Park Jisung x Female reader!Nakamoto x Kim Jungwoo
Love triangle
"He fell first, she fell harder."
They never planned on falling, but love doesnât ask for permission.
From the rink to the frat house, friendships blur, rivalries ignite, and family ties complicate what should be simple.
When distance and doubt start to creep in, what once felt unbreakable begins to crack under the pressure of expectations, jealousy, and old wounds.
But love isnât just stolen kisses and late-night promisesâitâs fighting for someone when walking away would be easier. And somehow, amid the chaos and mess, love always finds its way home.
GENRES:
Slice of life, strangers to lovers, rom-com, collegeau, slow burn, coming of age.
WARNING:
I had too much time on my hands...way too much time. I wanted chaos, comfort, comedy, but I swear things aren't just handed to you or run smoothly irl.Â
Too many your and you in these damn episodes. (This format of writing is not for everyone AND THAT'S OKAY)
The romance is romancing (the tooth rotting kind, I hope) The chemistry just made science.
Heat, tension, and smut (maybe, not yet decided).
Mullet Jisung! Yes, that's a warning, as his dark, fluffy hair was a heavily paid actor in the making of this fan fiction. Jisung is undeniably, shamelessly smitten and in love, and Chenle gets second-hand embarrassment on his behalf every. Single. Time.
Make outs, Fall outs, Heartbreaks and Flashbacks...lots and lots of them. It's crazy. Please be keen while reading.
Their world is uniquely theirs. Do not hold me accountable for any inaccuracies you stumble upon. Let's just have fun and indulge ourselves, wildflowers!!!
Loosely very loosely inspired by TSITP because it was the only thing I could watch after love island but greatly influenced by the loverboyseries here on tumblr written @withlovemark
That series has a special place in my heart and this is my proof of that.
10- 60k words in each episode.
NOTE.
Nothing I write here is a true description of the real world or a definitive description of the personalities, identities, and sexuality of the idol face claims I have used in the fruition of the story I am telling. Stay safe, MNDI.
I am trying to challenge myself and my writing by tapping into the LGBTQ+Â community, and this is an indirect way I will be using to understand and be educated more on it, so I could make unconscious mistakes (kindly let me know as you read). And in respect of that, my Gay couple will NOT have any smut scenes, but I am hoping their love for each other can shine through and be enjoyed regardless.
If this is not your tea, please don't get burned trying to drink it.
Let me know your thoughts and I am open to suggestions about anything.
Love you lots, kisses.
Memories have been indented, but all other events in the episodes follow each other. As for the minisodes, these are merely Jisung's POV on events that have already happened in the episodes prior or a present event in his world.
MAIN MASTERLIST
SOCIALS | BTS
Status (ongoing)
EPISODE 1.
You went looking for art.
You found him instead âa hockey boy with a nosy streak, ramen breath, and the softest laugh.
You promised yourself not to feel anything.
Then he handed you a ring, and kissed you like you already belonged to him.
minisode 1
EPISODE 2.
Between Yutaâs secrets, Jungwooâs ghosts, and the endless IKEA manuals no one can readâyou somehow find home in a boy who builds you a shelf, hands you a brush, and calls you his favorite mess.
It shouldnât feel this simple. It shouldnât feel this right.
But it does.
You werenât supposed to find love between unpacked boxes.
minisode 2
EPISODE 3.
You woke up to warmth â his hand still resting on your waist, the morning too quiet to be innocent.
You told yourself it was nothing.
Then he kissed you goodbye like it meant something, and the world started spinning faster.
By sunset, old ghosts had names again â and one of them said yours like a prayer he shouldnât still remember.
minisode 3
EPISODE 4.
You stopped looking for him years ago.
But time has a cruel way of circling back âsome ghosts don't haunt. they wait.
And when the past collides with your present, you find Jisung's hand already there, steady, sure and warm âa reminder that love isn't always loud, but it can be enough to drown echoes.
minisode 4
EPISODE 5.
Somewhere between the speeches, the cheesecake, and the bass shaking the floor, you forget what quiet feels like and somehow leave with a story that feels like a promise.
There's laughter, bad dancing, and the boy who keeps looking at you like he's already written you into every plan. You laugh, kiss, fall asleep in his hoodieâsafe, dizzy, warm.You almost let it feel like forever.
It should feel simple.
But simple things have a way of trembling. Maybe the heart doesn't hideâmaybe it just hesitates.
minisode 5
CUTS.
EPISODE 6.
Between old names resurfacing and new routines settling in, the weekend stretches longer than it should. Everyone is orbiting something they shouldnât beâyou just happen to be standing still long enough to feel it.
You werenât looking for permanence, yet somehow, it keeps finding you.
minisode 6
EPISODE 7.
Between old names resurfacing and new routines settling in, nothing feels as simple as it should. Everyone is orbiting something they shouldnâtâpast choices, unspoken fears, almost-mistakes or something dangerously close to love.
And yet, somewhere between quiet confessions, shared glances, and a rooftop that holds too much truth, you begin to realize that maybe this time⌠youâre not the one running.
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At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing.
Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leavesâquietly, without telling anyoneâchasing a feeling he doesnât know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations⌠just distance. In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesnât ask who he isâonly who he chooses to be.
What begins as an unlikely arrangementâfive days under the same roofâslowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind. Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have. But time doesnât stopâand the life he left behind is still waiting for him. When he returns, nothing feels the same.
Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you canât go back to.
MAIN MASTERLIST | PART II
CUTS | TORONTO | PRESS RUN | BTS
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Slice of Life , Emotional Drama , Soft Comedy , Slow Burn , Hurt/Comfort , JUST ONE SMUT SCENE
WARNINGS.
Emotional Angst , Themes of Identity & Burnout , Mild Language , Slow Emotional Build , Protected Sex , Makeouts , Lots of kissing , Open-ended emotional tension (no heavy breakup, but strong longing)
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
Morning doesnât arrive all at once. It seeps in. Through the thin space between the curtains , stretching slowly across the floor through the quiet stillness of a house that's testing whether the house is ready to wake up or not.
It isn't.
The air is cool, faintly carrying the scent of polished wood and something olderâsomething familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesnât feel peaceful, suspended. Like something has been left unfinished. Mark stands in the middle of it barefoot, unmoving, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other without him realizing it. The wooden floor is cool beneath him, grounding in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Like he walked into a memory that isnât his anymore. This houseâhis house, his familyâs house in Torontoâshould feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something heâs stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocatingâjust⌠present. It fills every corner, stretches between the furniture, settles into his chest in a way that feels heavier than noise ever did. His phone vibrates in his hand. He doesnât look at it.
He already knows.
Another call. Another message. Another voice waiting for him to pick up and explain what he meant with the message he sent hours ago into a new day to his managers and colleagues that have become part of his family over the years. Questions waiting to be asked. Answers expected. He exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen before the vibration stops on its own. The quiet comes back. And with itâ you.
Not as a thought, not even as a memory crashing in, but like something that has already settled into the space before he even noticed it was there, as something that lingers. In the way the morning light touches the floorâsoft, warm, familiar in a way that doesnât belong to this house. In the way the quiet feelsâŚincomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesnât know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.
It doesnât help.
The doorbell rings. Itâs sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.
Real.
He blinks, like heâs being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this timeâimpatient, urgent, like whoever is on the other side needs him to open it fast. His fingers tighten slightly around his phone before he sets it down without thinking. Then he moves. Each step feels heavier than it should. The hallway feels even longer than it normally is. His hand pauses on the door handle, just for a second, just long enough for something in his chest to hesitateâ then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.
Not calm.
Youâre moving before he even processes itâstepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like youâre searching for something wrong.
âMarkââ
Your voice breaks slightly, and before he can respond, before he can even register the way your face looks, your luggage. The one that's barely upright behind you, shoulder bag long thrown on the floorâeyes wide, breath uneven, something frantic sitting just beneath your skin. Your hands are already on him. On his face first, warm, quick. Careful and almost trembling. Your fingers brush along his jaw, up to his temples, pushing his hair back like youâre trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find somethingâan injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesnât feel like enough proof that heâs okay. âAre you okay?â you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesnât sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something youâre trying to confirm with your own hands. You donât wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like youâre searching for something broken, something he hasnât told you.
He freezes.
Not because heâs uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide downâhis shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like youâre grounding yourself in the fact that heâs here. That heâs real. That heâs not⌠broken. That heâs here, that he didnât disappear along with the screenshot he sent you regarding the decision you knew he had been hesitant to make about his career after ten years of the same routine. Your breathing is uneven. He notices that.
He notices everything.
The way your lips part slightly like you want to say more but donât know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesnât respond. Mark doesnât move, doesnât speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way youâre touching him like he matters outside of everything else.
Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Justâ him.
Your hands slow, your movements pause, and then you look up at him properly, really look at him. Your expression softens, but the worry doesnât leave. âMr. IdolâŚâ you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. âTalk to me.â Something in his chest tightens because he wants to. He really does. He should. A hundred things are sitting in his chest, pressing against his ribs, waiting for space.
But the words donât come.
Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way youâre looking at him like heâs something you might lose if you donât hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything elseâthe noise, the expectations, the endless movementâfeel far away.
His throat tightens.
No words come out because if he startsâ he doesnât think heâll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tiltsâŚ
Itâs never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when itâs quiet.
âMark, just a few more minutesââ
The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesnât think too hard about it. The lights are too bright. They always are. Too bright. They sit above him, angled just enough to catch every expression, every shift, every blinkâno shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.
Controlled.
âHow would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?â He hears the question, registers it but thereâs a slight delay before he answers. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, just long enough for something inside him to hesitate.
He smiles, because of course he does.
âIt means a lot,â he says, voice smooth, steady. âI think⌠itâs a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.â The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, âAnd where is that?â
There it is.
The follow-up, the part where the answer is supposed to go deeper. His gaze flickers slightly, just for a second.
Because the truth?
The truth isnât something he can package neatly into a sentence,the truth is unfinished. Messy and still forming. So he does what he always does. He adjusts.
âItâs⌠a process,â he says instead, softer now. âI think Iâm still figuring that out.â
It sounds honest.
It is honest.
Just not complete. The camera keeps rolling. She smiles across from him, tablet resting against her knee, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that never really turns off. âWhat was the most personal track for you on the album?â The camera lens is fixed, unrelenting, watching for something real it can capture and package. Mark leans back slightly, fingers loosely intertwined, his smile already in place before he speaks.
âThatâs a hard one,â he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. âI think⌠all of them had something personal in them.â
Itâs a safe answer. A good one.
The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. âIs there one that felt⌠closer to you than the others?â
Thereâs a pause.
Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocusedâlike heâs somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would meanâfeeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watchingâHe can't afford that.
So he smiles again, soft and polished.
âI think it changes,â he says instead. âDepending on where I am.â She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.
It never does.
â
Backstage, itâs louder. Not with questionsâbut with movement. Staff walking quickly, voices overlapping, schedules being called out, things being adjusted at the last minute. Mark sits on a couch, shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his phone without really seeing it. Someone drops down beside him. Close enough that their shoulder bumps him with a little force.
âHyung.â
He looks up and finds Jisungâfamiliar, groundingâdrops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.
âYou good?â
The question is casual but the look isnât. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. âYeah,â he says.
Itâs automatic.
He doesnât look convinced. âYouâve been⌠quiet,â he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. âHave I?"
âYeah.â
A pause.
Then, âYou okay?â
The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This oneâwaits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.
âIâm just tired,â he says finally.
Itâs not a lie but itâs not everything either. Jisung studies him for a second longer, like he knows better than to believe him but also knows him well enough to know he really won't be getting the truth out of him regardless, still, he can't help being concerned. They both stay silent looking ahead at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Then, Jisung nudges his shoulder again, lighter this time.
âIf you need a break, you should take one.â
Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.
âJust like that?â
âYeah. Just like that.â
Itâs said simply, like itâs easy. Like it doesnât come with consequences. Mark doesnât respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, âYou should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.â Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesnât get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. Thereâs no pressure in the statement.
Justâunderstanding.
And somehow, that makes it harder because he has thought about it. More than once. The idea sits at the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.
A question.
Not fully formed. He exhales slowly, nodding once. âYeah,â he says. âMaybe.âAnd in the back of his mindâ something shifts. Something small. Persistent.
What if I did?
â
A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe itâs just the way the air sitsâstill, heavy with things unsaid. The tension. Mark sits across from two managers. One leans forward slightly, hands clasped, expression open. Listening. The other sits back, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating, already tense, already anticipating resistance. âI just need some time,â Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. âThatâs all Iâm asking.â
âHow much time?â the second manager asks immediately. Thereâs no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, âA few weeks,â Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like heâs already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, âWeâre in the middle of promotions,â he says. âYou know that.â
âI know.â
âThen you also know this isnât exactlyââ âI said I know,â Mark cuts in, sharper this time.
The room stills.
Markâs jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. âIâm not trying to mess anything up,â he continues, more controlled now. âI just⌠I need a break.â Thereâs a pause, a shift in the room.
Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. âYouâve been pushing a lot,â he says gently. âWeâve seen it.â Mark doesnât respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesnât.
Pushing.
Thatâs one way to put it. Pushing doesnât even begin to cover it.
The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. âCan you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?â There it is again. The question lingers, that expectation. That timing that never quite lines up with how he feels. Mark looks between them, and for a moment, he doesnât answer because that question, that small, persistent oneâŚis still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Markâs fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mindâ shifts. Just a little.
He finally exhales.
ââŚNo.â
Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesnât take it back.
The airport doesnât rush him. It should. People move around him in currentsârolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragmentsâbut none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like heâs watching everything through glass. Itâs not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that â feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesnât feel like an expectation. A black backpack hangs off one shoulder, the strap worn slightly where his fingers have been gripping it too tightly. In his other hand, he drags a medium-sized suitcase behind himâthe wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.
Thereâs another one.
Larger and heavier. Left momentarily beside one of the seating areas he passed earlier, because what was inside was heavier physically, mentally, and most of all emotionally. A compact MIDI keyboard. A pair of headphones. A small interface, wires tangled together in a way that suggests he packed quickly rather than carefully. Like he told himself, this was just a break, but still couldnât leave that part of himself behind.
Youâre not really running, he thinks distantly. You just⌠changed locations.
The thought sits uncomfortably because itâs true and maybe thatâs why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadnât meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than theyâve been in weeks, but thereâs something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasnât exactly found it yet and thatâs when he sees you.
He sees you even before he realizes heâs looking. Youâre slightly off to the side of the main flow of people, near one of the quieter pillars. Your setup is small but intentional. A camera angled down. A container is wide open in front of you. Your hands moving with focusâadjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. Thereâs something about the way you exist in that space that feels⌠untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. Youâre sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, containedâcamera angled carefully, container open in front of you.
Your hands move with precision. Adjusting and plating. Fixing something small that no one else would notice. He slows. The suitcase behind him rolls once more before stopping. His fingers loosen slightly around the handle. He continues watching. Youâre talkingâsoftly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesnât quite catch the words, but the tone reaches him. Calm and steady. Unbothered. It feels simple and something in his chest tightens because nothing about his life has felt like that in weeks.
Months, maybe longer.
He doesnât fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesnât realize how long heâs been standing there until you look up. Your eyes meet his, and something pauses.
A small one but it stretches.
Your eyes narrow just a little, not unfriendlyâjust⌠trying to place him. Trying to understand why there's a stranger standing there watching you like he forgot where he was going. You tilt your head slightly.
He blinksâ
Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. Thereâs a beat. Your gaze sharpens. Curious now. You blink back at him.
Then tilt your head the other way.
He mirrors you again.
And for a second, itâs ridiculous. Everything else fades. No noise, no movement. Almost like neither of you wants to be the first to break whatever this strange, wordless moment is. Just this strange, silent exchange between two people who donât know each other. Then you straighten.
ââŚCan I help you?â you ask.
Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like heâs just remembered how to exist in his own body. âYeah,â he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. âIâuhâŚâ He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that heâs here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.
What are you doing? You donât even know her.
Just walk away. Say something normal. Ask for directions?!?!?
LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE!!!
His jaw tightens slightly. He could still leave. He should, but then you cross your arms loosely, weight shifting to one leg, and thereâs something about the way youâre looking at himânot impatient, not dismissive, just⌠waitingâthat makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himselfâ
âCan I stay with you Angel?â he asks.
The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they donât just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesnât just changeâit stills.
ââŚExcuse you?â
Thereâs disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick againâthis time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.
âYouâre serious?â
Suddenly, Mark becomes very aware of how this looks. A stranger, with luggage, asking to stay with you, a stranger no less.
You actually sound insane!!!
He almost backtracks, almost laughs it off, because he seriously takes time to listen to himself talk since meeting you and hears himself the way you must be hearing him.
Dude, you actually are insane!!!
Immediately then, he wants to take it back, but something in his chestâtight, stubbornâdoesnât let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. ââŚYou know there are hotels, right?â Your tone isnât harsh; itâs logical. Grounded because now this isnât just weird, it's concerning, and in his mind, he does know. He knows exactly how many, knows the best ones, knows he could walk into any of them and disappear into a room that costs more than most peopleâs monthly rent.
He knows all that.
But the thought of it, the silence, the emptiness, the same four walls, the same distance makes something in his chest feel hollow. His gaze drops briefly to his suitcase, to the life he packed into it, clothes, work, and half-decisions waiting to be made on the only oath he's ever truly known for almost a decade. âI know,â he says quietly.
I donât want to be alone.
The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesnât say all of it. Your brows knit together. âThen whyââ
âI just donât want to be alone.â
It comes out softer than everything else heâs said so far. Less guarded and for a momentâ he hates that he said it because itâs too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldnât even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasnât the answer you expected. Thereâs a shift, and it makes you loosen your arms slightly from where they were crossed in front of you. Still cautious, still unsure, but a lot more open than before. Your expression shifts, not soft but not dismissive either. A flicker of something that tries to understand instead of just rejecting. Your eyes linger on him a second longer this time. Still, you tilt your head slightly. ââŚThat doesnât make this any less weird, you know.â Fair.
Completely fair.
Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. âYeah,â he admits. âI figured.â Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze movesâhis face, his posture, the way heâs standing like heâs unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.
Real.
He didnât just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, âWhat if Iâm a serial killer?â you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesnât hesitate to answer, âThen I guess thatâs how I was meant to die.â You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if heâs serious. If heâs joking, if heâs just reckless. ââŚYouâre serious,â you say slowly in realisation, trying to grasp at the idea that this was in fact a conversation happening with a stranger you were trying to push away.
âI am.â
Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. âYouâre either really smart⌠or just really, really stupid.â A faint smile pulls at his mouth, âYeah,â he says. âI get that a lot.â Thereâs another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isnât his anymore.
Itâs yours.
And you feel it. The weight of it is sitting right in front of you. A stranger. A very strange stranger. Who could very easily just walk away. Who probably should walk away. Your mind runs faster than your expression shows.
He has luggage. He didnât just say itâhe meant it. This is not normal.
You donât do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!
You donât bring strangers home??!?!
And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasnât moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way heâs standingânot imposing, not pushy, just⌠waiting. On the way, thereâs something tired in his eyes that doesnât quite match the rest of him, the way he didnât argue when you questioned him. Didnât try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel⌠real.
Youâre insane.
The thought hits you clearly.
There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?
ââŚFive days,â you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. âFive days,â you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. âThatâs it.â Thereâs a beat, then his shoulders dropâjust slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.
âOkay,â he says quietly. His grip on the suitcase loosens slightly, and as you turn to start packing up your things, he reaches for his suitcase again. Then pauses and looks back briefly towards where he left the second one. ââŚI should probably get my other bag,â he mutters. You blink. âYou have another one?â
ââŚYeah.â
Thereâs a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. âOf course you do.â You canât help the thought that lingers, quiet but persistent in the back of your mind, and under your breath, you whisper quietly as you watch him go.
Youâve actually lost your mind or you just might be the craziest person alive. This is how you die with him.
And just like that, you donât just take him with you. You take everything he brought with him, too. The half-packed life, the unfinished thoughts and the version of him that hasnât decided anything yet but is already changing.
_
The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. Itâs not unpleasant.
Just⌠lived-in.
Mark sits in the back seat beside you, his knee angled slightly away to give you space that neither of you explicitly asked for. The window beside him is cracked open just enough to let in a steady stream of cool air, carrying with it the distant hum of the city slowly fading behind you. Your smaller suitcase rests between your legs. His are in the trunk. All of them. He had watched the driver load them inâfirst the large one, then the medium, then your carry-on, placed more carefully on top like it mattered differently. It had felt strange, seeing everything he brought with him disappear into a space he couldnât see anymore.
Like letting go but not fully. Now, the road stretches ahead. The city gives way slowly, buildings thinning, noise softening, until it becomes something quieter. Trees begin to line the streets, their shadows flickering across the car windows in slow, shifting patterns as the sun dips lower. Mark watches it all. Not because heâs trying to, but because thereâs finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. Thereâs a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesnât interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesnât. Not yet. The driver hums softly under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in rhythm with a song playing too low to fully make out. It feels normal, and that alone makes something in Markâs chest tighten because normal hasnât felt like this in a long time.
By the time the taxi turns into the estate, the light has softened into something warmer. Gold spills across the road, catching on rooftops, on windows, on the edges of passing fences. The air looks different hereâquieter, slower, like everything has agreed to move at its own pace. Mark leans slightly, looking out. Children run across a small open field in the distance, laughter visible in the way they move, even if it doesnât fully reach the car. A bicycle lies abandoned near a curb. Someone waters plants near a gate, glancing up briefly as the taxi passes. It feels lived in.
Real.
You donât say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. âWait,â he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.
âIâve got it.â
You pause. Not arguing. Just watching. Mark steps out, the air cooler now against his skin as he closes the door behind him. He walks around to the driverâs side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. âHow much was it?â The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesnât rush it, doesnât throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properlyâtwo hands, respectful, like itâs something that matters.
âThank you,â he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightlyâthen smiles. âWelcome,â he says warmly. âHave a good evening.â Mark nods again. âYou too.â Thereâs a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you brieflyâ
âYou and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.â
Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you havenât quite sorted out yet. He thinks it's ridiculous considering you only learnt each other's names when you demanded to stay with his passport and documents for 'my safety reasons' until the five days came to pass while waiting on the said taxi to arrive
He doesnât respond to that, though, just gives a small, polite nod. The trunk opens with a soft click. Mark moves to it immediately, lifting it up before the driver can step out to help. He pulls his larger suitcase out first, setting it down carefully, then the medium one, then finally your smaller carry-onâplacing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. âThanks,â you say quietly. He glances at you, âYeah.â
Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you donât move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. Heâs strange, that part hasnât changed. Not even a little but, your gaze flicks briefly to the road where the taxi disappears. Then back to him.
At least he seems...decent??
The thought settles quietly. Not loud, not decisive, but enough to soften something that had been sitting rigid in your chest since the airport. You pick up your suitcase. âCome on,â you say. And this time, it sounds more certain. The walk to your door is short, but Mark feels it every step. The weight of his luggage in one hand, the quiet shift in the air, the way the house sits ahead of him like something he hasnât earned but is being let into anyway.
Youâre really doing this.
You donât reach for keys. You donât hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesnât understand yet. Inside, the air wraps around him differently. Warmer. Softer. And before he can take it in, an older woman steps into view, her face lighting up instantly when she sees you. âOh, youâre back.â Your posture shifts and softens.
You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. âLet me see you, baby,â she murmurs, turning your face slightly. âYouâve gotten thinner.â âI havenât,â you say, but thereâs a small laugh in your voice. âYou have,â she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. âWorking too much again?â Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you donât pull away. âThe trip was fine,â you say. âWork was good.â âMm,â she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. Itâs quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him inâthe luggage, the way heâs standing, the space between youâand something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.
A look passes.
Quiet.
Knowing, you straighten slightly. âThis is Mark.â He nods. âHello.â She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. âTake care of her,â she says lightly. Mark blinks, ââŚIâll try.â You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. âRest,â she adds. âBoth of you.â
And then sheâs gone.
The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time itâs not empty. Itâs full. Mark steps in properly now, and thatâs when it hits him, not all at once, in pieces. Light spills in through wide windows, stretching across the floors in soft, golden lines. The walls are tallâhigher than he expectedâand filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesnât mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, thereâs you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someoneâs shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parentsâyour fatherâs arm around you, your motherâs smile softer but just as warm. Another frameâtwo older guys, one with his arm slung around your neck, the other mid-laugh like the picture was taken in the middle of a joke.
Your brothers, maybe?
Thereâs anotherâan older woman. The same one who just left. Youâre holding her face the same way she held yours. Markâs chest tightens slightly, he doesnât realize it. Not until his gaze shifts again to another frame.
You.
Standing next to a guy. Close. Too close.
He stills.
Boyfriend?
The thought comes quick. Uninvited. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle.
Of course she could have a boyfriend. Why wouldnât she?
Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesnât like it. Doesnât understand why itâs there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that donât exist.
What if youâre not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?
His jaw tightens slightly.
Thenâ âYou can leave your bags there for now.â Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. Youâve already stepped further in, your suitcase set aside casually as you move toward the kitchen. Like this is second nature. Like this space is an extension of you. He leaves his suitcase by the entrance, the handle still extended, like itâs waiting for instructions he hasnât decided on yet. The house feels⌠still, but not empty. Thereâs a softness to the quiet here, something that doesnât press on him, doesnât demand anything.
It just⌠exists, and for a moment, he does too. You disappear into the kitchen without ceremony, like the transition from outside to inside didnât require adjustment. Like youâve done this a hundred timesâcome home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like heâs trying to understand something he hasnât had access to in a long time. The light stretches further now, deeper into the house, brushing over the edges of furniture, catching on the glass of framed photos. The air smells faintly of something clean, something lived-inâlike citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he canât quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,
Donât get comfortable.
The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesnât stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feelâŚunnecessary. âYou can sit,â you call from the kitchen, not looking at him, your voice carrying just enough to reach him without forcing itself into the room. He exhales quietly.
âYeah,â he answers, even though you didnât ask a question.
He doesnât sit.
Not yet. Instead, he finally lets go of the suitcase handle, the soft click of it retracting louder than it should be in the quiet. His fingers flex slightly after, like theyâre remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.
Carefully.
Like heâs aware that heâs stepping into something that isnât his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, itâs something else entirely. Books line the wallsânot perfectly arranged, not color-coded or curated for display, but stacked, layered, used. Cookbooks with worn edges. Novels with folded pages. Papers tucked between them like bookmarks that were never meant to be permanent. Thereâs a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to youâequipment, cables, a microphone, papers with scribbled ideas. And it looks like you left it mid-thought. It feels alive, like something is always being created here. A microphone angled slightly to the side. A laptop, half-closed, is sitting next to your desktop computer. Sticky notes scatteredâsome with full sentences, some with single words that donât make sense on their own.
He steps closer.
Doesnât touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.
Shoot before sunset â plating!!
Thereâs a small underline under the last word.
Urgent.
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. Itâs⌠endearing, without trying to be.
Youâre busy.
The thought comes easily,
You have a life.
It shouldnât matter but for some reason, it does.
âWater?â
Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, youâre standing in the doorway now, holding out a glass without stepping fully into the room. Your posture is relaxed, but your eyes, your eyes are still watching him. Not suspicious in the same way as before but not careless either.
Aware.
He takes the glass. âThanks.â Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but itâs enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. âKitchenâs this way,â you say, like he didnât just watch you walk in and out of it twice already. He nods anyway and follows. The kitchen feels warmer as it opens up; it feels more lived in than the rest of the house somehow. Wide and bright. An island sits at the center, stools tucked neatly beneath it. The breakfast nook by the window catches the light perfectly, soft and inviting in a way that makes it feel like mornings linger there longer. The dining space sits just beyond. Prepared, intentional, and everything, everything feels warm. Lived in. You move easily, filling another glass. Opening a cabinet and closing it again. Mark leans slightly against the edge of the island, the glass still in his hand. He watches you, not in a way that feels heavy. Just curious, and you feel it. You donât look at him immediately but youâre aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. Itâs strange. You donât bring people home, not like this, and certainly not strangers.
What are you doing?
The thought comes again. Louder this time, but then, you glance at him and heâs just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesnât know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like heâs trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now youâre curious too. ââŚSo,â you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.
âYeah?â
Thereâs a pause.
Not awkward. Just measured. âYou always do this?â you ask. âAsk random people to let you stay with them?â A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. âFirst time.â You narrow your eyes a little, âConvenient.â
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. âYeah.â
Thereâs something about the way he doesnât defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just⌠agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. ââŚYouâre really not going to explain yourself, are you?â He looks at you for a second, then he looks away. His grip tightens just slightly around the glass.
You could, you could tell her everything.
The thought surfaces. Tempting, dangerous, but he doesnât, not fully. âI just needed to leave for a bit,â he says instead. Itâs not a lie⌠but itâs not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, âFrom what?â The question lands softer than expected, not accusatory. Just curious. Mark exhales slowly and looks down at the water in his glass like it might give him an answer for everything, but that sounds dramatic. So he shrugs slightly,ââŚWork.â You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell thatâs as far as heâs willing to go. For now, and strangely, you respect that.
A soft thud interrupts the moment. Then another. He looks down, and something small brushes against his ankle. He startles slightly, stepping back just enough to look down properly, only he finds himself staring at a cat. Fluffy. Almost ridiculously so. Cream-colored with darker markings, its tail flicking lazily as it looks up at him like heâs the one intruding.ââŚOh,â Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.
Unimpressed.
Then walks past him like he doesnât exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. âWhatâs his name?â he asks. You glance over your shoulder, âBiscuit.â
ââŚBiscuit?â
You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. âHe answers to it.â Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.
His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadnât noticed before. ââŚHe does that,â you say, like it explains everything. âHe wasnât there a second ago.â
âHe was. You just didnât notice.â
Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like itâs already bored. A tall, carefully built tree, not just functional but aesthetic. Wood and soft fabric blending into the space like it belongs there, levels stacked in a way that feels intentional. Biscuit hops onto one of the platforms with practiced ease, curling up like heâs claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.
ââŚThatâs a strong name.â
You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. âStrong?" He shrugs, deadpan, âHe looks like he runs things.â You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, âHe does.â âHeâs judging you, by the way.â Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.
ââŚI can tell.â
And for a moment, the tension breaks. Just slightly. It settles again after, not heavy. Just present. Mark sets the glass down slowly on the counter, his fingers lingering against the surface for a second longer than necessary. His gaze drifts back to you. Youâre closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you werenât before, and he notices it.
She said yes.
The thought comes back.Clearer now.
She let you in.
And something about that, about you pulls at him. Not sharply, not overwhelmingly. Just enough to make him aware of it.
The thought settles quietly.
But it stays, and on your end, you feel it too. Not the same thought, but something like it, because heâs still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldnât have brought into your home, and yetâhe doesnât feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.
ââŚYou hungry?â you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. âYeah.â
Then, quieterâ
ââŚI can try cooking.â
You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, ââŚTry?â He hesitates, ââŚI meanââ You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. âSit down.â Thereâs a hint of a smile in your voice, and he catches it. He moves toward the breakfast nook, sliding into the bench by the large window slowly, like heâs still adjusting to being allowed to do anything with your space. To just be here and as you start moving around the kitchen, pulling things out and setting them down, he watches. Not obviously, no, constantly but enough, because something about thisâ about you in your space, feels like something he didnât know he was looking for, and somewhere, quietly, without either of you saying it out loud, the question begins to form.
For him,
What happens if I donât want to leave?
For you,
What happens if I end up wanting him to stay longer?
And neither of you answers it, not yet. Then he looks back at you, and something in his chest shifts again. Quiet and uncertain, but real because this placeâ your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesnât feel like a stop; it feels like something rooted, something steady, slow, and quiet. Something that might, without him realizing it yet, change everything, and standing in the middle of it, he realizes something he hasnât let himself think about yet. He didnât just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesnât know it yet, but this might be the first place in a long time that feels like it could hold him without asking for anything in return.
The rain starts sometime in the night and it settles into the morning like it had every intention of stayingâsoft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like itâs moving differently.
It's not what wakes you, not at first.
What wakes you is not the rain. Itâs the sound. Irritating and repetitive, then a shift in your body. The sharp, aggressive beeping that slices through the quiet like it has something personal against you. For a second, your mind doesnât catch up. Itâs just noise and movementâYou donât even realize youâre awake until your eyes snap open, your heart racing, your body already pushing upright, the sheets slipping off your legs as instinct takes over.
The smoke alarm.
Youâre out of bed almost immediately, your feet barely registering the cold of the floor as you move, faster than you mean to, down the hallway, past the stairs, the sound gets louder. Insistent. Almost accusatory. You reach the kitchen and stop because itâs not what you expected. Thereâs no fire. No panic. No urgency.Just⌠smoke. Not thick. Not dangerous. But enough, enough to make the alarm scream like the house is falling apart. Light, stubborn curls of it rising from the pan on the stove and Mark, heâs standing there, wooden spatula in hand, staring at the pan like it personally betrayed him.
Very still and very focused.
Like if he stares at it long enough, it might fix itself out of sheer intimidation. You stop, and you donât say anything. You just take him in because the sight is so absurd that it takes a second to process. His hair is messy in a way that feels unintentional, like he woke up and immediately got into this. Heâs wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like itâs the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like heâs accepted his fate. Thereâs a slight panic in his posture, but heâs tryingâvery visiblyâto stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like itâs about to file a complaint, âdonât move,â you say instinctively, already moving past him. You reach up to switch off the alarm, grab a towel, and wave it lightly near the sensor until the beeping finally stops. Silence crashes back in. Only the rain remains. You exhale. Slowly.
Then you turn.
Heâs still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking⌠guilty. ââŚHi Angel,â he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. ââŚWhat happened?â
Thereâs a pause. A very real, very visible pause where he debates how honest to be, where he considers lying but decides against it when he blinks back at your sharp features. You can see it. The way his lips part slightly, close again. The way his gaze flickers to the pan like it might answer for him. âI was trying to make eggs.â
You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, ââŚThose are eggs?â âThey were,â he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you tryâyou really tryânot to laugh because he's already panicking, âI just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.â You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. ââŚYou declared war on breakfast.â A breath escapes himâhalf a laugh, half defeat. âI thoughtââ he continues, gesturing vaguely, ââhow hard can it be? Itâs eggs. People make eggs all the time.â âAnd yet,â you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, âyouâve managed to reinvent them.â
He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. âThey stuck,â he says, âAnd then I tried to unstick them. And then they⌠got worse. I didnât think it would go like this,â he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly nowâburnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are⌠unrecognizable. Theyâve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.
Something⌠experimental.
ââŚDid you use oil?â Thereâs another pause. Smaller this time, ââŚI thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?â Thatâs it. Thatâs the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop itâsharp and sudden at first, catching you off guard as much as it catches him. It spills out before you can stop it, warm and unrestrained in a way that feels unfamiliar in your own chest. Then softer, fuller, spilling out in a way you don't recognise because itâs been a while since something this small felt this funny, since you've laughed this hard.
He watches you, and something in his expression softens. Not embarrassed, not defensive. Just watching you like this is the outcome he didnât know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. âOkay,â you say, voice lighter now, easier. âStep aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.â
He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesnât leave. He lingers, stays there. Of course he lingers. You can feel it.
You start over. With enough oil this time, you crack the eggs properly a second time, the soft sound grounding, familiar. The smell changesâwarm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just⌠there. ââŚI was trying to say thank you,â he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. âYou did,â you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, âThis is very memorable.â
He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, heâs smiling. Not the polite kind, not the careful kind he always has ready for the cameras. Something softer. Something⌠real.
Silence settles over you both again but this time, itâs not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each otherâs space you are okay with what quietly settles instead. You end up eating at the breakfast nook. The earlier rain is painting soft patterns against the glass now as the world outside blurs into greys and greens, inside, everything feels warmer than it should for two people who barely know each other. Biscuit appears like heâs been summoned by the promise that was breakfast, jumping up onto the table with quiet authority, tail flicking once as he eyes both of you like heâs judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.
Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. ââŚDoes he always look like that?â You follow his gaze, âThatâs his face.â ââŚHe looks like he has opinions.â âHe does. Theyâre just not for you.â Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like heâs trying to understand the rules.
Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, ââŚIâve been dismissed.â You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. âSo,â you say, glancing at him, âyou cook often?â He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, âGod, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.â You hum, âGood call.â
Then you blink up at him, confused, âmembers?â Mark swallows hard. His throat dries up despite having the option of juice and coffee in front of him. He hadn't thought of his guys up until now, hadn't really checked his phone either, â colleagues.â You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because thereâs nothing to say but because⌠thereâs no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesnât feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like heâs deciding something, ââŚYou laugh like that often?â
You pause mid-bite, ââŚLike what?â âLike that, Angel,â he says simply. âEarlier.â You donât answer immediately because the honest answer isâNo. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, âDepends.â
âOn what?â
You glance at him, ââŚOn who Iâm with.â Thereâs a beat, something passes between you then. Small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up, like he wants to say something else but doesnât. Instead, ââŚI almost set your house on fire.â You snort, âAnd yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.â âTemporarily banned,â he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggsâsomething settles.
Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to sayâ this could be something.
Time moves differently after that morning. Not fast or slow .Just⌠present. Days pass, and Mark stays, not like a guest anymore. Like something between a stranger and something worseâsomeone becoming familiar. Some mornings, he leaves early and returns with a small bag of items he bought from exploring the city, and other nights, he'll bring you flowers, thrifted recipe books, and worn-out vintage notebooks he thought you might like. Other days, he sits near the living room window, experimenting quietly with sound, fingers hesitant over keys like heâs afraid the music might reject him, but most of the time, he just watches you work. Not interrupting. Just existing in the same space as you focus while he flips aimlessly through your endless collection of books. Biscuit also slowly decides Mark belongs here more than anyone has officially said.
Five days arrive without announcement.
The house feels different that day. Not louder, not quieter. Just⌠aware. Too aware. Like something is about to shift, and everything in it knows before either of you says it out loud. You donât notice it at first. Youâre moving through your space the way you always doâbarefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.
Itâs the sound that stops you. Soft and measured. Zippers. You frown slightly and follow it down the hallway past the open coffee space you have upstairs, where light spills in gently through the windows, catching dust in the air like suspended time next to the hallway that spills into your room, guest room, the open balcony, and the door that opens up to the Terrance on your rooftop.
You find him packing. The guest room is half-folded silence. Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.
No, no, he wouldnâtâ
You donât knock, you donât think, you don't even breathe, you just push the door open, and there he is. Kneeling on the floor. His suitcase was open in front of him, and everything inside you⌠stills. For a moment, you donât say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirtsâneatly, carefully, like heâs done it a hundred times before. The clothes are arranged carefully in a suitcase that looks too empty for someone who has not been here long enough to fully unpack. Another sits beside itâ notebooks, things he treats more carefully than clothing. It all seems like a routine to him. Like leaving is something he knows how to do but staying isnât.
Your voice comes out before you can stop it, ââŚWhat are you doing?â Mark freezes. Not dramatically, not suddenly. Just enough. His hands still on the fabric and his shoulders go slightly rigid. Then he looks up and for a secondâjust a secondâhe looks⌠confused.
Like youâre the one whoâs out of place here.
âIâm packing,â he says, slowly. Carefully, like heâs choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.
Of course.
âWhy?â you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesnât make sense. âYou said five days, Angel.â The words land heavier than they should, heavier than you expected.
Five days.
You feel something in your chest pull tight because you remember saying it. At the airport. When he was still a stranger. When this was supposed to be temporary. Controlled. Safe.
Five days.
But that was before, before the burnt eggs, before the not-so-quiet nights, the grocery runs, before the badly cut-up fruit, before him draping your favorite throw blanket over you as he settles onto the couch next to you to watch trashy reality shows as Biscuits finds the perfect spot to settle in on his chest. Before he put the trash outside without you having to ask, before he started leaving his shoes by the door like he belonged there.
Your grip tightens around the mug. ââŚSo youâre just leaving?â you ask. Mark frowns slightly, âI mean⌠yeah?â But it doesnât sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesnât sound like you, âWow.â He straightens a little, confusion deepening. âWhat?â
âYou couldnât wait, huh?â
Now heâs really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, âWait for what?â You donât answer immediately because suddenly everything feels⌠too close to the surface. Too raw. âFor the five days to be over,â you say instead, quieter now. âOr did you just hate being here that much?â
The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Markâs expression changes, not to anger but something else...âWhat?â You laugh againâbut this time it breaks halfway through. âI mean, it makes sense,â you continue, words coming faster now, messier. â You basically forced me into this, and now you want to leave me hanging. You were just waiting it out, right? Counting down the days until you could leave without being rudeââ
âThatâs notââ
âBut you donât have to pretend anymore,â you cut in, your voice tight. âFive days are up. You can go.â Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. âNo Angel, thatâs not what this is,â he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.
You shake your head, already stepping back, âItâs fine, Mark. Really. You donât have to explainââ He moves before you can finish. Itâs instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wristânot tight, not roughâbut firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.
You freeze.
And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, âStop.â
The word is quiet but it holds. You look up at him really look this time and what you see makes your chest tighten in a completely different way. Heâs not annoyed, heâs not distant. Heâs not relieved to be leaving. Heâs⌠frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.
His hands still slightly.
âI didnât want to overstay,â he says quietly. âOr make you uncomfortable.â Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, âso you were just⌠planning to disappear?â
That word makes him flinch slightly.
âNo.â
A beat passes. Then more honestly, âI just didnât know how long I was allowed to exist here.â
Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, âI didnât mean it like a countdown.â That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. âI wasnât counting down the days,â he says, softer now. âI was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.â
You blink.
ââŚWhat?â
You stare at him again. Thereâs a beat. Then another. âYou took my documents,â he adds, almost awkwardly now. âRemember? As a condition?â
Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Thenâdespite everythingâa small, disbelieving sound escapes you, âyou were packing⌠because you didnât know how to ask for your passport back?â
Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, âWhen you say it like that, it sounds stupid.â âIt is stupid,â you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.
He huffs a quiet laugh, âYeah, well. I didnât want to overstep.â Something in your chest shifts again.
âYou couldâve just asked,â you say.
âI know,â he replies. âBut you gave me a timeline. I thought⌠pushing past that would be.â You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had toâ because he was trying to respect youâIt does something to you.
Something you donât have a name for yet. âSo you were just going to leave?â you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, âI didnât think youâd want me to stay.â
Thatâ
That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,
At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing. Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leavesâquietly, without telling anyoneâchasing a feeling he doesnât know how to name.
A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations⌠just distance. In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesnât ask who he isâonly who he chooses to be. What begins as an unlikely arrangementâfive days under the same roofâslowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind.
Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have.But time doesnât stopâand the life he left behind is still waiting for him.When he returns, nothing feels the same. Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you canât go back to.
⢠MASTERLIST | PART I | PART II
⢠CUTS | TORONTO | PRESS RUN
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Slice of Life , Emotional Drama , Soft Comedy , Slow Burn , Hurt/Comfort , SMUT
A few small notes where I unpack the thoughts, emotions, inspirations, symbolism, timeline, and writing choices behind Homesick â and why I wrote this Mark one-shot the way I did.
Basically me overexplaining my own fiction with too many feelings involved âĄ
AUTHORâS NOTE.
This is a work of fiction created purely for storytelling purposes.
I wrote this piece as a way to process and express my emotions following the announcement of Mark Leeâs departure from NCT. It felt important to create something meaningful for himâeven if only through fictionâbecause his presence, artistry, and growth have meant so much to me.
While this story explores themes of change, uncertainty, and choosing oneâs own path, it ultimately comes from a place of appreciation and care. I sincerely wish Mark nothing but happiness, peace, and fulfillment in whatever direction he chooses next. I hope he is wellâwholly, fully, and gentlyâwherever he is right now.
ORIGIN.
I think one of my favorite things about writing Homesick was that the story technically existed in my head long before I actually sat down and wrote it and I'm happy to say that homesick was intended for Mark Lee himself still.
Originally, Homesick was never supposed to end with Mark leaving NCT. That was not the plan at all. The very first version of this story was actually much softer in terms of career direction. It was supposed to be about exhaustion. Burnout. A person who had spent almost his entire life moving so fast that he forgot what standing still even felt like anymore. The original concept was simply: Mark goes on break, disappears for a little while, accidentally falls in love, and then returns to his idol life changed by it (Nothing out of the ordinary tbhđ ).
That was it. He was always supposed to go back and I think thatâs why the meet-cute airport scene existed in my head long before anything else did, the awkwardness of it all. The passport scene. The âyou can stay for five days if I keep your documentsâ joke [DON'T BE TRYIN THIS IN RL THOUGHâ].
The quietness of two strangers who were never supposed to matter this much to each other. Those scenes existed way before the actual plot did.
The reason the story was always written for Mark specifically is honestly because Homesick by Mico felt so painfully him to me and every time the song played on my spotify all I thought of was how perfect it is for Mark Lee as a fanfiction and I know this sounds crazy but what were the odds that Mico is also Canadian (coincidence!! I THINK NOT!!) and the song is just so wholesome, hopeful, and heartfelt đ but thereâs something about that song that feels incredibly lonely in a very specific way. Not dramatic loneliness. Not even cinematic sadness. Just the exhaustion of constantly moving. Constantly performing. Constantly being needed by people. That song to me at least feels like someone sitting in an airport at 2 a.m. realizing they donât know where home is anymore and to me, Mark has always carried that feeling, especially every time he talks about not being able to be at home with his family all the time.
He just always carried that and not in a tragic way but in the way people who grow up too fast often do. Especially someone like him who has spent almost half his life under cameras, schedules, airports, comeback preparations, tours, expectations, responsibilities, languages, countries, and endless movement.
So when I first imagined Homesick, it was never about âidol Mark.â It was about person Mark. Like who are idols as people? You know? (Iâm always generally very curious about this fr frđ¤)
The version of him who is tired, who overthinks quietly, who wants ordinary things so badly it scares him. Thatâs why the story focuses so much on domesticity. Cooking, laundry, messy kitchens, warm sweaters and fuzzy blankets, falling asleep together, inside jokes and quiet anchors because for someone whose life has always been so public and scheduled, I think love would feel most meaningful in the smallest possible moments for idols.
I also think thatâs why the pacing of the story became so slow. I wanted readers to sit inside the emotions instead of rushing through them. I wanted it to feel like time was stretching. Like Mark was finally breathing for the first time in years.
I really just like kdrama level detail and maybe even a little bit more obsessively. I always try to maximize on having as many emotions as possible when writing anything really because even though I love fanfiction and SMUT. I love the details the fanfiction world introduced itself with back in 2019/2020. I like to have a well thought out plot for MY storiesđ¤đž
TIMELINE.
Homesick technically takes place months after the rollout of his first solo album, The Firstfruit.
In the fictional timeline of the story, he has already reached a point in his career where success no longer feels like enough to sustain him emotionally. Heâs proud of what he built, proud of NCT, proud of the life heâs lived, but heâs also exhausted in a way he doesnât fully know how to explain.
Thatâs why the story begins during a break period around late November into December, right before the group begins preparing for the next major cycle (the Beat it up EP) and tour announcements.
So by the time the story starts â the comeback preparations, the interviews, the photoshoots, the rehearsals â Mark has already internally started questioning whether he can continue living the same way forever.
The important thing, though, is that Homesick was never written as a âhe hates being an idolâ story because I don't think he does and I really wanted to be careful about that.
I know he loves music and making it, he loves performing, I know he loves the members dearly and I know he loves the years he spent building this life but I couldn't help wonder if idols question their career path as often as regular human beings do and if what could scare them would be losing themselves inside it to the point where they become so unrecognisable even to themselves.
Thatâs why in this fiction the relationship becomes so important, not because love âsavesâ him but because love gives him space to hear himself think again and honestlyâŚthe decision to make him leave NCT in the fiction was accidental coincidence that just happened to be the final missing puzzle piece that made me finally ready to write it wholly. I think thatâs when Homesick really became what it is now.
Somewhere along the way, the story stopped feeling like temporary rest and started feeling like transformation. The emotional trajectory changed on its own. Especially while writing the Korean scenes.
The Taeyong conversation, the airport arrival, the numbness during promotions, the way he kept reaching for softness even while standing in celebrity spaces again.
Homesick became a story about someone realizing home is not necessarily a place. Sometimes itâs a person, sometimes itâs peace, sometimes itâs the first version of yourself you haven't met in years and thatâs also why the story ends before he publicly posts the letter about leaving NCT because Homesick is not about the public announcement.
Itâs about the private decision. The trembling before the leap, the fear before certainty, the quiet moments before the world finds out. Thatâs the actual heart of the story to me. Not the headlines, not the reveal, not even the celebrity aspect.
Just two people learning how to hold each other gently while one of them is standing at the edge of an entirely different life and I think thatâs why Iâll always love this story so much because underneath everything â the media speculation, the long distance, the fame, the interviews, the hidden identities â itâs really just about yearning for something new and out of your box of normalcy. About wanting softness, wanting rest, wanting to be known completely and still loved anyway.
Thatâs what Homesick became in the end.
And honestly?
I donât think it couldâve belonged to anyone except Mark.
MISCONCEPTIONS.
One thing I really want to clarify about Homesick because Iâve seen a few people interpret it this way already đ is that Angel was never meant to be the reason Mark leaves NCT.
Not even close.
And I think that distinction is very important to me because I never wanted the story to feel like:
âgirl changes idolâs life and makes him quit career for love.â
That was never the point.
If anything, the story is actually about someone who had already been quietly unraveling for a very long time finally meeting a person who made him realize he was allowed to stop pretending he was okay. Thatâs different. Very different and also â realistically speaking â decisions like that do not happen overnight. Especially not for someone like Mark, not after more than a decade of perfecting the idol life routine.
Thatâs why in the story, even though we only see the final stages of his decision during the timeline of Homesick, the implication is that he had been thinking about leaving for a very, very long time already.
Long before Angel, long before Toronto, long before the airport, long before the break.
The exhaustion was already there, the uncertainty was already there, the questioning was already there and honestly, I think thatâs part of why the story ended up feeling so emotionally heavy while I was writing it because I kept thinking about how terrifying it must be to normalize a lifestyle that intense from such a young age.
The schedules, constant visibility, pressure to be the best of the best,the airports, performances, cameras. The expectation to always be âon.â The expectation to always keep moving. At some point, your body probably stops recognizing rest naturally and I think fictional Mark in Homesick had reached that point already before the story even began.
Which is why the silence between him and Angel matters so much. Not because sheâs magically healing him. Not because sheâs âsavingâ him but because she becomes the first place where silence doesnât feel uncomfortable anymore.
Thatâs the actual shift.
I think people underestimate how lonely constant stimulation can become and as someone that just graduated from medical school, I absolutely relate in some ways because as of right now. I am currently lost in my real life, more lost than fictional Markđđ
When your entire life has been noise and schedules and movement and people needing things from you, calmness can almost feel unfamiliar. Even suspicious and Angelâs world is the opposite of that. Her world is warm kitchens, late mornings, quiet conversations, cooking together, petting a very dramatic cat, music playing softly in another room and sitting in silence without needing to perform through it.
Thereâs a softness to her world that Mark slowly realizes he has been craving for years without knowing how to name it. Not because he wants to abandon music. Not because he suddenly hates being an idol but because somewhere along the way, he forgot he was allowed to be a person too. Thatâs why I really wanted the story to emphasize that his decision wasnât spontaneous. AT ALL!
In my head, Mark had probably been considering leaving for months. Maybe even years and realistically, there is no way a decision that massive would happen without conversations first. He probably had known before he even let the idea settle in his head. His managers wouldâve known before his members. The members wouldâve known before the letter was officially released. There wouldâve been meetings, long discussions, second-guessing, fear, guilt, grief, even because leaving something you built your entire identity around for over ten years is not just a âcareer change.â
Itâs mourning a version of yourself and I think thatâs what Homesick really became underneath everything else.
A story about someone standing at the edge of a life that no longer fully fits him anymore and being terrified to admit it out loud. Which is also why Taeyongâs role became so important while I was writing because I needed someone who understood the industry deeply enough to recognize what Mark was really saying without Mark having to say it directly.
I donât think fictional Taeyong was shocked. I think he already knew and most probably who he voiced it to first (Taeyong, a friend or even family- someone he trusted fully probably already speculated because there's no way Mark could keep it hidden for long, he seems like the type to visibly expose himself when bothered- the man has no poker faceđ)
Maybe not the exact decision yet, but I think he understood that Mark was tired in a way rest alone couldnât fix anymore and I think when the members found out, they probably understood pieces of it too. Not fully but enough to empathise with him because people who love you can usually tell when your smile starts costing too much energy.
Angel simply became the final emotional confirmation that another kind of life was possible. That softness was possible, calmness was possible, that love could exist quietly and that home could feel gentle instead of demanding. She didnât put the idea into his head.
The idea was already there. She just became the first person who made him feel like he didnât have to be afraid of what came after it and honestly, I think thatâs why the Toronto scenes feel so different from the Korean scenes emotionally. I truly hope he got all the support he needed when making the decision.
Toronto feels warm. Breathable.
Still. Korea feels loved too â because he still loves the members, the music, the career â but thereâs always movement under it. Pressure under it. Noise under it. That contrast mattered a lot to me while writing.
Not dramatic sadness, breakdowns every second. Just quiet disorientation. Feeling untethered, tired and feeling like youâve spent so much of your life moving that you donât know where to rest anymore. Thatâs the version of homesickness I wanted this story to explore. Not homesickness for a place necessarily but homesickness for yourself.
STRUCTURE.
Opening Anchor (Present â Toronto)
Early morning, quiet in his family home. Mark lost in thought, phone ringing endlessly. The doorbell rings: you are there
Emotional hook: relief, tension, hidden longing.
Then flashback transition to days leading up to leaving unannounced.
Arrival & Awkward Beginnings (Week 1)
1. Meet cute at airport!! (??)
2. Mark arrives at your house (how?? Don't know yet!!) awkwardness, first impressions
3. POV of your colorful, mature, lived-in vlogger space he is seriously LOST
3. Discovery of family photos â reflection for both (learning/ seeing? about your world)
4. First comical bonding: burnt eggs morning (from Mark's very many failed attemptsđ đ)
5. Redemption dinner â laughter, gentle teasing, (getting close at least?)
6. Conflict about leaving, accidentally tears up the passport leaving Mark no choice but to stay (forced proximity to grow closer?)
Bonding & Discovery (Week 2)
7. Workday together; videographer (BESTIE!?!) shows up â discovers Mark
8. Your reaction: surprise, humor, curiosity
9. Mark does something thoughtful to earn trust (helping, plating, etc.)
10. Subtle intimacy: side-of-head kiss/ hand-holding/ slow mo falling like in Kdramas??
11. Humor & gentle teasing with videographer
12. Internal tension: Mark noticing feelings, avoiding revealing too much
Emotional Closeness (Week 3)
13. Avoidance & second conflict
14. Honest conversation â sitting on bed â first slow, deliberate kiss (?????)
15. Rooftop scene â emotional, reflective
16. Guitar scene â emotional & intimate
17. Rainy night scene â warmth, closeness, tenderness
18. Humor & small joys interspersed
Angst & Decisions (Week 4)
19. Reality intrusion: missed calls, career pressure
20. Small conflict â big emotional explosion
21. Frustration at time ending â Mark admits fear of leaving
22. Emotional collapse â crying, reassurance, no breakup
23. Morning calm, soft conversations
Goodbye & Transition back to Present
24. Transition back to Markâs world (life feels hollow without you)
25. Gradual realization: he feels homesick (pun intended đ¤)
26. Back to present and Marks decision about leaving NCT as a whole
27. Ending: hand in hand â "everything will be okay"
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing. Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leavesâquietly, without telling anyoneâchasing a feeling he doesnât know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations⌠just distance.
In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesnât ask who he isâonly who he chooses to be. What begins as an unlikely arrangementâfive days under the same roofâslowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind.
Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have.But time doesnât stopâand the life he left behind is still waiting for him.When he returns, nothing feels the same. Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you canât go back to.
MASTER LIST | PART I
CUTS | TORONTO | PRESS RUN | BTS
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Slice of Life , Emotional Drama , Soft Comedy , Slow Burn , Hurt/Comfort , JUST ONE SMUT
WARNINGS.
Emotional Angst , Themes of Identity & Burnout , Mild Language , Slow Emotional Build , Protected Sex , Make outs , Lots of kissing , Open-ended emotional tension (no heavy breakup, but strong longing)
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
Something you donât have a name for yet. âSo you were just going to leave?â you ask the only question to seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates. Just for a second,
âI didnât think youâd want me to stay.â
That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourselfâ You step closer,
âDo you want to leave?â
The question is barely above a whisper. Mark looks at you and for the first time since you met him he doesnât dodge it, âNo.â The word is simple. Honest and it changes everything. Your breath catches. âThen why are you packing?â you ask, softer now. He lets out a quiet breath, âbecause I didnât know if I was allowed to stay.â Without thinking, you close the distance completely. Your arms wrap around him. Itâs not graceful. Not planned but itâs real. Mark freezes. Completely. For half a second. Maybe less. Then, slowly, carefullyâhe hunches down to your level to hold you back. One hand settling at your waist, the other against your back. Keeping you flush against him as you rest your head on his chest. The hug is not tight, not possessive. JustâŚthere. Grounding.
âI donât hate being here,â he murmurs, voice low against your hair. Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. âI know,â you whisper. Even though, five minutes agoâ You didnât. He exhales softly and you feel it. Warm.
Real.
âI just didnât want to assume,â he adds. You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. âStay,â you say, softer now. âNot because of the five days. Not because you think you have to.â
A pause.
Your voice drops,âbut because you want to.â Something in his expression shifts. Deepens. âOkay,â he says quietly but it feels⌠big.
Neither of you move right away.
The suitcases still sit open on the floor. Half-packed. Forgotten and somewhere between the misunderstanding and the truthâ Something else has settled in its place. Not just comfort or familiarity, something heavier. Warmer. More dangerous because now itâs not about five days anymore. Itâs about choosing to stay and neither of you are ready to admit what that really meansâŚbut you both feel it. After that, things donât become easier. They become quieter, more loaded. When night comes again the following week, it doesnât come empty, it doesnât feel like the first night anymore. You notice it the moment you step out of your car. The house looks the same but it doesnât feel the same. Thereâs light in the windows. Warm. Waiting. Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your shoulder bag as you step closer, your heels clicking softly against the pavement.
You tell yourself itâs nothing. That this is normal. That heâs just⌠inside but something in your chest feels⌠different. You push the door open and step into the house, heels clicking softly against the floor, your body tired in that familiar, satisfying way after a long day and before you can even call out, the door opens wider to reveal Mark. Heâs standing there like heâs been waiting and beside him sits Biscuit like heâs been listening for you as well. You just stand there because heâsâ different now. Not in a big, obvious way but enough. He looks⌠comfortable, relaxed in a way he wasn't the previous week with the sleeves of his shirt pushed up, hair falling naturally almost into his eyes, posture easy like heâs started to fit into the space instead of just occupying it.His eyes land on you and everything elseâ stops because you see it. The shift. The way his gaze catches, the way it lingers. You hadnât thought much about what you were wearing when you left that morning. Now, you do. The dress hugs where it should. The heels add just enough height. Your hair sits perfectly in a way that feels effortless but isnât. âHi, Angel.â He says almost breathlessly and it comes out quieter than he probably intended.Your steps slow because something about the way heâs looking at youâit lingers. You became too aware of it slowly. The way his eyes take you in. Not in a way that feels uncomfortable but in a way that feelsâseen. Too seen, almost like you are the only thing he can't help focus on.
âHi,â you echo.
You step in slowly, closing the door behind you, your gaze drifting past him and then you see it. The table. Set. Candles. Food. Tonightâs dinner doesnât feel like dinner, it feels like something neither of you agreed to call it what it actually was. The candles arenât too bright. The house holds warmth in a way that feels intentional nowâlike itâs aware of the two of you sitting side by side instead of across from each other.
You notice everything.
The way he adjusted the cutleryâslightly uneven, like he wasnât sure what the right way was but wanted it to look like he tried. The way the napkins are foldedânot professionally, but carefully. The way the takeout containers sit next to the trash by your back kitchen door is replaced by plated food like it didnât arrive in paper bags thirty or so minutes ago. You hoped he wasn't waiting for you long. Your brows lift slightly teasing, âYou didnât cook this.â âI learned my lesson,â he says quickly. You laugh under your breath, stepping closer, your fingers brushing the edge of the table, âbut you set it up like this?â He shrugs, suddenly a little unsure,ââŚIs that weird?â You look at the chairs set side by side. Close and your chest tightens slightly. âNo,â you say softly. âItâs not weird.â Itâs something else, something you donât name. He pulls out one of the set chairs offering it to you. You sit and sits beside you closer than necessary. Closer than expected and as the candlelight flickers between you, you feel it. That shift. Not loud. Not overwhelming but there. Growing. Time doesnât rush after that. It unfolds. Slowly. You glance at him. Heâs pretending to be focused on his food but he isnât. His posture gives him awayâslightly too aware, slightly too still. You take a bite first just to break it. âOkay,â you say after a moment, thoughtful. âThis is actually good.â He exhales, not dramatically but enough for you to notice that this dinner is important to him.
âGood,â he mutters. âI was worried youâd say it tastes like the eggs.â You smile into your glass of wine, lifting it slightly, âI wouldâve been honest.â
âI donât doubt that.â
You both laugh at that and thereâs a quiet rhythm to the conversation. It doesnât rush, it doesnât try to fill every space. It moves the way the rain doesâsteady, patient. At some point, your knee brushes his under the table. You both still, just for a second. Then continue like nothing happened but something did. It lingers. You donât realize how much time has passed until your phone buzzes faintly on the table. You glance at it. A message. Another. You ignore it at first, reaching for your red again instead.
ââŚYouâre busy,â he says, not as a question. You tilt your head slightly, âSometimes.â He nods, like he expected that. Silence stretches again. Not empty, just⌠waiting.You tap your fingers lightly against the glass, thinking and then, âYou know,â you say casually, almost like it just crossed your mind, âthis is the part people donât see.â
He looks at you, "âŚThis?â
You gesture vaguely between the two of you. The table. The quiet. âThe in-between,â you explain. âEveryone thinks itâs just filming, posting, smiling. But itâs mostly this. Planning. Thinking. Editing. Redoing things that already took hours.â He listens, really listens. Not interrupting, not rushing you along. You glance at him, then away again. âI donât like being on camera,â you add, softer now. âNot really.â He frowns slightly, âbut you still do it.â âParts of it,â you correct. âHands. Voice. Angles. Enough to tell the story withoutâŚâ You trail off, shrugging lightly. ââŚbeing in it.â He leans back slightly, studying you in a way that feels different now. â So you wouldn't be on camera at all?â he says. You blink at him. Itâs not a question and itâs not said lightly. Itâs⌠observed. Your lips part slightly, âyeah, maybeâŚit depends.â He nods once, like that makes sense to him. Like it fits and for some reason, that matters more than it should. Later, when the plates are empty and the candles have burned lower, you donât move immediately. Neither does he. Biscuit has claimed the space near your feet, curled into himself like this is his version of approval. âYou didnât have to do all this,â you say after a while. Your voice is softer now. Not teasing, not light. Just honest. He looks down at his hands for a second. Then at you. âI wanted to,â he says simply and thereâs no performance in it. No exaggeration. Just the truth. It sits between you, heavy in a quiet way. You nod, not because you have something to say but because you understand it and somewhere in between the question begins to form
Not spoken. Not yet. Too afraid to but very present all the same. In him. In you, something that neither of you is ready to askâŚbut neither of you can ignore anymore.
The first thing you noticed wasnât the groceries. It was the way he walked in like he belonged. Keys set down in the same spot. Shoes nudged off near the door without hesitation. A soft exhale leaves him as he steps fully into the space like heâd been holding his breath outside. Then, âAngel, awake from your nap?â
âHey.â
You looked up from the couch, laptop balanced on your knees.
âYeah, I decided to work on something finally."
Your voice comes out softer than you intend. He places the bags he was carrying on the counter, already moving like he knew where things went and thatâthat made you pause. âYou went shopping?â you ask, sitting up slightly. âYeah.â Mark glanced over his shoulder, â we were running out of things.â
We
We as in us. We, as in we are a unit. As ifâŚ
We are dating�
âThat doesnât meanââ
âYou were out of the granola you like to plate your favorite banana yoghurt bowl,â he added simply. You blinked.
Since when did he know how I like my fruit bowl?
You stood slowly, walking into the kitchen, watching as he unpacked everything. Bananas, apples, strawberries and thenâ granola. Your favorite. The kind that was extra nutty and packed with raisins for sweetness.The exact brand, the exact variety you reached for everyday. Your fingers hovered over it. âYou remembered?â you asked, quieter now. Mark froze for just a second. Then shrugged, casualâbut not really, âYou can't exactly function in the afternoon without it.â
You swallowed and you swallowed hard because you were starting to realise how much trouble you would be in when he decides to go back to wherever the hell he came from. He didnât think it was a big deal. Exceptâit was because he hadnât even been trying to remember.
He just⌠did.
Somewhere along the way, your preferences matter. More than they should. âYou didnât have to,â you said softly, ignoring the fluttering waking happening in the depths of your chest. Mark glanced at you thenâreally looked at you.
âI know.â
And that was the problem.
Morning settles into late morning without you noticing. It always does when youâre working. The house shifts around you quietlyâthe kind of quiet that isnât empty, but lived-in. The windows are still slightly open from earlier, letting in the cool, rain-washed air. The scent of damp earth lingers faintly, mixing with the clean sweetness of the fruit Mark had cut earlier. Youâre already halfway into your workflow. Laptop open, camera set. Tripod adjusted just slightly off-center because you hate perfect symmetryâit feels too staged, too forced. Your sleeves are pushed up to your elbows, one of your oversized shirts slipping slightly off one shoulder without you noticing. Your hair is tied loosely, strands falling where they want because you stopped caring about fixing them after the third take.
ââŚand then you let it simmerânot too long, just until it thickens slightlyâŚâ
Your voice is calm. Measured. Familiar. You donât look at the camera, you never do. Your hands move insteadâconfident, precise, comfortable in a way that makes it clear this is your space. Your rhythm. Behind you, Mark leans lightly against the doorway. Heâs been there longer than you realize. He hadnât meant to stop, he was just passing by but then he heard your voice and now, he canât move because this version of you isâŚdifferent. Not louder, not bigger. JustâŚfully in yourself. He notices everything. The way your fingers move without hesitation, the way you tilt your head slightly when youâre thinking, like youâre listening to something only you can hear, the way your voice softens at certain pointsânot for an audience, but because it feels right. He doesnât understand what youâre making but he understands you. Or at least, he feels like heâs starting to.
He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing the doorframe. The sound is small but you notice. You glance back and for a second you freeze because you hadnât realized he was there. He looks⌠comfortable. Grey sweatpants. A loose black t-shirtâone of his, not a baggy one of yours this time. His hair falls naturally over his forehead, slightly damp at the ends from his shower after a quick workout. Thereâs something unfair about it, the way he stands there like he belongs. âYouâve been there long?â you ask, your voice softer now, the filming tone slipping away naturally. He straightens slightly, ânot really.â A lie but not one you call out. You turn back to your setup, reaching forward to stop the recording, your fingers brushing lightly against the camera. The click is soft and the silence that follows is softer. You exhale, stretching your shoulders slightly, rolling tension out of your neck. Behind you, âI didnât know you talk like that when you work.âYou pause, âlike what?â âCalm,â he says. âDifferent.â You turn halfway, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms loosely folded, âdifferent how?â He shrugs, pushing himself off the doorframe, stepping a little closerâbut not too close. âLike youâre not trying,â he says. âYou just⌠are.â that lands. You donât show it immediately but it does. âThatâs kind of the point,â you reply after a moment, quieter now. He nods, like that makes sense, like it fits into whatever heâs already building in his mind about you and then, there's a knock on your front door. Sharp. Familiar. You donât even think about it.âThe door's open!â you call out, already turning back to adjust your setup again, checking the angle, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Footsteps. Fast. Unapologetic. âFinally,â your best friendâs voice carries in before you even see him, dramatic as always. âDo you know how long Iâve beenââ
He stops. Mid-step and mid-sentence. Mid-everything. The silence that follows is immediate and strange. You donât look up right away because Eli is always dramatic like that. Youâre used to his pausesâthey usually mean heâs about to say something ridiculous and stupid but this one stretches too long. âWhat?â you ask, still focused on your screen. No response. You glance up and thatâs when you see it. Heâs not looking at you. Heâs staring past you at Mark. Completely still, like his brain is buffering.
âNo,â he says slowly. You blink, âno what?â He doesnât answer, he only takes a step forward. Then another, like heâs being pulled. ââŚNo way,â he breathes, quieter now, like he doesnât trust the sound of his own voice. You follow his gaze to Mark. Who has gone very still. Thereâs a shift in him. Subtle but there. His shoulders straighten just slightly. His expression closes offânot completely, but enough that you can feel the difference without understanding it. âWhat is happening?â you ask, slower now, your eyes moving between the two of them. Your best friend finally looks at you and the look on his face. Itâs not confusion. Itâs disbelief. âWait,â he says, pointing between you and Mark. âWaitâwait, wait.â You frown slightly, âyouâre not making sense.â âWhen you told meââ he starts, pacing once, running a hand through his hair like heâs trying to physically rearrange his thoughts, ââwhen you told me you had a stranger in your houseâŚâ You nod slowly, ââŚyes.â âI thought you meant, like, a stranger!!!â he says. You blink, âhe is a stranger!!â âNo,â he says, pointing again, more aggressively this time. âThat is not just a stranger.â
You glance at Mark again. He exhales quietly.âHi,â he says, almost apologetically because he already knows where this conversation is about to go. Your best friend lets out a sound thatâs somewhere between a laugh and a scream, âyou said his name was Mark,â he continues, turning back to you, voice rising slightly. âYou said âMarkâ like it was justâjust Markânot THE MARK!?!?â
Your brows knit together, âThe what Mark?â He freezes then says your name in disbelief and looks at you, really looks at you as if you've just managed to grow another head, âyou can't be serious!!â You stare back. âAm I not serious enough?â He turns slowly, ignoring your existence completely and back to Mark. Back to you. Then, âyou know those groups Igogo and I are always talking about?â he asks carefully.
You nod, âyeahâŚâ
âThe one I keep sending you songs from. Videos. The ones you never watch properly.â You shrug slightly, âI listen sometimes.â âYou donât look,â he corrects.
ââŚI donât need to. Ears are meant to listen.â
He inhales sharply with closed eyes before he points at Mark again. âThatâs him. At least one of the men behind some of the songs.â Silence. Real silence this time, the kind that stretches, settles and waits. You look at Mark, really look at him. Not the way youâve been looking at him, not the way you look at someone youâre getting to know but like youâre trying to place something. Something familiar that never mattered enough before.
ââŚOh.â
It comes out softer than expected. Not dramatic, not shocked. Just⌠realization. Your best friend stares at you like youâve just committed a crime. âThatâs it?â he demands. âThatâs all you have?â You glance at him then back at Mark, âshould I scream?â âYes!â he says immediately. âNo,â Mark says at the same time. You pause. Then, a small smile pulls at your lips. âYouâre famous, Mr Celebrity?â Itâs not a question, itâs not admiration. Itâs just⌠a statement. Mark nods slightly, ââŚsomething like that.â
You tilt your head. Studying him, no wonder he can take some time off in this economy and strangely, nothing changes. Not the way he laughed this morning, not the way he stood in your kitchen and definitely not the way he looked at you last night.
Your best friend, however, is losing his mind. âI need to call her,â he mutters, already pulling out his phone. âI need to call Igogo right nowâsheâs not going to believe this.âYou sigh softly, rubbing your temple, âdonât start.â âItâs too late,â he says, already dialing. âItâs already started, I love you but she'll give me the enthusiasm I need right now. You are a kpop buzzkillâ Mark watches the entire thing unfold and for the first time since the revealâhe laughs. Soft. Real because somehow, this chaos feels⌠normal and that feels more dangerous than anything else.
Igogo arrives in less than fifteen minutes. Hair slightly disheveled, breath uneven, eyes wide like sheâs just sprinted through half the city. âI CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!â she exclaims the second the door opens. âI CAN'T BELIEVE MARK LEE IS IN YOURââ and then she sees him again. In full. Not through a screen Eli had shown her when he called and she told him to shut up because the chances of that happening were almost as extinct as you showing your face on your channel. Not distorted. Real. Standing in your kitchen like he belongs there and she justâ freezes. âHi,â Mark says softly and the sound that comes out of her after is not human.
Lunch happens after the chaos settles, after introductions that are half coherent, half laughter, half Eli and Igo hitting each other's arm before they hit Mark hard on his and make him sign an autograph on paper before claiming two of your thrifted picture frames for themselves. After Eli has already started retelling the story like itâs breaking news, after she circled Mark twice like sheâs verifying his existence now, youâre seated together. All four of you.The table is fuller than usual. Thereâs the dish you filmed earlierârich, layered, something slow-cooked with spices that cling to the air even now. A soft stew, thickened just enough, served beside fluffy rice that still carries heat. There are leftovers tooâsmall plates you'd had for dinner the previous night. Roasted vegetables tossed lightly in oil and herbs. A chilled fresh pasta youâd forgotten about until midmorning as you were thinking what to prepare for you, Eli and Mark before the company got bigger. Sliced fruit arranged lazily on a side plate. Eli was supposed to help you filmâŚhe clearly could not be bothered with that anymore. Mark sits beside you. Not angled away. With his knee brushing yours under the table. His arm resting along the back of your chair againâlike earlier, like itâs becoming something he does without thinking. You donât move away and you donât acknowledge it either but Igogo sees it, Eli sees it and the silent conversation that passes between them is loud enough to feel.
âSo,â Igogo starts, slowly, dragging the word like sheâs savoring it, âwhen you said âMarkââŚâ You close your eyes briefly, âdonât.â
ââŚyou meant him.â
âI didnât know I meant him.â Eli snorts, âthatâs worse.â Mark huffs a quiet laugh beside you. âIn my defense,â you add, picking at your food, âhe didnât exactly introduce himself with a rĂŠsumĂŠ.â
âI said my name,â he says.
âYou said your name like it was normal.â
âIt is normal!!â
Igogo leans forward, ânot that name.â You nudge her lightly with your foot under the table and she grins. Unapologetic. Conversation flows. Easy, layered with teasing, curiosity, small moments that slip between laughter.They ask him questions. Some direct, some disguised as jokes. He answers. Carefully at first, then less carefully because something about this space, about youâ makes it easier to loosen the edges of himself. ââŚso you just left?â Eli asks at some point, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on him and there it is. That shift. Subtle but real. Markâs fingers pause against his glass, âIâm on a break.â
Igogo tilts her head. âThat sounds temporary."
âIt is.â
âDo you want it to be?â
Silence. It doesnât stretch awkwardly, it settles. Heavy. Mark exhales quietly, âI donât know.âAnd thatâ that lands because itâs honest. Too honest. You glance at him, really glance and for a momentâ you see it. Not the version people know, not the composed, polished version but the one you know, the one sitting beside you now and having lunch with two of his fans. The uncertain one. The one tired in a way that isnât physical, looking for something he hasnât named yet. Lunch lingers. No one rushes, no one checks the time. It justâŚexists until plates are empty and the conversation slows naturally. âIâll wash up.â Mark says it easily, already standing, gathering plates before you can protest.
âYou donât have toââ
âI know.â
He meets your eyes briefly. Soft and certain. âI want to,â and something about the way he says itâ makes your chest tighten.The kitchen fills with the sound of running water. Low, steady and familiar. You donât stay not because you donât want to but because Elii is already grabbing the wine bottle and Igogo is already trailing behind him like sheâs been waiting for this moment all afternoon. âCome on,â she says, dragging you gently by the wrist. âWe need to talk.â You've learnt not to resist. The living room feels quieter. Warmer and softer. You sink into the couch, the glass of wine pressed into your hand before you even realize it. Eli sprawls across the armchair like he owns it. Igogo curls beside you, knees tucked under her, eyes already locked on the kitchen.
On him.
âHeâs washing dishes.â
âYes.â
âLike this is his house.â
You sigh, âheâs helping.â Eli snorts, âheâs settling.â Igogo hums in agreement, âvery quickly.â You shoot them both a look, âcan we not?â âNo,â they say in unison. A moment passes, then, Igogo leans closer more mischievous now, lowering her voice for the drama of it all, âso.â You already hate the tone, âwhat?â She tilts her head toward the kitchen, âhe hasnât stopped looking at you. Have you guys had sex already?â Your grip tightens slightly around the glass, â seriously? Thatâs whatââ âand you havenât stopped pretending you donât notice, â Eli raises his glass to his lips taking a cheeky sip before lifting it up in the air.
âTo mutual delusion.â
You glare, âIâm not delusional.â âNo,â Igogo agrees lightly. âYouâre just letting a very attractive, very famous man live in your house and acting like that means nothing.â âIt doesnât mean nothing,â you snap quietly. They both pause becauseâ that wasnât what you meant to say. In the kitchenâMark rinses a plate slowly but his focus isnât on the dishes. It drifts to the sound of your voice. Soft. Lower now and private. He canât hear the words but he can feel the shift and something in his chest pulls because he wants to be there. Not here, not separated by a room. He dries his hands slower than necessary trying not to think about why.
Back in the living room, Igogo nudges your shoulder lightly,ââŚif you two end up togetherââ
âWeâre notââ
ââI need tickets.â
You stare at her, ââŚyouâre unbelievable.â âIâm practical,â she corrects. Eli nods, âvery, ticket prices are outrageous these days.â You laugh despite yourself shaking your head but your gaze drifts back to the kitchen where he stands. Quiet and focused. Like he fits too easily and somewhere, quietly, without asking permissionâ something shifts inside you. Not loud, not dramatic but enough because now, itâs not just curiosity anymore and across the room, Mark feels it too.
He just doesnât have the words for it yet, only the weight, only the pull, the quiet, growing realization that leaving is going to be harder than he thought not because of where he came from but because of where he is now and you being in it.
One afternoon, you are working in your office space when he finds you. Curled into your chair, glasses slipping slightly down your nose, your attention fixed on your screen. Your world again. Structured and focused. Safe. You donât hear him come in. You only notice when something appears beside you.
A bowl. You glance. Fruit.
Cut neater than before. It's always fruit. You look up. Heâs standing thereâone hand resting lightly against the back of your chair, the other still holding the edge of the desk.
ââŚYouâve improved,â you murmur.
âIâve been practicing,â he replies quietly. Thereâs something softer about him now, something lighter. Like the building tension hasnât disappearedâbut itâs been⌠redirected. You reach for a piece without thinking.
ââŚThanks.â
He doesnât move, not right away. Instead, his gaze drifts to your screen, âWhat are you working on?â You tilt the monitor slightly toward him,âmy next video,â you say. âPlanning, editing⌠fixing things Iâll probably change again tomorrow. Itâs complicated.â
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, âI get that,â he says slowly. You look at him more carefully now. He continues, quieter, âMusic used to feel simple for me. Now it doesnât.â That is the first time he admits it out loud. Not the decision but the fracture. He leans in slightly. Closer, close enough that you feel it before you register it. His arm shifts, brushing lightly against your back. Not intentional but not entirely accidental either. Your breath stutters. He notices because of course he does but he doesnât pull away. Not immediately. Instead, his gaze lingers on the screen. Then drifts slowly to you. Your glasses. The way your lips part slightly when youâre concentrating, the faint crease between your brows and something in his chest tightens. âYou should rest later,â he says quietly. You blink, âWhat?â âYouâve been at this for a while,â he adds, softer now. You swallow.
âOkay I will.â
But neither of you moves. The air changes..Thickens and your awareness sharpens. Every small movement amplified. His hand shifts slightly against the chair, your shoulder brushes his arm and then before either of you can think it throughâŚhe leans in. Just slightly to press a soft kiss to the side of your head. Your temple. It's barely there but enough to make everything stop.
You freeze.
He freezes.
The world narrows into that single point of contact that no longer exists and suddenly itâs too much...he pulls back immediately, âIââ .You donât respond. You canât because your heart is racing too fast. Your thoughts are too loud and your body is too aware. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair, âI didnât meanââ but he did and you both know it. Silence crashes in.
Heavy.
Awkward and charged. Then, he turns and leaves. Too quickly. Like if he stays, something else will happen, something bigger. Something you both won't be able to walk back from. You sit there. Frozen. The fruit untouched beside you, your screen forgotten and your thoughts spiraling becauseâ
What does that mean?
Days later when you both mutually, reluctantly decided to ignore what had happened in your office that night, the room was quiet except for the soft clicking of the keyboards on your laptop. Mark sat next to you on your kitchen island, headphones on, one foot tapping lightly against the floor in a rhythm only he could hear. The lamp between you cast a warm glowâsoft enough to blur the edges of everything. Including him.
You glanced up.
Just for a second. He was focused on his worksheet in front of him. Completely and for a moment, you forgot what you were doing. On his end, he felt it. That look. Still, he didnât turn, didnât break. Minutes passed or maybe hours, neither of you kept track. At some point, you both reached for something at the same time.
Your hand.
His.
Brushing. Lingering. You didnât look at each other but neither of you pulled away quickly either. And that silence? It said more than anything else could have.
Another night comes slowly. Deliberately and neither of you knows how to act but itâs you who breaks it.
âPizza?â
Your voice carries from the kitchen. Casual. Like nothing happened but like everything happened. He appears a moment later smiling softly at you with a nod, âYeah.â
You lead him to the small makeshift terrence you had on your roof. One you insisted your brothers helped you make one past summer when the house was still new. Now, the rooftop is colder than expected. The city stretches around youâlights scattered like something alive, distant but present. You sit close on the small two seater couch you had. Not touching, but close with the pizza box sat squarely on his lap. The silence is different now. Not awkward, not entirely. Just⌠full.
ââŚDo you ever think about leaving?â he asks suddenly.
You glance at him, âLeaving what?â
âEverything,â he says.
His voice is quieter now, more honest. âIâve been thinking about it a lot.â You donât interrupt. You let him speak because something about this feels important. âI donât know if I fit where I am anymore,â he continues. âOr if I ever did.â The confession sitting between you is heavy. Real. The truth behind his almost distant smiles and the permanent do not disturb on his phone. You exhale softly, âmaybe youâre not supposed to stay there forever.â He looks at you. Like that possibility terrifies him. âWhat if I regret it?â You shrug lightly, âthen at least it was still your choice.â You both stay silent again until he speaks up again after a sip of his coke, âI think I might leave.â
You donât ask what, you already know. His group. His contract. The life he has been performing inside. The life people only seemed to care about. His jaw tightens slightly.
âI donât know how theyâll take it.â
A pause.
Then, softer, "I'm terrified to find out who I am outside of it.â That is the first time he sounds afraid in a way that is not controlled. Your hand reaches up to pull some of his hair out of his eyes, he turns to look at you, âYou donât have to know all of it right now.â Mark looks at you and there is something dangerous in how much he is looking at you. Not possession. Recognition. His hand finds yours without ceremony and you let it stay. You both grow silent again in understanding but this one feels closer, warmer and thenârain. Sudden.
Sharp.
You both laugh instinctively, scrambling to stand, grabbing the box, the drinks before seeking shelter back inside. Breathless, drenched and laughing. The rain doesnât stop when you reach the stairwell. It follows you inâsoft at first, then louder, drumming against the rooftop door you just pushed open, as if it refuses to let the moment end.
Youâre laughing.
Not gracefully. Not softly. Youâre laughing in broken pieces, breathless, shoulders shaking, fingers still curled around the cardboard pizza box that is now slightly ruined from the rain and Markâheâs behind you, one hand hovering near your back like he doesnât trust the wet steps, like he doesnât trust himself not to reach for you. His other hand is still holding onto both your drinks. âCarefulââ he says, but heâs laughing too, the words barely forming, dissolving into quiet disbelief. âYouâre the one who said rooftop,â you shoot back, glancing over your shoulder. Your sweater is soaked through. It clings and itâs heavier now, dragging at your shoulders, the hem brushing against your thighs where your shorts barely exist beneath it. Your socks are damp, soft against the cold tile, and your hair is dripping down your neck in slow, quiet rivulets. Mark notices everything.
He shouldnât but he does.
Every step down the stairs feels slower than it should be. Like time is stretching. Like something is building and neither of you is naming it. By the time you reach the hallway, the laughter has softened. Not gone. Just⌠quieter. Warmer. The house greets you with stillness and Biscuit is sitting right by the hallway entrance like a silent judge, tail flicking lazily, watching the two of you drip rainwater all over the floor like youâve lost all sense of dignity. âOh my God,â you breathe, pointing weakly, âheâs judging us.â Mark huffs a laugh under his breath. âHe should. We look insane.â
âYou look worse.â
âThatâs offensive.â
âItâs honest.â That earns a real laugh from himâlow, easy, the kind that makes your chest tighten without permission and then it fades naturally because now youâre both standing there.
Close. Too close.
âIâuhâŚâ you start, suddenly aware of everything. The wet fabric against your skin, the way your hair sticks to your neck and most importantly, the way heâs looking at you. âI should get towels,â you say quickly, stepping past him but he moves at the same time.
You almost collide.
For a secondâjust a secondâyouâre chest to chest, breath to breath, the space between you disappearing so fast it feels like a mistake. âSorry,â he murmurs.
âYeah. Me too.â
Neither of you move. Mark recovers first. He clears his throat, dragging a hand through his wet hair, pushing it backâwater droplets flicking onto the floor, âIâll grab them,â he says. You nod, grateful for the distance but it doesnât last because when he comes back, he doesnât hand you the towel. He steps closer.
Again.
âHold still,â he says, softer this time and you do. You donât even question it. He lifts the towel to your head, hesitatesâjust brieflyâbefore pressing it gently against your hair. His touch is careful, almost⌠reverent, like heâs afraid youâll disappear if heâs too rough.You laugh under your breath. âYou donât have to be that gentle. Iâm not glass.â âI know,â he says quietly but still, he doesnât change the way he touches you.
This is dangerous.
He thinks in between his movements with both his hands on either side of your face, looking down at your frame as you find the floor more intriguing in exaggerated wonder.
You are dangerous.
The way youâre standing in front of him, soaked, smiling softly, trusting him without even realizing it. He drags the towel down slowly, drying the strands near your temple, your cheek and his fingers brush your skin. Accidentally but not enough to ignore. You feel it. The shift, it's small but itâs there.Your laughter fades completely now, your breath catchesâjust slightlyâas his hand pauses against one side of your face and suddenly youâre hyper-aware of everything.
The quiet. The rain. Him.
âYouâre freezing,â he says but his voice is different now. Lower. Closer. You swallow, âSo are you.â And thatâs when you notice it, really notice it. His shirt. Clinging and soaked through, the fabric outlining everything it shouldnât be outlining so clearly.Your gaze flickers, just for a second but he catches it.
Of course he does.
âOhâright,â he mutters, almost to himself and then, he pulls the shirt over his head. Itâs not dramatic.Itâs not slow for effect but to you it feels like everything slows anyway.The way the fabric lifts, the way his shoulders move, the way the air changes. You forget how to breathe for a second.âBetter,â he says, running the towel through his own hair now with his eyes still on you. Not casually and definitely not lightly. Heâs looking at you like heâs trying to figure something out. Something important. You shouldnât step closer but you do anyway. âLet me,â you say softly, reaching for the towel in his hands. He lets you take it but he doesnât step back. Your fingers brush his bare shoulder as you start drying his hair, mimicking what he did for you. Except youâre not as careful.Youâre nervous.Your hands arenât steady and when the towel slips slightly, your fingers graze the back of his neck, he inhales sharply.
You freeze.
âIâm sorryââ
âNo,â he says quickly. Too quickly. Your eyes meet and this time, neither of you looks away. Something unspoken passes between you. Heavy. Undeniable. This is the moment. The one youâve been circling for days. Almost touches, almost glances, almost something more and now thereâs no space left for almost. âMarkâŚâ you whisper, you donât even know what youâre going to say. You donât get the chance because he closes the distance. The first kiss isnât rushed, it's not overwhelming. ItâsâŚcareful. Tentative. Like heâs asking a question and you answer immediately. Your palms rest carefully on his chest, grounding yourself as the kiss deepensânot fast, not messy, but certain. His hand finds your waist. Warm and steady, pulling you closer like heâs afraid you might step back. You donât. The world narrows. To this, to him.To the way your breath mixes, your movements slowly syncing without thought and then, something shifts. The kiss breaks for a second. Just enough for air, just enough for realization.âWe shouldnâtââ you start but your voice is weak, reminding him how cruel the world he lives in is to whatever is starting between you. Unconvincing.âFuck,â he curses yet he doesnât move away, telling you that he couldn't give two shits about it when you kissed him back âI know.â
Silence. One heartbeat. Two. Then, he kisses you again. This time, it's not careful, itâs deeper. Hungrier. Like something in him finally gave in. You stumble back a step, then another and he follows. Not forcing, just not letting go either. Your back meets the hallway wall. Softly but the impact sends a spark through you anyway. His other hand slides up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough and his lips move from yours, to your cheek. Your jaw, slowly down to your neck.You gasp. Quiet. Sharp. Mark is gone. Heâs so gone he couldn't even be bothered with saving himself at this point. Completely. He knows this is the line. He knows this changes everything but the way you react, the way your hands grip him tighter instead of pushing him away. He canât stop. Doesnât want to and heâll be damned if he has to, still, he can't help asking.
âTell me to stop,â he murmurs against your skin. He doesnât sound like he wants you to.
Please don't.
You donât. Your fingers weakly slide into his wet hair instead and thatâs all the answer he needs.The tension thatâs been building, days of it. Weeks, maybe. Every almost moment, every held breath, every glance that lingered too long.
It finally breaks.
He pulls you off the wall. Not roughly but with intention and suddenly youâre moving backwards. Towards the room that's undeniably yours.Your laughter comes back for a second. Breathless. Disbelieving. âThis isâthis is insane,â you whisper. âI know,â he says but heâs smiling against your lips. The door hits softly behind you. You donât even remember walking that far along and when it closes, the space becomes smaller, quieter, all him, everything intensifies again. He pauses. Just for a second. Forehead resting against yours weakly, breathing you in like he needs it.âIs this okay?â he asks and this time, he means it. You nod because you donât trust your voice to not betray your desperation and then, he pulls you back in. Slower this time. Deeper, like heâs savoring it now. Not rushing, not questioning. Just⌠feeling and the world completely disappears.
The brush of Mark's lips was softâŚtoo soft, like he could break if you pulled away. Softly, they travelled down your throat as he took a step forward, pushing you back to where your bed was. Then, you wanted moreâŚneeded it actually, because what was once slow built itself up into something you both couldn't hold back from much longer. The crash of your lips again becomes feral and desperateâŚtoo desperate from the tiptoeing you both have been doing around each other since the first day he stepped into the world you've managed to make your own. The world he's long since wanted to belong to from the moment you blinked up at him and asked if he was serious about staying with a stranger all because he was lonely. All because he actually could open up about being lonely, something he forgot how to open up about because his glossy and flashy world expects him to be okay with everything handed to him.His hands travels low to edge of your soaking sweater, fingers travelling under, touching skin before cupping the curve of your ass through your ever tempting boyshorts. Yours clawed on his shoulders, travelling down to feel him up fully.Your hands slowly run over his chest then trace up to his muscles and biceps before settling back on his shoulders, tugging him down as you braid your fingers on the hairs at the back of his head. Mark pulls away pulling your sweater up and over your shoulders. Then his lips are back on you again, softly placing a kiss on your forehead, your cheek. Then the other before kissing you longingly and traveling down south to your neck again, your shoulder while his hands worked on your bra unclasping it before snapping it off like an expert auditioning for a magic mic number.
Mark took both your breasts warm in his hands, toying with them softly as he kissed down your cleavage leaving wet traces behind as he kneeled down in front of you before taking one into his mouth with hooded eyes that hadn't looked away from you since his cruel ministrations started, the hardened bud warm despite the cold in the room and the cold from the rain outside. The taste of your skin was enough to grow his hunger. You hummed in approval before sighing in pleasure as your fingers held the side of his head. Mark nips on the skin under the other breast he's left neglected, both his hands pull on your shorts, drawing them off your smooth legs and removing one wet sock after the other, still kissing low on your stomach. He then slowly stands up nipping his way up, on your sternum, your shoulder, your neck laving his tongue on the sting he leaves behind before kissing you on the lips again.
âYou're so fucking gorgeous Angel.â He whispers on your lips as he held on your jaw. He pushes you back on the bed, climbing over you, âmy gorgeous gorgeous baby.â Soft whimpers leave your lips as you arch your back into him. Your fingers dig into his back making the flesh there turn red, drawing him closer to you as he settles between your thighs. âI want you.â You whine lifting your hips to grind on his still in sweatpants. He moves to your neglected breast, flicking on your nipple with his toungue so deliciously that it has you moaning desperately for him. âNo rush.â Mark smirks before latching his mouth around it and sucking hard before heading south and kissing his way over your stomach before surprising you by spreading your thighs open with his hands, groaning low when his eyes feast upon your glistening pussy with a wet lick of his lips his hunger for you clear as day when he looks at you.
âFuck.â
Mark doesn't wait for you to protest, he dives straight in, burying his face between your legs and sliding his tongue up and down your slit. He moans into you, the vibrations make you shudder and even before you can recover, he's pulling back again to play with your clit with his thumb, his other hand opening your legs further apart before lightly slapping on your arse and grabbing a handful. He sucks on your clit again, flicking his tongue over it repeatedly as one of his fingers slowly eases into you building pressure deep inside your stomach. You don't even think you've breathed properly since all of this started and it's slightly getting to you because you are practically breaking and screaming. Your hands pull at his hair as you roll your hips against his tongue while he slowly adds in another finger, fucking you slowly as you come undone before him.
Mark pulls away from you completely and he hurriedly tugs on his sweatpants, baring himself completely naked before you. He kneels on the bed again, âDo we have protection?â You nod pushing yourself up to your bedside table pulling the bottom drawer to grab one. You hand it to him and watch as he swipes your wetness from his bottom lips while opening the condom up. Mark's eyes never leave yours as he wraps himself up. His dick long, veiny and thick that just looking at it threatens to have you soaking the bed. Then, he drags your backside into his lap grabbing his cock, slapping it against your pussy, rubbing the broad tip on your clit torturously. Your thighs twitch in his hold as he presses into you ever so slightly before pulling back.
âReady?â
You nod moaning his name before your voice cuts short when he slides his cock into you so slowly until he is fully seated. Your spine arches wordlessly as you bite down on your bottom lip hard and he starts thrusting slowly, holding your legs to his chest so that they are straight up in the air and apart. Slowly, his thrusts begin to build up, his hips begin to move so fast. The pleasure is maddening. His cock presses every nerve, stroking every sweet spot with every delivered hard thrust. The pressure in your stomach is steadily building into higher heights than the last, faster than you anticipated. One of his hands rests squarely on your stomach, tracing his movements slowly before pressing down so deliciously that it has him pushed out of you abruptly. Mark's other hand comes down hard on your arse before holding himself to your entrance again and sliding right in. The bliss feeling makes you clench around him. His hips stutter as he rubs on your clit with his thumb in tight precise circles. You know you both won't last with how worked up you've both been to make your first time last long and he's not really helping your case with his head down, watching his cock slide in and out of you, shining with your juices as beads of cum gather in the condom. His hand slaps on your arse again and he groans at the feeling of you clenching even tighter than before around him before plunging in balls deep. He draws back slowly and slams back in again and again. Your brain is fuzzy and you can barely hold on already losing all your senses. Mark leans over you to kiss you sweetly while still fucking into you, sending you over the edge making you clench around him so hard he groans while spilling into the condom. He sucks keenly on your bottom lip as you contract down and milk him dry for all he is worth.
He calls out your name softly, still kissing you deeply as he gives long slow thrusts to keep your aftershocks going, âI like you a lot Angel.â He sighs deeply as he releases your legs from beneath him while slowly pulling out letting you wrap them around his waist while he covers you up with the soft sheet. He brushes your hair out of your face while cupping the back of your head and presses his mouth hard to yours before pulling back to look at you. âI like you too, Mr Celebrity.â You tell him and he smiles ecstatic. You smile back happy and calm, euphoric in the aftermath of the bubble he has created around you. Mark pulls back from the bed already stepping into your bathroom and you get curious as to what he's doing because you can hear water running. Then he steps back into the bedroom, pulling the sheets away from you and carrying you towards the bathroom again. The man sits you on the toilet and you look at anything but him, âWe have to pee.â
Oh my goodness!?! There's that âweâ again?!
âCan you turn around?â
âBaby,â Mark is about to protest but the redness on your face stops him. So he simply sighs and turns around. You thank him for it and pee, when you tell him you are done, the man takes you into his arms again before carrying you into the soapy bathtub.
âA good ten minute soak, a kiss to your forehead and a good night's sleep.â
âYou're doing too much.â
Mark simply shakes his head while kneeling besides you outside the tub, âthis is the bare minimum Angel.â All you do is laugh. Mark places a kiss on your forehead again, âI'll come back for you,â before walking back outside for some fresh shorts to sleep in. Your heart is swelling like you like him a little bit more than you intended to even though that seems impossible. The way he makes you feel is beyond your comprehension and you can't help hoping that he feels the same because his actions towards you would be cruel if he didn't want anything serious after tonight.
The next morning does not arrive all at once. It seeps in. Soft, gray light filtering through the curtains, the kind that doesnât wake the world but brushes against it gently, like itâs asking permission first. Mark is awake before it fully settles. He doesnât move at first, doesnât know exactly when he woke upâonly that at some point in the quiet, his eyes open, and he doesnât move. For a momentâjust a momentâhe forgets everything else. He turns his head slightly and you are there.Your presence is everywhere. In the quiet, in the warmth. In the unfamiliar, overwhelming awareness that he can still smell the faint scent of your body wash on the pillow. Curled into him, half on his chest, half tangled in the sheets like you belong there. Like youâve always belonged there.
Your breathing is slow, deep, even.
One of your hands rests loosely against his ribs, your fingers occasionally twitching in your sleep, like youâre dreaming something soft. For a long moment, he doesnât breathe properly because thisâthis right hereâis the kind of peace he didnât know he was allowed to have.
His gaze traces your face slowly.
Your lashes resting against your cheeks. The faint crease between your brows that only appears when youâre deeply asleep. The way your lips part slightly, relaxed in a way heâs never seen on you when youâre awake. No guardedness. No quick wit. No careful distance. JustâŚyou. Something in his chest tightens. Not painfully but enough to make him swallow because thereâs something painfully tender about it.
Something that makes his chest ache.
Carefullyâso carefully he almost doesnât move at allâhe lifts his hand and brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. His fingers linger longer than they should. They always do with you. You stir slightly, shifting closer instead of away, your cheek pressing more firmly against him. Markâs breath catches.
âYouâre mine,â he whispers under his breath, like heâs reassuring himself more than anything. He lets his fingers trail down, just once, along your templeâsoft, reverent. âHow are you this pretty?â Then, before he can think too much about it, he leans down and presses a quiet kiss to your forehead. Itâs instinctive, gentle. Almost shy and it lingers. For a second too long. When he pulls back, his expression shiftsâ something deeper settling in his eyes. Something heavier because this isnât just comfort anymore and he knows it.
It is dangerous
You are dangerous.
He thinks and not in the way people usually mean it. Not reckless. Not impulsive.
No.
This is dangerous because it feels right. His gaze lingers longer than it should. Long enough to memorize. Carefully, he shifts under you, easing himself out from your hold without waking you. Itâs a slow processâadjusting the sheets, lifting your arm, guiding you gently onto the pillow. You mumble something incoherent, brows furrowing for a second and he freezes but you donât wake. Instead, you curl into the space he leaves behind, instinctively seeking warmth.
His chest tightens.
âSo fucking pretty Angel,â he exhales quietly. Then he reaches for the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders, tucking it around you like it matters more than anything else in the world because right now, it does. He lingers there, just watching you for a second longer. Like heâs trying to memorize this version of you.
Soft, unaware and his.
His phone vibrates. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and unwelcome. Markâs jaw tightens immediately. He doesnât need to look. He already knows. Still, he reaches for it. Careful and slow. Trying not to wake you. The screen lights up. A name.
One heâs ignored for days.
His manager. Thereâs a pause. A long one. His thumb hovers over the screen and for a second, he almost lets it ring out again. Like he has every other time because itâs easier that way. Easier to stay here, easier to pretend the outside world isnât waiting for him, demanding things from him or expecting answers heâs been avoiding giving. His mind flickers, Unwanted. Uninvited. Missed calls. Texts stacking up.
Call me back.
We need to talk.
Mark!! Where the hell are you?
He remembers silencing them. Turning his phone face down, choosing you, choosing quiet dinners, choosing the shared glances. The slow, careful way something had been building between you. ChoosingâŚthis. His gaze slowly shifts back to you. Still asleep, still close and still unaware of the way his world is starting to pull at him again. His chest tightens. He exhales, soft. Resigned. The phone vibrates again before it rings a second time. A sharp, intrusive sound against the quiet. Markâs head snaps back down toward it instantly. He doesnât need to see the name but he does anyway and his jaw threatens to break. Heâs ignored the calls for days. Weeks. Letting them ring out while he sat in your living room, while he laughed with you in the kitchen, while he stood on the rooftop just yesterday under the rain like nothing else existed. It's more insistent this time. Mark exhales slowly and glances back at you. Still asleep, still peaceful. Still completely unaware of the storm waiting just outside this room.
ââŚI canât ignore this one,â he murmurs to himself under his breath.
Not today.
Carefully, he looks back at you with soft smitten eyes and doesnât miss the way your hand instinctively reaches for warmth thatâs no longer there. He pauses. Just for a second. He doesnât put on a shirt. He doesnât even think about it. He just steps out in black boxer shorts, bare chest still warm from where you were pressed against him moments ago, his hair still messy, sleep clinging to him in the way he movesâslower, heavier.
Real.
He steps out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him. Only thenâthe call connects almost immediately, âYeah.â His voice is low. Rough with sleep but steady. His voice is sharp. Controlled. Frustrated. Thereâs no greeting on the other end. Just tension. Immediate. âWhere have you been?â
Mark closes his eyes briefly. Straight to it. Of course.
Mark exhales quietly, leaning against the wall, one hand running through his hair, âIâve been busy.â Thereâs a pause. A dangerous one, âbusy ignoring your responsibilities?â Markâs gaze drifts. Not really seeing the hallway but seeing something else entirely. You. Laughing over burnt eggs, standing barefoot in the kitchen. Looking at him like he wasnât just what everyone else saw him as. His jaw tightens slightly. A few days ago, he wouldâve apologized immediately, he wouldâve softened. Backtracked. Made himself smaller to make this easier but something about this morning, about you still asleep in your bed changes the way he answers.
âI needed time.â
The silence on the other end stretches, âthatâs not how this works, Lee.â His jaw tightens slightly, âI know how it works.â
âThen act like it.â
There it is. That tone. Familiar. Pressing. Expecting. Mark straightens slightly. Not defensive, not aggressive butâŚfirmer.
âI said Iâd come back,â he replies. Itâs quiet again. Thereâs a shift on the other end. âYou donât get to just disappear, Mark. We have schedules. We have commitments. The comebackââ
âI know.â
He cuts in, but not harshly.Just steady. Measured.
âI know.â
Silence. Then, âthen explain to me why youâve been unreachable.â Mark exhales slowly, looking down at his hands. For a second, his voice almost falters. Almost. Then it steadies again, âbecause I didnât want to make a decision Iâd regret.â
That lands. He hears it in the pause.
âDecision?â
Mark tilts his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. His chest feels tight but clear. âIâll be in time for the comeback,â he says finally. âDonât worry.â Another pause. This one is heavier. âThatâs not enough.â Mark closes his eyes briefly, âitâs what I can give you right now.â The words hang between them. Not careless, not impulsive. Deliberate. âYouâre risking a lot,â his manager says. Mark lets out a quiet breath. A humorless one. âI know.â
âAnd for what?â
The question lands. Sharp. Mark doesnât answer immediately because the answer isn't simple anymore. His gaze shifts toward the closed bedroom door, âI have some decisions to make,â he says instead.
âThatâs not reassuring.â
âItâs honest.â
Silence. Then, âyouâre not thinking clearly.â Thatâthat almost makes him laugh, but he doesnât. âIâve never thought more clearly,â Mark replies, quieter now. Steadier and he means it because for the first time, heâs not just thinking about expectations. Or schedules, or what heâs supposed to be. Heâs thinking about what he wants and somehow even though he had been contemplating it for a while, youâre now at the center of that. On the other end, his manager exhales sharply, âweâll talk when youâre back.â Mark nods, even though it canât be seen.
âYeah.â
The call ends and the silence that follows feelsâŚlouder than the conversation did. Mark lowers the phone slowly. His hand lingering there. The door creaks open behind him. Soft. Barely there but he hears it and when he turns, he expects you there but you aren't and it makes him release a breath he didn't even realise he was holding.
The house had learned the shape of him. That was the first thought that crossed your mind as you stood barefoot at the kitchen doorway, watching him. You were always watching him. Late afternoon light spilled through the windows in long, golden sheets, settling across the counters, the floor, him. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, catching on the soft fabric of the oversized grey hoodie he woreâyours, you realized absently. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Hair slightly messy, like heâd run his hands through it one too many times. He was standing at the counter, cutting fruit on your small fruit chopping board with your favorite watermelon bowl in front of him already prepped with your yoghurt and granola.
Carefully.
Too carefully. Like if he focused hard enough on slicing strawberries into perfect halves, he wouldnât have to think about anything else. You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across your chest, and just⌠watched. He had been like this all day. Soft. Attentive.
Careful.
Breakfast had appeared without you askingâtoast slightly uneven, bacon cooked better than the disaster from that first morning because in order to achieve the crunchy bacon they needed to slightly be burnt so he was safe from your scrutiny, but still clearly his effort. Heâd hovered while you ate, pretending to wipe the already clean counter. Heâd carried your camera bag without being asked when you filmed. Heâd folded laundry, your laundry and his, with this quiet concentration that made your chest tighten and every time your fingers brushed, every time your eyes met, he smiled but it didnât quite reach the place you had memorized. Not anymore. You shouldnât have listened in. That thought had replayed in your head all day, like a song stuck in a loop. The phone call. His voice, low and firm in the hallway that morning.
âI said Iâd come back.â
ââŚbecause I didnât want to make a decision Iâd regret.â
And then softer, softer in a way that made your chest ache, âI have some decisions to make.â
You hadnât heard everything. Just enough, enough to let doubt bloom, enough to make you feel like this had an expiration date and now he was being so kind. Gentle. Like someone preparing to leave without making a mess. Your throat tightened.You pushed yourself off the doorframe, âAre you⌠opening a fruit shop?â Your voice came out lighter than you felt. Mark glanced up and for a secondâjust a secondâhis face softened fully, âThere you are.â There it was, that look. The one that made everything inside you go quiet. He smiled, small, almost shy. âI was starting to think you were avoiding me.â Your stomach dropped because you had been. âJust a little busy,â you said, stepping into the kitchen. It sounded wrong even to your own ears and he noticed. Of course he did.
He always noticed.
Something was off.Heâd felt it the moment you woke up, in the way you didnât wake up. The way you stayed turned away from him in bed, the way your breathing had been just a little too even. Like you were pretending and now, now you stood across from him like there was a line drawn between you.
Invisible.
But there. His grip tightened slightly on the knife before he forced himself to relax.
Dude, donât overthink it. Donât mess this up.
You were quieter today. More distant and the thought hit himâsharp, suddenâ
Did I push too far?
Last night. The way you had looked at him, the way you had said his name, the way he had kissed you like he had been starving because he actually was and then some.
God.
His chest tightened. Maybe, maybe it had meant more to him than it did to you.
MaybeâŚ
He set the knife down, âI, uhâŚâ He cleared his throat, wiping his hands on a towel that didnât need wiping. âAbout last nightââ Your head snapped up. Too fast. Too sharp. Something in your expression flickeredâpanic? hurt?âand suddenly he becomes very aware that he was stepping into something fragile. Still, he pushed forward because the silence between you felt worse. âItâs okay,â he said, voice careful. âIf it didnât meanâif you donât want what happened last night to mean anything. I get it. We didnâtâŚtalk about it, and I donât want you to feel likeââ
Oh.
Oh.
The words hit you like cold water. Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
So thatâs what this was?
You let out a small, breathless laugh but there was nothing amused about it, âWow.â Mark freezes. You stepped back slightly, arms wrapping around yourself now. âThatâsââ you swallowed, shaking your head. âThatâs actually insane.â His brows furrowed. âWhat?â âYouâre leaving,â you said, the words spilling out faster now, emotion cracking through your voice, âand the first thing you think to say is that it meant nothing?â His eyes widened. âWhatâno, thatâs notââ âYou think I didnât hear you?â you cut in, sharper now. Silence. Heavy and immediate. Markâs expression shifted, realisation hitting him all at once.
Slowly.
âYouâŚheard?â he asked, quieter. Your laugh came out hollow. âHard not to.â You looked at him then. Really looked and God, that hurt more because he still looked at you like you mattered and that just made no sense. âYouâre going back,â you said, voice trembling now despite your effort to steady it. âYouâre making plans. Youâre deciding your future. And Iâm justâwhat? A stopover? Something that happened while you were figuring things out?â
âThatâs notââ
âAnd now youâre trying to make it easier by pretending it didnât matter?â Your chest tightened, âDo you know how insulting that is?â He stared at you. For a second. Two, and then threeâ Nothing made sense. âYou think Iâm leaving you?â he asked, almost incredulous. âYes!â you shot back. âWhy would you think that?â You laughed again, but this time it broke, âbecause you said youâre going back!â
âI said Iâm going back for work!â
âAnd what happens after that?"
âIââ he stopped because he didnât have a clean answer and the hesitationâ It hit you like confirmation. Your face fell, âExactly.â Something inside his chest finally snaps, âHeyâno.â He steps forward quickly. âThatâs not what that means.â âThen what does it mean, Mark?â you asked, voice softer nowâbut somehow that made it worse. âBecause from where Iâm standing, it sounds like youâre already preparing to leave.â
âIâm not leaving you.â
âThen what are you doing?â
âIâm trying to figure out my life!â he said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once. âIâve spent years doing what everyone expects of me and for the first time Iâmââ he exhaled, frustrated, vulnerableâ âIâm trying to decide something for myself.â Your eyes softened slightly but the hurt didnât disappear, âAnd where do I fit into that?â you asked quietly. He stops and looks at you, really looks. The answer comes easily. Too easily.
âYouâre the only thing that feels certain.â
Silence.
Soft and fragile. Your breath hitched. His shoulders dropped slightly, like the fight had left him all at once, âI wasnât saying last night didnât matter,â he said, quieter now. âI was sayingâŚI didnât want to assume it meant something to you and make things harder.â Your lips parted slightly, âThatâs what you meant?â
âYes.â
You blinked. Once. Twice.
âOh.â A beat passes.Then, softer, âOh.â
You felt stupid. Not in a harsh way. Just⌠small because everything suddenly made sense. The way heâd been careful, the way heâd been watching you, the way heâd been trying. You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your hands. âI thoughtâŚâ you trailed off, then shook your head, âI thought you were trying to make it easier to leave.â Mark steps closer. Slowly. Like approaching something delicate, âI donât want to make anything easier if it means losing you.â Your heart stuttered. You looked up at him and this time, there was no confusion. No hesitation. Just the truth.
Say it.
Youâve been circling it for days. Weeks.
Say it.
âI love you,â he said. Simple but it landed heavy. âI donâtââ he exhaled softly, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. âI donât even know when it happened. But it did and now I canât imagineâŚnot having this.â
You swallowed hard.
âI love you too,â you whispered and that was it. The last thread snapped. He closed the distance first. Not rushed, not hesitant. Just certain. His hand comes up to your cheek, warm, grounding. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie and when your lips met, it wasnât like last night.That had been fire. This wasâ
Home.
Slow. Deep. Intentional. Like both of you were trying to say everything you hadnât managed to put into words. You exhaled softly against him. He pulled you closer. Your bodies fit together like something that had already learned how.The kiss deepened, then softened, lingered.Foreheads resting together. Breath mingling.His arms wrapped around you.Fully.Firmly.Like he meant it. You melted into him, your face tucked into his chest.For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, quietly, âIâm not leaving you,â he murmured into your hair. Your fingers tightened slightly against him.âNot now,â he continued.
A pause.
Then softer, âNot ever, if I can help it.â Your chest ached but this time, it wasnât from fear. You pulled back just enough to look at him, âEven when you go back?â He nodded. âIâll come back too.â A small, shaky smile broke across your face, âYou better.â He smiled back, âI will.â Soft and certain, âand if not, I can always fly you out to me.â
And just like that, the tension didnât disappear. It settled. Turned into something steadier. Something deeper, something that could survive distance because now, it had a name.
The next morning doesnât feel heavy. It feelsâŚsettled. Not perfect, not resolved in some dramatic, life-changing way. Just more gentle. You wake up before him this time and for a moment, you donât move.
Because heâs there.
On his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair falling messily over his eyes like he lost a fight with sleep and didnât care enough to fix it. One arm is stretched toward your side of the bed, fingers just barely brushing your wrist like even in sleep, he refuses to let you drift too far. Your chest tightens.Not painfully, just⌠full. You shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his fingers react anywayâcurling faintly, like your movement pulled him closer even in his dreams.
A small smile tugs at your lips, "clingy,â you murmur under your breath. His response is immediate. A quiet groan, âI heard that.â Your eyes widen slightly, âYou were asleep.â âWas,â he mumbles, voice rough, barely awake. âThen you started talking.â You huff softly, âWell, you shouldnât eavesdrop on people when youâre unconscious.â That earns a low, sleepy laugh from him, âthat's what she said.â You scoff in disbelief, hitting his arm playfully at the jab from your previous day's overthinking. He shifts, turning onto his side now, facing you properly. It feels different, being looked at like that first thing in the morning. Unfiltered. Unhurried.He studies your face for a second. Then, without saying anything, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. It lingers. Too long to be casual yet too natural to question. ââŚmorning,â he murmurs against your skin. Your breath catches slightly, ââŚmorning.â
The day starts slowly. No rush, no urgency pulling either of you away. You drift out of bed together, half-laughing, half-arguing over everything that makes sense but doesn't like its routine. Like you always do but this time, it doesnât feel like youâre adjusting to each other. It feels like you already have. Biscuit winds between your legs as you open the fridge, âTraitor,â Mark mutters, watching the cat ignore him completely.
âHe knows who feeds him.â
âI fed him yesterday.â âYou dropped half the food on the floor.â âThat was strategic.â The man argues back like a prodigal child. You turn to look at him, ââŚhow?â He shrugs, completely serious, âBonding experience.â
You stare at him.Then laugh and something about that laugh, the way it comes easier now, fuller, makes his expression soften without him realizing. Cooking becomesâŚchaotic. Not because either of you canât cook but because neither of you is really focused on it. You bump into each other constantly, reach for the same thing at the same time and pause too long when your hands brush. At one point, he stands behind you to grab something from the cabinet aboveâand doesnât move away immediately after. You feel him there.Close. Warm. Your breath stutters slightly, ââŚMark.â
âHm?â
âYouâre not grabbing anything anymore.â
A pause.
Then, âI forgot what I needed.â You turn your head slightly. Just enough to meet his eyes. Heâs closer than you expected. Your gaze flickers to his lips, then back up and for a second, it almost happens again. That same pull, that same quiet gravity but this time, you both smile instead. Small. Knowing and stepping away before it consumes the moment. The rest of the day unfolds in pieces that feel almostâŚunreal in how normal they are.
You film.
He sits nearby, watching, occasionally offering suggestions that are surprisingly good. You tease him about it, âSince when are you a creative director?â He shrugs,âI have range.â âYou have opinions Mr Celebrity.â
âSame thing.â
You roll your eyes, but you keep his suggestion anyway. Later when you both end up on the couch. Not doing anything important, not talking about anything serious. Just, existing in the same space with your legs draped over his lap, his hand absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your skin. Neither of you acknowledges it but neither of you stops it either. At some point, your head ends up resting against his shoulder, at some point, his chin rests lightly on top of your head and at some point, you both realize how quiet the world feels when youâre like this. âThis is nice,â you murmur. He hums softly in agreement, âYeah.â
A pause.
Then quieter, âFeels⌠easy.â Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt, ââŚyeah.â
Easy and somehow, that feels bigger than anything else. When night rolls in, it feels softer. Quieter. Like the house itself is exhaling.Youâre both in comfortable clothes now. You are in one of your oversized sweaters, sleeves swallowing your hands, the tiny shorts you love to wear swallowed whole by it. Mark is in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still slightly damp from a shower. Thereâs music playing low
A guitar rests next to him on the couch.
You notice it immediately, ââŚyouâre going to play?â He glances up. A little hesitant, âmaybe.â Your heart does something strange at that. You shift slightly on the couch, turning toward him more fully, âI didnât know you brought it with you.â He shrugs, âI didnât. This is rented. I didn't think I was going to want to play anytime soon. A pause, then quieter, âcause I didn't for a while.â
Thereâs something there, something heavier but he doesnât sit in it long. Instead, he adjusts the guitar, fingers brushing the strings lightly. The sound is soft. Tentative. Like heâs testing the space. You pull your legs away expectantly. Mark takes the guitar into his lap. Then, he starts playing. Itâs not loud. Not showy. JustâŚgentle. A melody that feels unfinished, like itâs still finding itself but itâs beautiful. In a quiet, aching way. You donât interrupt. You donât move, you just watch him and for the first time, you see it clearly. Not just Mark. Not just the version of him thatâs been living in your house but the part of him thatâs still searching. Still figuring things out, still deciding who he wants to be. Your chest tightens, âthatâs new,â you say softly when he stops. He nods, âYeah.â â It sounds really good.â
He hesitates. Then, âthank you.â Honest. Uncertain. You shift closer without thinking. Your shoulder brushes his.âYou should keep it,â you say quietly. âIt sounds like you.â He glances at you, âyou think so?â You nod, âYeah.â A small pause settles. Then, softer, âNot the version people expect.â That lands. He looks down at the guitar for a second. Then back at you. Something in his expression shifts. Warms.
âStay?â he asks quietly.
You blink,âI am staying.â He shakes his head slightly, âI meanâlike this.â You understand.
ââŚokay.â
You donât move away and neither does he. He starts playing again. This time more sure. More grounded and you lean into him slightly, your head resting against his shoulder again, your presence steady, quiet, supportive. Outside, the world keeps moving but inside, time stretches. Slows and becomes something soft and almost fragile. His playing steadies, your breathing matches it and somewhere between the notes and the quiet, something deeper settles between you. Not rushed. Not loud. Justâreal. When the song fades, neither of you moves immediately. âThank you,â he murmurs. You tilt your head slightly, âFor what?â He hesitates. Then, âfor making this feel like mine again.â Your chest tightens, you donât answer with words, you just lean further into him, pecking his lips lightly before taking his hand in yours, holding his tight. Like youâre not trying to keep him just letting him know he doesnât have to leave. Not yet not tonight. Not from this and this timeâŚ
He holds on too.
The night settles into the house slowly, like it doesnât want to disturb whatâs already there. The rooms had settled into one of those quiet, lived-in silences that didnât feel empty. It felt full. Full of the low, steady hum of the desktop, the faint crackle of the record spinning lazily as it played one of the records Mark brought home days ago, tucked under his arm like something precious. It plays from the corner of your office, warm and slightly imperfect, the kind of sound that makes everything feel softer around the edges and the soft rhythm of ASMR keys being pressedâhesitant at first, then more certain, like someone relearning a language they once spoke fluently. Your office light is dimâjust the desk lamp on, casting a golden pool across the desk, across him where he sat at your desk like he had always belonged there.
You pause at the doorway.
He hasnât noticed you yet.
Your chair is pulled in close, his posture slightly hunched, one elbow resting on the table while his other hand scrolls slowly across the screen. The monitorâs glow reflects faintly on his glasses, and for a second, you just watch the way his eyes moveâfocused, intent, quieter than youâve ever seen them. With the hood up, sleeves pushed just enough to reveal his wrists, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose every few minutes before he nudged them back up without thinking. There was something almost disarming about itâhow easily he had folded himself into your space. Your chair, your desk, your work⌠your life. Like heâs settled into your world so naturally it almost scares you, like if you blink, he might disappear and take that feeling with him. Your fingers tighten slightly around the mug in your hands. He said he booked the ticket. That thought still sits somewhere in your chest, heavy but⌠not unbearable. Not anymore because now thereâs this. This quiet, this closeness, this choice to stayâuntil he canât. Still, there was a tension under him, you could tell from the stiffness on his shoulders. Not loud, not obvious but there.
Your gaze flickers to the screen. Lines of text. Emails. Too many.
He hadnât opened them in daysâweeks, maybe. Not properly anyway, not like this. Now they sat open on your screen, one after the other. His name threaded through subject lines. Urgent. Follow-up. Final notice. Check-in. His jaw tightened slightly as he read one, fingers hovering over the keyboard longer than necessary.
He exhaled slowly. Typed. Paused. Deleted.
Typed again.
You didnât announce yourself when you reached the doorway. You just watched him. The soft glow of the monitor painted his face in pale blues and quiet shadows, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows. He looked different like this. Not like the version of him the world knew. Not polished, not performing. Just⌠Mark.
Your Mark.
The thought landed softly, but it stayed and for a second, you didnât moveâjust stood there with your mug warming your hands, letting the moment settle into you like something youâd want to remember later. Then your foot shifted against the wooden floor and he felt it, he always did. His head turned slightly, eyes lifting over his shoulderâand the moment he saw you, something in his face changed.
Softened.
âHey,â he murmured, voice quieter than the room. Your lips curved before you could stop them. âHey.â You stepped in slowly, the oversized sweater slipping just a little off one shoulder as you moved. Bare legs, no socksâhe noticed that immediately, even before his eyes consciously tracked it. He always noticed. âCold?â he asked automatically, gaze dropping for half a second before returning to your face. You shook your head, walking toward him. âI have coffee. That counts.â He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, but his eyes lingered anywayâlike he didnât quite believe you and then you were close. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to notice the faint scent of his body wash mixed with something warmer, something that had become distinctly him over the past weeks. You didnât ask, you just climbed onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. One leg swinging over, then the other, settling carefully so you faced him fullyâknees on either side of his hips, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders for balance. He freezes for half a second, breath catchingâbarely noticeable, but you feel it, not because it was new. It was but, it still did something to him every time. His hands come up instinctively, landing on your hips to steady you, fingers warm even through the thin fabric of your shorts.
âHi,â you said again, softer now, closer.
His hands instinctively came upânot gripping, not pulling, just settling at your waist like they had learned exactly where to belong. Hi,â he echoed. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The record crackled softly, the cursor blinked on the screen behind you and Mark became painfully aware of everything at onceâyour warmth, your weight, the way your sweater bunched slightly under his fingers, the way your hair fell forward just enough that it brushed against his cheek when you leaned in closer. âWorking?â you asked, even though it was obvious. He let out a quiet breath, glancing briefly past you at the screen. âTrying to.â Your eyes followed his for a second before returning to him. âThat bad?â He huffed softly, a small smile tugging at his lips, but it didnât quite reach his eyes this time.âItâs just⌠a lot,â he admitted and because you were here, because it was you, he didnât stop there. âTheyâve been waiting for me to respond,â he continued, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. âI just⌠didnât want to open anything. Because once I do, it would mean I have to actually decide.â
Thereâs something in the way he says itânot dread, not quite fear, but something heavier. Something that carries weight.
You donât respond right away.
Instead, your fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of his hoodie trying to sooth him, ground him soft and steady, âdecide what?â He looked at you then, really looked and for a moment, all the noiseâthe emails, the expectations, the pressureâfell somewhere far behind you.
âEverything,â he said simply.
There was no dramatics in it. Just the truth. Your chest tightened slightly, but you didnât let it showânot in a way that would weigh him down. Instead, you leaned in just a little more, your forehead brushing his lightly. âOkay,â you whispered. âThen don't decide everything.â
His breath caughtâjust for a second because you said it like it was simple. Like he could, like he was allowed to. His hands tightened slightly at your waist before relaxing again, thumbs brushing gently over the fabric of your sweater. âI think I already know,â he admitted after a moment. âIâm just⌠scared of what happens after I say it out loud.â You smiled softly, âThen donât say it out loud yet.â He blinked at you, âWhat?â âKeep figuring it out,â you said, voice calm, steady. âYou donât have to rush it just because they want you to.â
There it was again. That quiet way you had of making things feelâŚpossible. Mark let out a breath he didnât realize heâd been holding, his shoulders dropping slightly and then his eyes flickered downward again. Your legs. Still bare, "Seriously," he muttered suddenly, reaching blindly to the side. âHow are you not freezing?â You blink. âIâm not.â âYouâre not even wearing socks,â he argued back incredulously. âI donât like socks.â âThatâs not true and you know it baby.â
âItâs my house.â
He stares at you like thatâs not a valid argument and you laugh softly as he grabs the throw blanket from the nearby beanbag, shaking it out before draping it over your shoulders and around your legs with gentle, careful movements. âThere,â he said, adjusting it unnecessarily. âBetter.â You tilted your head, watching him, âyouâre very domestic.â That makes him snort, âI burnt eggs, like, three weeks ago.â
âGrowth,â you said lightly.
He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile there nowâreal this time and then, without thinking, he leaned forward. Just a little, just enough. Your lips met his in something soft, unhurried. Not the kind of kiss that demanded, the kind that stayed. Warm, familiar and Certain. It lingered for a few seconds before he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours again, his nose brushing lightly against yours as he exhaled.
âGirlfriend privileges include temperature regulation now?â he murmured. You smiled, eyes still closed. âBoyfriend duties,â you corrected softly. That word settled between you, not new but still⌠delicate, still something that made his chest tighten in the best, most terrifying way.
His girlfriend.
The vinyl crackles softly in the background. The room feels smaller, warmer. You lean in just slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder. âGo on,â you whisper. âWork.â He huffs quietly. âYouâre not helping.â
âYou like it.â
âI do,â He can't help grinning as his hands settle againâone firm at your waist, the other returning to the keyboard. He starts typing, slower now, like his focus is split between the screen and the fact that youâre sitting on him like this. You tilt your head, watching the screen from over his shoulder, âWhat are they saying?â âEverything,â he mutters. âAsking where I am. Why Iâm not responding. Schedules. Contracts. Deadlines.â
âSounds fun.â
âItâs not.â
Youâre quiet for a moment. Then, âAre you scared?â The question is soft but it lands. He stills slightly. His fingers hover over the keyboard, ââŚYeah.â
Honest.
You shift a little, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair, âof what?â He exhales slowly, âof making the wrong choice.â Your thumb brushes gently against his skin, âthere isnât one.â âThere is,â he says quietly. âThereâs always one.â You pull back just enough to look at him, âyouâve spent so long doing what everyone else wanted,â you say. âMaybe the right choice now is just⌠doing what you want.â His eyes soften, âand what if that costs me everything?â You hold his gaze, âIt wonât.â
âYou donât know that.â
âNo,â you admit softly. âBut I know youâll regret it if you donât try.â Silence. The kind that settles deep. He studies your face like heâs trying to memorize something. Then, his hand leaves the keyboard again and slides up your arm reaching for the back of your neck. Fingers brushing lightly against your skin and light hairs behind. âYou make it sound easy.â âItâs not,â you whisper. âBut it could be worth it.â He swallowed slightly with his hands shifting just enough to pull you closerâcloser than before, like he needed to remind himself you were real. âIâm gonna have to go back,â he said quietly after a moment. You didnât flinch, didnât pull away. Just nodded at him, âI know.â His grip tightened âI donât want to,â he added, almost under his breath.This time, you pull backâjust enough to look at him properly, âI know,â you repeated gently and you did. That was the thing. You understood him in ways that made it harder, not easier. Your hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from his face before your fingers lingered there. âYouâre not choosing between things,â you said softly. âYouâre justâŚadding something new.â His eyes searching yours, âand what if I mess it up?â he asked. You smiledâsmall, but certain, âThen we fix it.â
We.
The word landed heavier than anything else. Mark exhales slowly, something in him settlingânot completely, not permanently, but enough. Enough to keep going, enough to try. He leans in again, and for a moment, the emails donât matter, the world outside doesnât exist. Thereâs just this.
You.
Him.
The quiet. It's slow, like he doesn't know how not to give you time to pull away. You donât. Your lips meet. Soft and unrushed. The kind of kiss that doesnât ask for anythingâjust stays. Your hand tightens slightly in his hoodie and his grip on your waist firms. Just a little, enough to pull you close, to pull you flush against him. Like heâs grounding himself in you. When he pulls back, itâs not far. His forehead rests lightly against yours. Then he pulls back slightly, tucking you closer against him. You shifted slightly, settling more comfortably nowâyour head resting against his shoulder, your arms loosely around him as the blanket cocooned you both. His chin rests lightly against your hair and then, quietly, he turns back to the screen. His hands moved againâtyping, pausing, thinkingâbut this time, there was less hesitation. Less fear because you were still there. Warm. Close.
Real.
And even as his thoughts wanderedâback to contracts, to music, to the uncertain shape of everything waiting for himâone thing stayed clear. He didnât know how everything would turn out. He didnât know what choosing himself would cost but he knew this, he wasnât walking away from you. Not now, not after this. His fingers pause over the keyboard for a moment. Then he types again and behind him, you breathed softly against his shoulder, your presence steady in a way that made everything else feel⌠manageable. His thumb brushes absently against your side. Like a reminder that youâre still there, that heâs not doing this alone. The vinyl spins. The night deepens and in the quiet rhythm of keys and breath and closeness âYou both hold onto the same fragile, steady thought.
Weâll figure it out.
The airport noise didnât hit him all at once.It felt louder than he remembered or maybe it was just that everything inside him had gone quieter. It layered itself inâfirst the low hum of voices, then the sharper edge of camera shutters, then the unmistakable swell of recognition as people began to notice him stepping out of the car. Mark adjusted the hood of his jacket a little lower over his head as he stepped out of the car, the familiar choreography of it all settling over him like muscle memoryâsecurity, staff, movement, timing. He paused for half a second with the door still open behind him. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, long enough for him to feel it.
That shift.
From being yoursâquiet, unobserved, soft around the edges, to being this again.
Public. Watched. Interpreted.
His fingers tightened briefly around his phone before he slipped it into his pocket, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped fully into the light.
And just like that, he wore it.
The small smile. The wave. The careful way his gaze lifted just enough to acknowledge without lingering too long. He knew how to do this, he had always known but now, there was a part of him that stood slightly apart from it, watching himself move through it like it was choreography he no longer fully belonged to. Somewhere between the flashes, his phone vibrated faintly in his pocket. He didnât check but he felt it and the corner of his mouth softened, just slightly as his mind drifted. To your voice, to the way you had laughed into his shoulder. To the way your fingers used to absentmindedly trace patterns against his hoodie as you watched the many reality shows you loved to hate so much.He swallowed, stepping through the doors.
Back to this.
The schedule swallowed him whole. It always did. Fittings blurred into rehearsals, rehearsals into recordings, recordings into meetings. Rooms changed, outfits changed. The studio smelled faintly of hairspray and fabric steamers. Racks of clothes lined the wallsâstructured jackets, layered textures, pieces chosen with intention, curated to create something larger than any one person wearing them. Mark stood in front of the mirror, stylists moving around him with practiced easeâadjusting a collar, smoothing fabric along his shoulders, stepping back, stepping in again.
âTurn a little,â someone said.
He did. Automatically. The reflection staring back at him looked right. Sharp, controlled and composed but his eyes lingered on himself just a second longer than usual. Not because he didnât recognize the person but because he was starting to realize that wasnât all of him anymore. âMark, ready for the first set!â He blinked, stepping away from the mirror. âYeah,â he answered.
Then lighting changed,but the rhythm stayed the same. Fast. Efficient. Demanding. The photoshoot set was brightâwhite backdrops, stark lighting, cameras already positioned. He stepped into frame, posture shifting instinctively, expression settling into something precise. Click. Flash.
âChin up slightlyâyeah, hold that.â
Click.
âGood. Now soften your eyes a bit.â
Soften. He thought of you, not intentionally. Just, naturally. The way your eyes looked when you laughed. The way your voice softened when you called him Mr. Celebrity like it meant something more than just teasing him.Something in his expression changed. ââyes, that,â the photographer said quickly.
âHold that.â
Click.
Mark blinked slightly, refocusing but it lingered. That softness, that warmth. He couldnât turn it off as easily as he used to. Still, he moved through it all with the same quiet precision he always had.
Only now, there were cracks.
Small ones.
Barely visible. But there. In the way his eyes drifted toward his phone when he thought no one was looking. In the way his laugh came a little softer, a little slower, like it was echoing from somewhere else.
_____
The nights were the hardest. The dorm room felt quiet and impersonal, lights dimmed low while the city buzzed endlessly outside. Mark sat on the edge of the bed, guitar resting against his thigh, fingers moving absentmindedly over the strings. The melody was soft. Unfinished. It had been like that for days nowâpieces of something forming, dissolving, reforming again. He thought of you when he played. Not intentionally, justâŚnaturally. The way you used to sit and listen, your head tilted slightly, eyes focused on him like the sound mattered more because it came from him. He swallowed, fingers pausing. His phone buzzed. This time, he didnât wait. He answered immediately. Your face filled the screenâslightly pixelated, hair messy, wrapped in one of your oversized sweaters.
âHi,â you said softly and just like that, everything eased. âHey babyâ he breathed. For a moment, neither of you said anything. JustâŚlooked. Smiled, existed in the same space, even if it was through a screen. âYou look tired,â you murmured. He huffed a quiet laugh. âYou look like you just woke up.â
âI did.â
âOf course you did.â He rolls his eyes groaning cheekily, âIâd give up anything for our midday naps.â
The naps were the best, after lunch, after clean-up, especially if it was days where you didn't have to edit till late at night. On the day bed you had on your balcony. Cuddling snugly, legs tangled up and hands wandering where the sun didn't normally shine under a big light throw blanket to protect you both from the wind before Biscuit interrupted your deep slumber with his constant meowing needing something to eat. He secretly believed the cat just grew jealous when he didn't see you for too long.
You smiled, shifting slightly, pulling a blanket tighter around yourself. âDid you eat?â He glanced at the half-empty takeout container beside him, âyeahâŚbut I miss your food most Angel.â You laugh at that before answering softly, âI miss watching you eat my food. You should still eat.â âIâm eating,â he corrected quickly. âCurrently. See?â He lifted the container into view like proof. You laughed softly, shaking your head. âOkay. I believe you.â Silence settled againâbut this time it was softer. Comfortable. âI miss you,â he said suddenly. It slipped out the same way everything important with you always did. Unplanned, unfiltered. Your expression softened immediately. âI know,â you whispered. âI miss you most, my idol.â His grip on the phone tightened slightly. âI donât like this part,â he admitted.
âThe distance?"
âYeah.â
You nodded slowly, âbut we knew it was coming.â âI know,â he sighed. âI just⌠didnât think it would feel like this.â
âLike what?â
He hesitated, ââŚlike I left something important behind.â Your breath caught slightlyâbut you smiled anyway. âYou didnât leave it,â you said gently. âItâs still yours. Iâm only yours.â Something in his chest ached. In the best way, in the worst way and all at once. âIâll come back,â he murmured, more to himself than anything.
âI know you will.â
And you did. You always said things like that with so much certainty it made him believe them too.Even when he wasnât sure how everything would unfold. For a moment, he wasnât in Korea. He wasnât in a hotel room, he wasnât a performer, or an idol, or someone standing on the edge of a life-altering decision.
He was justâYours.
âDid you talk to Taeyong?â you asked gently, startling him back to reality. He pauses not because the name seems so foreign coming from your glossy lips, it is but he pauses because you remembered him telling you about wanting to talk to him first before fully committing to what he wanted. That conversation was so rushed then and still, you remembered. Then he nodded, even though you couldnât see it fully, â yeah.â
âAnd?â
He laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. âI think Iâm really going to do it.â Silence. Not empty, just⌠full. âOkay,â you said softly. No fear, no doubt. Just. Okay. His chest tightened. âYouâre not scared?â he asked quietly. âI am,â you admitted. âBut not about you.â That made him pause, âthen what?â âThe world youâre stepping into,â you said. âAnd how it might try to pull you away from yourself.âHis grip on the phone tightened, âI wonât let it.â âI know,â you whispered and somehow, that was enough For now, for this moment, for the version of him that was still standing in between two lives, trying to figure out how to carry both.
Later that night, alone again, Mark sat by the window, city lights stretching endlessly beyond the glass. His phone rested in his hand, your voice still lingering in his head from earlier and beneath everythingâthe noise, the schedules, the expectations, his decision sat quietly. Steady. Unmoved. He hadnât said it out loud yet. Not to them, not to the team he led that had become brothers ever since they fought for him back into the group when the system was meant to function differently. Not properly but it was there. Waiting, like everything else.He exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the wall. He didnât know how it would go, didn't know what it would change but he knew this. He was choosing something for himself. For once and somehow, that choice still led back to you.
Always.
It scared him but for the first time in a long while, even before he met you, it felt right and for nowâŚ
That was enough.
_______
It was late when he met Taeyong. Not planned through managers or schedules. Just a message.
Hyung, are you free?
And somehow, Taeyong always was.The cafĂŠ was quiet, tucked away enough that they could sit without being watched too closely. The kind of place that didnât demand attentionâjust offered space. Mark arrived first. Sat and waited. His fingers tapped lightly against the table before he forced them still, exhaling slowly. When Taeyong walked in, it was with that same calm presence he always carriedâlike he understood more than he said, like he saw more than he let on. âHey,â Taeyong greeted, sliding into the seat across from him.
âHey, hyung.â
They ordered drinks. For a moment, it was just comfortable silence. Neither of them spoke. They didnât need to. Taeyong had always been like thatâsomeone who didnât rush silence, who let it stretch until it became comfortable instead of heavy.
âYou look tired,â Taeyong said finally, studying him. Mark huffed softly. âThat obvious?â
âA little.â
He nodded, glancing down at his hands.
âI think too much,â he admitted. Taeyong smiled faintly. âThatâs not new.â Mark huffed a quiet breath. âYeah.â A pause. âAnd distracted.â Markâs eyes flickered up. Taeyong held his gaze, not accusatory, not pressing. Just there. Mark looked down at his hands, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of the table.
âI went away,â he said finally.
âI know.â
âIt wasâŚdifferent.â Taeyong nodded slightly, waiting. Mark swallowed, âI think I needed it more than I realized.â
Another pause.
Mark let out a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly. âI made a decision,â he said, voice lowering slightly.
Taeyong didnât interrupt, just listened. Mark swallowed, âI donât think I can⌠keep doing this the same way anymore.â There it was. Not fully said but close enough. Taeyong leaned back slightly, eyes steady on him, âwhat does that mean to you?â Mark hesitated because saying it out loud would make it real, would make it irreversible. ââŚI donât think Iâm going to renew,â he said finally. The words settled between them. Heavy but not surprising. Taeyong didnât react immediately. He just nodded. Like he had already known. âAre you sure?â he asked gently. Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair. âIâve been thinking about it for a long time even before I left,â he admitted. âI just didnât have a reason to actually do it.â
âAnd now?â
Markâs lips curved slightly, almost involuntarily. Now, there was you. He didnât say your name but it was there. In the way his expression softened, in the way his voice steadied. âI think I want to try something that feels like mine,â he said. Taeyong watched him carefully and then, quietly. âThen you should.â Mark blinked,âthatâs it?â Taeyong shrugged lightly. âYou already decided. You just wanted someone to tell you itâs okay.â Mark let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for weeks. âIs it?â he asked, softer now. Taeyongâs gaze didnât waver. âItâs your life,â he said simply. âNot the companyâs. Not the fansâ. Not even ours.â
The words landed deeper than anything else.
âAnd youâre not leaving us,â Taeyong added. âYouâre just choosing yourself differently.â Markâs throat tightened. He nodded slowly. âI was thinking maybe after the comeback,â he murmured. âWhen contract talks come up again. It can be announced officially when Dream and I head out for tour.â Taeyong tilted his head slightly, âhow soon do you think youâll do it? To tell the guys?â âSoon enough that it still feels like my decision.â Mark stared at the table for a moment, âHeachan might try to talk me out of it,â he said quietly. Taeyong laughed and nodded, âthatâs all that matters.â
That, that hit deeper than anything else.Markâs throat tightened slightly, his gaze dropping again, âit doesnât feel that simple.â âIt never is,â Taeyong replied softly. âBut that doesnât mean itâs wrong.â
Silence settled again. Warm and steady. For the first time since he had made the decision, it didnât feel like something he was carrying alone.
Now, the silence doesnât break all at once. It loosens. Gradually. Like the house itself exhales the moment you step fully inside, the door closing softly behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should. The cold from outside lingers in the entryway, clinging to your coat, to the ends of your hair, to the space between you and himâbut it doesnât last. Not when his presence is this close. Not when your hands are still on him like you havenât quite convinced yourself heâs real.
Mark still hasnât spoken.
But he moves.
Itâs small at firstâhis hands coming up, slow, hesitant, like heâs not entirely sure heâs allowed to touch you back. His fingers hover near your wrists before settling there, warm against your skin, grounding in a way that makes your breath hitch without permission. You donât step away, neither does he and for a moment, the world narrows down to just thatâyour hands on him, his on you, the quiet between breaths that says more than words ever could.
Thenâ
âMinhyung-ah?â
The voice comes from deeper in the house, gentle but curious, carrying the warmth of familiarity that doesnât belong to you yetâbut doesnât feel unwelcome either. Everything shifts. You blink, the moment softening but not disappearing, and Mark exhales like heâs remembering where he is, who he is supposed to be here. His hands tighten around your wrists for just a secondâjust enough to say stayâbefore he finally, finally speaks.
ââŚIâm here.â
His voice is quieter than usual. Rougher when he looks at you. Really looks at you this time, like heâs catching up to what just happenedâyour presence, your hands, the way you crossed continents just to stand in front of him like this. Something in his expression softens, almost dangerously so. âCome in,â he murmurs, softer now, and this time his hand doesnât leave yours when he turns.The house feels different once youâre inside it properly. Warmer. Lived-in.The kind of warmth that doesnât come from temperature but from yearsâfamily dinners, laughter tucked into walls, quiet mornings that smell like coffee and something sweet baking in the oven. You notice everything because you donât know where to look. The framed photos along the hallway. The soft hum of a heater somewhere. The faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen. And then, you see them.
His parents.
His mother turns first, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to something softer the moment her eyes land on Markâand then, immediately, on you.
Thereâs a pause. Not uncomfortable. JustâŚassessing. Gentle.
âOh,â she says, a small smile forming, âyou must be the one he canât stop reverting back to when I cook something wrongly,â like she already understands more than either of you have said out loud. âYou didn't tell me she was so pretty, honey.â
Mark exhales sharply beside you.
âMomââ
But itâs too late because his father is already stepping forward, a quiet warmth in his presence that mirrors Markâs in a way that makes something in your chest tighten unexpectedly. âYou came a long way,â he says simply, his voice calm, welcoming without being overwhelming. âYou should sit. You both should.â
And just like that, the moment shifts again.From the doorway to something steadier, something real. The dining table is already set. Not formally, not in a way that feels stagedâbut thoughtfully. Plates arranged neatly, a soft cloth laid across the center, small bowls of cut fruit, slices of cake that look homemade. Thereâs steam rising from mugsâcoffee, hot chocolateâthe scent wrapping around you like an embrace you didnât know you needed. Mark settles beside you after pulling out a chair for you. Your knee brushes his under the table and neither of you move away. His hand finds yours under the table before you even realize itâs happening. Firm. Grounding.
And this timeâhe doesnât hesitate.
At first, the conversation is light. His mother asks about your flight, your work, even roping you into making lasagna for dinner that night despite you claiming to be booking a hotel as you didn't want to disturb them only for his father to threaten to disown his own son if you slept outside. His father asks about how long youâre staying, insisting that you stay as long as you want to. You answer, politely, softlyâbut your awareness never leaves Mark because heâs quiet. Too quiet. Not distantâno, not that. Present but like something inside him is gathering itself, slowly, carefully, waiting for the right moment to surface. You feel it in the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles. Absentminded, repetitive and nervous. And then, It happens.
âI told them.â
Itâs simple. Too simple for what it means.The room stillsânot dramatically, not abruptlyâbut in a way that feels intentional. His parents donât interrupt. Donât rush him. They wait because they know this matters.Mark exhales, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly, like he needs that contact to anchor himself, "my managers. The company. The membersâŚâ His voice steadies as he speaks, but thereâs something underneath itâsomething raw, something exposed. âI told them Iâm not renewing.â
The words land softly but they carry weight. Years. A decade of something built, something lived in, something that shaped him into who he isâand who heâs trying to become beyond it. âIâll finish the tour,â he continues, quieter now, more certain. âIâll stay until everything we planned is done. But after thatâŚâ
He doesnât finish. He doesnât have to because itâs already there, sitting in the space between all of you. The decision, the ending and the beginning of something else. You donât realize your grip has tightened until he squeezes back. A quiet reassurance or maybe a question. You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at himâand when you do, you see it. The fear. Tucked carefully behind the confidence heâs trying to hold onto and something in your chest aches because you understand it, because you feel it too but more than that, you believe in him. Your thumb brushes over his hand, slow, deliberate, and when you speak, your voice is softâbut steady.
âItâs going to be okay.â
Not rushed. Not forced.Just⌠true. You donât say it because itâs easy. You say it because youâve seen him. All of him. The uncertainty, the passion, the way he lights up when he talks about music that feels like his. When you watch him make music he actually likes and you trust that version of him more than anything heâs leaving behind.
His mother is the first to respond, âyouâve always known when something feels right for you,â she says gently, her gaze steady on him. âEven when itâs difficult.â His father nods once, slower, thoughtful, âyouâre not losing anything,â he adds. âYouâre choosing something else.â
Simple but it lands and you feel it in the way Markâs shoulders loosen, just slightly. In the way he exhalesânot like heâs been holding his breath, but like heâs finally allowed to. For a moment, no one speaks. Not because thereâs nothing to say but because everything that needed to be saidâŚhas been.The warmth of the room settles around you again. The quiet returnsâbut itâs different now.
Full.
Complete.
Mark turns his head, just slightly to look at you and this time, thereâs no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. JustâŚsomething soft. Something certain, something that looks a lot like hope. His fingers lace through yours fully now on the table, not hidden, not tentativeâjust there, open, real and when he squeezes your hand this time, it feels different. Like a promise, not just that heâs not leaving you but that heâs finally choosing himself and for the first timeâŚ
At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing.
Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leavesâquietly, without telling anyoneâchasing a feeling he doesnât know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations⌠just distance. In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesnât ask who he isâonly who he chooses to be.
What begins as an unlikely arrangementâfive days under the same roofâslowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind. Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have. But time doesnât stopâand the life he left behind is still waiting for him. When he returns, nothing feels the same.
Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you canât go back to.
MAIN MASTERLIST | PART II
CUTS | TORONTO | PRESS RUN | BTS
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Slice of Life , Emotional Drama , Soft Comedy , Slow Burn , Hurt/Comfort , JUST ONE SMUT SCENE
WARNINGS.
Emotional Angst , Themes of Identity & Burnout , Mild Language , Slow Emotional Build , Protected Sex , Makeouts , Lots of kissing , Open-ended emotional tension (no heavy breakup, but strong longing)
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
Morning doesnât arrive all at once. It seeps in. Through the thin space between the curtains , stretching slowly across the floor through the quiet stillness of a house that's testing whether the house is ready to wake up or not.
It isn't.
The air is cool, faintly carrying the scent of polished wood and something olderâsomething familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesnât feel peaceful, suspended. Like something has been left unfinished. Mark stands in the middle of it barefoot, unmoving, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other without him realizing it. The wooden floor is cool beneath him, grounding in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Like he walked into a memory that isnât his anymore. This houseâhis house, his familyâs house in Torontoâshould feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something heâs stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocatingâjust⌠present. It fills every corner, stretches between the furniture, settles into his chest in a way that feels heavier than noise ever did. His phone vibrates in his hand. He doesnât look at it.
He already knows.
Another call. Another message. Another voice waiting for him to pick up and explain what he meant with the message he sent hours ago into a new day to his managers and colleagues that have become part of his family over the years. Questions waiting to be asked. Answers expected. He exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen before the vibration stops on its own. The quiet comes back. And with itâ you.
Not as a thought, not even as a memory crashing in, but like something that has already settled into the space before he even noticed it was there, as something that lingers. In the way the morning light touches the floorâsoft, warm, familiar in a way that doesnât belong to this house. In the way the quiet feelsâŚincomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesnât know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.
It doesnât help.
The doorbell rings. Itâs sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.
Real.
He blinks, like heâs being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this timeâimpatient, urgent, like whoever is on the other side needs him to open it fast. His fingers tighten slightly around his phone before he sets it down without thinking. Then he moves. Each step feels heavier than it should. The hallway feels even longer than it normally is. His hand pauses on the door handle, just for a second, just long enough for something in his chest to hesitateâ then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.
Not calm.
Youâre moving before he even processes itâstepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like youâre searching for something wrong.
âMarkââ
Your voice breaks slightly, and before he can respond, before he can even register the way your face looks, your luggage. The one that's barely upright behind you, shoulder bag long thrown on the floorâeyes wide, breath uneven, something frantic sitting just beneath your skin. Your hands are already on him. On his face first, warm, quick. Careful and almost trembling. Your fingers brush along his jaw, up to his temples, pushing his hair back like youâre trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find somethingâan injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesnât feel like enough proof that heâs okay. âAre you okay?â you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesnât sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something youâre trying to confirm with your own hands. You donât wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like youâre searching for something broken, something he hasnât told you.
He freezes.
Not because heâs uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide downâhis shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like youâre grounding yourself in the fact that heâs here. That heâs real. That heâs not⌠broken. That heâs here, that he didnât disappear along with the screenshot he sent you regarding the decision you knew he had been hesitant to make about his career after ten years of the same routine. Your breathing is uneven. He notices that.
He notices everything.
The way your lips part slightly like you want to say more but donât know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesnât respond. Mark doesnât move, doesnât speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way youâre touching him like he matters outside of everything else.
Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Justâ him.
Your hands slow, your movements pause, and then you look up at him properly, really look at him. Your expression softens, but the worry doesnât leave. âMr. IdolâŚâ you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. âTalk to me.â Something in his chest tightens because he wants to. He really does. He should. A hundred things are sitting in his chest, pressing against his ribs, waiting for space.
But the words donât come.
Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way youâre looking at him like heâs something you might lose if you donât hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything elseâthe noise, the expectations, the endless movementâfeel far away.
His throat tightens.
No words come out because if he startsâ he doesnât think heâll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tiltsâŚ
Itâs never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when itâs quiet.
âMark, just a few more minutesââ
The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesnât think too hard about it. The lights are too bright. They always are. Too bright. They sit above him, angled just enough to catch every expression, every shift, every blinkâno shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.
Controlled.
âHow would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?â He hears the question, registers it but thereâs a slight delay before he answers. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, just long enough for something inside him to hesitate.
He smiles, because of course he does.
âIt means a lot,â he says, voice smooth, steady. âI think⌠itâs a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.â The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, âAnd where is that?â
There it is.
The follow-up, the part where the answer is supposed to go deeper. His gaze flickers slightly, just for a second.
Because the truth?
The truth isnât something he can package neatly into a sentence,the truth is unfinished. Messy and still forming. So he does what he always does. He adjusts.
âItâs⌠a process,â he says instead, softer now. âI think Iâm still figuring that out.â
It sounds honest.
It is honest.
Just not complete. The camera keeps rolling. She smiles across from him, tablet resting against her knee, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that never really turns off. âWhat was the most personal track for you on the album?â The camera lens is fixed, unrelenting, watching for something real it can capture and package. Mark leans back slightly, fingers loosely intertwined, his smile already in place before he speaks.
âThatâs a hard one,â he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. âI think⌠all of them had something personal in them.â
Itâs a safe answer. A good one.
The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. âIs there one that felt⌠closer to you than the others?â
Thereâs a pause.
Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocusedâlike heâs somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would meanâfeeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watchingâHe can't afford that.
So he smiles again, soft and polished.
âI think it changes,â he says instead. âDepending on where I am.â She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.
It never does.
â
Backstage, itâs louder. Not with questionsâbut with movement. Staff walking quickly, voices overlapping, schedules being called out, things being adjusted at the last minute. Mark sits on a couch, shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his phone without really seeing it. Someone drops down beside him. Close enough that their shoulder bumps him with a little force.
âHyung.â
He looks up and finds Jisungâfamiliar, groundingâdrops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.
âYou good?â
The question is casual but the look isnât. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. âYeah,â he says.
Itâs automatic.
He doesnât look convinced. âYouâve been⌠quiet,â he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. âHave I?"
âYeah.â
A pause.
Then, âYou okay?â
The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This oneâwaits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.
âIâm just tired,â he says finally.
Itâs not a lie but itâs not everything either. Jisung studies him for a second longer, like he knows better than to believe him but also knows him well enough to know he really won't be getting the truth out of him regardless, still, he can't help being concerned. They both stay silent looking ahead at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Then, Jisung nudges his shoulder again, lighter this time.
âIf you need a break, you should take one.â
Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.
âJust like that?â
âYeah. Just like that.â
Itâs said simply, like itâs easy. Like it doesnât come with consequences. Mark doesnât respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, âYou should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.â Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesnât get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. Thereâs no pressure in the statement.
Justâunderstanding.
And somehow, that makes it harder because he has thought about it. More than once. The idea sits at the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.
A question.
Not fully formed. He exhales slowly, nodding once. âYeah,â he says. âMaybe.âAnd in the back of his mindâ something shifts. Something small. Persistent.
What if I did?
â
A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe itâs just the way the air sitsâstill, heavy with things unsaid. The tension. Mark sits across from two managers. One leans forward slightly, hands clasped, expression open. Listening. The other sits back, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating, already tense, already anticipating resistance. âI just need some time,â Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. âThatâs all Iâm asking.â
âHow much time?â the second manager asks immediately. Thereâs no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, âA few weeks,â Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like heâs already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, âWeâre in the middle of promotions,â he says. âYou know that.â
âI know.â
âThen you also know this isnât exactlyââ âI said I know,â Mark cuts in, sharper this time.
The room stills.
Markâs jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. âIâm not trying to mess anything up,â he continues, more controlled now. âI just⌠I need a break.â Thereâs a pause, a shift in the room.
Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. âYouâve been pushing a lot,â he says gently. âWeâve seen it.â Mark doesnât respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesnât.
Pushing.
Thatâs one way to put it. Pushing doesnât even begin to cover it.
The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. âCan you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?â There it is again. The question lingers, that expectation. That timing that never quite lines up with how he feels. Mark looks between them, and for a moment, he doesnât answer because that question, that small, persistent oneâŚis still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Markâs fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mindâ shifts. Just a little.
He finally exhales.
ââŚNo.â
Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesnât take it back.
The airport doesnât rush him. It should. People move around him in currentsârolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragmentsâbut none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like heâs watching everything through glass. Itâs not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that â feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesnât feel like an expectation. A black backpack hangs off one shoulder, the strap worn slightly where his fingers have been gripping it too tightly. In his other hand, he drags a medium-sized suitcase behind himâthe wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.
Thereâs another one.
Larger and heavier. Left momentarily beside one of the seating areas he passed earlier, because what was inside was heavier physically, mentally, and most of all emotionally. A compact MIDI keyboard. A pair of headphones. A small interface, wires tangled together in a way that suggests he packed quickly rather than carefully. Like he told himself, this was just a break, but still couldnât leave that part of himself behind.
Youâre not really running, he thinks distantly. You just⌠changed locations.
The thought sits uncomfortably because itâs true and maybe thatâs why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadnât meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than theyâve been in weeks, but thereâs something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasnât exactly found it yet and thatâs when he sees you.
He sees you even before he realizes heâs looking. Youâre slightly off to the side of the main flow of people, near one of the quieter pillars. Your setup is small but intentional. A camera angled down. A container is wide open in front of you. Your hands moving with focusâadjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. Thereâs something about the way you exist in that space that feels⌠untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. Youâre sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, containedâcamera angled carefully, container open in front of you.
Your hands move with precision. Adjusting and plating. Fixing something small that no one else would notice. He slows. The suitcase behind him rolls once more before stopping. His fingers loosen slightly around the handle. He continues watching. Youâre talkingâsoftly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesnât quite catch the words, but the tone reaches him. Calm and steady. Unbothered. It feels simple and something in his chest tightens because nothing about his life has felt like that in weeks.
Months, maybe longer.
He doesnât fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesnât realize how long heâs been standing there until you look up. Your eyes meet his, and something pauses.
A small one but it stretches.
Your eyes narrow just a little, not unfriendlyâjust⌠trying to place him. Trying to understand why there's a stranger standing there watching you like he forgot where he was going. You tilt your head slightly.
He blinksâ
Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. Thereâs a beat. Your gaze sharpens. Curious now. You blink back at him.
Then tilt your head the other way.
He mirrors you again.
And for a second, itâs ridiculous. Everything else fades. No noise, no movement. Almost like neither of you wants to be the first to break whatever this strange, wordless moment is. Just this strange, silent exchange between two people who donât know each other. Then you straighten.
ââŚCan I help you?â you ask.
Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like heâs just remembered how to exist in his own body. âYeah,â he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. âIâuhâŚâ He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that heâs here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.
What are you doing? You donât even know her.
Just walk away. Say something normal. Ask for directions?!?!?
LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE!!!
His jaw tightens slightly. He could still leave. He should, but then you cross your arms loosely, weight shifting to one leg, and thereâs something about the way youâre looking at himânot impatient, not dismissive, just⌠waitingâthat makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himselfâ
âCan I stay with you Angel?â he asks.
The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they donât just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesnât just changeâit stills.
ââŚExcuse you?â
Thereâs disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick againâthis time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.
âYouâre serious?â
Suddenly, Mark becomes very aware of how this looks. A stranger, with luggage, asking to stay with you, a stranger no less.
You actually sound insane!!!
He almost backtracks, almost laughs it off, because he seriously takes time to listen to himself talk since meeting you and hears himself the way you must be hearing him.
Dude, you actually are insane!!!
Immediately then, he wants to take it back, but something in his chestâtight, stubbornâdoesnât let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. ââŚYou know there are hotels, right?â Your tone isnât harsh; itâs logical. Grounded because now this isnât just weird, it's concerning, and in his mind, he does know. He knows exactly how many, knows the best ones, knows he could walk into any of them and disappear into a room that costs more than most peopleâs monthly rent.
He knows all that.
But the thought of it, the silence, the emptiness, the same four walls, the same distance makes something in his chest feel hollow. His gaze drops briefly to his suitcase, to the life he packed into it, clothes, work, and half-decisions waiting to be made on the only oath he's ever truly known for almost a decade. âI know,â he says quietly.
I donât want to be alone.
The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesnât say all of it. Your brows knit together. âThen whyââ
âI just donât want to be alone.â
It comes out softer than everything else heâs said so far. Less guarded and for a momentâ he hates that he said it because itâs too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldnât even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasnât the answer you expected. Thereâs a shift, and it makes you loosen your arms slightly from where they were crossed in front of you. Still cautious, still unsure, but a lot more open than before. Your expression shifts, not soft but not dismissive either. A flicker of something that tries to understand instead of just rejecting. Your eyes linger on him a second longer this time. Still, you tilt your head slightly. ââŚThat doesnât make this any less weird, you know.â Fair.
Completely fair.
Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. âYeah,â he admits. âI figured.â Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze movesâhis face, his posture, the way heâs standing like heâs unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.
Real.
He didnât just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, âWhat if Iâm a serial killer?â you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesnât hesitate to answer, âThen I guess thatâs how I was meant to die.â You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if heâs serious. If heâs joking, if heâs just reckless. ââŚYouâre serious,â you say slowly in realisation, trying to grasp at the idea that this was in fact a conversation happening with a stranger you were trying to push away.
âI am.â
Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. âYouâre either really smart⌠or just really, really stupid.â A faint smile pulls at his mouth, âYeah,â he says. âI get that a lot.â Thereâs another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isnât his anymore.
Itâs yours.
And you feel it. The weight of it is sitting right in front of you. A stranger. A very strange stranger. Who could very easily just walk away. Who probably should walk away. Your mind runs faster than your expression shows.
He has luggage. He didnât just say itâhe meant it. This is not normal.
You donât do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!
You donât bring strangers home??!?!
And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasnât moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way heâs standingânot imposing, not pushy, just⌠waiting. On the way, thereâs something tired in his eyes that doesnât quite match the rest of him, the way he didnât argue when you questioned him. Didnât try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel⌠real.
Youâre insane.
The thought hits you clearly.
There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?
ââŚFive days,â you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. âFive days,â you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. âThatâs it.â Thereâs a beat, then his shoulders dropâjust slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.
âOkay,â he says quietly. His grip on the suitcase loosens slightly, and as you turn to start packing up your things, he reaches for his suitcase again. Then pauses and looks back briefly towards where he left the second one. ââŚI should probably get my other bag,â he mutters. You blink. âYou have another one?â
ââŚYeah.â
Thereâs a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. âOf course you do.â You canât help the thought that lingers, quiet but persistent in the back of your mind, and under your breath, you whisper quietly as you watch him go.
Youâve actually lost your mind or you just might be the craziest person alive. This is how you die with him.
And just like that, you donât just take him with you. You take everything he brought with him, too. The half-packed life, the unfinished thoughts and the version of him that hasnât decided anything yet but is already changing.
_
The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. Itâs not unpleasant.
Just⌠lived-in.
Mark sits in the back seat beside you, his knee angled slightly away to give you space that neither of you explicitly asked for. The window beside him is cracked open just enough to let in a steady stream of cool air, carrying with it the distant hum of the city slowly fading behind you. Your smaller suitcase rests between your legs. His are in the trunk. All of them. He had watched the driver load them inâfirst the large one, then the medium, then your carry-on, placed more carefully on top like it mattered differently. It had felt strange, seeing everything he brought with him disappear into a space he couldnât see anymore.
Like letting go but not fully. Now, the road stretches ahead. The city gives way slowly, buildings thinning, noise softening, until it becomes something quieter. Trees begin to line the streets, their shadows flickering across the car windows in slow, shifting patterns as the sun dips lower. Mark watches it all. Not because heâs trying to, but because thereâs finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. Thereâs a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesnât interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesnât. Not yet. The driver hums softly under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in rhythm with a song playing too low to fully make out. It feels normal, and that alone makes something in Markâs chest tighten because normal hasnât felt like this in a long time.
By the time the taxi turns into the estate, the light has softened into something warmer. Gold spills across the road, catching on rooftops, on windows, on the edges of passing fences. The air looks different hereâquieter, slower, like everything has agreed to move at its own pace. Mark leans slightly, looking out. Children run across a small open field in the distance, laughter visible in the way they move, even if it doesnât fully reach the car. A bicycle lies abandoned near a curb. Someone waters plants near a gate, glancing up briefly as the taxi passes. It feels lived in.
Real.
You donât say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. âWait,â he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.
âIâve got it.â
You pause. Not arguing. Just watching. Mark steps out, the air cooler now against his skin as he closes the door behind him. He walks around to the driverâs side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. âHow much was it?â The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesnât rush it, doesnât throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properlyâtwo hands, respectful, like itâs something that matters.
âThank you,â he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightlyâthen smiles. âWelcome,â he says warmly. âHave a good evening.â Mark nods again. âYou too.â Thereâs a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you brieflyâ
âYou and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.â
Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you havenât quite sorted out yet. He thinks it's ridiculous considering you only learnt each other's names when you demanded to stay with his passport and documents for 'my safety reasons' until the five days came to pass while waiting on the said taxi to arrive
He doesnât respond to that, though, just gives a small, polite nod. The trunk opens with a soft click. Mark moves to it immediately, lifting it up before the driver can step out to help. He pulls his larger suitcase out first, setting it down carefully, then the medium one, then finally your smaller carry-onâplacing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. âThanks,â you say quietly. He glances at you, âYeah.â
Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you donât move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. Heâs strange, that part hasnât changed. Not even a little but, your gaze flicks briefly to the road where the taxi disappears. Then back to him.
At least he seems...decent??
The thought settles quietly. Not loud, not decisive, but enough to soften something that had been sitting rigid in your chest since the airport. You pick up your suitcase. âCome on,â you say. And this time, it sounds more certain. The walk to your door is short, but Mark feels it every step. The weight of his luggage in one hand, the quiet shift in the air, the way the house sits ahead of him like something he hasnât earned but is being let into anyway.
Youâre really doing this.
You donât reach for keys. You donât hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesnât understand yet. Inside, the air wraps around him differently. Warmer. Softer. And before he can take it in, an older woman steps into view, her face lighting up instantly when she sees you. âOh, youâre back.â Your posture shifts and softens.
You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. âLet me see you, baby,â she murmurs, turning your face slightly. âYouâve gotten thinner.â âI havenât,â you say, but thereâs a small laugh in your voice. âYou have,â she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. âWorking too much again?â Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you donât pull away. âThe trip was fine,â you say. âWork was good.â âMm,â she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. Itâs quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him inâthe luggage, the way heâs standing, the space between youâand something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.
A look passes.
Quiet.
Knowing, you straighten slightly. âThis is Mark.â He nods. âHello.â She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. âTake care of her,â she says lightly. Mark blinks, ââŚIâll try.â You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. âRest,â she adds. âBoth of you.â
And then sheâs gone.
The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time itâs not empty. Itâs full. Mark steps in properly now, and thatâs when it hits him, not all at once, in pieces. Light spills in through wide windows, stretching across the floors in soft, golden lines. The walls are tallâhigher than he expectedâand filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesnât mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, thereâs you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someoneâs shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parentsâyour fatherâs arm around you, your motherâs smile softer but just as warm. Another frameâtwo older guys, one with his arm slung around your neck, the other mid-laugh like the picture was taken in the middle of a joke.
Your brothers, maybe?
Thereâs anotherâan older woman. The same one who just left. Youâre holding her face the same way she held yours. Markâs chest tightens slightly, he doesnât realize it. Not until his gaze shifts again to another frame.
You.
Standing next to a guy. Close. Too close.
He stills.
Boyfriend?
The thought comes quick. Uninvited. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle.
Of course she could have a boyfriend. Why wouldnât she?
Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesnât like it. Doesnât understand why itâs there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that donât exist.
What if youâre not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?
His jaw tightens slightly.
Thenâ âYou can leave your bags there for now.â Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. Youâve already stepped further in, your suitcase set aside casually as you move toward the kitchen. Like this is second nature. Like this space is an extension of you. He leaves his suitcase by the entrance, the handle still extended, like itâs waiting for instructions he hasnât decided on yet. The house feels⌠still, but not empty. Thereâs a softness to the quiet here, something that doesnât press on him, doesnât demand anything.
It just⌠exists, and for a moment, he does too. You disappear into the kitchen without ceremony, like the transition from outside to inside didnât require adjustment. Like youâve done this a hundred timesâcome home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like heâs trying to understand something he hasnât had access to in a long time. The light stretches further now, deeper into the house, brushing over the edges of furniture, catching on the glass of framed photos. The air smells faintly of something clean, something lived-inâlike citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he canât quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,
Donât get comfortable.
The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesnât stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feelâŚunnecessary. âYou can sit,â you call from the kitchen, not looking at him, your voice carrying just enough to reach him without forcing itself into the room. He exhales quietly.
âYeah,â he answers, even though you didnât ask a question.
He doesnât sit.
Not yet. Instead, he finally lets go of the suitcase handle, the soft click of it retracting louder than it should be in the quiet. His fingers flex slightly after, like theyâre remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.
Carefully.
Like heâs aware that heâs stepping into something that isnât his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, itâs something else entirely. Books line the wallsânot perfectly arranged, not color-coded or curated for display, but stacked, layered, used. Cookbooks with worn edges. Novels with folded pages. Papers tucked between them like bookmarks that were never meant to be permanent. Thereâs a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to youâequipment, cables, a microphone, papers with scribbled ideas. And it looks like you left it mid-thought. It feels alive, like something is always being created here. A microphone angled slightly to the side. A laptop, half-closed, is sitting next to your desktop computer. Sticky notes scatteredâsome with full sentences, some with single words that donât make sense on their own.
He steps closer.
Doesnât touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.
Shoot before sunset â plating!!
Thereâs a small underline under the last word.
Urgent.
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. Itâs⌠endearing, without trying to be.
Youâre busy.
The thought comes easily,
You have a life.
It shouldnât matter but for some reason, it does.
âWater?â
Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, youâre standing in the doorway now, holding out a glass without stepping fully into the room. Your posture is relaxed, but your eyes, your eyes are still watching him. Not suspicious in the same way as before but not careless either.
Aware.
He takes the glass. âThanks.â Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but itâs enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. âKitchenâs this way,â you say, like he didnât just watch you walk in and out of it twice already. He nods anyway and follows. The kitchen feels warmer as it opens up; it feels more lived in than the rest of the house somehow. Wide and bright. An island sits at the center, stools tucked neatly beneath it. The breakfast nook by the window catches the light perfectly, soft and inviting in a way that makes it feel like mornings linger there longer. The dining space sits just beyond. Prepared, intentional, and everything, everything feels warm. Lived in. You move easily, filling another glass. Opening a cabinet and closing it again. Mark leans slightly against the edge of the island, the glass still in his hand. He watches you, not in a way that feels heavy. Just curious, and you feel it. You donât look at him immediately but youâre aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. Itâs strange. You donât bring people home, not like this, and certainly not strangers.
What are you doing?
The thought comes again. Louder this time, but then, you glance at him and heâs just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesnât know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like heâs trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now youâre curious too. ââŚSo,â you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.
âYeah?â
Thereâs a pause.
Not awkward. Just measured. âYou always do this?â you ask. âAsk random people to let you stay with them?â A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. âFirst time.â You narrow your eyes a little, âConvenient.â
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. âYeah.â
Thereâs something about the way he doesnât defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just⌠agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. ââŚYouâre really not going to explain yourself, are you?â He looks at you for a second, then he looks away. His grip tightens just slightly around the glass.
You could, you could tell her everything.
The thought surfaces. Tempting, dangerous, but he doesnât, not fully. âI just needed to leave for a bit,â he says instead. Itâs not a lie⌠but itâs not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, âFrom what?â The question lands softer than expected, not accusatory. Just curious. Mark exhales slowly and looks down at the water in his glass like it might give him an answer for everything, but that sounds dramatic. So he shrugs slightly,ââŚWork.â You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell thatâs as far as heâs willing to go. For now, and strangely, you respect that.
A soft thud interrupts the moment. Then another. He looks down, and something small brushes against his ankle. He startles slightly, stepping back just enough to look down properly, only he finds himself staring at a cat. Fluffy. Almost ridiculously so. Cream-colored with darker markings, its tail flicking lazily as it looks up at him like heâs the one intruding.ââŚOh,â Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.
Unimpressed.
Then walks past him like he doesnât exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. âWhatâs his name?â he asks. You glance over your shoulder, âBiscuit.â
ââŚBiscuit?â
You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. âHe answers to it.â Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.
His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadnât noticed before. ââŚHe does that,â you say, like it explains everything. âHe wasnât there a second ago.â
âHe was. You just didnât notice.â
Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like itâs already bored. A tall, carefully built tree, not just functional but aesthetic. Wood and soft fabric blending into the space like it belongs there, levels stacked in a way that feels intentional. Biscuit hops onto one of the platforms with practiced ease, curling up like heâs claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.
ââŚThatâs a strong name.â
You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. âStrong?" He shrugs, deadpan, âHe looks like he runs things.â You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, âHe does.â âHeâs judging you, by the way.â Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.
ââŚI can tell.â
And for a moment, the tension breaks. Just slightly. It settles again after, not heavy. Just present. Mark sets the glass down slowly on the counter, his fingers lingering against the surface for a second longer than necessary. His gaze drifts back to you. Youâre closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you werenât before, and he notices it.
She said yes.
The thought comes back.Clearer now.
She let you in.
And something about that, about you pulls at him. Not sharply, not overwhelmingly. Just enough to make him aware of it.
The thought settles quietly.
But it stays, and on your end, you feel it too. Not the same thought, but something like it, because heâs still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldnât have brought into your home, and yetâhe doesnât feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.
ââŚYou hungry?â you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. âYeah.â
Then, quieterâ
ââŚI can try cooking.â
You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, ââŚTry?â He hesitates, ââŚI meanââ You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. âSit down.â Thereâs a hint of a smile in your voice, and he catches it. He moves toward the breakfast nook, sliding into the bench by the large window slowly, like heâs still adjusting to being allowed to do anything with your space. To just be here and as you start moving around the kitchen, pulling things out and setting them down, he watches. Not obviously, no, constantly but enough, because something about thisâ about you in your space, feels like something he didnât know he was looking for, and somewhere, quietly, without either of you saying it out loud, the question begins to form.
For him,
What happens if I donât want to leave?
For you,
What happens if I end up wanting him to stay longer?
And neither of you answers it, not yet. Then he looks back at you, and something in his chest shifts again. Quiet and uncertain, but real because this placeâ your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesnât feel like a stop; it feels like something rooted, something steady, slow, and quiet. Something that might, without him realizing it yet, change everything, and standing in the middle of it, he realizes something he hasnât let himself think about yet. He didnât just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesnât know it yet, but this might be the first place in a long time that feels like it could hold him without asking for anything in return.
The rain starts sometime in the night and it settles into the morning like it had every intention of stayingâsoft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like itâs moving differently.
It's not what wakes you, not at first.
What wakes you is not the rain. Itâs the sound. Irritating and repetitive, then a shift in your body. The sharp, aggressive beeping that slices through the quiet like it has something personal against you. For a second, your mind doesnât catch up. Itâs just noise and movementâYou donât even realize youâre awake until your eyes snap open, your heart racing, your body already pushing upright, the sheets slipping off your legs as instinct takes over.
The smoke alarm.
Youâre out of bed almost immediately, your feet barely registering the cold of the floor as you move, faster than you mean to, down the hallway, past the stairs, the sound gets louder. Insistent. Almost accusatory. You reach the kitchen and stop because itâs not what you expected. Thereâs no fire. No panic. No urgency.Just⌠smoke. Not thick. Not dangerous. But enough, enough to make the alarm scream like the house is falling apart. Light, stubborn curls of it rising from the pan on the stove and Mark, heâs standing there, wooden spatula in hand, staring at the pan like it personally betrayed him.
Very still and very focused.
Like if he stares at it long enough, it might fix itself out of sheer intimidation. You stop, and you donât say anything. You just take him in because the sight is so absurd that it takes a second to process. His hair is messy in a way that feels unintentional, like he woke up and immediately got into this. Heâs wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like itâs the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like heâs accepted his fate. Thereâs a slight panic in his posture, but heâs tryingâvery visiblyâto stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like itâs about to file a complaint, âdonât move,â you say instinctively, already moving past him. You reach up to switch off the alarm, grab a towel, and wave it lightly near the sensor until the beeping finally stops. Silence crashes back in. Only the rain remains. You exhale. Slowly.
Then you turn.
Heâs still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking⌠guilty. ââŚHi Angel,â he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. ââŚWhat happened?â
Thereâs a pause. A very real, very visible pause where he debates how honest to be, where he considers lying but decides against it when he blinks back at your sharp features. You can see it. The way his lips part slightly, close again. The way his gaze flickers to the pan like it might answer for him. âI was trying to make eggs.â
You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, ââŚThose are eggs?â âThey were,â he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you tryâyou really tryânot to laugh because he's already panicking, âI just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.â You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. ââŚYou declared war on breakfast.â A breath escapes himâhalf a laugh, half defeat. âI thoughtââ he continues, gesturing vaguely, ââhow hard can it be? Itâs eggs. People make eggs all the time.â âAnd yet,â you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, âyouâve managed to reinvent them.â
He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. âThey stuck,â he says, âAnd then I tried to unstick them. And then they⌠got worse. I didnât think it would go like this,â he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly nowâburnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are⌠unrecognizable. Theyâve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.
Something⌠experimental.
ââŚDid you use oil?â Thereâs another pause. Smaller this time, ââŚI thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?â Thatâs it. Thatâs the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop itâsharp and sudden at first, catching you off guard as much as it catches him. It spills out before you can stop it, warm and unrestrained in a way that feels unfamiliar in your own chest. Then softer, fuller, spilling out in a way you don't recognise because itâs been a while since something this small felt this funny, since you've laughed this hard.
He watches you, and something in his expression softens. Not embarrassed, not defensive. Just watching you like this is the outcome he didnât know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. âOkay,â you say, voice lighter now, easier. âStep aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.â
He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesnât leave. He lingers, stays there. Of course he lingers. You can feel it.
You start over. With enough oil this time, you crack the eggs properly a second time, the soft sound grounding, familiar. The smell changesâwarm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just⌠there. ââŚI was trying to say thank you,â he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. âYou did,â you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, âThis is very memorable.â
He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, heâs smiling. Not the polite kind, not the careful kind he always has ready for the cameras. Something softer. Something⌠real.
Silence settles over you both again but this time, itâs not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each otherâs space you are okay with what quietly settles instead. You end up eating at the breakfast nook. The earlier rain is painting soft patterns against the glass now as the world outside blurs into greys and greens, inside, everything feels warmer than it should for two people who barely know each other. Biscuit appears like heâs been summoned by the promise that was breakfast, jumping up onto the table with quiet authority, tail flicking once as he eyes both of you like heâs judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.
Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. ââŚDoes he always look like that?â You follow his gaze, âThatâs his face.â ââŚHe looks like he has opinions.â âHe does. Theyâre just not for you.â Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like heâs trying to understand the rules.
Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, ââŚIâve been dismissed.â You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. âSo,â you say, glancing at him, âyou cook often?â He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, âGod, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.â You hum, âGood call.â
Then you blink up at him, confused, âmembers?â Mark swallows hard. His throat dries up despite having the option of juice and coffee in front of him. He hadn't thought of his guys up until now, hadn't really checked his phone either, â colleagues.â You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because thereâs nothing to say but because⌠thereâs no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesnât feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like heâs deciding something, ââŚYou laugh like that often?â
You pause mid-bite, ââŚLike what?â âLike that, Angel,â he says simply. âEarlier.â You donât answer immediately because the honest answer isâNo. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, âDepends.â
âOn what?â
You glance at him, ââŚOn who Iâm with.â Thereâs a beat, something passes between you then. Small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up, like he wants to say something else but doesnât. Instead, ââŚI almost set your house on fire.â You snort, âAnd yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.â âTemporarily banned,â he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggsâsomething settles.
Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to sayâ this could be something.
Time moves differently after that morning. Not fast or slow .Just⌠present. Days pass, and Mark stays, not like a guest anymore. Like something between a stranger and something worseâsomeone becoming familiar. Some mornings, he leaves early and returns with a small bag of items he bought from exploring the city, and other nights, he'll bring you flowers, thrifted recipe books, and worn-out vintage notebooks he thought you might like. Other days, he sits near the living room window, experimenting quietly with sound, fingers hesitant over keys like heâs afraid the music might reject him, but most of the time, he just watches you work. Not interrupting. Just existing in the same space as you focus while he flips aimlessly through your endless collection of books. Biscuit also slowly decides Mark belongs here more than anyone has officially said.
Five days arrive without announcement.
The house feels different that day. Not louder, not quieter. Just⌠aware. Too aware. Like something is about to shift, and everything in it knows before either of you says it out loud. You donât notice it at first. Youâre moving through your space the way you always doâbarefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.
Itâs the sound that stops you. Soft and measured. Zippers. You frown slightly and follow it down the hallway past the open coffee space you have upstairs, where light spills in gently through the windows, catching dust in the air like suspended time next to the hallway that spills into your room, guest room, the open balcony, and the door that opens up to the Terrance on your rooftop.
You find him packing. The guest room is half-folded silence. Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.
No, no, he wouldnâtâ
You donât knock, you donât think, you don't even breathe, you just push the door open, and there he is. Kneeling on the floor. His suitcase was open in front of him, and everything inside you⌠stills. For a moment, you donât say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirtsâneatly, carefully, like heâs done it a hundred times before. The clothes are arranged carefully in a suitcase that looks too empty for someone who has not been here long enough to fully unpack. Another sits beside itâ notebooks, things he treats more carefully than clothing. It all seems like a routine to him. Like leaving is something he knows how to do but staying isnât.
Your voice comes out before you can stop it, ââŚWhat are you doing?â Mark freezes. Not dramatically, not suddenly. Just enough. His hands still on the fabric and his shoulders go slightly rigid. Then he looks up and for a secondâjust a secondâhe looks⌠confused.
Like youâre the one whoâs out of place here.
âIâm packing,â he says, slowly. Carefully, like heâs choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.
Of course.
âWhy?â you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesnât make sense. âYou said five days, Angel.â The words land heavier than they should, heavier than you expected.
Five days.
You feel something in your chest pull tight because you remember saying it. At the airport. When he was still a stranger. When this was supposed to be temporary. Controlled. Safe.
Five days.
But that was before, before the burnt eggs, before the not-so-quiet nights, the grocery runs, before the badly cut-up fruit, before him draping your favorite throw blanket over you as he settles onto the couch next to you to watch trashy reality shows as Biscuits finds the perfect spot to settle in on his chest. Before he put the trash outside without you having to ask, before he started leaving his shoes by the door like he belonged there.
Your grip tightens around the mug. ââŚSo youâre just leaving?â you ask. Mark frowns slightly, âI mean⌠yeah?â But it doesnât sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesnât sound like you, âWow.â He straightens a little, confusion deepening. âWhat?â
âYou couldnât wait, huh?â
Now heâs really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, âWait for what?â You donât answer immediately because suddenly everything feels⌠too close to the surface. Too raw. âFor the five days to be over,â you say instead, quieter now. âOr did you just hate being here that much?â
The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Markâs expression changes, not to anger but something else...âWhat?â You laugh againâbut this time it breaks halfway through. âI mean, it makes sense,â you continue, words coming faster now, messier. â You basically forced me into this, and now you want to leave me hanging. You were just waiting it out, right? Counting down the days until you could leave without being rudeââ
âThatâs notââ
âBut you donât have to pretend anymore,â you cut in, your voice tight. âFive days are up. You can go.â Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. âNo Angel, thatâs not what this is,â he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.
You shake your head, already stepping back, âItâs fine, Mark. Really. You donât have to explainââ He moves before you can finish. Itâs instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wristânot tight, not roughâbut firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.
You freeze.
And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, âStop.â
The word is quiet but it holds. You look up at him really look this time and what you see makes your chest tighten in a completely different way. Heâs not annoyed, heâs not distant. Heâs not relieved to be leaving. Heâs⌠frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.
His hands still slightly.
âI didnât want to overstay,â he says quietly. âOr make you uncomfortable.â Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, âso you were just⌠planning to disappear?â
That word makes him flinch slightly.
âNo.â
A beat passes. Then more honestly, âI just didnât know how long I was allowed to exist here.â
Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, âI didnât mean it like a countdown.â That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. âI wasnât counting down the days,â he says, softer now. âI was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.â
You blink.
ââŚWhat?â
You stare at him again. Thereâs a beat. Then another. âYou took my documents,â he adds, almost awkwardly now. âRemember? As a condition?â
Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Thenâdespite everythingâa small, disbelieving sound escapes you, âyou were packing⌠because you didnât know how to ask for your passport back?â
Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, âWhen you say it like that, it sounds stupid.â âIt is stupid,â you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.
He huffs a quiet laugh, âYeah, well. I didnât want to overstep.â Something in your chest shifts again.
âYou couldâve just asked,â you say.
âI know,â he replies. âBut you gave me a timeline. I thought⌠pushing past that would be.â You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had toâ because he was trying to respect youâIt does something to you.
Something you donât have a name for yet. âSo you were just going to leave?â you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, âI didnât think youâd want me to stay.â
Thatâ
That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,
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At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing. Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leavesâquietly, without telling anyoneâchasing a feeling he doesnât know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations⌠just distance.
In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesnât ask who he isâonly who he chooses to be. What begins as an unlikely arrangementâfive days under the same roofâslowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind.
Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have.But time doesnât stopâand the life he left behind is still waiting for him.When he returns, nothing feels the same. Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you canât go back to.
MASTER LIST | PART I
CUTS | TORONTO | PRESS RUN | BTS
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Slice of Life , Emotional Drama , Soft Comedy , Slow Burn , Hurt/Comfort , JUST ONE SMUT
WARNINGS.
Emotional Angst , Themes of Identity & Burnout , Mild Language , Slow Emotional Build , Protected Sex , Make outs , Lots of kissing , Open-ended emotional tension (no heavy breakup, but strong longing)
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
Something you donât have a name for yet. âSo you were just going to leave?â you ask the only question to seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates. Just for a second,
âI didnât think youâd want me to stay.â
That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourselfâ You step closer,
âDo you want to leave?â
The question is barely above a whisper. Mark looks at you and for the first time since you met him he doesnât dodge it, âNo.â The word is simple. Honest and it changes everything. Your breath catches. âThen why are you packing?â you ask, softer now. He lets out a quiet breath, âbecause I didnât know if I was allowed to stay.â Without thinking, you close the distance completely. Your arms wrap around him. Itâs not graceful. Not planned but itâs real. Mark freezes. Completely. For half a second. Maybe less. Then, slowly, carefullyâhe hunches down to your level to hold you back. One hand settling at your waist, the other against your back. Keeping you flush against him as you rest your head on his chest. The hug is not tight, not possessive. JustâŚthere. Grounding.
âI donât hate being here,â he murmurs, voice low against your hair. Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. âI know,â you whisper. Even though, five minutes agoâ You didnât. He exhales softly and you feel it. Warm.
Real.
âI just didnât want to assume,â he adds. You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. âStay,â you say, softer now. âNot because of the five days. Not because you think you have to.â
A pause.
Your voice drops,âbut because you want to.â Something in his expression shifts. Deepens. âOkay,â he says quietly but it feels⌠big.
Neither of you move right away.
The suitcases still sit open on the floor. Half-packed. Forgotten and somewhere between the misunderstanding and the truthâ Something else has settled in its place. Not just comfort or familiarity, something heavier. Warmer. More dangerous because now itâs not about five days anymore. Itâs about choosing to stay and neither of you are ready to admit what that really meansâŚbut you both feel it. After that, things donât become easier. They become quieter, more loaded. When night comes again the following week, it doesnât come empty, it doesnât feel like the first night anymore. You notice it the moment you step out of your car. The house looks the same but it doesnât feel the same. Thereâs light in the windows. Warm. Waiting. Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your shoulder bag as you step closer, your heels clicking softly against the pavement.
You tell yourself itâs nothing. That this is normal. That heâs just⌠inside but something in your chest feels⌠different. You push the door open and step into the house, heels clicking softly against the floor, your body tired in that familiar, satisfying way after a long day and before you can even call out, the door opens wider to reveal Mark. Heâs standing there like heâs been waiting and beside him sits Biscuit like heâs been listening for you as well. You just stand there because heâsâ different now. Not in a big, obvious way but enough. He looks⌠comfortable, relaxed in a way he wasn't the previous week with the sleeves of his shirt pushed up, hair falling naturally almost into his eyes, posture easy like heâs started to fit into the space instead of just occupying it.His eyes land on you and everything elseâ stops because you see it. The shift. The way his gaze catches, the way it lingers. You hadnât thought much about what you were wearing when you left that morning. Now, you do. The dress hugs where it should. The heels add just enough height. Your hair sits perfectly in a way that feels effortless but isnât. âHi, Angel.â He says almost breathlessly and it comes out quieter than he probably intended.Your steps slow because something about the way heâs looking at youâit lingers. You became too aware of it slowly. The way his eyes take you in. Not in a way that feels uncomfortable but in a way that feelsâseen. Too seen, almost like you are the only thing he can't help focus on.
âHi,â you echo.
You step in slowly, closing the door behind you, your gaze drifting past him and then you see it. The table. Set. Candles. Food. Tonightâs dinner doesnât feel like dinner, it feels like something neither of you agreed to call it what it actually was. The candles arenât too bright. The house holds warmth in a way that feels intentional nowâlike itâs aware of the two of you sitting side by side instead of across from each other.
You notice everything.
The way he adjusted the cutleryâslightly uneven, like he wasnât sure what the right way was but wanted it to look like he tried. The way the napkins are foldedânot professionally, but carefully. The way the takeout containers sit next to the trash by your back kitchen door is replaced by plated food like it didnât arrive in paper bags thirty or so minutes ago. You hoped he wasn't waiting for you long. Your brows lift slightly teasing, âYou didnât cook this.â âI learned my lesson,â he says quickly. You laugh under your breath, stepping closer, your fingers brushing the edge of the table, âbut you set it up like this?â He shrugs, suddenly a little unsure,ââŚIs that weird?â You look at the chairs set side by side. Close and your chest tightens slightly. âNo,â you say softly. âItâs not weird.â Itâs something else, something you donât name. He pulls out one of the set chairs offering it to you. You sit and sits beside you closer than necessary. Closer than expected and as the candlelight flickers between you, you feel it. That shift. Not loud. Not overwhelming but there. Growing. Time doesnât rush after that. It unfolds. Slowly. You glance at him. Heâs pretending to be focused on his food but he isnât. His posture gives him awayâslightly too aware, slightly too still. You take a bite first just to break it. âOkay,â you say after a moment, thoughtful. âThis is actually good.â He exhales, not dramatically but enough for you to notice that this dinner is important to him.
âGood,â he mutters. âI was worried youâd say it tastes like the eggs.â You smile into your glass of wine, lifting it slightly, âI wouldâve been honest.â
âI donât doubt that.â
You both laugh at that and thereâs a quiet rhythm to the conversation. It doesnât rush, it doesnât try to fill every space. It moves the way the rain doesâsteady, patient. At some point, your knee brushes his under the table. You both still, just for a second. Then continue like nothing happened but something did. It lingers. You donât realize how much time has passed until your phone buzzes faintly on the table. You glance at it. A message. Another. You ignore it at first, reaching for your red again instead.
ââŚYouâre busy,â he says, not as a question. You tilt your head slightly, âSometimes.â He nods, like he expected that. Silence stretches again. Not empty, just⌠waiting.You tap your fingers lightly against the glass, thinking and then, âYou know,â you say casually, almost like it just crossed your mind, âthis is the part people donât see.â
He looks at you, "âŚThis?â
You gesture vaguely between the two of you. The table. The quiet. âThe in-between,â you explain. âEveryone thinks itâs just filming, posting, smiling. But itâs mostly this. Planning. Thinking. Editing. Redoing things that already took hours.â He listens, really listens. Not interrupting, not rushing you along. You glance at him, then away again. âI donât like being on camera,â you add, softer now. âNot really.â He frowns slightly, âbut you still do it.â âParts of it,â you correct. âHands. Voice. Angles. Enough to tell the story withoutâŚâ You trail off, shrugging lightly. ââŚbeing in it.â He leans back slightly, studying you in a way that feels different now. â So you wouldn't be on camera at all?â he says. You blink at him. Itâs not a question and itâs not said lightly. Itâs⌠observed. Your lips part slightly, âyeah, maybeâŚit depends.â He nods once, like that makes sense to him. Like it fits and for some reason, that matters more than it should. Later, when the plates are empty and the candles have burned lower, you donât move immediately. Neither does he. Biscuit has claimed the space near your feet, curled into himself like this is his version of approval. âYou didnât have to do all this,â you say after a while. Your voice is softer now. Not teasing, not light. Just honest. He looks down at his hands for a second. Then at you. âI wanted to,â he says simply and thereâs no performance in it. No exaggeration. Just the truth. It sits between you, heavy in a quiet way. You nod, not because you have something to say but because you understand it and somewhere in between the question begins to form
Not spoken. Not yet. Too afraid to but very present all the same. In him. In you, something that neither of you is ready to askâŚbut neither of you can ignore anymore.
The first thing you noticed wasnât the groceries. It was the way he walked in like he belonged. Keys set down in the same spot. Shoes nudged off near the door without hesitation. A soft exhale leaves him as he steps fully into the space like heâd been holding his breath outside. Then, âAngel, awake from your nap?â
âHey.â
You looked up from the couch, laptop balanced on your knees.
âYeah, I decided to work on something finally."
Your voice comes out softer than you intend. He places the bags he was carrying on the counter, already moving like he knew where things went and thatâthat made you pause. âYou went shopping?â you ask, sitting up slightly. âYeah.â Mark glanced over his shoulder, â we were running out of things.â
We
We as in us. We, as in we are a unit. As ifâŚ
We are dating�
âThat doesnât meanââ
âYou were out of the granola you like to plate your favorite banana yoghurt bowl,â he added simply. You blinked.
Since when did he know how I like my fruit bowl?
You stood slowly, walking into the kitchen, watching as he unpacked everything. Bananas, apples, strawberries and thenâ granola. Your favorite. The kind that was extra nutty and packed with raisins for sweetness.The exact brand, the exact variety you reached for everyday. Your fingers hovered over it. âYou remembered?â you asked, quieter now. Mark froze for just a second. Then shrugged, casualâbut not really, âYou can't exactly function in the afternoon without it.â
You swallowed and you swallowed hard because you were starting to realise how much trouble you would be in when he decides to go back to wherever the hell he came from. He didnât think it was a big deal. Exceptâit was because he hadnât even been trying to remember.
He just⌠did.
Somewhere along the way, your preferences matter. More than they should. âYou didnât have to,â you said softly, ignoring the fluttering waking happening in the depths of your chest. Mark glanced at you thenâreally looked at you.
âI know.â
And that was the problem.
Morning settles into late morning without you noticing. It always does when youâre working. The house shifts around you quietlyâthe kind of quiet that isnât empty, but lived-in. The windows are still slightly open from earlier, letting in the cool, rain-washed air. The scent of damp earth lingers faintly, mixing with the clean sweetness of the fruit Mark had cut earlier. Youâre already halfway into your workflow. Laptop open, camera set. Tripod adjusted just slightly off-center because you hate perfect symmetryâit feels too staged, too forced. Your sleeves are pushed up to your elbows, one of your oversized shirts slipping slightly off one shoulder without you noticing. Your hair is tied loosely, strands falling where they want because you stopped caring about fixing them after the third take.
ââŚand then you let it simmerânot too long, just until it thickens slightlyâŚâ
Your voice is calm. Measured. Familiar. You donât look at the camera, you never do. Your hands move insteadâconfident, precise, comfortable in a way that makes it clear this is your space. Your rhythm. Behind you, Mark leans lightly against the doorway. Heâs been there longer than you realize. He hadnât meant to stop, he was just passing by but then he heard your voice and now, he canât move because this version of you isâŚdifferent. Not louder, not bigger. JustâŚfully in yourself. He notices everything. The way your fingers move without hesitation, the way you tilt your head slightly when youâre thinking, like youâre listening to something only you can hear, the way your voice softens at certain pointsânot for an audience, but because it feels right. He doesnât understand what youâre making but he understands you. Or at least, he feels like heâs starting to.
He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing the doorframe. The sound is small but you notice. You glance back and for a second you freeze because you hadnât realized he was there. He looks⌠comfortable. Grey sweatpants. A loose black t-shirtâone of his, not a baggy one of yours this time. His hair falls naturally over his forehead, slightly damp at the ends from his shower after a quick workout. Thereâs something unfair about it, the way he stands there like he belongs. âYouâve been there long?â you ask, your voice softer now, the filming tone slipping away naturally. He straightens slightly, ânot really.â A lie but not one you call out. You turn back to your setup, reaching forward to stop the recording, your fingers brushing lightly against the camera. The click is soft and the silence that follows is softer. You exhale, stretching your shoulders slightly, rolling tension out of your neck. Behind you, âI didnât know you talk like that when you work.âYou pause, âlike what?â âCalm,â he says. âDifferent.â You turn halfway, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms loosely folded, âdifferent how?â He shrugs, pushing himself off the doorframe, stepping a little closerâbut not too close. âLike youâre not trying,â he says. âYou just⌠are.â that lands. You donât show it immediately but it does. âThatâs kind of the point,â you reply after a moment, quieter now. He nods, like that makes sense, like it fits into whatever heâs already building in his mind about you and then, there's a knock on your front door. Sharp. Familiar. You donât even think about it.âThe door's open!â you call out, already turning back to adjust your setup again, checking the angle, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Footsteps. Fast. Unapologetic. âFinally,â your best friendâs voice carries in before you even see him, dramatic as always. âDo you know how long Iâve beenââ
He stops. Mid-step and mid-sentence. Mid-everything. The silence that follows is immediate and strange. You donât look up right away because Eli is always dramatic like that. Youâre used to his pausesâthey usually mean heâs about to say something ridiculous and stupid but this one stretches too long. âWhat?â you ask, still focused on your screen. No response. You glance up and thatâs when you see it. Heâs not looking at you. Heâs staring past you at Mark. Completely still, like his brain is buffering.
âNo,â he says slowly. You blink, âno what?â He doesnât answer, he only takes a step forward. Then another, like heâs being pulled. ââŚNo way,â he breathes, quieter now, like he doesnât trust the sound of his own voice. You follow his gaze to Mark. Who has gone very still. Thereâs a shift in him. Subtle but there. His shoulders straighten just slightly. His expression closes offânot completely, but enough that you can feel the difference without understanding it. âWhat is happening?â you ask, slower now, your eyes moving between the two of them. Your best friend finally looks at you and the look on his face. Itâs not confusion. Itâs disbelief. âWait,â he says, pointing between you and Mark. âWaitâwait, wait.â You frown slightly, âyouâre not making sense.â âWhen you told meââ he starts, pacing once, running a hand through his hair like heâs trying to physically rearrange his thoughts, ââwhen you told me you had a stranger in your houseâŚâ You nod slowly, ââŚyes.â âI thought you meant, like, a stranger!!!â he says. You blink, âhe is a stranger!!â âNo,â he says, pointing again, more aggressively this time. âThat is not just a stranger.â
You glance at Mark again. He exhales quietly.âHi,â he says, almost apologetically because he already knows where this conversation is about to go. Your best friend lets out a sound thatâs somewhere between a laugh and a scream, âyou said his name was Mark,â he continues, turning back to you, voice rising slightly. âYou said âMarkâ like it was justâjust Markânot THE MARK!?!?â
Your brows knit together, âThe what Mark?â He freezes then says your name in disbelief and looks at you, really looks at you as if you've just managed to grow another head, âyou can't be serious!!â You stare back. âAm I not serious enough?â He turns slowly, ignoring your existence completely and back to Mark. Back to you. Then, âyou know those groups Igogo and I are always talking about?â he asks carefully.
You nod, âyeahâŚâ
âThe one I keep sending you songs from. Videos. The ones you never watch properly.â You shrug slightly, âI listen sometimes.â âYou donât look,â he corrects.
ââŚI donât need to. Ears are meant to listen.â
He inhales sharply with closed eyes before he points at Mark again. âThatâs him. At least one of the men behind some of the songs.â Silence. Real silence this time, the kind that stretches, settles and waits. You look at Mark, really look at him. Not the way youâve been looking at him, not the way you look at someone youâre getting to know but like youâre trying to place something. Something familiar that never mattered enough before.
ââŚOh.â
It comes out softer than expected. Not dramatic, not shocked. Just⌠realization. Your best friend stares at you like youâve just committed a crime. âThatâs it?â he demands. âThatâs all you have?â You glance at him then back at Mark, âshould I scream?â âYes!â he says immediately. âNo,â Mark says at the same time. You pause. Then, a small smile pulls at your lips. âYouâre famous, Mr Celebrity?â Itâs not a question, itâs not admiration. Itâs just⌠a statement. Mark nods slightly, ââŚsomething like that.â
You tilt your head. Studying him, no wonder he can take some time off in this economy and strangely, nothing changes. Not the way he laughed this morning, not the way he stood in your kitchen and definitely not the way he looked at you last night.
Your best friend, however, is losing his mind. âI need to call her,â he mutters, already pulling out his phone. âI need to call Igogo right nowâsheâs not going to believe this.âYou sigh softly, rubbing your temple, âdonât start.â âItâs too late,â he says, already dialing. âItâs already started, I love you but she'll give me the enthusiasm I need right now. You are a kpop buzzkillâ Mark watches the entire thing unfold and for the first time since the revealâhe laughs. Soft. Real because somehow, this chaos feels⌠normal and that feels more dangerous than anything else.
Igogo arrives in less than fifteen minutes. Hair slightly disheveled, breath uneven, eyes wide like sheâs just sprinted through half the city. âI CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!â she exclaims the second the door opens. âI CAN'T BELIEVE MARK LEE IS IN YOURââ and then she sees him again. In full. Not through a screen Eli had shown her when he called and she told him to shut up because the chances of that happening were almost as extinct as you showing your face on your channel. Not distorted. Real. Standing in your kitchen like he belongs there and she justâ freezes. âHi,â Mark says softly and the sound that comes out of her after is not human.
Lunch happens after the chaos settles, after introductions that are half coherent, half laughter, half Eli and Igo hitting each other's arm before they hit Mark hard on his and make him sign an autograph on paper before claiming two of your thrifted picture frames for themselves. After Eli has already started retelling the story like itâs breaking news, after she circled Mark twice like sheâs verifying his existence now, youâre seated together. All four of you.The table is fuller than usual. Thereâs the dish you filmed earlierârich, layered, something slow-cooked with spices that cling to the air even now. A soft stew, thickened just enough, served beside fluffy rice that still carries heat. There are leftovers tooâsmall plates you'd had for dinner the previous night. Roasted vegetables tossed lightly in oil and herbs. A chilled fresh pasta youâd forgotten about until midmorning as you were thinking what to prepare for you, Eli and Mark before the company got bigger. Sliced fruit arranged lazily on a side plate. Eli was supposed to help you filmâŚhe clearly could not be bothered with that anymore. Mark sits beside you. Not angled away. With his knee brushing yours under the table. His arm resting along the back of your chair againâlike earlier, like itâs becoming something he does without thinking. You donât move away and you donât acknowledge it either but Igogo sees it, Eli sees it and the silent conversation that passes between them is loud enough to feel.
âSo,â Igogo starts, slowly, dragging the word like sheâs savoring it, âwhen you said âMarkââŚâ You close your eyes briefly, âdonât.â
ââŚyou meant him.â
âI didnât know I meant him.â Eli snorts, âthatâs worse.â Mark huffs a quiet laugh beside you. âIn my defense,â you add, picking at your food, âhe didnât exactly introduce himself with a rĂŠsumĂŠ.â
âI said my name,â he says.
âYou said your name like it was normal.â
âIt is normal!!â
Igogo leans forward, ânot that name.â You nudge her lightly with your foot under the table and she grins. Unapologetic. Conversation flows. Easy, layered with teasing, curiosity, small moments that slip between laughter.They ask him questions. Some direct, some disguised as jokes. He answers. Carefully at first, then less carefully because something about this space, about youâ makes it easier to loosen the edges of himself. ââŚso you just left?â Eli asks at some point, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on him and there it is. That shift. Subtle but real. Markâs fingers pause against his glass, âIâm on a break.â
Igogo tilts her head. âThat sounds temporary."
âIt is.â
âDo you want it to be?â
Silence. It doesnât stretch awkwardly, it settles. Heavy. Mark exhales quietly, âI donât know.âAnd thatâ that lands because itâs honest. Too honest. You glance at him, really glance and for a momentâ you see it. Not the version people know, not the composed, polished version but the one you know, the one sitting beside you now and having lunch with two of his fans. The uncertain one. The one tired in a way that isnât physical, looking for something he hasnât named yet. Lunch lingers. No one rushes, no one checks the time. It justâŚexists until plates are empty and the conversation slows naturally. âIâll wash up.â Mark says it easily, already standing, gathering plates before you can protest.
âYou donât have toââ
âI know.â
He meets your eyes briefly. Soft and certain. âI want to,â and something about the way he says itâ makes your chest tighten.The kitchen fills with the sound of running water. Low, steady and familiar. You donât stay not because you donât want to but because Elii is already grabbing the wine bottle and Igogo is already trailing behind him like sheâs been waiting for this moment all afternoon. âCome on,â she says, dragging you gently by the wrist. âWe need to talk.â You've learnt not to resist. The living room feels quieter. Warmer and softer. You sink into the couch, the glass of wine pressed into your hand before you even realize it. Eli sprawls across the armchair like he owns it. Igogo curls beside you, knees tucked under her, eyes already locked on the kitchen.
On him.
âHeâs washing dishes.â
âYes.â
âLike this is his house.â
You sigh, âheâs helping.â Eli snorts, âheâs settling.â Igogo hums in agreement, âvery quickly.â You shoot them both a look, âcan we not?â âNo,â they say in unison. A moment passes, then, Igogo leans closer more mischievous now, lowering her voice for the drama of it all, âso.â You already hate the tone, âwhat?â She tilts her head toward the kitchen, âhe hasnât stopped looking at you. Have you guys had sex already?â Your grip tightens slightly around the glass, â seriously? Thatâs whatââ âand you havenât stopped pretending you donât notice, â Eli raises his glass to his lips taking a cheeky sip before lifting it up in the air.
âTo mutual delusion.â
You glare, âIâm not delusional.â âNo,â Igogo agrees lightly. âYouâre just letting a very attractive, very famous man live in your house and acting like that means nothing.â âIt doesnât mean nothing,â you snap quietly. They both pause becauseâ that wasnât what you meant to say. In the kitchenâMark rinses a plate slowly but his focus isnât on the dishes. It drifts to the sound of your voice. Soft. Lower now and private. He canât hear the words but he can feel the shift and something in his chest pulls because he wants to be there. Not here, not separated by a room. He dries his hands slower than necessary trying not to think about why.
Back in the living room, Igogo nudges your shoulder lightly,ââŚif you two end up togetherââ
âWeâre notââ
ââI need tickets.â
You stare at her, ââŚyouâre unbelievable.â âIâm practical,â she corrects. Eli nods, âvery, ticket prices are outrageous these days.â You laugh despite yourself shaking your head but your gaze drifts back to the kitchen where he stands. Quiet and focused. Like he fits too easily and somewhere, quietly, without asking permissionâ something shifts inside you. Not loud, not dramatic but enough because now, itâs not just curiosity anymore and across the room, Mark feels it too.
He just doesnât have the words for it yet, only the weight, only the pull, the quiet, growing realization that leaving is going to be harder than he thought not because of where he came from but because of where he is now and you being in it.
One afternoon, you are working in your office space when he finds you. Curled into your chair, glasses slipping slightly down your nose, your attention fixed on your screen. Your world again. Structured and focused. Safe. You donât hear him come in. You only notice when something appears beside you.
A bowl. You glance. Fruit.
Cut neater than before. It's always fruit. You look up. Heâs standing thereâone hand resting lightly against the back of your chair, the other still holding the edge of the desk.
ââŚYouâve improved,â you murmur.
âIâve been practicing,â he replies quietly. Thereâs something softer about him now, something lighter. Like the building tension hasnât disappearedâbut itâs been⌠redirected. You reach for a piece without thinking.
ââŚThanks.â
He doesnât move, not right away. Instead, his gaze drifts to your screen, âWhat are you working on?â You tilt the monitor slightly toward him,âmy next video,â you say. âPlanning, editing⌠fixing things Iâll probably change again tomorrow. Itâs complicated.â
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, âI get that,â he says slowly. You look at him more carefully now. He continues, quieter, âMusic used to feel simple for me. Now it doesnât.â That is the first time he admits it out loud. Not the decision but the fracture. He leans in slightly. Closer, close enough that you feel it before you register it. His arm shifts, brushing lightly against your back. Not intentional but not entirely accidental either. Your breath stutters. He notices because of course he does but he doesnât pull away. Not immediately. Instead, his gaze lingers on the screen. Then drifts slowly to you. Your glasses. The way your lips part slightly when youâre concentrating, the faint crease between your brows and something in his chest tightens. âYou should rest later,â he says quietly. You blink, âWhat?â âYouâve been at this for a while,â he adds, softer now. You swallow.
âOkay I will.â
But neither of you moves. The air changes..Thickens and your awareness sharpens. Every small movement amplified. His hand shifts slightly against the chair, your shoulder brushes his arm and then before either of you can think it throughâŚhe leans in. Just slightly to press a soft kiss to the side of your head. Your temple. It's barely there but enough to make everything stop.
You freeze.
He freezes.
The world narrows into that single point of contact that no longer exists and suddenly itâs too much...he pulls back immediately, âIââ .You donât respond. You canât because your heart is racing too fast. Your thoughts are too loud and your body is too aware. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair, âI didnât meanââ but he did and you both know it. Silence crashes in.
Heavy.
Awkward and charged. Then, he turns and leaves. Too quickly. Like if he stays, something else will happen, something bigger. Something you both won't be able to walk back from. You sit there. Frozen. The fruit untouched beside you, your screen forgotten and your thoughts spiraling becauseâ
What does that mean?
Days later when you both mutually, reluctantly decided to ignore what had happened in your office that night, the room was quiet except for the soft clicking of the keyboards on your laptop. Mark sat next to you on your kitchen island, headphones on, one foot tapping lightly against the floor in a rhythm only he could hear. The lamp between you cast a warm glowâsoft enough to blur the edges of everything. Including him.
You glanced up.
Just for a second. He was focused on his worksheet in front of him. Completely and for a moment, you forgot what you were doing. On his end, he felt it. That look. Still, he didnât turn, didnât break. Minutes passed or maybe hours, neither of you kept track. At some point, you both reached for something at the same time.
Your hand.
His.
Brushing. Lingering. You didnât look at each other but neither of you pulled away quickly either. And that silence? It said more than anything else could have.
Another night comes slowly. Deliberately and neither of you knows how to act but itâs you who breaks it.
âPizza?â
Your voice carries from the kitchen. Casual. Like nothing happened but like everything happened. He appears a moment later smiling softly at you with a nod, âYeah.â
You lead him to the small makeshift terrence you had on your roof. One you insisted your brothers helped you make one past summer when the house was still new. Now, the rooftop is colder than expected. The city stretches around youâlights scattered like something alive, distant but present. You sit close on the small two seater couch you had. Not touching, but close with the pizza box sat squarely on his lap. The silence is different now. Not awkward, not entirely. Just⌠full.
ââŚDo you ever think about leaving?â he asks suddenly.
You glance at him, âLeaving what?â
âEverything,â he says.
His voice is quieter now, more honest. âIâve been thinking about it a lot.â You donât interrupt. You let him speak because something about this feels important. âI donât know if I fit where I am anymore,â he continues. âOr if I ever did.â The confession sitting between you is heavy. Real. The truth behind his almost distant smiles and the permanent do not disturb on his phone. You exhale softly, âmaybe youâre not supposed to stay there forever.â He looks at you. Like that possibility terrifies him. âWhat if I regret it?â You shrug lightly, âthen at least it was still your choice.â You both stay silent again until he speaks up again after a sip of his coke, âI think I might leave.â
You donât ask what, you already know. His group. His contract. The life he has been performing inside. The life people only seemed to care about. His jaw tightens slightly.
âI donât know how theyâll take it.â
A pause.
Then, softer, "I'm terrified to find out who I am outside of it.â That is the first time he sounds afraid in a way that is not controlled. Your hand reaches up to pull some of his hair out of his eyes, he turns to look at you, âYou donât have to know all of it right now.â Mark looks at you and there is something dangerous in how much he is looking at you. Not possession. Recognition. His hand finds yours without ceremony and you let it stay. You both grow silent again in understanding but this one feels closer, warmer and thenârain. Sudden.
Sharp.
You both laugh instinctively, scrambling to stand, grabbing the box, the drinks before seeking shelter back inside. Breathless, drenched and laughing. The rain doesnât stop when you reach the stairwell. It follows you inâsoft at first, then louder, drumming against the rooftop door you just pushed open, as if it refuses to let the moment end.
Youâre laughing.
Not gracefully. Not softly. Youâre laughing in broken pieces, breathless, shoulders shaking, fingers still curled around the cardboard pizza box that is now slightly ruined from the rain and Markâheâs behind you, one hand hovering near your back like he doesnât trust the wet steps, like he doesnât trust himself not to reach for you. His other hand is still holding onto both your drinks. âCarefulââ he says, but heâs laughing too, the words barely forming, dissolving into quiet disbelief. âYouâre the one who said rooftop,â you shoot back, glancing over your shoulder. Your sweater is soaked through. It clings and itâs heavier now, dragging at your shoulders, the hem brushing against your thighs where your shorts barely exist beneath it. Your socks are damp, soft against the cold tile, and your hair is dripping down your neck in slow, quiet rivulets. Mark notices everything.
He shouldnât but he does.
Every step down the stairs feels slower than it should be. Like time is stretching. Like something is building and neither of you is naming it. By the time you reach the hallway, the laughter has softened. Not gone. Just⌠quieter. Warmer. The house greets you with stillness and Biscuit is sitting right by the hallway entrance like a silent judge, tail flicking lazily, watching the two of you drip rainwater all over the floor like youâve lost all sense of dignity. âOh my God,â you breathe, pointing weakly, âheâs judging us.â Mark huffs a laugh under his breath. âHe should. We look insane.â
âYou look worse.â
âThatâs offensive.â
âItâs honest.â That earns a real laugh from himâlow, easy, the kind that makes your chest tighten without permission and then it fades naturally because now youâre both standing there.
Close. Too close.
âIâuhâŚâ you start, suddenly aware of everything. The wet fabric against your skin, the way your hair sticks to your neck and most importantly, the way heâs looking at you. âI should get towels,â you say quickly, stepping past him but he moves at the same time.
You almost collide.
For a secondâjust a secondâyouâre chest to chest, breath to breath, the space between you disappearing so fast it feels like a mistake. âSorry,â he murmurs.
âYeah. Me too.â
Neither of you move. Mark recovers first. He clears his throat, dragging a hand through his wet hair, pushing it backâwater droplets flicking onto the floor, âIâll grab them,â he says. You nod, grateful for the distance but it doesnât last because when he comes back, he doesnât hand you the towel. He steps closer.
Again.
âHold still,â he says, softer this time and you do. You donât even question it. He lifts the towel to your head, hesitatesâjust brieflyâbefore pressing it gently against your hair. His touch is careful, almost⌠reverent, like heâs afraid youâll disappear if heâs too rough.You laugh under your breath. âYou donât have to be that gentle. Iâm not glass.â âI know,â he says quietly but still, he doesnât change the way he touches you.
This is dangerous.
He thinks in between his movements with both his hands on either side of your face, looking down at your frame as you find the floor more intriguing in exaggerated wonder.
You are dangerous.
The way youâre standing in front of him, soaked, smiling softly, trusting him without even realizing it. He drags the towel down slowly, drying the strands near your temple, your cheek and his fingers brush your skin. Accidentally but not enough to ignore. You feel it. The shift, it's small but itâs there.Your laughter fades completely now, your breath catchesâjust slightlyâas his hand pauses against one side of your face and suddenly youâre hyper-aware of everything.
The quiet. The rain. Him.
âYouâre freezing,â he says but his voice is different now. Lower. Closer. You swallow, âSo are you.â And thatâs when you notice it, really notice it. His shirt. Clinging and soaked through, the fabric outlining everything it shouldnât be outlining so clearly.Your gaze flickers, just for a second but he catches it.
Of course he does.
âOhâright,â he mutters, almost to himself and then, he pulls the shirt over his head. Itâs not dramatic.Itâs not slow for effect but to you it feels like everything slows anyway.The way the fabric lifts, the way his shoulders move, the way the air changes. You forget how to breathe for a second.âBetter,â he says, running the towel through his own hair now with his eyes still on you. Not casually and definitely not lightly. Heâs looking at you like heâs trying to figure something out. Something important. You shouldnât step closer but you do anyway. âLet me,â you say softly, reaching for the towel in his hands. He lets you take it but he doesnât step back. Your fingers brush his bare shoulder as you start drying his hair, mimicking what he did for you. Except youâre not as careful.Youâre nervous.Your hands arenât steady and when the towel slips slightly, your fingers graze the back of his neck, he inhales sharply.
You freeze.
âIâm sorryââ
âNo,â he says quickly. Too quickly. Your eyes meet and this time, neither of you looks away. Something unspoken passes between you. Heavy. Undeniable. This is the moment. The one youâve been circling for days. Almost touches, almost glances, almost something more and now thereâs no space left for almost. âMarkâŚâ you whisper, you donât even know what youâre going to say. You donât get the chance because he closes the distance. The first kiss isnât rushed, it's not overwhelming. ItâsâŚcareful. Tentative. Like heâs asking a question and you answer immediately. Your palms rest carefully on his chest, grounding yourself as the kiss deepensânot fast, not messy, but certain. His hand finds your waist. Warm and steady, pulling you closer like heâs afraid you might step back. You donât. The world narrows. To this, to him.To the way your breath mixes, your movements slowly syncing without thought and then, something shifts. The kiss breaks for a second. Just enough for air, just enough for realization.âWe shouldnâtââ you start but your voice is weak, reminding him how cruel the world he lives in is to whatever is starting between you. Unconvincing.âFuck,â he curses yet he doesnât move away, telling you that he couldn't give two shits about it when you kissed him back âI know.â
Silence. One heartbeat. Two. Then, he kisses you again. This time, it's not careful, itâs deeper. Hungrier. Like something in him finally gave in. You stumble back a step, then another and he follows. Not forcing, just not letting go either. Your back meets the hallway wall. Softly but the impact sends a spark through you anyway. His other hand slides up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough and his lips move from yours, to your cheek. Your jaw, slowly down to your neck.You gasp. Quiet. Sharp. Mark is gone. Heâs so gone he couldn't even be bothered with saving himself at this point. Completely. He knows this is the line. He knows this changes everything but the way you react, the way your hands grip him tighter instead of pushing him away. He canât stop. Doesnât want to and heâll be damned if he has to, still, he can't help asking.
âTell me to stop,â he murmurs against your skin. He doesnât sound like he wants you to.
Please don't.
You donât. Your fingers weakly slide into his wet hair instead and thatâs all the answer he needs.The tension thatâs been building, days of it. Weeks, maybe. Every almost moment, every held breath, every glance that lingered too long.
It finally breaks.
He pulls you off the wall. Not roughly but with intention and suddenly youâre moving backwards. Towards the room that's undeniably yours.Your laughter comes back for a second. Breathless. Disbelieving. âThis isâthis is insane,â you whisper. âI know,â he says but heâs smiling against your lips. The door hits softly behind you. You donât even remember walking that far along and when it closes, the space becomes smaller, quieter, all him, everything intensifies again. He pauses. Just for a second. Forehead resting against yours weakly, breathing you in like he needs it.âIs this okay?â he asks and this time, he means it. You nod because you donât trust your voice to not betray your desperation and then, he pulls you back in. Slower this time. Deeper, like heâs savoring it now. Not rushing, not questioning. Just⌠feeling and the world completely disappears.
The brush of Mark's lips was softâŚtoo soft, like he could break if you pulled away. Softly, they travelled down your throat as he took a step forward, pushing you back to where your bed was. Then, you wanted moreâŚneeded it actually, because what was once slow built itself up into something you both couldn't hold back from much longer. The crash of your lips again becomes feral and desperateâŚtoo desperate from the tiptoeing you both have been doing around each other since the first day he stepped into the world you've managed to make your own. The world he's long since wanted to belong to from the moment you blinked up at him and asked if he was serious about staying with a stranger all because he was lonely. All because he actually could open up about being lonely, something he forgot how to open up about because his glossy and flashy world expects him to be okay with everything handed to him.His hands travels low to edge of your soaking sweater, fingers travelling under, touching skin before cupping the curve of your ass through your ever tempting boyshorts. Yours clawed on his shoulders, travelling down to feel him up fully.Your hands slowly run over his chest then trace up to his muscles and biceps before settling back on his shoulders, tugging him down as you braid your fingers on the hairs at the back of his head. Mark pulls away pulling your sweater up and over your shoulders. Then his lips are back on you again, softly placing a kiss on your forehead, your cheek. Then the other before kissing you longingly and traveling down south to your neck again, your shoulder while his hands worked on your bra unclasping it before snapping it off like an expert auditioning for a magic mic number.
Mark took both your breasts warm in his hands, toying with them softly as he kissed down your cleavage leaving wet traces behind as he kneeled down in front of you before taking one into his mouth with hooded eyes that hadn't looked away from you since his cruel ministrations started, the hardened bud warm despite the cold in the room and the cold from the rain outside. The taste of your skin was enough to grow his hunger. You hummed in approval before sighing in pleasure as your fingers held the side of his head. Mark nips on the skin under the other breast he's left neglected, both his hands pull on your shorts, drawing them off your smooth legs and removing one wet sock after the other, still kissing low on your stomach. He then slowly stands up nipping his way up, on your sternum, your shoulder, your neck laving his tongue on the sting he leaves behind before kissing you on the lips again.
âYou're so fucking gorgeous Angel.â He whispers on your lips as he held on your jaw. He pushes you back on the bed, climbing over you, âmy gorgeous gorgeous baby.â Soft whimpers leave your lips as you arch your back into him. Your fingers dig into his back making the flesh there turn red, drawing him closer to you as he settles between your thighs. âI want you.â You whine lifting your hips to grind on his still in sweatpants. He moves to your neglected breast, flicking on your nipple with his toungue so deliciously that it has you moaning desperately for him. âNo rush.â Mark smirks before latching his mouth around it and sucking hard before heading south and kissing his way over your stomach before surprising you by spreading your thighs open with his hands, groaning low when his eyes feast upon your glistening pussy with a wet lick of his lips his hunger for you clear as day when he looks at you.
âFuck.â
Mark doesn't wait for you to protest, he dives straight in, burying his face between your legs and sliding his tongue up and down your slit. He moans into you, the vibrations make you shudder and even before you can recover, he's pulling back again to play with your clit with his thumb, his other hand opening your legs further apart before lightly slapping on your arse and grabbing a handful. He sucks on your clit again, flicking his tongue over it repeatedly as one of his fingers slowly eases into you building pressure deep inside your stomach. You don't even think you've breathed properly since all of this started and it's slightly getting to you because you are practically breaking and screaming. Your hands pull at his hair as you roll your hips against his tongue while he slowly adds in another finger, fucking you slowly as you come undone before him.
Mark pulls away from you completely and he hurriedly tugs on his sweatpants, baring himself completely naked before you. He kneels on the bed again, âDo we have protection?â You nod pushing yourself up to your bedside table pulling the bottom drawer to grab one. You hand it to him and watch as he swipes your wetness from his bottom lips while opening the condom up. Mark's eyes never leave yours as he wraps himself up. His dick long, veiny and thick that just looking at it threatens to have you soaking the bed. Then, he drags your backside into his lap grabbing his cock, slapping it against your pussy, rubbing the broad tip on your clit torturously. Your thighs twitch in his hold as he presses into you ever so slightly before pulling back.
âReady?â
You nod moaning his name before your voice cuts short when he slides his cock into you so slowly until he is fully seated. Your spine arches wordlessly as you bite down on your bottom lip hard and he starts thrusting slowly, holding your legs to his chest so that they are straight up in the air and apart. Slowly, his thrusts begin to build up, his hips begin to move so fast. The pleasure is maddening. His cock presses every nerve, stroking every sweet spot with every delivered hard thrust. The pressure in your stomach is steadily building into higher heights than the last, faster than you anticipated. One of his hands rests squarely on your stomach, tracing his movements slowly before pressing down so deliciously that it has him pushed out of you abruptly. Mark's other hand comes down hard on your arse before holding himself to your entrance again and sliding right in. The bliss feeling makes you clench around him. His hips stutter as he rubs on your clit with his thumb in tight precise circles. You know you both won't last with how worked up you've both been to make your first time last long and he's not really helping your case with his head down, watching his cock slide in and out of you, shining with your juices as beads of cum gather in the condom. His hand slaps on your arse again and he groans at the feeling of you clenching even tighter than before around him before plunging in balls deep. He draws back slowly and slams back in again and again. Your brain is fuzzy and you can barely hold on already losing all your senses. Mark leans over you to kiss you sweetly while still fucking into you, sending you over the edge making you clench around him so hard he groans while spilling into the condom. He sucks keenly on your bottom lip as you contract down and milk him dry for all he is worth.
He calls out your name softly, still kissing you deeply as he gives long slow thrusts to keep your aftershocks going, âI like you a lot Angel.â He sighs deeply as he releases your legs from beneath him while slowly pulling out letting you wrap them around his waist while he covers you up with the soft sheet. He brushes your hair out of your face while cupping the back of your head and presses his mouth hard to yours before pulling back to look at you. âI like you too, Mr Celebrity.â You tell him and he smiles ecstatic. You smile back happy and calm, euphoric in the aftermath of the bubble he has created around you. Mark pulls back from the bed already stepping into your bathroom and you get curious as to what he's doing because you can hear water running. Then he steps back into the bedroom, pulling the sheets away from you and carrying you towards the bathroom again. The man sits you on the toilet and you look at anything but him, âWe have to pee.â
Oh my goodness!?! There's that âweâ again?!
âCan you turn around?â
âBaby,â Mark is about to protest but the redness on your face stops him. So he simply sighs and turns around. You thank him for it and pee, when you tell him you are done, the man takes you into his arms again before carrying you into the soapy bathtub.
âA good ten minute soak, a kiss to your forehead and a good night's sleep.â
âYou're doing too much.â
Mark simply shakes his head while kneeling besides you outside the tub, âthis is the bare minimum Angel.â All you do is laugh. Mark places a kiss on your forehead again, âI'll come back for you,â before walking back outside for some fresh shorts to sleep in. Your heart is swelling like you like him a little bit more than you intended to even though that seems impossible. The way he makes you feel is beyond your comprehension and you can't help hoping that he feels the same because his actions towards you would be cruel if he didn't want anything serious after tonight.
The next morning does not arrive all at once. It seeps in. Soft, gray light filtering through the curtains, the kind that doesnât wake the world but brushes against it gently, like itâs asking permission first. Mark is awake before it fully settles. He doesnât move at first, doesnât know exactly when he woke upâonly that at some point in the quiet, his eyes open, and he doesnât move. For a momentâjust a momentâhe forgets everything else. He turns his head slightly and you are there.Your presence is everywhere. In the quiet, in the warmth. In the unfamiliar, overwhelming awareness that he can still smell the faint scent of your body wash on the pillow. Curled into him, half on his chest, half tangled in the sheets like you belong there. Like youâve always belonged there.
Your breathing is slow, deep, even.
One of your hands rests loosely against his ribs, your fingers occasionally twitching in your sleep, like youâre dreaming something soft. For a long moment, he doesnât breathe properly because thisâthis right hereâis the kind of peace he didnât know he was allowed to have.
His gaze traces your face slowly.
Your lashes resting against your cheeks. The faint crease between your brows that only appears when youâre deeply asleep. The way your lips part slightly, relaxed in a way heâs never seen on you when youâre awake. No guardedness. No quick wit. No careful distance. JustâŚyou. Something in his chest tightens. Not painfully but enough to make him swallow because thereâs something painfully tender about it.
Something that makes his chest ache.
Carefullyâso carefully he almost doesnât move at allâhe lifts his hand and brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. His fingers linger longer than they should. They always do with you. You stir slightly, shifting closer instead of away, your cheek pressing more firmly against him. Markâs breath catches.
âYouâre mine,â he whispers under his breath, like heâs reassuring himself more than anything. He lets his fingers trail down, just once, along your templeâsoft, reverent. âHow are you this pretty?â Then, before he can think too much about it, he leans down and presses a quiet kiss to your forehead. Itâs instinctive, gentle. Almost shy and it lingers. For a second too long. When he pulls back, his expression shiftsâ something deeper settling in his eyes. Something heavier because this isnât just comfort anymore and he knows it.
It is dangerous
You are dangerous.
He thinks and not in the way people usually mean it. Not reckless. Not impulsive.
No.
This is dangerous because it feels right. His gaze lingers longer than it should. Long enough to memorize. Carefully, he shifts under you, easing himself out from your hold without waking you. Itâs a slow processâadjusting the sheets, lifting your arm, guiding you gently onto the pillow. You mumble something incoherent, brows furrowing for a second and he freezes but you donât wake. Instead, you curl into the space he leaves behind, instinctively seeking warmth.
His chest tightens.
âSo fucking pretty Angel,â he exhales quietly. Then he reaches for the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders, tucking it around you like it matters more than anything else in the world because right now, it does. He lingers there, just watching you for a second longer. Like heâs trying to memorize this version of you.
Soft, unaware and his.
His phone vibrates. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and unwelcome. Markâs jaw tightens immediately. He doesnât need to look. He already knows. Still, he reaches for it. Careful and slow. Trying not to wake you. The screen lights up. A name.
One heâs ignored for days.
His manager. Thereâs a pause. A long one. His thumb hovers over the screen and for a second, he almost lets it ring out again. Like he has every other time because itâs easier that way. Easier to stay here, easier to pretend the outside world isnât waiting for him, demanding things from him or expecting answers heâs been avoiding giving. His mind flickers, Unwanted. Uninvited. Missed calls. Texts stacking up.
Call me back.
We need to talk.
Mark!! Where the hell are you?
He remembers silencing them. Turning his phone face down, choosing you, choosing quiet dinners, choosing the shared glances. The slow, careful way something had been building between you. ChoosingâŚthis. His gaze slowly shifts back to you. Still asleep, still close and still unaware of the way his world is starting to pull at him again. His chest tightens. He exhales, soft. Resigned. The phone vibrates again before it rings a second time. A sharp, intrusive sound against the quiet. Markâs head snaps back down toward it instantly. He doesnât need to see the name but he does anyway and his jaw threatens to break. Heâs ignored the calls for days. Weeks. Letting them ring out while he sat in your living room, while he laughed with you in the kitchen, while he stood on the rooftop just yesterday under the rain like nothing else existed. It's more insistent this time. Mark exhales slowly and glances back at you. Still asleep, still peaceful. Still completely unaware of the storm waiting just outside this room.
ââŚI canât ignore this one,â he murmurs to himself under his breath.
Not today.
Carefully, he looks back at you with soft smitten eyes and doesnât miss the way your hand instinctively reaches for warmth thatâs no longer there. He pauses. Just for a second. He doesnât put on a shirt. He doesnât even think about it. He just steps out in black boxer shorts, bare chest still warm from where you were pressed against him moments ago, his hair still messy, sleep clinging to him in the way he movesâslower, heavier.
Real.
He steps out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him. Only thenâthe call connects almost immediately, âYeah.â His voice is low. Rough with sleep but steady. His voice is sharp. Controlled. Frustrated. Thereâs no greeting on the other end. Just tension. Immediate. âWhere have you been?â
Mark closes his eyes briefly. Straight to it. Of course.
Mark exhales quietly, leaning against the wall, one hand running through his hair, âIâve been busy.â Thereâs a pause. A dangerous one, âbusy ignoring your responsibilities?â Markâs gaze drifts. Not really seeing the hallway but seeing something else entirely. You. Laughing over burnt eggs, standing barefoot in the kitchen. Looking at him like he wasnât just what everyone else saw him as. His jaw tightens slightly. A few days ago, he wouldâve apologized immediately, he wouldâve softened. Backtracked. Made himself smaller to make this easier but something about this morning, about you still asleep in your bed changes the way he answers.
âI needed time.â
The silence on the other end stretches, âthatâs not how this works, Lee.â His jaw tightens slightly, âI know how it works.â
âThen act like it.â
There it is. That tone. Familiar. Pressing. Expecting. Mark straightens slightly. Not defensive, not aggressive butâŚfirmer.
âI said Iâd come back,â he replies. Itâs quiet again. Thereâs a shift on the other end. âYou donât get to just disappear, Mark. We have schedules. We have commitments. The comebackââ
âI know.â
He cuts in, but not harshly.Just steady. Measured.
âI know.â
Silence. Then, âthen explain to me why youâve been unreachable.â Mark exhales slowly, looking down at his hands. For a second, his voice almost falters. Almost. Then it steadies again, âbecause I didnât want to make a decision Iâd regret.â
That lands. He hears it in the pause.
âDecision?â
Mark tilts his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. His chest feels tight but clear. âIâll be in time for the comeback,â he says finally. âDonât worry.â Another pause. This one is heavier. âThatâs not enough.â Mark closes his eyes briefly, âitâs what I can give you right now.â The words hang between them. Not careless, not impulsive. Deliberate. âYouâre risking a lot,â his manager says. Mark lets out a quiet breath. A humorless one. âI know.â
âAnd for what?â
The question lands. Sharp. Mark doesnât answer immediately because the answer isn't simple anymore. His gaze shifts toward the closed bedroom door, âI have some decisions to make,â he says instead.
âThatâs not reassuring.â
âItâs honest.â
Silence. Then, âyouâre not thinking clearly.â Thatâthat almost makes him laugh, but he doesnât. âIâve never thought more clearly,â Mark replies, quieter now. Steadier and he means it because for the first time, heâs not just thinking about expectations. Or schedules, or what heâs supposed to be. Heâs thinking about what he wants and somehow even though he had been contemplating it for a while, youâre now at the center of that. On the other end, his manager exhales sharply, âweâll talk when youâre back.â Mark nods, even though it canât be seen.
âYeah.â
The call ends and the silence that follows feelsâŚlouder than the conversation did. Mark lowers the phone slowly. His hand lingering there. The door creaks open behind him. Soft. Barely there but he hears it and when he turns, he expects you there but you aren't and it makes him release a breath he didn't even realise he was holding.
The house had learned the shape of him. That was the first thought that crossed your mind as you stood barefoot at the kitchen doorway, watching him. You were always watching him. Late afternoon light spilled through the windows in long, golden sheets, settling across the counters, the floor, him. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, catching on the soft fabric of the oversized grey hoodie he woreâyours, you realized absently. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Hair slightly messy, like heâd run his hands through it one too many times. He was standing at the counter, cutting fruit on your small fruit chopping board with your favorite watermelon bowl in front of him already prepped with your yoghurt and granola.
Carefully.
Too carefully. Like if he focused hard enough on slicing strawberries into perfect halves, he wouldnât have to think about anything else. You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across your chest, and just⌠watched. He had been like this all day. Soft. Attentive.
Careful.
Breakfast had appeared without you askingâtoast slightly uneven, bacon cooked better than the disaster from that first morning because in order to achieve the crunchy bacon they needed to slightly be burnt so he was safe from your scrutiny, but still clearly his effort. Heâd hovered while you ate, pretending to wipe the already clean counter. Heâd carried your camera bag without being asked when you filmed. Heâd folded laundry, your laundry and his, with this quiet concentration that made your chest tighten and every time your fingers brushed, every time your eyes met, he smiled but it didnât quite reach the place you had memorized. Not anymore. You shouldnât have listened in. That thought had replayed in your head all day, like a song stuck in a loop. The phone call. His voice, low and firm in the hallway that morning.
âI said Iâd come back.â
ââŚbecause I didnât want to make a decision Iâd regret.â
And then softer, softer in a way that made your chest ache, âI have some decisions to make.â
You hadnât heard everything. Just enough, enough to let doubt bloom, enough to make you feel like this had an expiration date and now he was being so kind. Gentle. Like someone preparing to leave without making a mess. Your throat tightened.You pushed yourself off the doorframe, âAre you⌠opening a fruit shop?â Your voice came out lighter than you felt. Mark glanced up and for a secondâjust a secondâhis face softened fully, âThere you are.â There it was, that look. The one that made everything inside you go quiet. He smiled, small, almost shy. âI was starting to think you were avoiding me.â Your stomach dropped because you had been. âJust a little busy,â you said, stepping into the kitchen. It sounded wrong even to your own ears and he noticed. Of course he did.
He always noticed.
Something was off.Heâd felt it the moment you woke up, in the way you didnât wake up. The way you stayed turned away from him in bed, the way your breathing had been just a little too even. Like you were pretending and now, now you stood across from him like there was a line drawn between you.
Invisible.
But there. His grip tightened slightly on the knife before he forced himself to relax.
Dude, donât overthink it. Donât mess this up.
You were quieter today. More distant and the thought hit himâsharp, suddenâ
Did I push too far?
Last night. The way you had looked at him, the way you had said his name, the way he had kissed you like he had been starving because he actually was and then some.
God.
His chest tightened. Maybe, maybe it had meant more to him than it did to you.
MaybeâŚ
He set the knife down, âI, uhâŚâ He cleared his throat, wiping his hands on a towel that didnât need wiping. âAbout last nightââ Your head snapped up. Too fast. Too sharp. Something in your expression flickeredâpanic? hurt?âand suddenly he becomes very aware that he was stepping into something fragile. Still, he pushed forward because the silence between you felt worse. âItâs okay,â he said, voice careful. âIf it didnât meanâif you donât want what happened last night to mean anything. I get it. We didnâtâŚtalk about it, and I donât want you to feel likeââ
Oh.
Oh.
The words hit you like cold water. Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.
So thatâs what this was?
You let out a small, breathless laugh but there was nothing amused about it, âWow.â Mark freezes. You stepped back slightly, arms wrapping around yourself now. âThatâsââ you swallowed, shaking your head. âThatâs actually insane.â His brows furrowed. âWhat?â âYouâre leaving,â you said, the words spilling out faster now, emotion cracking through your voice, âand the first thing you think to say is that it meant nothing?â His eyes widened. âWhatâno, thatâs notââ âYou think I didnât hear you?â you cut in, sharper now. Silence. Heavy and immediate. Markâs expression shifted, realisation hitting him all at once.
Slowly.
âYouâŚheard?â he asked, quieter. Your laugh came out hollow. âHard not to.â You looked at him then. Really looked and God, that hurt more because he still looked at you like you mattered and that just made no sense. âYouâre going back,â you said, voice trembling now despite your effort to steady it. âYouâre making plans. Youâre deciding your future. And Iâm justâwhat? A stopover? Something that happened while you were figuring things out?â
âThatâs notââ
âAnd now youâre trying to make it easier by pretending it didnât matter?â Your chest tightened, âDo you know how insulting that is?â He stared at you. For a second. Two, and then threeâ Nothing made sense. âYou think Iâm leaving you?â he asked, almost incredulous. âYes!â you shot back. âWhy would you think that?â You laughed again, but this time it broke, âbecause you said youâre going back!â
âI said Iâm going back for work!â
âAnd what happens after that?"
âIââ he stopped because he didnât have a clean answer and the hesitationâ It hit you like confirmation. Your face fell, âExactly.â Something inside his chest finally snaps, âHeyâno.â He steps forward quickly. âThatâs not what that means.â âThen what does it mean, Mark?â you asked, voice softer nowâbut somehow that made it worse. âBecause from where Iâm standing, it sounds like youâre already preparing to leave.â
âIâm not leaving you.â
âThen what are you doing?â
âIâm trying to figure out my life!â he said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once. âIâve spent years doing what everyone expects of me and for the first time Iâmââ he exhaled, frustrated, vulnerableâ âIâm trying to decide something for myself.â Your eyes softened slightly but the hurt didnât disappear, âAnd where do I fit into that?â you asked quietly. He stops and looks at you, really looks. The answer comes easily. Too easily.
âYouâre the only thing that feels certain.â
Silence.
Soft and fragile. Your breath hitched. His shoulders dropped slightly, like the fight had left him all at once, âI wasnât saying last night didnât matter,â he said, quieter now. âI was sayingâŚI didnât want to assume it meant something to you and make things harder.â Your lips parted slightly, âThatâs what you meant?â
âYes.â
You blinked. Once. Twice.
âOh.â A beat passes.Then, softer, âOh.â
You felt stupid. Not in a harsh way. Just⌠small because everything suddenly made sense. The way heâd been careful, the way heâd been watching you, the way heâd been trying. You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your hands. âI thoughtâŚâ you trailed off, then shook your head, âI thought you were trying to make it easier to leave.â Mark steps closer. Slowly. Like approaching something delicate, âI donât want to make anything easier if it means losing you.â Your heart stuttered. You looked up at him and this time, there was no confusion. No hesitation. Just the truth.
Say it.
Youâve been circling it for days. Weeks.
Say it.
âI love you,â he said. Simple but it landed heavy. âI donâtââ he exhaled softly, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. âI donât even know when it happened. But it did and now I canât imagineâŚnot having this.â
You swallowed hard.
âI love you too,â you whispered and that was it. The last thread snapped. He closed the distance first. Not rushed, not hesitant. Just certain. His hand comes up to your cheek, warm, grounding. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie and when your lips met, it wasnât like last night.That had been fire. This wasâ
Home.
Slow. Deep. Intentional. Like both of you were trying to say everything you hadnât managed to put into words. You exhaled softly against him. He pulled you closer. Your bodies fit together like something that had already learned how.The kiss deepened, then softened, lingered.Foreheads resting together. Breath mingling.His arms wrapped around you.Fully.Firmly.Like he meant it. You melted into him, your face tucked into his chest.For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, quietly, âIâm not leaving you,â he murmured into your hair. Your fingers tightened slightly against him.âNot now,â he continued.
A pause.
Then softer, âNot ever, if I can help it.â Your chest ached but this time, it wasnât from fear. You pulled back just enough to look at him, âEven when you go back?â He nodded. âIâll come back too.â A small, shaky smile broke across your face, âYou better.â He smiled back, âI will.â Soft and certain, âand if not, I can always fly you out to me.â
And just like that, the tension didnât disappear. It settled. Turned into something steadier. Something deeper, something that could survive distance because now, it had a name.
The next morning doesnât feel heavy. It feelsâŚsettled. Not perfect, not resolved in some dramatic, life-changing way. Just more gentle. You wake up before him this time and for a moment, you donât move.
Because heâs there.
On his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair falling messily over his eyes like he lost a fight with sleep and didnât care enough to fix it. One arm is stretched toward your side of the bed, fingers just barely brushing your wrist like even in sleep, he refuses to let you drift too far. Your chest tightens.Not painfully, just⌠full. You shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his fingers react anywayâcurling faintly, like your movement pulled him closer even in his dreams.
A small smile tugs at your lips, "clingy,â you murmur under your breath. His response is immediate. A quiet groan, âI heard that.â Your eyes widen slightly, âYou were asleep.â âWas,â he mumbles, voice rough, barely awake. âThen you started talking.â You huff softly, âWell, you shouldnât eavesdrop on people when youâre unconscious.â That earns a low, sleepy laugh from him, âthat's what she said.â You scoff in disbelief, hitting his arm playfully at the jab from your previous day's overthinking. He shifts, turning onto his side now, facing you properly. It feels different, being looked at like that first thing in the morning. Unfiltered. Unhurried.He studies your face for a second. Then, without saying anything, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. It lingers. Too long to be casual yet too natural to question. ââŚmorning,â he murmurs against your skin. Your breath catches slightly, ââŚmorning.â
The day starts slowly. No rush, no urgency pulling either of you away. You drift out of bed together, half-laughing, half-arguing over everything that makes sense but doesn't like its routine. Like you always do but this time, it doesnât feel like youâre adjusting to each other. It feels like you already have. Biscuit winds between your legs as you open the fridge, âTraitor,â Mark mutters, watching the cat ignore him completely.
âHe knows who feeds him.â
âI fed him yesterday.â âYou dropped half the food on the floor.â âThat was strategic.â The man argues back like a prodigal child. You turn to look at him, ââŚhow?â He shrugs, completely serious, âBonding experience.â
You stare at him.Then laugh and something about that laugh, the way it comes easier now, fuller, makes his expression soften without him realizing. Cooking becomesâŚchaotic. Not because either of you canât cook but because neither of you is really focused on it. You bump into each other constantly, reach for the same thing at the same time and pause too long when your hands brush. At one point, he stands behind you to grab something from the cabinet aboveâand doesnât move away immediately after. You feel him there.Close. Warm. Your breath stutters slightly, ââŚMark.â
âHm?â
âYouâre not grabbing anything anymore.â
A pause.
Then, âI forgot what I needed.â You turn your head slightly. Just enough to meet his eyes. Heâs closer than you expected. Your gaze flickers to his lips, then back up and for a second, it almost happens again. That same pull, that same quiet gravity but this time, you both smile instead. Small. Knowing and stepping away before it consumes the moment. The rest of the day unfolds in pieces that feel almostâŚunreal in how normal they are.
You film.
He sits nearby, watching, occasionally offering suggestions that are surprisingly good. You tease him about it, âSince when are you a creative director?â He shrugs,âI have range.â âYou have opinions Mr Celebrity.â
âSame thing.â
You roll your eyes, but you keep his suggestion anyway. Later when you both end up on the couch. Not doing anything important, not talking about anything serious. Just, existing in the same space with your legs draped over his lap, his hand absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your skin. Neither of you acknowledges it but neither of you stops it either. At some point, your head ends up resting against his shoulder, at some point, his chin rests lightly on top of your head and at some point, you both realize how quiet the world feels when youâre like this. âThis is nice,â you murmur. He hums softly in agreement, âYeah.â
A pause.
Then quieter, âFeels⌠easy.â Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt, ââŚyeah.â
Easy and somehow, that feels bigger than anything else. When night rolls in, it feels softer. Quieter. Like the house itself is exhaling.Youâre both in comfortable clothes now. You are in one of your oversized sweaters, sleeves swallowing your hands, the tiny shorts you love to wear swallowed whole by it. Mark is in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still slightly damp from a shower. Thereâs music playing low
A guitar rests next to him on the couch.
You notice it immediately, ââŚyouâre going to play?â He glances up. A little hesitant, âmaybe.â Your heart does something strange at that. You shift slightly on the couch, turning toward him more fully, âI didnât know you brought it with you.â He shrugs, âI didnât. This is rented. I didn't think I was going to want to play anytime soon. A pause, then quieter, âcause I didn't for a while.â
Thereâs something there, something heavier but he doesnât sit in it long. Instead, he adjusts the guitar, fingers brushing the strings lightly. The sound is soft. Tentative. Like heâs testing the space. You pull your legs away expectantly. Mark takes the guitar into his lap. Then, he starts playing. Itâs not loud. Not showy. JustâŚgentle. A melody that feels unfinished, like itâs still finding itself but itâs beautiful. In a quiet, aching way. You donât interrupt. You donât move, you just watch him and for the first time, you see it clearly. Not just Mark. Not just the version of him thatâs been living in your house but the part of him thatâs still searching. Still figuring things out, still deciding who he wants to be. Your chest tightens, âthatâs new,â you say softly when he stops. He nods, âYeah.â â It sounds really good.â
He hesitates. Then, âthank you.â Honest. Uncertain. You shift closer without thinking. Your shoulder brushes his.âYou should keep it,â you say quietly. âIt sounds like you.â He glances at you, âyou think so?â You nod, âYeah.â A small pause settles. Then, softer, âNot the version people expect.â That lands. He looks down at the guitar for a second. Then back at you. Something in his expression shifts. Warms.
âStay?â he asks quietly.
You blink,âI am staying.â He shakes his head slightly, âI meanâlike this.â You understand.
ââŚokay.â
You donât move away and neither does he. He starts playing again. This time more sure. More grounded and you lean into him slightly, your head resting against his shoulder again, your presence steady, quiet, supportive. Outside, the world keeps moving but inside, time stretches. Slows and becomes something soft and almost fragile. His playing steadies, your breathing matches it and somewhere between the notes and the quiet, something deeper settles between you. Not rushed. Not loud. Justâreal. When the song fades, neither of you moves immediately. âThank you,â he murmurs. You tilt your head slightly, âFor what?â He hesitates. Then, âfor making this feel like mine again.â Your chest tightens, you donât answer with words, you just lean further into him, pecking his lips lightly before taking his hand in yours, holding his tight. Like youâre not trying to keep him just letting him know he doesnât have to leave. Not yet not tonight. Not from this and this timeâŚ
He holds on too.
The night settles into the house slowly, like it doesnât want to disturb whatâs already there. The rooms had settled into one of those quiet, lived-in silences that didnât feel empty. It felt full. Full of the low, steady hum of the desktop, the faint crackle of the record spinning lazily as it played one of the records Mark brought home days ago, tucked under his arm like something precious. It plays from the corner of your office, warm and slightly imperfect, the kind of sound that makes everything feel softer around the edges and the soft rhythm of ASMR keys being pressedâhesitant at first, then more certain, like someone relearning a language they once spoke fluently. Your office light is dimâjust the desk lamp on, casting a golden pool across the desk, across him where he sat at your desk like he had always belonged there.
You pause at the doorway.
He hasnât noticed you yet.
Your chair is pulled in close, his posture slightly hunched, one elbow resting on the table while his other hand scrolls slowly across the screen. The monitorâs glow reflects faintly on his glasses, and for a second, you just watch the way his eyes moveâfocused, intent, quieter than youâve ever seen them. With the hood up, sleeves pushed just enough to reveal his wrists, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose every few minutes before he nudged them back up without thinking. There was something almost disarming about itâhow easily he had folded himself into your space. Your chair, your desk, your work⌠your life. Like heâs settled into your world so naturally it almost scares you, like if you blink, he might disappear and take that feeling with him. Your fingers tighten slightly around the mug in your hands. He said he booked the ticket. That thought still sits somewhere in your chest, heavy but⌠not unbearable. Not anymore because now thereâs this. This quiet, this closeness, this choice to stayâuntil he canât. Still, there was a tension under him, you could tell from the stiffness on his shoulders. Not loud, not obvious but there.
Your gaze flickers to the screen. Lines of text. Emails. Too many.
He hadnât opened them in daysâweeks, maybe. Not properly anyway, not like this. Now they sat open on your screen, one after the other. His name threaded through subject lines. Urgent. Follow-up. Final notice. Check-in. His jaw tightened slightly as he read one, fingers hovering over the keyboard longer than necessary.
He exhaled slowly. Typed. Paused. Deleted.
Typed again.
You didnât announce yourself when you reached the doorway. You just watched him. The soft glow of the monitor painted his face in pale blues and quiet shadows, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows. He looked different like this. Not like the version of him the world knew. Not polished, not performing. Just⌠Mark.
Your Mark.
The thought landed softly, but it stayed and for a second, you didnât moveâjust stood there with your mug warming your hands, letting the moment settle into you like something youâd want to remember later. Then your foot shifted against the wooden floor and he felt it, he always did. His head turned slightly, eyes lifting over his shoulderâand the moment he saw you, something in his face changed.
Softened.
âHey,â he murmured, voice quieter than the room. Your lips curved before you could stop them. âHey.â You stepped in slowly, the oversized sweater slipping just a little off one shoulder as you moved. Bare legs, no socksâhe noticed that immediately, even before his eyes consciously tracked it. He always noticed. âCold?â he asked automatically, gaze dropping for half a second before returning to your face. You shook your head, walking toward him. âI have coffee. That counts.â He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, but his eyes lingered anywayâlike he didnât quite believe you and then you were close. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to notice the faint scent of his body wash mixed with something warmer, something that had become distinctly him over the past weeks. You didnât ask, you just climbed onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. One leg swinging over, then the other, settling carefully so you faced him fullyâknees on either side of his hips, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders for balance. He freezes for half a second, breath catchingâbarely noticeable, but you feel it, not because it was new. It was but, it still did something to him every time. His hands come up instinctively, landing on your hips to steady you, fingers warm even through the thin fabric of your shorts.
âHi,â you said again, softer now, closer.
His hands instinctively came upânot gripping, not pulling, just settling at your waist like they had learned exactly where to belong. Hi,â he echoed. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The record crackled softly, the cursor blinked on the screen behind you and Mark became painfully aware of everything at onceâyour warmth, your weight, the way your sweater bunched slightly under his fingers, the way your hair fell forward just enough that it brushed against his cheek when you leaned in closer. âWorking?â you asked, even though it was obvious. He let out a quiet breath, glancing briefly past you at the screen. âTrying to.â Your eyes followed his for a second before returning to him. âThat bad?â He huffed softly, a small smile tugging at his lips, but it didnât quite reach his eyes this time.âItâs just⌠a lot,â he admitted and because you were here, because it was you, he didnât stop there. âTheyâve been waiting for me to respond,â he continued, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. âI just⌠didnât want to open anything. Because once I do, it would mean I have to actually decide.â
Thereâs something in the way he says itânot dread, not quite fear, but something heavier. Something that carries weight.
You donât respond right away.
Instead, your fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of his hoodie trying to sooth him, ground him soft and steady, âdecide what?â He looked at you then, really looked and for a moment, all the noiseâthe emails, the expectations, the pressureâfell somewhere far behind you.
âEverything,â he said simply.
There was no dramatics in it. Just the truth. Your chest tightened slightly, but you didnât let it showânot in a way that would weigh him down. Instead, you leaned in just a little more, your forehead brushing his lightly. âOkay,â you whispered. âThen don't decide everything.â
His breath caughtâjust for a second because you said it like it was simple. Like he could, like he was allowed to. His hands tightened slightly at your waist before relaxing again, thumbs brushing gently over the fabric of your sweater. âI think I already know,â he admitted after a moment. âIâm just⌠scared of what happens after I say it out loud.â You smiled softly, âThen donât say it out loud yet.â He blinked at you, âWhat?â âKeep figuring it out,â you said, voice calm, steady. âYou donât have to rush it just because they want you to.â
There it was again. That quiet way you had of making things feelâŚpossible. Mark let out a breath he didnât realize heâd been holding, his shoulders dropping slightly and then his eyes flickered downward again. Your legs. Still bare, "Seriously," he muttered suddenly, reaching blindly to the side. âHow are you not freezing?â You blink. âIâm not.â âYouâre not even wearing socks,â he argued back incredulously. âI donât like socks.â âThatâs not true and you know it baby.â
âItâs my house.â
He stares at you like thatâs not a valid argument and you laugh softly as he grabs the throw blanket from the nearby beanbag, shaking it out before draping it over your shoulders and around your legs with gentle, careful movements. âThere,â he said, adjusting it unnecessarily. âBetter.â You tilted your head, watching him, âyouâre very domestic.â That makes him snort, âI burnt eggs, like, three weeks ago.â
âGrowth,â you said lightly.
He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile there nowâreal this time and then, without thinking, he leaned forward. Just a little, just enough. Your lips met his in something soft, unhurried. Not the kind of kiss that demanded, the kind that stayed. Warm, familiar and Certain. It lingered for a few seconds before he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours again, his nose brushing lightly against yours as he exhaled.
âGirlfriend privileges include temperature regulation now?â he murmured. You smiled, eyes still closed. âBoyfriend duties,â you corrected softly. That word settled between you, not new but still⌠delicate, still something that made his chest tighten in the best, most terrifying way.
His girlfriend.
The vinyl crackles softly in the background. The room feels smaller, warmer. You lean in just slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder. âGo on,â you whisper. âWork.â He huffs quietly. âYouâre not helping.â
âYou like it.â
âI do,â He can't help grinning as his hands settle againâone firm at your waist, the other returning to the keyboard. He starts typing, slower now, like his focus is split between the screen and the fact that youâre sitting on him like this. You tilt your head, watching the screen from over his shoulder, âWhat are they saying?â âEverything,â he mutters. âAsking where I am. Why Iâm not responding. Schedules. Contracts. Deadlines.â
âSounds fun.â
âItâs not.â
Youâre quiet for a moment. Then, âAre you scared?â The question is soft but it lands. He stills slightly. His fingers hover over the keyboard, ââŚYeah.â
Honest.
You shift a little, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair, âof what?â He exhales slowly, âof making the wrong choice.â Your thumb brushes gently against his skin, âthere isnât one.â âThere is,â he says quietly. âThereâs always one.â You pull back just enough to look at him, âyouâve spent so long doing what everyone else wanted,â you say. âMaybe the right choice now is just⌠doing what you want.â His eyes soften, âand what if that costs me everything?â You hold his gaze, âIt wonât.â
âYou donât know that.â
âNo,â you admit softly. âBut I know youâll regret it if you donât try.â Silence. The kind that settles deep. He studies your face like heâs trying to memorize something. Then, his hand leaves the keyboard again and slides up your arm reaching for the back of your neck. Fingers brushing lightly against your skin and light hairs behind. âYou make it sound easy.â âItâs not,â you whisper. âBut it could be worth it.â He swallowed slightly with his hands shifting just enough to pull you closerâcloser than before, like he needed to remind himself you were real. âIâm gonna have to go back,â he said quietly after a moment. You didnât flinch, didnât pull away. Just nodded at him, âI know.â His grip tightened âI donât want to,â he added, almost under his breath.This time, you pull backâjust enough to look at him properly, âI know,â you repeated gently and you did. That was the thing. You understood him in ways that made it harder, not easier. Your hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from his face before your fingers lingered there. âYouâre not choosing between things,â you said softly. âYouâre justâŚadding something new.â His eyes searching yours, âand what if I mess it up?â he asked. You smiledâsmall, but certain, âThen we fix it.â
We.
The word landed heavier than anything else. Mark exhales slowly, something in him settlingânot completely, not permanently, but enough. Enough to keep going, enough to try. He leans in again, and for a moment, the emails donât matter, the world outside doesnât exist. Thereâs just this.
You.
Him.
The quiet. It's slow, like he doesn't know how not to give you time to pull away. You donât. Your lips meet. Soft and unrushed. The kind of kiss that doesnât ask for anythingâjust stays. Your hand tightens slightly in his hoodie and his grip on your waist firms. Just a little, enough to pull you close, to pull you flush against him. Like heâs grounding himself in you. When he pulls back, itâs not far. His forehead rests lightly against yours. Then he pulls back slightly, tucking you closer against him. You shifted slightly, settling more comfortably nowâyour head resting against his shoulder, your arms loosely around him as the blanket cocooned you both. His chin rests lightly against your hair and then, quietly, he turns back to the screen. His hands moved againâtyping, pausing, thinkingâbut this time, there was less hesitation. Less fear because you were still there. Warm. Close.
Real.
And even as his thoughts wanderedâback to contracts, to music, to the uncertain shape of everything waiting for himâone thing stayed clear. He didnât know how everything would turn out. He didnât know what choosing himself would cost but he knew this, he wasnât walking away from you. Not now, not after this. His fingers pause over the keyboard for a moment. Then he types again and behind him, you breathed softly against his shoulder, your presence steady in a way that made everything else feel⌠manageable. His thumb brushes absently against your side. Like a reminder that youâre still there, that heâs not doing this alone. The vinyl spins. The night deepens and in the quiet rhythm of keys and breath and closeness âYou both hold onto the same fragile, steady thought.
Weâll figure it out.
The airport noise didnât hit him all at once.It felt louder than he remembered or maybe it was just that everything inside him had gone quieter. It layered itself inâfirst the low hum of voices, then the sharper edge of camera shutters, then the unmistakable swell of recognition as people began to notice him stepping out of the car. Mark adjusted the hood of his jacket a little lower over his head as he stepped out of the car, the familiar choreography of it all settling over him like muscle memoryâsecurity, staff, movement, timing. He paused for half a second with the door still open behind him. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, long enough for him to feel it.
That shift.
From being yoursâquiet, unobserved, soft around the edges, to being this again.
Public. Watched. Interpreted.
His fingers tightened briefly around his phone before he slipped it into his pocket, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped fully into the light.
And just like that, he wore it.
The small smile. The wave. The careful way his gaze lifted just enough to acknowledge without lingering too long. He knew how to do this, he had always known but now, there was a part of him that stood slightly apart from it, watching himself move through it like it was choreography he no longer fully belonged to. Somewhere between the flashes, his phone vibrated faintly in his pocket. He didnât check but he felt it and the corner of his mouth softened, just slightly as his mind drifted. To your voice, to the way you had laughed into his shoulder. To the way your fingers used to absentmindedly trace patterns against his hoodie as you watched the many reality shows you loved to hate so much.He swallowed, stepping through the doors.
Back to this.
The schedule swallowed him whole. It always did. Fittings blurred into rehearsals, rehearsals into recordings, recordings into meetings. Rooms changed, outfits changed. The studio smelled faintly of hairspray and fabric steamers. Racks of clothes lined the wallsâstructured jackets, layered textures, pieces chosen with intention, curated to create something larger than any one person wearing them. Mark stood in front of the mirror, stylists moving around him with practiced easeâadjusting a collar, smoothing fabric along his shoulders, stepping back, stepping in again.
âTurn a little,â someone said.
He did. Automatically. The reflection staring back at him looked right. Sharp, controlled and composed but his eyes lingered on himself just a second longer than usual. Not because he didnât recognize the person but because he was starting to realize that wasnât all of him anymore. âMark, ready for the first set!â He blinked, stepping away from the mirror. âYeah,â he answered.
Then lighting changed,but the rhythm stayed the same. Fast. Efficient. Demanding. The photoshoot set was brightâwhite backdrops, stark lighting, cameras already positioned. He stepped into frame, posture shifting instinctively, expression settling into something precise. Click. Flash.
âChin up slightlyâyeah, hold that.â
Click.
âGood. Now soften your eyes a bit.â
Soften. He thought of you, not intentionally. Just, naturally. The way your eyes looked when you laughed. The way your voice softened when you called him Mr. Celebrity like it meant something more than just teasing him.Something in his expression changed. ââyes, that,â the photographer said quickly.
âHold that.â
Click.
Mark blinked slightly, refocusing but it lingered. That softness, that warmth. He couldnât turn it off as easily as he used to. Still, he moved through it all with the same quiet precision he always had.
Only now, there were cracks.
Small ones.
Barely visible. But there. In the way his eyes drifted toward his phone when he thought no one was looking. In the way his laugh came a little softer, a little slower, like it was echoing from somewhere else.
_____
The nights were the hardest. The dorm room felt quiet and impersonal, lights dimmed low while the city buzzed endlessly outside. Mark sat on the edge of the bed, guitar resting against his thigh, fingers moving absentmindedly over the strings. The melody was soft. Unfinished. It had been like that for days nowâpieces of something forming, dissolving, reforming again. He thought of you when he played. Not intentionally, justâŚnaturally. The way you used to sit and listen, your head tilted slightly, eyes focused on him like the sound mattered more because it came from him. He swallowed, fingers pausing. His phone buzzed. This time, he didnât wait. He answered immediately. Your face filled the screenâslightly pixelated, hair messy, wrapped in one of your oversized sweaters.
âHi,â you said softly and just like that, everything eased. âHey babyâ he breathed. For a moment, neither of you said anything. JustâŚlooked. Smiled, existed in the same space, even if it was through a screen. âYou look tired,â you murmured. He huffed a quiet laugh. âYou look like you just woke up.â
âI did.â
âOf course you did.â He rolls his eyes groaning cheekily, âIâd give up anything for our midday naps.â
The naps were the best, after lunch, after clean-up, especially if it was days where you didn't have to edit till late at night. On the day bed you had on your balcony. Cuddling snugly, legs tangled up and hands wandering where the sun didn't normally shine under a big light throw blanket to protect you both from the wind before Biscuit interrupted your deep slumber with his constant meowing needing something to eat. He secretly believed the cat just grew jealous when he didn't see you for too long.
You smiled, shifting slightly, pulling a blanket tighter around yourself. âDid you eat?â He glanced at the half-empty takeout container beside him, âyeahâŚbut I miss your food most Angel.â You laugh at that before answering softly, âI miss watching you eat my food. You should still eat.â âIâm eating,â he corrected quickly. âCurrently. See?â He lifted the container into view like proof. You laughed softly, shaking your head. âOkay. I believe you.â Silence settled againâbut this time it was softer. Comfortable. âI miss you,â he said suddenly. It slipped out the same way everything important with you always did. Unplanned, unfiltered. Your expression softened immediately. âI know,â you whispered. âI miss you most, my idol.â His grip on the phone tightened slightly. âI donât like this part,â he admitted.
âThe distance?"
âYeah.â
You nodded slowly, âbut we knew it was coming.â âI know,â he sighed. âI just⌠didnât think it would feel like this.â
âLike what?â
He hesitated, ââŚlike I left something important behind.â Your breath caught slightlyâbut you smiled anyway. âYou didnât leave it,â you said gently. âItâs still yours. Iâm only yours.â Something in his chest ached. In the best way, in the worst way and all at once. âIâll come back,â he murmured, more to himself than anything.
âI know you will.â
And you did. You always said things like that with so much certainty it made him believe them too.Even when he wasnât sure how everything would unfold. For a moment, he wasnât in Korea. He wasnât in a hotel room, he wasnât a performer, or an idol, or someone standing on the edge of a life-altering decision.
He was justâYours.
âDid you talk to Taeyong?â you asked gently, startling him back to reality. He pauses not because the name seems so foreign coming from your glossy lips, it is but he pauses because you remembered him telling you about wanting to talk to him first before fully committing to what he wanted. That conversation was so rushed then and still, you remembered. Then he nodded, even though you couldnât see it fully, â yeah.â
âAnd?â
He laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. âI think Iâm really going to do it.â Silence. Not empty, just⌠full. âOkay,â you said softly. No fear, no doubt. Just. Okay. His chest tightened. âYouâre not scared?â he asked quietly. âI am,â you admitted. âBut not about you.â That made him pause, âthen what?â âThe world youâre stepping into,â you said. âAnd how it might try to pull you away from yourself.âHis grip on the phone tightened, âI wonât let it.â âI know,â you whispered and somehow, that was enough For now, for this moment, for the version of him that was still standing in between two lives, trying to figure out how to carry both.
Later that night, alone again, Mark sat by the window, city lights stretching endlessly beyond the glass. His phone rested in his hand, your voice still lingering in his head from earlier and beneath everythingâthe noise, the schedules, the expectations, his decision sat quietly. Steady. Unmoved. He hadnât said it out loud yet. Not to them, not to the team he led that had become brothers ever since they fought for him back into the group when the system was meant to function differently. Not properly but it was there. Waiting, like everything else.He exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the wall. He didnât know how it would go, didn't know what it would change but he knew this. He was choosing something for himself. For once and somehow, that choice still led back to you.
Always.
It scared him but for the first time in a long while, even before he met you, it felt right and for nowâŚ
That was enough.
_______
It was late when he met Taeyong. Not planned through managers or schedules. Just a message.
Hyung, are you free?
And somehow, Taeyong always was.The cafĂŠ was quiet, tucked away enough that they could sit without being watched too closely. The kind of place that didnât demand attentionâjust offered space. Mark arrived first. Sat and waited. His fingers tapped lightly against the table before he forced them still, exhaling slowly. When Taeyong walked in, it was with that same calm presence he always carriedâlike he understood more than he said, like he saw more than he let on. âHey,â Taeyong greeted, sliding into the seat across from him.
âHey, hyung.â
They ordered drinks. For a moment, it was just comfortable silence. Neither of them spoke. They didnât need to. Taeyong had always been like thatâsomeone who didnât rush silence, who let it stretch until it became comfortable instead of heavy.
âYou look tired,â Taeyong said finally, studying him. Mark huffed softly. âThat obvious?â
âA little.â
He nodded, glancing down at his hands.
âI think too much,â he admitted. Taeyong smiled faintly. âThatâs not new.â Mark huffed a quiet breath. âYeah.â A pause. âAnd distracted.â Markâs eyes flickered up. Taeyong held his gaze, not accusatory, not pressing. Just there. Mark looked down at his hands, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of the table.
âI went away,â he said finally.
âI know.â
âIt wasâŚdifferent.â Taeyong nodded slightly, waiting. Mark swallowed, âI think I needed it more than I realized.â
Another pause.
Mark let out a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly. âI made a decision,â he said, voice lowering slightly.
Taeyong didnât interrupt, just listened. Mark swallowed, âI donât think I can⌠keep doing this the same way anymore.â There it was. Not fully said but close enough. Taeyong leaned back slightly, eyes steady on him, âwhat does that mean to you?â Mark hesitated because saying it out loud would make it real, would make it irreversible. ââŚI donât think Iâm going to renew,â he said finally. The words settled between them. Heavy but not surprising. Taeyong didnât react immediately. He just nodded. Like he had already known. âAre you sure?â he asked gently. Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair. âIâve been thinking about it for a long time even before I left,â he admitted. âI just didnât have a reason to actually do it.â
âAnd now?â
Markâs lips curved slightly, almost involuntarily. Now, there was you. He didnât say your name but it was there. In the way his expression softened, in the way his voice steadied. âI think I want to try something that feels like mine,â he said. Taeyong watched him carefully and then, quietly. âThen you should.â Mark blinked,âthatâs it?â Taeyong shrugged lightly. âYou already decided. You just wanted someone to tell you itâs okay.â Mark let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for weeks. âIs it?â he asked, softer now. Taeyongâs gaze didnât waver. âItâs your life,â he said simply. âNot the companyâs. Not the fansâ. Not even ours.â
The words landed deeper than anything else.
âAnd youâre not leaving us,â Taeyong added. âYouâre just choosing yourself differently.â Markâs throat tightened. He nodded slowly. âI was thinking maybe after the comeback,â he murmured. âWhen contract talks come up again. It can be announced officially when Dream and I head out for tour.â Taeyong tilted his head slightly, âhow soon do you think youâll do it? To tell the guys?â âSoon enough that it still feels like my decision.â Mark stared at the table for a moment, âHeachan might try to talk me out of it,â he said quietly. Taeyong laughed and nodded, âthatâs all that matters.â
That, that hit deeper than anything else.Markâs throat tightened slightly, his gaze dropping again, âit doesnât feel that simple.â âIt never is,â Taeyong replied softly. âBut that doesnât mean itâs wrong.â
Silence settled again. Warm and steady. For the first time since he had made the decision, it didnât feel like something he was carrying alone.
Now, the silence doesnât break all at once. It loosens. Gradually. Like the house itself exhales the moment you step fully inside, the door closing softly behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should. The cold from outside lingers in the entryway, clinging to your coat, to the ends of your hair, to the space between you and himâbut it doesnât last. Not when his presence is this close. Not when your hands are still on him like you havenât quite convinced yourself heâs real.
Mark still hasnât spoken.
But he moves.
Itâs small at firstâhis hands coming up, slow, hesitant, like heâs not entirely sure heâs allowed to touch you back. His fingers hover near your wrists before settling there, warm against your skin, grounding in a way that makes your breath hitch without permission. You donât step away, neither does he and for a moment, the world narrows down to just thatâyour hands on him, his on you, the quiet between breaths that says more than words ever could.
Thenâ
âMinhyung-ah?â
The voice comes from deeper in the house, gentle but curious, carrying the warmth of familiarity that doesnât belong to you yetâbut doesnât feel unwelcome either. Everything shifts. You blink, the moment softening but not disappearing, and Mark exhales like heâs remembering where he is, who he is supposed to be here. His hands tighten around your wrists for just a secondâjust enough to say stayâbefore he finally, finally speaks.
ââŚIâm here.â
His voice is quieter than usual. Rougher when he looks at you. Really looks at you this time, like heâs catching up to what just happenedâyour presence, your hands, the way you crossed continents just to stand in front of him like this. Something in his expression softens, almost dangerously so. âCome in,â he murmurs, softer now, and this time his hand doesnât leave yours when he turns.The house feels different once youâre inside it properly. Warmer. Lived-in.The kind of warmth that doesnât come from temperature but from yearsâfamily dinners, laughter tucked into walls, quiet mornings that smell like coffee and something sweet baking in the oven. You notice everything because you donât know where to look. The framed photos along the hallway. The soft hum of a heater somewhere. The faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen. And then, you see them.
His parents.
His mother turns first, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to something softer the moment her eyes land on Markâand then, immediately, on you.
Thereâs a pause. Not uncomfortable. JustâŚassessing. Gentle.
âOh,â she says, a small smile forming, âyou must be the one he canât stop reverting back to when I cook something wrongly,â like she already understands more than either of you have said out loud. âYou didn't tell me she was so pretty, honey.â
Mark exhales sharply beside you.
âMomââ
But itâs too late because his father is already stepping forward, a quiet warmth in his presence that mirrors Markâs in a way that makes something in your chest tighten unexpectedly. âYou came a long way,â he says simply, his voice calm, welcoming without being overwhelming. âYou should sit. You both should.â
And just like that, the moment shifts again.From the doorway to something steadier, something real. The dining table is already set. Not formally, not in a way that feels stagedâbut thoughtfully. Plates arranged neatly, a soft cloth laid across the center, small bowls of cut fruit, slices of cake that look homemade. Thereâs steam rising from mugsâcoffee, hot chocolateâthe scent wrapping around you like an embrace you didnât know you needed. Mark settles beside you after pulling out a chair for you. Your knee brushes his under the table and neither of you move away. His hand finds yours under the table before you even realize itâs happening. Firm. Grounding.
And this timeâhe doesnât hesitate.
At first, the conversation is light. His mother asks about your flight, your work, even roping you into making lasagna for dinner that night despite you claiming to be booking a hotel as you didn't want to disturb them only for his father to threaten to disown his own son if you slept outside. His father asks about how long youâre staying, insisting that you stay as long as you want to. You answer, politely, softlyâbut your awareness never leaves Mark because heâs quiet. Too quiet. Not distantâno, not that. Present but like something inside him is gathering itself, slowly, carefully, waiting for the right moment to surface. You feel it in the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles. Absentminded, repetitive and nervous. And then, It happens.
âI told them.â
Itâs simple. Too simple for what it means.The room stillsânot dramatically, not abruptlyâbut in a way that feels intentional. His parents donât interrupt. Donât rush him. They wait because they know this matters.Mark exhales, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly, like he needs that contact to anchor himself, "my managers. The company. The membersâŚâ His voice steadies as he speaks, but thereâs something underneath itâsomething raw, something exposed. âI told them Iâm not renewing.â
The words land softly but they carry weight. Years. A decade of something built, something lived in, something that shaped him into who he isâand who heâs trying to become beyond it. âIâll finish the tour,â he continues, quieter now, more certain. âIâll stay until everything we planned is done. But after thatâŚâ
He doesnât finish. He doesnât have to because itâs already there, sitting in the space between all of you. The decision, the ending and the beginning of something else. You donât realize your grip has tightened until he squeezes back. A quiet reassurance or maybe a question. You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at himâand when you do, you see it. The fear. Tucked carefully behind the confidence heâs trying to hold onto and something in your chest aches because you understand it, because you feel it too but more than that, you believe in him. Your thumb brushes over his hand, slow, deliberate, and when you speak, your voice is softâbut steady.
âItâs going to be okay.â
Not rushed. Not forced.Just⌠true. You donât say it because itâs easy. You say it because youâve seen him. All of him. The uncertainty, the passion, the way he lights up when he talks about music that feels like his. When you watch him make music he actually likes and you trust that version of him more than anything heâs leaving behind.
His mother is the first to respond, âyouâve always known when something feels right for you,â she says gently, her gaze steady on him. âEven when itâs difficult.â His father nods once, slower, thoughtful, âyouâre not losing anything,â he adds. âYouâre choosing something else.â
Simple but it lands and you feel it in the way Markâs shoulders loosen, just slightly. In the way he exhalesânot like heâs been holding his breath, but like heâs finally allowed to. For a moment, no one speaks. Not because thereâs nothing to say but because everything that needed to be saidâŚhas been.The warmth of the room settles around you again. The quiet returnsâbut itâs different now.
Full.
Complete.
Mark turns his head, just slightly to look at you and this time, thereâs no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. JustâŚsomething soft. Something certain, something that looks a lot like hope. His fingers lace through yours fully now on the table, not hidden, not tentativeâjust there, open, real and when he squeezes your hand this time, it feels different. Like a promise, not just that heâs not leaving you but that heâs finally choosing himself and for the first timeâŚ
At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing.
Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leavesâquietly, without telling anyoneâchasing a feeling he doesnât know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations⌠just distance. In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesnât ask who he isâonly who he chooses to be.
What begins as an unlikely arrangementâfive days under the same roofâslowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind. Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have. But time doesnât stopâand the life he left behind is still waiting for him. When he returns, nothing feels the same.
Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you canât go back to.
MAIN MASTERLIST | PART II
CUTS | TORONTO | PRESS RUN | BTS
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Slice of Life , Emotional Drama , Soft Comedy , Slow Burn , Hurt/Comfort , JUST ONE SMUT SCENE
WARNINGS.
Emotional Angst , Themes of Identity & Burnout , Mild Language , Slow Emotional Build , Protected Sex , Makeouts , Lots of kissing , Open-ended emotional tension (no heavy breakup, but strong longing)
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
Morning doesnât arrive all at once. It seeps in. Through the thin space between the curtains , stretching slowly across the floor through the quiet stillness of a house that's testing whether the house is ready to wake up or not.
It isn't.
The air is cool, faintly carrying the scent of polished wood and something olderâsomething familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesnât feel peaceful, suspended. Like something has been left unfinished. Mark stands in the middle of it barefoot, unmoving, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other without him realizing it. The wooden floor is cool beneath him, grounding in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Like he walked into a memory that isnât his anymore. This houseâhis house, his familyâs house in Torontoâshould feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something heâs stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocatingâjust⌠present. It fills every corner, stretches between the furniture, settles into his chest in a way that feels heavier than noise ever did. His phone vibrates in his hand. He doesnât look at it.
He already knows.
Another call. Another message. Another voice waiting for him to pick up and explain what he meant with the message he sent hours ago into a new day to his managers and colleagues that have become part of his family over the years. Questions waiting to be asked. Answers expected. He exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen before the vibration stops on its own. The quiet comes back. And with itâ you.
Not as a thought, not even as a memory crashing in, but like something that has already settled into the space before he even noticed it was there, as something that lingers. In the way the morning light touches the floorâsoft, warm, familiar in a way that doesnât belong to this house. In the way the quiet feelsâŚincomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesnât know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.
It doesnât help.
The doorbell rings. Itâs sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.
Real.
He blinks, like heâs being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this timeâimpatient, urgent, like whoever is on the other side needs him to open it fast. His fingers tighten slightly around his phone before he sets it down without thinking. Then he moves. Each step feels heavier than it should. The hallway feels even longer than it normally is. His hand pauses on the door handle, just for a second, just long enough for something in his chest to hesitateâ then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.
Not calm.
Youâre moving before he even processes itâstepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like youâre searching for something wrong.
âMarkââ
Your voice breaks slightly, and before he can respond, before he can even register the way your face looks, your luggage. The one that's barely upright behind you, shoulder bag long thrown on the floorâeyes wide, breath uneven, something frantic sitting just beneath your skin. Your hands are already on him. On his face first, warm, quick. Careful and almost trembling. Your fingers brush along his jaw, up to his temples, pushing his hair back like youâre trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find somethingâan injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesnât feel like enough proof that heâs okay. âAre you okay?â you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesnât sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something youâre trying to confirm with your own hands. You donât wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like youâre searching for something broken, something he hasnât told you.
He freezes.
Not because heâs uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide downâhis shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like youâre grounding yourself in the fact that heâs here. That heâs real. That heâs not⌠broken. That heâs here, that he didnât disappear along with the screenshot he sent you regarding the decision you knew he had been hesitant to make about his career after ten years of the same routine. Your breathing is uneven. He notices that.
He notices everything.
The way your lips part slightly like you want to say more but donât know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesnât respond. Mark doesnât move, doesnât speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way youâre touching him like he matters outside of everything else.
Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Justâ him.
Your hands slow, your movements pause, and then you look up at him properly, really look at him. Your expression softens, but the worry doesnât leave. âMr. IdolâŚâ you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. âTalk to me.â Something in his chest tightens because he wants to. He really does. He should. A hundred things are sitting in his chest, pressing against his ribs, waiting for space.
But the words donât come.
Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way youâre looking at him like heâs something you might lose if you donât hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything elseâthe noise, the expectations, the endless movementâfeel far away.
His throat tightens.
No words come out because if he startsâ he doesnât think heâll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tiltsâŚ
Itâs never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when itâs quiet.
âMark, just a few more minutesââ
The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesnât think too hard about it. The lights are too bright. They always are. Too bright. They sit above him, angled just enough to catch every expression, every shift, every blinkâno shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.
Controlled.
âHow would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?â He hears the question, registers it but thereâs a slight delay before he answers. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, just long enough for something inside him to hesitate.
He smiles, because of course he does.
âIt means a lot,â he says, voice smooth, steady. âI think⌠itâs a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.â The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, âAnd where is that?â
There it is.
The follow-up, the part where the answer is supposed to go deeper. His gaze flickers slightly, just for a second.
Because the truth?
The truth isnât something he can package neatly into a sentence,the truth is unfinished. Messy and still forming. So he does what he always does. He adjusts.
âItâs⌠a process,â he says instead, softer now. âI think Iâm still figuring that out.â
It sounds honest.
It is honest.
Just not complete. The camera keeps rolling. She smiles across from him, tablet resting against her knee, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that never really turns off. âWhat was the most personal track for you on the album?â The camera lens is fixed, unrelenting, watching for something real it can capture and package. Mark leans back slightly, fingers loosely intertwined, his smile already in place before he speaks.
âThatâs a hard one,â he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. âI think⌠all of them had something personal in them.â
Itâs a safe answer. A good one.
The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. âIs there one that felt⌠closer to you than the others?â
Thereâs a pause.
Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocusedâlike heâs somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would meanâfeeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watchingâHe can't afford that.
So he smiles again, soft and polished.
âI think it changes,â he says instead. âDepending on where I am.â She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.
It never does.
â
Backstage, itâs louder. Not with questionsâbut with movement. Staff walking quickly, voices overlapping, schedules being called out, things being adjusted at the last minute. Mark sits on a couch, shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his phone without really seeing it. Someone drops down beside him. Close enough that their shoulder bumps him with a little force.
âHyung.â
He looks up and finds Jisungâfamiliar, groundingâdrops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.
âYou good?â
The question is casual but the look isnât. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. âYeah,â he says.
Itâs automatic.
He doesnât look convinced. âYouâve been⌠quiet,â he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. âHave I?"
âYeah.â
A pause.
Then, âYou okay?â
The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This oneâwaits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.
âIâm just tired,â he says finally.
Itâs not a lie but itâs not everything either. Jisung studies him for a second longer, like he knows better than to believe him but also knows him well enough to know he really won't be getting the truth out of him regardless, still, he can't help being concerned. They both stay silent looking ahead at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Then, Jisung nudges his shoulder again, lighter this time.
âIf you need a break, you should take one.â
Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.
âJust like that?â
âYeah. Just like that.â
Itâs said simply, like itâs easy. Like it doesnât come with consequences. Mark doesnât respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, âYou should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.â Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesnât get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. Thereâs no pressure in the statement.
Justâunderstanding.
And somehow, that makes it harder because he has thought about it. More than once. The idea sits at the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.
A question.
Not fully formed. He exhales slowly, nodding once. âYeah,â he says. âMaybe.âAnd in the back of his mindâ something shifts. Something small. Persistent.
What if I did?
â
A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe itâs just the way the air sitsâstill, heavy with things unsaid. The tension. Mark sits across from two managers. One leans forward slightly, hands clasped, expression open. Listening. The other sits back, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating, already tense, already anticipating resistance. âI just need some time,â Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. âThatâs all Iâm asking.â
âHow much time?â the second manager asks immediately. Thereâs no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, âA few weeks,â Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like heâs already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, âWeâre in the middle of promotions,â he says. âYou know that.â
âI know.â
âThen you also know this isnât exactlyââ âI said I know,â Mark cuts in, sharper this time.
The room stills.
Markâs jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. âIâm not trying to mess anything up,â he continues, more controlled now. âI just⌠I need a break.â Thereâs a pause, a shift in the room.
Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. âYouâve been pushing a lot,â he says gently. âWeâve seen it.â Mark doesnât respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesnât.
Pushing.
Thatâs one way to put it. Pushing doesnât even begin to cover it.
The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. âCan you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?â There it is again. The question lingers, that expectation. That timing that never quite lines up with how he feels. Mark looks between them, and for a moment, he doesnât answer because that question, that small, persistent oneâŚis still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Markâs fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mindâ shifts. Just a little.
He finally exhales.
ââŚNo.â
Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesnât take it back.
The airport doesnât rush him. It should. People move around him in currentsârolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragmentsâbut none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like heâs watching everything through glass. Itâs not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that â feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesnât feel like an expectation. A black backpack hangs off one shoulder, the strap worn slightly where his fingers have been gripping it too tightly. In his other hand, he drags a medium-sized suitcase behind himâthe wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.
Thereâs another one.
Larger and heavier. Left momentarily beside one of the seating areas he passed earlier, because what was inside was heavier physically, mentally, and most of all emotionally. A compact MIDI keyboard. A pair of headphones. A small interface, wires tangled together in a way that suggests he packed quickly rather than carefully. Like he told himself, this was just a break, but still couldnât leave that part of himself behind.
Youâre not really running, he thinks distantly. You just⌠changed locations.
The thought sits uncomfortably because itâs true and maybe thatâs why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadnât meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than theyâve been in weeks, but thereâs something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasnât exactly found it yet and thatâs when he sees you.
He sees you even before he realizes heâs looking. Youâre slightly off to the side of the main flow of people, near one of the quieter pillars. Your setup is small but intentional. A camera angled down. A container is wide open in front of you. Your hands moving with focusâadjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. Thereâs something about the way you exist in that space that feels⌠untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. Youâre sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, containedâcamera angled carefully, container open in front of you.
Your hands move with precision. Adjusting and plating. Fixing something small that no one else would notice. He slows. The suitcase behind him rolls once more before stopping. His fingers loosen slightly around the handle. He continues watching. Youâre talkingâsoftly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesnât quite catch the words, but the tone reaches him. Calm and steady. Unbothered. It feels simple and something in his chest tightens because nothing about his life has felt like that in weeks.
Months, maybe longer.
He doesnât fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesnât realize how long heâs been standing there until you look up. Your eyes meet his, and something pauses.
A small one but it stretches.
Your eyes narrow just a little, not unfriendlyâjust⌠trying to place him. Trying to understand why there's a stranger standing there watching you like he forgot where he was going. You tilt your head slightly.
He blinksâ
Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. Thereâs a beat. Your gaze sharpens. Curious now. You blink back at him.
Then tilt your head the other way.
He mirrors you again.
And for a second, itâs ridiculous. Everything else fades. No noise, no movement. Almost like neither of you wants to be the first to break whatever this strange, wordless moment is. Just this strange, silent exchange between two people who donât know each other. Then you straighten.
ââŚCan I help you?â you ask.
Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like heâs just remembered how to exist in his own body. âYeah,â he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. âIâuhâŚâ He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that heâs here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.
What are you doing? You donât even know her.
Just walk away. Say something normal. Ask for directions?!?!?
LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE!!!
His jaw tightens slightly. He could still leave. He should, but then you cross your arms loosely, weight shifting to one leg, and thereâs something about the way youâre looking at himânot impatient, not dismissive, just⌠waitingâthat makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himselfâ
âCan I stay with you Angel?â he asks.
The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they donât just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesnât just changeâit stills.
ââŚExcuse you?â
Thereâs disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick againâthis time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.
âYouâre serious?â
Suddenly, Mark becomes very aware of how this looks. A stranger, with luggage, asking to stay with you, a stranger no less.
You actually sound insane!!!
He almost backtracks, almost laughs it off, because he seriously takes time to listen to himself talk since meeting you and hears himself the way you must be hearing him.
Dude, you actually are insane!!!
Immediately then, he wants to take it back, but something in his chestâtight, stubbornâdoesnât let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. ââŚYou know there are hotels, right?â Your tone isnât harsh; itâs logical. Grounded because now this isnât just weird, it's concerning, and in his mind, he does know. He knows exactly how many, knows the best ones, knows he could walk into any of them and disappear into a room that costs more than most peopleâs monthly rent.
He knows all that.
But the thought of it, the silence, the emptiness, the same four walls, the same distance makes something in his chest feel hollow. His gaze drops briefly to his suitcase, to the life he packed into it, clothes, work, and half-decisions waiting to be made on the only oath he's ever truly known for almost a decade. âI know,â he says quietly.
I donât want to be alone.
The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesnât say all of it. Your brows knit together. âThen whyââ
âI just donât want to be alone.â
It comes out softer than everything else heâs said so far. Less guarded and for a momentâ he hates that he said it because itâs too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldnât even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasnât the answer you expected. Thereâs a shift, and it makes you loosen your arms slightly from where they were crossed in front of you. Still cautious, still unsure, but a lot more open than before. Your expression shifts, not soft but not dismissive either. A flicker of something that tries to understand instead of just rejecting. Your eyes linger on him a second longer this time. Still, you tilt your head slightly. ââŚThat doesnât make this any less weird, you know.â Fair.
Completely fair.
Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. âYeah,â he admits. âI figured.â Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze movesâhis face, his posture, the way heâs standing like heâs unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.
Real.
He didnât just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, âWhat if Iâm a serial killer?â you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesnât hesitate to answer, âThen I guess thatâs how I was meant to die.â You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if heâs serious. If heâs joking, if heâs just reckless. ââŚYouâre serious,â you say slowly in realisation, trying to grasp at the idea that this was in fact a conversation happening with a stranger you were trying to push away.
âI am.â
Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. âYouâre either really smart⌠or just really, really stupid.â A faint smile pulls at his mouth, âYeah,â he says. âI get that a lot.â Thereâs another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isnât his anymore.
Itâs yours.
And you feel it. The weight of it is sitting right in front of you. A stranger. A very strange stranger. Who could very easily just walk away. Who probably should walk away. Your mind runs faster than your expression shows.
He has luggage. He didnât just say itâhe meant it. This is not normal.
You donât do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!
You donât bring strangers home??!?!
And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasnât moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way heâs standingânot imposing, not pushy, just⌠waiting. On the way, thereâs something tired in his eyes that doesnât quite match the rest of him, the way he didnât argue when you questioned him. Didnât try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel⌠real.
Youâre insane.
The thought hits you clearly.
There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?
ââŚFive days,â you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. âFive days,â you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. âThatâs it.â Thereâs a beat, then his shoulders dropâjust slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.
âOkay,â he says quietly. His grip on the suitcase loosens slightly, and as you turn to start packing up your things, he reaches for his suitcase again. Then pauses and looks back briefly towards where he left the second one. ââŚI should probably get my other bag,â he mutters. You blink. âYou have another one?â
ââŚYeah.â
Thereâs a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. âOf course you do.â You canât help the thought that lingers, quiet but persistent in the back of your mind, and under your breath, you whisper quietly as you watch him go.
Youâve actually lost your mind or you just might be the craziest person alive. This is how you die with him.
And just like that, you donât just take him with you. You take everything he brought with him, too. The half-packed life, the unfinished thoughts and the version of him that hasnât decided anything yet but is already changing.
_
The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. Itâs not unpleasant.
Just⌠lived-in.
Mark sits in the back seat beside you, his knee angled slightly away to give you space that neither of you explicitly asked for. The window beside him is cracked open just enough to let in a steady stream of cool air, carrying with it the distant hum of the city slowly fading behind you. Your smaller suitcase rests between your legs. His are in the trunk. All of them. He had watched the driver load them inâfirst the large one, then the medium, then your carry-on, placed more carefully on top like it mattered differently. It had felt strange, seeing everything he brought with him disappear into a space he couldnât see anymore.
Like letting go but not fully. Now, the road stretches ahead. The city gives way slowly, buildings thinning, noise softening, until it becomes something quieter. Trees begin to line the streets, their shadows flickering across the car windows in slow, shifting patterns as the sun dips lower. Mark watches it all. Not because heâs trying to, but because thereâs finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. Thereâs a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesnât interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesnât. Not yet. The driver hums softly under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in rhythm with a song playing too low to fully make out. It feels normal, and that alone makes something in Markâs chest tighten because normal hasnât felt like this in a long time.
By the time the taxi turns into the estate, the light has softened into something warmer. Gold spills across the road, catching on rooftops, on windows, on the edges of passing fences. The air looks different hereâquieter, slower, like everything has agreed to move at its own pace. Mark leans slightly, looking out. Children run across a small open field in the distance, laughter visible in the way they move, even if it doesnât fully reach the car. A bicycle lies abandoned near a curb. Someone waters plants near a gate, glancing up briefly as the taxi passes. It feels lived in.
Real.
You donât say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. âWait,â he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.
âIâve got it.â
You pause. Not arguing. Just watching. Mark steps out, the air cooler now against his skin as he closes the door behind him. He walks around to the driverâs side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. âHow much was it?â The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesnât rush it, doesnât throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properlyâtwo hands, respectful, like itâs something that matters.
âThank you,â he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightlyâthen smiles. âWelcome,â he says warmly. âHave a good evening.â Mark nods again. âYou too.â Thereâs a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you brieflyâ
âYou and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.â
Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you havenât quite sorted out yet. He thinks it's ridiculous considering you only learnt each other's names when you demanded to stay with his passport and documents for 'my safety reasons' until the five days came to pass while waiting on the said taxi to arrive
He doesnât respond to that, though, just gives a small, polite nod. The trunk opens with a soft click. Mark moves to it immediately, lifting it up before the driver can step out to help. He pulls his larger suitcase out first, setting it down carefully, then the medium one, then finally your smaller carry-onâplacing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. âThanks,â you say quietly. He glances at you, âYeah.â
Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you donât move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. Heâs strange, that part hasnât changed. Not even a little but, your gaze flicks briefly to the road where the taxi disappears. Then back to him.
At least he seems...decent??
The thought settles quietly. Not loud, not decisive, but enough to soften something that had been sitting rigid in your chest since the airport. You pick up your suitcase. âCome on,â you say. And this time, it sounds more certain. The walk to your door is short, but Mark feels it every step. The weight of his luggage in one hand, the quiet shift in the air, the way the house sits ahead of him like something he hasnât earned but is being let into anyway.
Youâre really doing this.
You donât reach for keys. You donât hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesnât understand yet. Inside, the air wraps around him differently. Warmer. Softer. And before he can take it in, an older woman steps into view, her face lighting up instantly when she sees you. âOh, youâre back.â Your posture shifts and softens.
You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. âLet me see you, baby,â she murmurs, turning your face slightly. âYouâve gotten thinner.â âI havenât,â you say, but thereâs a small laugh in your voice. âYou have,â she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. âWorking too much again?â Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you donât pull away. âThe trip was fine,â you say. âWork was good.â âMm,â she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. Itâs quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him inâthe luggage, the way heâs standing, the space between youâand something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.
A look passes.
Quiet.
Knowing, you straighten slightly. âThis is Mark.â He nods. âHello.â She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. âTake care of her,â she says lightly. Mark blinks, ââŚIâll try.â You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. âRest,â she adds. âBoth of you.â
And then sheâs gone.
The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time itâs not empty. Itâs full. Mark steps in properly now, and thatâs when it hits him, not all at once, in pieces. Light spills in through wide windows, stretching across the floors in soft, golden lines. The walls are tallâhigher than he expectedâand filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesnât mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, thereâs you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someoneâs shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parentsâyour fatherâs arm around you, your motherâs smile softer but just as warm. Another frameâtwo older guys, one with his arm slung around your neck, the other mid-laugh like the picture was taken in the middle of a joke.
Your brothers, maybe?
Thereâs anotherâan older woman. The same one who just left. Youâre holding her face the same way she held yours. Markâs chest tightens slightly, he doesnât realize it. Not until his gaze shifts again to another frame.
You.
Standing next to a guy. Close. Too close.
He stills.
Boyfriend?
The thought comes quick. Uninvited. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle.
Of course she could have a boyfriend. Why wouldnât she?
Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesnât like it. Doesnât understand why itâs there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that donât exist.
What if youâre not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?
His jaw tightens slightly.
Thenâ âYou can leave your bags there for now.â Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. Youâve already stepped further in, your suitcase set aside casually as you move toward the kitchen. Like this is second nature. Like this space is an extension of you. He leaves his suitcase by the entrance, the handle still extended, like itâs waiting for instructions he hasnât decided on yet. The house feels⌠still, but not empty. Thereâs a softness to the quiet here, something that doesnât press on him, doesnât demand anything.
It just⌠exists, and for a moment, he does too. You disappear into the kitchen without ceremony, like the transition from outside to inside didnât require adjustment. Like youâve done this a hundred timesâcome home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like heâs trying to understand something he hasnât had access to in a long time. The light stretches further now, deeper into the house, brushing over the edges of furniture, catching on the glass of framed photos. The air smells faintly of something clean, something lived-inâlike citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he canât quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,
Donât get comfortable.
The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesnât stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feelâŚunnecessary. âYou can sit,â you call from the kitchen, not looking at him, your voice carrying just enough to reach him without forcing itself into the room. He exhales quietly.
âYeah,â he answers, even though you didnât ask a question.
He doesnât sit.
Not yet. Instead, he finally lets go of the suitcase handle, the soft click of it retracting louder than it should be in the quiet. His fingers flex slightly after, like theyâre remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.
Carefully.
Like heâs aware that heâs stepping into something that isnât his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, itâs something else entirely. Books line the wallsânot perfectly arranged, not color-coded or curated for display, but stacked, layered, used. Cookbooks with worn edges. Novels with folded pages. Papers tucked between them like bookmarks that were never meant to be permanent. Thereâs a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to youâequipment, cables, a microphone, papers with scribbled ideas. And it looks like you left it mid-thought. It feels alive, like something is always being created here. A microphone angled slightly to the side. A laptop, half-closed, is sitting next to your desktop computer. Sticky notes scatteredâsome with full sentences, some with single words that donât make sense on their own.
He steps closer.
Doesnât touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.
Shoot before sunset â plating!!
Thereâs a small underline under the last word.
Urgent.
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. Itâs⌠endearing, without trying to be.
Youâre busy.
The thought comes easily,
You have a life.
It shouldnât matter but for some reason, it does.
âWater?â
Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, youâre standing in the doorway now, holding out a glass without stepping fully into the room. Your posture is relaxed, but your eyes, your eyes are still watching him. Not suspicious in the same way as before but not careless either.
Aware.
He takes the glass. âThanks.â Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but itâs enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. âKitchenâs this way,â you say, like he didnât just watch you walk in and out of it twice already. He nods anyway and follows. The kitchen feels warmer as it opens up; it feels more lived in than the rest of the house somehow. Wide and bright. An island sits at the center, stools tucked neatly beneath it. The breakfast nook by the window catches the light perfectly, soft and inviting in a way that makes it feel like mornings linger there longer. The dining space sits just beyond. Prepared, intentional, and everything, everything feels warm. Lived in. You move easily, filling another glass. Opening a cabinet and closing it again. Mark leans slightly against the edge of the island, the glass still in his hand. He watches you, not in a way that feels heavy. Just curious, and you feel it. You donât look at him immediately but youâre aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. Itâs strange. You donât bring people home, not like this, and certainly not strangers.
What are you doing?
The thought comes again. Louder this time, but then, you glance at him and heâs just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesnât know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like heâs trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now youâre curious too. ââŚSo,â you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.
âYeah?â
Thereâs a pause.
Not awkward. Just measured. âYou always do this?â you ask. âAsk random people to let you stay with them?â A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. âFirst time.â You narrow your eyes a little, âConvenient.â
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. âYeah.â
Thereâs something about the way he doesnât defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just⌠agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. ââŚYouâre really not going to explain yourself, are you?â He looks at you for a second, then he looks away. His grip tightens just slightly around the glass.
You could, you could tell her everything.
The thought surfaces. Tempting, dangerous, but he doesnât, not fully. âI just needed to leave for a bit,â he says instead. Itâs not a lie⌠but itâs not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, âFrom what?â The question lands softer than expected, not accusatory. Just curious. Mark exhales slowly and looks down at the water in his glass like it might give him an answer for everything, but that sounds dramatic. So he shrugs slightly,ââŚWork.â You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell thatâs as far as heâs willing to go. For now, and strangely, you respect that.
A soft thud interrupts the moment. Then another. He looks down, and something small brushes against his ankle. He startles slightly, stepping back just enough to look down properly, only he finds himself staring at a cat. Fluffy. Almost ridiculously so. Cream-colored with darker markings, its tail flicking lazily as it looks up at him like heâs the one intruding.ââŚOh,â Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.
Unimpressed.
Then walks past him like he doesnât exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. âWhatâs his name?â he asks. You glance over your shoulder, âBiscuit.â
ââŚBiscuit?â
You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. âHe answers to it.â Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.
His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadnât noticed before. ââŚHe does that,â you say, like it explains everything. âHe wasnât there a second ago.â
âHe was. You just didnât notice.â
Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like itâs already bored. A tall, carefully built tree, not just functional but aesthetic. Wood and soft fabric blending into the space like it belongs there, levels stacked in a way that feels intentional. Biscuit hops onto one of the platforms with practiced ease, curling up like heâs claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.
ââŚThatâs a strong name.â
You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. âStrong?" He shrugs, deadpan, âHe looks like he runs things.â You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, âHe does.â âHeâs judging you, by the way.â Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.
ââŚI can tell.â
And for a moment, the tension breaks. Just slightly. It settles again after, not heavy. Just present. Mark sets the glass down slowly on the counter, his fingers lingering against the surface for a second longer than necessary. His gaze drifts back to you. Youâre closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you werenât before, and he notices it.
She said yes.
The thought comes back.Clearer now.
She let you in.
And something about that, about you pulls at him. Not sharply, not overwhelmingly. Just enough to make him aware of it.
The thought settles quietly.
But it stays, and on your end, you feel it too. Not the same thought, but something like it, because heâs still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldnât have brought into your home, and yetâhe doesnât feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.
ââŚYou hungry?â you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. âYeah.â
Then, quieterâ
ââŚI can try cooking.â
You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, ââŚTry?â He hesitates, ââŚI meanââ You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. âSit down.â Thereâs a hint of a smile in your voice, and he catches it. He moves toward the breakfast nook, sliding into the bench by the large window slowly, like heâs still adjusting to being allowed to do anything with your space. To just be here and as you start moving around the kitchen, pulling things out and setting them down, he watches. Not obviously, no, constantly but enough, because something about thisâ about you in your space, feels like something he didnât know he was looking for, and somewhere, quietly, without either of you saying it out loud, the question begins to form.
For him,
What happens if I donât want to leave?
For you,
What happens if I end up wanting him to stay longer?
And neither of you answers it, not yet. Then he looks back at you, and something in his chest shifts again. Quiet and uncertain, but real because this placeâ your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesnât feel like a stop; it feels like something rooted, something steady, slow, and quiet. Something that might, without him realizing it yet, change everything, and standing in the middle of it, he realizes something he hasnât let himself think about yet. He didnât just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesnât know it yet, but this might be the first place in a long time that feels like it could hold him without asking for anything in return.
The rain starts sometime in the night and it settles into the morning like it had every intention of stayingâsoft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like itâs moving differently.
It's not what wakes you, not at first.
What wakes you is not the rain. Itâs the sound. Irritating and repetitive, then a shift in your body. The sharp, aggressive beeping that slices through the quiet like it has something personal against you. For a second, your mind doesnât catch up. Itâs just noise and movementâYou donât even realize youâre awake until your eyes snap open, your heart racing, your body already pushing upright, the sheets slipping off your legs as instinct takes over.
The smoke alarm.
Youâre out of bed almost immediately, your feet barely registering the cold of the floor as you move, faster than you mean to, down the hallway, past the stairs, the sound gets louder. Insistent. Almost accusatory. You reach the kitchen and stop because itâs not what you expected. Thereâs no fire. No panic. No urgency.Just⌠smoke. Not thick. Not dangerous. But enough, enough to make the alarm scream like the house is falling apart. Light, stubborn curls of it rising from the pan on the stove and Mark, heâs standing there, wooden spatula in hand, staring at the pan like it personally betrayed him.
Very still and very focused.
Like if he stares at it long enough, it might fix itself out of sheer intimidation. You stop, and you donât say anything. You just take him in because the sight is so absurd that it takes a second to process. His hair is messy in a way that feels unintentional, like he woke up and immediately got into this. Heâs wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like itâs the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like heâs accepted his fate. Thereâs a slight panic in his posture, but heâs tryingâvery visiblyâto stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like itâs about to file a complaint, âdonât move,â you say instinctively, already moving past him. You reach up to switch off the alarm, grab a towel, and wave it lightly near the sensor until the beeping finally stops. Silence crashes back in. Only the rain remains. You exhale. Slowly.
Then you turn.
Heâs still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking⌠guilty. ââŚHi Angel,â he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. ââŚWhat happened?â
Thereâs a pause. A very real, very visible pause where he debates how honest to be, where he considers lying but decides against it when he blinks back at your sharp features. You can see it. The way his lips part slightly, close again. The way his gaze flickers to the pan like it might answer for him. âI was trying to make eggs.â
You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, ââŚThose are eggs?â âThey were,â he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you tryâyou really tryânot to laugh because he's already panicking, âI just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.â You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. ââŚYou declared war on breakfast.â A breath escapes himâhalf a laugh, half defeat. âI thoughtââ he continues, gesturing vaguely, ââhow hard can it be? Itâs eggs. People make eggs all the time.â âAnd yet,â you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, âyouâve managed to reinvent them.â
He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. âThey stuck,â he says, âAnd then I tried to unstick them. And then they⌠got worse. I didnât think it would go like this,â he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly nowâburnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are⌠unrecognizable. Theyâve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.
Something⌠experimental.
ââŚDid you use oil?â Thereâs another pause. Smaller this time, ââŚI thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?â Thatâs it. Thatâs the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop itâsharp and sudden at first, catching you off guard as much as it catches him. It spills out before you can stop it, warm and unrestrained in a way that feels unfamiliar in your own chest. Then softer, fuller, spilling out in a way you don't recognise because itâs been a while since something this small felt this funny, since you've laughed this hard.
He watches you, and something in his expression softens. Not embarrassed, not defensive. Just watching you like this is the outcome he didnât know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. âOkay,â you say, voice lighter now, easier. âStep aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.â
He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesnât leave. He lingers, stays there. Of course he lingers. You can feel it.
You start over. With enough oil this time, you crack the eggs properly a second time, the soft sound grounding, familiar. The smell changesâwarm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just⌠there. ââŚI was trying to say thank you,â he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. âYou did,â you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, âThis is very memorable.â
He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, heâs smiling. Not the polite kind, not the careful kind he always has ready for the cameras. Something softer. Something⌠real.
Silence settles over you both again but this time, itâs not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each otherâs space you are okay with what quietly settles instead. You end up eating at the breakfast nook. The earlier rain is painting soft patterns against the glass now as the world outside blurs into greys and greens, inside, everything feels warmer than it should for two people who barely know each other. Biscuit appears like heâs been summoned by the promise that was breakfast, jumping up onto the table with quiet authority, tail flicking once as he eyes both of you like heâs judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.
Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. ââŚDoes he always look like that?â You follow his gaze, âThatâs his face.â ââŚHe looks like he has opinions.â âHe does. Theyâre just not for you.â Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like heâs trying to understand the rules.
Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, ââŚIâve been dismissed.â You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. âSo,â you say, glancing at him, âyou cook often?â He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, âGod, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.â You hum, âGood call.â
Then you blink up at him, confused, âmembers?â Mark swallows hard. His throat dries up despite having the option of juice and coffee in front of him. He hadn't thought of his guys up until now, hadn't really checked his phone either, â colleagues.â You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because thereâs nothing to say but because⌠thereâs no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesnât feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like heâs deciding something, ââŚYou laugh like that often?â
You pause mid-bite, ââŚLike what?â âLike that, Angel,â he says simply. âEarlier.â You donât answer immediately because the honest answer isâNo. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, âDepends.â
âOn what?â
You glance at him, ââŚOn who Iâm with.â Thereâs a beat, something passes between you then. Small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up, like he wants to say something else but doesnât. Instead, ââŚI almost set your house on fire.â You snort, âAnd yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.â âTemporarily banned,â he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggsâsomething settles.
Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to sayâ this could be something.
Time moves differently after that morning. Not fast or slow .Just⌠present. Days pass, and Mark stays, not like a guest anymore. Like something between a stranger and something worseâsomeone becoming familiar. Some mornings, he leaves early and returns with a small bag of items he bought from exploring the city, and other nights, he'll bring you flowers, thrifted recipe books, and worn-out vintage notebooks he thought you might like. Other days, he sits near the living room window, experimenting quietly with sound, fingers hesitant over keys like heâs afraid the music might reject him, but most of the time, he just watches you work. Not interrupting. Just existing in the same space as you focus while he flips aimlessly through your endless collection of books. Biscuit also slowly decides Mark belongs here more than anyone has officially said.
Five days arrive without announcement.
The house feels different that day. Not louder, not quieter. Just⌠aware. Too aware. Like something is about to shift, and everything in it knows before either of you says it out loud. You donât notice it at first. Youâre moving through your space the way you always doâbarefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.
Itâs the sound that stops you. Soft and measured. Zippers. You frown slightly and follow it down the hallway past the open coffee space you have upstairs, where light spills in gently through the windows, catching dust in the air like suspended time next to the hallway that spills into your room, guest room, the open balcony, and the door that opens up to the Terrance on your rooftop.
You find him packing. The guest room is half-folded silence. Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.
No, no, he wouldnâtâ
You donât knock, you donât think, you don't even breathe, you just push the door open, and there he is. Kneeling on the floor. His suitcase was open in front of him, and everything inside you⌠stills. For a moment, you donât say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirtsâneatly, carefully, like heâs done it a hundred times before. The clothes are arranged carefully in a suitcase that looks too empty for someone who has not been here long enough to fully unpack. Another sits beside itâ notebooks, things he treats more carefully than clothing. It all seems like a routine to him. Like leaving is something he knows how to do but staying isnât.
Your voice comes out before you can stop it, ââŚWhat are you doing?â Mark freezes. Not dramatically, not suddenly. Just enough. His hands still on the fabric and his shoulders go slightly rigid. Then he looks up and for a secondâjust a secondâhe looks⌠confused.
Like youâre the one whoâs out of place here.
âIâm packing,â he says, slowly. Carefully, like heâs choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.
Of course.
âWhy?â you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesnât make sense. âYou said five days, Angel.â The words land heavier than they should, heavier than you expected.
Five days.
You feel something in your chest pull tight because you remember saying it. At the airport. When he was still a stranger. When this was supposed to be temporary. Controlled. Safe.
Five days.
But that was before, before the burnt eggs, before the not-so-quiet nights, the grocery runs, before the badly cut-up fruit, before him draping your favorite throw blanket over you as he settles onto the couch next to you to watch trashy reality shows as Biscuits finds the perfect spot to settle in on his chest. Before he put the trash outside without you having to ask, before he started leaving his shoes by the door like he belonged there.
Your grip tightens around the mug. ââŚSo youâre just leaving?â you ask. Mark frowns slightly, âI mean⌠yeah?â But it doesnât sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesnât sound like you, âWow.â He straightens a little, confusion deepening. âWhat?â
âYou couldnât wait, huh?â
Now heâs really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, âWait for what?â You donât answer immediately because suddenly everything feels⌠too close to the surface. Too raw. âFor the five days to be over,â you say instead, quieter now. âOr did you just hate being here that much?â
The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Markâs expression changes, not to anger but something else...âWhat?â You laugh againâbut this time it breaks halfway through. âI mean, it makes sense,â you continue, words coming faster now, messier. â You basically forced me into this, and now you want to leave me hanging. You were just waiting it out, right? Counting down the days until you could leave without being rudeââ
âThatâs notââ
âBut you donât have to pretend anymore,â you cut in, your voice tight. âFive days are up. You can go.â Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. âNo Angel, thatâs not what this is,â he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.
You shake your head, already stepping back, âItâs fine, Mark. Really. You donât have to explainââ He moves before you can finish. Itâs instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wristânot tight, not roughâbut firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.
You freeze.
And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, âStop.â
The word is quiet but it holds. You look up at him really look this time and what you see makes your chest tighten in a completely different way. Heâs not annoyed, heâs not distant. Heâs not relieved to be leaving. Heâs⌠frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.
His hands still slightly.
âI didnât want to overstay,â he says quietly. âOr make you uncomfortable.â Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, âso you were just⌠planning to disappear?â
That word makes him flinch slightly.
âNo.â
A beat passes. Then more honestly, âI just didnât know how long I was allowed to exist here.â
Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, âI didnât mean it like a countdown.â That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. âI wasnât counting down the days,â he says, softer now. âI was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.â
You blink.
ââŚWhat?â
You stare at him again. Thereâs a beat. Then another. âYou took my documents,â he adds, almost awkwardly now. âRemember? As a condition?â
Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Thenâdespite everythingâa small, disbelieving sound escapes you, âyou were packing⌠because you didnât know how to ask for your passport back?â
Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, âWhen you say it like that, it sounds stupid.â âIt is stupid,â you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.
He huffs a quiet laugh, âYeah, well. I didnât want to overstep.â Something in your chest shifts again.
âYou couldâve just asked,â you say.
âI know,â he replies. âBut you gave me a timeline. I thought⌠pushing past that would be.â You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had toâ because he was trying to respect youâIt does something to you.
Something you donât have a name for yet. âSo you were just going to leave?â you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, âI didnât think youâd want me to stay.â
Thatâ
That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,
One of them only wants you when itâs convenient.
The other wants youâperiod.
One keeps you guessing. One makes you feel certain.
So why is the wrong one still harder to leave?
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Drama , Situationship / Toxic Love , Slow Burn , Emotional / Character-Driven, comedy (don't hold me to this), a little painful.
Memories have been indented, but all other events in the chapters follow each other.
MAIN MASTERLIST
CUTS | BTS
WARNING.
Toxic relationship dynamic , Emotional dependency , Infidelity themes (but like,not really) , Miscommunication , Heavy angst & arguments ,MORE SMUT THAN I USUALLY WRITE (MDNI) , Alcohol use , Soft heartbreak⌠and loud heartbreak.
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Nakamoto Yuta and Jeong Jaehyun as main characters is purely for creative and fictional purposes. Their names and likeness are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect their real-life personality, actions, or experiences.
All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
Inspired by the Man's Best Friend album by Sabrina Carpenter.
At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing.
Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leavesâquietly, without telling anyoneâchasing a feeling he doesnât know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations⌠just distance. In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesnât ask who he isâonly who he chooses to be.
What begins as an unlikely arrangementâfive days under the same roofâslowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind. Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have. But time doesnât stopâand the life he left behind is still waiting for him. When he returns, nothing feels the same.
Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you canât go back to.
MAIN MASTERLIST | PART II
CUTS | TORONTO | PRESS RUN | BTS
GENRES.
Romance , Angst , Slice of Life , Emotional Drama , Soft Comedy , Slow Burn , Hurt/Comfort , JUST ONE SMUT SCENE
WARNINGS.
Emotional Angst , Themes of Identity & Burnout , Mild Language , Slow Emotional Build , Protected Sex , Makeouts , Lots of kissing , Open-ended emotional tension (no heavy breakup, but strong longing)
COPYRIGHT.
This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.
The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.
Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.
Morning doesnât arrive all at once. It seeps in. Through the thin space between the curtains , stretching slowly across the floor through the quiet stillness of a house that's testing whether the house is ready to wake up or not.
It isn't.
The air is cool, faintly carrying the scent of polished wood and something olderâsomething familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesnât feel peaceful, suspended. Like something has been left unfinished. Mark stands in the middle of it barefoot, unmoving, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other without him realizing it. The wooden floor is cool beneath him, grounding in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Like he walked into a memory that isnât his anymore. This houseâhis house, his familyâs house in Torontoâshould feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something heâs stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocatingâjust⌠present. It fills every corner, stretches between the furniture, settles into his chest in a way that feels heavier than noise ever did. His phone vibrates in his hand. He doesnât look at it.
He already knows.
Another call. Another message. Another voice waiting for him to pick up and explain what he meant with the message he sent hours ago into a new day to his managers and colleagues that have become part of his family over the years. Questions waiting to be asked. Answers expected. He exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen before the vibration stops on its own. The quiet comes back. And with itâ you.
Not as a thought, not even as a memory crashing in, but like something that has already settled into the space before he even noticed it was there, as something that lingers. In the way the morning light touches the floorâsoft, warm, familiar in a way that doesnât belong to this house. In the way the quiet feelsâŚincomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesnât know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.
It doesnât help.
The doorbell rings. Itâs sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.
Real.
He blinks, like heâs being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this timeâimpatient, urgent, like whoever is on the other side needs him to open it fast. His fingers tighten slightly around his phone before he sets it down without thinking. Then he moves. Each step feels heavier than it should. The hallway feels even longer than it normally is. His hand pauses on the door handle, just for a second, just long enough for something in his chest to hesitateâ then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.
Not calm.
Youâre moving before he even processes itâstepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like youâre searching for something wrong.
âMarkââ
Your voice breaks slightly, and before he can respond, before he can even register the way your face looks, your luggage. The one that's barely upright behind you, shoulder bag long thrown on the floorâeyes wide, breath uneven, something frantic sitting just beneath your skin. Your hands are already on him. On his face first, warm, quick. Careful and almost trembling. Your fingers brush along his jaw, up to his temples, pushing his hair back like youâre trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find somethingâan injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesnât feel like enough proof that heâs okay. âAre you okay?â you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesnât sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something youâre trying to confirm with your own hands. You donât wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like youâre searching for something broken, something he hasnât told you.
He freezes.
Not because heâs uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide downâhis shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like youâre grounding yourself in the fact that heâs here. That heâs real. That heâs not⌠broken. That heâs here, that he didnât disappear along with the screenshot he sent you regarding the decision you knew he had been hesitant to make about his career after ten years of the same routine. Your breathing is uneven. He notices that.
He notices everything.
The way your lips part slightly like you want to say more but donât know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesnât respond. Mark doesnât move, doesnât speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way youâre touching him like he matters outside of everything else.
Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Justâ him.
Your hands slow, your movements pause, and then you look up at him properly, really look at him. Your expression softens, but the worry doesnât leave. âMr. IdolâŚâ you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. âTalk to me.â Something in his chest tightens because he wants to. He really does. He should. A hundred things are sitting in his chest, pressing against his ribs, waiting for space.
But the words donât come.
Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way youâre looking at him like heâs something you might lose if you donât hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything elseâthe noise, the expectations, the endless movementâfeel far away.
His throat tightens.
No words come out because if he startsâ he doesnât think heâll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tiltsâŚ
Itâs never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when itâs quiet.
âMark, just a few more minutesââ
The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesnât think too hard about it. The lights are too bright. They always are. Too bright. They sit above him, angled just enough to catch every expression, every shift, every blinkâno shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.
Controlled.
âHow would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?â He hears the question, registers it but thereâs a slight delay before he answers. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, just long enough for something inside him to hesitate.
He smiles, because of course he does.
âIt means a lot,â he says, voice smooth, steady. âI think⌠itâs a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.â The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, âAnd where is that?â
There it is.
The follow-up, the part where the answer is supposed to go deeper. His gaze flickers slightly, just for a second.
Because the truth?
The truth isnât something he can package neatly into a sentence,the truth is unfinished. Messy and still forming. So he does what he always does. He adjusts.
âItâs⌠a process,â he says instead, softer now. âI think Iâm still figuring that out.â
It sounds honest.
It is honest.
Just not complete. The camera keeps rolling. She smiles across from him, tablet resting against her knee, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that never really turns off. âWhat was the most personal track for you on the album?â The camera lens is fixed, unrelenting, watching for something real it can capture and package. Mark leans back slightly, fingers loosely intertwined, his smile already in place before he speaks.
âThatâs a hard one,â he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. âI think⌠all of them had something personal in them.â
Itâs a safe answer. A good one.
The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. âIs there one that felt⌠closer to you than the others?â
Thereâs a pause.
Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocusedâlike heâs somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would meanâfeeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watchingâHe can't afford that.
So he smiles again, soft and polished.
âI think it changes,â he says instead. âDepending on where I am.â She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.
It never does.
â
Backstage, itâs louder. Not with questionsâbut with movement. Staff walking quickly, voices overlapping, schedules being called out, things being adjusted at the last minute. Mark sits on a couch, shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his phone without really seeing it. Someone drops down beside him. Close enough that their shoulder bumps him with a little force.
âHyung.â
He looks up and finds Jisungâfamiliar, groundingâdrops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.
âYou good?â
The question is casual but the look isnât. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. âYeah,â he says.
Itâs automatic.
He doesnât look convinced. âYouâve been⌠quiet,â he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. âHave I?"
âYeah.â
A pause.
Then, âYou okay?â
The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This oneâwaits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.
âIâm just tired,â he says finally.
Itâs not a lie but itâs not everything either. Jisung studies him for a second longer, like he knows better than to believe him but also knows him well enough to know he really won't be getting the truth out of him regardless, still, he can't help being concerned. They both stay silent looking ahead at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Then, Jisung nudges his shoulder again, lighter this time.
âIf you need a break, you should take one.â
Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.
âJust like that?â
âYeah. Just like that.â
Itâs said simply, like itâs easy. Like it doesnât come with consequences. Mark doesnât respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, âYou should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.â Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesnât get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. Thereâs no pressure in the statement.
Justâunderstanding.
And somehow, that makes it harder because he has thought about it. More than once. The idea sits at the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.
A question.
Not fully formed. He exhales slowly, nodding once. âYeah,â he says. âMaybe.âAnd in the back of his mindâ something shifts. Something small. Persistent.
What if I did?
â
A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe itâs just the way the air sitsâstill, heavy with things unsaid. The tension. Mark sits across from two managers. One leans forward slightly, hands clasped, expression open. Listening. The other sits back, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating, already tense, already anticipating resistance. âI just need some time,â Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. âThatâs all Iâm asking.â
âHow much time?â the second manager asks immediately. Thereâs no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, âA few weeks,â Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like heâs already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, âWeâre in the middle of promotions,â he says. âYou know that.â
âI know.â
âThen you also know this isnât exactlyââ âI said I know,â Mark cuts in, sharper this time.
The room stills.
Markâs jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. âIâm not trying to mess anything up,â he continues, more controlled now. âI just⌠I need a break.â Thereâs a pause, a shift in the room.
Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. âYouâve been pushing a lot,â he says gently. âWeâve seen it.â Mark doesnât respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesnât.
Pushing.
Thatâs one way to put it. Pushing doesnât even begin to cover it.
The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. âCan you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?â There it is again. The question lingers, that expectation. That timing that never quite lines up with how he feels. Mark looks between them, and for a moment, he doesnât answer because that question, that small, persistent oneâŚis still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Markâs fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mindâ shifts. Just a little.
He finally exhales.
ââŚNo.â
Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesnât take it back.
The airport doesnât rush him. It should. People move around him in currentsârolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragmentsâbut none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like heâs watching everything through glass. Itâs not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that â feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesnât feel like an expectation. A black backpack hangs off one shoulder, the strap worn slightly where his fingers have been gripping it too tightly. In his other hand, he drags a medium-sized suitcase behind himâthe wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.
Thereâs another one.
Larger and heavier. Left momentarily beside one of the seating areas he passed earlier, because what was inside was heavier physically, mentally, and most of all emotionally. A compact MIDI keyboard. A pair of headphones. A small interface, wires tangled together in a way that suggests he packed quickly rather than carefully. Like he told himself, this was just a break, but still couldnât leave that part of himself behind.
Youâre not really running, he thinks distantly. You just⌠changed locations.
The thought sits uncomfortably because itâs true and maybe thatâs why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadnât meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than theyâve been in weeks, but thereâs something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasnât exactly found it yet and thatâs when he sees you.
He sees you even before he realizes heâs looking. Youâre slightly off to the side of the main flow of people, near one of the quieter pillars. Your setup is small but intentional. A camera angled down. A container is wide open in front of you. Your hands moving with focusâadjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. Thereâs something about the way you exist in that space that feels⌠untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. Youâre sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, containedâcamera angled carefully, container open in front of you.
Your hands move with precision. Adjusting and plating. Fixing something small that no one else would notice. He slows. The suitcase behind him rolls once more before stopping. His fingers loosen slightly around the handle. He continues watching. Youâre talkingâsoftly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesnât quite catch the words, but the tone reaches him. Calm and steady. Unbothered. It feels simple and something in his chest tightens because nothing about his life has felt like that in weeks.
Months, maybe longer.
He doesnât fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesnât realize how long heâs been standing there until you look up. Your eyes meet his, and something pauses.
A small one but it stretches.
Your eyes narrow just a little, not unfriendlyâjust⌠trying to place him. Trying to understand why there's a stranger standing there watching you like he forgot where he was going. You tilt your head slightly.
He blinksâ
Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. Thereâs a beat. Your gaze sharpens. Curious now. You blink back at him.
Then tilt your head the other way.
He mirrors you again.
And for a second, itâs ridiculous. Everything else fades. No noise, no movement. Almost like neither of you wants to be the first to break whatever this strange, wordless moment is. Just this strange, silent exchange between two people who donât know each other. Then you straighten.
ââŚCan I help you?â you ask.
Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like heâs just remembered how to exist in his own body. âYeah,â he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. âIâuhâŚâ He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that heâs here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.
What are you doing? You donât even know her.
Just walk away. Say something normal. Ask for directions?!?!?
LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE!!!
His jaw tightens slightly. He could still leave. He should, but then you cross your arms loosely, weight shifting to one leg, and thereâs something about the way youâre looking at himânot impatient, not dismissive, just⌠waitingâthat makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himselfâ
âCan I stay with you Angel?â he asks.
The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they donât just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesnât just changeâit stills.
ââŚExcuse you?â
Thereâs disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick againâthis time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.
âYouâre serious?â
Suddenly, Mark becomes very aware of how this looks. A stranger, with luggage, asking to stay with you, a stranger no less.
You actually sound insane!!!
He almost backtracks, almost laughs it off, because he seriously takes time to listen to himself talk since meeting you and hears himself the way you must be hearing him.
Dude, you actually are insane!!!
Immediately then, he wants to take it back, but something in his chestâtight, stubbornâdoesnât let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. ââŚYou know there are hotels, right?â Your tone isnât harsh; itâs logical. Grounded because now this isnât just weird, it's concerning, and in his mind, he does know. He knows exactly how many, knows the best ones, knows he could walk into any of them and disappear into a room that costs more than most peopleâs monthly rent.
He knows all that.
But the thought of it, the silence, the emptiness, the same four walls, the same distance makes something in his chest feel hollow. His gaze drops briefly to his suitcase, to the life he packed into it, clothes, work, and half-decisions waiting to be made on the only oath he's ever truly known for almost a decade. âI know,â he says quietly.
I donât want to be alone.
The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesnât say all of it. Your brows knit together. âThen whyââ
âI just donât want to be alone.â
It comes out softer than everything else heâs said so far. Less guarded and for a momentâ he hates that he said it because itâs too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldnât even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasnât the answer you expected. Thereâs a shift, and it makes you loosen your arms slightly from where they were crossed in front of you. Still cautious, still unsure, but a lot more open than before. Your expression shifts, not soft but not dismissive either. A flicker of something that tries to understand instead of just rejecting. Your eyes linger on him a second longer this time. Still, you tilt your head slightly. ââŚThat doesnât make this any less weird, you know.â Fair.
Completely fair.
Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. âYeah,â he admits. âI figured.â Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze movesâhis face, his posture, the way heâs standing like heâs unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.
Real.
He didnât just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, âWhat if Iâm a serial killer?â you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesnât hesitate to answer, âThen I guess thatâs how I was meant to die.â You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if heâs serious. If heâs joking, if heâs just reckless. ââŚYouâre serious,â you say slowly in realisation, trying to grasp at the idea that this was in fact a conversation happening with a stranger you were trying to push away.
âI am.â
Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. âYouâre either really smart⌠or just really, really stupid.â A faint smile pulls at his mouth, âYeah,â he says. âI get that a lot.â Thereâs another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isnât his anymore.
Itâs yours.
And you feel it. The weight of it is sitting right in front of you. A stranger. A very strange stranger. Who could very easily just walk away. Who probably should walk away. Your mind runs faster than your expression shows.
He has luggage. He didnât just say itâhe meant it. This is not normal.
You donât do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!
You donât bring strangers home??!?!
And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasnât moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way heâs standingânot imposing, not pushy, just⌠waiting. On the way, thereâs something tired in his eyes that doesnât quite match the rest of him, the way he didnât argue when you questioned him. Didnât try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel⌠real.
Youâre insane.
The thought hits you clearly.
There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?
ââŚFive days,â you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. âFive days,â you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. âThatâs it.â Thereâs a beat, then his shoulders dropâjust slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.
âOkay,â he says quietly. His grip on the suitcase loosens slightly, and as you turn to start packing up your things, he reaches for his suitcase again. Then pauses and looks back briefly towards where he left the second one. ââŚI should probably get my other bag,â he mutters. You blink. âYou have another one?â
ââŚYeah.â
Thereâs a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. âOf course you do.â You canât help the thought that lingers, quiet but persistent in the back of your mind, and under your breath, you whisper quietly as you watch him go.
Youâve actually lost your mind or you just might be the craziest person alive. This is how you die with him.
And just like that, you donât just take him with you. You take everything he brought with him, too. The half-packed life, the unfinished thoughts and the version of him that hasnât decided anything yet but is already changing.
_
The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. Itâs not unpleasant.
Just⌠lived-in.
Mark sits in the back seat beside you, his knee angled slightly away to give you space that neither of you explicitly asked for. The window beside him is cracked open just enough to let in a steady stream of cool air, carrying with it the distant hum of the city slowly fading behind you. Your smaller suitcase rests between your legs. His are in the trunk. All of them. He had watched the driver load them inâfirst the large one, then the medium, then your carry-on, placed more carefully on top like it mattered differently. It had felt strange, seeing everything he brought with him disappear into a space he couldnât see anymore.
Like letting go but not fully. Now, the road stretches ahead. The city gives way slowly, buildings thinning, noise softening, until it becomes something quieter. Trees begin to line the streets, their shadows flickering across the car windows in slow, shifting patterns as the sun dips lower. Mark watches it all. Not because heâs trying to, but because thereâs finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. Thereâs a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesnât interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesnât. Not yet. The driver hums softly under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in rhythm with a song playing too low to fully make out. It feels normal, and that alone makes something in Markâs chest tighten because normal hasnât felt like this in a long time.
By the time the taxi turns into the estate, the light has softened into something warmer. Gold spills across the road, catching on rooftops, on windows, on the edges of passing fences. The air looks different hereâquieter, slower, like everything has agreed to move at its own pace. Mark leans slightly, looking out. Children run across a small open field in the distance, laughter visible in the way they move, even if it doesnât fully reach the car. A bicycle lies abandoned near a curb. Someone waters plants near a gate, glancing up briefly as the taxi passes. It feels lived in.
Real.
You donât say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. âWait,â he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.
âIâve got it.â
You pause. Not arguing. Just watching. Mark steps out, the air cooler now against his skin as he closes the door behind him. He walks around to the driverâs side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. âHow much was it?â The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesnât rush it, doesnât throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properlyâtwo hands, respectful, like itâs something that matters.
âThank you,â he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightlyâthen smiles. âWelcome,â he says warmly. âHave a good evening.â Mark nods again. âYou too.â Thereâs a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you brieflyâ
âYou and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.â
Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you havenât quite sorted out yet. He thinks it's ridiculous considering you only learnt each other's names when you demanded to stay with his passport and documents for 'my safety reasons' until the five days came to pass while waiting on the said taxi to arrive
He doesnât respond to that, though, just gives a small, polite nod. The trunk opens with a soft click. Mark moves to it immediately, lifting it up before the driver can step out to help. He pulls his larger suitcase out first, setting it down carefully, then the medium one, then finally your smaller carry-onâplacing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. âThanks,â you say quietly. He glances at you, âYeah.â
Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you donât move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. Heâs strange, that part hasnât changed. Not even a little but, your gaze flicks briefly to the road where the taxi disappears. Then back to him.
At least he seems...decent??
The thought settles quietly. Not loud, not decisive, but enough to soften something that had been sitting rigid in your chest since the airport. You pick up your suitcase. âCome on,â you say. And this time, it sounds more certain. The walk to your door is short, but Mark feels it every step. The weight of his luggage in one hand, the quiet shift in the air, the way the house sits ahead of him like something he hasnât earned but is being let into anyway.
Youâre really doing this.
You donât reach for keys. You donât hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesnât understand yet. Inside, the air wraps around him differently. Warmer. Softer. And before he can take it in, an older woman steps into view, her face lighting up instantly when she sees you. âOh, youâre back.â Your posture shifts and softens.
You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. âLet me see you, baby,â she murmurs, turning your face slightly. âYouâve gotten thinner.â âI havenât,â you say, but thereâs a small laugh in your voice. âYou have,â she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. âWorking too much again?â Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you donât pull away. âThe trip was fine,â you say. âWork was good.â âMm,â she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. Itâs quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him inâthe luggage, the way heâs standing, the space between youâand something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.
A look passes.
Quiet.
Knowing, you straighten slightly. âThis is Mark.â He nods. âHello.â She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. âTake care of her,â she says lightly. Mark blinks, ââŚIâll try.â You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. âRest,â she adds. âBoth of you.â
And then sheâs gone.
The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time itâs not empty. Itâs full. Mark steps in properly now, and thatâs when it hits him, not all at once, in pieces. Light spills in through wide windows, stretching across the floors in soft, golden lines. The walls are tallâhigher than he expectedâand filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesnât mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, thereâs you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someoneâs shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parentsâyour fatherâs arm around you, your motherâs smile softer but just as warm. Another frameâtwo older guys, one with his arm slung around your neck, the other mid-laugh like the picture was taken in the middle of a joke.
Your brothers, maybe?
Thereâs anotherâan older woman. The same one who just left. Youâre holding her face the same way she held yours. Markâs chest tightens slightly, he doesnât realize it. Not until his gaze shifts again to another frame.
You.
Standing next to a guy. Close. Too close.
He stills.
Boyfriend?
The thought comes quick. Uninvited. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle.
Of course she could have a boyfriend. Why wouldnât she?
Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesnât like it. Doesnât understand why itâs there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that donât exist.
What if youâre not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?
His jaw tightens slightly.
Thenâ âYou can leave your bags there for now.â Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. Youâve already stepped further in, your suitcase set aside casually as you move toward the kitchen. Like this is second nature. Like this space is an extension of you. He leaves his suitcase by the entrance, the handle still extended, like itâs waiting for instructions he hasnât decided on yet. The house feels⌠still, but not empty. Thereâs a softness to the quiet here, something that doesnât press on him, doesnât demand anything.
It just⌠exists, and for a moment, he does too. You disappear into the kitchen without ceremony, like the transition from outside to inside didnât require adjustment. Like youâve done this a hundred timesâcome home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like heâs trying to understand something he hasnât had access to in a long time. The light stretches further now, deeper into the house, brushing over the edges of furniture, catching on the glass of framed photos. The air smells faintly of something clean, something lived-inâlike citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he canât quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,
Donât get comfortable.
The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesnât stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feelâŚunnecessary. âYou can sit,â you call from the kitchen, not looking at him, your voice carrying just enough to reach him without forcing itself into the room. He exhales quietly.
âYeah,â he answers, even though you didnât ask a question.
He doesnât sit.
Not yet. Instead, he finally lets go of the suitcase handle, the soft click of it retracting louder than it should be in the quiet. His fingers flex slightly after, like theyâre remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.
Carefully.
Like heâs aware that heâs stepping into something that isnât his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, itâs something else entirely. Books line the wallsânot perfectly arranged, not color-coded or curated for display, but stacked, layered, used. Cookbooks with worn edges. Novels with folded pages. Papers tucked between them like bookmarks that were never meant to be permanent. Thereâs a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to youâequipment, cables, a microphone, papers with scribbled ideas. And it looks like you left it mid-thought. It feels alive, like something is always being created here. A microphone angled slightly to the side. A laptop, half-closed, is sitting next to your desktop computer. Sticky notes scatteredâsome with full sentences, some with single words that donât make sense on their own.
He steps closer.
Doesnât touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.
Shoot before sunset â plating!!
Thereâs a small underline under the last word.
Urgent.
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. Itâs⌠endearing, without trying to be.
Youâre busy.
The thought comes easily,
You have a life.
It shouldnât matter but for some reason, it does.
âWater?â
Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, youâre standing in the doorway now, holding out a glass without stepping fully into the room. Your posture is relaxed, but your eyes, your eyes are still watching him. Not suspicious in the same way as before but not careless either.
Aware.
He takes the glass. âThanks.â Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but itâs enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. âKitchenâs this way,â you say, like he didnât just watch you walk in and out of it twice already. He nods anyway and follows. The kitchen feels warmer as it opens up; it feels more lived in than the rest of the house somehow. Wide and bright. An island sits at the center, stools tucked neatly beneath it. The breakfast nook by the window catches the light perfectly, soft and inviting in a way that makes it feel like mornings linger there longer. The dining space sits just beyond. Prepared, intentional, and everything, everything feels warm. Lived in. You move easily, filling another glass. Opening a cabinet and closing it again. Mark leans slightly against the edge of the island, the glass still in his hand. He watches you, not in a way that feels heavy. Just curious, and you feel it. You donât look at him immediately but youâre aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. Itâs strange. You donât bring people home, not like this, and certainly not strangers.
What are you doing?
The thought comes again. Louder this time, but then, you glance at him and heâs just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesnât know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like heâs trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now youâre curious too. ââŚSo,â you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.
âYeah?â
Thereâs a pause.
Not awkward. Just measured. âYou always do this?â you ask. âAsk random people to let you stay with them?â A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. âFirst time.â You narrow your eyes a little, âConvenient.â
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. âYeah.â
Thereâs something about the way he doesnât defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just⌠agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. ââŚYouâre really not going to explain yourself, are you?â He looks at you for a second, then he looks away. His grip tightens just slightly around the glass.
You could, you could tell her everything.
The thought surfaces. Tempting, dangerous, but he doesnât, not fully. âI just needed to leave for a bit,â he says instead. Itâs not a lie⌠but itâs not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, âFrom what?â The question lands softer than expected, not accusatory. Just curious. Mark exhales slowly and looks down at the water in his glass like it might give him an answer for everything, but that sounds dramatic. So he shrugs slightly,ââŚWork.â You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell thatâs as far as heâs willing to go. For now, and strangely, you respect that.
A soft thud interrupts the moment. Then another. He looks down, and something small brushes against his ankle. He startles slightly, stepping back just enough to look down properly, only he finds himself staring at a cat. Fluffy. Almost ridiculously so. Cream-colored with darker markings, its tail flicking lazily as it looks up at him like heâs the one intruding.ââŚOh,â Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.
Unimpressed.
Then walks past him like he doesnât exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. âWhatâs his name?â he asks. You glance over your shoulder, âBiscuit.â
ââŚBiscuit?â
You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. âHe answers to it.â Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.
His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadnât noticed before. ââŚHe does that,â you say, like it explains everything. âHe wasnât there a second ago.â
âHe was. You just didnât notice.â
Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like itâs already bored. A tall, carefully built tree, not just functional but aesthetic. Wood and soft fabric blending into the space like it belongs there, levels stacked in a way that feels intentional. Biscuit hops onto one of the platforms with practiced ease, curling up like heâs claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.
ââŚThatâs a strong name.â
You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. âStrong?" He shrugs, deadpan, âHe looks like he runs things.â You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, âHe does.â âHeâs judging you, by the way.â Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.
ââŚI can tell.â
And for a moment, the tension breaks. Just slightly. It settles again after, not heavy. Just present. Mark sets the glass down slowly on the counter, his fingers lingering against the surface for a second longer than necessary. His gaze drifts back to you. Youâre closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you werenât before, and he notices it.
She said yes.
The thought comes back.Clearer now.
She let you in.
And something about that, about you pulls at him. Not sharply, not overwhelmingly. Just enough to make him aware of it.
The thought settles quietly.
But it stays, and on your end, you feel it too. Not the same thought, but something like it, because heâs still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldnât have brought into your home, and yetâhe doesnât feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.
ââŚYou hungry?â you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. âYeah.â
Then, quieterâ
ââŚI can try cooking.â
You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, ââŚTry?â He hesitates, ââŚI meanââ You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. âSit down.â Thereâs a hint of a smile in your voice, and he catches it. He moves toward the breakfast nook, sliding into the bench by the large window slowly, like heâs still adjusting to being allowed to do anything with your space. To just be here and as you start moving around the kitchen, pulling things out and setting them down, he watches. Not obviously, no, constantly but enough, because something about thisâ about you in your space, feels like something he didnât know he was looking for, and somewhere, quietly, without either of you saying it out loud, the question begins to form.
For him,
What happens if I donât want to leave?
For you,
What happens if I end up wanting him to stay longer?
And neither of you answers it, not yet. Then he looks back at you, and something in his chest shifts again. Quiet and uncertain, but real because this placeâ your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesnât feel like a stop; it feels like something rooted, something steady, slow, and quiet. Something that might, without him realizing it yet, change everything, and standing in the middle of it, he realizes something he hasnât let himself think about yet. He didnât just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesnât know it yet, but this might be the first place in a long time that feels like it could hold him without asking for anything in return.
The rain starts sometime in the night and it settles into the morning like it had every intention of stayingâsoft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like itâs moving differently.
It's not what wakes you, not at first.
What wakes you is not the rain. Itâs the sound. Irritating and repetitive, then a shift in your body. The sharp, aggressive beeping that slices through the quiet like it has something personal against you. For a second, your mind doesnât catch up. Itâs just noise and movementâYou donât even realize youâre awake until your eyes snap open, your heart racing, your body already pushing upright, the sheets slipping off your legs as instinct takes over.
The smoke alarm.
Youâre out of bed almost immediately, your feet barely registering the cold of the floor as you move, faster than you mean to, down the hallway, past the stairs, the sound gets louder. Insistent. Almost accusatory. You reach the kitchen and stop because itâs not what you expected. Thereâs no fire. No panic. No urgency.Just⌠smoke. Not thick. Not dangerous. But enough, enough to make the alarm scream like the house is falling apart. Light, stubborn curls of it rising from the pan on the stove and Mark, heâs standing there, wooden spatula in hand, staring at the pan like it personally betrayed him.
Very still and very focused.
Like if he stares at it long enough, it might fix itself out of sheer intimidation. You stop, and you donât say anything. You just take him in because the sight is so absurd that it takes a second to process. His hair is messy in a way that feels unintentional, like he woke up and immediately got into this. Heâs wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like itâs the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like heâs accepted his fate. Thereâs a slight panic in his posture, but heâs tryingâvery visiblyâto stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like itâs about to file a complaint, âdonât move,â you say instinctively, already moving past him. You reach up to switch off the alarm, grab a towel, and wave it lightly near the sensor until the beeping finally stops. Silence crashes back in. Only the rain remains. You exhale. Slowly.
Then you turn.
Heâs still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking⌠guilty. ââŚHi Angel,â he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. ââŚWhat happened?â
Thereâs a pause. A very real, very visible pause where he debates how honest to be, where he considers lying but decides against it when he blinks back at your sharp features. You can see it. The way his lips part slightly, close again. The way his gaze flickers to the pan like it might answer for him. âI was trying to make eggs.â
You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, ââŚThose are eggs?â âThey were,â he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you tryâyou really tryânot to laugh because he's already panicking, âI just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.â You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. ââŚYou declared war on breakfast.â A breath escapes himâhalf a laugh, half defeat. âI thoughtââ he continues, gesturing vaguely, ââhow hard can it be? Itâs eggs. People make eggs all the time.â âAnd yet,â you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, âyouâve managed to reinvent them.â
He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. âThey stuck,â he says, âAnd then I tried to unstick them. And then they⌠got worse. I didnât think it would go like this,â he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly nowâburnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are⌠unrecognizable. Theyâve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.
Something⌠experimental.
ââŚDid you use oil?â Thereâs another pause. Smaller this time, ââŚI thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?â Thatâs it. Thatâs the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop itâsharp and sudden at first, catching you off guard as much as it catches him. It spills out before you can stop it, warm and unrestrained in a way that feels unfamiliar in your own chest. Then softer, fuller, spilling out in a way you don't recognise because itâs been a while since something this small felt this funny, since you've laughed this hard.
He watches you, and something in his expression softens. Not embarrassed, not defensive. Just watching you like this is the outcome he didnât know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. âOkay,â you say, voice lighter now, easier. âStep aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.â
He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesnât leave. He lingers, stays there. Of course he lingers. You can feel it.
You start over. With enough oil this time, you crack the eggs properly a second time, the soft sound grounding, familiar. The smell changesâwarm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just⌠there. ââŚI was trying to say thank you,â he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. âYou did,â you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, âThis is very memorable.â
He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, heâs smiling. Not the polite kind, not the careful kind he always has ready for the cameras. Something softer. Something⌠real.
Silence settles over you both again but this time, itâs not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each otherâs space you are okay with what quietly settles instead. You end up eating at the breakfast nook. The earlier rain is painting soft patterns against the glass now as the world outside blurs into greys and greens, inside, everything feels warmer than it should for two people who barely know each other. Biscuit appears like heâs been summoned by the promise that was breakfast, jumping up onto the table with quiet authority, tail flicking once as he eyes both of you like heâs judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.
Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. ââŚDoes he always look like that?â You follow his gaze, âThatâs his face.â ââŚHe looks like he has opinions.â âHe does. Theyâre just not for you.â Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like heâs trying to understand the rules.
Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, ââŚIâve been dismissed.â You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. âSo,â you say, glancing at him, âyou cook often?â He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, âGod, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.â You hum, âGood call.â
Then you blink up at him, confused, âmembers?â Mark swallows hard. His throat dries up despite having the option of juice and coffee in front of him. He hadn't thought of his guys up until now, hadn't really checked his phone either, â colleagues.â You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because thereâs nothing to say but because⌠thereâs no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesnât feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like heâs deciding something, ââŚYou laugh like that often?â
You pause mid-bite, ââŚLike what?â âLike that, Angel,â he says simply. âEarlier.â You donât answer immediately because the honest answer isâNo. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, âDepends.â
âOn what?â
You glance at him, ââŚOn who Iâm with.â Thereâs a beat, something passes between you then. Small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up, like he wants to say something else but doesnât. Instead, ââŚI almost set your house on fire.â You snort, âAnd yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.â âTemporarily banned,â he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggsâsomething settles.
Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to sayâ this could be something.
Time moves differently after that morning. Not fast or slow .Just⌠present. Days pass, and Mark stays, not like a guest anymore. Like something between a stranger and something worseâsomeone becoming familiar. Some mornings, he leaves early and returns with a small bag of items he bought from exploring the city, and other nights, he'll bring you flowers, thrifted recipe books, and worn-out vintage notebooks he thought you might like. Other days, he sits near the living room window, experimenting quietly with sound, fingers hesitant over keys like heâs afraid the music might reject him, but most of the time, he just watches you work. Not interrupting. Just existing in the same space as you focus while he flips aimlessly through your endless collection of books. Biscuit also slowly decides Mark belongs here more than anyone has officially said.
Five days arrive without announcement.
The house feels different that day. Not louder, not quieter. Just⌠aware. Too aware. Like something is about to shift, and everything in it knows before either of you says it out loud. You donât notice it at first. Youâre moving through your space the way you always doâbarefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.
Itâs the sound that stops you. Soft and measured. Zippers. You frown slightly and follow it down the hallway past the open coffee space you have upstairs, where light spills in gently through the windows, catching dust in the air like suspended time next to the hallway that spills into your room, guest room, the open balcony, and the door that opens up to the Terrance on your rooftop.
You find him packing. The guest room is half-folded silence. Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.
No, no, he wouldnâtâ
You donât knock, you donât think, you don't even breathe, you just push the door open, and there he is. Kneeling on the floor. His suitcase was open in front of him, and everything inside you⌠stills. For a moment, you donât say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirtsâneatly, carefully, like heâs done it a hundred times before. The clothes are arranged carefully in a suitcase that looks too empty for someone who has not been here long enough to fully unpack. Another sits beside itâ notebooks, things he treats more carefully than clothing. It all seems like a routine to him. Like leaving is something he knows how to do but staying isnât.
Your voice comes out before you can stop it, ââŚWhat are you doing?â Mark freezes. Not dramatically, not suddenly. Just enough. His hands still on the fabric and his shoulders go slightly rigid. Then he looks up and for a secondâjust a secondâhe looks⌠confused.
Like youâre the one whoâs out of place here.
âIâm packing,â he says, slowly. Carefully, like heâs choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.
Of course.
âWhy?â you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesnât make sense. âYou said five days, Angel.â The words land heavier than they should, heavier than you expected.
Five days.
You feel something in your chest pull tight because you remember saying it. At the airport. When he was still a stranger. When this was supposed to be temporary. Controlled. Safe.
Five days.
But that was before, before the burnt eggs, before the not-so-quiet nights, the grocery runs, before the badly cut-up fruit, before him draping your favorite throw blanket over you as he settles onto the couch next to you to watch trashy reality shows as Biscuits finds the perfect spot to settle in on his chest. Before he put the trash outside without you having to ask, before he started leaving his shoes by the door like he belonged there.
Your grip tightens around the mug. ââŚSo youâre just leaving?â you ask. Mark frowns slightly, âI mean⌠yeah?â But it doesnât sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesnât sound like you, âWow.â He straightens a little, confusion deepening. âWhat?â
âYou couldnât wait, huh?â
Now heâs really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, âWait for what?â You donât answer immediately because suddenly everything feels⌠too close to the surface. Too raw. âFor the five days to be over,â you say instead, quieter now. âOr did you just hate being here that much?â
The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Markâs expression changes, not to anger but something else...âWhat?â You laugh againâbut this time it breaks halfway through. âI mean, it makes sense,â you continue, words coming faster now, messier. â You basically forced me into this, and now you want to leave me hanging. You were just waiting it out, right? Counting down the days until you could leave without being rudeââ
âThatâs notââ
âBut you donât have to pretend anymore,â you cut in, your voice tight. âFive days are up. You can go.â Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. âNo Angel, thatâs not what this is,â he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.
You shake your head, already stepping back, âItâs fine, Mark. Really. You donât have to explainââ He moves before you can finish. Itâs instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wristânot tight, not roughâbut firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.
You freeze.
And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, âStop.â
The word is quiet but it holds. You look up at him really look this time and what you see makes your chest tighten in a completely different way. Heâs not annoyed, heâs not distant. Heâs not relieved to be leaving. Heâs⌠frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.
His hands still slightly.
âI didnât want to overstay,â he says quietly. âOr make you uncomfortable.â Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, âso you were just⌠planning to disappear?â
That word makes him flinch slightly.
âNo.â
A beat passes. Then more honestly, âI just didnât know how long I was allowed to exist here.â
Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, âI didnât mean it like a countdown.â That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. âI wasnât counting down the days,â he says, softer now. âI was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.â
You blink.
ââŚWhat?â
You stare at him again. Thereâs a beat. Then another. âYou took my documents,â he adds, almost awkwardly now. âRemember? As a condition?â
Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Thenâdespite everythingâa small, disbelieving sound escapes you, âyou were packing⌠because you didnât know how to ask for your passport back?â
Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, âWhen you say it like that, it sounds stupid.â âIt is stupid,â you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.
He huffs a quiet laugh, âYeah, well. I didnât want to overstep.â Something in your chest shifts again.
âYou couldâve just asked,â you say.
âI know,â he replies. âBut you gave me a timeline. I thought⌠pushing past that would be.â You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had toâ because he was trying to respect youâIt does something to you.
Something you donât have a name for yet. âSo you were just going to leave?â you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, âI didnât think youâd want me to stay.â
Thatâ
That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,
Fluff, lots and lots of makeouts, shameless groping, smut(eventually), eating out, fingering, protected sex, shower sex, doggy style, slow love makithis.
SUMMARY.
Nothing stays in the past for long.
Not when youâre finally starting to move forward.
NOTE.
Nothing I write here is a true description of the real world or a definitive description of the personalities, identities and sexuality of the idol face claims I have used in the fruition of th story. Stay safe, MNDI.
Happy reading, kisses.
Memories have been indented, but all other events in the episodes follow each other. As for the minisodes, these are merely Jisung's POV on events that have already happened in the episodes prior or a present event in his world.
series masterlist, main masterlist
"ALMOST TOO CERTAIN"
The fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, casting a sterile, almost too-bright sheen across the white counters and metal instruments scattered along each workstation with the faint whir of centrifuges filling the silence. The faint scent of alcohol wipes and latex gloves clung to the airâsharp, clean, clinical. Outside, the sunlight bled weakly through the frosted windows, painting dull patches of gold that couldnât quite warm the room.
Jisung adjusted the collar of his coat and took his seat beside Chenle, trying to blink the fatigue out of his eyes. His focus was supposed to be on the EMG readings for their upper limb kinetics experiment â not on the faint ache in his neck from the night before, or the warmth that rose whenever he thought about you and the memories you made just last night. Chenle nudged him. âDude. Why are you smiling so early in the morning?â
âIâm not smiling.â
âYouâre totally smiling. Itâs gross.â
Jisung adjusted the cuff of his lab coat as he scanned the instruction sheet on the desk before him. It was one of those modules that demanded patienceâmeticulous data collection, focus and coordination. Things he normally enjoyed. Today, though, his stomach felt tight. Chenle leaned lazily beside him, swinging one leg under the counter, a lopsided grin on his face. âGuess who weâre paired with?â he whispered, tone gleaming with mischief before Jisung could even ask, he followed his line of sightâand stilled.
Soojin.
Her hair was tied up in a neat ponytail, wisps falling loose near her temple, safety goggles hanging carelessly around her neck. She was laughing at something another student had said, but when her gaze drifted over and landed on Jisung, the curve of her lips faltered for a fraction too long. It was briefâso brief most people wouldâve missed itâbut Jisung didnât. He caught everything.
âThe plot thickens.âChenle muttered frustrated, with a grin that was nothing short of wicked. âThe ex situationship.â
Jisung elbowed him lightly. âDonât start.â But Chenle had started, and Jisung knew it. Jisungâs head dropped forward with a quiet sigh. âKill me now.â
The sound of footsteps on tile made him glance up, and there she was â Soojin. She didnât even flinch when her eyes met his. If anything, she looked bored. âFigures,â she muttered, sliding onto the stool opposite him. âMy luckâs terrible this week.â
âMorning to you too,â Jisung murmured.
âLetâs just get this over with,â she said, pulling on her gloves. âI have a biomechanics review after this.â
They hadnât spoken properly in months. Not since⌠well, since before you came along.
âBad enough the whole school knows how lovesick you are,â Soojin groaned, sliding into the empty seat across from him with an airy scoff. Her tone was meant to sound light, teasing. It wasnât. Her gaze flicked to the faint, unmistakable mark on his neck. âNow I have to sit across from you and that?â Chenle nearly choked on his laughter, dropping the pipette in his hand. âYouâre just jealous,â he shot back before Jisung could respond. The class snickered. Soojinâs eyes narrowedânot at Chenle, but at Jisung. He exhaled slowly, ignoring the weight of her stare. âLetâs just get this over with,â he muttered, adjusting the calibration on the force sensor. His tone was calm, neutralâunbothered in a way that only made her jaw tighten.
They started in silence, the room filling with the soft shuffle of movement, the metallic clatter of tools. Chenle hummed as he filled the observation chart, throwing glances between the two every now and then like someone watching a slow-motion car crash. It wasnât that Jisung hated Soojin. He didnât. He just⌠didnât feel anything anymore.
And maybe thatâs what made the silence stretch heavy.
âYou know,â Soojin began after a few minutes, voice low but cutting through the clatter anyway, âI didnât think youâd actually fall for someone.â Jisung didnât look up. He measured a sample, steady hands but a clenched jaw. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â âExactly what it sounds like,â she said with a faint laugh. âYou donât do relationships, remember? That was your line.â
Chenle went very still.
For a moment, the noise of the lab fadedâthe conversations, the shuffling, the clinking of glass. All that was left was the soft, rhythmic sound of Jisungâs breathing and the muted rustle of Soojinâs gloves as she fiddled with the clipboard.
Then he set the beaker down and looked up. His gaze met hers, even, steadyânothing sharp, nothing cruel. Just calm. âWe agreed,â he said simply. âYou wanted something simple. You said you didnât want anything serious.â Her eyes flickered. âAnd you didnât either. But you didnât have to make it soââ she bit down on the last word, but the damage was already done.
âCold?â he finished quietly. For the first time, she faltered. Her bravado cracked. âYou couldâve at least pretended to care, Jisung.â
He didnât reply immediately.
Instead, his thoughts driftedâunbiddenâto a different afternoon, a different kind of quiet. He remembered the way Soojin had smiled that first time. Theyâd met a year ago â sheâd been a sophomore, he a new freshman with too much energy and not enough sense. Sheâd been his senior, smart, sharp-tongued, funny when she let herself be. She was the one whoâd approached him after lab one evening, her tone light, teasing.
âYouâre cute, Park Jisung,â sheâd said. âWanna skip the part where feelings get messy?â
Heâd been young and restless, and it had seemed easy then â no strings, no expectations, no heartbreak. Just distraction. He hadnât thought beyond the surface; he didnât want to. He never noticed, not right away, that sheâd started staying later, asking him about his classes, waiting for him after lectures. When sheâd linger, talking about trivial things, laughing a little too softly.
Heâd told her the truth more than once. Heâd drawn the line once, twice, a dozen times â always gently, always firmly. We agreed itâs nothing. Even when it wasnât, sheâd always replied with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. Of course. I just like the company.
Now, in the sharp light of the lab, he saw it all clearly â what heâd ignored, what sheâd buried. But Soojin wasnât built for indifference. Not really. And Jisungâhe wasnât built for half-hearted things. Now, as she adjusted the electrode on his arm, her fingers brushed his skin â a tiny, accidental touch that made his pulse jump for reasons that had nothing to do with her.
He came back to the present, blinking slowly.
âHold the sensor steady,â Soojin said finally. Her tone was professional â but the glance she threw him wasnât. âYouâre shaking.â
âNot from nerves,â he replied quietly.
âThen from guilt?â
The words caught him off guard. For a moment, he thought she was joking, but her eyes told him otherwise. He sighed, setting the probe down carefully. âDonât do that.â
âDo what?â
âThat thing where you act like there was something to feel guilty about.â Her lips parted, then closed again. The faint flush in her cheeks wasnât anger this time â it was something rawer, smaller. âThere wasnât, right,â she said softly. âWe made that very clear.â
âI didnât pretend,â he said finally, quietly. âThatâs the point.â
The tension settled between them, dense and still. Chenle cleared his throat, too loudly. âOkay, uh, I think this sampleâs ready! Maybe we donât spill emotional trauma in front of the bunsen burners, yeah?â
It drew a few laughs from nearby tables. Soojin didnât join in. She was still looking at Jisung, that same ache clouding her featuresâa longing she didnât even seem to know how to hide. He sighed softly and lowered his voice. âDonât do anything stupid, Soojin.â
Her brow furrowed. âLike what?â
âLike saying something that might hurt her,â he said, and this time there was steel in his tone, quiet but unyielding. âShe's not the type to start fights, but sheâs not the type to lose one either.â That earned the faintest twitch of her lipsâa mix of irony and reluctant respect. âYeah,â she murmured, glancing down at the desk. âI know. Sheâs my skating junior. I guess you at least have a type? Shy doesnât mean weak.â
He watched her for a moment, then nodded once. And that was the difference, wasnât it?
Soojin burned hotâsharp, competitive, full of pride that always demanded to be seen. You⌠you were steady. Kind in ways that made people want to be better. You didnât demand spaceâyou simply filled it with quiet warmth. You listened. You understood. Jisung realized, as he adjusted the dial on the equipment, that heâd never had to guard his words with you. He didnât feel like he was performing. He didnât feel like he had to keep up. And maybe that was why it could never have been Soojin.
Chenle leaned closer, breaking the silence again with a grin. âSo... do we all just pretend we didnât just watch the most intense emotional breakup sequel in the biomechanics lab?â Jisung rolled his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. âFocus, Chenle.â
âI am focused,â Chenle said cheerfully. âOn your tragic love life.â
Soojin let out a small laugh at thatâsoft, tired, but real. For a fleeting second, the tension eased. The hum of machines returned, the rhythm of footsteps and conversation filling the air again. It was almost normal.
Almost.
When class ended, Soojin lingered a little longer by the door, fiddling with her notebook. Jisung packed up his things without looking her way, but as he slung his bag over his shoulder, he felt her gaze on him one last time.
âYouâre really happy, huh?â she asked quietly. He paused. The corner of his mouth lifted, subtle but certain. âYeah. I am.â
And then he leftâleaving Soojin alone amidst the low hum of lights and the faint scent of antiseptic, the sound of her own heartbeat filling the empty space heâd once occupied so easily.
You wake up to a quiet that hums like warmth. The sheets smell like him â that faint mix of your lavender, detergent, and something bright and boyish that always clings to Jisung. His side of the bed is empty but still warm, the pillow dented in a way that makes your chest ache and your lips stretch into a sleepy smile. You roll onto your back, eyes tracing the soft morning light dripping through the blinds. October light â thin, pale gold, the kind that makes dust motes look like ghosts dancing above your comforter. Outside, the wind whistles and the trees rattle in the courtyard. Thereâs that early fall bite in the air, sharp and restless, and the faint smell of pumpkin spice candle Karina lit before bed still clings to the room.
You reach for your phone, see the time (9:23 a.m.), and then notice something on your sidetableâ a paper napkin folded neatly with his scrawled handwriting on it, sitting beside a breakfast plate covered with foil.
Donât think Iâm ditching you, my little temptress. Early class. Be proud of me for not skipping. You tempt me. Eat your breakfast. I actually used the stove and didnât burn down your kitchen. (Mostly.)â¤ď¸â Hoshi
You laugh quietly, running your thumb over his messy handwriting â a kind of comfort you didnât know could ache.
When you peel back the foil, thereâs a breakfast sandwich stacked neatly beside scrambled eggs, slightly uneven toast, and a few strawberries sliced into tiny, clumsy hearts. Your chest tightens â not painfully, but enough to make you press a hand against it. Jisungâs efforts are always a little chaotic, but they come from somewhere sincere, somewhere that makes you want to tuck him into your ribs and keep him safe forever. You grab a fork and eat a few bites, half because youâre hungry, half because the warmth in your chest demands it. He really tried â thereâs a bit too much salt, the bread slightly burnt on one side, but it tastes like something made for you.
When you finish, you pad across your room, the floorboards creaking under your house shoes. You stand in your room for a long moment before sitting on one of your floor pillows and reach for the small jewelry dish sitting infront of you on your floor vanity table. The ring-chain necklace Jisung gave you glints faintly under the light. Looking up at the full length mirror again and Jungwooâs necklace winks back at you from your neck.
For a moment, you hesitate.
Itâs small â the kind of stillness that comes before tears. You trace the old chain with your thumb. Jungwooâs laughter echoes in the back of your head, the sharp contrast of the past that once meant everything. Itâs been so long, yet the ache of familiarity tugs still. But then â the image of Jisung from last night flickers behind your eyes. The way he smiled like you were something gentle, something safe to hold.
So you make the choice â quiet, steady.
You slip off the old necklace, fingers trembling just slightly, and replace it with Jisungâs. The ring hits your collarbone with a soft metallic click.
âRight,â you whisper to yourself, breathing out. âNew chapter.â
You grab the white box from under your bed â the one youâd hidden weeks ago under a pile of sweaters in a basket. The ribbon still sits neat and cherry-red, a little wrinkled on one side. Inside are a few small things: the tiger plush youâd found at a thrift store, a silver star boyish chain, a few packets of his favorite snacks and candy, hockey gloves youâd saved up for after overhearing him complain about his worn-out ones. You almost roll your eyes at yourself. âHeâs gonna think this is so stupid,â you murmur.
A voice from the living room snaps you out of it. ââIf thatâs you talking to yourself again,â Jaemin calls, âyou need help, babe!â You groan, clutching the box to your chest as you stand up again and step out of your room. âItâs called processing emotions, Jaem.â Karina looks up from the couch, hair in a messy bun, a half-empty mug in her hand. âGood morning, sunshine. You lookââ she pauses, squinting at you, ââlike you committed crimes of passion.â
You blink. âWhat?â
Jaemin bursts out laughing, dropping his phone onto the couch. âOh my god. Look at your neck. Must've been his lucky night!â
You frown, confused, until Karina gestures vaguely at your throat. You scramble for your reflection in the TV screen. Thatâs when you see them â faint purplish marks scattered along your collarbone and up your jaw and across your stomach from your sleeping cropped tanktop. Your brain goes blank for two whole seconds before you make a strangled sound. âOh my god.â
Jaemin collapses in laughter, wheezing. âYou two sure took your time getting dowââ
âDonât finish that sentence.â You grab a pillow and throw it at him, cheeks burning. âIt just happened, okay? Itâs not my fault!â Karina sips her coffee, barely hiding her smile. âIâm just saying, Somi left with him this morning. Apparently they share an elective?â
Your head snaps up surprised. âReally?â
âShe said he promised to walk her to campus because she didnât want to go alone,â she continues, inspecting her nails. âItâs cute, actually. Heâs... surprisingly reliable for someone who eats instant ramen for breakfast.â
You cover your face. âIâm never showing my face in public again.â Karina snorts. âOh please, heâs so lovesick heâd tattoo your initials on his jersey if you asked.â Jaemin nods solemnly. âItâs true. I saw him once almost walk into our couch because he was too busy texting and waiting on you to come home.â
You canât help but laugh, shoulders shaking. âYou guys are the worst.â âAnd yet,â Karina says sweetly, eyeing the white box youâre hugging, âhere you are, making him a boo basket like a Pinterest girlfriend in denial.â
You blink at her. âIt's not a boo basket and pinterest girlfriend is crazy.â
âIt has snacks, a plushie, and sentimental meaning,â Jaemin deadpans. âThatâs literally a boo basket.â You groan. âYou guys are so annoying.â But when Karina leans forward, her eyes soften. âHey,â she says quietly, âIâm glad youâre doing this. Itâs about time you let yourself be happy.â
You glance down at the box, throat tightening again â because yeah, youâve been scared. Because letting yourself love Jisung means finally accepting that Jungwoo belongs to a different story. You donât say anything, just nod a little.
Karina stands and tugs lightly on your hair. âThank God. Now we can finally move on with our lives. Iâm so happy youâre happy, baby.â
You smile, small and fragile but real.
âI think Iâm trying,â you whisper. Jaemin flops onto the couch beside you. âTrying is step one to soft-launching your emotional recovery. Next step is maybe not let him give you hickeys that look like horror movie prosthetics.â
You smack him in the arm. âShut up.â
He grins, unbothered. âYou love me.â
But your chest feels full â too full, like if you breathed too deeply, it would spill. You remember the night before, the way his laughter filled the room, the way he said your name like it meant something entirely his. How heâd kissed you like he wasnât sure he was allowed but couldnât stop himself anyway. You remember his hands â warm, trembling a little â and how, for the first time in a long time, you hadnât thought about what youâd lost. You swallow hard, eyes blurring slightly as you stare at the note again.
Maybe thatâs why youâd hidden the box for so long. Because gifting it made everything real â and real meant you could get hurt again. Karinaâs voice cuts gently through your thoughts. âYou okay?â You blink, realizing sheâs now standing at the kitchen doorway. Her smile is small but knowing. âYou look like youâre in a coming-of-age movie montage.â
You laugh, shaky but genuine. âJust thinking.â She nods toward the box. âYou should give it to him soon. Before you talk yourself out of it again.â
âI know,â you murmur, fingers brushing the cherry ribbon. âI just⌠it feels big. Like Iâm giving him a piece of something I donât know how to take back.â Karina walks over, wrapping her arms around your shoulders from behind. âThatâs how you know itâs worth it.â
The words settle quietly between you â no rush, no pressure, just truth.
Then Jaeminâs voice breaks the silence: âAre we done being sentimental or should I start narrating this like a movie trailer?â
You both groan at once.
âJaemin!â Karina yells.
He grins, unfazed. âPreviously on The Sappy Adventures of ice princess and prince chââ You throw another pillow at him before he can finish. âYoure ridiculous.â Karinaâs laughing again, shoulders shaking as she retreats to the couch. The apartment hums back to life â easy, messy, alive. You look back at the box and look down at the ring on your chain that glints in the light warming your skin in ways you never thought possible.
âI think Iâll give it to him this week?â you ask softly, unsure, mostly to yourself. Karinaâs voice floats from the couch. âFinally. Just donât give him a heart attack when he opens it.â Jaemin adds, âheâll definitely get a heart attack.â
âJAEMIN!â
You roll your eyes but youâre smiling again â the good kind, the kind that makes your chest feel warm. The three of you dissolve into laughter again â bright, unguarded, echoing through the apartment as the breeze slips through the slightly open window.
Outside, the leaves scatter across the sidewalk like tiny bursts of fire. And for the first time, it doesnât hurt to think about whatâs next â it feels exciting. For the first time, the ghosts donât weigh you down. They just linger â softer now, almost distant.
The lab was nearly empty when he walked in â just the low hum of computers and the faint flicker of the monitor washing your face in blue. Youâd tucked one leg under yourself, headphones half-on, hair falling over your eyes, the sleeve of your- Jisung's hoodie slipping off your shoulder. It was the kind of image that didnât belong in fluorescent light â too soft, too alive.
Jungwoo leaned against the doorway for a second, watching you drag a clip across the timeline. The sound of a hockey puck echoed faintly from the speakers â the sharp scrape of skates, a voice shouting âGo, Jiâ!â before the clip cut off.
âYouâre early,â you said, not looking up. He smiled a little. âYou mean youâre late. You said youâd send the first cut last night.â You sighed. âI got distracted.â
âBy?â
You gestured at the screen. âHim. The tiger.â
He rolled his eyes as he sat beside you. âRight. The tiger thatâs definitely not Jisung." You didnât answer, only scrubbed through the footage â Jisung skating fast, shoulders squared, face set in focus. Jungwoo caught the quiet pride in your voice when you spoke again. âYou canât see it unless you slow it down. Look â this moment here, right before he passes. His left shoulder drops, just slightly. He does that when heâs about to fake out an opponent. Itâs instinct, not training.â
He blinked. âYou noticed that?â
You gave him that look â the one you used to give him back then, when youâd point out things he didnât think anyone could see. Like the way he fidgeted with his ring whenever he lied. Or how his voice softened when he said your name.
Something in his chest tightened.
âSo,â you said, switching tabs. âHereâs what Iâm thinking for the narration part. Your voice â your part â itâll be kind of like journaling. Honest. Simple. Like how youâd talk to someone you canât see.â
âMy part?â he asked.
You nodded. âYeah. Youâll be narrating the emotional arc. Itâs about learning to look at yourself through someone elseâs lens. Youâll voice the truth behind what the camera canât capture but like as a critic in a sense.â
He frowned, leaning back. âYouâre making this sound like therapy.â You laughed softly. âThatâs kind of the point.â
He was about to argue again when your tone changed â quieter, thoughtful. âThe tigerâs voice, though â thatâll be Jisung. His version of the truth. Like, his actual inner thoughts voiced over the animation Henderyâs helping with.â
âHendery?â
And there it was â the shift. The moment your eyes lit up, not for him, but for the memory behind the name.
âSo this is the first edit. YangYang helped with the cinematographyâ well, technically Luna made him help.â A laugh tugged at your voice, and Jungwoo glanced at you, caught off guard by how easily warmth filled the room when you spoke. âMade him?â
You grinned. âTotal chaos. Kun nearly banned me from the house because Luna was threatening YangYang with a frying pan for complaining." His brow lifted curious despite having no idea who the people you were talking about actually were. âWhatâwhy a frying pan?â
You tapped the space bar to pause the video, eyes still sparkling from the memory. âBecause apparently, he promised her heâd stop volunteering for other peopleâs projects after whatever last semesterâs fiasco was. And when I came to ask, he agreed too fast. So she saidâand I quoteââEither you help her with your whole heart, or you explain to me why youâre sleeping outside tonight.â Bear in mind she's not even living with him!! Can you believe that?â
Jungwoo chuckled despite himself. âSounds like domestic bliss.â âOh, absolutely. Then Chenle started recording it like it was a wildlife documentary. Johnny was narrating. âAnd here we see the rare Luna in her natural habitatâasserting dominance.â YangYang is right where he wants to be.â
You laughed at the memory, hand over your mouth, and Jungwoo found himself smiling, too, though the feeling twisted deep in his chest. Heâd missed that soundâthe way your laughter was both soft and alive, like a spark wrapped in velvet.
It was just like old times
Jungwoo blinked, almost dizzy, because he could feel the warmth of that memory radiating from you even now. The way your lips curved when you talked about them, the way your voice softened when you mentioned Jisung â not by name, but in the shape of it. He didnât know these people, but he could feel them in your tone â the easy laughter, the inside jokes.
âSo,â he said finally, forcing a light tone. âYouâve got a whole army helping you with this guyâs hockey documentary.â
âFirst of all, it's not his. It's ours. Second, itâs not a documentary,â you said. âItâs a story.â
âA story about him.â
âA story about change,â you corrected.
He studied you â the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still fixed on the monitor. You didnât even flinch when he said, âYou talk about him like youââ
âDonât,â you cut in, sharp but calm. He bit the inside of his cheek, a small, humorless smile tugging at him. âYou didnât even let me finish.â
âI didnât need to.â
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the frozen image of Jisung on screen â mid-skate, eyes determined, hair falling into his face. âHeâs just another guy, you know. Talented, sure. But you build him up like heâsââ
You turned to him then, eyes steady. âLike heâs real?â
That threw him off.
âHe is,â you said simply. âThatâs why this works. Because itâs not about the performance, Jungwoo. Itâs about him learning to be seen for who he really is â not who people think he is.â
Something flickered across his expression â a shadow of something he refused to name. âYou used to say that about me,â he said quietly.
You hesitated. âYou used to let me.â
The silence stretched thin between you, sharp with everything unsaid. He tried to deflect, to make it lighter. âSo what, Iâm just the narrator now? The guy with a voice but no face?â
You smiled faintly. âThe voice is what makes people stay.â
He hated that his heart stuttered at that â the same way it used to when youâd say something soft without meaning to. He wanted to say you deserved better than someone like Jisung. He wanted to say you were just infatuated, that you always fell too hard, too fast. But the words died because deep down he knew it wasnât that.
It was that youâd found something he never gave you â someone who saw you the way you saw everyone else.
So instead, he scoffed, âYou really think thisâll work? Him talking as a tiger, me journaling like some sad poet?â
âThis is majorly your assignment Woo.â You reminded him with a playful grin, âbesides, you underestimate how good you sound when youâre honest.â
âHonest,â he repeated, like it was foreign.
You pressed play again. Jisung appeared, laughing on screen after slipping during practice. Youâd kept the clip â raw, imperfect. His teammatesâ voices in the background. Your own laughter, faint but audible.
Jungwoo felt the ache twist deeper. Youâd kept that moment because it meant something to you â not for how it looked, but for how it felt.
He remembered when you used to look at him like that. When you noticed small, useless details â how his hoodie strings always tangled, how he talked with his hands, how he bit his straw when nervous.
Now you looked at Jisung like that.
And Jungwoo hated himself for realizing it. He leaned back, forcing a laugh that sounded too thin. âYouâre impossible, you know that?â
You smiled without looking away from the screen. âYouâve told me that before.â
âYeah.â His voice cracked the tiniest bit. âAnd I meant it then too.â
The lab light hummed softly overhead. Outside, the faint sound of wind brushed against the glass. You turned down the volume, murmuring something about color grading. Jungwoo didnât hear a word of it. He was too busy memorizing the quiet curve of your expression â how focused you were, how alive you looked when you were building something that mattered.
He realized, with a slow, painful clarity, that you werenât his muse anymore. You were someone elseâs reason.
And for the first time, Jungwoo didnât know whether to hate Jisung â or thank him for loving you the way he never could.
You sat under the canopy of orange leaves that filtered sunlight into soft gold patches over the cafĂŠ tables, your lunch tray untouched. The faint chatter of students swirled around, distant enough that you could pretend you were aloneâif not for the very solid, very real presence sitting across from you.
Jisung.
He looked too good for someone whoâd just come from practice. His hair still a little damp at the ends, his collar open, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows as he poked at his own food â a plate of kimchi fried rice and a cup of strawberry milk that was apparently 'yours' heâd somehow charmed Johnny into giving him for free. You, however, were still debating whether to look at him or at the sandwich you had yet to take out of your lunch box.
He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, watching you with an almost lazy smile. âYouâre not gonna talk to me forever, huh pixie?â
Your throat tightened. âIâm talking now.â
âBarely.â His tone was teasing, but his eyes softened. âYouâve been dodging me since yesterday.â You fiddled with your straw. âI havenât been dodging. Iâve just been⌠busy.â
âBusy?â he repeated, leaning back. âWith what? Running away?â You shot him a glare, cheeks heating. âJisungââ
He chuckled, low and warm, and reached across the table while passing you the milk. His fingers brushed your wrist â light, but enough to make your pulse skip.
âYouâre cute when youâre shy,â he said, voice gentle now. âBut you donât need to be. Nothing's changed, you know?â
Except everything had.
Except every time you looked at him, you remembered the weight of his hands on your skin, the way his breath had trembled when he whispered your name in the dark. You swallowed. âItâs weird. Itâs justâdifferent now.â
He hummed. âGood different?â
You glanced up at him, unable to hide your smile. âYeah. Good different.â
His grin widened. âThen why are you sitting all the way over there like I bite?â
Before you could answer, he got up and came around the table, sliding into the seat beside you. The table dipped slightly under his upper weight, and you could feel the warmth radiating from him immediately â familiar, grounding, infuriatingly comforting. You tried to scoot away, but his arm found its way around the back of your chair, casual and possessive in that quiet Jisung way. âBetter,â he murmured. You muttered something about needing space, but he was already opening your lunch box. âYou didnât even eat. Are you planning to starve just to avoid me?â
âI wasnât avoidingââ
He held out a piece of your sandwich toward your mouth, one brow raised. âProve it.â You stared at him, incredulous. âYouâre impossible.â
âMm,â he said, still holding the bite up. âAnd you love it.â
You rolled your eyes, but leaned forward anyway, taking the bite just to shut him up. He grinned, triumphant.
âSee? Progress.â
Your laughter escaped before you could stop it, and the tension dissolved â soft, easy, like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. Jisung shifted closer, knee brushing yours. âThere she is. I missed that sound.â
Your smile faltered just slightly. âYou really missed me after⌠one day?â He tilted his head, eyes steady on you. âYou think I wouldnât?â His voice had that quiet seriousness you recognized â the one he used when he wasnât joking, when his honesty slipped past the easy grin. You didnât know what to say, so you reached out and nudged the cup of strawberry milk with your finger. âYou got milk again and you rarely drink it anyways.â
âYeah, for you.â he said, eyes never leaving yours. âbut itâs your fault for avoiding me. I crave it now.â
You almost laughed â but the look he gave you stopped you. Something gentle, full of everything he didnât say. And when he leaned in just a little â not enough to close the space, but enough that you could feel his breath against your cheek â you didnât move away.
âJisungââ
âHey,â he whispered, smiling. âIâve got you.â Then, with the smallest of sighs, he tilted his head and said, âCan I?â
You didnât answer in words â you didnât have to. The tiny nod you gave was enough. He leaned in, slow and gentle, until his lips met yours. It wasnât rushed or loud or hungry â it was quiet, the kind of kiss that felt like understanding.
The kind that said Iâm here and Iâm not going anywhere.
The kind that made your stomach flutter and your heart ache in the same breath.
Thenâ
âWhoa, whoa, whoa! PDA alert!â
You jumped as Chenleâs voice cut through the air. He plopped his tray on the table with a clatter, grinning wide enough to split his face. âMan, I was right,â he said, smirking at Jisung. âYou finally found her.â
Jisung groaned. âDonât start.â
Karina and Somi arrived right behind him, laughing, trays full of bubble tea and fries. Hendery and Seulgi trailed after, deep in some ridiculous debate about which anime deserved a live action movie and Luna was scolding Yangyang for nearly tripping over someoneâs backpack.
âWow, what a sight,â Somi teased, sliding into the seat across from you. âOur lovebirds are having lunch alone.â
You buried your face in your hands. âOh my goodness!!â Karina gasped dramatically. âWait, is this about why you were glowing two days ago?â
âKarinaââ you started, but she only giggled harder like the menace she truly was. Jisung didnât even bother pretending innocence â he was smiling like he couldnât help it, one arm still slung casually behind your chair.
Chenle sat down beside him, unwrapping his burger. âItâs official. My boyâs whipped.â
âWhipped?â Jisung repeated, eyes narrowing.
âYou heard me.â
âNo one's complaining my boy.â Jisung retorted with a naughty smirk. âI'm creamed up and everything!!â
The table got silent before it suddenly burst into laughter and the shock of his words. Your lips formed an âoâ as you turned to look at him baffled, red as a tomato.
He did not just say that!?
âPut him down now!!â YangYang shouted.
"Creamed up is just crazy." Seulgi murmured into her bread with a shake of her head. âYou did not just say that!!â Luna giggled into her palms just as embarrassed for you. "Like why?"
âBoys are so gross!â Karina muttered with a look of disgust on her face.
âNever say that again please!!?!â
âMy poor ears!â Chenle begged, covering his ears as Somi squealed, always fangirling even in Jisung's cringiest moments. "Cute, but cringe."
"It's straight up cringe, stop lying to him!"
âIt's lunch time, we didn't need to know that!â Hendery argued, looking disgusted.
Then Luna perked up. âHey! We should do something fun this weekend. To celebrate⌠the growing relationship.â She gestured vaguely between you two. Yangyang nodded. âYeah, like a hotpot night! On your rooftop.â He pointed at you, Karina, and Somi. âYou guys have that perfect view. âIâm bringing the broth.â Luna smacked his arm. âYou canât even boil water properly.â
âWhich is why youâll help me.â
Laughter rippled through the table.
Karina gasped. âThatâs actually a great idea! We can do it Friday night.â Somi clapped. âYes! Fall hotpot. Sweaters. Blankets. Lanternsâoh my god, yes.â Seulgi groaned. âYou guys are the worst. My brotherâs graduation dinner is Friday.â Hendery leaned back with a smirk. âJust ditch him. Itâs not like heâs graduating twice.â âTry saying that to my mom,â Seulgi said flatly, earning more laughter. Jisung chuckled beside you, his fingers brushing the back of your shoulder lightly. âYouâll come, right?â
You looked up at him, at that small, familiar grin â the one that still makes your chest ache in the best way â and smiled back. "It's my rooftop tooâŚâ
âGood,â he said softly, voice just for you. âThen itâs a date.â
Chenle immediately pointed his straw at the two of you. âOh, theyâre so done for.â âShut up, Chenle,â Jisung muttered, but he was smiling â the kind that said he didnât really mind. And when your laughter joined the rest of the tableâs, warm and easy under the golden afternoon light, he leaned back, content â his arm still behind your chair, his heart still where you were.
He reached for the eggs first. Checked the carton, turned it over, placed it carefully in the basket. Minho was beside him, half leaning on the trolley, scrolling through the grocery list on his phone and softly humming.
âYuuchan, we still need soy sauce and that spicy ramen you like,â Minho said, tilting his head toward the next aisle. Yuta smiled, that small, quiet curve of lips that never quite reached his eyes. âHai, hai, Iâll get it. Youâre the one who eats most of it anyway.â
âBecause someone keeps making it too good.â
Minho nudged him lightly, their elbows brushing. For a brief second, the world was nothing but the soft clatter of shopping carts, the hum of air conditioners, and the ordinary tenderness between them. The kind of intimacy that didnât need to be loud. âYuuchan,â Minho called again when Yuta drifted toward the noodle section, half lost in thought. âYou forgot the tofu.â
âAhâright, babe, one sec.â
The word slipped out too easily. The way it always did when they were alone â small, casual, real. But here, in the middle of a bright supermarket aisle, surrounded by strangers, it hung in the air longer than it should have.
And thatâs when Jaehyun looked up.
The aisle wasnât crowded, but it might as well have been. The squeak of wheels, the faint music overhead, the murmur of voices â all of it blurred when Jaehyunâs eyes met his.
Yuta froze.
Jaehyun blinked, like his brain was still catching up with what his eyes were seeing. âYuta?â
The sound of his name felt foreign â familiar but heavy, like an echo from another lifetime. The tomato Yuta had been holding slipped from his hand, rolling across the linoleum until it bumped against Jaehyunâs shoe.
âAhâsorry,â Yuta muttered, bending quickly, too fast, pretending that he was fine. âItâs really you,â Jaehyun said, smiling â hesitant but warm. âMan, itâs been forever.â
Yutaâs mouth opened, but no sound came. Minho stepped closer, placing the basket on the ground. âYuuchan?â he asked softly, uncertain now.
And suddenly, Yuta was caught between the two halves of his life â the one heâd built, trembling but his, and the one heâd buried, still haunting him like a heartbeat he couldnât quiet. He hadnât expected to see him here, of all places. The last time heâd seen Yuta, his sister had still been crying every night, and Jungwoo couldnât say his name without that flicker of hurt in his eyes.
And now, here he was â hair longer, face older, softer somehow, like time had carved him down.
âYuta,â Jaehyun said again, trying to fill the awkward silence. âYou look⌠good.â Yuta gave a weak laugh. âI look like someone who spends too much time indoors.â
âThatâs not new.â
It was supposed to be lighthearted, but it hit something in both of them â nostalgia, regret, affection too tangled to name.
Jaehyunâs gaze drifted to the man beside him â Minho. He had the gentle steadiness of someone who understood Yuta well, who probably loved him quietly, patiently.
âHi,â Minho said, a polite smile, extending a hand.
Minho froze. Just barely. His smile stayed, but it didnât reach his eyes now. âRight,â he murmured. âFriend.â
The silence was thick enough to drown in.
He did hold his hand once â just last week, on the walk home from their tiny favorite hotpot stop. Minho had been laughing about something stupid, and Yuta had reached over, fingers brushing his. Minho hadnât pulled away. Now, Yutaâs hand ached with the memory, useless and heavy at his side. He wanted to say boyfriend. He wanted to say this is the person who stayed even when I didnât deserve it.
But Jaehyunâs eyes â warm, curious, so painfully familiar â froze the word in his throat.
âFriend,â he repeated. âWe just⌠live together.â And Minho did not look at him then. He simply shifted his weight and nodded. âWe should get going soon. Weâve still got the meat section left.â
The way he said it â calm, quiet â hurt worse than anger would have.
For a second, Jaehyun almost forgot everything Yuta had done â the cutting off, jungwoo breaking up with his sister, the months of silence that followed. All he could see was the boy he used to share everything with.
He remembered the first time heâd realized something was off â summer, gymnasium, the sound of sneakers squeaking on the basketball court.
Yuta had been laughing, breathless, hair damp with sweat. Jungwoo had draped an arm over his shoulders, grin wide and teasing.
âLook at you two,â someone from the team had joked. âYutaâs practically glued to Jungwoo, huh?â
Jaehyun had laughed. So had Jungwoo. But Yuta â Yuta had gone still.
Too still.
Heâd brushed Jungwoo off, muttering something about getting water. Jaehyun had caught the look in his eyes â fear, guilt, something fragile he didnât understand back then.
Later, heâd found Yuta behind the gym, sitting with his head in his hands.
âYou okay?â
Yuta had smiled, small and shaky. âYeah. Just⌠thinking I should get a girlfriend.â
Jaehyun had laughed at his incredulousness âOut of nowhere?â
âYeah. Maybe itâll fix me.â
He hadnât known what that meant then. But later â he suddenly showed up during practice kissing his sister.
Now Yuta stood in front of him, the weight of all those choices carved into the quiet slump of his shoulders.
âSo⌠how have you been?â Jaehyun asked. âBusy,â Yuta said, forcing a smile. âFinishing school. You?â
âSame. You still talk to Jungwoo?â
The question hung there, sharp.
Yuta hesitated. âNot really.â
Jaehyun nodded slowly. âHe still talks about you sometimes.â
That was a lie â Jungwoo didnât. Not anymore. But he said it anyway, maybe to fill the space, maybe to see how Yuta would react. Yutaâs throat tightened. âYeah?â âYeah,â Jaehyun said softly. âHe misses you.â
The air thickened.
Minho shifted beside him, fingers grazing the trolley handle. He didnât say a word, but his silence screamed. When they finally reached the checkout, everything felt heavier â the baskets, the words they hadnât said, the years between them.
Jaehyun paid first, fumbling with his wallet. Yuta followed, Minho standing a careful step away. At the exit, Jaehyun turned back. âHey, Yuta.â
Yuta looked up.
âItâs good to see you again,â Jaehyun said quietly. âReally.â
Yuta tried to answer, but the words tangled in his throat. He only nodded. And as he and Minho walked out â the plastic bags rustling, shoulders barely brushing â Jaehyun stood there, watching. He remembered the laughter that used to fill the spaces between them. The teasing, the warmth.
And Yuta â walking out into the dusk, his hand inches from Minhoâs but too afraid to take it â did think about holding it anyway.
He didnât.
But Minho did hold his hand first. Just lightly. Just enough to remind him that he was still here, waiting for the day Yuta could finally say his name without fear.
The Boom frat house feels like itâs vibrating todayâhalf from the bass someone is blasting upstairs, and half from the way the wind keeps rattling the old windows and scattered everywhere with jackets, textbooks, and the faint smell of instant noodles. Jeno was sat on the sagging couch in the common room, elbows on his knees, head down as he cleaned his sneakers. Late afternoon light poured through the blinds in thin stripes, warming the back of his neck. Haechan is dribbling a basketball inside like someone who has never once heard the phrase rental deposit.
âBro,â Jeno warns with a sigh, âyou break something again and Kai is gonna give you another speech. I donât have the emotional capacity to watch that.â Haechan grins, sweaty and smug. âKai loves me. Iâm his joy in a world full of disappointment. Also, heads up.â
The ball ricochets off the wall, hits a half-empty Red Bull can, and narrowly misses Jenoâs ear before landing in a trash bag someone left open.
âThree-pointer,â Haechan announces like heâs in the NBA.
Jeno opens his mouth to scold himâagainâwhen the front door slams so hard the whole hallway shivers. âHELLOOOO MY FAVORITES,â Jaeminâs voice booms before he even appears. A gust of cold autumn air followed him in, scattering papers off the coffee table
âYou never do,â Jaemin answers, throwing his bag onto the couch and Jenoâs lap in the same motion. âIâm like a seasonal virus. I show up because God allows it.â âYouâre a menace,â Jeno mutters while Haechan groans deeply like someone had murdered peace itself. âThatâs what my professors say too,â Jaemin says brightly. Haechan snorts. âAnd your sister. And your roommates. And your parents. Andââ
âOkay enough,â Jaemin groans dramatically before collapsing onto the couch beside Jeno, long legs taking up all available space. He smells like cold outside air and someoneâs perfume, probably Somiâs by accident from borrowing her scarf again now that the air is getting colder.
Jeno raises a brow. âRough day?â
âNot at all.â Jaemin grins mischievously. âYou know how Johnny came over to help Karina with her project the other dayâ?â
Jenoâs fingers paused mid-loop.
Not again. Not today.
ââŚYeah,â he said, quietly.
Jaemin visibly perked up, oblivious to the tightening in Jenoâs chest. âBro. BRO. He showed up with pastriesâlike fresh bakery onesâand he said something about âfabric being the window to the soul.â I swear Karina almost teared up.â
Jeno froze, staring down at his line up of shoes. His heartbeat echoed inside his ears, slow and heavy. Haechan freezes at the same time, but only because he almost knocked over a highly overpriced fruit basket placed on their frat island by one of his frat members for losing a legendary bet.
Haechan burst into a laugh.
âOh my god. Look at him. Heâs jealous.â
âIâm not jealous,â Jeno said flatly.
âYou totally are,â Jaemin sing-songed.
Haechan pointed at him accusingly. âThis is your jealous face. Iâve seen it three times. Once when the life guard flirted with Karina that one time. Once when she posted a selfie with that model guy. And now this.â
Jeno rubbed his palms against his jeans, swallowing hard.
âI justâJohnnyâs⌠Johnny.â
âTall?â Jaemin said.
âCharming?â Haechan added teasingly.
âStupidly good-looking.â Jaemin supplied cluelessly. âA biochem major with perfect teeth and a saxophone?â Haechan finished narrating the only thing they seem to be talking about lately since his girlfriendâs project started.
Jeno groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
âOkay,â he says too fast. âEnough.â
Jaemin slowly turns toward him, squinting. âWhy does your face look like that?â
âItâs my regular face.â
âNo, your regular face is blank and mildly depressed. This is⌠something else.â Haechan gasps exaggeratedly. âIs Jeno jealous? THATâS NEW.â
âIâm not jealous,â Jeno says immediately, which is exactly what a jealous person would say. âOh my God,â Haechan groans dramatically. âHeâs jealous. This is better than what they're putting out on Netflix.â Jeno slams the laptop shut. âIâm not jealous. Iâm just⌠curious.â Jaemin leans his chin on his hand. âAbout?â
Jeno hates that his ears are warming. He hates even more that both of them notice.
âNothing. Forget it.â
âBro,â Jaemin says softly now, dropping the theatrics. âTalk.â
The word sits heavy in the room.
The house buzzed around themâfootsteps on the stairs, someone yelling about a missing hoodie, the fridge slamming in the kitchen. Boom frat was loud in a comforting way, but today every sound pressed against Jeno's skull.Jeno exhales slowly, staring at a crack on the coffee table like itâs the easiest thing to confess to. âItâs just⌠Karina hasnât been texting much today. And you mentioning Johnnyââ
âOh my God,â Haechan whispers, âis the guy like tall tall? Because even I would fold.â Jaemin throws a couch cushion at him. âNot helping.â
Haechan catches it one-handed. âJust being supportive.â
Jeno drags a hand down his face. âI know Karina and Johnny are just working on a project. I know she likes me. I know.â
The words sound less convincing out loud.
Jaemin nudges him gently with his knee. âKarina adores you. She literally talks about you like you invented oxygen.â For a moment, Jenoâs breath easesâuntil Jaemin adds, with a playful grin, âEven when you act like a walking beige flag.â
Jeno groans into his hands.
"I'm supposed to be your best friend."
"You are and the plan is to make you my brother-in-law."
But Jaeminâs voice softens again, quieter now, meant only for him.âSheâs into you, Jeno. Seriously. Donât let Johnnyâs perfectly symmetrical face get into your head.â
âItâs not just his face,â Haechan mutters. âHis jawline⌠ugh.â
âLee Donghyuck,â Jeno warns.
âWhat?? Iâm appreciating the human form from our stalking yesterday!â Jaemin rolls his eyes and throws his arm casually over the back of the couch, posture lax but gaze sharp. âLook. Youâve been in your head since the semester started. But Karina chose you, okay? And she keeps choosing you. If youâre nervous, tell her. Sheâll probably make fun of you and then kiss you until you calm down.â
Jenoâs chest squeezes, equal parts ache and affection.
He wants to believe that.
Before he can speak, Haechan leans forward suddenly, squinting at Jeno like heâs remembering something earth-shattering.
âWait. Speaking of romanceâwhat's princess Nakamoto doing these days?â
âHm?â Jeno blinks confused for a second. âYou know...â Haechan wiggles his eyebrows. âMy precious Hani?â
âYou mean your crush?â Jeno interpreted making Jaeminâs head snap around. âYOU WHAT?â
âOh please,â Haechan scoffs. âEveryone had a crush on her at some point.â
âNot everyone,â Jaemin protests. âI respected her like a sister.â âYou literally tried to flirt with her until you found out she was best friends with your soon to be step-sister who you hated,â Haechan fires back.
"First of all, Karina is the one that started the 'hate thing'. Second, it was TWO YEARS AGO AND I COULDN'T HELP IT. IT WAS INFATUATION SHE IS ADORABLE AND BECAUSE KARINA WAS A MENACE AND I WONDERED HOW THE TWO EVEN BECAME FRIENDS IN THE FIRST PLACE."
Jeno snorts. âHaechan, you are worse because you had a crush on everyone when you were twelve.â
âFalse,â Haechan says proudly. âOnly her. And that one barista. And the family dentist.â
âThe WHAT?â
âHey, good teeth are hot, I wonât apologize.â
Jaemin throws his head back laughing. âGod, I missed this frat.â Haechan plops himself between them, draping his arms over both their shoulders dramatically. âAnyway, donât worry, Jeno. Iâm over her now. Emotionally healed. Completely unattached.â âGood to know,â Jeno mutters dryly. "Park will kill you otherwise."
Haechan pauses. âThough if she ever becomes singleââ
âHaechan,â both Jeno and Jaemin warn. "We actually like Jisung!"
âIâM KIDDING!?!â
(He is absolutely not kidding.)
Something unknots in Jenoâs chest.
The chaos, the noise, the dumb banterâit steadies him in a way he didnât realize he needed. Jaemin nudges him again. âSeriously, though. Talk to Karina tonight. And stop spiraling.â
âIâm not spiraling.â
âYou are literally spiraling right now.â
Haechan gestures around grandly. âThis whole conversation has been a spiral.â
Jeno exhales, head thudding back against the couch.
âFine. Iâll talk to her.â
âAnd then kiss her,â Haechan adds. âAnd then apologize for being insane,â Jaemin finishes.
Jeno sighs. âYou both are the worst.â
They grin at him, matching and chaotic.
Outside, the wind rattles the windows again. Inside, the frat house hums with lifeâmessy, loud, comforting. And in the middle of all of it, Jeno finally feels like he can breathe.
The late afternoon wind nips at Somiâs cheeks as she climbs the outdoor steps to the universityâs animation building, her tote bag knocking against her hip with every determined step. The sun is low, honey-bright, tinting the air with a warm haze that feels oddly comforting despite the cold. She pushes the door open, and the warmth inside hits her immediatelyâsoft yellow lights, the faint earthy smell of paper and wood shavings, and a low playlist of instrumental beats drifting from a small speaker by the window.
Hendery is already there, hunched over the massive screen tablet like itâs a living thing heâs coaxing into existence. His hair is messy in that art-student way that looks accidental but somehow perfect, and the stylus spins lazily between his fingers as he lifts his eyes. When he sees her, he brightensânot dramatically, just subtly, in the corners of his eyes and the slight curve of his mouth.
âThere she is,â he says, voice warm but teasing. âChief Stylist.â Somi rolls her eyes, but she canât hide her smile. âIf Iâm the chief, that makes you what? Assistant to the stylist?"
âOof.â He presses a hand to his chest. âI guess I deserved that.â
She laughs and sets her tote on the table, pulling out her assortment: color palettes, printed references, scrap fabrics she borrowed, even two toy tiger mascots she impulsively bought because they felt like they might help.
Hendery whistles under his breath. âWow. You brought a whole Safari.â âItâs not a safari,â Somi mutters, though her cheeks warm. âItâs⌠options.â He leans forward, studying everything sheâs laid out. âWell, Jisungâs inner voice is a tiger, so honestly, the props are on theme.â
Somi snorts as she removes her jacket. âOnly you would defend me buying childrenâs toys for a university project.â âWhat can I say?â Hendery shrugs lightly. âI appreciate commitment.â
A while later, the room glows with late sunlight, the windows catching streaks of gold that stretch across the floor like long threads. Dust floats lazily in the air. Itâs quiet hereâsoft, focusedâand Somi feels herself settle into that space easily, too easily, like sheâs stepping into a version of herself that makes more sense. They begin workingâSomi spreading fabrics and sketches across the table, Hendery adjusting brushes on the tablet.
âSo,â he says casually, not looking up, âhas your girl told you about the date she's taking Jisung to?â Somi looks up sharply. âWhat date?â
Hendery raises a brow. âYou live with her. How do you not know?â
âShe didnât say anything about taking anyone on a date.â
He turns his tablet around, revealing a rough sketch of the tiger in a hoodie. âJisung was practically floating around the frat house this morning. Like levitating. Renjun caught him staring at his phone smiling so hard his face looked like it was glitching.â Somi rolls her eyes, but sheâs smiling. âOh my God.â âKept replaying a voice note over and over,â Hendery adds, tapping the sketch. âLike he was studying it for an exam.â
"She's dumbed him down I swear." Somi snickers. âBut that sounds like him.â âYouâve seen him around her,â Hendery says as he begins sketching again. âHeâs like⌠a baby hamster with a crush. Trying to act cool but immediately tripping over his own claws.â Somi laughs into her sleeve. âLast week he tripped over thin air when she asked him if he wanted soup.â
Hendery freezes, then bursts into laughter so strong his pencil nearly falls. âNo. No way.â âI swear.â She wipes her eyes. âHe ran into the fridge door.â
âOh, thatâs bad.â Hendery shakes his head. âThatâs like⌠diagnosable levels of crush.â
âThey are so in love its sickening.â
Somi feels warmth settle into her chestâfondness for you, affection for the gentle mess Jisung is, and comfort in sharing this moment with Hendery.
âOkay,â Somi says, clearing her throat. âLetâs talk tiger.â âLetâs,â Hendery agrees, shifting back into work mode. âPersonality first?â âMhm.â She thinks. âThe tiger should be⌠Jisung, but not too Jisung. More confident. More grounded.â Hendery nods, adjusting the posture of the sketch. âSo, like, Jisung if he actually believed half the good things people say about him?â
Somi blinks slowly. âYeah. Exactly that.â
He glances at her. âYouâre good at this, you know. Defining a character like this.â She shrugs, suddenly shy. âIt just makes sense in my head.â âThatâs what I mean.â He tilts the screen. âMost people donât think like that.â Somi fidgets with a patch of fabric. âMaybe Iâm just⌠used to micromanaging everyone.â Hendery smiles faintly. âI think itâs more than that.â He doesnât push. He doesnât explain himself. But the softness in his voice lingers.
And she feels it.
As they work, the sun dips lower and the room shifts from gold to a cool, twilight blue. The change feels like turning a page.
Hendery sketches while Somi places fabric swatches next to the screen, adjusting, swapping, rearranging with careful precision. He watches her work like her movements are part of the art itselfânot in awe, but in quiet respect.
âYou organize your thoughts through color,â he says after a moment.Somi looks up. âWhat?â âEvery time you think out loud, you move the colors around.â He gestures to the fabrics. âYou sort ideas by shades. Differences. Contrast. Itâs very⌠director-like.â
Somi freezes, her chest tightening for a reason she doesnât immediately understand. âDirector-like?â she repeats softly. âYeah.â He shrugs like itâs obvious. âYou see the whole picture, not just the pieces.â
She swallows hard, staring at the palettes.
Directing.
Sheâs never considered it seriously. Never allowed herself to.
It feels too big. Too bright. Too full of expectation.
But the idea hangs in the air like dust in sunlightâsoft, weightless, oddly beautiful. âYou really think⌠I could do something like that?â she murmurs. Hendery looks at herânot intensely, not flirtatiously. Just⌠steadily. Kindly.
âIf you wanted to,â he says, âyouâd be incredible.â Something in her chest opens. Slowly. Carefully.
Like a door left ajar. She breathes in, shaky and deep. âThank you,â she says quietly. He nods once. âAnytime.â
They fall back into the work, but something is different. Somi feels grounded, but lighter. More certain, yet more curious. The tiger begins taking shapeâsoft edges, warm stripes, eyes that hold more confidence than Jisung ever shows. Henderyâs hand moves in steady strokes, and when he leans in to match a shade sheâs holding, their arms brush lightly.
Not deliberate. Not dramatic. Just warm.
Somi doesnât move away immediately. And neither does he. Outside, the wind whistles softly against the window. Inside, the room holds an almost fragile warmthâsomething growing quietly between collaboration and comfort. Somi lets the moment sit. Let it breathe.Let it exist.
Not a romance. Not yet.
Just a beginning. And beginnings, she thinks, are enough.
The hallway outside the studio smells faintly of varnished wood and something citrusâsomeone mustâve cleaned recently. Shotaro breathes in once, deeply, trying to settle the static ringing under his skin, but it follows him anyway. It has followed him all day.
Mr. Hoseokâs voice still echoes in his head: âFor the mid-semester collaborative, Iâm pairing you two. I want something fluid. Intimate. Trust-based.â
And then the look he gave both of themâcalm but knowingâlike he meant to stir something up.
Now Shotaro stands outside the studio, palm on the metal door handle, hesitating like itâs forbidden. He can already hear her inside. Soft footfalls. A breathless exhale. The squeak of rubber soles pivoting against the floor.
Mina.
He pushes the door gently.
The studio lights are lowâlate afternoon sun slants through the wide windows, painting gold stripes across the mirrored wall. Dust floats lazily, suspended like itâs listening. The air is cooler here, touched by the autumn breeze leaking in from an open window. Outside, students chatter faintly on their way home; leaves rattle like quiet applause.
And there she is.
Standing in the center of the studio, one headphone in, the other dangling against her collarbone. Her hair is tied up but messily, strands escaping and curling at her temples. Sheâs wearing a black fitted crop top and loose grey joggers rolled at the waist, exposing the soft dip of her hips. A sweatshirt lies abandoned near the speaker, like she got too warm practicing. She doesnât notice him yetâsheâs focused, a slight frown between her brows as she runs the same eight-count again. Soft. Sharp. Soft again. Her movements are fluid, like sheâs dissolving into the music one second and cutting it apart the next.
Shotaroâs breath catches. Again. This has been happening too often.
He clears his throat.
Mina startles, whipping toward himâeyes widening, cheeks tinging pink. âOhâShotaro. Youâre early.â He steps inside, letting the door click shut behind him. âYouâre earlier.â She shrugs, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. âI couldnât sit in my dorm. Too quiet. And I⌠wanted to get the sequence right.â
He nods, dropping his bag beside hers. His chest feels tight, like something inside is close to spilling out. Heâs used to thisâdance studios, partners, choreographyâbut this is different. Mina is quiet, observant, soft in a way that makes him want to lean in closer without even thinking.
And HanaâHana is wildfire. Laughing, teasing, bold hands pulling him into late-night rendezvous, texting him that sheâs bored and he needs to fix that immediately.
Two different worlds. Two different pulls.
Heâs in trouble.
âCan we run it from the top?â Mina asks, pulling him back to the present. He nods. âYeah. Justâshow me the timing again?â
She walks toward the speaker, taps a few buttons, and a low, slow instrumental fills the studio. Something with deep bass and soft piano. The kind of song that begs for closeness. Hoseok mustâve planned it that way. Mina walks back to him. Close enough that he can smell her vanilla lotion. Close enough to see the small mole below her left eye. Close enough that his heartbeat feels stupid in his chest.
âReady?â she whispers.
He should be.
He isnât.
But he nods anyway. The music rises gently. Mina lifts her hand, palm upâa signal. Shotaro places his hand in hers. Her fingers are warm. âOkay,â she says softly. âOne⌠two⌠threeâŚâ
They move. Itâs clumsy at firstâheâs thinking too much, aware of where every inch of her is. The brush of her wrist. The subtle press of her back when he guides her into the turn. The breath she releases when she lands against his chest for the lift.
âSorry,â he murmurs when she stumbles. âThat was my fault.â âNo,â she shakes her head, looking up at him. âI hesitated.â
Their faces are closeâcloser than they should be. Her lips part just slightly like sheâs about to say something else, but she doesnât. Instead, she steps back.
âLetâs try again,â she whispers.
They do.
And the second run⌠flows.
Mina relaxes into him, trusting him to guide her. Her movements are delicate but certain, lines clean, expression soft. Shotaro forgets about the stress, the messy feelings, the guilt creeping in from Hanaâs last text:
Donât forget tomorrow. Just us. Like a date⌠but not a date. Unless you want it to beđ
He shouldnât think about that now and he especially shouldn't think about Mina like this either.
But she turns, steps into himâand his hands land on her waist. Not part of the choreography. His fingers spread slightly, feeling the warmth through her shirt. She tenses. He does too.
The music swells.
She looks up. He looks down.
Everything slows.
Her lips are so close. Her breathing is shallow. Her hands slide tentatively up his arms, not quite touching, but close enough that heat rises through his skin. âShotaroâŚâ she whispers.
He doesnât know if itâs a warning or a question. He doesnât know if he should step back.
He doesnât.
The next move calls for a dip. He supports her weight, guiding her backwardâher hair brushing her shoulder, her throat exposed. When he pulls her back upright, she ends up right against him, chest to chest.
A shiver runs through both of them.
Her voice is barely audible. âYouâre shaking.â He swallows. âYouâre close.â She flushes. âItâs part of the routine.â
âNot this close.â
Her breath catches.
Silence stretches. The studio feels too warm. The air too thick. Their heartbeats too loud.
Minaâs gaze flickers to his mouth.
And thatâs it.
He leans in.
Slowly, like heâs giving her every chance to stop him. She doesnât. She tilts her chin up, eyelids fluttering.Their lips brushâ
Soft.
Warm.
Barely there. And it ruins him.
Shotaro deepens the kiss gently, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, the other gripping her waist. Mina melts into him, fingers curling into his shirt. Her lips are hesitant but eager, matching his pace, like sheâs afraid of wanting this too much.
His mind is chaos. Minaâs scent. Hanaâs laugh.
The text he never replied to. The way Mina is kissing him like sheâs been holding her breath for weeks. He pulls away first, breathing unevenly. Her eyes stay closed a second longerâlike sheâs memorizing the moment. When she finally opens them, theyâre glassy, confused, full.
âShotaroâŚâ she whispers again, but this timeâthereâs an ache in it. âI know,â he murmurs. âIâm sorry.â
He steps back. Just a small step, but it feels like ripping himself away from something fragile and warm and addictive.His chest tightens.
He likes her.
He really, really likes her.
And Hanaâ Hana is waiting. Hana cares. Hana looks at him like he hung starts she didn't know existed.
He is in danger. He is in trouble. He is split clean down the middle, and everything is starting to unravel. Mina wraps her arms around herself, suddenly unsure. âWe should⌠keep practicing,â she says softly.
He nods.
But the space between them isnât the same anymore. The dance isnât the same. He isnât the same. Because now he knows.
He wants both. For different reasons. In different ways.
And pretending otherwise? He can feel the lie cracking already.
Friday night...
The rooftop smells like broth long before anyone sits down. Steam coils up from the pot, thick and fragrant, fogging the air just enough that the city lights below blur into soft halos. It carries through the open balcony doors, curls into the night air, settles into the fabric of hanging clothes of some of the residents of the apartment building are strung along one side of the railing â hoodies, towels, a forgotten scarf fluttering gently like it belongs there and a pair of socks that no one ever claims. The city is loud somewhere below, but up here, everything feels softened, like the world has agreed to speak quieter for the evening.
The hotpot station sits in the corner you, Somi and Karina made Jaemin and Shotaro carve out earlier, burners are lined neatly, ingredients arranged with care that betrays how long you spent prepping. Thin slices of meat stacked like petals. Vegetables washed, dried, plated. Sauces portioned into little bowls you labeled with a marker thatâs already smudging. Dumplings lined in neat rows. You had done this earlier together, music playing from the record player, moving around each other without thinking as you talked about everything and nothing all at once, the kind of domestic ease that only happens after living together long enough to stop narrating it and knowing each other practically your whole lives.
âYou think we overdid it?â she asks, nudging a tray into place. You glance at the table â long, crowded already with burners and bowls and sauces â and smile. âWe always do.â
She hums, satisfied.
The door opens again. Voices spill in.
Hendery walks through first, loud and familiar, carrying soft drinks like heâs performing a service for the people. Somi follows, already complaining about the stairs she had to use because someone had been hogging the lift "all this time it'scrazy", shoes kicked off halfway inside. Yangyang and Luna come together, hands brushing, shoulders touching â close in a way that feels private even in a group. Then Jeno steps through, and Karina straightens without realizing sheâs doing it.
Their eyes meet briefly.
He smiles. She smiles back. Itâs easy â practiced â but thereâs a pause there, a fraction too long, like both of them are checking the ground beneath their feet before stepping forward. Jeno sets down trays of neatly diced pork belly and mushrooms someone handed him, probably Jaemin who was still in their apartment on blanket duty and reaches for Karinaâs wrist, just to tug her closer for a second. His thumb brushes her pulse. Intimate. Controlled. Like heâs reminding himself sheâs real.
She lets him.
Chenle barrels in, dramatically out of breath. âI climbed six flights of stairs for this,â he announces, dropping drinks onto the table. âIf the broth isnât life-changing, Iâm suing.â âYou took the lift,â Jaemin says instantly behind him. Chenle pauses. âThatâs not the point, I'm still suing.â
Laughter ripples through the group, easy, familiar. Collapsible chairs scrape. Yangyang pulls Luna closer without thinking when they sit, their knees fitting together like theyâve always belonged there. Their smiles soften. Whatever theyâre talking about doesnât need an audience. Somi and Hendery sit shoulder to shoulder, not touching, but close enough that their elbows keep knocking, both of them pretending itâs accidental.
Karina moves back and forth between the table and the pot, one last time, unconvincingly so, checking things, adjusting. Jeno watches her every time she passes by where he settled down. She looks beautiful tonight â relaxed, hair loosely tied back, wearing one of his shirts without comment. That should be enough to calm him.
It doesnât.
From the corner of your eye, you see Jisung setting down a big jug of water and a few of your acrylic tumbler cups on the table. Heâs quiet as he moves toward you, taking both your hands into his, slipping into your space like he knows itâs always been his. âYou did all this?â he asks. He glances at the trays, the arrangement, the care mostly you and Karina put into it because Somi got kicked out halfway through with all the nibbling of supplies she had been doing. You nod, sighing weakly despite the smile plastered on your face. âEarlier.â
âThis is amazing work, cupcake.â He muses while leaning down to place a lingering kiss on your lips before pulling back to look at you like that means something more than food. Like it means intention. Home.
âThank you.â You gush, cheeks heating up under your skin as you let go of his hands to greet everyone round the table with a warm smile and hug, âHello guys.â before Jisung pulls you down on a chair in the middle of he and Chenle. When he reaches for the ladle, your fingers brush, and neither of you pull away immediately. Just a beat longer than necessary.
Shotaro notices.
He was already on the roof helping you and Karina transport all the food. Now he was leaning against the railing, arms crossed, watching everyone arrive like heâs counting exits. His smile comes easy â it always does â but it doesnât quite reach his eyes tonight.
He watches Jisung move for you without thinking. Watch you soften into it. Something in his chest tightens as he sits besides Jaemin directly across from you.
It reminds him too much of certainty.
The pot begins to steam...
âOkay,â Chenle announces, clapping his hands together. âNo one touches anything until we all sit. Iâm serious.â âNo youâre not,â Jaemin says, already reaching for a sauce bowl. Karina takes the seat beside Jeno. Not leaning into him. Not pulling away either. Just⌠there.
The burner clicks on.
Steam rises.
The broth begins to bubble.
Jisung is smooth with it, sleeves rolled, hands steady as he begins separating the meat. He moves like he belongs in this space â not loud, not imposing, just present. He eases slices into the pot carefully, watching the color change. You sit beside him, knees brushing, your shoulder occasionally leaning into his arm when someone reaches across you. He begins plating the meat, slow and deliberate. He separates slices carefully, easing them into the broth, watching the color change. When he reaches for the chili tray, he pauses, glances at you, then quietly slides it farther down the table and replaces it with mushrooms instead.
You notice.
Your chest tightens in that quiet way â the kind that doesnât ache, just glows. Chenle sees it too. âWow. Tragic. True love is dietary accommodation.â âShut up,â you say, laughing, elbowing him lightly.
Shotaro doesnât laugh. He sees everything.
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp in a way that doesnât match the warmth of the night.
Because suddenly heâs remembering you sophomore year, sixteenâ not the details, just the distance. The way you stopped coming home on time. The way your skates gathered dust. The way you smiled less. The way you were present in all his dance competitions but lifelessly smiling in all the pictures framed all over the house around that time.
He didn't know why.
Jeno had.
And now he watches you tilt your head toward Jisung, smiling softer than you ever smiled back then.
His fear tightens.
Jeno watches you now, laughing softly at something Chenle says, and the memory flickers sharp and unwanted.
He remembers sitting on the edge of the couch in your room a few years ago, watching you stare at nothing, phone face-down, hollowed out by a breakup no one else knew about.
Jungwoo.
He swallows.
Karina feels the shift beside him. She didn't know the full story then but she remembers how you used to retreat into yourself â quieter, smaller â and how she couldnât quite reach you then either.
Somi remembers differently.
She remembers knocking on your door and getting no answer. Remembers how youâd still show up, still smile, but like you were acting yourself from far away.
Shotaroâs voice cuts through the moment while stabbing harshly into a ready steamed dumpling, Jaemin had out in his bowl as he looks at you. âYou know,â he says casually, too casually, âitâs funny how fast some people settle into playing house.â
The table quiets â not fully, but enough.
Jisung looks up, confused but calm. âWhat?â Shotaro shrugs, eyes still on you. âJust saying. You barely know him.â
Something in your chest tightens.
You straighten, turning a bit toward Shotaro. Your voice stays steady, but itâs firm now â no softness cushioning it.
âStop.â
The word lands clean.
Shotaro blinks. âIâm joking.â âNo,â you say. âYouâre not. And you donât get to talk about him like that.â
Jisungâs hand freezes mid-movement.
The city hums below you. The broth bubbles louder in the silence. Shotaroâs jaw tightens. âIâm just looking out for you.â âI didnât ask you to and I don't know what's going on with you...â you reply. Not angry. Clear. âBut I wonât let you take it out on Jisung.â
That hits.
Because he is taking it out on Jisung.
Because Jisung is everything he isnât right now â certain, grounded, sure of his heart. Because Shotaro is stuck between Hanaâs quiet pull and Minaâs sudden spark, trapped by his own indecision, angry at himself for letting it get this messy.
And thatâs what gets to Shotaro. Not arrogance. Not entitlement.
Certainty.
The way Jisung doesnât hesitate. The way he knows what heâs doing. Heâs angry at himself. So it leaks sideways.
The table laughs. You stiffen slightly. Jisung glances at you before responding. âShe spoils me too.â
Shotaro smiles, but it doesnât reach his eyes. He looks at you then â really looks â and the fear spikes sharp and sudden. You are falling.
Hard.
And in his head, love is always the edge of loss because two years ago, he almost lost you to a heartbreak he didnât even know existed.
Jeno watches the exchange, chest tight.
He remembers you back then â remembers piecing it together too late. Remembering Jungwoo had been the reason, and hating himself for not protecting you sooner.
Karina notices Jenoâs silence immediately.
She shifts closer, their knees brushing under the table, her hand resting lightly on his thigh â intimate, careful, restrained. Thereâs warmth there, but also distance.
She feels his tension and doesnât understand it. In her mind, they had already talked this through. In his worry, it has teeth because Johnnyâs name also flickers through Jenoâs thoughts like a warning light. He hates that it does.
Even Jaeminâs smile fades slightly. He remembers taking photos of you,
He remembers the way the pictures lacked your warmth despite you smiling like everything was fine, while slowly disappearing.
Yangyang squeezes Lunaâs hand, needing to ground himself in whatever twin telepathy argument the hotpot has turned into.
You straighten.
âTaro,â you say slowly, warning already in your tone. He ignores it, eyes fixed on Jisung now. âYou donât even see it, do you? You decide things so fast. You fall fast.â
The broth bubbles.
You slowly hand Somi the salt shaker she had been making grabby hands at the entire time, hands steady even though your chest feels tight.
Something snaps â not loudly, but cleanly. You turn fully toward him. âDonât.â
The word lands firm. Shotaro blinks. Heâs not used to that from you.
âI donât know what you think youâre protecting,â you continue, voice steady but tight, âbut thisââ you gesture between you and Jisung, ââis not your call.â
Jisung opens his mouth. You lift a hand, stopping him gently without looking.
âThis is my relationship,â you say, eyes locked on Shotaro now. âYou donât get to imply heâs temporary or unsafe or something Iâll regret. Not at this table. Not ever.â
The silence stretches.
Shotaroâs anger folds inward, sharp and messy. Because heâs not angry at Jisung â not really. Heâs angry at himself. How unsure he is. At how heâs tangled himself between two girls without even coming to the realisation himself. At how Jisung can look at you and know. He looks at you and sees how deeply youâre already gone.
That terrifies him.
âYou donât understand,â he mutters. âI understand enough,â you say softly, but your boundary doesnât soften. âAnd I need you to trust me.â Jisung finally speaks, voice calm. âIâm not here to hurt her.â
Shotaro looks at him then â really looks. And thatâs the worst part. Because he believes him. Because Jisung is telling the truth. His truth, while he barely even acknowledges that he needs to start thinking about his own.
Chenle clears his throat loudly. âOkay! Wow! Hotpot got spicy and not in a fun way.â Jaemin jumps in immediately after. âDoes anyone want more beef? Emotional beef? Literal beef?â
Laughter breaks the tension â awkward, grateful. You exhale slowly, fingers curling into Jisungâs sleeve. He turns to you, thumb brushing your knuckles once, grounding. Yangyang leans toward Luna, murmuring something that makes her smile softly â intimate but contained, their world quiet and separate from the chaos.
âOkay but,â Hendery says around a mouthful of noodles, pointing his chopsticks at Jisung, âwhy does your girlfriend have a custom plate?â âItâs not custom,â Jisung defends himself.
âMy little rabbit loves her carrots,â your boyfriend says easily with a grin, making both Jaemin and Chenle groan in disgust.
âThatâs worse.â
Jaemin laughs so hard he nearly tips his bowl. âHe knows her preferences. Let's get them married.â You nudge Jisung with your knee, scolding. âStop it. This is your fault now; they won't shut up.â âI canât,â he says, smiling. âTheyâre loud.â Making everyone laugh as the night slowly resumes its rhythm.
But under the table, Shotaroâs hands shake just a little. Because he knows now â youâre not hovering on the edge anymore.
Youâre choosing.
And he has to learn how to let you...
Later, the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, soft but final, and for a second the room feels too quiet after everythingâthe laughter, the clatter of dishes, the sharp edges of words that hadnât meant to cut but did anyway.
Steam still clings faintly to your skin as you step out, curling into the cooler air of your room, your robe loosely tied, damp hair curling against your neck. Thereâs a towel draped over your shoulders, catching droplets before they can slip down your spine. The scent of your soap lingersâclean, faintly sweet, familiar.
Your fingers are still slightly wrinkled from the heat of the water, your thoughts even more soâsoftened, but tangled.
Shotaroâs face lingers. The way his jaw had set. The way your name had sounded in his mouthâtight, unfamiliar.
You donât notice the door opening behind you.
You donât notice him.
Not at first.
Your thoughts are too loud.
They follow you out of the bathroom, wrap around your shoulders, settle somewhere heavy in your chest. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the towel as you step further into the room, gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere past your vanity, past your bed, past the present.
But he sees you.
Jisung stands just inside your room, hand still resting on the door like he forgot why he came in.
And thenâ
You shift slightly under the light.
Water catches along the curve of your collarbone, slides slowly, and disappears beneath the soft fold of your robe. Your hair clings to your cheeks, curling faintly at the ends, framing your face in a way that feels unguarded. Your skin looks⌠new. Fresh. Like something untouched by the chaos that had just lived in the apartment minutes ago.
And something in him pulls tight.
Hard.
You still havenât looked at him. Youâre still somewhere else, and thatâ that does something to him. He crosses the room before he can think. You look up and see Jisung is already there. Standing just inside your room, chest rising a little too fast, eyes locked onto you like heâs been holding something in for too long and doesnât know where to put it anymore.
For a second, neither of you moves. Youâre still half inside your own head. Heâs entirely outside of his. Then he closes the distance.
Fast.
His hands come upâboth of themâcupping your face, fingers warm against your damp skin, thumbs brushing just under your ears as he pulls you into him and kisses you.
Itâs not gentle.
Itâs not careful.
Itâs everything he didnât say downstairs.
Your breath catches, hands instinctively finding his wrists, but you donât push him awayâyou just⌠hold there, suspended, as his mouth moves against yours with something that feels like relief and urgency tangled into one.
His lips are warm. Insistent. A little messy. Like heâs still thinking about it. Like heâs still hearing it.
You. Defending him.
âMy relationship is with Jisung. Not anyone else.â
Your chest tightens. He kisses you deeper. Then, suddenly, youâre movingâbecause heâs movingâone hand sliding from your face to your waist, gripping, pulling you closer as he steps forward and you step back without thinking.
Once.
Twice.
The back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
You gasp softly into his mouth, and he takes it, tilting his head and slipping his tongue past your mouth to meet yours, kissing you again like heâs chasing the sound. Your fingers slide up his arms, then into his hair, slightly damp from earlier, and you tugâjust enough to ground yourself.
âJisungââ
He hums against your lips, not pulling away. Not yet. His hand shiftsâslips under the edge of your robe, palm settling warm against your thigh, thumb brushing once, slow, like heâs reminding himself youâre real.
That this is real.
You inhale sharply. Your other hand presses against his chestânot pushing, just⌠pausing him. He stills.
Barely.
Just enough to pull back an inch, his breath fanning across your lips, eyes half-lidded but searching. âSay it again,â he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges. âWhat you said downstairs.â
Your stomach flips. You shake your head a little, breath uneven. âYouâre beingââ âIâm serious,â he cuts in softly, a grin threatening at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are still too intense for it to be just teasing. âYouââ
He leans in again, brushing his lips against yours, not quite kissing, ââdefended me.â Your face warms instantly, âThatâs notââ
He kisses you again.
Short this time.
Quick, but it lingers.
âYou did.â
For a second, youâre both just⌠close. Breathing. Looking, and then something shifts againâplayful this time. You push lightly at his shoulder and, before he can react, you shift, turning him, pressing him back just enough that you end up hovering over him instead.
He blinks up at you.
Surprised. Then amused, eyebrows raised and telling.
âOh?â he murmurs. âDonât,â you warn, already feeling your composure slipping. His hands settle at your waist again, steady, grounding, thumbs brushing absent patterns against your sides.
âYou were saying?â he prompts, far too pleased with himself. You narrow your eyes. âI was not saying anything.â
âYou defended me,â he repeats, softer now, but no less smug. âAgainst your twin brother.â
You groan, dropping your head briefly against his shoulder. âJisungââ
âI think,â he continues thoughtfully, one hand sliding slightly under the edge of your robe at your waist, warm against your bare skin, âthat makes me your favorite person.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âIâm right.â
And you kiss him again. This time, you set the pace.
Slower.
Deeper.
Your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt without thinking, palms pressing lightly against the warmth of his skin, anchoring yourself there like you need to prove heâs real. He exhales sharply at that. His head tilts back just slightly, giving you spaceâletting you take itâbefore his hands slide higher along your thighs, stopping just at the edge of where your robe gathers.
Not pushing.
Just there. Just holding. Something in your chest twists because thisâthis is steady. It is not rushed. This is not something that will disappear the second you blink, and yet, the world tilts again, but gently now, like something easing into place instead of knocking you off balance.
When you pull back, itâs not far.
Your nails lightly dig into his skin, and for a second, youâre back there...
To a few minutes after your hotpot night. The kitchen was chaotic with steam still fogging the windows. The front door cracked open just enough to let the cold October air slip in. Plates stacked too high in the sink.
âWhy are there so many bowls?â Hendery is complaining loudly, sleeves rolled up as he stands at the sink, staring at the pile as though it personally offended him. âBecause you ate out of three,â Yangyang shoots back from beside him, elbow-deep in soap suds. âDonât act brand new.â
âI needed options!â
âYou needed discipline.â
Chenle is laughing somewhere behind them, nearly dropping a stack of chopsticks. âNo, because why did you keep changing broths like it was a personality trait?â Somi is perched on the counter, swinging her legs, holding a half-eaten skewer. âLet him live, oh my God.â
Karina is wiping down the table beside you, movements a little too precise, like sheâs thinking about something else entirely. Jeno stands a few steps away from her, drying plates, but his eyes keep flickering toward her like he wants to say something and doesnât know how. JaeminâJaeminâwas by the doorway, stacking empty trays, watching all of it with quiet amusement. âIf this place floods, Iâm blaming all of you.â
âIt wonât flood,â you say absentmindedly, stacking the last of the plates.
From the living room, Chenleâs voice cuts throughââIF ANYONE TOUCHES MY DRINK, IâM SUING.â Luna laughs too loudly while lazily scrolling through the TV. âYou donât even know what suing means.â
âI know it means consequences.â
And then, you feel it. That shift. When you turn, Shotaro is already looking at you, not angry anymore. Just⌠tight. Like he didnât know where to put his hands. Or his words. So he busied himself with folding the extra blankets you guys ended up using to warm yourselves up as you ate.
Thereâs a beat. Then another. Before he finishes and steps forward. You do too, because it is time for everyone to go home. The hug isâ awkward. Not unfamiliar.
Just⌠unfinished.
His arms wrap around you, firm, protective even now, but thereâs hesitation in it. Like he almost pulls back halfway through and then decides not to.
You donât say anything. Neither does he, but his grip tightens for a second. Just once before he lets go. âIâll⌠see you,â he mutters, not quite meeting your eyes.
You nod.
âYeah.â
Thereâs more. Thereâs so much more, but it stays there. Unsaid.
For now.
âOi!â Chenle calls out, breaking the moment instantly. âIf you two are done being dramatic, someone help me find the lid for thisâwhy do we even own this?â
âThatâs not ours!â Karina calls back, exasperated with a groan.
âIt is now!â
Luna giggles at that while hugging YangYang, who had pulled her to sit on his lap. âWho the hell is we?â Jaemin asks, genuinely confused, while putting on a record on your shared player in the living room from where he was sitting on the floor. â I'm part of this family, mate, try to keep up.â He argued back.
âWhen did that consensus happen?â
âJisung and I are a 2 for 1 package deal.â
âSpeak for yourself.â Jisung scoffed from where he sat on the couch scrolling through his phone earning a look of betrayal from his best friend who then turned to you with pleading eyes.
âAin't no way the ice princess is abandoning me, right princess?â
You only rolled your eyes amused only to earn laughter from the others as jackets begin to get pulled on and shoes get half-stepped into.
âText me when you get home!â Somi shouts at Hendery as he head out after Yang Yang and Luna
âWeâll see each other tomorrow!â
âText me anyway!â
The door opens.
Closes.
Voices fade.
Your breath stutters as the memory dissolves. Jisung is still right there. Still looking at you like that. Like he hasnât come down from it yet. His hand shifts at your waist, grounding you back into the present.
You blink.
Your forehead rests briefly against his. Your breath comes back uneven. You swallow, ââŚyouâre a lot right now.â He huffs a quiet laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. âYou made me like this.â
âI made youââ
âYou sat there,â he says, softer now, but no less intense, âin front of everyone, Your brother and you didnât even hesitate.â
Your chest tightens. Something in your throat shifts. You look at him properly now, and the words come out before you can overthink them.
âIâm sorry.â
He blinks,that throws him more than anything else. He stills, âWhat?â Your hands slide up to his shoulders again, holding there, steady but unsure.
âFor taking so long,â you say quietly. âTo say it like that. To⌠be that sure out loud.â His expression softens immediately, âhey.â His hand comes up, gentle this time, brushing damp strands away from your face, cupping your jaw again, tilting your face so you have to look at him, âyou donât get to apologize for that.â
âI made you wait.â
âI wouldâve waited longer.â
Itâs immediate. No hesitation. No performance. Just truth.
Your chest tightens painfully. âJisungââ
âI mean it,â he says, quieter now, but firmer. âNothing about this changes because you took your time. I wasnât going anywhere.â
Your eyes search his. He doesnât look away.
âIâm still not,â he adds, softer. The room feels smaller. Like everything has folded inward just to hold this moment in place. Warmer. It settles something deep in your chest, and before it can get too heavy, he exhales, shaking his head lightly, a smile creeping back in.
ââŚstill,â he adds, quieter, a little smug again, âIâm not complaining.â
You blink. âAbout what?â
He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, âhaving a girlfriend who scares people for me.â Your jaw drops slightly, and you narrow your eyes. âYouâre very bossy today.â
âAnd youâre very damp,â he shoots back as he shifts slightly beneath you, thenâIn one smooth motion, his hands slide under your thighs, and he stands. You gasp softly, instinctively grabbing onto him as the world tilts for a second, your height shifting, your body lifting with his.
You feel it more. The difference. The way you now have to look down slightly instead of always looking up at him to meet his gaze.
The way his grip adjusts automatically to keep you steady.
âCareful,â you murmur, half-breathless.
âIâve got you,â he says winking, like itâs obvious.
Like itâs always been obvious.
He turns.
Gently lowers you back onto the bed, slower this time, more deliberate, making sure youâre settled before he lets go. Then he steps away, just enough, and reaches for your blow-dryer on the vanity. The cord drags softly across the surface as he picks it up, plugs it in near the outlet by your bed, his movements unhurried, like heâs not trying to fill spaceâjust existing in it with you.
You huff, but you sit straighter anyway, legs folding onto the bed as you watch him grab your blow dryer, plug it in near the bed, and come back.
The hum fills the room. Warm air follows. His fingers move through your hair carefully, lifting sections, drying them slowly, like heâs not in a rush to be anywhere else.
The tension fades. Little by little.
âTurn,â he murmurs.
You do. His hand brushes the back of your neck, steadying you as he adjusts, focused, gentle in a way that feels⌠grounding.
You watch him from the corner of your eye. The concentration. The softness. The way his lips press together slightly when heâs focused.
Your chest tightens againâbut differently this time.
Quieter.
Fuller.
When heâs done, he sets the dryer aside, fingers combing once more through your now warm, dry hair.
Then, he leans in. Kisses you. Slow this time. Deep, but unhurried.
Your hand slips under his shirt without thinking, palm pressing against warm skin, and he exhales softly against your mouth, one hand finding your waist again, anchoring you.
Itâs softer now.
Not less.
Just⌠steadier.
When he pulls back, itâs only to rest his forehead against yours.
Breath shared.
âStill think Iâm insufferable?â he murmurs.
You smile, just a little. âYeah.â
He grins and kisses you lightly again.
âGo shower,â you whisper.
He huffs. âYou just want me gone.â
âI want you clean.â
âThat hurts.â
You laugh quietly, pushing his shoulder. âYou smell like all types of broth.â
He steals one more kiss anyway. Then another, making you giggle before finally pulling away with a reluctant sigh.
âDonât fall asleep without me.â
âNo promises.â
âIâll be fast.â
âYou wonât.â
âI will tonight.â
You smile despite yourself as he disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks, and water starts. The room settles again. You change into another set of matching pajamas, one of Jisungâs hoodies, and comb through your hair one last time before settling back on your side of the bed. You reach up instinctivelyâfingers curling around the chain at your neck, the small weight of it grounding, familiar.
Your thumb brushes over it slowly.
Breathing. Thinking. Jungwoo flickers in the back of your mindâdistant now, like a memory that doesnât quite belong to you anymore.
What you had. What it took from you.
What you almost became...
And then, Jisung. Warm. Certain. Steady in a way that doesnât ask you to huide to be loved.
You exhale.
When he comes back, hair damp, shirtless in sweats, changed and moisturized, he doesnât say anythingâjust slides into bed beside you, pulling the duvet over both of you before tugging you into him like itâs instinct.
Your head finds his chest.
His arm wraps securely around you.
Safe. Easy.
His lips press softly to your forehead., âgoodnight.â
âGoodnight.â
The rain starts not long after. Soft at first. Then steady. Tapping gently against the windows. His breathing evens out beneath your ear, but your eyes stay open a little longer.
Your fingers still curled around the chain.
Your thoughts quieter nowâbut not gone.
Thereâs still uncertainty somewhere in the distance; it still echoes with things you havenât said.
But here, in this moment with him holding you like this, with his heartbeat steady under your cheek, with the rain filling in the silence instead of breaking itâ you donât feel like youâre losing yourself. You feel like youâre finally standing still, and maybe thatâs enough.
I'll try as hard as possible to finish this series this upcoming month.
Thank you so, so much for the love and patience this series has received so far. I'm just a perfectionist at heart, so I can't put out something I feel is still incomplete.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing. Not success. Not people. Not even home.
So he leavesâquietly, without telling anyoneâchasing a feeling he doesnât know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations⌠just distance. In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesnât ask who he isâonly who he chooses to be.
What begins as an unlikely arrangementâfive days under the same roofâslowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind.
Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have. But time doesnât stopâand the life he left behind is still waiting for him. When he returns, nothing feels the same.
Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you canât go back to.
My couples catch feelings early and then proceed to suffer (romantically) together.
Welcome to the ânow what?â era âĄ
SERIES.
* LOVE TO LOVE
Park Jisung x Female reader!Nakamoto x Kim Jungwoo
They never planned on falling, but love doesnât ask for permission.From the rink to the frat house, friendships blur, rivalries ignite, and family ties complicate what should be simple. When distance and doubt start to creep in, what once felt unbreakable begins to crack under the pressure of expectations, jealousy, and old wounds.But love isnât just stolen kisses and late-night promisesâitâs fighting for someone when walking away would be easier. And somehow, amid the chaos and mess, love always finds its way home.
* WRAPPED IN DECEMBER
To be continued in December 2026
Four hearts, four stories, one magical December. Love, laughter, and mistletoe await under the holiday lights.
* MAN'S BEST MISTAKE
[Coming Soon...]
* KISSES IN BLUE
ONESHOTS.
* HOMESICK
At the height of everything he ever wanted, Mark Lee realizes something is missing. Not success. Not people. Not even home. So he leavesâquietly, without telling anyoneâchasing a feeling he doesnât know how to name. A month in a different country, with no schedules, no expectations, no explanations⌠just distance. In a place where no one knows him, he meets someone who doesnât ask who he isâonly who he chooses to be. What begins as an unlikely arrangementâfive days under the same roofâslowly unfolds into something deeper. Shared spaces become familiar. Quiet routines become comfort. And somewhere in between, a stranger becomes something far harder to leave behind. Mark came looking for space. Instead, he found a home he was never meant to have.But time doesnât stopâand the life he left behind is still waiting for him.When he returns, nothing feels the same. Because sometimes, being homesick has nothing to do with where you are and everything to do with the place, the person, you canât go back to.
Š All works on this page belong to me.
Do not copy, repost, translate, or adapt without permission.
All stories are fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. I do not own the idols/individuals portrayedâonly the original plots and writing.
Park Jisung x Female reader!Nakamoto x Kim Jungwoo
Love triangle
"He fell first, she fell harder."
They never planned on falling, but love doesnât ask for permission.
From the rink to the frat house, friendships blur, rivalries ignite, and family ties complicate what should be simple.
When distance and doubt start to creep in, what once felt unbreakable begins to crack under the pressure of expectations, jealousy, and old wounds.
But love isnât just stolen kisses and late-night promisesâitâs fighting for someone when walking away would be easier. And somehow, amid the chaos and mess, love always finds its way home.
GENRES:
Slice of life, strangers to lovers, rom-com, collegeau, slow burn, coming of age.
WARNING:
I had too much time on my hands...way too much time. I wanted chaos, comfort, comedy, but I swear things aren't just handed to you or run smoothly irl.Â
Too many your and you in these damn episodes. (This format of writing is not for everyone AND THAT'S OKAY)
The romance is romancing (the tooth rotting kind, I hope) The chemistry just made science.
Heat, tension, and smut (maybe, not yet decided).
Mullet Jisung! Yes, that's a warning, as his dark, fluffy hair was a heavily paid actor in the making of this fan fiction. Jisung is undeniably, shamelessly smitten and in love, and Chenle gets second-hand embarrassment on his behalf every. Single. Time.
Make outs, Fall outs, Heartbreaks and Flashbacks...lots and lots of them. It's crazy. Please be keen while reading.
Their world is uniquely theirs. Do not hold me accountable for any inaccuracies you stumble upon. Let's just have fun and indulge ourselves, wildflowers!!!
Loosely very loosely inspired by TSITP because it was the only thing I could watch after love island but greatly influenced by the loverboyseries here on tumblr written @withlovemark
That series has a special place in my heart and this is my proof of that.
10- 60k words in each episode.
NOTE.
Nothing I write here is a true description of the real world or a definitive description of the personalities, identities, and sexuality of the idol face claims I have used in the fruition of the story I am telling. Stay safe, MNDI.
I am trying to challenge myself and my writing by tapping into the LGBTQ+Â community, and this is an indirect way I will be using to understand and be educated more on it, so I could make unconscious mistakes (kindly let me know as you read). And in respect of that, my Gay couple will NOT have any smut scenes, but I am hoping their love for each other can shine through and be enjoyed regardless.
If this is not your tea, please don't get burned trying to drink it.
Let me know your thoughts and I am open to suggestions about anything.
Love you lots, kisses.
Memories have been indented, but all other events in the episodes follow each other. As for the minisodes, these are merely Jisung's POV on events that have already happened in the episodes prior or a present event in his world.
Main masterlist.
Status (ongoing)
Uploads every Wednesdays and Saturday 9:00 pm {EAT]
Main Masterlist
EPISODE 1.
You went looking for art.
You found him instead âa hockey boy with a nosy streak, ramen breath, and the softest laugh.
You promised yourself not to feel anything.
Then he handed you a ring, and kissed you like you already belonged to him.
minisode 1
EPISODE 2.
Between Yutaâs secrets, Jungwooâs ghosts, and the endless IKEA manuals no one can readâyou somehow find home in a boy who builds you a shelf, hands you a brush, and calls you his favorite mess.
It shouldnât feel this simple. It shouldnât feel this right.
But it does.
You werenât supposed to find love between unpacked boxes.
minisode 2
EPISODE 3.
You woke up to warmth â his hand still resting on your waist, the morning too quiet to be innocent.
You told yourself it was nothing.
Then he kissed you goodbye like it meant something, and the world started spinning faster.
By sunset, old ghosts had names again â and one of them said yours like a prayer he shouldnât still remember.
minisode 3
EPISODE 4.
You stopped looking for him years ago.
But time has a cruel way of circling back âsome ghosts don't haunt. they wait.
And when the past collides with your present, you find Jisung's hand already there, steady, sure and warm âa reminder that love isn't always loud, but it can be enough to drown echoes.
minisode 4
EPISODE 5.
Somewhere between the speeches, the cheesecake, and the bass shaking the floor, you forget what quiet feels like and somehow leave with a story that feels like a promise.
There's laughter, bad dancing, and the boy who keeps looking at you like he's already written you into every plan. You laugh, kiss, fall asleep in his hoodieâsafe, dizzy, warm.You almost let it feel like forever.
It should feel simple.
But simple things have a way of trembling. Maybe the heart doesn't hideâmaybe it just hesitates.
minisode 5
CUTS.
EPISODE 6.
Between old names resurfacing and new routines settling in, the weekend stretches longer than it should. Everyone is orbiting something they shouldnât beâyou just happen to be standing still long enough to feel it.
You werenât looking for permanence, yet somehow, it keeps finding you.
minisode 6
EPISODE 7.
Between old names resurfacing and new routines settling in, nothing feels as simple as it should. Everyone is orbiting something they shouldnâtâpast choices, unspoken fears, almost-mistakes or something dangerously close to love.
And yet, somewhere between quiet confessions, shared glances, and a rooftop that holds too much truth, you begin to realize that maybe this time⌠youâre not the one running.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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This is a romance-heavy space, written by someone who is, at her core, just a lover girl âĄ
I donât really do the whole âwill they, wonât theyâ thing (it stresses me out, respectfully- it's honestly the reason I have yet to watch XO Kitty).
My couples? They know. Or at least⌠they feel it early, in that quiet, undeniable way. Sometimes theyâre already together, sometimes theyâre orbiting each other with full awarenessâbut either way, the story doesnât end at getting together. Thatâs where it begins...
Iâm more interested in the ânow what?â
The learning, the choosing, the staying.
The kind of yearning that exists inside love, not just before it.
Expect dynamics where affection is obvious, tension lives in the little things, and intimacy exists even in the smallest momentsânot necessarily physical, but deeply felt.
A bit of angst, a bit of softness, a lot of figuring-it-out-together and a dash of SMUT (minors DO NOT interact)
Welcome to my little corner of controlled chaos â¨
Iâm a certified K-pop enthusiast (not a collector of all groups, I have boundaries⌠sometimes), but my heart has a very permanent reservation with đ
This page is basically what happens when my brain refuses to listen to music like a normal person. Instead, every song becomes a storyline, every lyric becomes a scene, and suddenly Iâm building entire fictional universes at 2AM because a beat dropped the wrong way.
Expect:
NCT and RIIZE members casually living rent-free in alternate realities
Music-inspired storytelling across all genres (because my playlist has no loyalty)
Emotion, drama, soft chaos, and the occasional unhinged plot twist
If youâve ever heard a song and thought, âthis could ruin lives in a fictional universeâ⌠youâre in the right place.
Welcome to the soundtrack of my imagination đ§
[Currently addicted to vertical short dramas...girl, don't ask!!]