.

“Therefore, the defendant is sentenced to three years’ imprisonment.”

Three years.

You think, irrationally, of the seasons it contains. Three springs. Three summers. Three winters. Time enough for a face to change. For a city to alter. For grief to sour and settle and become whatever it becomes when it no longer has the luxury of freshness.

At the front, Chan is standing now because the procedure demands it.

The officers move toward him in the quiet, practiced way of men doing a job that has become muscle memory. Your father rises too, says something else to Chan that you cannot hear. Chan looks at him and nods again.

The room has begun to blur at the edges.

Not because you are crying. It is blur of another kind—the body’s old trick of distancing itself from impact when it knows there is nowhere to run.

One of the officers takes Chan by the arm to lead him away. Away, away, away from you.

Chan turns.

It happens quickly, almost incidentally, the sort of look backward a person makes at a room as he is being led out of it, not expecting anything and still unable to stop himself. His head turns over his shoulder. His gaze sweeps once over the benches, over the people gathered there, over the shape of witnesses and observers and the unimportant bodies who have come to watch the state do what it does.

And for one impossible second, you think he sees you.

You think his eyes catch on yours.

You think something in his face changes.

“Wait,” It’s a breathless word coming out of you so quiet, even you can barely hear it. “Wait–”

But he is already moving again. The officer guides him on. The moment is gone so fast you do not trust it. Maybe it happened. Maybe you only wanted it badly enough to invent it. Maybe some part of you will spend the rest of your life uncertain whether, at the very end of the hearing, Chan knew you had come.

Then he is through the side door.

Gone.

At the front, your father lowers himself back into his chair for one brief second before rising again to collect the file. He looks older from here. More tired. You think, with a strange detached clarity, that the case went exactly the way he thought it would.

You stay seated in the back until most people have started to leave.

Only then do you stand, the number still repeating softly and stupidly in your head like a bell that won’t stop ringing.

Three years.

Three years.

Three years.

__________

You wait until the courtroom has mostly emptied before you make yourself move.

Not because you are hoping for something. Chan is already gone. You know that. You knew it the second the side door closed behind him and the room kept breathing like nothing sacred had just been cut out of it.

Still, your body is slow to obey.

You gather yourself in pieces. One hand on the back of the bench in front of you. One breath. Then another. Your knees feel wrong when you straighten, as if they have forgotten the mechanics of carrying you. The courtroom around you has gone quiet in that post-proceeding way—papers collected, voices lowered, the machinery of justice already folding itself up for the next case.

Your father is nowhere in sight by the time you step into the hallway.

That is probably deliberate.

He knows you well enough to understand that there are moments in a life where even kindness becomes crowding.

The corridor outside the courtroom is cool and bright and lined with too much polished stone. Your footsteps sound smaller than they should. Everything here feels built for distance. Echo. Procedure. Clean lines and hard surfaces where grief has nowhere comfortable to sit.

You make it all the way to the front doors before you see him.

Minho is standing just outside the courthouse under the overhang, one shoulder against the wall, hands in the pockets of a dark coat. Spring has softened the air, but not enough to make the day warm. Wind keeps lifting the front of his hair and dropping it again. He looks thinner than you remember. Or maybe just more finished around the edges, as if some internal fever finally burned itself out and left him with nothing to hide behind.

You stop.

He sees you immediately.

And just like that, all the ugly new knowledge moves through your body at once. The messages. The pictures. The stalking. The way he had followed Hyunjin’s fear and fed it until it became a living thing. The way he had known you long before you knew him. The months he spent watching from the edge of your grief.

Your whole body goes guarded.

Minho notices that too. His gaze lifts, lands, holds.

He doesn’t straighten right away. Doesn’t step forward. Just watches you in that same unnerving, level way he always has, giving you the space to decide whether you want to walk away or not.

You don’t.

You also don’t move closer.

For a long second, the two of you just stand there with the distance intact, the courthouse behind you, the city moving on around you, and everything that has happened threading itself silently through the space between your bodies. Your voice comes out flatter than you mean it to when you finally speak.

“You terrorized him.”

Minho goes still.

“Yes,” he says.

You swallow.

The spring wind catches at your coat and pushes hair into your mouth. You brush it away impatiently.

“And me,” you say.

His eyes flick up.

“You terrorized me too.” You say, your voice steadier than you feel.

Something shifts in his face then.

“Yes,” he says again.

No excuse. No attempt to dress it up as grief or vengeance or justice misfiring into cruelty.

That almost makes it worse.

You let out a short, disbelieving breath through your nose.

“I thought you were just…” You stop, because even now your mind wants to reach backward and build him into something simpler than he is. A manipulator. A liar. A strange, sharp-edged friend who had somehow appeared at the exact moment your life began collapsing. “I don’t know what I thought.”

Minho’s gaze drops briefly to the stone steps between you, then lifts again.

“Probably nothing good.”

“No,” you say. “But…not that bad either.”

For one second, something tired and ugly flickers through his expression, like that distinction cuts in a place he hasn’t managed to cauterize yet. Then it’s gone.

The courthouse doors open behind you. Two men in suits step out laughing too loudly about something that should not survive the inside of a courtroom. The sound drifts past and dissolves into the afternoon traffic.

Minho pushes off the wall at last.

Not toward you. Just enough to stand properly. To stop looking like somebody waiting for a train that already left.

“I know,” he says.

The wind picks up again, cool and restless, carrying with it the city’s usual spring smells—dust, exhaust, something flowering somewhere out of sight. The kind of day that makes ordinary people think of beginnings. You stand there and think only of endings stacked on top of one another until whatever's holding them up cracks and crumbles.

You should walk away.

That is the sensible thing. The clean thing. The thing a person with fewer splinters in her heart might do.

Instead you stay where you are and say, “Why are you here?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see how it ends.”

The answer is so bleakly honest that for a second you don’t know what to do with it.

You stare at him.

His mouth twitches without humor.

“Turns out,” he says, glancing past you toward the courthouse doors, “it doesn’t.”

The city keeps moving around you. Somebody wheels a cart past somewhere near the curb. A bus exhales at the stop across the street. Spring sunlight glances off glass and stone and the polished metal railing at the courthouse steps, all of it too bright for the conversation you are having.

You look past him, back at the court house doors. “I guess it doesn’t.”

“I gave him the gun, you know,” You head whips back to him. He continues. “That day. I had bought it illegally. When I was moving and had some guys come in and help me clear out the house, I was scared they’d find it, so I asked Jisung to hold it for me. Just for one day.”

You stare at him.

The courthouse steps seem to tilt under you for a second, not from shock exactly, but from the way each new truth keeps revealing some older, uglier root system under everything you thought you understood.

“Why did you have a gun at all?” you ask.

Minho’s eyes flick to yours at that.

For a second, he says nothing.

Then he looks away again, out toward the street, where traffic keeps moving and strangers keep crossing and nobody here knows what kind of conversation is happening three feet from the courthouse doors.

“Because when you’re a boy who likes other boys in a neighborhood where that can get you cornered behind a convenience store or followed home just for looking wrong at the wrong person or killed,” he says quietly, “you start collecting ways to feel less helpless.”

The words enter the space between you and stay there.

There is no self-pity in them. Minho keeps his gaze on the street.

“It wasn’t smart,” he says. “It wasn’t noble. It just…” His mouth tightens. “It made me feel like if something happened, I wouldn’t have to stand there empty-handed. I don’t think I would have ever used it.”

You look at him differently then.

Because suddenly the gun is no longer just one more random piece of bad luck in a story built out of them. It belongs to a life too. To fear. To the private calculations people make when the world has taught them it can turn hostile without warning.

Minho lets out a breath through his nose.

“I never should’ve brought it into any of it,” he says. “I know that.”

Theres so much pain in his voice that you can’t help but ask. “Was Jisung...were you and him…?”

He shakes his head. “He was still figuring it all out. About himself. About me. I think he–” He cuts himself off sharply. “Well. I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

Minho glances once toward the courthouse behind you.

Then back at the street.

“Jisung shouldn’t have had it,” he says. “That much is mine. Whatever else happened in that apartment, that part is mine.”

The words settle between you, heavy and strange and impossible to put anywhere useful.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

Then Minho looks down, reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, and says, quietly, “I’m going to Japan.”

You blink.

He doesn’t look at you as he says it. His fingers are still inside the pocket, searching for something.

“I got the ticket already,” he says. “I’m taking Jisung with me.” His mouth twitches once, bitterly. “Or what’s left of him, anyway.”

Before you can figure out what to say to that, Minho adds, “But before I leave…”

He pulls something out.

An envelope.

It is old enough that the edges have softened. Creased. Handled too many times. Your gaze catches on it, drifts down to the front, and the world goes white.

Your name.

In Hyunjin’s handwriting.

You know it instantly. Of course you do. The slant of it. The way his hand always pressed a little harder on the first letter than the rest. The stupid, intimate familiarity of it hits you like something physical.

“No.”

The word tears out of you before you even realize you’re moving.

You smack his hand away hard enough that the envelope jerks sideways between his fingers.

“No. No. Minho, no.”

Minho goes still.

The envelope wavers once in the air between you.

You take a step back, shaking your head, breath suddenly wrong. “No. I was—” Your voice catches and you hate how frantic it sounds. “I was moving on.”

Inch by inch. Through the graveyard. Through the courtroom. Through the spring afternoon with Chan already gone and the world refusing to stop on your behalf.

And now this.

Minho’s hand lowers slightly.

He doesn’t put the envelope away.

“I know,” he says.

“No, you don’t.” Your whole body has gone rigid, your skin too tight around your bones. 

Something in his face has gone very quiet now. Stripped bare in that ugly way people get when they know they’re about to be hated and have decided they can live with it.

“During the funeral,” he says, “after everyone left, I went into Hyunjin’s apartment.”

“No. Please, Minho.” You squeeze your eyes shut harder, like darkness might save you from the shape of the words. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Minho keeps talking anyway.

“Trying to find something,” he says. His voice is low, almost swallowed by the traffic beyond the courthouse steps. “Anything. A message, a receipt, a name. Something that would tell me what happened to Jisung or prove it was him or—” He cuts himself off with a breath through his nose. “I didn’t find what I wanted.”

You shake your head.

Your fingers are trembling now, curled uselessly at your sides, your whole body caught between wanting to bolt and wanting to hear exactly how much worse this gets.

“I found the note instead.”

The sentence lands and stays there.

Minho looks at the envelope in his hand, not at you.

“I didn’t know who you were yet. Not really. Just that there was someone he’d written it for.” His jaw tightens. “And I was angry enough not to care.”

Your throat burns.

“Minho.”

“He got to leave one,” he says, and the bitterness in his voice is not fresh now, not sharp, but old and worn smooth from being held too long. “He got a goodbye. Jisung didn’t.”

The courthouse doors open behind you. Someone exits, speaking too cheerfully into a phone, and for a second the ordinary sound feels obscene.

You stare at the envelope.

At your name.

At the paper your fingers have ached for without knowing it, all those months you stood in Hyunjin’s apartment and thought he’d gone without leaving you even that.

Minho’s mouth moves once before he says, quieter, “So I took it.”

Your laugh comes out wrong. Thin. Horrified. Not really a laugh at all.

“You took it.”

“Yes.”

“You watched me think he left me nothing.”

Minho’s face changes slightly at that.

Not enough.

But enough to make him look, for one split second, like a person standing too close to the wreckage of something he cannot undo.

“Yes,” he says again.

You want to throw the envelope into the street before you’ve even touched it. You want to take it and tear it open and never read it and read it until the paper falls apart in your hands. You want to scream at him. You want to be back in the courtroom. You want to be anywhere but here with spring sunlight on the steps and Hyunjin’s handwriting turning your vision inside out.

“I never opened it,” Minho says.

Your eyes cut to his face.

He lifts the envelope slightly, just enough for you to see the flap still sealed, still closed. Still waiting.

“I didn’t read it,” he says. “I didn’t want his words. I just didn’t want you to have them.”

The honesty of it is so brutal it leaves you without anything to say for a second.

You look back down at your name.

The letters blur from the sudden, unbearable pressure of knowing that all this time, the absence you built your grief around had not been absence at all. It had been theft.

Slowly, carefully, Minho holds the envelope out again.

This time, you don’t knock it away.

Your hand lifts and hovers there for a second too long before your fingers finally close around it. The paper is warmer than it should be from his coat pocket, softened at the corners, and so painfully ordinary that your stomach twists.

Minho lets go of it and for a moment, he just watches you.

Then, quietly, he says, “I’m sorry.”

The words do not fix his face into something easier to look at.

They do not soften him.

They do not soften you either.

They just hang there in the spring air, late and plain and far too small for what they are being asked to carry.

You stare at the envelope in your hand.

At your name in Hyunjin’s handwriting.

At the slight bend near one corner where Minho must have held it too tightly at some point, years ago now, when grief was still hot enough to feel like purpose.

You can’t look at him.

Not yet.

Because if you do, you will have to decide what shape his apology is allowed to take inside you, and you are nowhere near ready for that.

Your voice, when it comes, is flat with exhaustion. “You should go.”

There is no venom in it. That seems to hurt him more than if there had been.

For a second he says nothing. Just inclines his head once, small and accepting. He has already known this was the only ending you could offer him here on these courthouse steps with Chan gone and Hyunjin’s final words still sealed in your hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

He steps back.

Then turns.

You watch him start down the stairs, one hand in his coat pocket, shoulders set against the mild spring wind as if he’s already half elsewhere. Japan. Jisung. The long-delayed, private burial of a version of his life that had rotted too long in revenge.

He makes it three steps before you hear yourself say his name.

“Minho.”

He stops.

Looks back over his shoulder.

You stand there with the note pressed lightly to your chest, the courthouse at your back, the whole ruined city moving around you in soft afternoon noise.

For one second you don’t know how to say it without sounding kinder than you feel.

In the end, you don’t try.

You just tell the truth.

“I hope you and Jisung find peace.”

The words go between you and stay.

Minho looks at you for a long moment.

Something shifts in his face then—not relief, exactly. Nothing so easy. Just the brief, unguarded look of someone who has been carrying a grief so long it has forgotten how to imagine gentleness addressed to it at all.

Then he nods.

Once.

“So do I,” he says.

And this time, when he turns and walks away, you let him.

You stay on the courthouse steps until Minho disappears into the blur of the sidewalk and the crowd swallows him whole.

Only then do you move.

Far enough to sit on the low stone ledge beside the railing, out of the current of people coming and going, where the spring sun can find your knees and do absolutely nothing for the cold still lodged in you. The courthouse behind you keeps emptying itself in orderly little bursts—heels on stone, briefcases, clipped voices, the small administrative afterlife of judgment. Nobody looks at you twice. To them, you are just another woman sitting outside a building, holding an envelope too tightly.

The note feels heavier now that you are alone with it.

You turn it over once in your hands.

Then back again.

Your name is still there.

The handwriting is so familiar that it makes something in your chest go hollow and reverent all at once. You had thought, for so long, that the worst thing was that he had left you nothing. Nothing to hold, nothing to explain, nothing to prove that in the end, with all that darkness gathered around him, he had still thought of you.

And now here it is.

Not nothing.

Just withheld.

Stolen.

Delayed until the shape of your grief had already hardened around its absence.

A breeze lifts the edge of your coat and slips cool fingers under your hair. Somewhere across the street, a tree gives up a scatter of petals, pale and soft and already dying in the gutter. Spring has come anyway. Spring, rude and bright and absurdly alive, after all that winter. After graves and courtrooms and detention rooms and the slow dismantling of every version of love you thought you understood.

You slide your thumb beneath the flap.

It would be so easy.

You stare at the envelope for a long time.

At the life this would have been, once—a thing opened in a bedroom, maybe, with tears and heartbreak and some ordinary, survivable kind of ending. Not this. Not on courthouse steps after a sentencing hearing and a goodbye and a country already waiting to take one more person away from you.

You think of Hyunjin.

Not the dead boy.

Not the liar.

Not the frightened, splintering version of him Chan handed back to you at the grave.

Just Hyunjin.

Twenty-two and laughing at stupid jokes.

Warm in your bed.

Sharp-eyed and impossible and quietly carrying too much.

The boy you loved.

The boy who hurt you.

The boy who left you words after all.

And you realize, with a clarity so sudden it almost feels merciful, that if you open the note now, you will make him final in a way you cannot bear tonight.

Not because you are afraid of what it says.

Because you are.

But more than that, because once you read it, the last unopened thing he ever gave you will stop being possibility and become fact. And facts, you have learned, are not always kinder than mysteries. Sometimes they are only heavier.

Your thumb slips back out from under the flap.

You smooth the paper flat instead. Then you place the envelope in your bag.

A weight. A promise. A wound deferred by choice for once instead of by violence.

You zip the bag closed.

And for the first time in what feels like years, something about your grief belongs to your timing.

Yours.

You sit there one moment longer, hands folded loosely in your lap, looking out at the city as it moves around you. Cars pass. People laugh somewhere too far away to resent properly. The petals keep skittering across the pavement in little pale drifts, gathering in corners and cracks as if even broken things can still make a season look beautiful.

You think, distantly, that this is what remains.

The spring air against your face.

The unbearable, unglamorous fact that after everything—after all the boys who vanished in one way or another, after all the lies and graves and courtrooms and love turned costly—you are still here.

And because you are still here, eventually, you stand.

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. Feel the outline of the envelope through the leather and do not reach for it. Then you turn away from the courthouse and start walking, carrying his last words unopened beside your heart, not ready for them yet, but not leaving them behind.

Not yet.

Not today.

But someday.

It’s dark in the club, the overhead flashing lights illuminating everyone in the crowded booth in a million different colors. Changbin sits at the head of it, hands warm at your sides trying to pull you down fully onto him as you teasingly grind the air just above his crotch.

“Commmmon,” He lifts his hips forward as far as they can go before slumping back down against the chair. He’s absolutely wasted, cheeks flushed all the way up his ears and down his chest. The birthday hat someone clipped onto his head earlier tilted so far down his head it almost covered his ear. “If you’re going to commit, you have to commit.”

You giggle, nearly as drunk as he is and turn around to plant both of your knees on the booth cushion, bracketing his thighs and pushing yourself forward so that he has to tilt his head back to look at you properly. “I’m just having fun, Bin. S’not fun if I let you have what you want right away.”

“But it’s my birthdaaaaay,” He whines. “You have to be nice to me.”

“I am being nice to you,” You remind him, sliding your hands up his chest. One of your friends behind you whistle low, another laughing. “By doing this at all.” It’s true, you and Changbin have been friends for as long as you can remember but not that kind of friends. You’ve flirted here and there in your teenage years, sure, but you’ve never gone so far as anything physical, much less given him a lap dance before. But his girlfriend of two years ruthlessly dumped him last week and he’s been so pitiful and mopey that you couldn’t help yourself. 

Besides, he was hot and you were hot and what's a little bumping and grinding between childhood friends anyway?

“You gonna torture him all night?” Hyunjin calls over the loud music. He pushes his long dark hair back over his head, grinning. “I thought you were one of the nice ones.”

“You wanna come over here and show me how it’s done?” You reply. Changbin’s whole face lights up at the prospect but before he can say anything, Hyunjin deadpans.

“No.”

“Aw, man.”

You shake your head, laughing, but before you can really get into the dance and finally give Changbin the bit of friction he wants, he pushes you off of him gently. You stumble back, blinking in surprise as he stands.

“Sorry, I know it’s bad timing but I really need to go throw up,” He stumbles forward slightly and Hyunjin immediately catches him by the arm. Changbin perks up. “Jinnnnnniee~ Take me to the bathroom!”

Hyunjin groans. “Why can’t you go by yourself?”

“ ‘Cuz it’s girlcode, idiot.”

Hyunjin grumbles under his breath but takes him anyway, cutting through the dance floor where Felix and Jisung are currently having a hair flipping contest. You laugh to yourself, shaking your head and turning to join the others back at the booth.

Chan’s eyes are glued to you. 

You’d known he was watching obviously, and maybe that had been a bit more of an incentive to do what you did rather than feeling bad for Changbin. Avoiding eye contact, you step over his outstretched legs and reach for another shot.

“You really think you should be drinking any more?”

You don’t even glance at him as you take the shot. “It’s a party, Christopher. Maybe you should drink a bit more.”

He watches you take the shot, eyes lingering on the slight bobbing of your throat when you swallow. It’s annoying how he can make your stomach flip just from the way he looks at you. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand hastily, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Christopher?” He asks, tilting his head.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Not to you.”

You don’t know what to say to that so you don’t say anything at all. Around you, the booth is still loud with laughter, the bass from the speakers vibrating up through the floor and the space between you. The blood under your veins is thrumming with the alcohol you’ve been consuming throughout the night, but it still doesn’t do enough to numb the feeling you always get around him. It’s fucking annoying. 

“Mm,” Chan reads your silence well. He leans back in his chair, spreading his legs and taps his thigh. “Sit.”

You glance back at the dance floor where Changbin and Hyunjin disappeared. “But Changbin–”

He raises an eyebrow.

You sit.

His hand instantly settles on your body, one on your hip and the other on the soft flesh of your bare thigh. Goosebumps erupt across your skin at once, every inch of you remembering his touch and automatically leaning toward it. 

“There,” Chan says, his hand dragging lightly across your skin. “Better.”

You roll your eyes in an attempt to restore what little of your dignity you have left, keeping your eyes firmly on the blur of bodies on the dance floor, on Felix throwing his head back laughing while Jisung nearly trips over his own feet trying to copy some ridiculous move. Anywhere but Chan.

Chan, however, does not take his eyes off you for a second. “You had your fun?”

You flush slightly. “What kind of question is that?”

“The kind I want an answer to.”

You finally turn your face to him, regretting it almost instantly. His pretty features are relaxed enough for people who don’t know him to think he’s unbothered, but you know better. The sharp glint in his eye, the muscle tensing in his jaw—it all gives away how annoyed he really is.

“I was dancing,” you say, lifting a shoulder. “At a birthday party. Crazy concept.”

“On Changbin’s lap.”

You let out a short laugh, though it comes out thinner than you mean for it to. “He was enjoying himself.”

Chan’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I noticed.”

The music around you swells, bass rattling through the booth, through your ribs, through the fragile space you’ve been trying to keep intact all night. Across the club, your friends are still caught up in their own chaos, oblivious. Lights flash blue, then pink, then white, painting Chan’s face in pieces.

All you can think is how unfairly beautiful he looks like this.

You clear your throat. “It’s just Changbin. It’s not like it meant anything. I was just–”

Your breath hitches, cutting off your words when his fingers begin their soft climb up your thigh, teasing the underside of his skirt. “Just?”

You huff. “Just nothing.”

“Nothing,” Chan repeats, like he doesn’t believe that for a second. His thumb drags in one slow line over your skin, higher and higher, until your whole body goes tight in his lap. “So you climbed all over him for nothing.”

You glance away. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?”

His voice is calm. Too calm. That’s always when he’s the worst—when he sounds almost casual, like he isn’t paying attention, while every inch of him is locked in.

Around you, the club keeps pulsing on, lights flashing over the booth in streaks of color, your friends still somewhere in the crowd, oblivious. But here, in the corner of the booth, it feels like the whole room has narrowed to the heat of his hand slipping under your skirt at last and the way he’s looking at you.

You swallow. “Changbin’s my friend.”

“Mhm.”

“It was his birthday.”

“Mhm.”

“And he just got dumped.”

“You’re very generous.”

You turn to glare at him properly then, but it only makes it worse. He’s already looking at you, eyes dark and fixed, mouth pressed into that faint line that means he’s annoyed and enjoying it.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

His head tilts. “Was that supposed to make me jealous?”

Your heart gives one awful, traitorous thud.

“No,” you say too quickly.

One of his brows lifts.

You try again, forcing a scoff into it this time. “Why would I care if you were jealous?”

Chan doesn’t answer right away. His fingers rest high on your thigh now, fingers spreading them apart when you squeeze them together slightly. Possessive without ever saying the word. Infuriating, because he has no right.

“You wouldn’t,” he says at last.

You laugh, brittle around the edges. “Exactly.”

“Right.” His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes. “So you weren’t trying to make me jealous.”

“No.”

“Right.”  His fingers finally brush the edge of your panties. “So, what? You wanna fuck him?”

You choke. Chan takes the opportunity to press his fingers against your now rapidly soaking cunt through your panties. 

“Chan–”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “What? It’s a simple question.”

You part your lips only for a tiny squeak to escape them when he fingers expertly find your clit and pinch. Heat rushes through you all at once, the alcohol and your pure attraction to him making it hard to think. “What’s it matter to you?” you manage to breathe out, even though your hips are starting to rock against his fingers in a slow, shameful rhythm.

He grins at you slowly, looking at you intently through his lashes. “You said you weren’t trying to make me jealous. Fine. So you clearly want to fuck him.”

His other hand slides up your back, under your shirt, warm and broad against your skin. You're tucked into the dark corner of the booth, and no one is near enough to be able to see what’s going on. You don’t know if that's a blessing or a curse.

“Focus,” he coaxes, fingers finally slipping past the fabric to slick against you. “One word, baby. Yes? No?”

“No, no–” You gasp, legs falling open in his lap. 

“Who do you wanna fuck then, pretty? Hm?” His finger pushes an inch inside of you and then withdraws just as quickly. “Tell me.”

Your throat works around nothing.

He already knows.

That’s the humiliating part. He knows, and he wants to hear you say it anyway, wants you to hand over the truth you’ve been trying not to touch for months. You ought not to give it to him. Torture him as much as he tortures you.

His finger pushes an inch inside of you again and every rational thought dissolves. 

“You,” It leaves your lips in a small whine. “Only wanna fuck you, Channie.”

The smile that graces his features is reward enough for you. 

“I’m going to eat you out so good for that, baby,” He whispers against your mouth when he pulls you to him by your jaw. You whine when you feel his hand withdraw from between your legs only for the sound to be swallowed by his lips, your own parting instantly. He draws you in closer, until you're perched directly on top of his crotch. He kisses you hungrily, tongue slipping inside of your mouth, fingers wounding themselves in your hair. He grinds up against you, and the friction of his jeans against your soaking panties is so good you nearly cry.

You know he’s already throbbing underneath him. Maybe he had been since you were dancing on Changbin. It didn’t really matter to you, especially since you knew for certain you were going to get more than just a taste of it later.

“I’m baaac–oh shit.”

You can barely register Changbin’s voice, dazed and chasing Chan’s lips when he pulls away. He chuckles, pressing one more lingering kiss to your lips before turning lazily to Changbin.

“Think we’re gonna head out. Sorry we couldn’t stay longer.”

Changbin waves him off quickly. Chan doesn’t even wait for his reply before taking your hand and pulling you up with him as he stands.

Later, you’ll barely remember the walk from the booth to the exit to the car. All that you remember is Chan’s rough fingers buried deep inside of you as he drove with his one free hand and the fact that by the time you pull up to his house, you’ve already cum once.

The hotel is different this time—different city, different skyline, same story. The sheets smell like someone else’s perfume, and his shirt is wrinkled like it’s been pulled off and put back on in a hurry. You don’t ask, and he doesn’t offer. He just stands there, framed by the glow of the streetlights bleeding through the window, looking at you like you’re something inevitable.

He swipes a hand over his face, exhales slow. “You shouldn't pick up when I call.”

“Don't call then.”

His lips twitch, the ghost of a smile, but there’s no humor in it. He unbuttons his shirt with one hand, the other spilling the contents of his little plastic bag on the nightstand by the bed. You watch from across the room, in that little black dress you know he likes.

He presses his fingers against his own tongue, wetting it, before pressing it against the white powder, hard enough for it to stick, then sucks on his finger.

You watch as his lips part, as his pupils darken, as his shoulders drop just a little like the weight of the world isn’t so heavy when he does this. He tilts his head back, eyes slipping shut, and you recognize the look that crosses his face—devotion. The kind of surrender that people spend their whole lives chasing.

He only ever looks like that for two things.

Drugs.

And you.

The thought makes your stomach twist, but you don’t dwell on it. Because he’s looking at you now, licking his lips, reaching out a hand. “C’mere,” he murmurs, voice thick, lazy.

And you go. Of course you do.

His fingers trail up the hem of your dress, slow, deliberate, as he tugs you between his legs. “You hate this, don’t you?” he muses, hands skimming your thighs, breath warm against your skin.

You don't answer, instead opening your mouth and lolling out your tongue, asking.

His gaze flickers, dark amusement curling at the edges of something deeper, something neither of you are willing to name.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, tapping his finger against your tongue, smearing the remnants of his high onto your taste buds. “That desperate for a taste?”

You close your lips around his finger, suck slow, let your teeth graze his skin just to watch his jaw tighten. Just to remind him that you know how to play this game, too.

He exhales sharply, tilting his head as he watches you, watches the way your lips part when he pulls his hand away. “Fuck,” he breathes, almost reverent.

He presses his finger back against the powder, and onto his own tongue, before he's sitting up and kissing you before it dissolves, pressing it against your tongue.

The bitterness coats your tongue, mixing with the taste of him, and for a second, it makes your head spin—not just the drugs, but the way he kisses you, slow and deep, like he’s trying to crawl inside your lungs. Like he wants to ruin you in a way that sticks.

His hands are on you now, gripping your hips, tugging you closer until you’re straddling his lap, the fabric of your dress riding up your thighs. His fingers dig into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. Like maybe this—whatever this is—grounds him in a way nothing else does.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters against your lips, the words slurred, smudged with exhaustion and chemicals. His hands slide up, tracing the curve of your spine, fingers ghosting over the back of your neck. His breath hitches when you shift against him, when you bite down on his bottom lip just hard enough to make him groan.

“But you keep calling,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see the way his pupils are blown wide, his lips parted. 

A sharp exhale, his fingers tangling in your hair, tugging just enough to make you tilt your head back. “You like it,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The truth is already there, thick in the air between you, tangled up in the way you keep coming back to this—to him.

His grip tightens, his fingers threading deeper into your hair, and when he tugs, your breath stutters. He watches you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, like he’s memorizing the way you react to him. Like it matters.

Maybe it does. Maybe that’s the worst part.

His lips ghost over yours, a breath away, teasing. “Say it,” he murmurs.

You swallow, pulse hammering, his breath hot against your lips. His words linger between you, thick and taunting, daring you to deny it.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let your fingers slide up his chest, nails scratching lightly over his skin, just to feel the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. You tilt your head, lips brushing against his.

“I’m into it.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, his grip tightening on your thighs, dragging you impossibly closer. “Show me.”

Your hands trail down his chest, slow, deliberate, like you’re mapping out all the places you’ve already claimed.He watches you, his breath shallow, his pupils' dark pools swallowing up what little light remains in the room. You know he’d been smoking before you got there. The drugs have hit by now—he’s drifting, untethered—but you know he sees you. Feels you.

His hands roam, greedy and desperate, slipping under the hem of your dress, gripping you like this is the only thing keeping him from spinning out.

Your lips hover over his, teasing. “Is this what you want?”

His breath stutters, a sharp inhale through his teeth. His fingers tighten on your thighs, his body coiled so tight you almost expect him to snap. His lips part, but he doesn’t answer, just watches you, pupils wide and dark, pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips. It’s fascinating to see–the way his entire body is covered in goosebumps and you’ve barely even touched him, pupils blown wide, following your every move.

“I want you on it,” He breathes, practically whines.

You smirk, rolling your hips once, your panties against the bulge straining against his jeans, slow, deliberate, just to watch the way his jaw clenches, the way his breath shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. “On what?” you murmur, teasing, even though you already know exactly what he means.

“Don’t start,” he warns, voice low, wrecked. His head falls back against the headboard, eyes locked on you, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Don’t act like we haven’t done this before.”

You drag your nails down his bare chest, roll your hips again, slower this time, watching the way his fingers twitch against your thighs, the way his breath comes out in a ragged, uneven exhale. His chest rises and falls erratically, his shirt slipping from his shoulders, exposing more of his skin to your wandering touch.

His patience is hanging by a thread—you can feel it, see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his grip on you tightens. You could push him, keep teasing, but there’s something intoxicating about having him like this—already undone before you’ve even really started.

Chris’s hands slide up, bunching up your short dress so that his fingers splayed wide over your bare ribs. “I swear to fucking God,” he breathes, voice strained, almost desperate. His hands slide down your body to unbuckle his belt, but his hands are shaking so badly, all he does is fumble.

You catch his hands, stilling them, and he looks up at you, dazed. “Relax,” you whisper, teasing.

His hands flex against your thighs, a sharp inhale cutting through the thick air between you. “I can’t.”

You make quick work of his belt, undoing the buckle with deft fingers, sliding the leather free before tossing it to the floor. His breath hitches when your hands move lower, when you palm him through his jeans, feeling the heat of him through the fabric.

His head falls back against the headboard with a muted thud, his hands gripping your hips, bruising. “Fuck,” he exhales, voice barely more than a breath.

Your gaze flickers over his shoulder, to the sheets that don’t smell like you. The perfume clings to the air, sweet and sickly, a reminder of whoever warmed his bed before you got here. A lesser woman might bite her tongue, pretend not to notice. But you aren’t her, and he sure as hell isn’t the kind of man who deserves the courtesy of silence.

“Guess she wasn’t enough for you, huh?” you murmur, voice dripping with something venomous, something possessive. You cock your head, smirking as you press your palm against the bulge in his jeans. “Didn’t scratch the itch?”

Chris’s jaw flexes, his fingers tightening on your hips. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, frayed at the edges.

But you’re not in the mood to play nice. Not when he keeps coming back to you like this. Not when he acts like you’re some bad habit he can’t quit, even with other girls in his bed, on his lap, under his hands.

You lean in, lips grazing his ear. “Maybe she didn’t let you fuck her like she hated you,” you whisper, rolling your hips against him. “Maybe she didn’t make you work for it.”

Chris exhales sharply, nostrils flaring, eyes blown wide with something feral. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. For a second, he just stares at you, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. And then—

You barely have time to react before he shoves you onto your back, your head hitting the pillows as he looms over you, the air between you charged, electric. His hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, like he needs to feel your pulse beneath his fingers. Feel how it hammers against your throat, just for him.

Chris laughs, breathless, humorless. “You talk shit like this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “But you keep coming back.”

“So do you.”

His hand tightens around your throat, just enough to make your breath stutter, just enough to remind you who’s in control. His grip is firm, possessive, like he owns you, like he's daring you to fight him on it.

"You always run your fucking mouth," Chris mutters, voice dripping with venom, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "But you always end up right here, legs open, dripping for me."

You glare up at him, nails digging into his forearm, but you don’t deny it. You can’t. The proof is slick between your thighs, your body betraying you like it always does when it comes to him.

He tilts his head, watching you like he’s amused. "What’s wrong, baby? Nothing smart to say now?" His fingers flex around your throat, a silent warning. "Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought."

You swallow, the movement pressing your throat against his palm. You refuse to break first.

His grip slides down, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before gripping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, slow, teasing. “You wanna act like this doesn’t get you off?” He tilts his head, smirking. “That’s cute.”

His other hand trails lower, dragging up the hem of your dress, the rough pads of his fingers grazing over your bare thighs. The anticipation coils in your stomach, tightening with every second he takes his time.

“Bet you’re already soaked for me,” he muses, voice dipping lower, darker. “Bet you’ve been waiting for this.”

You glare up at him, defiant, but the moment his fingers press against the damp fabric between your legs, your breath stutters. He hums, smug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

His fingers move slowly, a light, teasing touch that makes your hips jerk forward instinctively, chasing more. Chris watches, amused, eyes flickering between your face and where his hand disappears under your dress. “You say my name when you get yourself off?” he asks, voice thick with arrogance, fingers pressing harder, rubbing slow, torturous circles over your panties. “Or do you pretend I’m not the only one who gets you like this?”

You don’t answer, but you can’t stop the way your body responds to him, the way your thighs tremble as he keeps working you open.

Chris exhales sharply, dragging your panties aside, his fingers slipping through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Dripping for me, baby.”

His fingers leave you for only a moment, just long enough to reach for the small mirror on the nightstand, the neat white lines already waiting for him. You watch as he rolls up a bill with practiced ease, bringing it to his nose. He inhales sharply, the sound cutting through the thick silence between you, head tilting back as the high crashes through his system.

Chris exhales slow, blinking up at the ceiling, and for a second, he looks completely weightless—like the chaos in his head has stilled, if only for a moment. Then his gaze drops back to you, pupils blown wide, lips curling into something dark and satisfied.

“You love this shit,” he mutters, voice heavy, thick with the rush of chemicals and lust. His fingers tease you, slick and lazy, dragging through your folds with just enough pressure to make you squirm. “Love letting me fuck you up, huh?”

His fingers push inside, slow, lazy, and your nails dig into his forearm, grounding yourself in the press of his body against yours. He watches, lips parting slightly, mimicking yours, as he curls his fingers, dragging them along that spot that makes your back arch and your thighs shake. The smirk that pulls at his lips is nearly smug.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and something darker. “You act like you don’t fucking need this.”

Your body betrays you, hips rocking forward, seeking more. Chris laughs, low and dark, withdrawing his fingers completely just to hear you whimper. He watches the way your lips part, the way your chest heaves, taking in every twitch, every shift. You can feel his breath ghost over your lips when he leans down, his nose brushing yours.

“You love letting me wreck you, don’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, taunting. His fingers trail up your inner thigh, featherlight, so close to where you want him but refusing to give in just yet. “Love knowing that no matter how many times I walk away, you’ll let me crawl back inside you like I fucking belong there.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh, tipping your chin up in defiance even as your body betrays you, rocking toward him, silently begging for more. “Fuck you,” you mutter, voice thinner than you’d like.

Chris grins, all teeth, his fingers still teasing, still hovering just shy of where you need him. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

You shift beneath him, pushing up just enough to press your lips against his, to feel the remnants of the drugs on his tongue, the taste of chemicals and sin coating his mouth. He groans, low and guttural, his control slipping just a little when your teeth graze his bottom lip. His grip on your thighs tightens, and then suddenly, he’s pushing you back down against the mattress, pinning you beneath him with his weight.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath uneven. His fingers flex against your thigh, like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You make me so fucking stupid.”

Your body arches into him, aching, pleading, but he’s already there, already lining himself up, already sinking inside with a ragged exhale that sounds like relief.

It’s fast, brutal, nothing soft about it. He fucks you like he needs it, like this is the only way he knows how to breathe. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, keeping you where he wants, where he needs.

Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, steals the words from your lips until all that’s left is the sound of skin on skin, his low, filthy groans, the way your name drags from his throat like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.

Chris doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. He’s chasing his own high, using you for it, taking what he wants, what he needs. And you let him. You take it, every rough thrust, every bruising grip, every desperate, needy sound that falls from his lips.

Because this is what you both do.

Use. Ruin. Destroy.

______________________________________________________________

The dressing room is small, barely more than a closet, the air thick with sweat and the lingering hum of the crowd just beyond the walls. Chris is still pulsing with the energy of the stage, his body electric, his skin glowing under the dim bulbs. He tastes like salt and heat, his chest still rising and falling too fast, adrenaline keeping his limbs loose and restless.

"You—" The word barely leaves him before you're on him, pushing him back against the counter, fingers yanking at his belt, fumbling, rushed. He helps, sort of—hands unsteady, shoving his jeans down just enough, breath coming fast and uneven.

No time for teasing. No time for anything.

You drop to your knees, and he lets out this ragged sound, half-laugh, half-moan, his fingers finding your hair, gripping tight when your mouth wraps around him. He’s already hard, already twitching, already a fucking mess, and the second your tongue drags over him, his hips jerk forward like he can’t control it. You lean in and drag your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and wet, feeling him throb against your lips before you take him fully into your mouth.

"Shit—" His hand tightens, a sharp pull against your scalp. "Yeah, just like that—"

The door isn’t locked. Anyone could walk in. His name is being screamed just outside this room, time ticking down, the show waiting. It makes it worse. It makes it better.

The heat of his skin, the weight of him in your mouth, the way he twitches every time your tongue drags along a sensitive spot—it’s overwhelming. It’s intoxicating. You press your hands against his thighs to steady yourself, taking him in deeper, swallowing around him until the tip brushes the back of your throat.

Chris groans, a wrecked, guttural sound, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips twitch forward, the edge of desperation creeping in. "Fuck, I–" He barely gets the words out before his breath shudders, thighs trembling under your touch.

Someone knocks at the door.

"Chris! Two minutes!"

His whole body stiffens, a sharp inhale punched out of his chest, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even pull away. If anything, the urgency makes him more reckless, more desperate. His abs clench as you suck him harder, faster, messy and wet, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

He’s so fucking close. You can feel it in the way his thighs tighten, in the way his breath comes sharp and shallow, his cock pulsing against your tongue. His grip in your hair turns bruising as he grits out, "M’gonna—"

And then he’s spilling down your throat, his whole body shuddering, hips stuttering against your lips as he moans—deep, broken, lost in it. You swallow everything, letting him ride it out, your tongue flicking over him until he’s too sensitive, his body twitching as he groans low and shaky.

For a moment, all he does is breathe. Ragged, uneven. His chest rising and falling too fast, his fingers still tangled in your hair like he doesn’t want to let go. Chris exhales sharply, running a hand over his face, still catching his breath. 

A thumb swipes over your bottom lip, smearing the mess, his half-lidded gaze burning into you, still glazed, still wrecked.  But then, for a heartbeat, something shifts.

His eyes, usually dark with unrestrained hunger and desperation, flicker with an unfamiliar softness. The relentless, feverish rhythm of his touches falters, and he hesitates. Instead of reaching to claim you with the same raw urgency, his hand lingers on your cheek. His rough grip slackens, and his expression—so often a mask of relentless need—betrays a flicker of something else: tenderness.

Then he’s pulling you up by your jaw, meeting you halfway to kiss you. It’s a quiet, gentle kiss—a soft caress that speaks of apologies and longing rather than conquest. His lips, warm and unexpectedly tender, press against yours with a delicate insistence that makes your heart both ache and flutter. It leaves you gasping for breath in a way he’s never left you before.

There's a banging at the door. “Chris! We need you out here, now!”

The spell is broken. He’s stepping away, and you’re stepping forward, reaching for him,

“Chris–”

But he’s shaking out his wrists, already turning toward the door.

He doesn’t look back before he leaves.

______________________________________________________________

It’s the last time you see him. Or even hear from him. Every text goes unanswered, every call, straight to voicemail. You wait–wait like the pathetic dreamer you are, hoping that that kiss meant something to him, falling deeper into the void of delusion you’ve built with your own two hands. You devour any information about him you can find on the internet, anything, knowing full well how much of a desperate bitch you’re being.

But you can’t bring yourself to care. Not with that last kiss lingering on your tongue, not with the curse of knowing you almost had him, almost had him in the way you wanted—completely, irrevocably, beyond just the heat and the ruin.

Almost.

The days stretch into weeks, and then months. Every night, you tell yourself this is the last time you'll check his socials, the last time you'll search his name, the last time you'll replay every second of that final night over in your head like a fucking broken record. 

But you do it anyway. 

Over and over.

______________________________________________________________

It’s been a year; you're over it. You swear you are.

The afternoon sun spills lazily over campus, warming the stone pathways as you stand in a loose circle with your friends, conversation drifting easily between topics. Laughter hums around you, light and unbothered.

“I swear to God,” Yeji groans, tossing her head back dramatically, “if Professor Allen assigns one more article, I’m gonna start sending him readings. See how he likes it.”

Hyunjin snorts. “You’re acting like you even do the readings.”

Yeji glares. “First of all, rude. Second of all, I skim—”

“—the first paragraph and call it a day,” you finish for her, smirking.

She gasps, clutching her chest. “Et tu?”

You laugh, about to respond, but stop dead when someone brushes past you. You don’t recognize him, not at first, with his hood up, jacket zipped, his face mostly obscured. But that scent. You would recognize it anywhere.

Something deep and familiar, the mix of his cologne and skin, a warmth that lingers even after he’s passed. Your throat goes tight. Your breath stumbles.

No.

He wouldn’t. He knows better.

You force yourself to keep talking, to keep nodding, to not turn around. But your pulse is already thrumming, a slow-building panic mixed with something darker. Because he’s close. He was right there. And when you finally allow yourself to glance sideways, just for a second, you see him.

Not fully—just the slant of his jaw under the hood, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s holding himself back. He doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t say a word. But when he reaches the library steps, he slows.

Waits.

Your stomach tightens.

No.

No, no, no.

Your fingers clench around the strap of your bag.

Before you know it, can register what the hell you're doing, an excuse is falling from your lips and you’re turning on your heel and following him.

The moment you step inside the library, you spot him.

Chris stands tucked between the bookshelves, hood drawn low over his face, but it does nothing to hide him—not from you. You know the way he holds himself, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for something—someone.

Your blood is already simmering as you make your way toward him, each step measured, controlled. You don’t rush. You don’t let yourself look panicked. Because if you do—if anyone sees—this could all go to hell.

Chris notices you immediately, his shoulders dropping like he’s relieved, like he actually thought you wouldn’t come. And for a split second, his expression is almost soft—almost. But then he sees the fury in your eyes, the tension in your frame, and that softness vanishes.

The moment you see him, you know.

Not just because of the scent—familiar, overwhelming, still burned into your memory after all this time—but because of the way he moves. Too jittery, too restless, like his own skin is too tight, like the air around him is pressing in from all sides.

Chris is high.

You can see it in his pupils, blown wide and glassy, in the way he can’t stay still, shifting from foot to foot, running a hand through his already-messy hair. He looks wired, strung out on something more than just adrenaline.

His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and for a moment, you think he might actually speak first. But then his mouth snaps shut, jaw clenching as he exhales sharply through his nose.

You don’t ask him why he’s here. You don’t ask him where the fuck he’s been.

Instead, you step closer—just enough for the scent of him to hit you full force, for his breath to mix with yours in the sliver of space between you. His pupils track the movement, slow and deliberate, and for the first time in a year, you feel the weight of his presence again, pressing down on you like a vice.

And you fucking hate it.

"You're out of your mind," you whisper, voice cold and sharp. "Do you even know where you are?"

It clings to him, thick and suffocating—the way his pupils swallow the color of his eyes, the way his hands twitch like he can’t quite keep them steady. He’s a mess of shallow breaths and restless energy, swaying just slightly on his feet, like the weight of the world is finally crushing him.

And maybe it is.

“I need your help,” he rasps, voice raw, broken.

The words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. A year. A whole fucking year of nothing—no calls, no texts, no explanations. You grieved him like a ghost, hated him like a curse. And now he’s just here, standing in front of you, looking at you like you’re the only person in the world who can save him.

Your stomach twists violently, rage and disbelief clawing their way up your throat. “You have to be kidding me.”

Chris drags a shaky hand through his hair, pacing, restless. “I don’t have time for this.” His voice is fraying at the edges, unraveling. “One of my own friends—someone I trusted—sold me out. They tipped off the cops. If they find my stash, I’m done. My career, my future—it’s over.” His breath shudders. “I need you to hide it.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

You take a step closer, your breath shallow, your voice steady even as your hands tremble at your sides. “You don’t get to do this, Chris.”

His jaw tenses, and for the first time, his mask slips. Just enough for you to see the exhaustion, the weight pressing down on him. His fingers twitch again, like he wants to reach for you but knows he shouldn’t.

“I didn’t mean to—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “I fucked up.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Which time?”

Chris exhales through his nose, his gaze flicking to the ground, then back up to you. He looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he finally, finally, takes a step forward. Just enough that the space between you shrinks, the scent of him clouding your senses. Just enough that you can feel the heat of him, the way he’s barely holding himself together.

“I need you,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t have anyone else.”

Your breath hitches. Your resolve wavers.

Chris notices. Of course he does.

His fingers ghost over your wrist, just a brush, just a test.

And when you don’t pull away—when you don’t slap his hand, don’t shove him back—he exhales, like he’s been holding it in for a year.

“Please,” he murmurs.

Your hands clench at your sides.

You should say no. You want to say no. Every part of you is screaming at you to walk away, to let him deal with the mess he made, to let the consequences finally catch up to him.

But then you look at him. Really look at him.

Chris isn’t just high—he’s unraveling. His fingers won’t stay still, his shoulders are too tight, his breath too ragged. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Wide and bloodshot and filled with something you can’t name, something that makes your chest ache even as your fists clench. He looks like a man on the edge of a cliff, teetering too far forward. Like he’s one wrong move away from falling.

And somehow, against all logic, he’s decided you are the thing that might keep him from going over.

Your stomach twists violently.

"You can’t ask me for this," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Chris swallows, his throat working around something thick. "I know."

But he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, like without you, he might just come apart completely. And it makes you feel sick. Because part of you—some deep, fractured part of you that never really stopped wanting him—wants to be that for him.

 You drag in a slow breath, clenching your jaw so hard it aches. “One week.”

Chris blinks. “What?”

“You get one week,” you repeat, voice sharper now, cutting through whatever fog is clouding his head. “You figure your shit out, and then you come take this garbage back because I’m not—” Your voice wavers, and you hate it. You steel yourself. “I’m not getting caught up in this, Chris.”

His eyes flicker, just for a moment, a sharp flash of something like hope, but the remnants of desperation still cling to his expression. “One week,” he repeats, voice barely above a breath, like he’s testing it out, like he doesn’t believe it. But you can see it in him—he’ll take whatever you’re willing to give, no matter how little, no matter how broken it might be.

You exhale sharply, stepping back a fraction, distancing yourself, even though every fiber of your body wants to close that space. The library feels too small now, too suffocating. Chris remains still, his presence like a weight pressing down on you, but you refuse to move closer, refuse to let him drag you back into his chaos.

Chris nods once, sharp and small. “One week,” he repeats, and the words should sound like a deal, an agreement, but instead, they land like a promise. Or maybe a plea.

You holds his gaze for one more second, then turn before you can second-guess herself. Chris stays where he is, rooted to the floor, watching you walk away. His jaw tenses, his breath shudders, but he doesn’t move.

Because if he moves, he might follow her.

And if he follows, he might never let you go again.

______________________________________________________________

The week crawls by, each day stretching longer than the last. You try to focus—on classes, on assignments, on anything that isn’t him—but it’s useless. His voice lingers in the back of your mind, his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

You tell yourself you won’t wait. You won’t check your phone every time it vibrates. You won’t wonder if he’s going to show.

But when it finally rings—his name glowing on the screen—you answer before you can think twice.

"Hey."

Silence. A hesitation, just long enough for doubt to creep in. Then, his voice—soft, uncertain.

"I'm outside." A beat. "If… if that's still okay."

Something tightens in your chest. You glance out the window, at his car lingering just outside your building, forcing your grip to loosen around your phone.

“Are you going to come up?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant, fingers toying with the hem of your t-shirt. You’re just in that simple tee and sweatpants, your face bare. It’s the first time you haven’t dressed up to see him.

You can hear him inhale, imagine him bouncing his knee from where he sits in his car. “I didn’t think you’d want your roommate to see me.”

You brush your hair out of your face, eyes locked on the car outside. “She’s not here. Visiting her parents for the weekend.”

Chris is quiet for a second too long, like he’s weighing the invitation, considering if he should take the step over the line he’s already toeing. Then you hear the jingle of his keys as he pulls it from the engine. “Give me a sec.”

Your stomach tightens as you hang up, fingers gripping your phone a little too hard. You don’t know why you said that. Why you gave him the chance to be close again. You should’ve told him to stay in the car, should’ve just handed him his shit and sent him on his way.

But instead, you stand there, frozen, pulse hammering in your throat as you listen for the sound of his footsteps in the hall.

A knock. Soft. Hesitant. Not the way he used to knock, not the way he used to waltz into your space like he belonged there.

You exhale, slow and measured, before unlocking the door.

And there he is.

Chris stands in the dim glow of the hallway light, hood still up, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks… tired. Not just in the way his eyes are rimmed red, the slight tremor in his fingers, but deeper than that. Like he hasn’t slept right in months. Like the weight of whatever’s been chasing him is finally catching up.

He exhales when he sees you. “Hey.”

He’s sober. Exhausted, his hair standing in a hundred different directions like he ran his hands through it a million times, but sober. 

“You look like shit,” you say finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

Chris huffs out a breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Feels about right.” He ducks his head, his hair in his eyes. “You look beautiful.”

You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the edge of the door. You don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t let the way his words settle in your chest distract you from the fact that he shouldn’t be here—that this shouldn’t be happening.

Chris shifts on his feet, glancing past you, toward the inside of your apartment. He doesn’t step forward, doesn’t push. Just waits.

You should tell him to leave. Tell him to take his shit and go.

Instead, you step back. Just enough.

Chris exhales, something flickering in his expression—something like relief, like gratitude, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him in. He hesitates for only a second before crossing the threshold.

The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly, the air in the room is heavier. You can feel him everywhere. The scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating off him. It’s suffocating and familiar and everything you swore you wouldn’t let yourself want again.

He doesn’t belong here. Not in the soft glow of your apartment, not in the quiet hum of your space that’s been untouched by him for over a year. But he’s here anyway, and you can feel it in your bones, the way he fills the room, the way the air thickens just by his presence.

You close the door. Neither of you speak.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, finally pushing his hood down. His dark eyes flick around the room, taking in everything—the textbooks on your desk, the half-empty cup of tea on the counter, the blanket thrown haphazardly over the arm of the couch. Domestic. Normal. Everything he isn’t.

His gaze settles back on you, his throat working like he wants to say something, but the words don’t come.

So you speak first.

“Do you want something to drink?”

He clears his throat, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I–yeah. Just..just water.”

You nod, turning toward the kitchen. Your movements are steady, controlled, but your heart is hammering in your chest, every nerve hyper-aware of the man standing behind you.

When you turn back to him, glass in hand, he’s watching you. Not in the way he used to—not with hunger, not with heat—but with something you can’t quite place. His fingers twitch at his sides, and when he finally reaches out to take the glass, his touch lingers. Barely. Just long enough to send a shiver up your spine.

He drinks, slow, deliberate. Like he’s using it as an excuse to keep from speaking. His throat bobs, his lips parting around the rim of the glass, and you hate that you notice, hate that you remember what those lips felt like against yours, what they tasted like when he kissed you that last time—soft and lingering, like an apology, like a goodbye.

But he’s here now.

And you don’t know what the fuck that means.

Chris exhales as he sets the glass down, raking a hand through his hair. His shoulders slump, his body finally stilling in a way it hasn’t all night. He looks wrecked. He looks lost.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he says, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. His gaze flickers to you, raw, exposed. “I don’t know if I even can.”

You lean back against the wall, arms cross across your chest. “Fix what?”

He leans his head back opposite you, exhaling. “I don’t know. Everything. Myself.” He glances down at you through the hair over his eyes. “Us.”

Your chest tightens but you purse your lips, unwilling to say anything. His expression softens. 

“I’m sorry.”

Two words. Small. Insufficient. But the weight of them still lands heavy in the space between you.

You fold your arms over your chest. “For what?”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you know he understands the real question beneath your words. Which thing, Chris? Which fucking thing are you apologizing for?

His jaw tenses. “For all of it.”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been sitting in your lungs for a year. You don’t know what to do with this—this version of him, the one who looks at you like he regrets everything, the one whose voice doesn’t hold the usual bravado but something closer to guilt.

It would be so much easier if he came back the way he left. If he was still that same reckless, selfish, untouchable version of himself. You could hate that version. You could send him away without hesitation.

But this? This is harder.

Chris shifts on his feet, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to disappear like that.”

“You did, though.” The words come out flat. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

He flinches. “I thought it was better that way.”

“For who?”

Chris doesn’t answer right away. His eyes drop to the floor, his fingers flex at his sides. “For you.”

A bitter laugh pushes past your lips before you can stop it. “Bullshit.”

His gaze snaps back up. You shake your head, unable to keep the anger from bleeding into your voice.

“You don’t get to come back after a year and act like you did this for me, Chris. You left. You fucking ghosted me like I was nothing. And now, what? You suddenly need something, so I matter again?”

“No.” His voice is sharp, urgent. “That’s not—fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. “I never stopped thinking about you.”

Your stomach clenches. You hate how badly you want to believe him.

You look away, focusing on the wall, the floor, anywhere but his face. “Then why did you leave?”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Chris exhales, and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Rougher. “Because I was fucked up. Because I thought I was protecting you. Because I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting more than I should.”

Your breath stumbles.

Chris steps forward—just half a step, just enough that you can feel the warmth of him again. He hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“I wasn’t good for you,” he murmurs. “I’m still not.”

Chris is standing close now, too close, his presence like gravity, pulling you in even when you know you shouldn’t let it. His breath is shallow, his fingers still twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. And his eyes—fuck, his eyes. Dark, wide, searching.

You take a slow breath, steadying yourself. "Then why are you here?"

Chris exhales sharply, his gaze flickering away for just a second before locking onto yours again. “Because I didn’t know where else to go.”

The words settle between you like a confession, and something in your chest twists painfully.

You should be angry. You are angry. But anger is easy. Anger is safe. What scares you is the part of you that still wants to reach for him, to pull him in, to fix the cracks in him even though you know you’ll only end up breaking yourself in the process.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. "You don’t get to do that, Chris. You don’t get to leave me for a year and then show up and say that."

“I know.” His voice is quiet, raw. “But I’m here anyway.”

Chris is still waiting, still watching you like he’s bracing for you to tell him to go. And you should. You should slam the door on this before it’s too late, before you let yourself believe that this time will be different.

But then Chris reaches out.

It’s hesitant, like he expects you to flinch away, but you don’t. His fingers barely skim yours, a whisper of a touch, but it’s enough. It sends something electric skittering through your veins, something familiar and dangerous and impossible to ignore.

Your breath catches.

Chris notices. Of course he does.

“I fucked up,” he says again, softer this time. “I don’t know how to make it right.”

You shake your head, exhaling a laugh that isn’t really a laugh at all. “You think you can just show up here and apologize and everything will be fine?”

“No,” he says. “I think I can show up here and tell you the truth for once.”

You stare at Chris, searching his face for any sign that this is just another one of his half-truths, another attempt to say just enough to keep you from slamming the door in his face. But there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now—something raw, something stripped down to the bone.

And that’s almost worse.

Because if he’s telling the truth, then you don’t know what to do with it.

Your voice is quieter this time, not as sharp, not as sure. “Then say it. Say whatever it is you came here to say.”

Chris swallows hard, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s physically holding himself back. Then he exhales, his breath shaky, his whole body tense like he’s about to step off the edge of something.

“I left because I was scared,” he says finally. “Scared of what I felt. Scared of what it meant.”

Your stomach tightens, a sharp pull of something between anger and heartbreak. “Scared of what?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Of you.” His gaze flickers away for half a second before he forces it back to yours. “Of how much I—” He stops, his jaw clenching. “Of how much I fucking needed you.”

The confession knocks the breath from your lungs.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into his features. “I didn’t know how to handle it. You were—” He stops again, shaking his head like the words won’t come out right. “You made me feel things I didn’t know how to deal with. And instead of facing it, I ran.”

You inhale sharply, something breaking open in your chest. “And now?”

Chris takes a step closer.

You don’t step back.

“Now I know that running didn’t change anything,” he says. His voice is rough, almost desperate. “I still need you. I still—” He swallows. “I never stopped.”

Chris shifts, hesitating like he’s afraid any sudden movement will make you disappear. His voice is softer now, barely above a whisper. “Say something.”

You wet your lips, forcing yourself to breathe. “What do you want me to say, Chris?”

He flinches, just a little. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he thought you’d have some kind of answer, when the truth is, you don’t.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “That you understand? That you—” He exhales sharply, his hands curling into fists before he relaxes them again. “That you still—”

“Don’t.” The word is sharp, cutting through whatever he was about to say. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

Chris swallows hard, nodding once. Like he gets it. Like he deserves it.

The night hums around you—distant traffic, the whisper of wind through the trees—but all you can hear is the quiet sound of Chris breathing, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing between you.

You sigh, softer this time. “Chris.”

His gaze snaps to yours, desperate, waiting.

“I can’t be the reason you stay,” you say, your voice steady but gentle. “And I won’t be the reason you break yourself trying.”

His brows draw together, a flicker of something like panic flashing across his face. “That’s not—” He stops, jaw tightening. “That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?” You tilt your head, studying him. “You show up here, after a year, after leaving me behind, and suddenly you want another chance?” You shake your head, not in anger, but in something softer. Sadder. “You’re still searching, Chris. Still trying to find something to hold onto. And I won’t be that. Not like this.”

Chris runs a hand over his face, his shoulders tense. “I’m not asking you to fix me.”

“No,” you say quietly. “But you want me to be the thing that makes this easier.”

He flinches.

You don’t push, don’t press where it hurts, but you hold your ground.

“I loved you,” you admit, and the words feel like pulling stitches from an old wound. “Maybe I still do. But I won’t have you in pieces.”

Chris stands there, his breath uneven, his whole body trembling like he’s barely holding himself together. Then, barely louder than a whisper— “I don’t know how.” 

His voice cracks, and the sound of it—God, the sound of it—splinters something inside you. His eyes are wet, his throat working as he tries to swallow down the weight of his own admission.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. It would be so easy to reach for him, to pull him in, to tell him you’ll help him figure it out. But that’s not your place. Not anymore. Chris drags a shaky hand through his hair, his breaths uneven. 

“I don’t—I don’t know how to fix myself.” His voice is thick with tears, his body tensed like he’s waiting for you to turn away, to give up on him entirely. “I don’t even know where to start.”

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself before you speak. “Then start small.” 

Chris blinks at you, like he wasn’t expecting that. You keep your voice soft but sure. “Find a rehab center. Talk to a therapist. You’ve been carrying all of this alone, and it’s too heavy. You need help, Chris.”

 His jaw tightens, his hands clenching into fists before he releases them. He nods once, barely there, like he’s trying to take in your words but isn’t sure how. 

“Figure out what’s hurting,” you continue, gentler now. “And then work on healing it. Not for me. Not for anyone else. For you.” 

Chris exhales sharply, dragging his sleeve across his face, but the tears keep coming. “I don’t want to do this without you,” he whispers. “I don’t want—” His voice catches, and he shakes his head. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

You swallow against the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to lose you either,” you admit, the words quiet but honest. “But if I hold on to you like this, we’ll both drown.

He doesn’t move when you reach for him, cupping his cheek softly, thumb brushing away the stray tears. You pull him toward you, resting your forehead against his.

Chris squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. For a moment, you think he might argue, might fight against the truth of your words like he always does. But when he opens his eyes again, there’s something different there—something breaking, something shifting.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” he admits, voice so quiet it almost gets lost in the night air. “What if I—I don’t know how to be without you.”

You step forward, just a little, just enough to be close but not close enough to fall. “You won’t be without me,” you say, gentle but firm. “I’ll be hoping for you. I’ll be rooting for you. But I can’t be with you—not like this.”

Chris nods, but it’s shaky, uncertain, like he’s trying to make himself believe it. “And if I get better?” His voice is raw, desperate in a way that tugs at something deep inside you. “If I—if I figure it out?”

You inhale, the ache in your chest tightening. “Then maybe you come find me.”

Chris’ breath stutters. His eyes flick across your face like he’s memorizing every part of you, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.His hand reaches for your face, shaking, hesitant, fingers threading through your hair.

You let him touch you, just this once. Just for a moment.

His fingers tremble against your skin, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. But you won’t let him make this harder than it already is. You bring your hand up, gently wrapping around his wrist, grounding him.

“Chris,” you whisper, and the way his eyes snap to yours—like your voice is the only thing tethering him to the earth—almost undoes you.

He swallows hard, blinking rapidly against the tears still threatening to fall. His thumb ghosts over your cheek, the touch so heartbreakingly familiar it makes your chest tighten. “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But you have to.”

His breath shudders as he exhales. “And if I’m not strong enough?”

“You are.” Your fingers tighten around his wrist, steady, certain. “You just have to believe it, too.”

Chris lets out a broken sound—something between a laugh and a sob. He presses his forehead to yours, his body trembling. “I don’t know how to say goodbye to you.”

You close your eyes for a brief second, letting yourself feel it. The weight of him, the warmth, the way his presence has always felt too much and not enough all at once.

Then, you pull back. Not much, but enough. Enough to be clear.

“This isn’t goodbye,” you murmur. “This is me giving you the chance to come back as the version of yourself you’re meant to be.”

Chris’ breath catches. He nods, but it’s slow, reluctant. Like a part of him is still holding on, still hoping there’s another way. But there isn’t.

You step back, and Chris’ hand falls away from your face.

The night air feels colder without his warmth so close.

He stares at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, like he’s trying to find something—maybe a reason to stay, maybe a reason to believe he can do this.

Then, finally, he takes a step back.

And then another.

His hands shake, his breath still uneven, but this time, he doesn’t fight it. He just looks at you, memorizing, holding on to whatever piece of you he can before he turns to go.

He pauses for a moment, glancing back at you. "What did you do with it?"

You know what he's asking. You smile slightly. "Threw it in the river the same day I got it."

Chris stares at you, something flickering in his eyes—something like understanding, something like devastation. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his hands clenching at his sides.

He exhales a shaky breath, glancing away for a moment before looking back at you. "Good," he says, but it sounds like it hurts to say it.

You nod, the ghost of a smile still lingering on your lips. "Good," you echo, softer.

Silence stretches between you, heavy but not unbearable. It feels like an ending. A real one.

Chris drags a hand through his hair, eyes flicking over you one last time, like he's trying to commit you to memory. And then, finally, he turns.

You watch him go.

His shoulders are hunched, his steps slow, hesitant, like he's still fighting every instinct that tells him to stay. But he doesn’t.

This time, he leaves.

And this time, you let him.

The night is quiet when he's gone, the absence of him settling over you like a sigh, like the closing of a book you thought you might never put down.

You inhale deeply, closing your eyes for just a moment.

Then you turn, stepping back into the light, and walk away.

______________________________________________________________

Two years have passed.

You know this not just by the changing seasons or the inevitable countdown to graduation but by the world itself shifting, reshaping in ways you never expected.

Chris went on an indefinite hiatus from music nearly a year ago. The headlines had been relentless—speculation, concern, theories spun out of control. But the truth, the quiet truth buried beneath the noise, was that he had admitted himself into rehab.

You remember staring at the news article, your coffee growing cold between your hands. There had been no fanfare, no dramatic statement—just a quiet, honest confession in an interview months later: I needed help. So I got it.

You never reached out. And he never did either.

Now, you’re here—twenty-two, a senior in college, balancing coursework and a part-time job at a café that smells like burnt espresso and exhaustion.

And right now, you’re pissed.

Rush hour has turned the place into chaos, your boss is breathing down your neck about an order that isn’t even yours, and someone just knocked over an entire tray of drinks, leaving you to mop up a mess that isn’t your fault.

You exhale sharply, pushing stray hair from your face as you grab your notepad and make your way to the next table, your voice tight with forced patience.

“What can I get you?”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“How about ten minutes of your time?”

The voice stops you in your tracks.

Deeper. Steadier. But still him.

Your grip tightens on the notepad as you finally look up.

Chris leans back in his chair, watching you with that same quiet intensity that always made you feel like the only person in the room. You don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. You just stare back, unimpressed. 

“Five minutes,” you say flatly. 

His lips twitch. “Generous.” You arch a brow. 

“I can make it three.” 

Chris huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I think I’ll behave.” 

You tap your notepad against the table, tilting your head. “So? Is this where you tell me you’ve spent the last two years soul-searching in the mountains, learning inner peace from a wise old man with a beard down to his knees?” 

Chris grins, quick and easy, like muscle memory. “Close. The wise old man was my therapist, and his beard was more mildly unkempt than knee-length.” 

A snort escapes you before you can stop it. Chris’ smile softens at the sound, like he’s been waiting for it. You shut it down quickly, clearing your throat. 

“So, you actually did it.” 

His expression turns serious, just a little. “Yeah. I did.” 

You hold his gaze. “Good.” 

Something flickers in his eyes, something unreadable. Then, casually, “You still throw things in rivers when you don’t know what to do with them?” 

Your stomach tightens at the memory. You should’ve known he’d bring it up “Depends. Planning to give me something else to get rid of?” 

Chris hums, considering. “I did have a mix tape ready. Very moody. Lots of self-pity.” 

You roll your eyes. “Tragic that I’ll never hear it.” 

“Truly.” He pauses, watching you again. “You look good.” 

You hesitate for half a second before responding, keeping your voice light. “I get a lot of fresh air.” 

Chris smirks. “Ah, yes. The glamorous café life.”

"You joke, but I will make you pay for a coffee if you keep sitting here.” 

He presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “You wouldn’t.” 

“Try me.” 

Chris laughs again, but this time, it’s quieter. Realer. Silence settles between you, softer than before. 

Then, smoothly—too smoothly—he leans forward a fraction. “So… is there someone?”

You blink. “Someone what?”

He shrugs, all casual, like he’s not watching you too closely. “Someone who gets to bother you during your shifts without needing to buy coffee first?”

The question shouldn’t catch you off guard, but it does. You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness.“That’s what you’re asking with your last two minutes?”

Chris huffs a laugh, but his fingers tap restlessly against the table. “Just curious.”

 You hesitate, then shrug. “I’ve gone on dates.” 

His jaw flexes, just barely. “And?” 

You sigh, giving him a look. “And nothing.” 

Chris watches you for a second longer, then nods, like he’s filing the answer away. “Good.” You raise an eyebrow. 

“Good?” 

His lips twitch. “I’d hate to be competing with some six-foot-something finance bro.” 

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “I’d pay to see you go head-to-head with one.” 

Chris hums. “I’d win.” 

You scoff. “Bold assumption.”

He grins. “I’ve been working out.” 

You roll your eyes but don’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips.. “And you?”

Chris hums, considering. “Well, my therapist and I had a very meaningful relationship for a while there.”

You snort. “That does not count.”

“I disagree. We had weekly dates. I overshared. He judged me just enough.” Chris grins, then shakes his head. “No. No one.”

Silence again.

Chris watches you, waiting. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for more than you’re willing to give.

You tap your pen against your notepad, weighing your next words carefully. Then, finally—soft, simple, certain—you say, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Something shifts in his expression, something that looks a little like relief. Like maybe, after all this time, he finally believes he deserves to be.

You nod toward his empty cup. “But if you’re planning to sit here all night, you’re gonna have to order a coffee.”

Chris grins, small but real. “Yeah?”

You shrug. “House rules.”

He leans back in his chair, considering. “Then I guess I’ll stay a little longer.”

The café hums around you, the rush of customers fading into background noise. You should be moving, taking orders, doing anything other than standing here, caught in the pull of something that still feels a little dangerous.

 But you don’t move. 

Chris studies you for a second longer, then exhales, slow and steady. “One coffee, then,” he says, tapping the table. “Surprise me.”

 You scribble something on your notepad. “You’re getting decaf.”

 He groans. “Cruel.”

Chris groans, but there’s no real frustration behind it—just something softer, something familiar.

As you turn to leave, he calls after you, voice quieter this time. “Hey.”

You glance back.

His fingers drum lightly against the table, hesitation flickering across his face before settling into something steadier. “It’s good to see you.”

The words land heavier than they should. You don’t let them show, just offer a small, knowing smile. “Yeah,” you say. “You too.”

Then, before the moment stretches too long, you slip back into the rush of the café—into the orders, the chaos, the normalcy of it all. But there’s a shift, small but undeniable, like something once left behind has found its way back.

It’s not serious when you start expecting the sound of his knock. It’s not serious when your hand reaches for your phone before your eyes are fully open, checking for his name with all the quiet, humiliating instinct of a wound pressing itself just to see if it still hurts. It’s not serious when you can tell, from the weight of silence between texts, whether he’s at the lab or in class or in one of those moods where something in him goes shuttered and hard to touch.

It’s definitely not serious when he leaves your apartment at four in the morning and you lie there afterward staring at the ceiling, heart still tripping over itself, thinking that this is not love. This is not love. This is not love.

And then, because your brain was apparently made by a sadist, the next thought always arrives right behind it:

Maybe it doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it keeps happening.

That’s the part you hate most.

Wanting him makes a gross kind of sense. He is all sharp edges and ruined tenderness, all things withheld with just enough softness to make you think maybe the next time will be different. Maybe next time he’ll tell you. Maybe next time he’ll stop looking at you like you’re both the worst and best thing that’s happened to him in months.

You hate how quickly your body learned him.

The scrape of his thumb at your waist. The weight of him leaning over you. The way his mouth gets meaner when you’ve been fighting. The strange, wrecked little sounds he makes when he forgets to hold himself together.

It should feel more wrong than it does.

Instead it feels like slipping.

Like relapsing.

Like every time you tell yourself this is the last time, your hand is already on the doorknob before the thought finishes forming.

You know what it says about you, probably. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’ve spent so long being hungry for affection, for purpose, for somebody choosing you hard enough to be stupid about it, that now your body confuses damage with devotion if it’s warm enough.

Maybe Chan does too.

There are nights he shows up raw and quiet and lets you touch him however you like. There are nights he says almost nothing, just sits on the edge of your bed with his healing lip or his tired eyes or his phone face-down beside him, and somehow that silence feels more intimate than anything else. There are nights he kisses you like he’s furious you exist and even more furious that he can’t stay away.

You know better. You do.

You know he is still lying to you. You know he gives you things in place of answers. Rides home. Hot chocolate. His hands. That look he gets sometimes, like wanting you is the one honest thing left in him. And the worst part—the part you’d rather choke on than say out loud—is that sometimes it works. Sometimes you let it.

Sometimes you even want it to.

That is the ugliest truth of it, maybe. That some bruised, starving part of you opens its mouth for whatever he offers.

And maybe that would be easier to hate if he felt less real like this.

If he weren’t above you now, breath unsteady, forehead damp where it presses briefly to yours. If your names didn’t keep catching between you in broken pieces. If his mouth didn’t find yours, trying to say something he still doesn’t know how to out loud.

Chan’s thumb catches the side of your jaw and tilts you a little closer. His breath goes uneven when you drag your palms down his back, feeling muscle move under skin, a body shifting with want and still holding itself so carefully, so carefully above you. His mouth finds yours again, soft enough to make your throat ache.

And again.

His hips settle between your legs and he moves against you slowly, a slow-burn drag of bodies. One hand slides down the line of your thigh until your knee hooks over his hip, letting him press against you harder, giving you more weight, more friction, more of his breath shuddering against your throat as he presses his mouth there and lets out a low, broken sound.

You arch up, seeking him, and his hand automatically flattens against your spine pulling you up toward him and pressing his forehead below the space between your breasts, the skin there exposed from when he pushed your shirt up as much as he could earlier. His breathing is hot and uneven against your skin, mouth wet where it drags over your skin, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt-sweat of your body and his teeth dragging a moan from your throat when he suckles the skin there into his mouth.

He grinds down harder, a slow, deliberate movement that presses your cunt against him and makes heat coil tight in your stomach. His thumb hooks into the waistband of your underwear, tugging the fabric away, letting the seam catch on the slick, swollen line of your sex, and the sudden friction is so good that you gasp out a sound that's almost his name, your hands reaching for him, desperate for more, more, more.

Chan’s hands slip under the fabric and push it down, his palm sliding along the back of your thighs as he does, and his mouth finds yours again, wet and filthy and open. He's groaning into your mouth, the sounds broken and needy, and his teeth find the swell of your lower lip and bite down on it, just a flash of pain that has your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails dragging along the lines of his tattoos, leaving little pink lines behind.

"Want you," he breathes out, the words almost lost against your lips, and you whine and roll your hips up to meet him, your legs wrapping around his waist, ankles locking together.

The sound he makes is raw, and you feel his cock twitch in his boxers, a damp spot darkening the fabric where the head is. Your own hands are shaking as they fumble with it, and he has to take over, kicking the fabric off with a frustrated sound, his mouth still open against yours.

His fingers drag along the seam of your cunt, spreading the slickness there, and he groans when you shudder against him, the muscles of your thighs trembling.

"Chan," you breathe, and he makes another sound and ducks his head, his mouth finding the curve of your shoulder, his teeth dragging along the delicate skin there.

You push at his shoulders, and he takes the hint, rolling onto his back, his head dropping against the pillow, the muscles of his abdomen jumping when you trail a hand down his chest. His hands reach for you, trying to pull you closer, but you shake your head, shifting slightly out of his reach.

He looks so good like this, sprawled out and open and flushed all the way down to his chest, lashes fanning his cheeks, looking confused.

"I—" He swallows, chest expanding with every breath. "Do you want to stop?"

"No." You lean forward, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his lips, before drifting down the side of his jaw, tracing the lines of his tattoo with your tongue.

Your hand is resting on his stomach, thumb stroking the ridges of his abs, and his eyes flutter shut when you press down on the muscle, his breath hitching. His hands twitch at his sides, like he's trying not to reach for you, and it hits you how much he's been holding back this whole time.

You kiss the corner of his mouth, and then his jaw, and then the line of his throat, and when your teeth drag over his pulse point he groans, hips jerking up, the length of his cock bumping against your thigh.

His head tips back, the tendons of his throat shifting as he swallows, and you take the opportunity to continue down the column of his neck, teeth scraping against his collarbone and soothing the sting with a swipe of your tongue.

His hands are in your hair, fingers threading through the strands, and the sting is surprisingly nice, little pinpricks of pain that make the heat pooling in your stomach grow hotter. You drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his jaw, tasting the salt-sweat, and then nip at his pulse, just hard enough to draw a sound from his lips.

For a few moments, all you do is press kisses down his chest, lingering on the planes of muscle, tracing the lines of his tattoos.

His cock is pressed against your thigh, smearing pre-cum against your skin, and every time you shift the pressure changes, making him jerk.

"Shit," he breathes, and you feel his stomach jump when you drag your thumb over the slit, smearing the pre-cum down the shaft. "Shit, shit, shit."

He's so responsive, hips bucking into your touch, and you can't help the little grin that spreads across your lips as you watch him fall apart. You squeeze his cock gently, thumb stroking the vein, and his jaw goes slack, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Feels good?" you murmur, leaning in to brush a kiss over his lips, and he nods, hips bucking into your grip.

You pull away before his tongue can tangle with yours, and the sound of protest that falls from his lips sends a shiver of satisfaction down your spine. His hands are clutching at the sheets, trying not to touch, and when you shift back and bend down to press a kiss to the head of his cock, he gasps.

The pre-cum tastes salty on your tongue, and you lap at the slit, drawing another moan from his lips. You can see his thighs tense as he tries not to move, and his hands are twisted in the sheets so tightly that the muscles of his arms are jumping.

"You don't have to—" He breaks off with a groan when you wrap your lips around the head, his hips jerking up involuntarily. "Ohhh f-uck."

His hands reach out to thread his fingers through your hair, before jerking his hands back and fisting them into the blankets instead.

"Sorry," He gasps. "Sorry, I—"

"It's okay," You say, looking up at him. His eyes are so dark that you can barely make out the ring of lighter brown around his irises, and his expression is dazed, lips parted. "You can touch me. If you want to."

For a second, he just looks at you.

Spread out beneath you, flushed and undone and breathing like every inhale is costing him something, he should look ruined. He does look ruined. But there is something else there too, something that shifts through his face so quickly you almost miss it—something tender and startled and so unguarded it makes your chest tighten.

Then, carefully, he reaches up and traces the shell of your ear with his thumb. You let out a shaky breath and feel his hand falter, fingers tangling in the strands of your hair, and when you lean into the touch he lets out a sound, low and soft and vulnerable.

"God, you—" His throat works, eyes tracking over your face. "You're so beautiful."

You swallow hard, your chest aching, and before you can stop yourself, you're turning your face and kissing the tips of his fingers. A deep rumbling sigh leaves his lips, lashes fluttering as he watches you.

"You really don't have to." He says again, absently curling a strand of your hair around his finger. "Seriously."

You hum, ducking your head back again to press a little kiss on the very tip of his cock. "I really really want to. Seriously."

The words seem to do something to him, and his cock twitches, his fingers spasming in your hair, a little breathy sound falling from his lips. It's intoxicating, being able to reduce him to this, and you feel the same thrill of power that you get when he's inside you, watching the way he shudders and pants and moans your name.

"You're sure?" he asks again, and when you flick your gaze up, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, lashes lowered, watching you with such focus that it makes you shudder.

"Yes." You tell him, and then, just to prove your point, you drag your tongue from base to tip, sucking lightly at the head.

You keep your gaze on his as you lean forward and slowly, deliberately, wrap your lips around his cock. The sound he makes is a guttural moan, his eyes fluttering shut, and his fingers twitch in your hair. His other hand is still curled around the blanket, and when you sink a little deeper, hollowing out your cheeks, you see the muscles of his forearms jump.

The taste of his pre-cum is salty on your tongue, and a small noise escapes you when he shifts, the head bumping against the back of your throat. Your hands are still resting on his thighs, and when his hips jerk up involuntarily, you press down, preventing him from thrusting any deeper.

Chan lets out a low moan, his head falling back, breath is coming in little gasps now, hips still moving restlessly under your hands. His hand is still cupping your face, thumb stroking over your cheekbone, and he's murmuring something, his voice strained, the words too garbled for you to make out.

It feels so good, being able to take him apart like this, and you sink a little lower, feeling him brush the back of your throat. He gasps, hips jerking up, and his fingers are flexing in your hair, nails scraping against your scalp, sending little pinpricks of pain down your spine.

It should hurt, but instead it just makes heat pool in your stomach, the pressure growing hotter and tighter. Your thighs are pressed together, rubbing against each other, seeking friction, and when you moan around his cock, Chan groans, his head tipping back, baring the long column of his throat.

His free hand reaches out and wraps around yours, drawing it up to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the knuckle of your thumb, his lashes fluttering as his eyes crack open. You feel the wet heat of his tongue, and his lips part, sucking the digit into his mouth, teeth dragging over the skin.

"Fuck," he groans, hips twitching up. "Just like that, love."

There's a moment where the word registers and then it doesn't, because his hips are bucking up, his cock bumping the back of your throat, and the next moan is lost as you gag.

The sound sends a shiver down his spine, and his hips stutter again, a strangled moan tearing from his throat, and his hand tightens in your hair, holding you in place. You feel tears prick at the corner of your eyes, and the next breath is shaky, his cock sliding a little deeper.

You look up, and his eyes are screwed shut, his lips parted, breath coming in harsh pants. You can't breathe, but it's a distant thing, secondary to the ache in your core and the way his cock is pulsing on your tongue.

And then he pulls you back, just far enough that the head of his cock slips from your mouth, and his hand is on your chin, tilting you up to look at him.

He's breathing hard, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and when his tongue darts out to lick his lips, you feel a shudder go through you.

"I want you," he breathes, and his hand is tugging at your arm, urging you forward. "Don't wanna come like this."

His hands slide around your hips, his thumbs dipping under the fabric of your shirt, and when he slides his palms up, pushing the shirt with them, you let him, raising your arms over your head and letting him peel the fabric off.

You toss the shirt somewhere over your shoulder and lean down, pressing your chest against his, the feeling of skin on skin making both of you gasp.

"You're so perfect," he says, his voice thick and a little rough, and then his hands are sliding up the backs of your thighs and he's rolling you over, settling between your legs. “Every fucking part of you.”

He leans down and presses a soft kiss to your lips, and then another, his tongue darting out to trace the seam of your mouth. He kisses you slow and thorough, and when you nip at his lower lip, his hips grind down, his cock bumping against your folds, making both of you gasp.

"Channie," you breathe, and he leans in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"You still want to?" he murmurs, and when his hips rock forward again, you feel the tip of his cock slide against your folds, brushing against your clit. You arch up, a moan escaping you, and he groans, burying his face against the side of your neck. "Shit."

"Yes." You say, your hands sliding up his back, nails digging into his skin. “Yes.”

He lets out a shaky breath, his hips grinding forward again, his cock slipping between your folds, the tip nudging against your entrance.

"Please," you whisper, and the sound he makes is low and broken, his teeth dragging along your pulse point, the bite making a gasp escape your lips.

"I've got you," he murmurs, and then his hips are rocking forward, his cock sliding into you slowly, stretching you open.

It feels good, so good, his cock fills you completely, the sensation of him stretching you open making your head spin.

He bottoms out, hips flush against yours, and then he pauses, his breath shuddering against your neck, and you hear the shaky exhale.

"Okay?" He asks, his voice muffled against your skin, and you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

Your legs are still wrapped around his waist, and when his hips pull back, his cock dragging against your inner walls, you tighten your grip, nails digging into his back. He hisses at the sensation, and then his hips are snapping forward, the force making the bed frame squeak in protest.

So does something in your chest.

It's been so long since anybody's touched you. Sure, you've already slept with him a few times since that first night, but none of those times have ever felt quite like this. This is—this is too much. Too tender. Too soft. He is warm and careful and present, and he is inside you, and somehow the weight of his body, the feel of his hands on your waist, the sound of his breathing against the side of your throat is too much, too much, too much.

His lips find the corner of your eye, and then your temple, and then the side of your nose. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, and it’s almost too gentle, the touch so feather-light you're not sure it's there at all.

He moves, and he is all around you, everywhere.

He moves, and his mouth is soft and hungry on yours, and his hand is sliding down your ribs, tracing the line of your hip, and his thumb is dragging across the delicate skin of your thigh, and then he's moving faster, the slow roll of his hips giving way to something more urgent, more desperate.

He moves, and you're not sure which direction is up, but his hands are warm and solid, and he's holding you close, and his voice is rough and soft in your ear, and the world is tilting, and there's a sharpness in the air, and everything feels like the edge of a precipice, and you're not sure if you're about to fall, or if you're already falling.

Your hands find his jaw tilting his face so that it's directly above yours, nose to nose. You can see the flicker of his lashes as he blinks, the faintest quizzical furrow between his brows. Your thumb brushes along the line, trying to smooth it away.

"Just wanted to look at you," You whisper.

You don't know how to tell him that the world is already tilting, and it's not even from the movement of his body.

His eyes flicker between yours, searching, and you try not to think about how it will feel when this ends.

There is no universe in which you can keep him, at least without knowing the truth he refuses to give you and that should make you stronger, maybe. That should make this easier.

You have survived so much. So many people have tried and failed to ruin you. You have survived all of it. You have been alone, and you have been used, and you have been abandoned. You have been hungry. You have been sick. You have been lost, and afraid, and empty, and you have always survived.

And yet somehow the idea of letting him go makes the whole world seem a little unsteady. 

His teeth drag along the line of your throat, and when he sucks at the delicate skin, a shiver goes down your spine, the feeling making your toes curl.

You can feel his pulse, and it is almost overwhelming, the thought of him being here, with you, like this. He is everywhere, surrounding you, and you can feel his breath, warm and damp against the shell of your ear, and his hands are warm and solid and holding you like he is afraid to let go.

You’re close.

The heat is building, the pressure growing, and his hips are moving faster, the movements almost frantic, his breath shuddering against the side of your neck. Your hands are twisting in the sheets, and when his thumb finds your clit, circling the bud, you gasp, arching up, your head tipping back.

"Come on," He murmurs, his lips dragging along the underside of your jaw. "Let me feel it."

His free hand slides up your side, thumb dragging over the swell of your breast, and when he pinches the nipple, the sensation is electric, sending a jolt through your body.

"Fuck," He groans, and his hips are moving faster, his cock slamming into you, and the angle is perfect, every thrust rubbing against the spot inside of you that makes your head spin.

The tension is coiling, tighter and tighter, and your chest feels tight, your breath catching in your throat, and his name falls from your lips, the sound half-choked.

"Come for me," he murmurs, and his voice is low and hoarse, the words muffled against your skin. "Come on, baby. I've got you."

He moves faster, the pace almost frantic, and the feeling is so good, the pressure building and building, and his teeth drag along the sensitive skin of your throat, his hand pinching your nipple again, and it's too much, the heat overwhelming, the pleasure almost unbearable.

"Oh god," You gasp, and his thumb circles your clit again, the sensation sending a jolt through your body.

"That's it," he breathes, and his hips snap forward, the force almost bruising, and the pressure is building, the heat mounting, and you're so close, so close.

"Fuck," He groans, his hips slamming into you, and the feeling is so good, the pleasure mounting, the heat building, and his mouth finds yours, the kiss messy and wet and hungry, and you can feel him twitch inside you and you're gasping his name, and his lips are on yours, the kiss almost desperate, and the tension snaps, the pleasure crashing over you, white-hot and overwhelming.

You're still trembling when his hips slam into you, bottoming out, and then he's coming too, his cock twitching inside you, the sensation almost overwhelming.

His forehead presses against yours, his breathing ragged, and you can feel the muscles of his back trembling, his arms shaking as he struggles to hold himself above you.

For a moment, there's only the sound of your breathing, the feeling of his heartbeat pressed against yours, and then he laughs, a breathless sound.

"I'm squishing you," he says, his lips curling into a smile, and the sight makes something twist in your chest, something warm and aching and almost too sweet to bear.

"Little bit." You admit, and the words come out softer than you meant them to.

His smile widens, and when his nose brushes against yours, you feel the knot in your chest tighten, something almost painful.

"Sorry." He says, his breath warm against your skin, eyes soft. 

"Don't be." You whisper.

He exhales slowly, the sound shaky, and then he shifts, carefully sliding out of you. The loss makes a little whine escape your lips, and he huffs out another laugh, the sound a little strained.

"Okay?" He asks, his voice is low and raspy, leaning down to brush a kiss against the corner of your mouth, the touch is so gentle it almost aches.

You swallow, the feeling of him next to you overwhelming, the weight of his body against yours almost too much to bear.

"Yeah." You manage, and the word comes out choked, your throat closing up.

"Good." He murmurs, and then his lips are on yours.

You close your eyes and when his tongue traces the seam of your mouth, the sound you make is so quiet, that you barely hear it yourself.

He hums, low and soft and pleased, fingers gentle as they stroke your hair. You want to open your eyes, but you're scared to, and so instead you stay there, his hands warm and gentle, his mouth soft and tender.

 It feels like floating. 

It feels like falling. 

His fingers catch your chin, tilting you up just a little higher to meet him. 

The words are on your tongue, and they slip out of your mouth before you have a chance to stop them. "I think I'm falling in love with you." 

For a moment, everything is still. And then his eyes flicker down, the movement hesitant, and when he meets your gaze again, his expression is unreadable. 

"You don't mean that." He says. 

You do.

You do mean it.

Of course you, with your stupid hungry heart and your hands always reaching before you can think better of it, would go and do something as ruinous as this. Of course you would take all the small things he’s given you—the rides home, the way he looks for you in a room, the softness he only ever seems to wear when it’s just the two of you, the heat of his body curled around yours—and build a cathedral out of scraps. Of course you would stand inside it and call it shelter.

His thumb strokes once over your cheek.

“You’re overwhelmed,” he continues softly. “That’s all this is.”

It is meant to be kind. Maybe that is the worst part.

You open your eyes.

He is close enough to blur around the edges. Close enough that if he just kissed you again, maybe you could pretend he didn’t say it.

“That’s not all this is,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens. Barely. 

“It is,” he says, still quiet, still careful. “You’re having a moment, and I get that, but—”

“But what?”

“Don’t do this.”

The words hit you so much harder than they should. Your body goes still under him.

Don’t do this.

As if this is something embarrassing you’re doing to him. As if you are making a scene. As if your heart is some ugly, inconvenient thing you should have had the decency to keep hidden.

A hot, humiliating sting climbs up your throat.

“Don’t do this?” you repeat.

His fingers pause for only a second before they start moving again, smoothing through your hair as if that can soften the shape of what he just said. “You know what I mean.”

“No.” Your voice comes out thin at first, but steadier on the next breath. “Actually, I don’t.”

He exhales slowly, eyes dropping for a moment before he looks back at you. “You’re caught up in this.”

“In this,” you say carefully, “or in you?”

His mouth presses into a line.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

A laugh nearly breaks out of you, small and disbelieving and hurt. “No, actually, it’s not. I said I think I’m falling in love with you, and somehow I’m the one being dramatic?”

“I didn’t say you were dramatic.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He shifts then, just enough to put a breath of space between you, and you feel it instantly. That tiny retreat. That tiny recoil. The way his body seems to be recalculating you now, as if one sentence has changed the whole shape of the room.

“I’m trying to be honest with you,” he says.

The pain in your chest flares mean and bright. “That’s funny.”

His brows draw together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” you say, your voice starting to shake despite how badly you want it not to, “you have spent all this time touching me like I matter and looking at me like I matter and making space for yourself in my bed, in my life, in my head, and now suddenly honesty matters?”

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not fair.”

“No?” You swallow hard. “What part isn’t fair, Chan? The part where I believed you meant something to me, or the part where I thought I might mean something to you too?”

His hand drops from your hair.

There it is.

The loss of him.

Immediate. Cold.

“You do mean something to me,” he says, and the quiet frustration in his voice is almost worse than anger. “That’s not what this is.”

Something inside you twists.

You sit up more fully now, dragging the sheet with you when it slips down your body, because suddenly you need something between your skin and the way he’s looking at you. You need cover. Distance. Anything.

“Then what is it?” you ask.

He drags a hand over his face. “Why do you need me to say it?”

The hurt flashes hot enough to make your eyes burn.

Because you need to hear it, you think. Because you have been living off implication and scraps and warmth handed to you in the dark. Because if he says it plainly, maybe it will stop hurting in all these blurry, indistinct places and start hurting somewhere clean.

But what comes out is, “Because apparently you aren’t capable of saying a single true thing.”

His head tilts back a little, but then he looks at you again and the softness is gone from his face now, replaced by something more guarded.

“That’s not true.”

“Then prove it.”

Silence.

It stretches.

Long enough to make your heart start thudding harder and harder, each beat a fresh humiliation.

He doesn’t say it.

The room feels too warm. Your skin feels too tight. You can still taste him on your mouth, can still feel the press of his lips, the glide of his tongue, the tenderness of his hands, and the contrast of it against this moment is so cruel you almost feel dizzy.

You laugh once, bitter and quiet. “Right.”

“Don’t make me the asshole because I’m not saying what you want to hear.”

“Are you serious?”

He sits up too now, frustration starting to bleed through his careful voice. “Yes, I’m serious. You threw something huge at me out of nowhere and now you’re acting like I’m cruel because I’m not handling it the way you want.”

Out of nowhere.

The breath leaves you in a rush.

“Out of nowhere,” you repeat. “You really think this came out of nowhere?”

“I think you’re overwhelmed.”

“No,” you say, louder now, the ache in your chest sharpening into anger because anger is easier, anger lets you stand upright. “I think you don’t get to kiss me like that and hold me like this and fuck me like I’m something precious and then act blindsided when I tell you I’m in love with you.”

For a second, you think maybe he’s going to apologize. Maybe he’s going to soften. Maybe he’s finally going to understand that this didn’t come from nowhere, that it came from every small thing he let grow between you and then pretended not to notice.

Instead, his mouth hardens.

“I never asked you for that.”

The words knock into you so hard they almost make you flinch.

You look away because if you keep looking at him you might cry, and you will not, you will not break open in front of him while he’s still sitting there pretending innocence.

“No,” you say quietly. “You just took all benefits of it.”

His laugh is short and unbelieving, no humor in it at all. “That’s bullshit.”

Your head turns back fast.

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he snaps. “You’re acting like I tricked you.”

“You did.”

His eyes flash. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.” The tears are there now, hot and thick, but your voice only gets steadier. “Maybe not on purpose. Maybe not in some evil, calculated way. But you did. You knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I—” Your throat tightens around the words, but you force them out. “That I was going to fall for you. That I was already halfway there. You knew, and you kept showing up anyway.”

Something in his face changes.      

Just for a second.      

Something fast and ugly and defensive, like he hates that you’ve said it out loud because now it exists between you, undeniable and breathing and impossible to smooth over with another soft look.      

“Maybe you only think you love me because you’re so desperate to be loved.”      

You stop breathing.      

Chan does too.      

The words seem to hang there for a second, suspended in the air between you, and you can actually watch the moment he realizes what he’s done. His whole face drains. The anger burns off so fast it leaves him looking almost sick, like he wants to reach into your chest and drag the sentence back out before it can lodge there.      

Too late.      

Way, way too late.           

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Your throat has closed around the hurt too fast, too hard. Your chest goes so tight it almost feels impossible to get air in, and the worst part—the most humiliating part—is the way something inside you folds around the words because they hurt in the shape of truth, or at least the truth you’re most afraid of.      

That you are greedy for tenderness.      

That you are starving enough to mistake crumbs for a feast.      

That maybe you did take every soft thing he gave you and turn it into something bigger because you needed it to be.      

Your eyes burn.      

Then fill with tears.

“Fuck,” he breathes.      

You move before he can.      

You jerk away from him so fast the mattress dips hard beneath you, scrambling up, dragging the sheet with you for half a second before you let it fall. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for. Space. Air. The far side of the room. Anywhere that is not here, not on this bed, not within touching distance of the person who just took the most broken thing in you and put it in his mouth and bit.

“Hey—”      

Tears spill before you can stop them, hot and humiliating and endless. You hate that he gets to see them. You hate that your body betrays you like this, every time, laying your hurt open right at his feet.      

“Don’t,” you choke out.      

You barely make it two steps.      

His hand catches your wrist.      

Then the other.      

“Let go of me.”      

His breath stutters. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I—”      

“Let go.” Your voice breaks so badly it hardly sounds like yours. You yank against his grip, wild now, crying openly, not caring how wrecked you sound. “Let go of me, Chan.”      

He does not.      

"Look at me," He uses his grip on your wrists to pivot you towards him but you keep your cheek firmly turned away. "Please. Please look at me."      

"Why?" You sniffle, no longer trying to fight him off. "What do you want from me? What do you want to see?"

His hands shift from your wrists to your cheeks, brushing his thumbs under your eyes to catch the tears that fall. "Please don't cry."

His voice sounds so wrecked when he says it, so genuinely horrified by the sight of your tears, that for one weak, humiliating second your heart lurches toward him anyway. It has not learned a thing. It’s still stupid enough to confuse pain over hurting you with the ability to love you right.

You hate that.

You hate him a little for making you hate that.

His thumbs catch helplessly at the wetness on your face, smearing tears more than wiping them away. His hands are shaking.

“Please don’t cry,” he says again, softer this time.

You finally turn your face just enough to look at him.

He looks destroyed.

Eyes wide and frantic. Mouth parted. Regret all over him, raw and ugly and immediate. He looks like someone standing in the wreckage of something he never meant to break and cannot believe he’s the one who did it.

It doesn’t matter.

Your voice comes out flat. Empty. “Let go.”

His hands fall away from your face at once.

For a moment neither of you moves.

You can still feel where he touched you, heat lingering on your skin in a way that makes you feel sick.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

You look past him.

At the rumpled sheets. Your shirt on the floor. The lamp throwing soft, useless light across the room. Anywhere but his face, because his face is dangerous right now. His face is sorry, and sorry has always been enough to crack you open.

Not this time.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

His brows pull together. “Okay?”

Your throat works once. “I heard you.”

“That’s not—” He drags a hand through his hair, breath coming fast. “That’s not what I meant. I was angry, I panicked, I said the worst fucking thing I could say and I know that, I know—”

“Okay.”

Your voice is still quiet.

That seems to scare him more than anything else.

“Don’t do that,” he says, stepping toward you again before stopping himself. “Please don’t just— don’t shut down on me.”

The words almost make you laugh.

You don’t answer.

Because what is there to say? That he hit exactly where it hurt? That he took the ugliest fear you have about yourself and gave it back to you in his voice? That some part of you is still standing there inside the wound, pressing at it, wondering if maybe he was right?

You are too tired all of a sudden. Too hollowed out to fight properly.

Chan takes another breath. Then another, trying to steady himself enough to fix this if he can just find the right combination of words.

“I don’t think that about you,” he says, more carefully now. “I don’t. You hear me? I said it because I was defensive and scared and being a fucking asshole, not because it’s true.”

You stare at the wall over his shoulder.

Your tears have slowed, but they haven’t stopped. They keep slipping down quietly, and he watches them with this awful helpless look.

He reaches for you again, then seems to think better of it halfway through. His hand drops uselessly to his side.

“Please say something.”

You swallow.

“I want you to leave me alone.”

For a second, Chan just looks at you. Waiting for some crack in your face, some sign that if he pushes a little harder he can get you back into the argument, back into something alive and heated and fixable.

 But you have nothing left for that.

Whatever was burning in you has gone cold now.

His mouth opens. Closes.

Then, very quietly, he asks, “Forever?”

Of course he would ask it like that—low and wrecked and almost boyish, like he cannot bear the shape of what he’s done unless you rush to smooth it over for him.

His face is awful in the lamplight. Stripped raw. Eyes glassy and frantic, guilt sitting heavy in every line of him. 

You wipe your cheek with the heel of your hand. Your voice, when it comes, is tired more than anything else.

“I don’t know.”

He swallows.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says again, uselessly. Helplessly.

“I know.”

“You don’t sound like you know.”

You let out a breath that almost shakes. “I know you regret saying it.”

You know he regrets it. You are less certain he didn’t mean some part of it. Less certain he didn’t reach for it because it lived somewhere in him already, sharp enough and ready enough to use.

“I was trying to hurt you back,” he says, voice rough. “You were right, and I— I hated it, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of.”

Your throat tightens.

“Okay.”

His face crumples a little at that same quiet, emptied-out response. “Please stop saying that like that.”

You look down at your hands.

“I don’t have anything else right now.”

“What do you need from me?”

You wipe at your face again even though it does nothing. Your skin feels hot and tight. Your nose is starting to sting. Everything about this is ugly now.

“I need you to go,” you say.

He just stands there.

“Please.” Your next breath hitches embarrassingly, and you turn your face away, sniffling. “Please, Chan.”

That breaks whatever is left of him.

“Okay,” he says.

The word is barely there.

He swallows hard, nodding too fast. “Okay. Okay, I’m going.”

You just stand there with your arms wrapped around yourself, your face turned half away from him, breathing through your mouth because your nose is clogged from crying and every inhale feels raw.

He doesn’t move right away.

You can feel him wanting to. Wanting to come closer, wanting to touch you, wanting to fix it. But this time, maybe because your voice sounded the way it did when you said please, maybe because he can finally see there is nothing left to salvage tonight, he doesn’t push.

He bends instead, slowly, and reaches for his shirt on the floor.

You watch him drag the shirt over his head with unsteady hands.

He looks wrecked even doing something so ordinary.

His hair is a mess. His mouth is set in this tight, miserable line,holding himself together by force. He reaches for his jeans next, movements jerky and distracted, almost fumbling them in his rush. He curses under his breath and that stupid, traitorous part of you still notices how unlike him it sounds.

You hate that too.

When he’s dressed, he looks at you again.

“I’ll give you space,” he says quietly. 

You say nothing.

Your throat hurts too much to trust.

He nods once, like your silence is answer enough.

Then, softer, “I’m sorry.”

Your eyes sting fresh.

You wipe at them with the heel of your palm, sniffling hard, and force the words out anyway because you need him to understand that this isn’t a pause for him to fill. This isn’t a moment he can soften if he just keeps sounding broken enough.

“Go, Chan.”

He just nods.

“Okay.”

He turns and walks to the door.

Your whole body goes rigid at the sound of the knob turning. The click of it feels too loud in the room. Too final. He pauses with his hand still on it, shoulders tight, head bowed for just a second.

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut.

And you stand there in the silence he leaves behind, wrists still warm from where he held them, chest aching so hard it feels bruised, and realize with something close to horror that even now—even after that—even now some starving part of you is still trying to cradle the sound of his apology like it is enough to live on.

It isn’t.

It isn’t.

It isn’t. 

The art studio smells like graphite, dust, and somebody’s aggressively strong coffee.

It hits you the second you push through the door, that familiar dry warmth of the room wrapping around you in a way that should feel grounding and doesn’t. Everything in here is exactly where it should be—drafting stools tucked under scarred tables, portfolios leaning against chair legs, a half-cleaned sink in the corner with gray water stains around the drain, the whiteboard still carrying the ghost of last week’s notes.

You feel wrong inside it anyway.

You hitch your portfolio higher on your shoulder and head for your usual table.

“Wow,” a voice says dryly from your right. “You look so thrilled to be here.”

You look over.

Minho is slouched in his seat already, one foot hooked around the rung of his stool, sketchbook open in front of him and a pencil tucked behind one ear. His hair is falling into his eyes a little. He has that same annoyingly composed look he always does, like the rest of the class is happening two inches below his actual level of concern.

You manage, “Good morning to you too.”

“It is not,” he says, glancing at the clock. “It’s 1:07 p.m. This is afternoon.”

Something in your mouth twitches.

You slide into the chair beside him and set your things down. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “But I’m consistent. People appreciate that in a friend.”

You pull your sketchbook out mostly so you have something to do with your hands. “That’s a generous label for whatever this is.”

Minho glances over. “We sit next to each other every week, you steal my kneaded eraser, and I’ve seen you inhale vending machine pretzels during break like a raccoon under pressure. We’re past acquaintances.”

You let out a short, unwilling laugh. It feels strange in your throat. Rusty.

His gaze flicks to your face for half a second—quick, quiet, assessing. Then, mercifully, he doesn’t make anything of it. He just nudges something across the table.

A canned coffee.

Cold. Condensation beading along the side.

You blink at it. “What’s this?”

“You looked like you were about to collapse face-first into your portfolio,” he says. “Didn’t want to have to explain that to Jung. He’d probably make it weirdly philosophical.”

You stare at the can.

“You got me coffee?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t be moved. It was from the gross machine downstairs.”

Still, you wrap your fingers around it.

It’s stupid how much that tiny kindness hits, even if it is just coffee. 

You crack it open. “Thanks.”

Minho tips his pencil at you. “I know.”

You snort.

Professor Jung comes in three minutes later in a storm of canvas tote bag, half-buttoned overshirt, and the particular energy of a man who has either had too much caffeine or not nearly enough. He drops a stack of papers onto the center table and scans the room.

“Good,” he says. “Most of you are here. A miracle.”

A couple people laugh.

He claps once. “Today we’re doing individual desk checks before next week’s critique, because based on what some of you turned in, I am feeling maternal in the worst possible way.”

A groan goes around the room.

Jung points vaguely. “Save it. If you wanted freedom, you shouldn’t have enrolled in the art program.”

The class settles into motion after that. Charcoal rolls. Paper rustles. Somebody drops a metal ruler with a clatter loud enough to make half the room flinch. Jung makes his slow circuit through the studio, pausing at tables, saying things like “interesting, but I hate it” and “this composition is doing all the work while your values take a smoke break.”

Minho draws beside you in that loose, easy way he has, his hand thinking faster than the rest of him. Every now and then he leans over to look at your page without asking.

For a second, you think he’s going to push. Ask what happened. Ask why you came in looking like you’d slept in your clothes or why your eyes felt too hot all morning or why your chest still aches in a way you can’t seem to think around.

He doesn’t.

He just keeps shading in the edge of a draped fabric study like he hasn’t said anything at all.

Your throat tightens a little.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you say again, quieter this time.

Minho glances at you sideways. “You already thanked me.”

You roll your eyes.

But something in you unclenches anyway.

When Professor Jung finally reaches your table, Minho angles his page out first with the weary air of a man offering himself up for ritual sacrifice.

Jung studies it in silence for a moment, one hand braced on the edge of the table, the other flipping the page back and forth like he’s checking whether a better version of it might be hiding underneath.

Minho waits.

Finally, Jung exhales through his nose.

“Well,” he says.

Minho leans back on his stool. “Promising start.”

Professor Jung hands the sheet back to him. “Your draftsmanship continues to be irritatingly strong.”

Minho takes the paper with a little nod, completely unashamed. “Thank you. I work hard to be intolerable.”

“Oh, you don’t have to work that hard.” Jung taps the corner of the page. “Your sense of form is good. Your composition is lazy. And this”—he gestures at a section shaded in with loose, almost careless confidence—“is either an intentionally unresolved tension or proof you got bored halfway through.”

Minho glances down. “Why can’t it be both?”

“Because I’m trying to be generous.”

“That seems unlike you.”

Professor Jung gives him a flat look. “The only reason I’m letting this pass is because I know you’re only here for the elective credit and not because you possess any meaningful loyalty to the discipline.”

Minho puts a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

“I aspire to.” Jung’s mouth twitches despite himself. “Try harder next time.”

“No promises.”

“I’m aware.”

Minho slides the assignment into his folder with all the solemnity of someone accepting a court summons.

Professor Jung shifts sideways then, moving his attention from Minho to your half of the table.

You straighten automatically.

He glances once at the surface in front of you, at your current work, then keeps moving.

Just like that.

You blink.

For a second you think maybe he forgot. That your piece is still in his stack, that he’ll circle back in a minute and drop it onto your desk with one of his usual sharp little observations. But he doesn’t. He stops at the next student, already leaning over someone else’s charcoal study.

Your stomach drops.

You look down at your empty space on the table, then at Minho, who has noticed immediately.

His brows lift a fraction.

You glance toward Jung again, waiting for him to correct himself.

Nothing.

Heat starts crawling up the back of your neck.

Did he lose it?

Did he hate it that much?

Did he think you hadn’t turned it in at all?

You stare at the edge of your sketchbook for another beat, then push your stool back a little and clear your throat.

“Professor Jung?”

He looks over his shoulder. “Yes?”

You hate how small your voice sounds already. “My assignment?”

Jung’s expression doesn’t change. “See me after class.”

And then he turns back around.

That’s it.

You manage, “...Okay,” but it comes out quieter than you mean it to, thin around the edges.

Jung is already halfway into a critique of someone else’s perspective lines.

You sit back slowly.

Minho waits until Jung has moved two tables down before leaning toward you just enough to murmur, “That’s sinister.”

You let out a tiny breath through your nose that is not quite a laugh. “Helpful. Thanks.”

“I try.”

You keep your eyes on your page, but the blankness where your returned assignment should be feels loud now. A missing tooth you can’t stop touching with your tongue.

Minho taps his pencil once against the table.

“Maybe he’s about to tell you you’re a misunderstood genius,” he says.

You glance sideways at him.

He looks completely serious.

“Maybe he’s building suspense.”

“Maybe,” you mutter, “he’s about to tell me to change majors.”

The rest of class drags.

You manage enough work to make it look like you’re participating, but every few minutes your eyes flick up toward Jung without meaning to. Every time, he’s bent over someone else’s desk, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing at a page, all dry precision and maddening calm. He doesn’t look back at you once.

Which somehow makes it worse.

When he finally dismisses everyone, it feels abrupt. One minute the room is full of charcoal dust and muttered complaints and the scratch of pencils, and the next there’s a violent burst of movement—stools scraping, portfolios zipping, people talking all at once as they pack up and flood toward the door.

You move more slowly than usual.

Partly because you have to stay.

Partly because your body seems to have forgotten how to do anything quickly.

Beside you, Minho shuts his sketchbook and slides it into his bag without looking at you. “Do you want me to fake a medical emergency so you can get out of this?”

You snort softly. “And say what, exactly?”

He shoulders his bag. “You’ve suddenly developed a rare allergy.”

“I think he’d tell me to stop being dramatic and sit back down.”

“That,” Minho says, “is unfortunately very possible.”

He glances toward Jung’s desk, then back at you. The humor in his expression softens at the edges.

“You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah,” you say. “You don’t have to wait around,” 

Minho shrugs. “Maybe I enjoy witnessing academic bloodshed.”

Despite everything, your mouth twitches.

“There’s the spirit,” he says quietly.

Then, before you can answer, he hooks his bag over one shoulder and pushes to his feet. “I’ll be downstairs,” he adds, like it’s nothing. “In case your ego needs medical attention.”

You huff out a laugh through your nose. “Goodbye, Minho.”

He gives you a quick little salute with two fingers and heads for the door.

The studio empties quickly after that.

Too bright with late-afternoon light. Dust floats in slow gold ribbons near the windows. Professor Jung is at his desk, sorting the remaining assignments into two stacks with maddening calm.

You swallow hard and make yourself walk over.

He doesn’t look up immediately.

You stand there, portfolio tucked against your side, waiting while your pulse taps restlessly in your throat.

Finally, he sets the papers down and lifts his eyes to you.

“Sit.”

You sit.

He picks up your assignment from the top of the left-hand stack.

Your chest tightens.

He sets it flat on the desk between you both, fingertips resting lightly on the top edge.

“I’m not accepting this.”

You blink. “What?”

Professor Jung’s expression doesn’t shift. “I’m not accepting it.”

Heat flashes hot and humiliating up the back of your neck.

“But it was on time.”

“That is not the bar.”

Your mouth closes.

Outside the studio windows, a couple of students are crossing the quad with iced coffees and overstuffed tote bags and utterly ordinary lives. You hate them a little for it.

Jung taps the page once.

“This is below your standard.”

Some part of you had known the second you turned it in, had known it was thinner than it should be, flatter somehow, all technical competence and no blood in it. But hearing him say it makes something in your chest cave in anyway.

You look down at the assignment.

Interior study. Competent, yes. Structured, yes. Clean in all the obvious places. It is exactly the kind of work you make when you want to finish just for the sake of finishing.

“I did the assignment,” you say, because it is all you have.

Professor Jung leans back slightly in his chair. “You completed a task. That is not the same thing.”

The silence that follows feels papery and hot.

You stare at the grain of his desk because looking directly at him would mean letting him see too much of your face, and you are suddenly very aware that the rest of the day has left you thin-skinned in a way you cannot afford.

Jung’s voice is calm when he continues.

“You know how to do this,” he says. “That’s what makes this irritating. If this came from a student who was still learning how to see, I’d mark the problems and move on. But you know better.”

You don’t answer.

He waits a beat, then adds, “It’s technically proficient. The perspective holds. Your tonal range is adequate. The spatial logic works. And yet.”

His fingertips slide lightly over the edge of the paper.

“It’s dead.”

You look away.

Dead dead dead

Jung watches you for a second. “Do you disagree?”

Your laugh comes out thin and humorless. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

Something small and ugly sparks in your chest at that. “You don’t know what kind of week I’ve had.”

Professor Jung doesn’t react the way you expect. If anything, something in his face settles more firmly into place.

“Yes,” he says. “That is precisely the problem.”

The words catch you so off guard that for a second you just stare at him.

He taps the assignment again. “If you’ve had a horrible week, I should be able to see that.”

Heat climbs your neck all over again. “What?”

His expression stays maddeningly even, studying you over the tops of his glasses. “If something is cracking through your life, if something is unsettling your eye, your rhythm, your thinking, then the work should register it. It should bear some trace of having passed through a human being.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the stool.

Jung goes on before you can say anything. “Instead, this looks like you worked very hard to make sure none of you got into it.”

You look down at the page again, picking at the edge with your fingertip. “You can see all that?”

Professor Jung’s mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close.

“I’ve been doing this a long time,” he says.

He reaches out and taps the paper once more, lighter this time.

“You learn the difference between uncertainty and restraint. Between intention and avoidance. Between work that is searching and work that is hiding.” His eyes lift to yours. “I think you know which this is.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. Dust turns slowly in the late light. Somewhere down the hall, a door shuts.

Then you ask, “So what do I do?”

Jung leans back in his chair.

“Start over,” he says simply. “Or don’t. Sometimes the better move is to go back to the same piece.”

You let out a thin breath through your nose.

“That’s vague.”

“Yes,” he says. “Unfortunately, art often is.”

That earns the faintest huff of a laugh from you.

“You have until the end of the week,” he says. “I’m not a total monster.”

Relief loosens something in your chest.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He slides the assignment fully toward you now. “Monday.”

You nod once, fingers curling around the page. Then you hesitate, eyes flickering up to meet his. “How will I know if it’s finished?”

Jung’s voice softens a fraction, giving you a tired little grin.

“You just do.”

You leave before your voice can do anything embarrassing.

The hallway outside feels too bright after the studio. You make it maybe ten steps before stopping beside the wall and inhaling hard through your nose. Once. Twice.

Minho’s there exactly where he said he’d be, sprawled on the bench with his bag at his feet and a half-finished bag of vending machine chips in his lap.

Something in your chest softens in spite of yourself when he looks up at you with a question in his eyes.

“He rejected it,” you say.

Minho straightens a little. “Your assignment?”

You nod.

“Jesus,” he says. “Academic bloodshed it is.”

You huff out a laugh, more air than sound, and lean back against the wall.

“He said it was below my standard.”

Minho studies your face for half a second too long.

Then he reaches into the chip bag, pulls out the least broken one, and holds it out to you.

You stare at it.

“What is that supposed to do?”

“Unknown,” he says. “But I’m trying something nurturing.”

A real laugh slips out this time, small and cracked and surprised.

Minho’s mouth crooks, pleased but careful not to show it too much. 

You take the chip.

It’s stale.

“Gross,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “That one was a test.”

You shake your head, and before you can stop yourself, you sit down beside him.

Just because he makes the air around it easier to stand in for a minute.

He nudges the bag toward you again. “Do you want to tell me what happened in there, or should I make up something dramatic?”

You look down at the chips.

Then out at the hallway.

Then at him.

And because he’s looking at you like this is ordinary, like being here is ordinary, like staying is ordinary, you feel some small exhausted part of yourself loosen.

“He told me my work was dead,” you say.

Minho winces. “Damn. That’s rude, even for him.”

He doesn’t push past that. Doesn’t ask why your eyes still look a little swollen, or why your laugh sounds like it has edges, or why you’ve been carrying yourself all day like one wrong touch might split you open. He just sits there beside you in the ugly hallway light, eating stale chips and letting you be quiet without making the quiet heavy.

And for now, somehow, that is enough.

For the rest of the day, the studio clings to you.

You carry it all home with you.

Your bag thumps against your hip when you unlock your door. The apartment is dim in that evening way that makes everything look softer than it is. You toe your shoes off near the entry, drop your keys into the little ceramic dish on the counter, and stand there for a second in the quiet.

Then your phone rings.

It’s an unknown number.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. Then an older man’s voice, careful and warm around the edges. “Hi— is this Y/N?”

Your fingers tighten around the phone. “Yes?”

“Right. Sorry. Sorry, love, didn’t mean to catch you out of nowhere.” Another pause. “It’s Mr. Choi. Hyunjin’s old landlord.”

Everything in you goes still.

You know him. Soft-spoken, always smelled faintly of peppermint and old paper, used to complain in a very noncommittal way about other tenants while secretly letting Hyunjin get away with murder on late rent because “that boy looked like he’d apologize to a wall if he bumped into it.” 

He’d been kind to you after.

Kind in that careful, helpless way people are kind when there is nothing useful left to offer.

“Oh,” you say. “Hi.”

His voice gentles further, hearing something in yours. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

You lean your hip against the counter, gripping the phone tighter. “No. No, it’s okay.”

“I’ve been meaning to ring you for a while,” he says. “Kept putting it off. Didn’t feel right, is all.”

Your throat tightens.

He exhales. “I wanted to let you know I’m planning to sell the flat.”

You shut your eyes.

Of course buildings keep changing hands. Of course leases end and walls get repainted and other people eventually sleep in the rooms where someone you loved stopped breathing. The world is indecent like that. It just keeps going.

“I see,” you say quietly.

“And I’ve left it as it was.” He clears his throat. “Well. More or less. Haven’t touched his things. Didn’t have the heart, to be honest. And with his parents not...”

He trails off delicately.

Not coming. Not asking. Not wanting anything to do with a son they’d long since decided to misunderstand.

You know what he means.

“I just thought,” he says, “if there’s anything you want to keep, anything of his you’d like, I’d rather you had the chance. Before I have to clear it out.”

The words land soft and devastating.

You slide down onto the little stool by the counter before your knees can decide things for you.

“How long?” you ask.

He hesitates. “A month, maybe. Bit more if I can manage it.”

A month.

For nearly a year the apartment has sat there untouched, holding its breath around the last version of him. And now suddenly there is a clock on it. Thirty days until strangers. Thirty days until his mugs and books and stupid mismatched socks become things in boxes. Thirty days until whatever trace of him remains in that place gets thrown into black bags and carried to the curb.

Your eyes sting.

“That’s generous of you, Mr Choi,” you say, and your voice comes out thinner than you’d like.

“Oh, don’t,” he says softly. “No generosity in it. Just seemed right.”

You press your fingertips hard into your knee.

“I can come by,” you say. “This week.”

“All right.” Another pause. “No rush on doing it all in one go, either. If it’s hard, it’s hard.”

Something hot catches in your throat.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” He gives you the time, the day he’ll leave the key in the office if you’d rather not see anyone, and then, very gently, “He was a lovely boy.”

Your breath stutters.

“I know,” you whisper.

After the call ends, you sit there for a long time with your phone still in your hand.

The apartment around you is silent. Outside, somewhere far below your window, a siren passes and fades. The light shifts another inch across the floorboards.

You think about not going.

You think about texting Mr. Kim and saying actually, no, you can keep it all, throw it all out, I don’t want any of it, I don’t want to stand in that room again and feel my body remember before I do.

But then a worse thought comes, immediate and unbearable:

What if there’s something of him left and you let it be taken by strangers?

That does it.

You go three days later.

There is no beautiful, cinematic bravery in it. You spend the bus ride staring at your own reflection in the dark glass and feeling like you might throw up. Your hands shake when you sign into the building office. Mr. Kim isn’t there—true to his word, he’s left the spare key in an envelope with your name on it in careful block letters.

You make yourself go upstairs.

The corridor is exactly the same.

That is the first cruelty.

Same ugly runner carpet. Same little water stain near the emergency light. Same faint smell of somebody cooking onions three doors down. A year has passed and the building has had the decency to rot in exactly the same way.

You stop in front of his door.

The key is cold between your fingers. Metal against metal. A small, stupid sound when it slides in. The lock turns easily, like it has been waiting for you.

For one sick second you can’t breathe.

Then you open the door.

The apartment exhales with you.

Stale air. Dust. The faint ghost of detergent and old cologne and something else you cannot name because naming it would mean admitting memory can live in walls.

You step inside.

Hyunjin is everywhere.

His shoes still by the door, one tipped over against the baseboard. A dark green hoodie slung over the back of the couch. A chipped mug on the coffee table with a watercolor brush dried stiff inside it. The blanket you bought together at a street market folded badly over the armrest, because he always folded everything badly, all confidence and no precision.

Your vision blurs instantly.

For one awful second, your body forgets what year it is.

It forgets the months in between. The funeral. The grave. The miserable, grinding work of learning how to wake up and keep breathing in a world that had already ended once. It forgets all of it and remembers only the door swinging open on the fateful morning, your voice calling his name, the strange stillness of the room.

That silence.

It had been wrong immediately.

You see it all at once now in horrible, flashing fragments.

His phone on the floor by the couch.

One sock half under the coffee table.

The glass of water on the counter.

The bedroom door half-open.

Your own laugh at first—small, confused, trying to cut through the dread before it fully formed. Hyunjin? You home?

No answer.

Then the bedroom.

Then—

Your stomach lurches so hard you barely make it to the sink.

You grip the counter with both hands and breathe through your mouth, staring down at the rust ring around the drain until the wave passes. Your eyes burn. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

“No,” you whisper to the empty kitchen. “No.”

But memory does not care.

It keeps coming anyway.

The exact angle of the afternoon light on the floorboards. The ringing that started in your ears the second your brain understood what your eyes were seeing. The impossible stillness of him. Your knees giving out so hard they slammed into the floor. The sound that came out of you—this broken, animal thing your own throat made without permission.

You had crawled to him.

You touched his shoulder. His face. 

You squeeze your eyes shut.

For a moment you are not standing in his kitchen a year later.

You are on that bedroom floor again with your phone slipping in your hands because you cannot make your fingers work, trying to call emergency services while sobbing so hard you can barely get the address out. Trying to shake him awake between words. Trying to bargain with a body that had already gone somewhere you couldn’t follow.

When you open your eyes again, the apartment is still here.

Stale. Quiet. 

You stay braced over the sink until your breathing stops sounding panicked enough to scare you.

Then you straighten slowly, wiping under your eyes with the heel of your hand.

You are not going into the bedroom.

You know that immediately.

Your gaze catches on the half-open door and skitters away so fast it almost hurts. No. Absolutely not. The room beyond it feels less like a room and more like the edge of a cliff. You cannot do that today. Maybe not ever. Maybe not until the last possible day, when the apartment is being sold and there is no more time left to bargain with.

So you don’t.

You turn your back on the door and reach for the nearest thing instead.

His mug is still on the coffee table.

Blue ceramic, chipped at the rim, one of the ugly handmade ones he swore had “character.” There’s a dead paintbrush inside it, bristles gone stiff. You pick it up carefully, like it might break differently now than it would have a year ago, and carry it to the kitchen.

Cabinet.

Open.

It’s the wrong cabinet. 

Hyunjin’s hand used to smack yours lightly away from the second shelf because, apparently, you were “constitutionally incapable” of putting things back where they belonged.

“You just make up homes for objects,” he’d said once, laughing, while taking a bowl from your hand. “That’s not where the bowls go.”

“They live there now.”

“No, they don’t. They’re confused.”

The memory comes so bright and stupidly warm it almost knocks the air out of you.

You stand there with the mug in your hand and your throat tight, seeing him exactly as he’d been that day—barefoot, smiling, hair flopping into his eyes, mock-scandalized over bowls like he wasn’t the kind of person who lost his ID every three weeks.

Your fingers shake.

You put the mug in a box instead.

Not the cabinet.

The box.

That feels more honest.

You find the flattened boxes in the hall closet where Mr.Choi left them for you. You carry them out one by one and set them near the couch, moving slowly, deliberately, because if you go too fast your mind gets ahead of your body and you start thinking about things like how a year ago you’d torn through this apartment wild-eyed and frantic, opening everything that opened, looking for proof that he had loved you enough to leave a something behind.

A note.

Anything.

You had searched the coffee table first, then the kitchen junk drawer, then the stack of sketchbooks by the TV stand. You had been crying so hard you could barely see. Every time you found only receipts or batteries or dead pens, panic kept rising anyway, higher and higher, because surely there had to be something. Surely he couldn’t just—

Your stomach twists.

You drop the tape gun into the nearest box too hard and the clatter jerks you back.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

The empty apartment does not reply.

You start with the living room.

That feels manageable. Less intimate.

Books from the shelf first.

There are too many, of course. Half art books, half novels with cracked spines and sticky notes shoved in between pages. You crouch in front of the shelf and slide them out one by one, stacking carefully in the box.

The Vegetarian by Han Kang.

A battered poetry collection.

A book about color theory with his name written on the inside cover in rushed black ink.

A novel he made you read because, in his exact words, “if I suffered through the ending, you have to suffer too.”

You pause with that one in your hand.

You can hear him so clearly it makes your chest hurt.

The next shelf has records.

Then some candles, all burned unevenly because he never let them melt properly before blowing them out. A pack of playing cards. A roll of undeveloped film. Two coasters from that awful café with the watery lattes. A little clay ashtray you made in your first ceramics elective, warped on one side, which he insisted was beautiful in a way that was obviously a lie and somehow kind anyway.

Every object is a tripwire.

You keep hitting them.

A receipt from the convenience store downstairs, and suddenly you’re remembering him appearing at your apartment at midnight with instant ramen and gummy worms because you’d texted that you were “having a crisis” over a project.

A fraying blanket folded over the couch, and suddenly you’re back on this exact cushion with your feet in his lap while he pretended to be deeply invested in some terrible reality show just because you liked it.

A hoodie slung over the armrest, and for a fraction of a second your body betrays you so violently that you nearly turn, nearly call out to him, because your brain thinks maybe he’s in the bathroom, maybe he just stepped out, maybe grief has all been some grotesque administrative mistake.

He isn’t.

Of course he isn’t.

You sit down for a while after that.

From here you can see the bedroom door in your peripheral vision.

The day after he died, you had stood there at that exact angle, staring into the room like it might yield up a second version of itself if you looked hard enough. Some kinder version. One where he was not gone. One where there was a folded page on the bedside table, your name on the front, an explanation inside big enough to hold all the pieces of you splintering off in real time.

There had been nothing.

Not on the table. Not under the pillow. Not in the top drawer. Not in the laundry basket, because yes, you looked there too, stupid and desperate and half out of your mind.

You remember kneeling on the floor beside the bed, hands shaking so hard you could barely unfold his sketchbook pages, searching for hidden writing in the margins. You remember opening his laptop even though you didn’t know the password and then bursting into tears at the lock screen because his wallpaper was still the picture you took of him at the river, head thrown back, eyes crinkled, alive.

You remember thinking: how could he not leave me anything?

The thought had hollowed you out so cleanly it was almost elegant.

You get up.

Piece by piece, the apartment begins to look less like a held breath and more like what it is: a place being emptied.

It feels obscene.

You keep going anyway.

The dresser against the far wall is the last large thing left in the living room. It’s narrow and ugly and heavier than it looks, one of those secondhand pieces he swore had “good bones” even though one drawer always stuck and the finish was scratched to hell on one side. You remember helping him drag it in when he first moved here, both of you sweating and laughing and nearly taking out the baseboard in the hallway.

Now it just sits there, stupidly solid, lined with dust at the feet.

You kneel to clear out the bottom drawer first.

Old takeout menus. A tangled extension cord. A stack of coasters. A dead remote. Nothing important. Nothing dangerous.

The second drawer is mostly papers—old bank mail, a folded insurance form, one of your hair ties looped around a pen for some reason. You set those aside in a messy pile.

The third drawer catches.

You tug.

It doesn’t budge.

“Seriously?” you mutter.

You plant one hand against the side of the dresser and pull harder with the other. The whole thing gives, not the drawer but the dresser itself, scraping forward against the floorboards with a long, ugly sound that makes you wince.

“Shit.”

You freeze, breath held, half expecting the building to collapse around you from the noise.

Nothing happens.

Just the silence again.

Then, from the narrow gap between the back of the dresser and the wall, something loosens.

A small folded scrap slides down and lands against the baseboard.

You stare at it.

At first you think it’s just trash. A receipt maybe, or one of those old warranty slips that always seem to multiply in junk drawers and under furniture. You almost ignore it.

Then you notice the paper.

Not white. Not printer paper. Not glossy.

Grayish. Thin. Old.

Newsprint.

A strange little prickle moves up the back of your neck.

You reach behind the dresser and fish it out with two fingers.

It’s folded into a tight rectangle, edges softened with age and pressure, like it’s been handled more than once. Not dropped carelessly, either. Wedged. Hidden.

Your pulse kicks once.

You frown and unfold it carefully.

Local Man Found Dead in Apparent Shooting.

The words swim for a second before settling.

You read the name once.

Then again.

Han Jisung.

His name was Jisung, Minho’s voice says in your ear. He’s dead.

Your whole body goes cold.

His name was Jisung.

He’s dead.

You’re eyes flick to the date.

June 24, 2023.

Then again.

June 24.

Your pulse goes thick and loud in your ears.

Because Hyunjin took his own life on June 24, 2024.

Exactly one year later.

Not close. Not roughly. Not sometime around. The same day. The same date. Twelve months apart so precisely it makes your stomach turn.

“No,” you whisper, but there is no denial in it now. Just dread. Just the sick feeling of pieces moving toward each other without your permission.

You flatten the clipping on the coffee table with shaking hands and stare at it hard enough that the print blurs.

A shooting. A dead man. And Hyunjin had kept the article.

Kept it hidden.

Kept it close enough to fold and unfold until the crease softened.

Your mind starts reaching backward on instinct, grabbing at every strange thing from the last year. Every detail you filed under grief because grief was easier. Kinder. Simpler.

The night at the convenience store Bright fluorescent lights and the cheap hum of refrigerators and Chan stepping too close to Varsity Jacket with that dangerous, quiet anger in him while you stood there trying to understand why the air had changed.

“You really think everybody just forgot?” Varsity Jacket had said. “You and Hyunjin deal with this guy, then he winds up dead, and we’re all just supposed to be too stupid to add shit up?”

Back then you had been too caught up in it all to really register the words.

Now—

Now it sounds like accusation.

You sit back too fast, palm slipping against the floorboards. The clipping crackles under your fingers. Somewhere upstairs someone drops something heavy and the thud goes through the ceiling. You barely register it.

Because all at once you are remembering Chan’s face when Varsity Jacket said what he did.

That brief, terrible stillness.

You swallow hard.

“What the fuck,” you say aloud to the apartment.

The clipping lies there between your knees. June 24, 2023. Jisung dead. June 24, 2024. Hyunjin dead.

Your mind makes the connection before you want it to.

Anniversary.

He killed himself on the anniversary of Jisung’s death.

Something hot and sick rises in your throat.

For a second, you can’t move.

Then you lunge for the dresser.

One knee slams hard into the floorboards and you barely feel it. You shove the clipping to the side of the coffee table and grab the half-open drawer with both hands, yanking it the rest of the way out so fast it almost comes free in your lap.

Pens. Old batteries. Two receipts. A bent fork for some reason.

Nothing.

You dump it onto the floor anyway.

The sound is ugly in the quiet apartment, little objects scattering in every direction, but your pulse is too loud now to care. You reach into the empty slot, fingers skimming the wood, then the back panel, then the underside.

Nothing.

“No, no, no—”

You don’t even know what you’re saying no to. The possibility that this is all there is. The possibility that there is more. Both feel terrible.

You grab the second drawer and drag it out too.

Insurance forms. A dead marker. The hair tie. More junk. You tear through it, paper scraping at your fingertips, breath coming too fast. Bills fan across the floor. A folded manual slides under the couch. Still nothing.

Your eyes dart back to the clipping on the coffee table.

Jisung.

June 24, 2023.

You can hear Varsity Jacket again now, clearer than before, like the article has sharpened the memory by force.

What, you think nobody knows?

Your stomach twists so hard you nearly gag.

You drop to both knees in front of the dresser and yank the stuck third drawer again. It jerks out halfway, catches, then finally gives with a splintering scrape. You nearly fall backward with it in your hands.

The contents are stranger.

Loose film canisters. A cheap black charger. A camera strap. A packet of gum turned to stone. More folded papers.

You dump those too.

Still nothing obvious.

But now that the drawer is fully out, the inside of the dresser looks... wrong.

You freeze.

Your breathing is ragged. Sweat sticks the back of your shirt to your spine. The apartment feels too hot all of a sudden, or maybe that’s just panic crawling over your skin.

The bottom of the drawer cavity sits higher than it should.

Not by much.

Just enough.

A shallow depth where there should be more. A line in the wood near the back that doesn’t quite match the grain around it.

Your heartbeat stutters.

You lean closer.

The panel is thin plywood, darker in one corner where fingers might have pressed it before. There’s the faintest little notch near the right edge, almost invisible unless you’re looking for it.

Your hands start shaking harder.

You press your nail into the notch and pry.

At first nothing happens.

Then the board lifts.

Just slightly.

Your breath leaves you in a rush.

“Oh, Hyunjin.”

You hook two fingers under it and pull the panel up.

A false bottom.

For a second you just stare into the shallow space underneath like it might vanish if you blink too hard.

Inside is a phone.

Not his phone.

Cheap. Black. Bare.

Your breath leaves you in one stunned rush.

For a second you just stare at it.

Then you pick it up and press the power button.

Nothing.

Dead.

Of course.

Still, your pulse spikes so violently it almost makes your vision blur.

Because Hyunjin had another phone.

A hidden phone.

A hidden article.

A hidden date.

The most terrible part, the thing that makes your eyes sting all over again, is that Hyunjin is still dead. He is still gone. None of this changes the cold truth of his body under your hands that day, none of it gives you back the version of grief you had before this moment.

It only adds.

It only deepens.

It only asks new questions where there were already too many.

You look down at the phone again.

Then at the clipping.

Then, very quietly, to the empty room, you say, “What did you do?”

The room, like always, gives you nothing.

You snort, and then you get pulled into the normal loop—beep, bag, total, thank you—so you stop paying attention to him the way you stop paying attention to the fridges humming. He’s just… there. A familiar silhouette in the corner of your vision, head tipped toward his laptop, fingers tapping quietly.

The bell over the door rings.

You straighten automatically, hand going for the register like muscle memory. “Welcome,” you say, default retail cheer slipping into your voice. “Let me know if you need—”

Four guys tumble in together, the way groups do when they’ve shared too much alcohol and not enough brain cells. Their laughter is too loud for the size of the store, echoing off tile and metal. One of them nearly trips over the mat; another steadies him with a hand that ends in a too-hard clap to the shoulder.

The smell hits next—cheap beer, cold air, something sour underneath.

Your stomach tightens.

“Evening,” One of them in a varsity jacket drawls, sauntering up the first aisle

“Hi,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

“Oh, I’ll find what I need,” one of his friends says, snickering.

They scatter half-heartedly, not really shopping. One of them grabs a bag of chips, opens it without looking at the price, shoves a handful into his mouth. Crumbs rain down the front of his jacket.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper but don’t say anything. You’ve learned the hierarchy of battles in this job. Bags of chips: not worth it. 

Varsity Jacket drifts toward the counter instead of the aisles, trailing his fingers along the display of gum.

“So,” he says, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Rough night, sweetheart?”

You resist the urge to recoil at the nickname. “You need something?”

His gaze drops deliberately to your name tag, then back up to your face. “Yeah,” he says. “Think I do.”

Behind him, Chan has gone very still.

He hasn’t taken his headphones off yet, but you can see one ear cup is slightly lifted, not sealing completely. His eyes are on his screen, but the tension in his jaw gives him away.

You clear your throat. “Store closes in twenty,” you say to Varsity Jacket. “So if you’re buying, you should probably—”

“Aw,” he pouts. “Kicking us out already?”

His friends drift closer, orbit tightening. One of them bumps a cardboard display of energy drinks with his shoulder; a few cans rattle to the floor.

“Hey,” you say automatically. “Careful, please.”

“Relax,” the guy laughs, toeing a can with his shoe. “Clean-up’s what they pay you for, right?”

Chan’s chair scrapes.

It’s a small sound, barely audible over their laughter and the fridge hum, but you hear it.

“Guys,” you say, forcing your tone lighter. “If you’re not going to buy anything, I do actually have to close soon.”

“Sure, sure,” Varsity Jacket says. He plants his palms on the counter and leans in, closer than any customer has business being. You can smell the beer on his breath. “We’ll make it quick. Got plans later anyway.”

You take a half-step back, hitting the shelving behind you. “Then go enjoy your plans,” you say, trying to keep your voice from sharpening. “We’re open again at eight if you need anything tomorrow.”

He clicks his tongue. “You always this cold?” he asks. “Come on, smile for me a little. You’re too pretty to be this pissed off.”

Your skin crawls.

“I’m not pissed,” you say. “I’m working.”

Chan’s laptop closes with a soft thud.

You see it out of the corner of your eye—him standing, slipping his headphones off, leaving them on the table. For a second, you hope he’s just going to pack up and leave, remove himself from the situation before it can get worse.

Instead, he walks toward the counter.

“Hey,” he says mildly, addressing Varsity Jacket’s back. “Why don’t you take it easy?”

Varsity Jacket straightens, turning to face him. His eyes do a quick once-over—hoodie, curls, familiar face.

The recognition is immediate. His mouth stretches into a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, shit,” he says. “If it isn’t DJ Chan.”

Chan’s expression doesn’t change. “Store’s closing soon,” he says. “Don’t make her job harder than it already is.”

“Ouch,” Varsity Jacket says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Didn’t know you went corporate, man. Last time I saw you, you were all about making life easier. For a price, anyway.”

His friends laugh. The sound grates.

Your fingers curl against the underside of the counter.

“Guys,” you say again, firmer. “Seriously. You can’t just—”

Varsity Jacket swings back toward you, closing what little distance you’d tried to reclaim. “We’re paying customers,” he says. “Right? We’ll pay. Won’t we?” He throws a look over his shoulder.  

One of his friends obligingly lifts a six-pack off the nearest shelf, holding it up like proof. “See?” he says. “Patronage.”  

Varsity Jacket taps two fingers against the counter, gaze sliding past you to Chan, then back again.  

“Didn’t know you were into honest work these days,” he says. “Last time I saw you,” he tips his chin toward Chan without looking, “you and that pretty boy were all about extracurriculars.”  

Your grip tightens on the edge of the register.  

Pretty boy.  

Chan goes still behind him, a different kind of still than before. His shoulders lock, jaw ticking once.  

Varsity Jacket grins, eyes cutting sideways just enough to catch Chan in his peripheral. “What was his name again? Hyun… Hyun—” 

“Enough,” Chan says quietly.  

“Hyunjin,” Varsity Jacker continues, like he didn’t hear him. “That was it. Tall, model-ass cheekbones. Kid could move product like nobody’s business.” He whistles low. 

Your stomach drops.    

You knew Hyunjin had secrets. You’re not naïve. But hearing them laid out like this, tossed around by some drunk in a varsity jacket like gossip—it hits a place you weren’t ready to have hit.  

Chan doesn’t flinch outwardly, but something in his face shuts off. Whatever softness was there before drains out, leaving something flat and cold behind.  

“Pay and go,” he says, voice still controlled. Too controlled. “You’ve had your fun.”  

Varsity Jacker looks fully at him now, eyes glittering. “Come on, man,” he says. “Don’t be like that. We’re just reminiscing. We go back, right? Corner of Twelfth and—” 

“You heard him,” you cut in. Your throat feels tight. “You pay,” you nod at the six-pack, “and go. Or leave without paying, as long as you get the fuck out of here.”  

There’s a beat where no one says anything.  

Then Varsity laughs, loud and ugly.  

“Damn,” he says. “She’s got bite. That turn you on, Chan?”

His eyes drag down, slow and obvious, like he’s doing you the favor of letting you see where he’s looking.

“Bet she’s a handful when you get her alone,” he adds, voice dropping into a mock-conspiratorial drawl. “All that attitude? Gotta burn off somewhere, right?”

Heat crawls up your neck, part anger, part humiliation. Your fingers dig into the underside of the counter hard enough that your knuckles ache.

“Watch it,” Chan says, still quiet. Too quiet.

Varsity Jacket doesn’t even glance back at him.

“What?” he says, like he’s genuinely confused. “I’m just saying. Girl like this?” He tips his chin at your vest, at the name tag, at you. “Standing in this dump all night, dealing with idiots… she’s gotta have some stress to work out. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

You grip the register till the edge cuts into your palms.

“I’m right here,” you say, voice flat. “If you’ve got something to say, say it to me.”

He grins, and you instantly regret giving him the opening.

“Okay,” he says, turning his full attention back on you. “I’ll say it to you, sweetheart. You ever get bored ringing up chips and cigarettes, you should come to a real party. You remember those, right, Chan?” He flicks a glance back over his shoulder. “She’d be a hit. Way too pretty to be wasting that face on drunk freshmen and old guys buying lotto tickets.”

His gaze drops again, lingering where your vest gaps at the neckline. He leans in, elbows on the counter.

“Bet you’re fun when you loosen up,” he goes on, slurring the words just enough to make them feel dirtier. “All that ice? Someone’s gotta melt it.”

“Back off,” Chan says, closer now. “You’ve had your little show. Buy your beer and go.”

Varsity Jacket laughs, short and sharp. “You hearing this?” he asks his friends. “Guy used to hustle half the campus, now he’s playing hall monitor.”

One of the others snickers, the sound mean and drunk. “Maybe he’s just whipped,” he says. “Look at him. He’s got that look. You tapping that, Chan? Or you just like watching her bend over the freezer section when it's time to restock?”

You flinch.

Chan takes another step forward.

“Shut up,” he says.

Varsity’s grin stretches. “Oh, I get it now,” he says. “This is a thing. You keeping her on the side? That why you’re hanging out in this dump instead of running with your old crew? Gotta protect your little—”

His hand comes up as he says it, casual, punctuating the sentence. Fingers reaching—not for your face, not for your arm, but lower, aiming straight for your name tag, for the plastic pin and the fabric under it.

You try to lean back, but the shelving behind you stops you cold. His knuckles brush too close to your chest.

Chan moves.

There’s no warning. No shouted threat or wind-up.

One heartbeat Varsity’s hand is on the counter, fingers grazing your vest.

The next, Chan’s fist connects with his jaw.

The crack is sickening—bone and shock and the dull thud of impact. Varsity’s head snaps to the side, his body stumbling backward into the cardboard tower of instant noodles.

The whole display shudders and then collapses, packets spilling out in a noisy, crinkling avalanche.

For half a second, no one breathes.

Then everything erupts at once.

One of Varsity’s friends shouts, “—what the fuck?” and lunges forward, grabbing at Chan’s shoulder. Chan twists hard, shrugging him off, but the motion sends him crashing into the candy rack. Chocolate bars and gum go clattering to the tile in a bright plastic spill.

Varsity Jacket sags for half a second against the ruined noodle display, dazed, palm pressed to his jaw.

Then he laughs.

It’s a wet, ugly sound. He spits pink onto the floor, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks up at Chan like he’s never seen anything funnier.

Chan has already grabbed a fistful of his varsity jacket. He yanks him upright and slams him back into the metal edge of the shelf hard enough to rattle the lighters hanging nearby.

“Don’t touch her,” Chan says again, low and shaking now. “Don’t even fucking look at her.”

Varsity’s grin only widens, blood shining at the corner of his mouth.

“What,” he says, breathless, “you think nobody knows?”

Chan’s grip tightens.

For a second, you don’t understand the question. Then his eyes flick—not to you, but through you. Past you. To something that clearly exists entirely inside Chan’s head.

“You really think everybody just forgot?” he asks, almost gleeful. “You and Hyunjin deal with this guy, then he winds up dead, and we’re all just supposed to be too stupid to add shit up?”

Your pulse stutters.

The store suddenly feels too bright, too hot.

Chan doesn’t say anything.

That silence is worse than an answer.

Varsity Jacket sees it too. His laugh turns meaner. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut up,” Chan says.

“Why?” Varsity Jacket spits back. “Scared she’ll start asking the right questions?”

One of the other guys grabs at Chan’s arm again. “Dude, let go, let go—”

Chan shoves Varsity Jacket back so hard the shelf behind him bangs against the wall. A row of bottled coffee topples off and explodes at your feet, cold liquid splashing over your shoes.

“Chan!” you hear yourself yell, voice sharp with fear now, not anger. “Stop!”

But Varsity’s still laughing.

“All that acting,” he says, words slurring together at the edges. “Please. Everybody knew you two were mixed up in something. Guess your boy just couldn’t live with it, huh?”

The world narrows to a pinprick.

Chan goes white under the fluorescent lights.

For one horrible second, you think he’s going to hit him again.

Instead he just stands there, chest heaving, fingers still twisted in the front of Varsity’s jacket, eyes gone flat and lethal in a way you have never seen before.

Then your manager barrels out of the back office, swearing.

Everything after that happens in shards.

He yells. Varsity’s friends start backing toward the door. The six-pack one of them dropped keeps hissing beer across the floor. Someone kicks a packet of ramen by accident and it skids under the Slurpee machine.

Varsity Jacket straightens what’s left of his jacket and keeps smiling, even while his friends herd him backward.

“You can hit me all you want,” he calls, jabbing one bloody finger toward Chan. “Doesn’t change what people know.”

“Get out,” your manager shouts, voice cracking. “All of you, get the hell out of my store!”

This time, they go.

Varsity Jacket lets himself be dragged toward the door, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder.

At you.

Then Chan.

Then you again.

“Cute,” he says thickly. “Real cute.”

The bell over the door jangles as they spill out into the night.

Silence hits hard.

Your manager rounds on both of you in a panic-fueled spiral, furious about the mess, the security deposit, the beer soaking into the anti-slip mats. You barely hear half of it. Your ears are full of blood.

Chan says he’ll pay. Your manager says he doesn’t care who pays. You say you’ll clean it. Your manager tells Chan to get out if he’s not on staff.

Chan looks at you once, like he’s waiting for you to tell him otherwise.

You don’t.

He leaves.

You close forty-three minutes late.    

Forty-three exactly, because you stare at the digital clock over the register while you mop sticky beer out of the grooves in the tile and think, with a kind of detached hatred, that at least numbers still mean one thing.   

Your manager mutters the whole time. About insurance. About idiots. About how if the card reader dies for real this time he’s making it everyone’s problem. You say “mhm” in the right places and keep wiping down the counter where Varsity Jacket leaned too close, like maybe if you scrub hard enough you can get his voice off it too.  

By the time you peel off your name tag, your shoulders ache. Your shoes squelch faintly from the coffee that exploded near your feet. Your nerves feel flayed. 

When you step outside, there he is.            

Chan’s across the street, pushed off the hood of his car the second the door opens. Hood up. Hands shoved in his pockets. Bruise darkening under one eye now, the skin around it beginning to swell. Even from here, you can see the split over his knuckles.         

You look at him for half a second.    

Then you look away and start walking.    

“Hey,” he calls.            

You keep going.

He crosses the street fast enough that you hear his shoes hit the pavement behind you. “Hey—” 

You don’t stop until you hit your building door, and even then it’s only because the lock sticks when it’s cold and you need both hands to wrench the key in.           

The door groans open. You shoulder through it.  

Chan follows.   

The stairwell smells like dust, old cooking oil, and somebody’s laundry detergent trying and failing to overpower mildew. The light over the first landing flickers once, then steadies.   

You take the stairs too fast.         

“Will you just slow down for a second?” Chan says behind you, breath rough.  

“No.”            

You hit the second landing. He catches your elbow.

You jerk free so fast it’s almost violent.   

“Don’t,” you snap, spinning around. “Don’t touch me.”   

He goes still.            

For one second it looks like he might actually listen.    

Then he says, carefully, “You’re mad.”   

You laugh.            

It comes out wrong. High and brittle and ugly in the narrow stairwell.   

“Wow,” you say. “Nothing gets past you, huh?”   

“That’s not what I—”  

“No, let’s do this,” you cut in, voice rising before you can stop it. “Let’s really do this, because apparently I’ve been asking the wrong questions this whole time.”

You turn and start climbing again.         

“Can you just tell me what’s going on?” he says. “Please.”     

The plea in it almost gets you. Almost.       

You make it to your floor, keys already in your hand, and whirl around so sharply he nearly walks into you.            

The hallway is too narrow for this. Too dim. Too full of both of you.     

“What’s going on?” you repeat. “You want me to tell you what’s going on?”      

His mouth tightens. “I’m trying to understand why you’re—”

“Why I’m what?” you shoot back. “Upset? Confused? A little thrown by finding out from some drunk asshole in a varsity jacket that my dead boyfriend and the guy who’s been following me around for a month apparently had a whole secret life no one thought I deserved to know about?”            

His face shutters.     

There it is again. That door slamming shut behind his eyes.   

Something in you tears.            

“No,” you say, pointing at him with your keys. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t go all blank on me now.”      

“I’m not ‘going blank,’” he says, but there’s strain in it now, a thread pulled too tight.     

“You are,” you say. “You always do this. Every time anything gets close to real, you act like you’re about to say something and then you just—” you make a helpless, furious gesture “—disappear behind your face.”          

Your eyes are burning now, and you hate it, hate him seeing it, hate that your body still reaches for tears.   

“You knew him,” you say, voice shaking. “You knew him in ways you never told me. There was some other boy who died, apparently, and somehow that connects back to both of you, and everybody else gets to talk in these gross little half-sentences like I’m just supposed to stand there and piece together my own life from scraps.”  

Chan drags a hand over his mouth.        

“Please,” he says quietly. “Keep your voice down.” 

You stare at him.  

Then you laugh again, softer and meaner this time. 

“Oh, that’s cute,” you say. “That’s what you’re worried about? The neighbors?”            

“I’m worried about you.” 

“No,” you snap, so fast it almost overlaps him. “You’re worried about whatever this is.” You gesture between the two of you, jagged and furious. “Whatever mess you’ve been trying to keep me from seeing.” 

His jaw flexes. “Don’t do that.”

 “Do what?” 

“You heard one drunk idiot run his mouth,” he says. “That’s not the same as knowing anything.” 

“Then correct him.” 

Chan stops pacing. The hallway light flickers once overhead, washing his face pale for a second before settling again. His cheek is already swelling where Varsity Jacket hit him. The bruise makes him look harsher somehow, less like the version of him that leans on your convenience store counter asking stupid questions about coffee and more like someone you only ever got the edges of. 

“It’s not that simple,” he says. You stare at him. 

“Oh, wow. Really? Because from where I’m standing it feels pretty fucking simple. He said you and Hyunjin were involved in something. He said a boy died. He said people know. So either he’s lying or he isn’t.” 

Chan’s mouth tightens. “He’s drunk.”

 “That’s not an answer.” 

“No,” he snaps, sharper now, “it’s context.” 

You bark out a laugh. “Context? You want to talk to me about context now?” 

He steps closer, then thinks better of it and stops himself, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. “Yes, actually. I do. Because you are taking the worst thing some drunk asshole could say and treating it like a sworn statement.” 

“And you’re treating it like I’m too stupid to notice you haven’t denied any of it.” 

That lands. You see it in the way his shoulders go rigid. In the way his gaze drops for half a second, then lifts back to your face like he’s forcing it there. 

“I’m not calling you stupid,” he says, low. 

“No, you’re just handling me like I am.”

 “That’s not what I’m doing.” 

“Really?” you ask. “Because you lied to me the first time we ever fucking met.”

 He exhales hard through his nose. 

“Yes.” The bluntness of it knocks you off-balance for half a beat. 

“And then you kept lying,” you say. 

“I kept not telling you things,” he corrects. 

You laugh, incredulous. “That is the same thing, Chan.” 

“No, it isn’t.” He drags a hand over his face, then drops it, frustrated. “There’s a difference between lying to your face and not handing you a loaded gun worth of information when I don’t know what it’s going to do.” 

Your chest is heaving now, the whole stairwell too hot, too close. “You don’t get to stand there and act like secrecy is kindness. You don’t get to frame it like you’re protecting me when all it does is make me feel like everyone else got the real story and I got the censored version.”

 His jaw ticks. “I’m trying to keep you out of something you should never have been near in the first place.”

You stare at him.

“Too late,” you say. “Newsflash, Chan: I’m already in it.”

He shakes his head once, like that’s the one thing he refuses to accept. “Not like this. You don’t—”

“I don’t what?” Your voice spikes. “I don’t get it? I don’t get that there’s some big, awful thing hanging over all of this and you’d rather let some drunk asshole spit pieces of it at me than trust me with a full sentence?”

“It’s not about trust,” he grinds out.

“Then what is it about?” You’re almost shouting now, words bouncing off the narrow walls. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re deciding how much of my own life I’m allowed to know.”

He flinches like you hit him.

“Hyunjin was mine too,” you say, and now your voice cracks right down the middle. “He wasn’t just your… whatever he was. He was mine. And you’ve been walking around with a whole other version of him in your head that I never got to see. You and that guy in the store and whoever else knows about dead boys and corner deals and—”

You cut yourself off before you start choking on the words.

Chan drags a hand through his hair, eyes squeezed shut for half a beat. “I’m trying to fix it,” he says, desperate now. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t get hurt any more than you already have.”

You actually take a step back.

“Do you hear yourself?” you whisper. “Do you hear how insane that sounds? You lied to me, you kept things from me, you let me stand at his grave and talk about a version of him that wasn’t even whole, and now you want a pat on the back because you’re trying?”

He looks wrecked. “I never wanted you involved in any of this.”

“Well, tough,” you say. “I am involved. I’ve been involved.” Your throat tightens. You push through it. “I don’t get to opt out. I don’t get to say ‘oh, never mind, actually, I’d like to go back to the version where my boyfriend just randomly killed himself for no reason, thanks.’”

“That’s not what happened,” he snaps.

“Then say what did!”

It hangs there. Heavy. Echoing.

He doesn’t.

He just stands there in the shitty yellow light, jaw clenched, eyes dark, like every muscle in his body is locked around the one thing he will not let out.

Something in you goes very, very still.

“Okay,” you say finally. The word feels like it’s made of glass. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”

He swallows. “It’s not that I don’t want to—”

“It is, though,” you say. “Because if you wanted to, you would. You’ve had a thousand chances. You had tonight. You had downstairs. You had the grave. And every single time, you chose not to.”

He flinches again, smaller this time.

“And I’m done,” you say, quietly stunned by how true it is as you hear it. “I’m done begging people to let me in on things that already belong to me.”

You turn.

Your keys shake once in your hand before you jam them into the lock. The metal sticks, as always. You wrench it anyway.

Behind you, he says your name, soft and wrecked.

You pause for half a second with the door half-open.

Then you set your jaw.

“Stay the fuck out of my life, Chan,” you say, not looking back. “If you won’t trust me with the truth, then you don’t get to be in it.”

You shove the door the rest of the way open.

Cold air leaks in around the frame. The hallway light buzzes.

You’re already halfway through when his hand hits the door above your head.

It slams back into the frame with a hollow crack that rattles through your shoulders.

You jerk, hand tightening on the knob.

“Don’t,” you snap, not looking at him. “Let go.”

“No.”

His voice is right behind you now. Too close. You can feel the heat of him at your back, the tremor running through the muscles in his forearm where it’s braced beside your face.

You stare at the scuffed metal of the door, at your own hand white-knuckled on the handle.

“I’m serious, Chan.” Your throat is tight. “Move. I’m done.”

“I know you are,” he says, and he sounds wrecked. “I know. I just…”

His other hand touches your elbow. Just two fingers, light.

“I can’t stay out of your life,” he blurts.

You laugh. You don’t mean to, but it comes out anyway—short and sharp and miserable. “Yeah?” you say. “Watch you.”

You try to step forward.

He doesn’t let you.

“Chan—”

You twist, ready to shove at his chest, ready to put every ugly thing in your head into one last, clean break—

—and his hand catches your wrist.

“Let go,” you say.

He does.

Immediately.

Your arm drops uselessly to your side.

For one second, there’s just breathing. His and yours, jagged and uneven, filling up the too-narrow hallway.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it sounds like it’s dragging itself out of his chest. “I know that doesn’t fix shit. I know it doesn’t touch any of it. I just—”

“Stop,” you say. “Stop being sorry and do something, or leave. Just pick one.”

“I am trying,” he says, and his voice finally snaps, frayed all the way through. “I am trying so fucking hard not to drag you into something that could get you hurt, and you’re—”

“What?” you demand. “I’m what?”

“You’re killing me,” he says.

Then he’s one step in, his hand curling around the edge of the door above your head, the other coming up to your jaw bracing you and himself all at once—

—and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s a collision. Heat and salt and the taste of the argument still fresh on both your tongues.

You gasp, instinctive, startled and he swallows it.

For a heartbeat you’re frozen. Your brain throws up every reason why this is wrong in rapid succession—Hyunjin, secrets, dead boys, you told him to stay out of your life—

and then something in you lurches.

Because this is wrong.

And also it isn’t.

Your fingers are in his hoodie before you remember deciding to move, twisting in the fabric, hauling him closer. He makes a sound into your mouth and the hand on your jaw tightens, thumb skimming the hinge.

He tastes like cheap coffee and copper, like the split in his lip. Your tongue hits it by accident; he flinches, breath stuttering against your teeth.

The sound tears through you.

You want him to hurt.

You want him to keep hurting.

You want him to feel everything he made you feel, and you want it in a way that is ugly and selfish and desperate.

You press harder, coaxing the wound with your tongue. He exhales sharp and fast, the sound half-broken, and suddenly he has both hands on you.

One at your jaw, tilting you up to meet him, the other flattening against the small of your back like he can pull you into him.

His chest is a furnace, his heartbeat hammering through the thin cotton of his shirt. Your skin is alive with static, the back of your neck damp, every inch of you too hot and too sensitive.

He kisses you like he’s trying to answer every question he refused to touch with words. Messy and intent and a little angry still, but under that—under all of it—there’s something almost unbearably careful in the way his hand spreads at your lower back, like even now some part of him is making sure you have room to move if you want it.

You don’t want it.

Your grip tightens in his hoodie. You tug him harder into you, and he stumbles forward one step, then another, following without thought. The open door gives under the pressure of your bodies; the hallway’s cold breath slips past you both before he kicks it wider with his heel, never breaking the kiss.

You don’t realize that you’ve backed up into your apartment until your shoe catches on the edge of the rug just inside the apartment and he makes a rough sound, one hand flying from your back to the doorframe so you don’t go down. The movement twists you both sideways, still mouth to mouth, still breathing each other in.

The apartment is dark except for the weak spill of hallway light and the orange wash from the street outside your window. It turns him into pieces—cheekbone, mouth, the edge of that throat tattoo disappearing into his collar. You see all of it in flashes each time you break just enough to breathe.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your lips, like the word got dragged out of him. “Fuck.”

You don’t know if it’s apology or awe or panic.

Maybe it’s all three.

He kisses you again before you can ask.

The door swings in farther behind him as you keep moving backward, your hand leaving his hoodie only long enough to fumble for purchase on his shoulder. He catches your wrist for a second, not stopping you, just guiding you so you don’t hit the wall too hard. The gentleness of it—right in the middle of all this urgency—does something terrible to your chest.

Your bag slips off your shoulder and drops somewhere near the door with a soft, unimportant thud. Neither of you looks.

He crowds you into the apartment one careful step at a time, and it’s strange, how quickly your tiny room changes around him. The same lamp. The same bed. The same stack of sketchbooks and dying plant and half-folded blanket. But now there’s this—his breath, his hands, the shape of him filling the doorway of your life.

Your calves hit the edge of the mattress.

The contact jolts through you. You break the kiss with a gasp, forehead falling against his for one dizzy second. You’re both breathing too hard.

He doesn’t move away.

Neither do you.

His hand is still warm at your waist. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice ragged. “And I will.”

You look at him.

At the bruise darkening under one eye. The split in his lip. The fact that even now, even half-gone with whatever this is, he’s giving you an out he clearly doesn’t want you to take.

Your heart feels like it’s trying to climb into your throat.

“Chan,” you say, and his name comes out quieter than you mean it to. Softer. Not a warning this time.

Something in his face gives.

You reach up and touch the bruised edge of his cheekbone with the backs of your fingers. He winces a little, more from being seen than from pain.

“You should ice that,” you murmur.

His mouth curves, wrecked and humorless. “That what you’re worried about right now?”

“No,” you say honestly.

His eyes drop to your mouth again.

This time when he kisses you, it’s slower for all of half a second—enough to feel like a choice—before it turns hungry again. Your hands slide up into his hair, curls curling around your fingers. He exhales against your lips and that’s its own kind of surrender.

Outside, a siren wails somewhere far off. Your lamp throws a weak pool of light over the floor. The world keeps existing, stubbornly, around the edges of this.

The back of your knees hit the mattress first.

It happens almost clumsily—one step back too many, the edge of the bed catching behind your legs, balance going loose all at once. You make a small startled sound against his mouth as you tip, and then you’re falling, the blanket bunching under you with a soft thud while Chan catches himself on his hands before his full weight can crash down.

For one breathless second, he’s braced over you.

One knee sinks into the mattress beside your hip. One hand plants near your shoulder. The other is still at your waist.

His chain has slipped free from under his shirt in the scramble. It dangles between you, thin metal catching the dim light as it swings once, twice, then settles against the front of his hoodie. You can feel the heat of him all around you now—his breath, the rough drag of it, the tremor in his arms where he’s holding himself back.

His hair is falling into his eyes, mouth swollen from kissing, bruise standing out ugly beneath his cheekbone. And still—still—he’s careful. Hovering instead of pinning you down. Giving you space even with his body caging you in.

Your heart is beating so hard it hurts.

He swallows. Hard.

Then, in a voice so wrecked it almost doesn’t sound like him, he says, “Just… give me time.”

You blink up at him, still trying to catch your breath.

“Please,” he says. It’s quieter now. Worse, somehow. “Just a little more time. I’ll tell you everything. I will. I just—” His jaw tightens, the next words dragged out of him. “I need to do it right. I need to make sure when I say it, it doesn’t… land on you like that. Not from some drunk asshole in a convenience store. Not in pieces.”

The apartment is so quiet you can hear the buzz of the lamp by your bed. The old radiator clicks once and goes silent again.

You should tell him no.

You know you should.

You should tell him he’s had enough time already. That you’re done being managed, done being protected, done standing outside locked doors while everyone else passes the truth around behind your back.

But he’s looking at you like he’s one wrong word from coming apart.

And you are so tired.

So tired of fighting. So tired of grief that only ever seems to take. So tired of coming home to an apartment that still feels cold even with the heat on, to nights that stretch too long, to your own body feeling like an empty place no one’s lived in for months.

He’s close enough that if you lifted your hand, you could touch the chain hanging between you. Close enough that his warmth is already sinking into your skin.

Love and touch and softness have been scarce for so long that your body goes toward them before your pride can.

You hate that.

You also can’t seem to stop.

Your fingers rise slowly and catch the edge of his chain, stilling its tiny sway. The metal is warm from his skin.

Chan’s breath catches.

You look at him for another second—really look. At the panic. The hope. The guilt. The want.

Then you let the chain slip from your fingers and say, barely above a whisper, “Okay.”

His whole face changes.

“Okay?” he repeats.

Your throat feels tight.

“Yeah,” you say, softer now. “Time. Fine.”

The words should feel like defeat. Maybe they do, a little.

But mostly they feel like hunger.

Because the second you say them, his eyes close for half a beat, forehead dipping toward yours like the force of it almost knocked him over. When he opens them again, there’s something unbearably tender in the way he looks at you.

You’ve been starved for that look.

For warmth. For wanting. For someone hovering over you not because they have to, not because they pity you, but because they can’t seem to help themselves.

Your hand slides from the chain to the front of his hoodie, fingertips resting there over his chest where his heartbeat is still going wild.

For a second neither of you moves. He just stays there, suspended over you, breathing your air, looking at you.

Then his gaze drops to the blanket.

It’s bunched under your hip from where you fell back onto the bed, familiar fleece peeking out from under your legs in the weak lamplight. His blanket. The one he’d grabbed from the backseat that day at the cemetery, the one he’d handed over without thinking and never asked for back.

His eyes catch on it. Stay there.

You feel the exact second he recognizes it.

Heat crawls slowly up your throat.

You glance down, stupidly, like maybe it’ll have turned into a different blanket while you weren’t looking. It hasn’t. Same soft worn edge. Same faded color. Same stupid piece of him you’ve had folded at the end of your bed for months.

You try for lightness and miss by a mile. “I was gonna wash it and give it back.”

His mouth twitches.

“You kept it,” he says.

Your fingers flex against his chest. “It was cold.”

He huffs a breath that almost turns into a laugh, forehead dropping to yours again. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

But his hand at your waist tightens, and the look he gives you after that is devastating—softer somehow, and worse. Like the sight of his blanket on your bed told him something your mouth hasn’t.

You can’t survive much more of that look.

So you pull him down by the front of his hoodie and kiss him again.

This time he’s ready for it.

The sound he makes is low and helpless, swallowed between your mouths as he kisses you back with a kind of desperate restraint that only lasts for half a second before it gives. His hand slides from your waist up your side and back again, broad and warm even through your shirt. Your fingers push into his hair, catching damp curls at the nape of his neck, and he shudders.

The kiss turns hungry fast.

He kisses you until your lungs start protesting, then breaks just enough to drag air in, mouth brushing yours again before either of you can think too hard. His bruised cheekbone catches the light when he lifts his head; the split in his lip is red where you’d accidentally worried at it before.

You touch it with the pad of your thumb.

He goes still.

“Does that hurt?” you ask, voice barely there.

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and wrecked. “Not right now.”

You don’t know who moves first after that. Only that he shifts closer and you let him, that your legs part just enough to make room and his breath catches hard at the change, that your apartment feels suddenly too small to contain all the heat rushing through it.

The blanket twists more under you as he braces himself carefully over you again, one hand sinking into the mattress by your shoulder. The chain still hangs between you, brushing your shirt when he lowers his head, cool metal against skin that feels too warm everywhere else.

Your mouth finds his, then his jaw, then back again. His hand slides into your hair and stays there, cradling the back of your head with a tenderness that doesn’t match the roughness of his breathing at all.

The combination of it nearly undoes you.

“Chan,” you murmur, and his name comes out too soft, too full of too many things.

He presses his face briefly into the side of your neck. Then he laughs once under his breath, wrecked and disbelieving, and kisses you again.

Outside, somewhere down on the street, a car door slams. Pipes tick in the wall. Your lamp hums softly on the nightstand.

Inside your apartment, everything narrows to warmth and breath and the drag of his hand over your side and the way your fingers keep clutching him closer every time he gives you the chance to pull away.

Neither of you do.

The kiss keeps going until it stops feeling like an argument and starts feeling like surrender, until the room is quiet except for your breathing and the rustle of clothes and the old radiator knocking once in the corner, reminding you the world outside this bed still exists.

You ignore it.

Sleep does not take Chan gently.

It drags him under by the ankles.

One second he’s face-down in your bed, the taste of your mouth still ghosting his like something he made up in a fever. The next, he’s back in summer.

In the dream, it’s hot enough that the air feels wet. Hot enough that his shirt sticks between his shoulder blades by the time he gets there. The city is all sodium-orange and humming neon, the pavement still sweating up the day’s heat. A motorbike tears past too fast. Somewhere nearby, somebody is smoking on a balcony and laughing like the world hasn’t tilted off its axis.

He almost doesn’t recognize the place.

Not because it’s unfamiliar. Because everything familiar looks slightly wrong once you’re carrying something like this around inside you. The alley behind the cheap bar where they used to meet after shifts, after parties, after nothing. A place that had once felt easy. Automatic.

Now it feels like a trap.

Chan stands just outside the mouth of it for a second too long, jaw tight, phone still in his hand from where Hyunjin’s last messages is open on the screen.

pleasejust comeplease, chan

Three messages in a row. Then two missed calls. Then one more text ten minutes later:

i can’t do this by myself

His thumb drags once over the cracked edge of his phone case.

He almost didn’t come.

That’s the part the dream doesn’t let him forget.

He almost turned around twice on the walk here. Almost convinced himself this was exactly why he told Hyunjin they needed to stay away from each other for a while—no calls, no meeting up, no being seen in the same place long enough for anybody to connect anything.

Stay apart. Let the panic cool off. Let the city forget their faces.

It had sounded smart when he said it.

Then Hyunjin had started texting again.

More at first than Chan answered. Then less. Then nothing for almost two weeks.

And then tonight:

please please just come i swear i won’t ask again

So he came.

The second he steps into the alley, Hyunjin sees him.

He’s halfway down, under the sickly glow of the back door light, shoulders hunched, hands shoved so deep into the pockets of his hoodie that his wrists are bent wrong. His hair’s grown out since Chan saw him last—dark and too long at the nape, falling over his eyes in uneven pieces like he’s been cutting it himself or not cutting it at all. He’s thinner. Paler. His whole body looks strung too tight, like one loud sound might send him shattering.

But when his gaze lands on Chan, the change is instant.

Relief hits his face so hard it’s almost painful to look at.

“Shit,” Hyunjin breathes, voice cracking around the word. He takes two fast steps forward, stopping like he had to physically remind himself not to launch the rest of the way. “You came.”

Chan’s chest tightens.

“Yeah,” he says.

Hyunjin laughs once—thin, shaky, not really a laugh at all. He scrubs a hand through his hair and fails to push it fully back. His fingers are trembling. 

“I thought you weren’t going to,” he says, and now that Chan’s close enough, he can see it properly: the dark half-moons under his eyes, the split skin around his cuticles, the way his pupils look too wide in the low light. “I thought maybe you changed your number or—or blocked me or just—” He cuts himself off, swallows. “Never mind.”

Chan stuffs both hands into his own pockets to stop himself from reaching out.

“Hyunjin.”

It’s enough to make him go still. Just for a second.

Then all the jitter comes back. Hyunjin glances toward the mouth of the alley. Toward the back door. Toward the roofline. His head keeps moving, sharp little checks, trying to make sure no one’s watching from the dark between one blink and the next.

“Did anyone see you come here?” Hyunjin asks.

“No.”

“Did you park close?”

“I walked.”

“Did anybody—”

“No,” Chan says again, firmer this time. “No one followed me.”

Hyunjin stares at him, searching his face like he doesn’t know whether to believe him. Then he nods, too fast, like he’s trying to force his body to cooperate.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

He isn’t okay.

That’s the second thing the dream gets right.

He looks haunted. Like sleep has become a rumor. Like fear has eaten straight through to the bone.

Chan has seen Hyunjin drunk, furious, stupid-happy, heartbreakingly soft. Seen him hungover on bathroom floors, eyeliner smeared and still somehow bitching about aesthetics. Seen him flirt his way out of bad situations and charm strangers into thinking they were special.

He has never seen him like this.

“You look like shit,” Chan says before he can stop himself.

Hyunjin’s mouth twitches. “Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

A beat.

Then Hyunjin looks away.

“Chan,” he says quietly, and the use of his name like that—small, careful, almost childlike—cuts deeper than anything louder would’ve. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The alley seems to narrow around them.

Chan already knows what he means. He knew before he got here. He knew from the texts. From the silence before the texts. 

Still, he says, “Do what.”

Hyunjin laughs again. This time there’s something raw and ugly under it.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please don’t do that thing where you act like if we don’t name it, it’s not there.”

Chan’s jaw tightens.

Hyunjin takes another step toward him. He smells like cigarettes and sweat and the same cologne he always wore, except now it’s faded under weeks of neglect. His eyes shine strange in the backlight—too bright, too wet, too angry.

“I hear it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking second. I go to sleep and I hear it. I wake up and I hear it. Somebody drops something in class and I—” He cuts off hard, breath hitching. “I can’t keep doing this like nothing happened.”

Chan looks away, down the alley toward the dumpsters, the oil-slick puddles, anywhere but Hyunjin’s face.

“We talked about this.”

“No,” Hyunjin snaps. “You talked about this.”

The words come out sharp enough to slice.

“You told me to stay away from you, stay quiet, keep my head down, don’t text, don’t call, don’t be stupid, and I said okay because I thought maybe you were right.” His hands come out of his pockets just long enough to gesture, jerky and frantic. “I thought maybe if I waited long enough I’d stop feeling like I had blood in my lungs every time I breathed.”

Chan’s stomach turns.

“Lower your voice.”

Hyunjin’s expression changes.

It happens in one quick, savage flicker—the relief at seeing Chan finally burning off into disbelief, then fury.

“Are you serious?” he asks, too loud already. 

“Hyunjin—”

“No, seriously, Chan.” He throws his arms out, then drags both hands through his hair so hard he winces when it catches. “I’m standing here telling you I can’t fucking live like this and you’re still acting like–”

Chan takes a step closer, instinctive. “I’m acting like if someone hears you spiraling in an alley about—”

“About a man dying?” Hyunjin bites out. “Yeah. Crazy. Maybe somebody should hear it.”

Chan goes still.

Hyunjin is breathing too hard now. His chest jerks with it. His whole body looks one inch from vibrating apart.

“I think,” he says, voice shaking, “we should go to the police.”

The dream always slows there.

As if some part of Chan’s brain still believes if it stretches the second out far enough, he can force a different answer into the world.

But dream-Hyunjin keeps going.

“I’m serious,” he says. “I’m done. I’m done, Chan. I can’t— I can’t keep waiting for someone else to decide when my life ends. We should just tell them what happened. Tell them it was an accident. Tell them we were drunk and stupid and scared and—” His voice breaks. He doesn’t seem to notice. “I can’t do this. I can’t keep carrying it around like—”

“No.”

Hyunjin stops.

Chan hears how hard the word came out and doesn’t care.

“No,” he repeats. “We are not doing that.”

Hyunjin stares at him like he misheard.

“Why not.”

It isn’t really a question. It’s accusation already half-formed.

“Because we don’t know what they know,” Chan says. “Because the second you walk into a station and start talking, you lose control of all of it. You think ‘accident’ fixes anything? You think they hear drugs and a gun and a dead guy and just go, oh, okay, no worries then?”

“I don’t give a fuck about control anymore!”

“Well, I do,” Chan snaps. “Somebody has to.”

Hyunjin rocks back a little, eyes widening—not with hurt exactly. With the kind of disbelief that only comes from someone who once knew you by heart.

“Somebody has to,” he repeats.

“Yeah.”

He can hear himself getting colder and hates that it’s necessary.

“If you walk in there, you’re done,” Chan says. “You understand that, right? Done. You hand them everything. Your life, your family, your money, your future, all of it. And for what? So you feel clean for ten seconds before they put handcuffs on you?”

Hyunjin’s face twists.

“At least it would be honest.”

“Honesty’s not going to save you.”

“Maybe I don’t want saving!”

The shout cracks off the brick walls so hard that even Chan flinches.

Hyunjin laughs after it, sudden and awful. He presses both hands over his mouth for a second like he’s trying to physically shove the words back in. When he drops them again, his eyes are wet.

“There,” he says hoarsely. “Now I’m loud enough for you.”

Chan closes his eyes for half a beat.

When he opens them, Hyunjin looks smaller.

“Come with me,” Hyunjin says.

It comes out stripped down. No anger. No performance. Just plea.

“Come with me,” he repeats, stepping closer again. “Please. If I go in there with you, if we both tell it, maybe— I don’t know. Maybe it’ll matter. Maybe it’ll look less like—” He drags a breath in too hard. “Please, Chan.”

The dream always hurts worst there, too.

Because once, Chan would have gone anywhere Hyunjin asked.

Once, Hyunjin had only ever had to look at him like that and he would’ve set his own life on fire if it meant Hyunjin didn’t have to stand alone in the dark.

But now the dark is the point.

“Hyunjin,” Chan says, and his own voice is quieter now, tired. “I’m leaving.”

Silence.

Hyunjin doesn’t blink.

“What?”

Chan swallows. “I’m going back to Sydney.”

There’s a beat where the whole city seems to go soundless.

“No.”

“My flight’s in four days.”

“No.” He says it again, louder. “No, you don’t get to just— what are you talking about?”

“I already talked to my dad,” Chan says. “I’m done here.”

“You’re done,” Hyunjin repeats, staring. “You’re done.”

The words keep getting flatter. Meaner.

“You asked me to meet you,” Chan says. “I came. I’m telling you now so you hear it from me.”

“From you,” Hyunjin echoes.

Then he smiles.

It’s the ugliest thing Chan has ever seen on his face.

“So that’s it,” Hyunjin says. “That’s your big plan. You tell me not to say anything, not to see you, not to breathe too loud, and then you just… get on a plane?”

“It’s what makes sense.”

“For who?”

Chan doesn’t answer.

Hyunjin steps back like the sight of him up close has started to burn.

“For you?” he asks. “For your family? For your clean fucking exit?”

He turns away hard enough that his shoulder clips the brick wall. Doesn’t seem to feel it.

When he turns back, the relief from earlier is gone completely. Burned away. What’s left is fury so sharp it makes his whole face beautiful and terrible all at once.

“You told me to keep quiet so nothing gets connected,” he says. “Was that always the plan? Keep me out here holding the bomb while you get to leave the country?”

“That’s not fair.”

Hyunjin’s eyes shine. He doesn’t wipe them.

“You know what’s not fair?” he asks. “Hearing a gunshot every time a car backfires. Throwing up in the sink because I can still smell his blood. Sitting in class and thinking every time the door opens that it’s finally someone coming for me.” His breath catches, then roughens. “And you want to tell me about fair?”

Chan steps in before he can stop himself. “I’m trying to make sure we survive this.”

Hyunjin jerks away from him.

“I don’t want your version of survival.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want this to be over!”

The words echo down the alley.

Chan says nothing.

Hyunjin is crying now. Quietly. Furiously. Tears slipping down a face held together by rage alone.

And still, even like this, he looks achingly familiar. Like every version of him Chan has ever known is flickering underneath this one in broken little flashes—the boy who stole his fries, the one who draped himself over his shoulders after too much soju, the one who used to grin and say you’d hide a body for me, wouldn’t you? When it was a joke both of them understood as love.

The worst part of the dream is that Chan loves him just as much here as he ever did.

Maybe more.

Maybe this is what love looks like when it can’t save anyone.

“If you want to come clean,” Chan says finally, each word sounding colder than he feels, “then you do it alone.”

Hyunjin goes still.

There it is. The final thing.

The one that never stops echoing.

Chan hears himself say it and already knows, somewhere deep and useless inside, that the sentence is going to follow him for the rest of his life.

“If you walk in there,” he says, “I’m not going with you.”

For a second Hyunjin doesn’t react at all.

Then something in his face collapses inward.

All the anger drains out at once, leaving something hollow and stunned behind. He looks younger like that.

He nods once.

Then again.

“Okay,” he says.

Chan’s heart lurches. “Hyunjin—”

“No.” Hyunjin holds up a hand, and for the first time tonight it doesn’t shake. “No, it’s okay. I get it.”

But he doesn’t.

Chan knows he doesn’t.

Hyunjin stands there for another second with that strange, emptied-out calm settling over him like frost. Then he reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, digs around for a beat, and comes up with a crumpled cigarette pack.

The motion is so ordinary it almost doesn’t register at first.

He taps one loose with his thumb. Then another.

“For old time’s sake?” Hyunjin asks.

He holds one out between two fingers, and for one stupid, splitting second all Chan can see is every other alley, every rooftop, every half-lit walk home where they’ve done exactly this—Hyunjin bitching about classes, Chan stealing his lighter, smoke curling up between them while they talked shit about the world.

Chan takes it.

He doesn’t know why. Habit, maybe. Grief. Cowardice. Love.

Hyunjin smiles when he does.

Chan will remember that smile for the rest of his life.

Hyunjin lights Chan’s first, then his own, shielding the flame from the thick summer air with his hand. The lighter clicks shut. For a few seconds, they just stand there side by side in the alley, smoking in silence, like nothing is broken beyond repair. Like they are only boys again. Brothers almost. Two idiots in the dark sharing fire.

Then Hyunjin exhales, smoke spilling out slow through his nose.

“You always were selfish,” he says quietly.

There’s no heat in it now. That’s what makes it hurt.

Chan looks at him.

Hyunjin’s gaze stays fixed somewhere down the alley, on nothing Chan can see. His cigarette trembles only once between his fingers before going still again.

“I loved you anyway,” he adds, almost absently. Then he takes another drag, flicks ash into the puddle at his feet, and says, with that same eerie calm, “Go to Sydney, Chan.”

He doesn’t look at him when he says it.

Hyunjin’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

It’s loud in the alley, somehow. Louder than it should be. A tiny mechanical trill cutting through the heat and the distant city noise and the soft crackle of two cigarettes burning down.

He pulls it out with the same absent, half-detached calm he’s been wearing since that awful stillness settled over him. Chan expects more panic. Another unknown number. Another spiral.

Instead, Hyunjin looks at the screen and changes.

It’s immediate. Ridiculous, almost. His whole face softens around the edges, some private warmth flickering through all that wreckage like a candle stubborn enough to catch in a ruined room. His thumb hovers over the contact name—just a heart, nothing else—and for one stupid, painful second he looks young again. 

Hyunjin glances at the screen again, that stupidly soft little expression still ghosting over his mouth, then back at Chan.

“I should go,” he says.

Chan stares at him. “Hyunjin—”

But Hyunjin is already stepping backward, cigarette pinched between two fingers, phone still glowing in his other hand.

“Tell your dad I said hi,” he says, and the line would almost sound teasing if it didn’t feel like he was saying it from very far away.

Then he turns.

The alley swallows him quickly—long hair brushing the nape of his neck, shoulders too narrow in the oversized hoodie, phone lighting his hand every few seconds as it keeps buzzing from that little heart.

Chan doesn’t follow.

That’s the part that curdles in the dream right before he wakes: Hyunjin walking away with that soft, private smile still haunting his face, and Chan standing there holding a cigarette gone to ash between his fingers, doing absolutely nothing.

—

He wakes with his heart trying to punch its way out of his ribs.

For one disoriented second, the room is all wrong. Dark, but not alley-dark. Quiet, but not the simmering city hush of summer at 2 a.m. There’s no heat clinging to his skin, no neon leaking over brick.

There’s only your apartment.

Your radiator ticking weakly in the corner. The thin line of early morning gray pressing around the edges of your curtains. The stale warmth of a room that’s been slept in hard.

And you.

You’re asleep beside him, turned partly onto your stomach, one arm tucked under your pillow, hair mussed across your face. The blanket is twisted low around your waist where it got kicked down in the night. His blanket. He registers that with a small, ugly twist somewhere under his sternum.

The memory of last night comes back in flashes too fast to sort: your mouth on his in the hallway, the dark thud of your apartment door slamming shut, the shape of your body under his hands, the way anger blurred into wanting so easily it made him feel sick with it.

He lies there for a moment and just looks at you.

At the soft parting of your lips in sleep. The crease between your brows that’s still there even now, like your body doesn’t fully know how to rest anymore. The bare line of your shoulder.

Guilt moves through him, familiar and poisonous.

Not just for this. For everything.

For the fact that he touched you with Hyunjin still living like a bruise under his skin. For the fact that you asked him for truth and he gave you his mouth instead. For the fact that some part of him, deep and stubborn and ugly, still feels a curl of warmth at the sight of you in bed. Under his blanket. Asleep after letting him stay.

He should leave.

That thought comes quick and clean, the way it always does in the moments right before he ignores it.

He should leave, and then stay gone this time. Stop orbiting your shifts. Stop answering your texts in three seconds flat. Stop pretending proximity is protection when it’s obviously become something else, something far less defensible.

He should.

He knows, with a sick certainty that feels almost like relief, that he won’t.

He can’t.

The realization sits in him with the heavy, stupid finality of a door locking.

Chan exhales slowly, careful not to make the mattress dip too much. He reaches for the blanket where it’s bunched at your hips and draws it up over you, tucking it lightly around your shoulder when you shiver in your sleep. Your face softens a little under the warmth. One of your hands curls against the pillow.

Something in his chest aches so hard it almost feels clean.

He gets up quietly.

His clothes are where they landed in pieces: hoodie over the chair, shirt half-inside-out near the foot of the bed, jeans by the door. He pulls them on in the weak gray light, moving with the slow caution of someone trying not to disturb something fragile.

Before he leaves the room, he looks back once.

You’re still asleep. Blanket tucked up under your chin now, his blanket unmistakable even in the dimness. The sight hits harder than it should.

Then he slips out.

The hallway outside your apartment is cold in that institutional, half-dead way hallways get before the building properly wakes up. He makes it down the stairs and out onto the street with his lighter already in his hand, craving nicotine with a desperation that feels chemical and spiritual both.

The morning is raw and undercooked. Pale sky. Damp sidewalk. The streetlight on the corner is finally off, either out of mercy or battery.

He lights the cigarette and drags smoke into lungs that still feel full of last night and the dream before it.

For maybe thirty seconds, there’s only that. Smoke. Cold. The faint hum of the convenience store fridges through the wall. His own thoughts circling each other like scavengers.

Then his phone buzzes.

He closes his eyes.

When he pulls it out, there’s no surprise in the shape of the message. Only dread sharpening itself along his spine.

Unknown Number.

Four words.

we need to talk.

His mouth goes dry.

The cigarette hangs forgotten between his fingers, smoke curling up past his knuckles as he stares at the screen.

Then he looks up.

Across the street, on the opposite sidewalk, Minho is standing under the washed-out gray of morning like he’s been there a while.

Hands in his pockets. Dark hoodie. Face calm.

Waiting.

Chan goes completely still.

Minho doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t make a show of anything.

He just meets Chan’s eyes across the empty street, and in that long, quiet look is every text, every picture, every carefully timed appearance arranged into one clean, terrible shape.

The cigarette burns down between Chan’s fingers.

Neither of them moves.

He scrolls up.

Three, four, ten messages. Different days, different hours, always the same thin, needling voice.

answer me.you’re not clean.i know what you did.

Hyunjin stares at it until the words double, black on white on black.

He could block the number. He knows that. He has hovered over the settings menu more times than he can count. But it wouldn’t change the way his skin prickles when he steps outside alone. It wouldn’t quiet the thrum in the back of his skull when footsteps sound too close behind him, or when a car slows as it passes, or when the elevator doors take a beat too long to close.

He deletes the newest message instead.

The bubble slides up and disappears. Nothing feels lighter.

He drops the phone beside him on the mattress and presses the heels of his hands over his eyes until small, colorless sparks pulse in the dark.

The room is too quiet. The building hums—a refrigerator somewhere, plumbing rattling faintly, someone’s muffled TV leaking through a wall. Every sound feels like it’s happening right under his skin.

He turns his head toward the nightstand.

Your name sits there in his notifications, patiently, like it always does. The last message from you is hours old.

i’ll come over tomorrow. make u real food for once

He can hear your voice in the vowels. Can see the way you wrinkle your nose when you call his pantry “a crime scene.” The way you kick your shoes off and complain about the floor being too cold, then steal his socks and his heart.

His chest tightens, a slow, small ache, a hand closing around something hollow.

He picks up the phone again and taps into your chat.

The thread scrolls back through weeks of nothing-important:

pictures of stray cats screenshots of dumb memes voice notes you sent between classes photos he took of the sky 

He stops on a video of you laughing into the camera, hair messy, face too close to the lens. Someone had said something off-screen and you’d snapped your head around, eyes bright, mouth open on a half-formed insult. You’d replied to it with: look how ugly u made me.

He’d replied: pretty.

He doesn’t press play now. He just watches the frozen frame until his eyes sting.

His thumb hovers over the text box.

hey, can you come earlier?

He types it. Stares. Deletes it.

I miss you.

Types. Deletes.

There’s something I didn’t tell you. I need to tell you

That one stays on the screen longer. Letters like teeth.

His fingertip trembles. For a second, he can see it, what would happen if he asked you  to come over now—your face when you arrive, the confusion folding into concern when you see him, the way you’d reach for his hands and probably call him stupid in that soft, furious voice: why didn’t you say something earlier?

He could say it all. Every piece. Every wrong turn, every fear, every shadow he’s been trying to outrun down narrow campus hallways and late-night streets. He could tell you about the way his stomach drops every time there’s a knock, about the phantom smell of metal in his nose when he tries to sleep.

He could tell you that he’s scared.

His thumb hits backspace. The sentence unspools. The cursor blinks in the emptiness.

If you know, he thinks, you won’t look at him the same.

You’ll see every ugly thing he’s touched, every choice that led here. You’ll start tracing the shape of it in his face, his hands, the way he talks. You’ll think of it when he’s holding you, when you’re choosing what to eat, when you fall asleep on his shoulder in front of some terrible drama and drool on his hoodie.

He doesn’t want that.

He wants you to remember the version of him who made you late to class because he wouldn’t stop kissing you at the bus stop. The one who walked you home in the rain and didn’t care about his shoes getting ruined. The one who bought a stupid matching phone charm because you saw it and laughed.

Not this.

The phone screen dims. He taps it awake again, afraid of being left alone even by his own battery.

Another notification blooms at the top.

Unknown Number [ 2:45 a.m. ] how do you sleep at night knowi–

He swipes it away without reading the rest.

Badly, he thinks. That’s how.

His gaze drifts to the other chat pinned at the top of his list.

Chan.

No new messages. The last one is over a month old.

I think we should keep some distance for now.

He had stared at that for a long time too. Never called.

Before—before all of this—there would’ve been a hundred little stupid messages in between. Complaints about professors. Voice notes of Chan singing something half-finished and rough, needing opinions. Hyunjin sending back videos with filters, drawing on the thumbnails like a child.

Now the space between their names feels like the space between buildings in winter. Wind cutting straight through, no shelter.

He thinks about calling. Just… pressing his thumb down and listening to the ring. Hearing Chan’s voice, even if it’s angry, even if it’s cold.

But he knows what will happen if he does. The words will jam up in his throat. He’ll make some joke, or he’ll say he’s fine, or he’ll lie so badly Chan hears everything anyway.

And for what?

To drag him back into this when Chan has clearly worked so hard to step away?

Hyunjin locks the phone again and lets it fall onto his stomach.

Outside, a car passes, headlights dragging a faint white bar across his ceiling. He follows it with his eyes until it disappears.

The room feels too small. He sits up, then doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Doesn’t know why he sat up in the first place.

On his desk, his sketchbook lies open to an unfinished drawing—your profile, caught quick and imperfect. The line of your nose too sharp, mouth not quite right. He stares at it and feels the slow, familiar wave rising in his chest again: the sense that whatever he touches, he ruins. Even this. Even you, eventually.

“Sorry,” he whispers to the empty room, not sure who it’s for.

The air eats the word. It’s almost like he never said it.

His phone buzzes again. This time, your name lights up.

[ 2:58 a.m. ] i’ll come after my morning class ok? should be there around 10

A second bubble pops up almost immediately.

i’ll make that soup u like

His throat tightens.

Ten. You’ll be here around ten, standing at his door knocking with your foot because your hands are full of grocery bags, annoyed when he takes too long to answer. You’ll shove your way inside using the spare key he gave you, start rearranging his kitchen, talk about your professor or whoever else ensued your wrath that day.

He knows—it lands with a dull, solid certainty—that you won’t leave this apartment the same way you walk into it.

Will you hold him? He hopes you’ll hold him.

The thought is ugly. Selfish. It sits heavy and cold in his stomach.

He hates himself a little for having it.

He also can’t make himself move away from it.

If anyone is going to see the end of this version of him, a small, stubborn part of him thinks, it should be someone who once said, very casually in a convenience store at midnight, that she could probably love him forever if he kept buying her the good brand of instant coffee.

He unlocks the phone and types back.

[ 3:01 a.m. ] ok. 

His finger hovers over send.

He adds:

drive safe

Then sends it.

The delivered checkmark appears. A moment later, you heart-react the message.

It’s such a tiny, ordinary thing that his eyes burn.

He sets the phone face down on the desk, screen still glowing faintly against the wood. He doesn’t turn on any other lights. The dark feels like the only thing big enough.

He goes back to the bed but doesn’t lie down. Just sits on the edge, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. The city hums outside—distant traffic, a siren far off, someone shouting and laughing in the street below. Life, still moving.

He tries to imagine a version of tomorrow where he stays. Where he tells you everything, and you stay anyway. Where the unknown number turns out to be empty threats. Where the weight on his chest is something he can set down instead of something that’s fused to his bones.

Nothing comes.

All he can see is you, standing in that doorway in the morning, eyes wide, hands shaking around the grocery bags. The sound you’ll make.

He flinches at his own imagination.

“It’s better this way,” he says, and the words feel thin, like paper you can see light through.

Maybe it’s true. Maybe it isn’t. It’s the only explanation that doesn’t make him get up, doesn’t make him reach for his phone again, doesn’t make him crawl out of this small, cold decision and back into the mess of living.

He looks over at the clock on his nightstand. The red numbers blink steadily.

3:09 a.m.

Seven hours.

He lets the number sit there. Letting it be real. Letting it be a boundary in his mind he won’t have to think past.

In seven hours, you’ll be here.

In seven hours, this version of him will be over.

He exhales, a slow, shakily steady breath that doesn’t feel like relief, exactly. Just… less effort than the last one.

“Sorry,” he says again, quieter now.

To you. To Chan. To the ceiling. To the empty space where another life could have been.

He doesn’t expect anyone to hear it, and no one does.

“Chann–nnie–” You mewl, flat on your back on the studio couch, your pretty top wrinkled from being shoved up your waist hastily, shorts pulled down your thighs and two of Chan’s thick fingers buried in your quivering cunt.

He glances at the door over his Chrome Hearts glasses—making sure it’s locked for the hundredth time. When he looks back down at you, the corner of his lips turning upward in a little smile.

“You were really wound tight huh, baby?” He curls his fingers slightly inside of you, and your reply is quickly cut off by another strangled whine. “Shoulda told me, I would’ve taken care of you sooner.”

He glances back at the screen in front of him, his fingers—the one not busy at work with you that is—clicking away, adjusting whatever pitch it was he’s working on. Your hips chase his fingers shamelessly when he drags them out of you slowly. They catch in the overhead light of the studio, glistening with your juices before he pushes them back in.

“Didn’t wanna–” Your breath hitches slightly. “Didn’t wanna keep you away from work.” He huffs out a laugh, headphones that are only over one of his ears falling slightly. “Lucky for you, I’m a great multitasker. Feel good baby? Ready for the third one?”

“Feels so fucking good,” You pant, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “But it’s not enough, Channie. I wann’it. All of it.”

He grins, glancing back  at you again. “You can have it when we get home. I’ll fuck you real nice and slow, just how you like it, yeah? Make due for now.” He taps your thigh with his pinky. “Spread, doll.”

You legs spread open instinctively and you feel the stretch of his third finger almost immediately. Your head tips back, shirt falling forward again when your hips buck up to meet it. “Ohh my Go-hnnm—”

“Yeahh,” His eyes are glued to where his fingers pump in and out of your slowly. “See? Good enough for now. Hold up your top f’me pretty, can’t see the view.” 

You’re about to do just that, when the jangaling of the doorknob makes both of you jump. 

“What the–” Jisung. “Chan, did you lock the door?”

You can’t help the small whine that leaves your lips when Chan withdraws his fingers from you completely. He leans over to tug your shirt down fully and when he moves to help you pull up your shorts, you lift your hips to help, albeit it half-heartedly. 

“Sorry baby,” He kisses the corner of your lips soothingly. “Shouldn’t be much longer, I promise.”

“You said that ages ago,” You mumble, but fix your hair anyway. You’ve never hated Jisung more than you do now but you’d still rather not traumatize him. Especially after the last time he walked in on you two.

Chan walks over and swings the door open, smiling easily at Jisung. “Was the door locked?”

Jisung looks between you two suspiciously, the takeout he had left to get dangling from his fingers. “Obiviously. I know how to open a freaking door. What were you two doing?”

“Nothin’,” Chan makes a show of turning the knob a few times. “Huh. Weird. Must be the new auto-lock they installed yesterday.”

“They installed an auto-lock?” Jisung asks, incredulous as he settles on the chair Chan occupied mere moments ago. You smile at him as innocently as you can when he hands you the food. “That’s the shittest idea I ever heard.”

“Yeah, I told them that too.” Chan shrugs, letting go of the door knob. “I can tell them to change it back if you want.” You squeeze your legs together slightly. Since when did you find liars this hot?

“Yeah, you do that.” Jisung squints at the screen. “What the fuck have you been doing, hyung? This looks almost exactly the same as when I left!”  

Chan leans one hip against the desk, all easy shoulders and calm smile. “Creative process.”

“That is not a creative process,” Jisung says, deadpan. “That is a blank project file.”

You duck your head, pretending to be very interested in the food in your lap so neither of them can see your face. Heat is still crawling up your neck, your whole body thrumming with frustration, and Chan—absolute menace that he is—doesn’t even look remotely sorry.

He just shrugs. “Maybe I needed to think about it.”

Jisung narrows his eyes. “About what?”

Chan glances at you then, quick and sly, and there’s something in his mouth when it curves that makes your stomach flip. “Arrangement.”

Your fingers tighten around the takeout container. 

Jisung, thankfully, only rolls his eyes. “You’re impossible. Anyway, they wanted me to tell you the draft from earlier still sounds weird in the bridge.”

“Mhm.” Chan pushes off the desk and steps closer, reaching over you for the drink you haven’t even opened yet. His knuckles brush your thigh in passing. Barely there. Entirely accidental-looking. Completely not accidental. “I’ll look at it.”

You shoot him a look.

He doesn’t react, just pops the straw into your drink and hands it to you like he’s the sweetest boyfriend alive.

You take it with a tight little smile. “Thanks.”

“Anything for you, baby.”

And then, because Jisung isn't looking and because he is absolutely sick, he raises the fingers that had just been buried in your sopping cunt mere moments ago, still soaked and sticky with your arousal and licked a broad strip up them, before shoving them into his mouth and sucking them clean.

Jisung be damned, you were going to jump Chan's bones right now.

He must see the slightly crazed look in your eyes because he grins, eyes crinkling and mouths, Don't worry. I'll take care of it.

You know he means it. Whether it's opening your drink for you or fingering you while he works just because you were feeling needy—Chan really is ready to do absolutely anything for you.

Which is how you know that every corner of your need would be fully explored and satisfied when you got home.