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That night, while you were asleep, Jiung quietly got up. He found an old towel, dried the cat gently, and left a small bowl of tuna near the couch.

He told himself it was just practicality.

The next morning, the cat was still there — curled up on Jiung’s favorite chair like it already belonged.

Jiung stared at it for a long moment, then sighed again.

“…Do not feed the stray cat,” he said firmly, mostly to himself.

The orange menace meowed innocently.

You smiled from the kitchen, watching Jiung pretend to be annoyed while secretly checking if the cat had eaten.

Neither of you knew it yet, but that stubborn little cat had just wandered into both of your lives and refused to leave.

And slowly, it would teach Jiung that some things, and some people, were worth keeping.

By the third day, it had claimed the apartment as its territory. It slept on the windowsill where the sun hit just right, batted at Jiung’s shoelaces whenever he walked by, and somehow always ended up on his bed by morning — even though Jiung swore he closed his door.

“I’m not feeding it,” Jiung announced one morning, arms crossed as he watched the cat eat from a bowl you’d set out. “This is temporary. Strays leave eventually.”

You raised an eyebrow from the kitchen counter, sipping your coffee. “You bought the wet food yesterday.”

“That was on sale,” he muttered, ears turning pink. “It would’ve gone bad.”

You didn’t point out that the can was unopened before he brought it home.

The shared custody began awkwardly.

You worked different schedules, so caring for the cat (who you’d started calling “Mango” despite Jiung’s protests) fell into a strange rhythm. You’d come home to find fresh water and a clean litter box. Jiung would wake up to find Mango fed and a small note on the counter: “He seemed hungry.”

Jiung pretended to be annoyed by everything.

But you started noticing things.

He’d leave the heating pad on low near the cat’s favorite spot when it was cold. He’d come home with a new scratching post “because the couch was getting destroyed.” He’d sit on the floor at 2 a.m. when Mango couldn’t settle, quietly petting him until he fell asleep.

One night you came home late from a shift and found Jiung on the couch, Mango curled up on his chest, one of his hands gently stroking the cat’s back while he stared at the ceiling.

He looked… peaceful.

When he noticed you, he immediately sat up, gently moving Mango aside like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.

“He wouldn’t stop crying,” Jiung explained, voice flat. “I was just… shutting him up.”

You smiled softly. “Sure.”

The tension between you two — previously polite strangers sharing an apartment — began to thaw through Mango.

Small conversations turned into longer ones. Jiung started leaving notes for you:

“Leftover pasta in the fridge. Eat it before it goes bad.” “Mango knocked over your plant again. I repotted it.” “Your charger was dying. I left mine on the table.”

You started doing the same.

One evening, after a particularly long day, you came home to find Jiung cooking. Not a lot — just enough for two. He didn’t look at you when he slid a plate across the counter.

“I made too much,” he said, sounding almost defensive. “Don’t read into it.”

You sat down and ate with him in comfortable silence. Mango weaved between your legs under the table.

For the first time since moving in together, the apartment didn’t feel like two separate lives sharing a space.

It felt like the beginning of something warmer.

Jiung still maintained his emotional walls. He was polite. Respectful. Self-sufficient to a fault.

But he was starting to notice you the same way he noticed Mango.

When you came home tired, he’d quietly warm up leftovers. When you mentioned your favorite tea was running low, a new box appeared on the counter the next day. When you stayed up late studying, he’d leave a blanket draped over the couch “because the living room gets cold at night.”

He always had an excuse.

But both of you were starting to run out of plausible deniability.

Especially when Mango began sleeping between the two of you on the couch during movie nights — forcing you to sit closer than necessary.

Jiung would pretend not to notice how your shoulder brushed his.

You would pretend not to notice how his hand sometimes rested near yours on the cushion.

Mango, the tiny orange chaos agent, had decided that these two emotionally constipated humans needed each other.

And he was not giving up.

-----

The shift was so gradual that it felt like it had always been there.

Mango had been living with you for three weeks now, and the apartment no longer felt like a neutral shared space. It felt lived-in. Warmer. Jiung still muttered “Do not feed the stray cat” under his breath every time he caught you giving Mango extra treats, but his actions told a completely different story.

He was starting to take care of you, too.

It began with small, practical things that he always had an excuse for.

One evening you came home exhausted from a long day of classes and part-time work. Your shoulders were tense, your eyes heavy. You barely made it to the couch before collapsing.

When you woke up an hour later, a warm blanket was draped over you and a mug of chamomile tea was sitting on the coffee table with a sticky note:

You looked cold. Tea helps with headaches. - J

You stared at the note for a long time.

The next morning, your favorite yogurt was in the fridge — the exact brand and flavor you always bought but had run out of two days ago. When you asked Jiung about it, he didn’t even look up from his phone.

“I was already at the store. It would’ve gone bad if I didn’t get it.”

You knew he was lying. He’d gone to the store just for that.

The acts of service kept coming.

Your phone charger that only worked at a specific angle? Suddenly replaced with a new one that actually worked properly. Your favorite hoodie that had a small tear in the sleeve? It was neatly mended and folded on your bed one afternoon. When you mentioned in passing that your neck hurt from staring at your laptop too long, a cute heating pad appeared on the couch the next day.

Jiung never made a big deal about any of it. He’d just shrug and say things like:

“It was practical.” “I had extra.” “Don’t read into it.”

But you were reading into it.

Deeply.

One night, after you’d had a particularly rough day, you came home to find Jiung in the kitchen. He wasn’t a flashy cook, but he was competent. There were two plates on the counter.

“I made too much stir-fry,” he said without looking at you. “Eat before it gets cold.”

You sat down across from him. Mango jumped onto the chair between you, purring loudly. For the first time, dinner wasn’t eaten in polite silence. You talked — really talked — about your day. Jiung listened attentively, nodding, occasionally offering quiet advice or dry humor that made you laugh.

When you finished eating, he took your plate without a word and washed it.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said softly.

“I know,” he replied, back still turned to you. “But I want to.”

The air felt heavier after that.

That same night, Mango got sick.

He threw up twice and looked miserable. You and Jiung stayed up late taking care of him — cleaning, monitoring, gently petting him when he cried. At some point around 3 a.m., you were both exhausted on the couch, Mango curled between you.

Jiung looked at you, eyes tired but soft in the dim lamplight.

“You should sleep,” he said. “I’ll watch him.”

But when you tried to get up, he gently pulled you back down, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

“Nevermind. Can you just stay,” he murmured. “It’s nice.”

You fell asleep like that — head on Jiung’s shoulder, his arm carefully draped around you, Mango purring softly between your bodies.

When you woke up the next morning, Jiung was still there. He hadn’t moved. His hand was resting lightly on your waist like it belonged there.

He pretended to be asleep when you stirred.

But the faint pink on his ears gave him away.

The walls were cracking.

And for the first time, Jiung wasn’t sure he wanted to keep rebuilding them.

-----

The night after that, Mango got much worse.

It started around midnight. The little orange cat had been unusually quiet all evening, presumably better, then suddenly threw up multiple times and curled up in a tight ball, trembling. You and Jiung were both still awake — you studying on the couch, him pretending to read a book in the armchair.

Without a word, Jiung stood up, grabbed a clean towel, and gently wrapped Mango in it. His movements were careful, practiced, like he’d done this before.

“I’ll watch him,” he said quietly. “You should get some sleep.”

But you shook your head. “I’m staying up too.”

So the two of you stayed on the couch together, Mango resting between you. Jiung kept checking on him every few minutes — feeling his nose, gently petting his back, making sure he was warm. You watched him in the dim lamplight, the way his brow furrowed with quiet worry, the way his hand never stopped moving soothingly over the cat’s fur.

Around 3:30 a.m., Mango finally settled and fell asleep. The apartment was silent except for the rain still falling outside.

You were exhausted. Your eyes were burning, shoulders tight from stress and lack of sleep. When you tried to stand up to get water, your legs felt shaky.

Jiung noticed immediately.

He stood up without hesitation, gently guiding you back down onto the couch. “Stay here.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a glass of water, painkillers, and a warm compress. He knelt in front of you, carefully placing the compress on your neck and shoulders where you’d been tense all night.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard again,” he murmured, voice low and rough from exhaustion. His hands worked gently, pressing the warmth into your muscles. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Something in you broke open at his words.

The way he said it, so quietly, so sincerely, made your eyes sting. Jiung, who swore he didn’t need anyone, who kept everyone at arm’s length, was on his knees taking care of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You reached out and cupped his face. He froze for a second, then leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“Jiung…” you whispered.

He looked up at you, something raw and vulnerable in his gaze. Then he leaned forward and kissed you.

The kiss started soft — tentative, almost scared. But months of quiet tension, shared late nights, and unspoken care exploded between you. Jiung kissed you like he was afraid you’d disappear, hands sliding up your thighs as he moved between your legs on the couch.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against your lips, voice trembling. “How long I’ve wanted to take care of you properly.”

Clothes were shed slowly, reverently. Jiung’s hands explored your body like he was memorizing every inch — practical, attentive, and devastatingly gentle. He kissed down your neck, your chest, your stomach, whispering praises the entire time.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh. “So good for me. Let me make you feel better.”

He ate you out with quiet devotion — slow, deep licks and gentle sucks on your clit, two fingers curling inside you perfectly. He didn’t rush. He took his time, humming softly against you when you moaned his name, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

When you came on his tongue, trembling and gasping, he didn’t stop. He worked you through it, then crawled back up and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself.

“Can I have you?” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Please.”

You nodded, pulling him closer.

Jiung slid into you slowly, savoring every inch, a broken groan leaving his throat as he bottomed out. He stayed still for a moment, buried deep inside you, just breathing.

“Fuck… you feel like home,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Then he started moving — deep, steady thrusts that felt like making love rather than just sex. His hands never stopped touching you — stroking your sides, holding your face, intertwining your fingers. Every movement was full of care, full of all the words he couldn’t say yet.

“You’re mine to take care of,” he panted against your neck, sucking a soft mark into your skin. “Let me. Please let me.”

You came again with a quiet sob, clinging to him. Jiung followed right after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a shaky moan of your name.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He stayed inside you, holding you tightly against his chest as he pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. He cleaned you up gently with a warm towel, then wrapped you both in a blanket, Mango still sleeping peacefully nearby.

Jiung held you like you were something precious he was terrified of losing.

“I don’t know how to need people,” he whispered into the quiet, voice barely audible. “But I think I’m starting to need you.”

You kissed his collarbone, heart full.

“Then keep needing me,” you whispered back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in a long time, Jiung fell asleep feeling like he didn’t have to carry everything alone.

-----

The jealousy crept in quietly, like everything else with Jiung.

It was a Saturday afternoon when your neighbor, Minjun, knocked on the apartment door. He was holding a package that had been delivered to him by mistake. Tall, friendly, and always quick with a smile, Minjun had been chatting with you more often lately — casual conversations in the hallway, offers to help carry groceries, that sort of thing.

You opened the door, Mango weaving between your legs curiously.

“Hey,” Minjun said with an easy grin, handing over the package. “This was in my mailbox again. Also… you look really nice today. That sweater suits you.”

You laughed softly, a little flustered. “Thanks. I’ve had it forever.”

Minjun leaned against the doorframe, clearly in no rush to leave. “You know, if you ever need help with anything around the apartment, I’m right down the hall. I’m pretty handy. Unlike some people who seem too proud to ask for help.”

Before you could respond, Jiung appeared behind you.

He wasn’t loud. He never was. But his presence was suddenly heavy in the doorway.

Mango immediately trotted over to him, rubbing against his leg with a loud purr. Jiung reached down and picked the cat up without a word, holding him securely against his chest.

“We’re busy,” Jiung said calmly, voice even but cool. His eyes flicked to Minjun. “Thanks for the package.”

Minjun blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in atmosphere. “Oh, right. No problem. I was just saying to your roommate here—”

“Our cat gets anxious around new people,” Jiung interrupted smoothly, emphasizing the word our. Mango purred louder, as if on cue, nuzzling into Jiung’s neck. “We should get back inside.”

Minjun raised his hands in surrender, chuckling awkwardly. “Got it. See you around.”

The second the door closed, Jiung set Mango down gently. The cat immediately scampered off to play with a toy. Jiung stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, jaw tight.

You turned to him, eyebrows raised. “That was a little intense.”

Jiung shrugged, avoiding your eyes as he moved toward the kitchen. “He was lingering too long.”

You followed him, leaning against the counter. “He was just being friendly.”

Jiung opened the fridge and started pulling out ingredients, even though it wasn’t close to dinner time. His movements were precise, controlled — the way he always got when he was feeling something he didn’t want to name.

“He doesn’t get to sit in the passenger seat of your life,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

You froze. “What did you say?”

Jiung paused, realizing he’d spoken out loud. He closed the fridge and turned to face you, ears slightly pink but expression carefully neutral.

“Nothing,” he mumbled.

The possessiveness was quiet. Subtle. Devastating in its softness.

You stepped closer, heart beating faster. “Jiung… are you jealous?”

He looked away, running a hand through his hair. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, in that quiet, self-contained way of his:

“Maybe I am.”

The confession hung in the air between you. Jiung, who swore he didn’t need anyone, who handled everything alone, was admitting — however indirectly — that the idea of someone else getting close to you bothered him.

That night, after Mango had been fed and was curled up asleep on the couch, the tension finally snapped.

You found Jiung in the kitchen, quietly washing dishes that didn’t need washing. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his back.

He stilled.

“You don’t have to be jealous,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jiung turned around slowly, drying his hands before cupping your face. His eyes were dark, full of emotions he usually kept locked away.

“I know I shouldn’t feel like this,” he said, voice low and rough. “We’re just roommates. But the thought of someone else taking care of you, it makes me feel like I’m losing something I didn’t even know I had.”

You kissed him first.

It was slow and deep, full of all the quiet yearning that had been building for weeks. Jiung kissed you back like he was afraid you’d vanish, hands sliding under your shirt, pulling you closer.

He lifted you onto the kitchen counter, stepping between your legs. Clothes were removed with trembling hands and soft touches. When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and intense, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked.

“You’re mine to take care of,” he whispered, thrusting deep and steady. “Only mine. Please.”

The sex was emotional and possessive in the quietest way — his hands everywhere, marking your neck and shoulders with soft bites, murmuring praises against your skin. He made you come twice before he finally let himself go, burying himself deep inside you with a broken groan of your name.

Afterwards, he carried you to his bed, cleaned you up gently, and held you against his chest like he never wanted to let go.

Mango jumped onto the bed later, curling up at your feet.

Jiung looked at the cat, then at you, and whispered into the dark:

“I think I’m starting to understand why he keeps coming back.”

You smiled against his skin, heart full.

Some strays were worth feeding.

-----

The rain came down harder than it had in weeks.

It was one of those nights where the world felt muffled — streets empty, lights blurred into soft glowing orbs, the kind of weather that made people stay inside and confront the things they usually avoided. You and Jiung had spent the evening quietly taking care of Mango, who had been extra clingy all day.

After putting the cat to bed in his favorite spot on the couch, neither of you went to your separate rooms. Instead, you ended up on the living room floor together, backs against the couch, sharing a blanket while the storm raged outside.

Jiung was quieter than usual. He kept glancing at Mango, who was curled up asleep, small orange chest rising and falling steadily. Something heavy seemed to be sitting on his shoulders.

You nudged his knee gently with yours. “You’ve been staring at him for twenty minutes. What’s going on?”

Jiung was silent for a long time. The rain filled the quiet between you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hesitant — the most unguarded you’d ever heard him.

“I had a cat when I was younger,” he said, eyes fixed on Mango. “Not really had. He was a stray. Orange, just like this one. Skinny. Skittish. He started showing up at the back door of the house every evening. I was maybe nine or ten. My parents were always working late, so the house was empty a lot. I started leaving food out for him. Talked to him when no one else was around.”

He let out a small, self-deprecating breath.

“I named him Cloud. Stupid name. He’d wait for me every day after school. I’d sit on the back steps and tell him about my day. He’d actually listen — or at least pretend to. For a kid who felt invisible most of the time, it meant everything.”

You stayed quiet, sensing this was something he rarely shared.

Jiung continued, voice getting quieter. “He kept coming back for almost two years. I thought… maybe he’d stay. Maybe I’d finally have something that chose to stick around. Then one day he just… didn’t show up. I waited for weeks. Left food out every night. Nothing. He was just gone. Life moved on, I guess. But I never forgot how it felt when he stopped coming back.”

He looked at you then, eyes glassy in the dim light.

“That’s why I pretended not to want Mango at first. Because the second I started caring… I remembered how much it hurt when Cloud left. I told myself I didn’t need anyone. Not a cat. Not people. I’ve spent most of my life learning how to handle everything alone. It’s safer that way.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache.

You reached over and gently took his hand. Jiung didn’t pull away. Instead, he intertwined your fingers, holding on a little too tightly.

“You’re not alone anymore,” you whispered. “Not with Mango. And not with me.”

Jiung turned to look at you fully. The rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, but the apartment felt warmer than it ever had.

He leaned in slowly and kissed you.

This kiss was different from the others — deeper, slower, full of all the things he’d been holding back. His hands cupped your face like you were something fragile and precious. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I don’t know how to need people,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m starting to need you. Both of you.”

The confession hung between you, raw and honest.

You kissed him again, pouring everything you felt into it. The kiss quickly grew heated. Jiung pulled you into his lap, hands sliding under your shirt as he explored your skin with reverent touches. He was still so careful, so attentive — even when desire was burning between you.

Clothes came off slowly in the soft glow of the living room lamp. Jiung laid you down on the blanket, hovering over you as he kissed down your body. He took his time — lips on your neck, your chest, your stomach — whispering quiet praises the entire time.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured against your hip. “Let me be good to you too.”

He went down on you with quiet devotion, tongue and fingers working together until you were trembling beneath him. When you came, he held you through it, kissing your thighs softly.

Then he moved back up and slid into you in one smooth, deep thrust. The moan he let out was broken and beautiful. He made love to you slowly on the living room floor — deep, steady thrusts, eyes locked on yours, hands intertwined with yours above your head.

“I need you,” he whispered against your lips, voice cracking with emotion. “I didn’t want to, but I do. So much.”

You came together — quiet, intense, and full of feeling. Jiung buried his face in your neck as he spilled inside you, holding you like you were the only solid thing in his world.

Afterwards, he cleaned you up gently, then pulled you against his chest under the blanket. Mango had woken up at some point and curled up against your legs, purring softly.

Jiung stroked your hair, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“I’m still scared,” he admitted into the quiet. “But I think I’m more scared of going back to how things were before you and Mango showed up.”

You snuggled closer, heart full.

“Then don’t go back,” you whispered. “Stay with us.”

Jiung held you tighter as the rain continued outside.

For the boy who had spent his life learning how to be alone, needing someone finally felt like coming home.

-----

The cat went missing on a Tuesday night.

It started like any other evening. Mango had been his usual chaotic self — zooming around the apartment, batting at Jiung’s shoelaces, demanding attention by headbutting your legs until you picked him up. After dinner, he curled up on the windowsill like always, watching the rain streak down the glass.

Then, sometime after 11 p.m., he was gone.

You noticed first. The apartment felt too quiet. You checked all his usual spots — the couch, Jiung’s bed, the warm spot near the heater — but Mango was nowhere to be found. The window had been left cracked open earlier for fresh air. Just a few inches. But it was enough.

“Jiung,” you called, voice tight with worry. “Mango’s not here.”

Jiung emerged from his room, hair slightly messy from running his hands through it while working. At first he looked calm, almost dismissive.

“He probably just went exploring. He’ll come back. Strays do that.”

But as the hours passed and Mango still didn’t return, Jiung’s calm facade began to crack.

By 2 a.m., he was pacing the living room, checking the window every few minutes, stepping outside with a flashlight despite the pouring rain. You watched him from the doorway, heart aching at how quickly he was unraveling.

“He’s fine,” Jiung kept muttering, more to himself than to you. “He always comes back. Cloud came back every day… until he didn’t.”

The name slipped out, the one he’d told you about weeks ago. The one that had disappeared and left a permanent scar on his heart.

You stepped closer, gently touching his arm. “We’ll find him. Let’s go look together.”

Jiung nodded, but his movements were mechanical. The two of you walked the neighborhood in the rain for over an hour, calling Mango’s name, checking alleys, looking under cars. Every empty spot seemed to make Jiung withdraw further into himself.

By the time you returned to the apartment empty-handed at 4 a.m., Jiung was silent.

He sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The usual self-sufficient mask was completely gone. In its place was raw, quiet fear.

“I shouldn’t have let him get close,” he whispered. “I knew better. I always know better. But I let him in anyway. And now he’s gone. Just like Cloud.”

You sat beside him, close enough that your thighs pressed together. Jiung didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into you slightly, like he was fighting the urge to collapse.

“I hate this,” he continued, voice cracking. “I hate needing things. I hate caring. I spent my whole life learning how to be fine alone. Fixing things myself. Not depending on anyone. And then this stupid orange cat shows up… and you. And suddenly I’m waiting by the door like an idiot every night. Checking if he’s eaten. Making sure you have dinner. Remembering your stupid coffee order. I told myself it was just practicality but—”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes glassy.

“I need you both,” he admitted, barely audible. “And that terrifies me. Because if you leave, or if Mango doesn’t come back… I don’t know how to go back to being okay alone anymore.”

The vulnerability in his voice broke something in you.

You pulled him into your arms. Jiung resisted for half a second — the last stubborn wall — then collapsed against you, face buried in your neck as silent tears slipped down his cheeks. He didn’t sob loudly. He never did. But his shoulders shook, and his grip on your waist was almost bruising.

You held him through it, stroking his hair, whispering that it was okay to need people. That you weren’t going anywhere. That Mango would come back.

Around 6 a.m., just as the sky was beginning to lighten, there was a weak scratching at the door.

Jiung bolted up. You both rushed to open it.

Mango stood there, soaked, dirty, but alive — meowing pitifully as he stumbled inside.

Jiung dropped to his knees instantly, gathering the little orange cat into his arms. He held Mango tightly against his chest, pressing his face into the damp fur as fresh tears fell.

“You came back,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You stupid cat… you came back.”

You knelt beside them, tears in your own eyes as you stroked Mango’s head. Jiung looked at you then — exhausted, relieved, and completely unguarded.

“I can’t lose either of you,” he said hoarsely. “Not anymore.”

-----

The relief of finding Mango alive didn’t last long.

After bringing the exhausted cat inside, cleaning him up, and making sure he was warm and fed, the adrenaline that had kept Jiung going for hours finally crashed. You both sat on the floor of the living room, backs against the couch, Mango curled up asleep between you. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle outside, but the air in the apartment felt thick with everything Jiung had let slip in his panic.

He was quiet for a long time, just staring at the sleeping cat with red-rimmed eyes.

Then, without warning, he spoke.

“I meant what I said earlier.”

His voice was rough, exhausted, and painfully honest. He didn’t look at you — just kept his gaze fixed on Mango, like it was safer that way.

“I can’t lose either of you,” he continued, barely above a whisper. “I thought I could handle everything alone. I’ve spent years perfecting it. Fixing things myself. Not asking for help. Not needing anyone. But then this stupid cat showed up… and you. And suddenly I’m checking the door every night. Making extra food because I know you forget to eat when you’re stressed. Buying that ridiculous blanket because you said you get cold easily.”

Jiung finally turned to look at you. His eyes were raw, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before.

“I need you,” he said, voice cracking. “Both of you. And that scares the hell out of me. Because needing someone means they can leave. And I don’t know how to survive that again.”

The confession hung heavy in the quiet apartment.

You reached for him first, cupping his face with both hands. Jiung leaned into your touch like he was starving for it.

“I’m not leaving,” you whispered. “And neither is Mango. We’re staying. We choose you, Jiung.”

Something in him broke.

He pulled you into a desperate kiss — messy, emotional, full of months of suppressed longing and fear. His hands trembled as they slid under your shirt, pulling you closer, like he needed to feel your warmth to believe you were real.

Clothes came off in a haze of quiet urgency. Jiung laid you down on the soft rug, hovering over you like you were something sacred. This time there was no pretense, no excuses of “just practicality.” Every touch was full of need.

He kissed down your body with reverent lips — neck, collarbones, breasts, stomach — whispering broken confessions against your skin.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he breathed, voice shaking. “Wanted to take care of you properly. Wanted to stop pretending I don’t need you.”

When he finally settled between your thighs and pushed inside you, it was slow and deep. Both of you moaned at the feeling. Jiung stayed still for a moment, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked.

“I need you,” he whispered again, like the words were being torn from his chest. “I need you so much it hurts.”

He started moving — deep, steady thrusts that felt like making love and falling apart at the same time. His hands never stopped touching you — stroking your sides, holding your face, intertwining your fingers. Every movement was full of emotion. He kissed you through it, swallowing your moans, letting you taste his quiet desperation.

Tears slipped down his cheeks as pleasure and relief mixed together. You wiped them away gently, holding him closer.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered against his lips. “You don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”

Jiung’s rhythm faltered as he got closer. He buried his face in your neck, hips snapping deeper, more desperate.

“I love you,” he choked out, voice breaking. “I love you. I love you.”

You came first, clenching around him with a soft cry, pulling him over the edge with you. Jiung followed with a broken moan of your name, spilling deep inside you as he held you like you were his lifeline.

Afterwards, he didn’t pull away. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your body as quiet tears continued to fall. You held him through it, stroking his back, pressing soft kisses to his hair.

“I’m sorry I waited so long to say it,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I was scared. But I’m done pretending. I need you. I want you. All of it.”

You kissed him softly. “I need you too, Jiung. We both do.”

Mango stirred between you, letting out a tiny, sleepy meow as if agreeing.

Jiung let out a watery laugh, pressing his face into your neck.

“My favorite strays,” he murmured.

For the boy who had spent his life learning how to survive alone, finally admitting he needed someone felt like the hardest and most beautiful thing he’d ever done.

-----

Spring arrived gently that year, bringing warmer air and longer evenings. The apartment had changed in small, beautiful ways. Mango’s toys were scattered across the living room floor like permanent residents. Your favorite blanket was always folded neatly on the couch. Jiung’s quiet presence had become the steady heartbeat of your home.

He was still Jiung — self-contained, practical, a little stubborn — but he was learning how to let you in. And you were learning how to stay without forcing him to ask.

One quiet Saturday night, months after Mango first wandered in, the three of you were settled on the couch. Mango was sprawled across Jiung’s lap, purring loudly as Jiung absentmindedly stroked his orange fur. You were curled against Jiung’s side, head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around you.

The TV was playing something neither of you were really watching. The moment felt perfectly ordinary.

And perfectly right.

Jiung turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “You know,” he said quietly, voice warm with affection, “I used to think I didn’t need anyone. That depending on people only led to disappointment. But then this ridiculous cat showed up… and you. And now I can’t imagine going back to how things were before.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “You don’t have to go back. We’re staying.”

Jiung smiled — small, genuine, and so full of love it made your chest ache. He gently moved Mango onto a cushion, then pulled you fully into his lap. His hands settled on your waist as he kissed you slowly, deeply, like he had all the time in the world.

The kiss grew heated, but it stayed tender. Jiung’s touch was reverent as he undressed you, lips trailing down your neck, your collarbones, your chest. He took his time, murmuring against your skin:

“I love you. I love how patient you are with me. I love how you stay even when I make it hard. I love that you chose me.”

When he finally slid inside you, it was slow and deep. You rode him gently on the couch, hands braced on his shoulders, eyes locked. Jiung’s hands guided your hips, thumbs stroking your skin as he looked up at you with glassy, adoring eyes.

“You feel like home,” he whispered, voice breaking with emotion. “You and Mango… you’re my home.”

The pleasure built gradually, beautifully. When you came, clenching around him with a soft cry of his name, Jiung followed right after, pulling you down against his chest as he spilled inside you, holding you like you were the most precious thing in his world.

Afterwards, he cleaned you up with gentle care, then carried you to his bed (now very much your bed too). Mango followed, jumping up and curling at your feet with a satisfied purr.

Jiung pulled you against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around you. He pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your nose, your lips — over and over, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

“I used to think needing someone was weakness,” he whispered into the quiet. “But you taught me it’s strength. Thank you for being patient with me. For choosing me even when I didn’t know how to choose myself.”

You smiled against his skin, tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

“You’re my favorite stray,” you murmured. “Both of you.”

Jiung let out a soft, watery laugh and held you tighter.

Mango purred louder, as if agreeing.

In the end, Jiung never stopped being the boy who handled things himself. He still fixed things around the apartment without being asked. He still made too much food “by accident.” He still carried heavy bags and remembered appointments.

But now he let you help.

He let you love him.

And every night, when the three of you curled up together — Mango between you, Jiung’s arm around your waist, rain or city lights outside the window — he understood what the little orange cat had been trying to teach him all along.

Some strays were worth feeding.

Some people were worth needing.

days on days without sex or even anything remotely close to an intimate interaction with you deprived him of the easiest way to let the steam out and left him feeling unfulfilled, and on top of that, guilty for leaving you to your own devices.

so when the hell of a day finally came to an end – with jiung still not sure how – and he walked into your apartment, bag thrown somewhere off to the side as he dragged his feet towards your bedroom, it was only natural that he found himself in this situation before his mind even fully caught up to his body.

he’s bare feet are planted on the fluffy carpet, head bowed down to hold your gaze while both of his hands are tangled in your hair, holding onto the back of your head as he pushes his hips forward, sinking the head of his cock into your mouth in a steady back-and-forth movement. your lips look so pretty wrapped around him, all damp and swollen from the kisses you shared earlier, and you’re kneeling there just for him and letting him use them as he pleases – the image alone making his dick twitch as he pulls out.

“fuck… i missed you so much,” his voice is low and raspy, words slurring slightly at the end from the fatigue. “you’re incredible, angel. you always know just what i need, right?”

you hum in agreement, tongue flicking the sensitive slit on the tip, and jiung throws his head back with a groan.

your eagerness to help spurs him on, his hips picking up the pace as he thrusts deeper, sinking far enough that he brushes the back of your throat every time, making tears well up in your eyes. but you’re far from discouraged – your hands planted obediently on your lap as you hollow your cheeks and suck.

“oh my fucking–” the curse is cut off with a gasp at the feeling. jiung always knew you were outstanding at this, but after all this time without a release and with the pent-up emotions he’s sure he hasn’t felt anything this good in his twenty-four years of life.

the words spill out of his mouth unrestrained now, his exhausted brain overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure.

“you’re so pretty like this, you know that? you take my cock so well… make me feel so good. and you love it too, don’t you?”

his thrusts become even deeper, his cock diving past your throat just once at first to check your reaction, and he does it again when he only gets a hazy, half-lidded look his way in response. his hands keep your head in place when you try to take over, fucking your mouth in a pace that’s enough to steadily push him closer to the climax but isn’t overwhelming to you, always mindful of your comfort even when he’s on the brink of insanity himself.

“mmhm… just like that– ah– i’m so close, angel,” he nearly hisses the words out through clenched teeth.

“wanna cum in your mouth. can you swallow it?” you nod as much as you can without pulling off of him, and the corners of his lips curl up into a weak smirk. “yeah? that’s my good girl– fuck–”

jiung’s voice wavers when the pressure builds up to an unbearable point, hovering right over the edge before he finally tips over.

thick ropes of cum shoot down your throat as his cock pulses between your lips, making you choke slightly before you manage to swallow the rest. he keeps plunging into your mouth with shaky, irregular thrusts, fingers gripping your hair tighter as he rides out the earth-shattering orgasm that made his vision go white and his knees buckle under his weight. he doesn’t even seem to remember to pull out after the last waves pass, savouring the warm feeling while he loses himself in the haze, eyes fluttering shut.

you take it upon yourself to clean him up with your tongue, the friction on his sensitive skin making him shiver and whimper quietly, and then gently tuck him back into his slacks and kiss the exposed sliver of his navel before rising to your feet.

taking his face in your hands, you press your lips to his, the movement barely reciprocated by him but sweet in its nature.

“sit down for a moment, i’ll bring you something to change into, okay?” you gesture towards the bed with a tilt of your head, and jiung obeys without any protest as you turn around and step towards your dresser.

it takes you a mere couple of seconds to dig up a comfortable pair of sweatpants and an old graphic tee for him to sleep in, yet by the time you turn back around, you see your boyfriend sprawled out on the bed, sleeping soundly, lips parted and chest rising slowly.

you can’t help but smile to yourself at the sight. you leave the clothes on the nightstand, not needed anymore, before crawling into bed and pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead, relaxed instead of wrinkled in worry for once, and curling up next to him with a content sigh.

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