HER

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 doesn’t 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 older—something familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesn’t 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 isn’t his anymore. This house—his house, his family’s house in Toronto—should feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something he’s stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocating—just… 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 doesn’t 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 it— 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 floor—soft, warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to this house. In the way the quiet feels…incomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesn’t know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.

It doesn’t help.

The doorbell rings. It’s sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.

Real.

He blinks, like he’s being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this time—impatient, 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 hesitate— then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.

Not calm.

You’re moving before he even processes it—stepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like you’re searching for something wrong.

“Mark—”

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 floor—eyes 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 you’re trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find something—an injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesn’t feel like enough proof that he’s okay. “Are you okay?” you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesn’t sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something you’re trying to confirm with your own hands. You don’t wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like you’re searching for something broken, something he hasn’t told you.

He freezes.

Not because he’s uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide down—his shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like you’re grounding yourself in the fact that he’s here. That he’s real. That he’s not… broken. That he’s here, that he didn’t 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 don’t know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesn’t respond. Mark doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way you’re touching him like he matters outside of everything else.

Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Just— 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 doesn’t leave. “Mr. Idol…” you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. “Talk to me.” 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 don’t come.

Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way you’re looking at him like he’s something you might lose if you don’t hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything else—the noise, the expectations, the endless movement—feel far away.

His throat tightens.

No words come out because if he starts— he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tilts…

It’s never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when it’s quiet.

“Mark, just a few more minutes—”

The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesn’t 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 blink—no shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.

Controlled.

“How would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?” He hears the question, registers it but there’s 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.

“It means a lot,” he says, voice smooth, steady. “I think… it’s a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.” The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, “And where is that?”

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 isn’t 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.

“It’s… a process,” he says instead, softer now. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

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. “What was the most personal track for you on the album?” 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.

“That’s a hard one,” he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I think… all of them had something personal in them.”

It’s a safe answer. A good one.

The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. “Is there one that felt… closer to you than the others?”

There’s a pause.

Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocused—like he’s somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would mean—feeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watching—He can't afford that.

So he smiles again, soft and polished.

“I think it changes,” he says instead. “Depending on where I am.” She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.

It never does.

—

Backstage, it’s louder. Not with questions—but 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.

“Hyung.”

He looks up and finds Jisung—familiar, grounding—drops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.

“You good?”

The question is casual but the look isn’t. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. “Yeah,” he says.

It’s automatic.

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been… quiet,” he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. “Have I?"

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, “You okay?”

The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This one—waits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.

“I’m just tired,” he says finally.

It’s not a lie but it’s 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.

“If you need a break, you should take one.”

Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. Just like that.”

It’s said simply, like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t come with consequences. Mark doesn’t respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, “You should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.” Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesn’t get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. There’s no pressure in the statement.

Just—understanding.

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. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”And in the back of his mind— something shifts. Something small. Persistent.

What if I did?

—

A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe it’s just the way the air sits—still, 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. “I just need some time,” Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “That’s all I’m asking.”

There’s something underneath it, something strained.

“How much time?” the second manager asks immediately. There’s no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, “A few weeks,” Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like he’s already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, “We’re in the middle of promotions,” he says. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know this isn’t exactly—” “I said I know,” Mark cuts in, sharper this time.

The room stills.

Mark’s jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. “I’m not trying to mess anything up,” he continues, more controlled now. “I just… I need a break.” There’s a pause, a shift in the room.

Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. “You’ve been pushing a lot,” he says gently. “We’ve seen it.” Mark doesn’t respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t.

Pushing.

That’s one way to put it. Pushing doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. “Can you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?” 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 doesn’t answer because that question, that small, persistent one…is still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Mark’s fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mind— shifts. Just a little.

He finally exhales.

“…No.”

Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesn’t take it back.

The airport doesn’t rush him. It should. People move around him in currents—rolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragments—but none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like he’s watching everything through glass. It’s not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that — feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesn’t 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 him—the wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.

There’s 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 couldn’t leave that part of himself behind.

You’re not really running, he thinks distantly. You just… changed locations.

The thought sits uncomfortably because it’s true and maybe that’s why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadn’t meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than they’ve been in weeks, but there’s something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasn’t exactly found it yet and that’s when he sees you.

He sees you even before he realizes he’s looking. You’re 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 focus—adjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. There’s something about the way you exist in that space that feels… untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. You’re sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, contained—camera 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. You’re talking—softly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesn’t 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 doesn’t fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesn’t realize how long he’s 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 unfriendly—just… 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 blinks—

Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. There’s 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, it’s 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 don’t know each other. Then you straighten.

“…Can I help you?” you ask.

Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like he’s just remembered how to exist in his own body. “Yeah,” he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. “I—uh…” He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that he’s here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.

What are you doing? You don’t 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 there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—not impatient, not dismissive, just… waiting—that makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himself—

“Can I stay with you Angel?” he asks.

The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they don’t just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesn’t just change—it stills.

“…Excuse you?”

There’s disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick again—this time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.

“You’re serious?”

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 chest—tight, stubborn—doesn’t let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. “…You know there are hotels, right?” Your tone isn’t harsh; it’s logical. Grounded because now this isn’t 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 people’s 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. “I know,” he says quietly.

I don’t want to be alone.

The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesn’t say all of it. Your brows knit together. “Then why—”

“I just don’t want to be alone.”

It comes out softer than everything else he’s said so far. Less guarded and for a moment— he hates that he said it because it’s too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldn’t even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasn’t the answer you expected. There’s 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. “…That doesn’t make this any less weird, you know.” Fair.

Completely fair.

Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he admits. “I figured.” Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze moves—his face, his posture, the way he’s standing like he’s unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.

Real.

He didn’t just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, “What if I’m a serial killer?” you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Then I guess that’s how I was meant to die.” You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if he’s serious. If he’s joking, if he’s just reckless. “…You’re serious,” 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.

“I am.”

Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. “You’re either really smart… or just really, really stupid.” A faint smile pulls at his mouth, “Yeah,” he says. “I get that a lot.” There’s another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isn’t his anymore.

It’s 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 didn’t just say it—he meant it. This is not normal.

You don’t do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!

You don’t bring strangers home??!?!

And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasn’t moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way he’s standing—not imposing, not pushy, just… waiting. On the way, there’s something tired in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the rest of him, the way he didn’t argue when you questioned him. Didn’t try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel… real.

You’re insane.

The thought hits you clearly.

There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?

“…Five days,” you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. “Five days,” you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. “That’s it.” There’s a beat, then his shoulders drop—just slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.

“Okay,” 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. “…I should probably get my other bag,” he mutters. You blink. “You have another one?”

“…Yeah.”

There’s a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. “Of course you do.” You can’t 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.

You’ve 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 don’t 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 hasn’t decided anything yet but is already changing.

_

The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. It’s 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 in—first 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 couldn’t 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 he’s trying to, but because there’s finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. There’s a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesn’t interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesn’t. 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 Mark’s chest tighten because normal hasn’t 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 here—quieter, 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 doesn’t 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 don’t say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. “Wait,” he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.

“I’ve got it.”

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 driver’s side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. “How much was it?” The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properly—two hands, respectful, like it’s something that matters.

“Thank you,” he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightly—then smiles. “Welcome,” he says warmly. “Have a good evening.” Mark nods again. “You too.” There’s a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you briefly—

“You and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.”

Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you haven’t 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 doesn’t 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-on—placing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. “Thanks,” you say quietly. He glances at you, “Yeah.”

Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you don’t move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. He’s strange, that part hasn’t 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. “Come on,” 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 hasn’t earned but is being let into anyway.

You’re really doing this.

You don’t reach for keys. You don’t hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesn’t 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. “Oh, you’re back.” Your posture shifts and softens.

You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. “Let me see you, baby,” she murmurs, turning your face slightly. “You’ve gotten thinner.” “I haven’t,” you say, but there’s a small laugh in your voice. “You have,” she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. “Working too much again?” Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you don’t pull away. “The trip was fine,” you say. “Work was good.” “Mm,” she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. It’s quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him in—the luggage, the way he’s standing, the space between you—and something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.

A look passes.

Quiet.

Knowing, you straighten slightly. “This is Mark.” He nods. “Hello.” She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. “Take care of her,” she says lightly. Mark blinks, “…I’ll try.” You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. “Rest,” she adds. “Both of you.”

And then she’s gone.

The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time it’s not empty. It’s full. Mark steps in properly now, and that’s 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 tall—higher than he expected—and filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, there’s you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someone’s shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parents—your father’s arm around you, your mother’s smile softer but just as warm. Another frame—two 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?

There’s another—an older woman. The same one who just left. You’re holding her face the same way she held yours. Mark’s chest tightens slightly, he doesn’t 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 wouldn’t she?

Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t understand why it’s there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that don’t exist.

What if you’re not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?

His jaw tightens slightly.

Then— “You can leave your bags there for now.” Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. You’ve 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 it’s waiting for instructions he hasn’t decided on yet. The house feels… still, but not empty. There’s a softness to the quiet here, something that doesn’t press on him, doesn’t 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 didn’t require adjustment. Like you’ve done this a hundred times—come home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like he’s trying to understand something he hasn’t 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-in—like citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he can’t quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,

Don’t get comfortable.

The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesn’t stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feel…unnecessary. “You can sit,” 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.

“Yeah,” he answers, even though you didn’t ask a question.

He doesn’t 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 they’re remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he’s aware that he’s stepping into something that isn’t his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, it’s something else entirely. Books line the walls—not 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. There’s a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to you—equipment, 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 scattered—some with full sentences, some with single words that don’t make sense on their own.

He steps closer.

Doesn’t touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.

Shoot before sunset — plating!!

There’s a small underline under the last word.

Urgent.

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. It’s… endearing, without trying to be.

You’re busy.

The thought comes easily,

You have a life.

It shouldn’t matter but for some reason, it does.

“Water?”

Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, you’re 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. “Thanks.” Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but it’s enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. “Kitchen’s this way,” you say, like he didn’t 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 don’t look at him immediately but you’re aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. It’s strange. You don’t 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 he’s just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like he’s trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now you’re curious too. “…So,” you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause.

Not awkward. Just measured. “You always do this?” you ask. “Ask random people to let you stay with them?” A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “First time.” You narrow your eyes a little, “Convenient.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah.”

There’s something about the way he doesn’t defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just… agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. “…You’re really not going to explain yourself, are you?” 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 doesn’t, not fully. “I just needed to leave for a bit,” he says instead. It’s not a lie… but it’s not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, “From what?” 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,“…Work.” You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell that’s as far as he’s 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 he’s the one intruding.“…Oh,” Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.

Unimpressed.

Then walks past him like he doesn’t exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. “What’s his name?” he asks. You glance over your shoulder, “Biscuit.”

“…Biscuit?”

You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. “He answers to it.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.

His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadn’t noticed before. “…He does that,” you say, like it explains everything. “He wasn’t there a second ago.”

“He was. You just didn’t notice.”

Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like it’s 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 he’s claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.

“…That’s a strong name.”

You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. “Strong?" He shrugs, deadpan, “He looks like he runs things.” You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, “He does.” “He’s judging you, by the way.” Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.

“…I can tell.”

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. You’re closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you weren’t 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 he’s still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldn’t have brought into your home, and yet—he doesn’t feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.

“…You hungry?” you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter—

“…I can try cooking.”

You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, “…Try?” He hesitates, “…I mean—” You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. “Sit down.” There’s 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 he’s 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 this— about you in your space, feels like something he didn’t 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 don’t 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 place— your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesn’t 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 hasn’t let himself think about yet. He didn’t just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesn’t 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 staying—soft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like it’s moving differently.

It's not what wakes you, not at first.

What wakes you is not the rain. It’s 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 doesn’t catch up. It’s just noise and movement—You don’t even realize you’re 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.

You’re 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 it’s not what you expected. There’s 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, he’s 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 don’t 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. He’s wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like it’s the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like he’s accepted his fate. There’s a slight panic in his posture, but he’s trying—very visibly—to stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like it’s about to file a complaint, “don’t move,” 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.

He’s still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking… guilty. “…Hi Angel,” he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. “…What happened?”

There’s 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. “I was trying to make eggs.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, “…Those are eggs?” “They were,” he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you try—you really try—not to laugh because he's already panicking, “I just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.” You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. “…You declared war on breakfast.” A breath escapes him—half a laugh, half defeat. “I thought—” he continues, gesturing vaguely, “—how hard can it be? It’s eggs. People make eggs all the time.” “And yet,” you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, “you’ve managed to reinvent them.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. “They stuck,” he says, “And then I tried to unstick them. And then they… got worse. I didn’t think it would go like this,” he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly now—burnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are… unrecognizable. They’ve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.

Something… experimental.

“…Did you use oil?” There’s another pause. Smaller this time, “…I thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?” That’s it. That’s the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it—sharp 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 it’s 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 didn’t know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. “Okay,” you say, voice lighter now, easier. “Step aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.”

He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesn’t 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 changes—warm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just… there. “…I was trying to say thank you,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. “You did,” you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, “This is very memorable.”

He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, he’s 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, it’s not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each other’s 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 he’s 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 he’s judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.

Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. “…Does he always look like that?” You follow his gaze, “That’s his face.” “…He looks like he has opinions.” “He does. They’re just not for you.” Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like he’s trying to understand the rules.

Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, “…I’ve been dismissed.” You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. “So,” you say, glancing at him, “you cook often?” He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, “God, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.” You hum, “Good call.”

Then you blink up at him, confused, “members?” 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, “ colleagues.” You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because there’s nothing to say but because… there’s no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesn’t feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like he’s deciding something, “…You laugh like that often?”

You pause mid-bite, “…Like what?” “Like that, Angel,” he says simply. “Earlier.” You don’t answer immediately because the honest answer is—No. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, “Depends.”

“On what?”

You glance at him, “…On who I’m with.” There’s 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 doesn’t. Instead, “…I almost set your house on fire.” You snort, “And yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.” “Temporarily banned,” he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggs—something settles.

Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to say— 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 worse—someone 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 he’s 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 don’t notice it at first. You’re moving through your space the way you always do—barefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.

It’s 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 wouldn’t—

You don’t knock, you don’t 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 don’t say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirts—neatly, carefully, like he’s 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 it— 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 isn’t.

Your voice comes out before you can stop it, “…What are you doing?” 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 second—just a second—he looks… confused.

Like you’re the one who’s out of place here.

“I’m packing,” he says, slowly. Carefully, like he’s choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.

Of course.

“Why?” you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesn’t make sense. “You said five days, Angel.” 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. “…So you’re just leaving?” you ask. Mark frowns slightly, “I mean… yeah?” But it doesn’t sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesn’t sound like you, “Wow.” He straightens a little, confusion deepening. “What?”

“You couldn’t wait, huh?”

Now he’s really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, “Wait for what?” You don’t answer immediately because suddenly everything feels… too close to the surface. Too raw. “For the five days to be over,” you say instead, quieter now. “Or did you just hate being here that much?”

The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Mark’s expression changes, not to anger but something else...“What?” You laugh again—but this time it breaks halfway through. “I mean, it makes sense,” you continue, words coming faster now, messier. “ 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 rude—”

“That’s not—”

“But you don’t have to pretend anymore,” you cut in, your voice tight. “Five days are up. You can go.” Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. “No Angel, that’s not what this is,” he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.

You shake your head, already stepping back, “It’s fine, Mark. Really. You don’t have to explain—” He moves before you can finish. It’s instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wrist—not tight, not rough—but firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.

You freeze.

And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, “Stop.”

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. He’s not annoyed, he’s not distant. He’s not relieved to be leaving. He’s… frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.

His hands still slightly.

“I didn’t want to overstay,” he says quietly. “Or make you uncomfortable.” Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, “so you were just… planning to disappear?”

That word makes him flinch slightly.

“No.”

A beat passes. Then more honestly, “I just didn’t know how long I was allowed to exist here.”

Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, “I didn’t mean it like a countdown.” That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. “I wasn’t counting down the days,” he says, softer now. “I was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.”

You blink.

“…What?”

You stare at him again. There’s a beat. Then another. “You took my documents,” he adds, almost awkwardly now. “Remember? As a condition?”

Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Then—despite everything—a small, disbelieving sound escapes you, “you were packing… because you didn’t know how to ask for your passport back?”

Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.” “It is stupid,” you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.

He huffs a quiet laugh, “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to overstep.” Something in your chest shifts again.

“You could’ve just asked,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. “But you gave me a timeline. I thought… pushing past that would be.” You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had to— because he was trying to respect you—It does something to you.

Something you don’t have a name for yet. “So you were just going to leave?” you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, “I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”

That—

That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,

“Do you want to leave?”

The question is barely above a whisper. Mark looks at you and for the first time since you met him he doesn’t dodge it, “No.” The word is simple. Honest and it changes everything. Your breath catches. “Then why are you packing?” you ask, softer now. He lets out a quiet breath, “because I didn’t know if I was allowed to stay.” Without thinking, you close the distance completely. Your arms wrap around him. It’s not graceful. Not planned but it’s real. Mark freezes. Completely. For half a second. Maybe less. Then, slowly, carefully—he 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. Just…there. Grounding.

“I don’t hate being here,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair. Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. “I know,” you whisper. Even though, five minutes ago— You didn’t. He exhales softly and you feel it. Warm.

Real.

“I just didn’t want to assume,” he adds. You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. “Stay,” you say, softer now. “Not because of the five days. Not because you think you have to.”

A pause.

Your voice drops,“but because you want to.” Something in his expression shifts. Deepens. “Okay,” 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 truth— Something else has settled in its place. Not just comfort or familiarity, something heavier. Warmer. More dangerous because now it’s not about five days anymore. It’s about choosing to stay and neither of you are ready to admit what that really means…but you both feel it. After that, things don’t become easier. They become quieter, more loaded. When night comes again the following week, it doesn’t come empty, it doesn’t feel like the first night anymore. You notice it the moment you step out of your car. The house looks the same but it doesn’t feel the same. There’s 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 it’s nothing. That this is normal. That he’s 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. He’s standing there like he’s been waiting and beside him sits Biscuit like he’s been listening for you as well. You just stand there because he’s— 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 he’s started to fit into the space instead of just occupying it.His eyes land on you and everything else— stops because you see it. The shift. The way his gaze catches, the way it lingers. You hadn’t 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 isn’t. “Hi, Angel.” He says almost breathlessly and it comes out quieter than he probably intended.Your steps slow because something about the way he’s looking at you—it 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 feels—seen. Too seen, almost like you are the only thing he can't help focus on.

“Hi,” 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. Tonight’s dinner doesn’t feel like dinner, it feels like something neither of you agreed to call it what it actually was. The candles aren’t too bright. The house holds warmth in a way that feels intentional now—like it’s aware of the two of you sitting side by side instead of across from each other.

You notice everything.

The way he adjusted the cutlery—slightly uneven, like he wasn’t sure what the right way was but wanted it to look like he tried. The way the napkins are folded—not 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 didn’t arrive in paper bags thirty or so minutes ago. You hoped he wasn't waiting for you long. Your brows lift slightly teasing, “You didn’t cook this.” “I learned my lesson,” he says quickly. You laugh under your breath, stepping closer, your fingers brushing the edge of the table, “but you set it up like this?” He shrugs, suddenly a little unsure,“…Is that weird?” You look at the chairs set side by side. Close and your chest tightens slightly. “No,” you say softly. “It’s not weird.” It’s something else, something you don’t 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 doesn’t rush after that. It unfolds. Slowly. You glance at him. He’s pretending to be focused on his food but he isn’t. His posture gives him away—slightly too aware, slightly too still. You take a bite first just to break it. “Okay,” you say after a moment, thoughtful. “This is actually good.” He exhales, not dramatically but enough for you to notice that this dinner is important to him.

“Good,” he mutters. “I was worried you’d say it tastes like the eggs.” You smile into your glass of wine, lifting it slightly, “I would’ve been honest.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

You both laugh at that and there’s a quiet rhythm to the conversation. It doesn’t rush, it doesn’t try to fill every space. It moves the way the rain does—steady, 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 don’t 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.

“…You’re busy,” he says, not as a question. You tilt your head slightly, “Sometimes.” He nods, like he expected that. Silence stretches again. Not empty, just… waiting.You tap your fingers lightly against the glass, thinking and then, “You know,” you say casually, almost like it just crossed your mind, “this is the part people don’t see.”

He looks at you, "…This?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you. The table. The quiet. “The in-between,” you explain. “Everyone thinks it’s just filming, posting, smiling. But it’s mostly this. Planning. Thinking. Editing. Redoing things that already took hours.” He listens, really listens. Not interrupting, not rushing you along. You glance at him, then away again. “I don’t like being on camera,” you add, softer now. “Not really.” He frowns slightly, “but you still do it.” “Parts of it,” you correct. “Hands. Voice. Angles. Enough to tell the story without…” You trail off, shrugging lightly. “…being in it.” He leans back slightly, studying you in a way that feels different now. “ So you wouldn't be on camera at all?” he says. You blink at him. It’s not a question and it’s not said lightly. It’s… observed. Your lips part slightly, “yeah, maybe…it depends.” 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 don’t move immediately. Neither does he. Biscuit has claimed the space near your feet, curled into himself like this is his version of approval. “You didn’t have to do all this,” 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. “I wanted to,” he says simply and there’s 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 ask…but neither of you can ignore anymore.

The first thing you noticed wasn’t 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 he’d been holding his breath outside. Then, “Angel, awake from your nap?”

“Hey.”

You looked up from the couch, laptop balanced on your knees.

“Yeah, 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 that—that made you pause. “You went shopping?” you ask, sitting up slightly. “Yeah.” Mark glanced over his shoulder, “ we were running out of things.”

We

We as in us. We, as in we are a unit. As if…

We are dating…?

“That doesn’t mean—”

“You were out of the granola you like to plate your favorite banana yoghurt bowl,” 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 then— 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. “You remembered?” you asked, quieter now. Mark froze for just a second. Then shrugged, casual—but not really, “You can't exactly function in the afternoon without it.”

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 didn’t think it was a big deal. Except—it was because he hadn’t even been trying to remember.

He just… did.

Somewhere along the way, your preferences matter. More than they should. “You didn’t have to,” you said softly, ignoring the fluttering waking happening in the depths of your chest. Mark glanced at you then—really looked at you.

“I know.”

And that was the problem.

Morning settles into late morning without you noticing. It always does when you’re working. The house shifts around you quietly—the kind of quiet that isn’t 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. You’re already halfway into your workflow. Laptop open, camera set. Tripod adjusted just slightly off-center because you hate perfect symmetry—it 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.

“…and then you let it simmer—not too long, just until it thickens slightly…”

Your voice is calm. Measured. Familiar. You don’t look at the camera, you never do. Your hands move instead—confident, precise, comfortable in a way that makes it clear this is your space. Your rhythm. Behind you, Mark leans lightly against the doorway. He’s been there longer than you realize. He hadn’t meant to stop, he was just passing by but then he heard your voice and now, he can’t move because this version of you is…different. Not louder, not bigger. Just…fully in yourself. He notices everything. The way your fingers move without hesitation, the way you tilt your head slightly when you’re thinking, like you’re listening to something only you can hear, the way your voice softens at certain points—not for an audience, but because it feels right. He doesn’t understand what you’re making but he understands you. Or at least, he feels like he’s 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 hadn’t realized he was there. He looks… comfortable. Grey sweatpants. A loose black t-shirt—one 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. There’s something unfair about it, the way he stands there like he belongs. “You’ve been there long?” you ask, your voice softer now, the filming tone slipping away naturally. He straightens slightly, “not really.” 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, “I didn’t know you talk like that when you work.”You pause, “like what?” “Calm,” he says. “Different.” You turn halfway, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms loosely folded, “different how?” He shrugs, pushing himself off the doorframe, stepping a little closer—but not too close. “Like you’re not trying,” he says. “You just… are.” that lands. You don’t show it immediately but it does. “That’s kind of the point,” you reply after a moment, quieter now. He nods, like that makes sense, like it fits into whatever he’s already building in his mind about you and then, there's a knock on your front door. Sharp. Familiar. You don’t even think about it.“The door's open!” 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. “Finally,” your best friend’s voice carries in before you even see him, dramatic as always. “Do you know how long I’ve been—”

He stops. Mid-step and mid-sentence. Mid-everything. The silence that follows is immediate and strange. You don’t look up right away because Eli is always dramatic like that. You’re used to his pauses—they usually mean he’s about to say something ridiculous and stupid but this one stretches too long. “What?” you ask, still focused on your screen. No response. You glance up and that’s when you see it. He’s not looking at you. He’s staring past you at Mark. Completely still, like his brain is buffering.

“No,” he says slowly. You blink, “no what?” He doesn’t answer, he only takes a step forward. Then another, like he’s being pulled. “…No way,” he breathes, quieter now, like he doesn’t trust the sound of his own voice. You follow his gaze to Mark. Who has gone very still. There’s a shift in him. Subtle but there. His shoulders straighten just slightly. His expression closes off—not completely, but enough that you can feel the difference without understanding it. “What is happening?” 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. It’s not confusion. It’s disbelief. “Wait,” he says, pointing between you and Mark. “Wait—wait, wait.” You frown slightly, “you’re not making sense.” “When you told me—” he starts, pacing once, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically rearrange his thoughts, “—when you told me you had a stranger in your house…” You nod slowly, “…yes.” “I thought you meant, like, a stranger!!!” he says. You blink, “he is a stranger!!” “No,” he says, pointing again, more aggressively this time. “That is not just a stranger.”

You glance at Mark again. He exhales quietly.”Hi,” he says, almost apologetically because he already knows where this conversation is about to go. Your best friend lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scream, “you said his name was Mark,” he continues, turning back to you, voice rising slightly. “You said ‘Mark’ like it was just—just Mark—not THE MARK!?!?”

Your brows knit together, “The what Mark?” 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, “you can't be serious!!” You stare back. “Am I not serious enough?” He turns slowly, ignoring your existence completely and back to Mark. Back to you. Then, “you know those groups Igogo and I are always talking about?” he asks carefully.

You nod, “yeah…”

“The one I keep sending you songs from. Videos. The ones you never watch properly.” You shrug slightly, “I listen sometimes.” “You don’t look,” he corrects.

“…I don’t need to. Ears are meant to listen.”

He inhales sharply with closed eyes before he points at Mark again. “That’s him. At least one of the men behind some of the songs.” Silence. Real silence this time, the kind that stretches, settles and waits. You look at Mark, really look at him. Not the way you’ve been looking at him, not the way you look at someone you’re getting to know but like you’re trying to place something. Something familiar that never mattered enough before.

“…Oh.”

It comes out softer than expected. Not dramatic, not shocked. Just… realization. Your best friend stares at you like you’ve just committed a crime. “That’s it?” he demands. “That’s all you have?” You glance at him then back at Mark, “should I scream?” “Yes!” he says immediately. “No,” Mark says at the same time. You pause. Then, a small smile pulls at your lips. “You’re famous, Mr Celebrity?” It’s not a question, it’s not admiration. It’s just… a statement. Mark nods slightly, “…something like that.”

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. “I need to call her,” he mutters, already pulling out his phone. “I need to call Igogo right now—she’s not going to believe this.”You sigh softly, rubbing your temple, “don’t start.” “It’s too late,” he says, already dialing. “It’s already started, I love you but she'll give me the enthusiasm I need right now. You are a kpop buzzkill” Mark watches the entire thing unfold and for the first time since the reveal—he 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 she’s just sprinted through half the city. “I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!” she exclaims the second the door opens. “I CAN'T BELIEVE MARK LEE IS IN YOUR—” 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 just— freezes. “Hi,” 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 it’s breaking news, after she circled Mark twice like she’s verifying his existence now, you’re seated together. All four of you.The table is fuller than usual. There’s the dish you filmed earlier—rich, 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 too—small plates you'd had for dinner the previous night. Roasted vegetables tossed lightly in oil and herbs. A chilled fresh pasta you’d 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 film…he 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 again—like earlier, like it’s becoming something he does without thinking. You don’t move away and you don’t acknowledge it either but Igogo sees it, Eli sees it and the silent conversation that passes between them is loud enough to feel.

“So,” Igogo starts, slowly, dragging the word like she’s savoring it, “when you said ‘Mark’…” You close your eyes briefly, “don’t.”

“…you meant him.”

“I didn’t know I meant him.” Eli snorts, “that’s worse.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh beside you. “In my defense,” you add, picking at your food, “he didn’t exactly introduce himself with a résumé.”

“I said my name,” he says.

“You said your name like it was normal.”

“It is normal!!”

Igogo leans forward, “not that name.” 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 you— makes it easier to loosen the edges of himself. “…so you just left?” Eli asks at some point, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on him and there it is. That shift. Subtle but real. Mark’s fingers pause against his glass, “I’m on a break.”

Igogo tilts her head. “That sounds temporary."

“It is.”

“Do you want it to be?”

Silence. It doesn’t stretch awkwardly, it settles. Heavy. Mark exhales quietly, “I don’t know.”And that— that lands because it’s honest. Too honest. You glance at him, really glance and for a moment— 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 isn’t physical, looking for something he hasn’t named yet. Lunch lingers. No one rushes, no one checks the time. It just…exists until plates are empty and the conversation slows naturally. “I’ll wash up.” Mark says it easily, already standing, gathering plates before you can protest.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

He meets your eyes briefly. Soft and certain. “I want to,” and something about the way he says it— makes your chest tighten.The kitchen fills with the sound of running water. Low, steady and familiar. You don’t stay not because you don’t want to but because Elii is already grabbing the wine bottle and Igogo is already trailing behind him like she’s been waiting for this moment all afternoon. “Come on,” she says, dragging you gently by the wrist. “We need to talk.” 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.

“He’s washing dishes.”

“Yes.”

“Like this is his house.”

You sigh, “he’s helping.” Eli snorts, “he’s settling.” Igogo hums in agreement, “very quickly.” You shoot them both a look, “can we not?” “No,” they say in unison. A moment passes, then, Igogo leans closer more mischievous now, lowering her voice for the drama of it all, “so.” You already hate the tone, “what?” She tilts her head toward the kitchen, “he hasn’t stopped looking at you. Have you guys had sex already?” Your grip tightens slightly around the glass, “ seriously? That’s what—” “and you haven’t stopped pretending you don’t notice, “ Eli raises his glass to his lips taking a cheeky sip before lifting it up in the air.

“To mutual delusion.”

You glare, “I’m not delusional.” “No,” Igogo agrees lightly. “You’re just letting a very attractive, very famous man live in your house and acting like that means nothing.” “It doesn’t mean nothing,” you snap quietly. They both pause because— that wasn’t what you meant to say. In the kitchen—Mark rinses a plate slowly but his focus isn’t on the dishes. It drifts to the sound of your voice. Soft. Lower now and private. He can’t 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,“…if you two end up together—”

“We’re not—”

“—I need tickets.”

You stare at her, “…you’re unbelievable.” “I’m practical,” she corrects. Eli nods, “very, ticket prices are outrageous these days.” 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 permission— something shifts inside you. Not loud, not dramatic but enough because now, it’s not just curiosity anymore and across the room, Mark feels it too.

He just doesn’t 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 don’t 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. He’s standing there—one hand resting lightly against the back of your chair, the other still holding the edge of the desk.

“…You’ve improved,” you murmur.

“I’ve been practicing,” he replies quietly. There’s something softer about him now, something lighter. Like the building tension hasn’t disappeared—but it’s been… redirected. You reach for a piece without thinking.

“…Thanks.”

He doesn’t move, not right away. Instead, his gaze drifts to your screen, “What are you working on?” You tilt the monitor slightly toward him,“my next video,” you say. “Planning, editing… fixing things I’ll probably change again tomorrow. It’s complicated.”

A pause.

Then, unexpectedly, “I get that,” he says slowly. You look at him more carefully now. He continues, quieter, “Music used to feel simple for me. Now it doesn’t.” 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 doesn’t 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 you’re concentrating, the faint crease between your brows and something in his chest tightens. “You should rest later,” he says quietly. You blink, “What?” “You’ve been at this for a while,” he adds, softer now. You swallow.

“Okay I will.”

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 through…he 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 it’s too much...he pulls back immediately, “I—” .You don’t respond. You can’t 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, “I didn’t mean—” 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 because—

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 glow—soft 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 didn’t turn, didn’t 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 didn’t 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 it’s you who breaks it.

“Pizza?”

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, “Yeah.”

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 you—lights 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.

“…Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly.

You glance at him, “Leaving what?”

“Everything,” he says.

His voice is quieter now, more honest. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” You don’t interrupt. You let him speak because something about this feels important. “I don’t know if I fit where I am anymore,” he continues. “Or if I ever did.” 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, “maybe you’re not supposed to stay there forever.” He looks at you. Like that possibility terrifies him. “What if I regret it?” You shrug lightly, “then at least it was still your choice.” You both stay silent again until he speaks up again after a sip of his coke, “I think I might leave.”

You don’t 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.

“I don’t know how they’ll take it.”

A pause.

Then, softer, "I'm terrified to find out who I am outside of it.” 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, “You don’t have to know all of it right now.” 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 then—rain. 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 doesn’t stop when you reach the stairwell. It follows you in—soft at first, then louder, drumming against the rooftop door you just pushed open, as if it refuses to let the moment end.

You’re laughing.

Not gracefully. Not softly. You’re laughing in broken pieces, breathless, shoulders shaking, fingers still curled around the cardboard pizza box that is now slightly ruined from the rain and Mark—he’s behind you, one hand hovering near your back like he doesn’t trust the wet steps, like he doesn’t trust himself not to reach for you. His other hand is still holding onto both your drinks. “Careful—” he says, but he’s laughing too, the words barely forming, dissolving into quiet disbelief. “You’re the one who said rooftop,” you shoot back, glancing over your shoulder. Your sweater is soaked through. It clings and it’s 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 shouldn’t 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 you’ve lost all sense of dignity. “Oh my God,” you breathe, pointing weakly, “he’s judging us.” Mark huffs a laugh under his breath. “He should. We look insane.”

“You look worse.”

“That’s offensive.”

“It’s honest.” That earns a real laugh from him—low, easy, the kind that makes your chest tighten without permission and then it fades naturally because now you’re both standing there.

Close. Too close.

“I—uh…” 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 he’s looking at you. “I should get towels,” you say quickly, stepping past him but he moves at the same time.

You almost collide.

For a second—just a second—you’re chest to chest, breath to breath, the space between you disappearing so fast it feels like a mistake. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Neither of you move. Mark recovers first. He clears his throat, dragging a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back—water droplets flicking onto the floor, “I’ll grab them,” he says. You nod, grateful for the distance but it doesn’t last because when he comes back, he doesn’t hand you the towel. He steps closer.

Again.

“Hold still,” he says, softer this time and you do. You don’t even question it. He lifts the towel to your head, hesitates—just briefly—before pressing it gently against your hair. His touch is careful, almost… reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he’s too rough.You laugh under your breath. “You don’t have to be that gentle. I’m not glass.” “I know,” he says quietly but still, he doesn’t 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 you’re 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 it’s there.Your laughter fades completely now, your breath catches—just slightly—as his hand pauses against one side of your face and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of everything.

The quiet. The rain. Him.

“You’re freezing,” he says but his voice is different now. Lower. Closer. You swallow, “So are you.” And that’s when you notice it, really notice it. His shirt. Clinging and soaked through, the fabric outlining everything it shouldn’t be outlining so clearly.Your gaze flickers, just for a second but he catches it.

Of course he does.

“Oh—right,” he mutters, almost to himself and then, he pulls the shirt over his head. It’s not dramatic.It’s 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.“Better,” he says, running the towel through his own hair now with his eyes still on you. Not casually and definitely not lightly. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. Something important. You shouldn’t step closer but you do anyway. “Let me,” you say softly, reaching for the towel in his hands. He lets you take it but he doesn’t step back. Your fingers brush his bare shoulder as you start drying his hair, mimicking what he did for you. Except you’re not as careful.You’re nervous.Your hands aren’t steady and when the towel slips slightly, your fingers graze the back of his neck, he inhales sharply.

You freeze.

“I’m sorry—”

“No,” 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 you’ve been circling for days. Almost touches, almost glances, almost something more and now there’s no space left for almost. “Mark…” you whisper, you don’t even know what you’re going to say. You don’t get the chance because he closes the distance. The first kiss isn’t rushed, it's not overwhelming. It’s…careful. Tentative. Like he’s asking a question and you answer immediately. Your palms rest carefully on his chest, grounding yourself as the kiss deepens—not fast, not messy, but certain. His hand finds your waist. Warm and steady, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might step back. You don’t. 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.“We shouldn’t—” you start but your voice is weak, reminding him how cruel the world he lives in is to whatever is starting between you. Unconvincing.“Fuck,” he curses yet he doesn’t move away, telling you that he couldn't give two shits about it when you kissed him back “I know.”

Silence. One heartbeat. Two. Then, he kisses you again. This time, it's not careful, it’s 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. He’s 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 can’t stop. Doesn’t want to and he’ll be damned if he has to, still, he can't help asking.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin. He doesn’t sound like he wants you to.

Please don't.

You don’t. Your fingers weakly slide into his wet hair instead and that’s all the answer he needs.The tension that’s 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 you’re moving backwards. Towards the room that's undeniably yours.Your laughter comes back for a second. Breathless. Disbelieving. “This is—this is insane,” you whisper. “I know,” he says but he’s smiling against your lips. The door hits softly behind you. You don’t 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.“Is this okay?” he asks and this time, he means it. You nod because you don’t trust your voice to not betray your desperation and then, he pulls you back in. Slower this time. Deeper, like he’s savoring it now. Not rushing, not questioning. Just… feeling and the world completely disappears.

The brush of Mark's lips was soft…too 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 more…needed 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 desperate…too 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.

“You're so fucking gorgeous Angel.” He whispers on your lips as he held on your jaw. He pushes you back on the bed, climbing over you, “my gorgeous gorgeous baby.” 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. “I want you.” 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. “No rush.” 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.

“Fuck.”

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, “Do we have protection?” 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.

“Ready?”

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, “I like you a lot Angel.” 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. “I like you too, Mr Celebrity.” 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, “We have to pee.”

Oh my goodness!?! There's that ‘we’ again?!

“Can you turn around?”

“Baby,” 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.

“A good ten minute soak, a kiss to your forehead and a good night's sleep.”

“You're doing too much.”

Mark simply shakes his head while kneeling besides you outside the tub, “this is the bare minimum Angel.” All you do is laugh. Mark places a kiss on your forehead again, “I'll come back for you,” 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 doesn’t wake the world but brushes against it gently, like it’s asking permission first. Mark is awake before it fully settles. He doesn’t move at first, doesn’t know exactly when he woke up—only that at some point in the quiet, his eyes open, and he doesn’t move. For a moment—just a moment—he 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 you’ve 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 you’re dreaming something soft. For a long moment, he doesn’t breathe properly because this—this right here—is the kind of peace he didn’t 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 you’re deeply asleep. The way your lips part slightly, relaxed in a way he’s never seen on you when you’re awake. No guardedness. No quick wit. No careful distance. Just…you. Something in his chest tightens. Not painfully but enough to make him swallow because there’s something painfully tender about it.

Something that makes his chest ache.

Carefully—so carefully he almost doesn’t move at all—he 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. Mark’s breath catches.

“You’re mine,” he whispers under his breath, like he’s reassuring himself more than anything. He lets his fingers trail down, just once, along your temple—soft, reverent. “How are you this pretty?” Then, before he can think too much about it, he leans down and presses a quiet kiss to your forehead. It’s instinctive, gentle. Almost shy and it lingers. For a second too long. When he pulls back, his expression shifts— something deeper settling in his eyes. Something heavier because this isn’t 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. It’s a slow process—adjusting 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 don’t wake. Instead, you curl into the space he leaves behind, instinctively seeking warmth.

His chest tightens.

“So fucking pretty Angel,” 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 he’s trying to memorize this version of you.

Soft, unaware and his.

His phone vibrates. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and unwelcome. Mark’s jaw tightens immediately. He doesn’t 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 he’s ignored for days.

His manager. There’s 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 it’s easier that way. Easier to stay here, easier to pretend the outside world isn’t waiting for him, demanding things from him or expecting answers he’s 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. Choosing…this. 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. Mark’s head snaps back down toward it instantly. He doesn’t need to see the name but he does anyway and his jaw threatens to break. He’s 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.

“…I can’t ignore this one,” he murmurs to himself under his breath.

Not today.

Carefully, he looks back at you with soft smitten eyes and doesn’t miss the way your hand instinctively reaches for warmth that’s no longer there. He pauses. Just for a second. He doesn’t put on a shirt. He doesn’t 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 moves—slower, heavier.

Real.

He steps out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him. Only then—the call connects almost immediately, “Yeah.” His voice is low. Rough with sleep but steady. His voice is sharp. Controlled. Frustrated. There’s no greeting on the other end. Just tension. Immediate. “Where have you been?”

Mark closes his eyes briefly. Straight to it. Of course.

Mark exhales quietly, leaning against the wall, one hand running through his hair, “I’ve been busy.” There’s a pause. A dangerous one, “busy ignoring your responsibilities?” Mark’s 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 wasn’t just what everyone else saw him as. His jaw tightens slightly. A few days ago, he would’ve apologized immediately, he would’ve 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.

“I needed time.”

The silence on the other end stretches, “that’s not how this works, Lee.” His jaw tightens slightly, “I know how it works.”

“Then act like it.”

There it is. That tone. Familiar. Pressing. Expecting. Mark straightens slightly. Not defensive, not aggressive but…firmer.

“I said I’d come back,” he replies. It’s quiet again. There’s a shift on the other end. “You don’t get to just disappear, Mark. We have schedules. We have commitments. The comeback—”

“I know.”

He cuts in, but not harshly.Just steady. Measured.

“I know.”

Silence. Then, “then explain to me why you’ve been unreachable.” Mark exhales slowly, looking down at his hands. For a second, his voice almost falters. Almost. Then it steadies again, “because I didn’t want to make a decision I’d regret.”

That lands. He hears it in the pause.

“Decision?”

Mark tilts his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. His chest feels tight but clear. “I’ll be in time for the comeback,” he says finally. “Don’t worry.” Another pause. This one is heavier. “That’s not enough.” Mark closes his eyes briefly, “it’s what I can give you right now.” The words hang between them. Not careless, not impulsive. Deliberate. “You’re risking a lot,” his manager says. Mark lets out a quiet breath. A humorless one. “I know.”

“And for what?”

The question lands. Sharp. Mark doesn’t answer immediately because the answer isn't simple anymore. His gaze shifts toward the closed bedroom door, “I have some decisions to make,” he says instead.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

Silence. Then, “you’re not thinking clearly.” That—that almost makes him laugh, but he doesn’t. “I’ve never thought more clearly,” Mark replies, quieter now. Steadier and he means it because for the first time, he’s not just thinking about expectations. Or schedules, or what he’s supposed to be. He’s thinking about what he wants and somehow even though he had been contemplating it for a while, you’re now at the center of that. On the other end, his manager exhales sharply, “we’ll talk when you’re back.” Mark nods, even though it can’t be seen.

“Yeah.”

The call ends and the silence that follows feels…louder 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 wore—yours, you realized absently. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Hair slightly messy, like he’d 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 wouldn’t 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 asking—toast 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. He’d hovered while you ate, pretending to wipe the already clean counter. He’d carried your camera bag without being asked when you filmed. He’d 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 didn’t quite reach the place you had memorized. Not anymore. You shouldn’t 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.

“I said I’d come back.”

“…because I didn’t want to make a decision I’d regret.”

And then softer, softer in a way that made your chest ache, “I have some decisions to make.”

You hadn’t 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, “Are you… opening a fruit shop?” Your voice came out lighter than you felt. Mark glanced up and for a second—just a second—his face softened fully, “There you are.” There it was, that look. The one that made everything inside you go quiet. He smiled, small, almost shy. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.” Your stomach dropped because you had been. “Just a little busy,” 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.He’d felt it the moment you woke up, in the way you didn’t 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, don’t overthink it. Don’t mess this up.

You were quieter today. More distant and the thought hit him—sharp, sudden—

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.

Maybe…

He set the knife down, “I, uh…” He cleared his throat, wiping his hands on a towel that didn’t need wiping. “About last night—” Your head snapped up. Too fast. Too sharp. Something in your expression flickered—panic? hurt?—and suddenly he becomes very aware that he was stepping into something fragile. Still, he pushed forward because the silence between you felt worse. “It’s okay,” he said, voice careful. “If it didn’t mean—if you don’t want what happened last night to mean anything. I get it. We didn’t…talk about it, and I don’t want you to feel like—”

Oh.

Oh.

The words hit you like cold water. Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

So that’s what this was?

You let out a small, breathless laugh but there was nothing amused about it, “Wow.” Mark freezes. You stepped back slightly, arms wrapping around yourself now. “That’s—” you swallowed, shaking your head. “That’s actually insane.” His brows furrowed. “What?” “You’re leaving,” you said, the words spilling out faster now, emotion cracking through your voice, “and the first thing you think to say is that it meant nothing?” His eyes widened. “What—no, that’s not—” “You think I didn’t hear you?” you cut in, sharper now. Silence. Heavy and immediate. Mark’s expression shifted, realisation hitting him all at once.

Slowly.

“You…heard?” he asked, quieter. Your laugh came out hollow. “Hard not to.” 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. “You’re going back,” you said, voice trembling now despite your effort to steady it. “You’re making plans. You’re deciding your future. And I’m just—what? A stopover? Something that happened while you were figuring things out?”

“That’s not—”

“And now you’re trying to make it easier by pretending it didn’t matter?” Your chest tightened, “Do you know how insulting that is?” He stared at you. For a second. Two, and then three— Nothing made sense. “You think I’m leaving you?” he asked, almost incredulous. “Yes!” you shot back. “Why would you think that?” You laughed again, but this time it broke, “because you said you’re going back!”

“I said I’m going back for work!”

“And what happens after that?"

“I—” he stopped because he didn’t have a clean answer and the hesitation— It hit you like confirmation. Your face fell, “Exactly.” Something inside his chest finally snaps, “Hey—no.” He steps forward quickly. “That’s not what that means.” “Then what does it mean, Mark?” you asked, voice softer now—but somehow that made it worse. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you’re already preparing to leave.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out my life!” he said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once. “I’ve spent years doing what everyone expects of me and for the first time I’m—” he exhaled, frustrated, vulnerable— “I’m trying to decide something for myself.” Your eyes softened slightly but the hurt didn’t disappear, “And where do I fit into that?” you asked quietly. He stops and looks at you, really looks. The answer comes easily. Too easily.

“You’re the only thing that feels certain.”

Silence.

Soft and fragile. Your breath hitched. His shoulders dropped slightly, like the fight had left him all at once, “I wasn’t saying last night didn’t matter,” he said, quieter now. “I was saying…I didn’t want to assume it meant something to you and make things harder.” Your lips parted slightly, “That’s what you meant?”

“Yes.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“Oh.” A beat passes.Then, softer, “Oh.”

You felt stupid. Not in a harsh way. Just… small because everything suddenly made sense. The way he’d been careful, the way he’d been watching you, the way he’d been trying. You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your hands. “I thought…” you trailed off, then shook your head, “I thought you were trying to make it easier to leave.” Mark steps closer. Slowly. Like approaching something delicate, “I don’t want to make anything easier if it means losing you.” Your heart stuttered. You looked up at him and this time, there was no confusion. No hesitation. Just the truth.

Say it.

You’ve been circling it for days. Weeks.

Say it.

“I love you,” he said. Simple but it landed heavy. “I don’t—” he exhaled softly, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t even know when it happened. But it did and now I can’t imagine…not having this.”

You swallowed hard.

“I love you too,” 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 wasn’t like last night.That had been fire. This was—

Home.

Slow. Deep. Intentional. Like both of you were trying to say everything you hadn’t 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, “I’m not leaving you,” he murmured into your hair. Your fingers tightened slightly against him.“Not now,” he continued.

A pause.

Then softer, “Not ever, if I can help it.” Your chest ached but this time, it wasn’t from fear. You pulled back just enough to look at him, “Even when you go back?” He nodded. “I’ll come back too.” A small, shaky smile broke across your face, “You better.” He smiled back, “I will.” Soft and certain, “and if not, I can always fly you out to me.”

And just like that, the tension didn’t disappear. It settled. Turned into something steadier. Something deeper, something that could survive distance because now, it had a name.

The next morning doesn’t feel heavy. It feels…settled. 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 don’t move.

Because he’s there.

On his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair falling messily over his eyes like he lost a fight with sleep and didn’t 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 anyway—curling faintly, like your movement pulled him closer even in his dreams.

A small smile tugs at your lips, "clingy,” you murmur under your breath. His response is immediate. A quiet groan, “I heard that.” Your eyes widen slightly, “You were asleep.” “Was,” he mumbles, voice rough, barely awake. “Then you started talking.” You huff softly, “Well, you shouldn’t eavesdrop on people when you’re unconscious.” That earns a low, sleepy laugh from him, “that's what she said.” 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. “…morning,” he murmurs against your skin. Your breath catches slightly, “…morning.”

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 doesn’t feel like you’re adjusting to each other. It feels like you already have. Biscuit winds between your legs as you open the fridge, “Traitor,” Mark mutters, watching the cat ignore him completely.

“He knows who feeds him.”

“I fed him yesterday.” “You dropped half the food on the floor.” “That was strategic.” The man argues back like a prodigal child. You turn to look at him, “…how?” He shrugs, completely serious, “Bonding experience.”

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 becomes…chaotic. Not because either of you can’t 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 above—and doesn’t move away immediately after. You feel him there.Close. Warm. Your breath stutters slightly, “…Mark.”

“Hm?”

“You’re not grabbing anything anymore.”

A pause.

Then, “I forgot what I needed.” You turn your head slightly. Just enough to meet his eyes. He’s 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 almost…unreal in how normal they are.

You film.

He sits nearby, watching, occasionally offering suggestions that are surprisingly good. You tease him about it, “Since when are you a creative director?” He shrugs,“I have range.” “You have opinions Mr Celebrity.”

“Same thing.”

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 you’re like this. “This is nice,” you murmur. He hums softly in agreement, “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then quieter, “Feels… easy.” Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt, “…yeah.”

Easy and somehow, that feels bigger than anything else. When night rolls in, it feels softer. Quieter. Like the house itself is exhaling.You’re 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. There’s music playing low

A guitar rests next to him on the couch.

You notice it immediately, “…you’re going to play?” He glances up. A little hesitant, “maybe.” Your heart does something strange at that. You shift slightly on the couch, turning toward him more fully, “I didn’t know you brought it with you.” He shrugs, “I didn’t. This is rented. I didn't think I was going to want to play anytime soon. A pause, then quieter, “cause I didn't for a while.”

There’s something there, something heavier but he doesn’t sit in it long. Instead, he adjusts the guitar, fingers brushing the strings lightly. The sound is soft. Tentative. Like he’s testing the space. You pull your legs away expectantly. Mark takes the guitar into his lap. Then, he starts playing. It’s not loud. Not showy. Just…gentle. A melody that feels unfinished, like it’s still finding itself but it’s beautiful. In a quiet, aching way. You don’t interrupt. You don’t move, you just watch him and for the first time, you see it clearly. Not just Mark. Not just the version of him that’s been living in your house but the part of him that’s still searching. Still figuring things out, still deciding who he wants to be. Your chest tightens, “that’s new,” you say softly when he stops. He nods, “Yeah.” “ It sounds really good.”

He hesitates. Then, “thank you.” Honest. Uncertain. You shift closer without thinking. Your shoulder brushes his.“You should keep it,” you say quietly. “It sounds like you.” He glances at you, “you think so?” You nod, “Yeah.” A small pause settles. Then, softer, “Not the version people expect.” That lands. He looks down at the guitar for a second. Then back at you. Something in his expression shifts. Warms.

“Stay?” he asks quietly.

You blink,“I am staying.” He shakes his head slightly, “I mean—like this.” You understand.

“…okay.”

You don’t 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. Just—real. When the song fades, neither of you moves immediately. “Thank you,” he murmurs. You tilt your head slightly, “For what?” He hesitates. Then, “for making this feel like mine again.” Your chest tightens, you don’t answer with words, you just lean further into him, pecking his lips lightly before taking his hand in yours, holding his tight. Like you’re not trying to keep him just letting him know he doesn’t have to leave. Not yet not tonight. Not from this and this time…

He holds on too.

The night settles into the house slowly, like it doesn’t want to disturb what’s already there. The rooms had settled into one of those quiet, lived-in silences that didn’t 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 pressed—hesitant at first, then more certain, like someone relearning a language they once spoke fluently. Your office light is dim—just 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 hasn’t 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 monitor’s glow reflects faintly on his glasses, and for a second, you just watch the way his eyes move—focused, intent, quieter than you’ve 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 it—how easily he had folded himself into your space. Your chair, your desk, your work… your life. Like he’s 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 there’s this. This quiet, this closeness, this choice to stay—until he can’t. 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 hadn’t opened them in days—weeks, 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 didn’t 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 didn’t move—just stood there with your mug warming your hands, letting the moment settle into you like something you’d 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 shoulder—and the moment he saw you, something in his face changed.

Softened.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice quieter than the room. Your lips curved before you could stop them. “Hey.” You stepped in slowly, the oversized sweater slipping just a little off one shoulder as you moved. Bare legs, no socks—he noticed that immediately, even before his eyes consciously tracked it. He always noticed. “Cold?” he asked automatically, gaze dropping for half a second before returning to your face. You shook your head, walking toward him. “I have coffee. That counts.” He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, but his eyes lingered anyway—like he didn’t 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 didn’t 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 fully—knees on either side of his hips, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders for balance. He freezes for half a second, breath catching—barely 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.

“Hi,” you said again, softer now, closer.

His hands instinctively came up—not gripping, not pulling, just settling at your waist like they had learned exactly where to belong. Hi,” 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 once—your 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. “Working?” you asked, even though it was obvious. He let out a quiet breath, glancing briefly past you at the screen. “Trying to.” Your eyes followed his for a second before returning to him. “That bad?” He huffed softly, a small smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.“It’s just… a lot,” he admitted and because you were here, because it was you, he didn’t stop there. “They’ve been waiting for me to respond,” he continued, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “I just… didn’t want to open anything. Because once I do, it would mean I have to actually decide.”

There’s something in the way he says it—not dread, not quite fear, but something heavier. Something that carries weight.

You don’t respond right away.

Instead, your fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of his hoodie trying to sooth him, ground him soft and steady, “decide what?” He looked at you then, really looked and for a moment, all the noise—the emails, the expectations, the pressure—fell somewhere far behind you.

“Everything,” he said simply.

There was no dramatics in it. Just the truth. Your chest tightened slightly, but you didn’t let it show—not in a way that would weigh him down. Instead, you leaned in just a little more, your forehead brushing his lightly. “Okay,” you whispered. “Then don't decide everything.”

His breath caught—just 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. “I think I already know,” he admitted after a moment. “I’m just… scared of what happens after I say it out loud.” You smiled softly, “Then don’t say it out loud yet.” He blinked at you, “What?” “Keep figuring it out,” you said, voice calm, steady. “You don’t have to rush it just because they want you to.”

There it was again. That quiet way you had of making things feel…possible. Mark let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d 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. “How are you not freezing?” You blink. “I’m not.” “You’re not even wearing socks,” he argued back incredulously. “I don’t like socks.” “That’s not true and you know it baby.”

“It’s my house.”

He stares at you like that’s 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. “There,” he said, adjusting it unnecessarily. “Better.” You tilted your head, watching him, “you’re very domestic.” That makes him snort, “I burnt eggs, like, three weeks ago.”

“Growth,” you said lightly.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile there now—real 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.

“Girlfriend privileges include temperature regulation now?” he murmured. You smiled, eyes still closed. “Boyfriend duties,” 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. “Go on,” you whisper. “Work.” He huffs quietly. “You’re not helping.”

“You like it.”

“I do,” He can't help grinning as his hands settle again—one 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 you’re sitting on him like this. You tilt your head, watching the screen from over his shoulder, “What are they saying?” “Everything,” he mutters. “Asking where I am. Why I’m not responding. Schedules. Contracts. Deadlines.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It’s not.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, “Are you scared?” The question is soft but it lands. He stills slightly. His fingers hover over the keyboard, “…Yeah.”

Honest.

You shift a little, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair, “of what?” He exhales slowly, “of making the wrong choice.” Your thumb brushes gently against his skin, “there isn’t one.” “There is,” he says quietly. “There’s always one.” You pull back just enough to look at him, “you’ve spent so long doing what everyone else wanted,” you say. “Maybe the right choice now is just… doing what you want.” His eyes soften, “and what if that costs me everything?” You hold his gaze, “It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” you admit softly. “But I know you’ll regret it if you don’t try.” Silence. The kind that settles deep. He studies your face like he’s 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. “You make it sound easy.” “It’s not,” you whisper. “But it could be worth it.” He swallowed slightly with his hands shifting just enough to pull you closer—closer than before, like he needed to remind himself you were real. “I’m gonna have to go back,” he said quietly after a moment. You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just nodded at him, “I know.” His grip tightened “I don’t want to,” he added, almost under his breath.This time, you pull back—just enough to look at him properly, “I know,” 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. “You’re not choosing between things,” you said softly. “You’re just…adding something new.” His eyes searching yours, “and what if I mess it up?” he asked. You smiled—small, but certain, “Then we fix it.”

We.

The word landed heavier than anything else. Mark exhales slowly, something in him settling—not completely, not permanently, but enough. Enough to keep going, enough to try. He leans in again, and for a moment, the emails don’t matter, the world outside doesn’t exist. There’s just this.

You.

Him.

The quiet. It's slow, like he doesn't know how not to give you time to pull away. You don’t. Your lips meet. Soft and unrushed. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything—just 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 he’s grounding himself in you. When he pulls back, it’s not far. His forehead rests lightly against yours. Then he pulls back slightly, tucking you closer against him. You shifted slightly, settling more comfortably now—your 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 again—typing, pausing, thinking—but this time, there was less hesitation. Less fear because you were still there. Warm. Close.

Real.

And even as his thoughts wandered—back to contracts, to music, to the uncertain shape of everything waiting for him—one thing stayed clear. He didn’t know how everything would turn out. He didn’t know what choosing himself would cost but he knew this, he wasn’t 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 you’re still there, that he’s not doing this alone. The vinyl spins. The night deepens and in the quiet rhythm of keys and breath and closeness —You both hold onto the same fragile, steady thought.

We’ll figure it out.

The airport noise didn’t 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 in—first 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 memory—security, 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 yours—quiet, 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 didn’t 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 walls—structured 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 ease—adjusting a collar, smoothing fabric along his shoulders, stepping back, stepping in again.

“Turn a little,” 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 didn’t recognize the person but because he was starting to realize that wasn’t all of him anymore. “Mark, ready for the first set!” He blinked, stepping away from the mirror. “Yeah,” he answered.

Then lighting changed,but the rhythm stayed the same. Fast. Efficient. Demanding. The photoshoot set was bright—white backdrops, stark lighting, cameras already positioned. He stepped into frame, posture shifting instinctively, expression settling into something precise. Click. Flash.

“Chin up slightly—yeah, hold that.”

Click.

“Good. Now soften your eyes a bit.”

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. “—yes, that,” the photographer said quickly.

“Hold that.”

Click.

Mark blinked slightly, refocusing but it lingered. That softness, that warmth. He couldn’t 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 now—pieces of something forming, dissolving, reforming again. He thought of you when he played. Not intentionally, just…naturally. 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 didn’t wait. He answered immediately. Your face filled the screen—slightly pixelated, hair messy, wrapped in one of your oversized sweaters.

“Hi,” you said softly and just like that, everything eased. “Hey baby” he breathed. For a moment, neither of you said anything. Just…looked. Smiled, existed in the same space, even if it was through a screen. “You look tired,” you murmured. He huffed a quiet laugh. “You look like you just woke up.”

“I did.”

“Of course you did.” He rolls his eyes groaning cheekily, “I’d give up anything for our midday naps.”

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. “Did you eat?” He glanced at the half-empty takeout container beside him, “yeah…but I miss your food most Angel.” You laugh at that before answering softly, ”I miss watching you eat my food. You should still eat.” “I’m eating,” he corrected quickly. “Currently. See?” He lifted the container into view like proof. You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. I believe you.” Silence settled again—but this time it was softer. Comfortable. “I miss you,” he said suddenly. It slipped out the same way everything important with you always did. Unplanned, unfiltered. Your expression softened immediately. “I know,” you whispered. “I miss you most, my idol.” His grip on the phone tightened slightly. “I don’t like this part,” he admitted.

“The distance?"

“Yeah.”

You nodded slowly, “but we knew it was coming.” “I know,” he sighed. “I just… didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Like what?”

He hesitated, “…like I left something important behind.” Your breath caught slightly—but you smiled anyway. “You didn’t leave it,” you said gently. “It’s still yours. I’m only yours.” Something in his chest ached. In the best way, in the worst way and all at once. “I’ll come back,” he murmured, more to himself than anything.

“I know you will.”

And you did. You always said things like that with so much certainty it made him believe them too.Even when he wasn’t sure how everything would unfold. For a moment, he wasn’t in Korea. He wasn’t in a hotel room, he wasn’t a performer, or an idol, or someone standing on the edge of a life-altering decision.

He was just—Yours.

“Did you talk to Taeyong?” 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 couldn’t see it fully, “ yeah.”

“And?”

He laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. “I think I’m really going to do it.” Silence. Not empty, just… full. “Okay,” you said softly. No fear, no doubt. Just. Okay. His chest tightened. “You’re not scared?” he asked quietly. “I am,” you admitted. “But not about you.” That made him pause, “then what?” “The world you’re stepping into,” you said. “And how it might try to pull you away from yourself.”His grip on the phone tightened, “I won’t let it.” “I know,” 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 everything—the noise, the schedules, the expectations, his decision sat quietly. Steady. Unmoved. He hadn’t 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 didn’t 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 now…

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 café was quiet, tucked away enough that they could sit without being watched too closely. The kind of place that didn’t demand attention—just 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 carried—like he understood more than he said, like he saw more than he let on. “Hey,” Taeyong greeted, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Hey, hyung.”

They ordered drinks. For a moment, it was just comfortable silence. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Taeyong had always been like that—someone who didn’t rush silence, who let it stretch until it became comfortable instead of heavy.

“You look tired,” Taeyong said finally, studying him. Mark huffed softly. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

He nodded, glancing down at his hands.

“I think too much,” he admitted. Taeyong smiled faintly. “That’s not new.” Mark huffed a quiet breath. “Yeah.” A pause. “And distracted.” Mark’s 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.

“I went away,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“It was…different.” Taeyong nodded slightly, waiting. Mark swallowed, “I think I needed it more than I realized.”

Another pause.

Mark let out a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly. “I made a decision,” he said, voice lowering slightly.

Taeyong didn’t interrupt, just listened. Mark swallowed, “I don’t think I can… keep doing this the same way anymore.” There it was. Not fully said but close enough. Taeyong leaned back slightly, eyes steady on him, “what does that mean to you?” Mark hesitated because saying it out loud would make it real, would make it irreversible. “…I don’t think I’m going to renew,” he said finally. The words settled between them. Heavy but not surprising. Taeyong didn’t react immediately. He just nodded. Like he had already known. “Are you sure?” he asked gently. Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time even before I left,” he admitted. “I just didn’t have a reason to actually do it.”

“And now?”

Mark’s lips curved slightly, almost involuntarily. Now, there was you. He didn’t say your name but it was there. In the way his expression softened, in the way his voice steadied. “I think I want to try something that feels like mine,” he said. Taeyong watched him carefully and then, quietly. “Then you should.” Mark blinked,”that’s it?” Taeyong shrugged lightly. “You already decided. You just wanted someone to tell you it’s okay.” Mark let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for weeks. “Is it?” he asked, softer now. Taeyong’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s your life,” he said simply. “Not the company’s. Not the fans’. Not even ours.”

The words landed deeper than anything else.

“And you’re not leaving us,” Taeyong added. “You’re just choosing yourself differently.” Mark’s throat tightened. He nodded slowly. “I was thinking maybe after the comeback,” he murmured. “When contract talks come up again. It can be announced officially when Dream and I head out for tour.” Taeyong tilted his head slightly, “how soon do you think you’ll do it? To tell the guys?” “Soon enough that it still feels like my decision.” Mark stared at the table for a moment, “Heachan might try to talk me out of it,” he said quietly. Taeyong laughed and nodded, “that’s all that matters.”

That, that hit deeper than anything else.Mark’s throat tightened slightly, his gaze dropping again, “it doesn’t feel that simple.” “It never is,” Taeyong replied softly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

Silence settled again. Warm and steady. For the first time since he had made the decision, it didn’t feel like something he was carrying alone.

Now, the silence doesn’t 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 him—but it doesn’t last. Not when his presence is this close. Not when your hands are still on him like you haven’t quite convinced yourself he’s real.

Mark still hasn’t spoken.

But he moves.

It’s small at first—his hands coming up, slow, hesitant, like he’s not entirely sure he’s 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 don’t step away, neither does he and for a moment, the world narrows down to just that—your hands on him, his on you, the quiet between breaths that says more than words ever could.

Then—

“Minhyung-ah?”

The voice comes from deeper in the house, gentle but curious, carrying the warmth of familiarity that doesn’t belong to you yet—but doesn’t feel unwelcome either. Everything shifts. You blink, the moment softening but not disappearing, and Mark exhales like he’s remembering where he is, who he is supposed to be here. His hands tighten around your wrists for just a second—just enough to say stay—before he finally, finally speaks.

“…I’m here.”

His voice is quieter than usual. Rougher when he looks at you. Really looks at you this time, like he’s catching up to what just happened—your 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. “Come in,” he murmurs, softer now, and this time his hand doesn’t leave yours when he turns.The house feels different once you’re inside it properly. Warmer. Lived-in.The kind of warmth that doesn’t come from temperature but from years—family dinners, laughter tucked into walls, quiet mornings that smell like coffee and something sweet baking in the oven. You notice everything because you don’t 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 Mark—and then, immediately, on you.

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just…assessing. Gentle.

“Oh,” she says, a small smile forming, “you must be the one he can’t stop reverting back to when I cook something wrongly,” like she already understands more than either of you have said out loud. “You didn't tell me she was so pretty, honey.”

Mark exhales sharply beside you.

“Mom—”

But it’s too late because his father is already stepping forward, a quiet warmth in his presence that mirrors Mark’s in a way that makes something in your chest tighten unexpectedly. “You came a long way,” he says simply, his voice calm, welcoming without being overwhelming. “You should sit. You both should.”

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 staged—but thoughtfully. Plates arranged neatly, a soft cloth laid across the center, small bowls of cut fruit, slices of cake that look homemade. There’s steam rising from mugs—coffee, hot chocolate—the scent wrapping around you like an embrace you didn’t 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 it’s happening. Firm. Grounding.

And this time—he doesn’t 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 you’re staying, insisting that you stay as long as you want to. You answer, politely, softly—but your awareness never leaves Mark because he’s quiet. Too quiet. Not distant—no, 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.

“I told them.”

It’s simple. Too simple for what it means.The room stills—not dramatically, not abruptly—but in a way that feels intentional. His parents don’t interrupt. Don’t 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 members…” His voice steadies as he speaks, but there’s something underneath it—something raw, something exposed. “I told them I’m not renewing.”

The words land softly but they carry weight. Years. A decade of something built, something lived in, something that shaped him into who he is—and who he’s trying to become beyond it. “I’ll finish the tour,” he continues, quieter now, more certain. “I’ll stay until everything we planned is done. But after that…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to because it’s already there, sitting in the space between all of you. The decision, the ending and the beginning of something else. You don’t 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 him—and when you do, you see it. The fear. Tucked carefully behind the confidence he’s 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 soft—but steady.

“It’s going to be okay.”

Not rushed. Not forced.Just… true. You don’t say it because it’s easy. You say it because you’ve 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 he’s leaving behind.

His mother is the first to respond, “you’ve always known when something feels right for you,” she says gently, her gaze steady on him. “Even when it’s difficult.” His father nods once, slower, thoughtful, “you’re not losing anything,” he adds. “You’re choosing something else.”

Simple but it lands and you feel it in the way Mark’s shoulders loosen, just slightly. In the way he exhales—not like he’s been holding his breath, but like he’s finally allowed to. For a moment, no one speaks. Not because there’s nothing to say but because everything that needed to be said…has been.The warmth of the room settles around you again. The quiet returns—but it’s different now.

Full.

Complete.

Mark turns his head, just slightly to look at you and this time, there’s no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. Just…something soft. Something certain, something that looks a lot like hope. His fingers lace through yours fully now on the table, not hidden, not tentative—just there, open, real and when he squeezes your hand this time, it feels different. Like a promise, not just that he’s not leaving you but that he’s finally choosing himself and for the first time…

He believes he’ll be okay.

TAGLIST.

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 doesn’t 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 older—something familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesn’t 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 isn’t his anymore. This house—his house, his family’s house in Toronto—should feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something he’s stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocating—just… 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 doesn’t 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 it— 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 floor—soft, warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to this house. In the way the quiet feels…incomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesn’t know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.

It doesn’t help.

The doorbell rings. It’s sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.

Real.

He blinks, like he’s being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this time—impatient, 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 hesitate— then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.

Not calm.

You’re moving before he even processes it—stepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like you’re searching for something wrong.

“Mark—”

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 floor—eyes 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 you’re trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find something—an injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesn’t feel like enough proof that he’s okay. “Are you okay?” you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesn’t sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something you’re trying to confirm with your own hands. You don’t wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like you’re searching for something broken, something he hasn’t told you.

He freezes.

Not because he’s uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide down—his shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like you’re grounding yourself in the fact that he’s here. That he’s real. That he’s not… broken. That he’s here, that he didn’t 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 don’t know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesn’t respond. Mark doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way you’re touching him like he matters outside of everything else.

Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Just— 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 doesn’t leave. “Mr. Idol…” you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. “Talk to me.” 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 don’t come.

Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way you’re looking at him like he’s something you might lose if you don’t hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything else—the noise, the expectations, the endless movement—feel far away.

His throat tightens.

No words come out because if he starts— he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tilts…

It’s never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when it’s quiet.

“Mark, just a few more minutes—”

The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesn’t 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 blink—no shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.

Controlled.

“How would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?” He hears the question, registers it but there’s 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.

“It means a lot,” he says, voice smooth, steady. “I think… it’s a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.” The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, “And where is that?”

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 isn’t 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.

“It’s… a process,” he says instead, softer now. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

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. “What was the most personal track for you on the album?” 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.

“That’s a hard one,” he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I think… all of them had something personal in them.”

It’s a safe answer. A good one.

The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. “Is there one that felt… closer to you than the others?”

There’s a pause.

Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocused—like he’s somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would mean—feeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watching—He can't afford that.

So he smiles again, soft and polished.

“I think it changes,” he says instead. “Depending on where I am.” She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.

It never does.

—

Backstage, it’s louder. Not with questions—but 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.

“Hyung.”

He looks up and finds Jisung—familiar, grounding—drops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.

“You good?”

The question is casual but the look isn’t. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. “Yeah,” he says.

It’s automatic.

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been… quiet,” he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. “Have I?"

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, “You okay?”

The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This one—waits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.

“I’m just tired,” he says finally.

It’s not a lie but it’s 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.

“If you need a break, you should take one.”

Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. Just like that.”

It’s said simply, like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t come with consequences. Mark doesn’t respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, “You should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.” Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesn’t get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. There’s no pressure in the statement.

Just—understanding.

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. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”And in the back of his mind— something shifts. Something small. Persistent.

What if I did?

—

A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe it’s just the way the air sits—still, 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. “I just need some time,” Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “That’s all I’m asking.”

There’s something underneath it, something strained.

“How much time?” the second manager asks immediately. There’s no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, “A few weeks,” Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like he’s already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, “We’re in the middle of promotions,” he says. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know this isn’t exactly—” “I said I know,” Mark cuts in, sharper this time.

The room stills.

Mark’s jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. “I’m not trying to mess anything up,” he continues, more controlled now. “I just… I need a break.” There’s a pause, a shift in the room.

Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. “You’ve been pushing a lot,” he says gently. “We’ve seen it.” Mark doesn’t respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t.

Pushing.

That’s one way to put it. Pushing doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. “Can you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?” 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 doesn’t answer because that question, that small, persistent one…is still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Mark’s fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mind— shifts. Just a little.

He finally exhales.

“…No.”

Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesn’t take it back.

The airport doesn’t rush him. It should. People move around him in currents—rolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragments—but none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like he’s watching everything through glass. It’s not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that — feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesn’t 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 him—the wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.

There’s 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 couldn’t leave that part of himself behind.

You’re not really running, he thinks distantly. You just… changed locations.

The thought sits uncomfortably because it’s true and maybe that’s why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadn’t meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than they’ve been in weeks, but there’s something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasn’t exactly found it yet and that’s when he sees you.

He sees you even before he realizes he’s looking. You’re 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 focus—adjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. There’s something about the way you exist in that space that feels… untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. You’re sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, contained—camera 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. You’re talking—softly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesn’t 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 doesn’t fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesn’t realize how long he’s 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 unfriendly—just… 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 blinks—

Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. There’s 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, it’s 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 don’t know each other. Then you straighten.

“…Can I help you?” you ask.

Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like he’s just remembered how to exist in his own body. “Yeah,” he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. “I—uh…” He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that he’s here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.

What are you doing? You don’t 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 there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—not impatient, not dismissive, just… waiting—that makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himself—

“Can I stay with you Angel?” he asks.

The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they don’t just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesn’t just change—it stills.

“…Excuse you?”

There’s disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick again—this time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.

“You’re serious?”

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 chest—tight, stubborn—doesn’t let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. “…You know there are hotels, right?” Your tone isn’t harsh; it’s logical. Grounded because now this isn’t 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 people’s 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. “I know,” he says quietly.

I don’t want to be alone.

The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesn’t say all of it. Your brows knit together. “Then why—”

“I just don’t want to be alone.”

It comes out softer than everything else he’s said so far. Less guarded and for a moment— he hates that he said it because it’s too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldn’t even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasn’t the answer you expected. There’s 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. “…That doesn’t make this any less weird, you know.” Fair.

Completely fair.

Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he admits. “I figured.” Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze moves—his face, his posture, the way he’s standing like he’s unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.

Real.

He didn’t just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, “What if I’m a serial killer?” you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Then I guess that’s how I was meant to die.” You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if he’s serious. If he’s joking, if he’s just reckless. “…You’re serious,” 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.

“I am.”

Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. “You’re either really smart… or just really, really stupid.” A faint smile pulls at his mouth, “Yeah,” he says. “I get that a lot.” There’s another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isn’t his anymore.

It’s 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 didn’t just say it—he meant it. This is not normal.

You don’t do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!

You don’t bring strangers home??!?!

And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasn’t moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way he’s standing—not imposing, not pushy, just… waiting. On the way, there’s something tired in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the rest of him, the way he didn’t argue when you questioned him. Didn’t try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel… real.

You’re insane.

The thought hits you clearly.

There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?

“…Five days,” you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. “Five days,” you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. “That’s it.” There’s a beat, then his shoulders drop—just slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.

“Okay,” 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. “…I should probably get my other bag,” he mutters. You blink. “You have another one?”

“…Yeah.”

There’s a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. “Of course you do.” You can’t 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.

You’ve 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 don’t 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 hasn’t decided anything yet but is already changing.

_

The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. It’s 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 in—first 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 couldn’t 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 he’s trying to, but because there’s finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. There’s a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesn’t interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesn’t. 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 Mark’s chest tighten because normal hasn’t 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 here—quieter, 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 doesn’t 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 don’t say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. “Wait,” he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.

“I’ve got it.”

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 driver’s side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. “How much was it?” The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properly—two hands, respectful, like it’s something that matters.

“Thank you,” he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightly—then smiles. “Welcome,” he says warmly. “Have a good evening.” Mark nods again. “You too.” There’s a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you briefly—

“You and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.”

Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you haven’t 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 doesn’t 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-on—placing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. “Thanks,” you say quietly. He glances at you, “Yeah.”

Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you don’t move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. He’s strange, that part hasn’t 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. “Come on,” 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 hasn’t earned but is being let into anyway.

You’re really doing this.

You don’t reach for keys. You don’t hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesn’t 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. “Oh, you’re back.” Your posture shifts and softens.

You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. “Let me see you, baby,” she murmurs, turning your face slightly. “You’ve gotten thinner.” “I haven’t,” you say, but there’s a small laugh in your voice. “You have,” she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. “Working too much again?” Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you don’t pull away. “The trip was fine,” you say. “Work was good.” “Mm,” she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. It’s quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him in—the luggage, the way he’s standing, the space between you—and something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.

A look passes.

Quiet.

Knowing, you straighten slightly. “This is Mark.” He nods. “Hello.” She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. “Take care of her,” she says lightly. Mark blinks, “…I’ll try.” You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. “Rest,” she adds. “Both of you.”

And then she’s gone.

The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time it’s not empty. It’s full. Mark steps in properly now, and that’s 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 tall—higher than he expected—and filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, there’s you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someone’s shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parents—your father’s arm around you, your mother’s smile softer but just as warm. Another frame—two 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?

There’s another—an older woman. The same one who just left. You’re holding her face the same way she held yours. Mark’s chest tightens slightly, he doesn’t 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 wouldn’t she?

Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t understand why it’s there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that don’t exist.

What if you’re not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?

His jaw tightens slightly.

Then— “You can leave your bags there for now.” Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. You’ve 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 it’s waiting for instructions he hasn’t decided on yet. The house feels… still, but not empty. There’s a softness to the quiet here, something that doesn’t press on him, doesn’t 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 didn’t require adjustment. Like you’ve done this a hundred times—come home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like he’s trying to understand something he hasn’t 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-in—like citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he can’t quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,

Don’t get comfortable.

The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesn’t stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feel…unnecessary. “You can sit,” 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.

“Yeah,” he answers, even though you didn’t ask a question.

He doesn’t 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 they’re remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he’s aware that he’s stepping into something that isn’t his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, it’s something else entirely. Books line the walls—not 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. There’s a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to you—equipment, 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 scattered—some with full sentences, some with single words that don’t make sense on their own.

He steps closer.

Doesn’t touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.

Shoot before sunset — plating!!

There’s a small underline under the last word.

Urgent.

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. It’s… endearing, without trying to be.

You’re busy.

The thought comes easily,

You have a life.

It shouldn’t matter but for some reason, it does.

“Water?”

Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, you’re 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. “Thanks.” Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but it’s enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. “Kitchen’s this way,” you say, like he didn’t 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 don’t look at him immediately but you’re aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. It’s strange. You don’t 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 he’s just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like he’s trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now you’re curious too. “…So,” you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause.

Not awkward. Just measured. “You always do this?” you ask. “Ask random people to let you stay with them?” A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “First time.” You narrow your eyes a little, “Convenient.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah.”

There’s something about the way he doesn’t defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just… agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. “…You’re really not going to explain yourself, are you?” 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 doesn’t, not fully. “I just needed to leave for a bit,” he says instead. It’s not a lie… but it’s not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, “From what?” 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,“…Work.” You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell that’s as far as he’s 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 he’s the one intruding.“…Oh,” Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.

Unimpressed.

Then walks past him like he doesn’t exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. “What’s his name?” he asks. You glance over your shoulder, “Biscuit.”

“…Biscuit?”

You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. “He answers to it.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.

His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadn’t noticed before. “…He does that,” you say, like it explains everything. “He wasn’t there a second ago.”

“He was. You just didn’t notice.”

Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like it’s 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 he’s claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.

“…That’s a strong name.”

You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. “Strong?" He shrugs, deadpan, “He looks like he runs things.” You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, “He does.” “He’s judging you, by the way.” Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.

“…I can tell.”

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. You’re closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you weren’t 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 he’s still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldn’t have brought into your home, and yet—he doesn’t feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.

“…You hungry?” you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter—

“…I can try cooking.”

You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, “…Try?” He hesitates, “…I mean—” You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. “Sit down.” There’s 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 he’s 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 this— about you in your space, feels like something he didn’t 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 don’t 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 place— your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesn’t 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 hasn’t let himself think about yet. He didn’t just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesn’t 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 staying—soft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like it’s moving differently.

It's not what wakes you, not at first.

What wakes you is not the rain. It’s 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 doesn’t catch up. It’s just noise and movement—You don’t even realize you’re 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.

You’re 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 it’s not what you expected. There’s 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, he’s 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 don’t 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. He’s wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like it’s the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like he’s accepted his fate. There’s a slight panic in his posture, but he’s trying—very visibly—to stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like it’s about to file a complaint, “don’t move,” 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.

He’s still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking… guilty. “…Hi Angel,” he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. “…What happened?”

There’s 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. “I was trying to make eggs.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, “…Those are eggs?” “They were,” he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you try—you really try—not to laugh because he's already panicking, “I just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.” You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. “…You declared war on breakfast.” A breath escapes him—half a laugh, half defeat. “I thought—” he continues, gesturing vaguely, “—how hard can it be? It’s eggs. People make eggs all the time.” “And yet,” you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, “you’ve managed to reinvent them.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. “They stuck,” he says, “And then I tried to unstick them. And then they… got worse. I didn’t think it would go like this,” he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly now—burnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are… unrecognizable. They’ve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.

Something… experimental.

“…Did you use oil?” There’s another pause. Smaller this time, “…I thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?” That’s it. That’s the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it—sharp 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 it’s 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 didn’t know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. “Okay,” you say, voice lighter now, easier. “Step aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.”

He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesn’t 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 changes—warm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just… there. “…I was trying to say thank you,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. “You did,” you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, “This is very memorable.”

He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, he’s 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, it’s not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each other’s 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 he’s 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 he’s judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.

Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. “…Does he always look like that?” You follow his gaze, “That’s his face.” “…He looks like he has opinions.” “He does. They’re just not for you.” Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like he’s trying to understand the rules.

Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, “…I’ve been dismissed.” You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. “So,” you say, glancing at him, “you cook often?” He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, “God, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.” You hum, “Good call.”

Then you blink up at him, confused, “members?” 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, “ colleagues.” You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because there’s nothing to say but because… there’s no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesn’t feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like he’s deciding something, “…You laugh like that often?”

You pause mid-bite, “…Like what?” “Like that, Angel,” he says simply. “Earlier.” You don’t answer immediately because the honest answer is—No. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, “Depends.”

“On what?”

You glance at him, “…On who I’m with.” There’s 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 doesn’t. Instead, “…I almost set your house on fire.” You snort, “And yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.” “Temporarily banned,” he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggs—something settles.

Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to say— 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 worse—someone 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 he’s 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 don’t notice it at first. You’re moving through your space the way you always do—barefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.

It’s 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 wouldn’t—

You don’t knock, you don’t 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 don’t say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirts—neatly, carefully, like he’s 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 it— 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 isn’t.

Your voice comes out before you can stop it, “…What are you doing?” 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 second—just a second—he looks… confused.

Like you’re the one who’s out of place here.

“I’m packing,” he says, slowly. Carefully, like he’s choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.

Of course.

“Why?” you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesn’t make sense. “You said five days, Angel.” 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. “…So you’re just leaving?” you ask. Mark frowns slightly, “I mean… yeah?” But it doesn’t sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesn’t sound like you, “Wow.” He straightens a little, confusion deepening. “What?”

“You couldn’t wait, huh?”

Now he’s really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, “Wait for what?” You don’t answer immediately because suddenly everything feels… too close to the surface. Too raw. “For the five days to be over,” you say instead, quieter now. “Or did you just hate being here that much?”

The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Mark’s expression changes, not to anger but something else...“What?” You laugh again—but this time it breaks halfway through. “I mean, it makes sense,” you continue, words coming faster now, messier. “ 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 rude—”

“That’s not—”

“But you don’t have to pretend anymore,” you cut in, your voice tight. “Five days are up. You can go.” Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. “No Angel, that’s not what this is,” he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.

You shake your head, already stepping back, “It’s fine, Mark. Really. You don’t have to explain—” He moves before you can finish. It’s instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wrist—not tight, not rough—but firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.

You freeze.

And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, “Stop.”

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. He’s not annoyed, he’s not distant. He’s not relieved to be leaving. He’s… frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.

His hands still slightly.

“I didn’t want to overstay,” he says quietly. “Or make you uncomfortable.” Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, “so you were just… planning to disappear?”

That word makes him flinch slightly.

“No.”

A beat passes. Then more honestly, “I just didn’t know how long I was allowed to exist here.”

Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, “I didn’t mean it like a countdown.” That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. “I wasn’t counting down the days,” he says, softer now. “I was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.”

You blink.

“…What?”

You stare at him again. There’s a beat. Then another. “You took my documents,” he adds, almost awkwardly now. “Remember? As a condition?”

Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Then—despite everything—a small, disbelieving sound escapes you, “you were packing… because you didn’t know how to ask for your passport back?”

Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.” “It is stupid,” you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.

He huffs a quiet laugh, “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to overstep.” Something in your chest shifts again.

“You could’ve just asked,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. “But you gave me a timeline. I thought… pushing past that would be.” You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had to— because he was trying to respect you—It does something to you.

Something you don’t have a name for yet. “So you were just going to leave?” you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, “I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”

That—

That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,

“Do you want to leave?”

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 doesn’t 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 older—something familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesn’t 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 isn’t his anymore. This house—his house, his family’s house in Toronto—should feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something he’s stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocating—just… 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 doesn’t 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 it— 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 floor—soft, warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to this house. In the way the quiet feels…incomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesn’t know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.

It doesn’t help.

The doorbell rings. It’s sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.

Real.

He blinks, like he’s being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this time—impatient, 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 hesitate— then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.

Not calm.

You’re moving before he even processes it—stepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like you’re searching for something wrong.

“Mark—”

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 floor—eyes 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 you’re trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find something—an injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesn’t feel like enough proof that he’s okay. “Are you okay?” you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesn’t sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something you’re trying to confirm with your own hands. You don’t wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like you’re searching for something broken, something he hasn’t told you.

He freezes.

Not because he’s uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide down—his shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like you’re grounding yourself in the fact that he’s here. That he’s real. That he’s not… broken. That he’s here, that he didn’t 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 don’t know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesn’t respond. Mark doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way you’re touching him like he matters outside of everything else.

Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Just— 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 doesn’t leave. “Mr. Idol…” you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. “Talk to me.” 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 don’t come.

Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way you’re looking at him like he’s something you might lose if you don’t hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything else—the noise, the expectations, the endless movement—feel far away.

His throat tightens.

No words come out because if he starts— he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tilts…

It’s never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when it’s quiet.

“Mark, just a few more minutes—”

The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesn’t 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 blink—no shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.

Controlled.

“How would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?” He hears the question, registers it but there’s 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.

“It means a lot,” he says, voice smooth, steady. “I think… it’s a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.” The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, “And where is that?”

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 isn’t 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.

“It’s… a process,” he says instead, softer now. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

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. “What was the most personal track for you on the album?” 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.

“That’s a hard one,” he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I think… all of them had something personal in them.”

It’s a safe answer. A good one.

The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. “Is there one that felt… closer to you than the others?”

There’s a pause.

Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocused—like he’s somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would mean—feeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watching—He can't afford that.

So he smiles again, soft and polished.

“I think it changes,” he says instead. “Depending on where I am.” She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.

It never does.

—

Backstage, it’s louder. Not with questions—but 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.

“Hyung.”

He looks up and finds Jisung—familiar, grounding—drops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.

“You good?”

The question is casual but the look isn’t. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. “Yeah,” he says.

It’s automatic.

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been… quiet,” he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. “Have I?"

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, “You okay?”

The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This one—waits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.

“I’m just tired,” he says finally.

It’s not a lie but it’s 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.

“If you need a break, you should take one.”

Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. Just like that.”

It’s said simply, like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t come with consequences. Mark doesn’t respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, “You should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.” Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesn’t get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. There’s no pressure in the statement.

Just—understanding.

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. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”And in the back of his mind— something shifts. Something small. Persistent.

What if I did?

—

A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe it’s just the way the air sits—still, 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. “I just need some time,” Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “That’s all I’m asking.”

There’s something underneath it, something strained.

“How much time?” the second manager asks immediately. There’s no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, “A few weeks,” Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like he’s already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, “We’re in the middle of promotions,” he says. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know this isn’t exactly—” “I said I know,” Mark cuts in, sharper this time.

The room stills.

Mark’s jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. “I’m not trying to mess anything up,” he continues, more controlled now. “I just… I need a break.” There’s a pause, a shift in the room.

Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. “You’ve been pushing a lot,” he says gently. “We’ve seen it.” Mark doesn’t respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t.

Pushing.

That’s one way to put it. Pushing doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. “Can you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?” 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 doesn’t answer because that question, that small, persistent one…is still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Mark’s fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mind— shifts. Just a little.

He finally exhales.

“…No.”

Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesn’t take it back.

The airport doesn’t rush him. It should. People move around him in currents—rolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragments—but none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like he’s watching everything through glass. It’s not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that — feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesn’t 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 him—the wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.

There’s 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 couldn’t leave that part of himself behind.

You’re not really running, he thinks distantly. You just… changed locations.

The thought sits uncomfortably because it’s true and maybe that’s why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadn’t meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than they’ve been in weeks, but there’s something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasn’t exactly found it yet and that’s when he sees you.

He sees you even before he realizes he’s looking. You’re 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 focus—adjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. There’s something about the way you exist in that space that feels… untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. You’re sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, contained—camera 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. You’re talking—softly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesn’t 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 doesn’t fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesn’t realize how long he’s 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 unfriendly—just… 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 blinks—

Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. There’s 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, it’s 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 don’t know each other. Then you straighten.

“…Can I help you?” you ask.

Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like he’s just remembered how to exist in his own body. “Yeah,” he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. “I—uh…” He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that he’s here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.

What are you doing? You don’t 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 there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—not impatient, not dismissive, just… waiting—that makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himself—

“Can I stay with you Angel?” he asks.

The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they don’t just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesn’t just change—it stills.

“…Excuse you?”

There’s disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick again—this time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.

“You’re serious?”

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 chest—tight, stubborn—doesn’t let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. “…You know there are hotels, right?” Your tone isn’t harsh; it’s logical. Grounded because now this isn’t 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 people’s 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. “I know,” he says quietly.

I don’t want to be alone.

The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesn’t say all of it. Your brows knit together. “Then why—”

“I just don’t want to be alone.”

It comes out softer than everything else he’s said so far. Less guarded and for a moment— he hates that he said it because it’s too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldn’t even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasn’t the answer you expected. There’s 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. “…That doesn’t make this any less weird, you know.” Fair.

Completely fair.

Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he admits. “I figured.” Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze moves—his face, his posture, the way he’s standing like he’s unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.

Real.

He didn’t just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, “What if I’m a serial killer?” you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Then I guess that’s how I was meant to die.” You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if he’s serious. If he’s joking, if he’s just reckless. “…You’re serious,” 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.

“I am.”

Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. “You’re either really smart… or just really, really stupid.” A faint smile pulls at his mouth, “Yeah,” he says. “I get that a lot.” There’s another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isn’t his anymore.

It’s 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 didn’t just say it—he meant it. This is not normal.

You don’t do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!

You don’t bring strangers home??!?!

And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasn’t moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way he’s standing—not imposing, not pushy, just… waiting. On the way, there’s something tired in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the rest of him, the way he didn’t argue when you questioned him. Didn’t try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel… real.

You’re insane.

The thought hits you clearly.

There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?

“…Five days,” you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. “Five days,” you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. “That’s it.” There’s a beat, then his shoulders drop—just slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.

“Okay,” 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. “…I should probably get my other bag,” he mutters. You blink. “You have another one?”

“…Yeah.”

There’s a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. “Of course you do.” You can’t 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.

You’ve 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 don’t 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 hasn’t decided anything yet but is already changing.

_

The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. It’s 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 in—first 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 couldn’t 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 he’s trying to, but because there’s finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. There’s a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesn’t interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesn’t. 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 Mark’s chest tighten because normal hasn’t 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 here—quieter, 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 doesn’t 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 don’t say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. “Wait,” he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.

“I’ve got it.”

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 driver’s side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. “How much was it?” The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properly—two hands, respectful, like it’s something that matters.

“Thank you,” he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightly—then smiles. “Welcome,” he says warmly. “Have a good evening.” Mark nods again. “You too.” There’s a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you briefly—

“You and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.”

Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you haven’t 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 doesn’t 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-on—placing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. “Thanks,” you say quietly. He glances at you, “Yeah.”

Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you don’t move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. He’s strange, that part hasn’t 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. “Come on,” 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 hasn’t earned but is being let into anyway.

You’re really doing this.

You don’t reach for keys. You don’t hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesn’t 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. “Oh, you’re back.” Your posture shifts and softens.

You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. “Let me see you, baby,” she murmurs, turning your face slightly. “You’ve gotten thinner.” “I haven’t,” you say, but there’s a small laugh in your voice. “You have,” she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. “Working too much again?” Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you don’t pull away. “The trip was fine,” you say. “Work was good.” “Mm,” she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. It’s quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him in—the luggage, the way he’s standing, the space between you—and something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.

A look passes.

Quiet.

Knowing, you straighten slightly. “This is Mark.” He nods. “Hello.” She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. “Take care of her,” she says lightly. Mark blinks, “…I’ll try.” You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. “Rest,” she adds. “Both of you.”

And then she’s gone.

The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time it’s not empty. It’s full. Mark steps in properly now, and that’s 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 tall—higher than he expected—and filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, there’s you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someone’s shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parents—your father’s arm around you, your mother’s smile softer but just as warm. Another frame—two 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?

There’s another—an older woman. The same one who just left. You’re holding her face the same way she held yours. Mark’s chest tightens slightly, he doesn’t 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 wouldn’t she?

Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t understand why it’s there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that don’t exist.

What if you’re not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?

His jaw tightens slightly.

Then— “You can leave your bags there for now.” Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. You’ve 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 it’s waiting for instructions he hasn’t decided on yet. The house feels… still, but not empty. There’s a softness to the quiet here, something that doesn’t press on him, doesn’t 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 didn’t require adjustment. Like you’ve done this a hundred times—come home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like he’s trying to understand something he hasn’t 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-in—like citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he can’t quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,

Don’t get comfortable.

The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesn’t stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feel…unnecessary. “You can sit,” 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.

“Yeah,” he answers, even though you didn’t ask a question.

He doesn’t 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 they’re remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he’s aware that he’s stepping into something that isn’t his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, it’s something else entirely. Books line the walls—not 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. There’s a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to you—equipment, 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 scattered—some with full sentences, some with single words that don’t make sense on their own.

He steps closer.

Doesn’t touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.

Shoot before sunset — plating!!

There’s a small underline under the last word.

Urgent.

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. It’s… endearing, without trying to be.

You’re busy.

The thought comes easily,

You have a life.

It shouldn’t matter but for some reason, it does.

“Water?”

Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, you’re 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. “Thanks.” Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but it’s enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. “Kitchen’s this way,” you say, like he didn’t 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 don’t look at him immediately but you’re aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. It’s strange. You don’t 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 he’s just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like he’s trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now you’re curious too. “…So,” you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause.

Not awkward. Just measured. “You always do this?” you ask. “Ask random people to let you stay with them?” A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “First time.” You narrow your eyes a little, “Convenient.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah.”

There’s something about the way he doesn’t defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just… agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. “…You’re really not going to explain yourself, are you?” 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 doesn’t, not fully. “I just needed to leave for a bit,” he says instead. It’s not a lie… but it’s not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, “From what?” 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,“…Work.” You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell that’s as far as he’s 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 he’s the one intruding.“…Oh,” Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.

Unimpressed.

Then walks past him like he doesn’t exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. “What’s his name?” he asks. You glance over your shoulder, “Biscuit.”

“…Biscuit?”

You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. “He answers to it.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.

His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadn’t noticed before. “…He does that,” you say, like it explains everything. “He wasn’t there a second ago.”

“He was. You just didn’t notice.”

Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like it’s 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 he’s claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.

“…That’s a strong name.”

You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. “Strong?" He shrugs, deadpan, “He looks like he runs things.” You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, “He does.” “He’s judging you, by the way.” Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.

“…I can tell.”

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. You’re closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you weren’t 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 he’s still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldn’t have brought into your home, and yet—he doesn’t feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.

“…You hungry?” you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter—

“…I can try cooking.”

You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, “…Try?” He hesitates, “…I mean—” You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. “Sit down.” There’s 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 he’s 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 this— about you in your space, feels like something he didn’t 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 don’t 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 place— your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesn’t 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 hasn’t let himself think about yet. He didn’t just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesn’t 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 staying—soft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like it’s moving differently.

It's not what wakes you, not at first.

What wakes you is not the rain. It’s 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 doesn’t catch up. It’s just noise and movement—You don’t even realize you’re 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.

You’re 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 it’s not what you expected. There’s 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, he’s 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 don’t 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. He’s wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like it’s the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like he’s accepted his fate. There’s a slight panic in his posture, but he’s trying—very visibly—to stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like it’s about to file a complaint, “don’t move,” 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.

He’s still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking… guilty. “…Hi Angel,” he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. “…What happened?”

There’s 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. “I was trying to make eggs.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, “…Those are eggs?” “They were,” he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you try—you really try—not to laugh because he's already panicking, “I just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.” You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. “…You declared war on breakfast.” A breath escapes him—half a laugh, half defeat. “I thought—” he continues, gesturing vaguely, “—how hard can it be? It’s eggs. People make eggs all the time.” “And yet,” you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, “you’ve managed to reinvent them.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. “They stuck,” he says, “And then I tried to unstick them. And then they… got worse. I didn’t think it would go like this,” he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly now—burnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are… unrecognizable. They’ve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.

Something… experimental.

“…Did you use oil?” There’s another pause. Smaller this time, “…I thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?” That’s it. That’s the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it—sharp 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 it’s 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 didn’t know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. “Okay,” you say, voice lighter now, easier. “Step aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.”

He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesn’t 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 changes—warm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just… there. “…I was trying to say thank you,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. “You did,” you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, “This is very memorable.”

He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, he’s 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, it’s not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each other’s 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 he’s 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 he’s judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.

Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. “…Does he always look like that?” You follow his gaze, “That’s his face.” “…He looks like he has opinions.” “He does. They’re just not for you.” Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like he’s trying to understand the rules.

Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, “…I’ve been dismissed.” You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. “So,” you say, glancing at him, “you cook often?” He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, “God, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.” You hum, “Good call.”

Then you blink up at him, confused, “members?” 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, “ colleagues.” You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because there’s nothing to say but because… there’s no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesn’t feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like he’s deciding something, “…You laugh like that often?”

You pause mid-bite, “…Like what?” “Like that, Angel,” he says simply. “Earlier.” You don’t answer immediately because the honest answer is—No. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, “Depends.”

“On what?”

You glance at him, “…On who I’m with.” There’s 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 doesn’t. Instead, “…I almost set your house on fire.” You snort, “And yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.” “Temporarily banned,” he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggs—something settles.

Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to say— 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 worse—someone 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 he’s 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 don’t notice it at first. You’re moving through your space the way you always do—barefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.

It’s 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 wouldn’t—

You don’t knock, you don’t 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 don’t say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirts—neatly, carefully, like he’s 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 it— 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 isn’t.

Your voice comes out before you can stop it, “…What are you doing?” 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 second—just a second—he looks… confused.

Like you’re the one who’s out of place here.

“I’m packing,” he says, slowly. Carefully, like he’s choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.

Of course.

“Why?” you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesn’t make sense. “You said five days, Angel.” 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. “…So you’re just leaving?” you ask. Mark frowns slightly, “I mean… yeah?” But it doesn’t sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesn’t sound like you, “Wow.” He straightens a little, confusion deepening. “What?”

“You couldn’t wait, huh?”

Now he’s really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, “Wait for what?” You don’t answer immediately because suddenly everything feels… too close to the surface. Too raw. “For the five days to be over,” you say instead, quieter now. “Or did you just hate being here that much?”

The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Mark’s expression changes, not to anger but something else...“What?” You laugh again—but this time it breaks halfway through. “I mean, it makes sense,” you continue, words coming faster now, messier. “ 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 rude—”

“That’s not—”

“But you don’t have to pretend anymore,” you cut in, your voice tight. “Five days are up. You can go.” Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. “No Angel, that’s not what this is,” he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.

You shake your head, already stepping back, “It’s fine, Mark. Really. You don’t have to explain—” He moves before you can finish. It’s instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wrist—not tight, not rough—but firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.

You freeze.

And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, “Stop.”

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. He’s not annoyed, he’s not distant. He’s not relieved to be leaving. He’s… frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.

His hands still slightly.

“I didn’t want to overstay,” he says quietly. “Or make you uncomfortable.” Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, “so you were just… planning to disappear?”

That word makes him flinch slightly.

“No.”

A beat passes. Then more honestly, “I just didn’t know how long I was allowed to exist here.”

Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, “I didn’t mean it like a countdown.” That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. “I wasn’t counting down the days,” he says, softer now. “I was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.”

You blink.

“…What?”

You stare at him again. There’s a beat. Then another. “You took my documents,” he adds, almost awkwardly now. “Remember? As a condition?”

Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Then—despite everything—a small, disbelieving sound escapes you, “you were packing… because you didn’t know how to ask for your passport back?”

Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.” “It is stupid,” you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.

He huffs a quiet laugh, “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to overstep.” Something in your chest shifts again.

“You could’ve just asked,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. “But you gave me a timeline. I thought… pushing past that would be.” You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had to— because he was trying to respect you—It does something to you.

Something you don’t have a name for yet. “So you were just going to leave?” you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, “I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”

That—

That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,

“Do you want to leave?”

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 — 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. “Dude. Why are you smiling so early in the morning?”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You’re totally smiling. It’s gross.”

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 patience—meticulous 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. “Guess who we’re paired with?” he whispered, tone gleaming with mischief before Jisung could even ask, he followed his line of sight—and 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 brief—so brief most people would’ve missed it—but Jisung didn’t. He caught everything.

“The plot thickens.”Chenle muttered frustrated, with a grin that was nothing short of wicked. “The ex situationship.”

Jisung elbowed him lightly. “Don’t start.” But Chenle had started, and Jisung knew it. Jisung’s head dropped forward with a quiet sigh. “Kill me now.”

The sound of footsteps on tile made him glance up, and there she was — Soojin. She didn’t even flinch when her eyes met his. If anything, she looked bored. “Figures,” she muttered, sliding onto the stool opposite him. “My luck’s terrible this week.”

“Morning to you too,” Jisung murmured.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “I have a biomechanics review after this.”

They hadn’t spoken properly in months. Not since… well, since before you came along.

“Bad enough the whole school knows how lovesick you are,” Soojin groaned, sliding into the empty seat across from him with an airy scoff. Her tone was meant to sound light, teasing. It wasn’t. Her gaze flicked to the faint, unmistakable mark on his neck. “Now I have to sit across from you and that?” Chenle nearly choked on his laughter, dropping the pipette in his hand. “You’re just jealous,” he shot back before Jisung could respond. The class snickered. Soojin’s eyes narrowed—not at Chenle, but at Jisung. He exhaled slowly, ignoring the weight of her stare. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered, adjusting the calibration on the force sensor. His tone was calm, neutral—unbothered 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 wasn’t that Jisung hated Soojin. He didn’t. He just… didn’t feel anything anymore.

And maybe that’s what made the silence stretch heavy.

“You know,” Soojin began after a few minutes, voice low but cutting through the clatter anyway, “I didn’t think you’d actually fall for someone.” Jisung didn’t look up. He measured a sample, steady hands but a clenched jaw. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what it sounds like,” she said with a faint laugh. “You don’t do relationships, remember? That was your line.”

Chenle went very still.

For a moment, the noise of the lab faded—the conversations, the shuffling, the clinking of glass. All that was left was the soft, rhythmic sound of Jisung’s breathing and the muted rustle of Soojin’s gloves as she fiddled with the clipboard.

Then he set the beaker down and looked up. His gaze met hers, even, steady—nothing sharp, nothing cruel. Just calm. “We agreed,” he said simply. “You wanted something simple. You said you didn’t want anything serious.” Her eyes flickered. “And you didn’t either. But you didn’t have to make it so—” she bit down on the last word, but the damage was already done.

“Cold?” he finished quietly. For the first time, she faltered. Her bravado cracked. “You could’ve at least pretended to care, Jisung.”

He didn’t reply immediately.

Instead, his thoughts drifted—unbidden—to a different afternoon, a different kind of quiet. He remembered the way Soojin had smiled that first time. They’d met a year ago — she’d been a sophomore, he a new freshman with too much energy and not enough sense. She’d been his senior, smart, sharp-tongued, funny when she let herself be. She was the one who’d approached him after lab one evening, her tone light, teasing.

“You’re cute, Park Jisung,” she’d said. “Wanna skip the part where feelings get messy?”

He’d been young and restless, and it had seemed easy then — no strings, no expectations, no heartbreak. Just distraction. He hadn’t thought beyond the surface; he didn’t want to. He never noticed, not right away, that she’d started staying later, asking him about his classes, waiting for him after lectures. When she’d linger, talking about trivial things, laughing a little too softly.

He’d told her the truth more than once. He’d drawn the line once, twice, a dozen times — always gently, always firmly. We agreed it’s nothing. Even when it wasn’t, she’d 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 — what he’d ignored, what she’d buried. But Soojin wasn’t built for indifference. Not really. And Jisung—he wasn’t built for half-hearted things. Now, as she adjusted the electrode on his arm, her fingers brushed his skin — 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.

“Hold the sensor steady,” Soojin said finally. Her tone was professional — but the glance she threw him wasn’t. “You’re shaking.”

“Not from nerves,” he replied quietly.

“Then from guilt?”

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. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you act like there was something to feel guilty about.” Her lips parted, then closed again. The faint flush in her cheeks wasn’t anger this time — it was something rawer, smaller. “There wasn’t, right,” she said softly. “We made that very clear.”

“I didn’t pretend,” he said finally, quietly. “That’s the point.”

The tension settled between them, dense and still. Chenle cleared his throat, too loudly. “Okay, uh, I think this sample’s ready! Maybe we don’t spill emotional trauma in front of the bunsen burners, yeah?”

It drew a few laughs from nearby tables. Soojin didn’t join in. She was still looking at Jisung, that same ache clouding her features—a longing she didn’t even seem to know how to hide. He sighed softly and lowered his voice. “Don’t do anything stupid, Soojin.”

Her brow furrowed. “Like what?”

“Like saying something that might hurt her,” he said, and this time there was steel in his tone, quiet but unyielding. “She's not the type to start fights, but she’s not the type to lose one either.” That earned the faintest twitch of her lips—a mix of irony and reluctant respect. “Yeah,” she murmured, glancing down at the desk. “I know. She’s my skating junior. I guess you at least have a type? Shy doesn’t mean weak.”

He watched her for a moment, then nodded once. And that was the difference, wasn’t it?

Soojin burned hot—sharp, 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 didn’t demand space—you simply filled it with quiet warmth. You listened. You understood. Jisung realized, as he adjusted the dial on the equipment, that he’d never had to guard his words with you. He didn’t feel like he was performing. He didn’t 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. “So... do we all just pretend we didn’t just watch the most intense emotional breakup sequel in the biomechanics lab?” Jisung rolled his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Focus, Chenle.”

“I am focused,” Chenle said cheerfully. “On your tragic love life.”

Soojin let out a small laugh at that—soft, 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.

“You’re really happy, huh?” she asked quietly. He paused. The corner of his mouth lifted, subtle but certain. “Yeah. I am.”

And then he left—leaving Soojin alone amidst the low hum of lights and the faint scent of antiseptic, the sound of her own heartbeat filling the empty space he’d once occupied so easily.

You wake up to a quiet that hums like warmth. The sheets smell like him — 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 — 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. There’s 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 sidetable— a paper napkin folded neatly with his scrawled handwriting on it, sitting beside a breakfast plate covered with foil.

Don’t think I’m 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 didn’t burn down your kitchen. (Mostly.)❤️— Hoshi

You laugh quietly, running your thumb over his messy handwriting — a kind of comfort you didn’t know could ache.

When you peel back the foil, there’s a breakfast sandwich stacked neatly beside scrambled eggs, slightly uneven toast, and a few strawberries sliced into tiny, clumsy hearts. Your chest tightens — not painfully, but enough to make you press a hand against it. Jisung’s 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 you’re hungry, half because the warmth in your chest demands it. He really tried — there’s 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 Jungwoo’s necklace winks back at you from your neck.

For a moment, you hesitate.

It’s small — the kind of stillness that comes before tears. You trace the old chain with your thumb. Jungwoo’s laughter echoes in the back of your head, the sharp contrast of the past that once meant everything. It’s been so long, yet the ache of familiarity tugs still. But then — 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 — quiet, steady.

You slip off the old necklace, fingers trembling just slightly, and replace it with Jisung’s. The ring hits your collarbone with a soft metallic click.

“Right,” you whisper to yourself, breathing out. “New chapter.”

You grab the white box from under your bed — the one you’d 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 you’d found at a thrift store, a silver star boyish chain, a few packets of his favorite snacks and candy, hockey gloves you’d saved up for after overhearing him complain about his worn-out ones. You almost roll your eyes at yourself. “He’s gonna think this is so stupid,” you murmur.

A voice from the living room snaps you out of it. “—If that’s you talking to yourself again,” Jaemin calls, “you need help, babe!” You groan, clutching the box to your chest as you stand up again and step out of your room. “It’s called processing emotions, Jaem.” Karina looks up from the couch, hair in a messy bun, a half-empty mug in her hand. “Good morning, sunshine. You look—” she pauses, squinting at you, “—like you committed crimes of passion.”

You blink. “What?”

Jaemin bursts out laughing, dropping his phone onto the couch. “Oh my god. Look at your neck. Must've been his lucky night!”

You frown, confused, until Karina gestures vaguely at your throat. You scramble for your reflection in the TV screen. That’s when you see them — 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. “Oh my god.”

Jaemin collapses in laughter, wheezing. “You two sure took your time getting dow—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” You grab a pillow and throw it at him, cheeks burning. “It just happened, okay? It’s not my fault!” Karina sips her coffee, barely hiding her smile. “I’m just saying, Somi left with him this morning. Apparently they share an elective?”

Your head snaps up surprised. “Really?”

“She said he promised to walk her to campus because she didn’t want to go alone,” she continues, inspecting her nails. “It’s cute, actually. He’s... surprisingly reliable for someone who eats instant ramen for breakfast.”

You cover your face. “I’m never showing my face in public again.” Karina snorts. “Oh please, he’s so lovesick he’d tattoo your initials on his jersey if you asked.” Jaemin nods solemnly. “It’s true. I saw him once almost walk into our couch because he was too busy texting and waiting on you to come home.”

You can’t help but laugh, shoulders shaking. “You guys are the worst.” “And yet,” Karina says sweetly, eyeing the white box you’re hugging, “here you are, making him a boo basket like a Pinterest girlfriend in denial.”

You blink at her. “It's not a boo basket and pinterest girlfriend is crazy.”

“It has snacks, a plushie, and sentimental meaning,” Jaemin deadpans. “That’s literally a boo basket.” You groan. “You guys are so annoying.” But when Karina leans forward, her eyes soften. “Hey,” she says quietly, “I’m glad you’re doing this. It’s about time you let yourself be happy.”

You glance down at the box, throat tightening again — because yeah, you’ve been scared. Because letting yourself love Jisung means finally accepting that Jungwoo belongs to a different story. You don’t say anything, just nod a little.

Karina stands and tugs lightly on your hair. “Thank God. Now we can finally move on with our lives. I’m so happy you’re happy, baby.”

You smile, small and fragile but real.

“I think I’m trying,” you whisper. Jaemin flops onto the couch beside you. “Trying 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.”

You smack him in the arm. “Shut up.”

He grins, unbothered. “You love me.”

But your chest feels full — 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 he’d kissed you like he wasn’t sure he was allowed but couldn’t stop himself anyway. You remember his hands — warm, trembling a little — and how, for the first time in a long time, you hadn’t thought about what you’d lost. You swallow hard, eyes blurring slightly as you stare at the note again.

Maybe that’s why you’d hidden the box for so long. Because gifting it made everything real — and real meant you could get hurt again. Karina’s voice cuts gently through your thoughts. “You okay?” You blink, realizing she’s now standing at the kitchen doorway. Her smile is small but knowing. “You look like you’re in a coming-of-age movie montage.”

You laugh, shaky but genuine. “Just thinking.” She nods toward the box. “You should give it to him soon. Before you talk yourself out of it again.”

“I know,” you murmur, fingers brushing the cherry ribbon. “I just… it feels big. Like I’m giving him a piece of something I don’t know how to take back.” Karina walks over, wrapping her arms around your shoulders from behind. “That’s how you know it’s worth it.”

The words settle quietly between you — no rush, no pressure, just truth.

Then Jaemin’s voice breaks the silence: “Are we done being sentimental or should I start narrating this like a movie trailer?”

You both groan at once.

“Jaemin!” Karina yells.

He grins, unfazed. “Previously on The Sappy Adventures of ice princess and prince ch—” You throw another pillow at him before he can finish. “Youre ridiculous.” Karina’s laughing again, shoulders shaking as she retreats to the couch. The apartment hums back to life — 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.

“I think I’ll give it to him this week?” you ask softly, unsure, mostly to yourself. Karina’s voice floats from the couch. “Finally. Just don’t give him a heart attack when he opens it.” Jaemin adds, “he’ll definitely get a heart attack.”

“JAEMIN!”

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling again — the good kind, the kind that makes your chest feel warm. The three of you dissolve into laughter again — 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 doesn’t hurt to think about what’s next — it feels exciting. For the first time, the ghosts don’t weigh you down. They just linger — softer now, almost distant.

The lab was nearly empty when he walked in — just the low hum of computers and the faint flicker of the monitor washing your face in blue. You’d 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 didn’t belong in fluorescent light — 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 — the sharp scrape of skates, a voice shouting “Go, Ji—!” before the clip cut off.

“You’re early,” you said, not looking up. He smiled a little. “You mean you’re late. You said you’d send the first cut last night.” You sighed. “I got distracted.”

“By?”

You gestured at the screen. “Him. The tiger.”

He rolled his eyes as he sat beside you. “Right. The tiger that’s definitely not Jisung." You didn’t answer, only scrubbed through the footage — Jisung skating fast, shoulders squared, face set in focus. Jungwoo caught the quiet pride in your voice when you spoke again. “You can’t see it unless you slow it down. Look — this moment here, right before he passes. His left shoulder drops, just slightly. He does that when he’s about to fake out an opponent. It’s instinct, not training.”

He blinked. “You noticed that?”

You gave him that look — the one you used to give him back then, when you’d point out things he didn’t 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.

“So,” you said, switching tabs. “Here’s what I’m thinking for the narration part. Your voice — your part — it’ll be kind of like journaling. Honest. Simple. Like how you’d talk to someone you can’t see.”

“My part?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. You’ll be narrating the emotional arc. It’s about learning to look at yourself through someone else’s lens. You’ll voice the truth behind what the camera can’t capture but like as a critic in a sense.”

He frowned, leaning back. “You’re making this sound like therapy.” You laughed softly. “That’s kind of the point.”

He was about to argue again when your tone changed — quieter, thoughtful. “The tiger’s voice, though — that’ll be Jisung. His version of the truth. Like, his actual inner thoughts voiced over the animation Hendery’s helping with.”

“Hendery?”

And there it was — the shift. The moment your eyes lit up, not for him, but for the memory behind the name.

“So this is the first edit. YangYang helped with the cinematography— well, technically Luna made him help.” A laugh tugged at your voice, and Jungwoo glanced at you, caught off guard by how easily warmth filled the room when you spoke. “Made him?”

You grinned. “Total 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. “What—why a frying pan?”

You tapped the space bar to pause the video, eyes still sparkling from the memory. “Because apparently, he promised her he’d stop volunteering for other people’s projects after whatever last semester’s fiasco was. And when I came to ask, he agreed too fast. So she said—and I quote—‘Either you help her with your whole heart, or you explain to me why you’re sleeping outside tonight.’ Bear in mind she's not even living with him!! Can you believe that?”

Jungwoo chuckled despite himself. “Sounds like domestic bliss.” “Oh, absolutely. Then Chenle started recording it like it was a wildlife documentary. Johnny was narrating. ‘And here we see the rare Luna in her natural habitat—asserting dominance.’ YangYang is right where he wants to be.”

You laughed at the memory, hand over your mouth, and Jungwoo found himself smiling, too, though the feeling twisted deep in his chest. He’d missed that sound—the 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 — not by name, but in the shape of it. He didn’t know these people, but he could feel them in your tone — the easy laughter, the inside jokes.

“So,” he said finally, forcing a light tone. “You’ve got a whole army helping you with this guy’s hockey documentary.”

“First of all, it's not his. It's ours. Second, it’s not a documentary,” you said. “It’s a story.”

“A story about him.”

“A story about change,” you corrected.

He studied you — the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still fixed on the monitor. You didn’t even flinch when he said, “You talk about him like you—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, sharp but calm. He bit the inside of his cheek, a small, humorless smile tugging at him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I didn’t need to.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the frozen image of Jisung on screen — mid-skate, eyes determined, hair falling into his face. “He’s just another guy, you know. Talented, sure. But you build him up like he’s—”

You turned to him then, eyes steady. “Like he’s real?”

That threw him off.

“He is,” you said simply. “That’s why this works. Because it’s not about the performance, Jungwoo. It’s about him learning to be seen for who he really is — not who people think he is.”

Something flickered across his expression — a shadow of something he refused to name. “You used to say that about me,” he said quietly.

You hesitated. “You used to let me.”

The silence stretched thin between you, sharp with everything unsaid. He tried to deflect, to make it lighter. “So what, I’m just the narrator now? The guy with a voice but no face?”

You smiled faintly. “The voice is what makes people stay.”

He hated that his heart stuttered at that — the same way it used to when you’d 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 wasn’t that.

It was that you’d found something he never gave you — someone who saw you the way you saw everyone else.

So instead, he scoffed, “You really think this’ll work? Him talking as a tiger, me journaling like some sad poet?”

“This is majorly your assignment Woo.” You reminded him with a playful grin, “besides, you underestimate how good you sound when you’re honest.”

“Honest,” he repeated, like it was foreign.

You pressed play again. Jisung appeared, laughing on screen after slipping during practice. You’d kept the clip — raw, imperfect. His teammates’ voices in the background. Your own laughter, faint but audible.

Jungwoo felt the ache twist deeper. You’d kept that moment because it meant something to you — 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 — 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. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You smiled without looking away from the screen. “You’ve told me that before.”

“Yeah.” His voice cracked the tiniest bit. “And I meant it then too.”

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 didn’t hear a word of it. He was too busy memorizing the quiet curve of your expression — how focused you were, how alive you looked when you were building something that mattered.

He realized, with a slow, painful clarity, that you weren’t his muse anymore. You were someone else’s reason.

And for the first time, Jungwoo didn’t know whether to hate Jisung — 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 café tables, your lunch tray untouched. The faint chatter of students swirled around, distant enough that you could pretend you were alone—if not for the very solid, very real presence sitting across from you.

Jisung.

He looked too good for someone who’d 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 — a plate of kimchi fried rice and a cup of strawberry milk that was apparently 'yours' he’d 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. “You’re not gonna talk to me forever, huh pixie?”

Your throat tightened. “I’m talking now.”

“Barely.” His tone was teasing, but his eyes softened. “You’ve been dodging me since yesterday.” You fiddled with your straw. “I haven’t been dodging. I’ve just been… busy.”

“Busy?” he repeated, leaning back. “With what? Running away?” You shot him a glare, cheeks heating. “Jisung—”

He chuckled, low and warm, and reached across the table while passing you the milk. His fingers brushed your wrist — light, but enough to make your pulse skip.

“You’re cute when you’re shy,” he said, voice gentle now. “But you don’t need to be. Nothing's changed, you know?”

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. “It’s weird. It’s just—different now.”

He hummed. “Good different?”

You glanced up at him, unable to hide your smile. “Yeah. Good different.”

His grin widened. “Then why are you sitting all the way over there like I bite?”

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 — 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. “Better,” he murmured. You muttered something about needing space, but he was already opening your lunch box. “You didn’t even eat. Are you planning to starve just to avoid me?”

“I wasn’t avoiding—”

He held out a piece of your sandwich toward your mouth, one brow raised. “Prove it.” You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm,” he said, still holding the bite up. “And you love it.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned forward anyway, taking the bite just to shut him up. He grinned, triumphant.

“See? Progress.”

Your laughter escaped before you could stop it, and the tension dissolved — soft, easy, like exhaling after holding your breath for too long. Jisung shifted closer, knee brushing yours. “There she is. I missed that sound.”

Your smile faltered just slightly. “You really missed me after… one day?” He tilted his head, eyes steady on you. “You think I wouldn’t?” His voice had that quiet seriousness you recognized — the one he used when he wasn’t joking, when his honesty slipped past the easy grin. You didn’t know what to say, so you reached out and nudged the cup of strawberry milk with your finger. “You got milk again and you rarely drink it anyways.”

“Yeah, for you.” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “but it’s your fault for avoiding me. I crave it now.”

You almost laughed — but the look he gave you stopped you. Something gentle, full of everything he didn’t say. And when he leaned in just a little — not enough to close the space, but enough that you could feel his breath against your cheek — you didn’t move away.

“Jisung—”

“Hey,” he whispered, smiling. “I’ve got you.” Then, with the smallest of sighs, he tilted his head and said, “Can I?”

You didn’t answer in words — you didn’t have to. The tiny nod you gave was enough. He leaned in, slow and gentle, until his lips met yours. It wasn’t rushed or loud or hungry — it was quiet, the kind of kiss that felt like understanding.

The kind that said I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

The kind that made your stomach flutter and your heart ache in the same breath.

Then—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! PDA alert!”

You jumped as Chenle’s voice cut through the air. He plopped his tray on the table with a clatter, grinning wide enough to split his face. “Man, I was right,” he said, smirking at Jisung. “You finally found her.”

Jisung groaned. “Don’t start.”

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 someone’s backpack.

“Wow, what a sight,” Somi teased, sliding into the seat across from you. “Our lovebirds are having lunch alone.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my goodness!!” Karina gasped dramatically. “Wait, is this about why you were glowing two days ago?”

“Karina—” you started, but she only giggled harder like the menace she truly was. Jisung didn’t even bother pretending innocence — he was smiling like he couldn’t help it, one arm still slung casually behind your chair.

Chenle sat down beside him, unwrapping his burger. “It’s official. My boy’s whipped.”

“Whipped?” Jisung repeated, eyes narrowing.

“You heard me.”

“No one's complaining my boy.” Jisung retorted with a naughty smirk. “I'm creamed up and everything!!”

The table got silent before it suddenly burst into laughter and the shock of his words. Your lips formed an ‘o’ as you turned to look at him baffled, red as a tomato.

He did not just say that!?

“Put him down now!!” YangYang shouted.

"Creamed up is just crazy." Seulgi murmured into her bread with a shake of her head. “You did not just say that!!” Luna giggled into her palms just as embarrassed for you. "Like why?"

“Boys are so gross!” Karina muttered with a look of disgust on her face.

“Never say that again please!!?!”

“My poor ears!” 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!"

“It's lunch time, we didn't need to know that!” Hendery argued, looking disgusted.

Then Luna perked up. “Hey! We should do something fun this weekend. To celebrate… the growing relationship.” She gestured vaguely between you two. Yangyang nodded. “Yeah, like a hotpot night! On your rooftop.” He pointed at you, Karina, and Somi. “You guys have that perfect view. “I’m bringing the broth.” Luna smacked his arm. “You can’t even boil water properly.”

“Which is why you’ll help me.”

Laughter rippled through the table.

Karina gasped. “That’s actually a great idea! We can do it Friday night.” Somi clapped. “Yes! Fall hotpot. Sweaters. Blankets. Lanterns—oh my god, yes.” Seulgi groaned. “You guys are the worst. My brother’s graduation dinner is Friday.” Hendery leaned back with a smirk. “Just ditch him. It’s not like he’s graduating twice.” “Try saying that to my mom,” Seulgi said flatly, earning more laughter. Jisung chuckled beside you, his fingers brushing the back of your shoulder lightly. “You’ll come, right?”

You looked up at him, at that small, familiar grin — the one that still makes your chest ache in the best way — and smiled back. "It's my rooftop too…”

“Good,” he said softly, voice just for you. “Then it’s a date.”

Chenle immediately pointed his straw at the two of you. “Oh, they’re so done for.” “Shut up, Chenle,” Jisung muttered, but he was smiling — the kind that said he didn’t really mind. And when your laughter joined the rest of the table’s, warm and easy under the golden afternoon light, he leaned back, content — 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.

“Yuuchan, we still need soy sauce and that spicy ramen you like,” Minho said, tilting his head toward the next aisle. Yuta smiled, that small, quiet curve of lips that never quite reached his eyes. “Hai, hai, I’ll get it. You’re the one who eats most of it anyway.”

“Because someone keeps making it too good.”

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 didn’t need to be loud. “Yuuchan,” Minho called again when Yuta drifted toward the noodle section, half lost in thought. “You forgot the tofu.”

“Ah—right, babe, one sec.”

The word slipped out too easily. The way it always did when they were alone — 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 that’s when Jaehyun looked up.

The aisle wasn’t crowded, but it might as well have been. The squeak of wheels, the faint music overhead, the murmur of voices — all of it blurred when Jaehyun’s eyes met his.

Yuta froze.

Jaehyun blinked, like his brain was still catching up with what his eyes were seeing. “Yuta?”

The sound of his name felt foreign — 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 Jaehyun’s shoe.

“Ah—sorry,” Yuta muttered, bending quickly, too fast, pretending that he was fine. “It’s really you,” Jaehyun said, smiling — hesitant but warm. “Man, it’s been forever.”

Yuta’s mouth opened, but no sound came. Minho stepped closer, placing the basket on the ground. “Yuuchan?” he asked softly, uncertain now.

And suddenly, Yuta was caught between the two halves of his life — the one he’d built, trembling but his, and the one he’d buried, still haunting him like a heartbeat he couldn’t quiet. He hadn’t expected to see him here, of all places. The last time he’d seen Yuta, his sister had still been crying every night, and Jungwoo couldn’t say his name without that flicker of hurt in his eyes.

And now, here he was — hair longer, face older, softer somehow, like time had carved him down.

“Yuta,” Jaehyun said again, trying to fill the awkward silence. “You look… good.” Yuta gave a weak laugh. “I look like someone who spends too much time indoors.”

“That’s not new.”

It was supposed to be lighthearted, but it hit something in both of them — nostalgia, regret, affection too tangled to name.

Jaehyun’s gaze drifted to the man beside him — Minho. He had the gentle steadiness of someone who understood Yuta well, who probably loved him quietly, patiently.

“Hi,” Minho said, a polite smile, extending a hand.

“Jaehyun.”

“Minho.”

Yuta’s heart pounded. “My—uh—my friend.”

Minho froze. Just barely. His smile stayed, but it didn’t reach his eyes now. “Right,” he murmured. “Friend.”

The silence was thick enough to drown in.

He did hold his hand once — 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 hadn’t pulled away. Now, Yuta’s 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 didn’t deserve it.

But Jaehyun’s eyes — warm, curious, so painfully familiar — froze the word in his throat.

“Friend,” he repeated. “We just… live together.” And Minho did not look at him then. He simply shifted his weight and nodded. “We should get going soon. We’ve still got the meat section left.”

The way he said it — calm, quiet — hurt worse than anger would have.

For a second, Jaehyun almost forgot everything Yuta had done — 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 he’d realized something was off — 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.

“Look at you two,” someone from the team had joked. “Yuta’s practically glued to Jungwoo, huh?”

Jaehyun had laughed. So had Jungwoo. But Yuta — Yuta had gone still.

Too still.

He’d brushed Jungwoo off, muttering something about getting water. Jaehyun had caught the look in his eyes — fear, guilt, something fragile he didn’t understand back then.

Later, he’d found Yuta behind the gym, sitting with his head in his hands.

“You okay?”

Yuta had smiled, small and shaky. “Yeah. Just… thinking I should get a girlfriend.”

Jaehyun had laughed at his incredulousness “Out of nowhere?”

“Yeah. Maybe it’ll fix me.”

He hadn’t known what that meant then. But later — 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.

“So… how have you been?” Jaehyun asked. “Busy,” Yuta said, forcing a smile. “Finishing school. You?”

“Same. You still talk to Jungwoo?”

The question hung there, sharp.

Yuta hesitated. “Not really.”

Jaehyun nodded slowly. “He still talks about you sometimes.”

That was a lie — Jungwoo didn’t. Not anymore. But he said it anyway, maybe to fill the space, maybe to see how Yuta would react. Yuta’s throat tightened. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” Jaehyun said softly. “He misses you.”

The air thickened.

Minho shifted beside him, fingers grazing the trolley handle. He didn’t say a word, but his silence screamed. When they finally reached the checkout, everything felt heavier — the baskets, the words they hadn’t 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. “Hey, Yuta.”

Yuta looked up.

“It’s good to see you again,” Jaehyun said quietly. “Really.”

Yuta tried to answer, but the words tangled in his throat. He only nodded. And as he and Minho walked out — the plastic bags rustling, shoulders barely brushing — Jaehyun stood there, watching. He remembered the laughter that used to fill the spaces between them. The teasing, the warmth.

And Yuta — walking out into the dusk, his hand inches from Minho’s but too afraid to take it — did think about holding it anyway.

He didn’t.

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 it’s vibrating today—half 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.

“Bro,” Jeno warns with a sigh, “you break something again and Kai is gonna give you another speech. I don’t have the emotional capacity to watch that.” Haechan grins, sweaty and smug. “Kai loves me. I’m his joy in a world full of disappointment. Also, heads up.”

The ball ricochets off the wall, hits a half-empty Red Bull can, and narrowly misses Jeno’s ear before landing in a trash bag someone left open.

“Three-pointer,” Haechan announces like he’s in the NBA.

Jeno opens his mouth to scold him—again—when the front door slams so hard the whole hallway shivers. “HELLOOOO MY FAVORITES,” Jaemin’s voice booms before he even appears. A gust of cold autumn air followed him in, scattering papers off the coffee table

Jeno doesn’t look up. “We didn’t invite you.”

“You never do,” Jaemin answers, throwing his bag onto the couch and Jeno’s lap in the same motion. “I’m like a seasonal virus. I show up because God allows it.” “You’re a menace,” Jeno mutters while Haechan groans deeply like someone had murdered peace itself. “That’s what my professors say too,” Jaemin says brightly. Haechan snorts. “And your sister. And your roommates. And your parents. And—”

“Okay enough,” Jaemin groans dramatically before collapsing onto the couch beside Jeno, long legs taking up all available space. He smells like cold outside air and someone’s perfume, probably Somi’s by accident from borrowing her scarf again now that the air is getting colder.

Jeno raises a brow. “Rough day?”

“Not at all.” Jaemin grins mischievously. “You know how Johnny came over to help Karina with her project the other day—?”

Jeno’s fingers paused mid-loop.

Not again. Not today.

“…Yeah,” he said, quietly.

Jaemin visibly perked up, oblivious to the tightening in Jeno’s chest. “Bro. BRO. He showed up with pastries—like fresh bakery ones—and he said something about ‘fabric being the window to the soul.’ I swear Karina almost teared up.”

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.

“Oh my god. Look at him. He’s jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Jeno said flatly.

“You totally are,” Jaemin sing-songed.

Haechan pointed at him accusingly. “This is your jealous face. I’ve 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.”

Jeno rubbed his palms against his jeans, swallowing hard.

“I just—Johnny’s… Johnny.”

“Tall?” Jaemin said.

“Charming?” Haechan added teasingly.

“Stupidly good-looking.” Jaemin supplied cluelessly. “A biochem major with perfect teeth and a saxophone?” Haechan finished narrating the only thing they seem to be talking about lately since his girlfriend’s project started.

Jeno groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“Okay,” he says too fast. “Enough.”

Jaemin slowly turns toward him, squinting. “Why does your face look like that?”

“It’s my regular face.”

“No, your regular face is blank and mildly depressed. This is… something else.” Haechan gasps exaggeratedly. “Is Jeno jealous? THAT’S NEW.”

“I’m not jealous,” Jeno says immediately, which is exactly what a jealous person would say. “Oh my God,” Haechan groans dramatically. “He’s jealous. This is better than what they're putting out on Netflix.” Jeno slams the laptop shut. “I’m not jealous. I’m just… curious.” Jaemin leans his chin on his hand. “About?”

Jeno hates that his ears are warming. He hates even more that both of them notice.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Bro,” Jaemin says softly now, dropping the theatrics. “Talk.”

The word sits heavy in the room.

The house buzzed around them—footsteps 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 it’s the easiest thing to confess to. “It’s just… Karina hasn’t been texting much today. And you mentioning Johnny—”

“Oh my God,” Haechan whispers, “is the guy like tall tall? Because even I would fold.” Jaemin throws a couch cushion at him. “Not helping.”

Haechan catches it one-handed. “Just being supportive.”

Jeno drags a hand down his face. “I know Karina and Johnny are just working on a project. I know she likes me. I know.”

The words sound less convincing out loud.

Jaemin nudges him gently with his knee. “Karina adores you. She literally talks about you like you invented oxygen.” For a moment, Jeno’s breath eases—until Jaemin adds, with a playful grin, “Even when you act like a walking beige flag.”

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 Jaemin’s voice softens again, quieter now, meant only for him.“She’s into you, Jeno. Seriously. Don’t let Johnny’s perfectly symmetrical face get into your head.”

“It’s not just his face,” Haechan mutters. “His jawline… ugh.”

“Lee Donghyuck,” Jeno warns.

“What?? I’m appreciating the human form from our stalking yesterday!” Jaemin rolls his eyes and throws his arm casually over the back of the couch, posture lax but gaze sharp. “Look. You’ve been in your head since the semester started. But Karina chose you, okay? And she keeps choosing you. If you’re nervous, tell her. She’ll probably make fun of you and then kiss you until you calm down.”

Jeno’s chest squeezes, equal parts ache and affection.

He wants to believe that.

Before he can speak, Haechan leans forward suddenly, squinting at Jeno like he’s remembering something earth-shattering.

“Wait. Speaking of romance—what's princess Nakamoto doing these days?”

“Hm?” Jeno blinks confused for a second. “You know...” Haechan wiggles his eyebrows. “My precious Hani?”

“You mean your crush?” Jeno interpreted making Jaemin’s head snap around. “YOU WHAT?”

“Oh please,” Haechan scoffs. “Everyone had a crush on her at some point.”

“Not everyone,” Jaemin protests. “I respected her like a sister.” “You literally tried to flirt with her until you found out she was best friends with your soon to be step-sister who you hated,” 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. “Haechan, you are worse because you had a crush on everyone when you were twelve.”

“False,” Haechan says proudly. “Only her. And that one barista. And the family dentist.”

“The WHAT?”

“Hey, good teeth are hot, I won’t apologize.”

Jaemin throws his head back laughing. “God, I missed this frat.” Haechan plops himself between them, draping his arms over both their shoulders dramatically. “Anyway, don’t worry, Jeno. I’m over her now. Emotionally healed. Completely unattached.” “Good to know,” Jeno mutters dryly. "Park will kill you otherwise."

Haechan pauses. “Though if she ever becomes single—”

“Haechan,” both Jeno and Jaemin warn. "We actually like Jisung!"

“I’M KIDDING!?!”

(He is absolutely not kidding.)

Something unknots in Jeno’s chest.

The chaos, the noise, the dumb banter—it steadies him in a way he didn’t realize he needed. Jaemin nudges him again. “Seriously, though. Talk to Karina tonight. And stop spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You are literally spiraling right now.”

Haechan gestures around grandly. “This whole conversation has been a spiral.”

Jeno exhales, head thudding back against the couch.

“Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

“And then kiss her,” Haechan adds. “And then apologize for being insane,” Jaemin finishes.

Jeno sighs. “You both are the worst.”

They grin at him, matching and chaotic.

Outside, the wind rattles the windows again. Inside, the frat house hums with life—messy, loud, comforting. And in the middle of all of it, Jeno finally feels like he can breathe.

The late afternoon wind nips at Somi’s cheeks as she climbs the outdoor steps to the university’s 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 immediately—soft 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 it’s a living thing he’s 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 brightens—not dramatically, just subtly, in the corners of his eyes and the slight curve of his mouth.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm but teasing. “Chief Stylist.” Somi rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide her smile. “If I’m the chief, that makes you what? Assistant to the stylist?"

“Oof.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I guess I deserved that.”

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. “Wow. You brought a whole Safari.” “It’s not a safari,” Somi mutters, though her cheeks warm. “It’s… options.” He leans forward, studying everything she’s laid out. “Well, Jisung’s inner voice is a tiger, so honestly, the props are on theme.”

Somi snorts as she removes her jacket. “Only you would defend me buying children’s toys for a university project.” “What can I say?” Hendery shrugs lightly. “I appreciate commitment.”

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. It’s quiet here—soft, focused—and Somi feels herself settle into that space easily, too easily, like she’s stepping into a version of herself that makes more sense. They begin working—Somi spreading fabrics and sketches across the table, Hendery adjusting brushes on the tablet.

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “has your girl told you about the date she's taking Jisung to?” Somi looks up sharply. “What date?”

Hendery raises a brow. “You live with her. How do you not know?”

“She didn’t say anything about taking anyone on a date.”

He turns his tablet around, revealing a rough sketch of the tiger in a hoodie. “Jisung 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.” Somi rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Oh my God.” “Kept replaying a voice note over and over,” Hendery adds, tapping the sketch. “Like he was studying it for an exam.”

"She's dumbed him down I swear." Somi snickers. “But that sounds like him.” “You’ve seen him around her,” Hendery says as he begins sketching again. “He’s like… a baby hamster with a crush. Trying to act cool but immediately tripping over his own claws.” Somi laughs into her sleeve. “Last week he tripped over thin air when she asked him if he wanted soup.”

Hendery freezes, then bursts into laughter so strong his pencil nearly falls. “No. No way.” “I swear.” She wipes her eyes. “He ran into the fridge door.”

“Oh, that’s bad.” Hendery shakes his head. “That’s like… diagnosable levels of crush.”

“They are so in love its sickening.”

Somi feels warmth settle into her chest—fondness for you, affection for the gentle mess Jisung is, and comfort in sharing this moment with Hendery.

“Okay,” Somi says, clearing her throat. “Let’s talk tiger.” “Let’s,” Hendery agrees, shifting back into work mode. “Personality first?” “Mhm.” She thinks. “The tiger should be… Jisung, but not too Jisung. More confident. More grounded.” Hendery nods, adjusting the posture of the sketch. “So, like, Jisung if he actually believed half the good things people say about him?”

Somi blinks slowly. “Yeah. Exactly that.”

He glances at her. “You’re good at this, you know. Defining a character like this.” She shrugs, suddenly shy. “It just makes sense in my head.” “That’s what I mean.” He tilts the screen. “Most people don’t think like that.” Somi fidgets with a patch of fabric. “Maybe I’m just… used to micromanaging everyone.” Hendery smiles faintly. “I think it’s more than that.” He doesn’t push. He doesn’t 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 itself—not in awe, but in quiet respect.

“You organize your thoughts through color,” he says after a moment.Somi looks up. “What?” “Every time you think out loud, you move the colors around.” He gestures to the fabrics. “You sort ideas by shades. Differences. Contrast. It’s very… director-like.”

Somi freezes, her chest tightening for a reason she doesn’t immediately understand. “Director-like?” she repeats softly. “Yeah.” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “You see the whole picture, not just the pieces.”

She swallows hard, staring at the palettes.

Directing.

She’s 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 sunlight—soft, weightless, oddly beautiful. “You really think… I could do something like that?” she murmurs. Hendery looks at her—not intensely, not flirtatiously. Just… steadily. Kindly.

“If you wanted to,” he says, “you’d be incredible.” Something in her chest opens. Slowly. Carefully.

Like a door left ajar. She breathes in, shaky and deep. “Thank you,” she says quietly. He nods once. “Anytime.”

They fall back into the work, but something is different. Somi feels grounded, but lighter. More certain, yet more curious. The tiger begins taking shape—soft edges, warm stripes, eyes that hold more confidence than Jisung ever shows. Hendery’s hand moves in steady strokes, and when he leans in to match a shade she’s holding, their arms brush lightly.

Not deliberate. Not dramatic. Just warm.

Somi doesn’t move away immediately. And neither does he. Outside, the wind whistles softly against the window. Inside, the room holds an almost fragile warmth—something 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 citrus—someone must’ve 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. Hoseok’s voice still echoes in his head: “For the mid-semester collaborative, I’m pairing you two. I want something fluid. Intimate. Trust-based.”

And then the look he gave both of them—calm but knowing—like he meant to stir something up.

Now Shotaro stands outside the studio, palm on the metal door handle, hesitating like it’s 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 low—late afternoon sun slants through the wide windows, painting gold stripes across the mirrored wall. Dust floats lazily, suspended like it’s 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. She’s 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 doesn’t notice him yet—she’s focused, a slight frown between her brows as she runs the same eight-count again. Soft. Sharp. Soft again. Her movements are fluid, like she’s dissolving into the music one second and cutting it apart the next.

Shotaro’s breath catches. Again. This has been happening too often.

He clears his throat.

Mina startles, whipping toward him—eyes widening, cheeks tinging pink. “Oh—Shotaro. You’re early.” He steps inside, letting the door click shut behind him. “You’re earlier.” She shrugs, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t sit in my dorm. Too quiet. And I… wanted to get the sequence right.”

He nods, dropping his bag beside hers. His chest feels tight, like something inside is close to spilling out. He’s used to this—dance studios, partners, choreography—but this is different. Mina is quiet, observant, soft in a way that makes him want to lean in closer without even thinking.

And Hana—Hana is wildfire. Laughing, teasing, bold hands pulling him into late-night rendezvous, texting him that she’s bored and he needs to fix that immediately.

Two different worlds. Two different pulls.

He’s in trouble.

“Can we run it from the top?” Mina asks, pulling him back to the present. He nods. “Yeah. Just—show me the timing again?”

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 must’ve 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.

“Ready?” she whispers.

He should be.

He isn’t.

But he nods anyway. The music rises gently. Mina lifts her hand, palm up—a signal. Shotaro places his hand in hers. Her fingers are warm. “Okay,” she says softly. “One… two… three…”

They move. It’s clumsy at first—he’s 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.

“Sorry,” he murmurs when she stumbles. “That was my fault.” “No,” she shakes her head, looking up at him. “I hesitated.”

Their faces are close—closer than they should be. Her lips part just slightly like she’s about to say something else, but she doesn’t. Instead, she steps back.

“Let’s try again,” 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 Hana’s last text:

Don’t forget tomorrow. Just us. Like a date… but not a date. Unless you want it to be😉

He shouldn’t think about that now and he especially shouldn't think about Mina like this either.

But she turns, steps into him—and 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. “Shotaro…” she whispers.

He doesn’t know if it’s a warning or a question. He doesn’t know if he should step back.

He doesn’t.

The next move calls for a dip. He supports her weight, guiding her backward—her 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. “You’re shaking.” He swallows. “You’re close.” She flushes. “It’s part of the routine.”

“Not this close.”

Her breath catches.

Silence stretches. The studio feels too warm. The air too thick. Their heartbeats too loud.

Mina’s gaze flickers to his mouth.

And that’s it.

He leans in.

Slowly, like he’s giving her every chance to stop him. She doesn’t. She tilts her chin up, eyelids fluttering.Their lips brush—

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 she’s afraid of wanting this too much.

His mind is chaos. Mina’s scent. Hana’s laugh.

The text he never replied to. The way Mina is kissing him like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. He pulls away first, breathing unevenly. Her eyes stay closed a second longer—like she’s memorizing the moment. When she finally opens them, they’re glassy, confused, full.

“Shotaro…” she whispers again, but this time—there’s an ache in it. “I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

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 Hana— 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. “We should… keep practicing,” she says softly.

He nods.

But the space between them isn’t the same anymore. The dance isn’t the same. He isn’t 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 — 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 that’s 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.

“You think we overdid it?” she asks, nudging a tray into place. You glance at the table — long, crowded already with burners and bowls and sauces — and smile. “We always do.”

She hums, satisfied.

The door opens again. Voices spill in.

Hendery walks through first, loud and familiar, carrying soft drinks like he’s 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 — close in a way that feels private even in a group. Then Jeno steps through, and Karina straightens without realizing she’s doing it.

Their eyes meet briefly.

He smiles. She smiles back. It’s easy — practiced — but there’s 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 Karina’s wrist, just to tug her closer for a second. His thumb brushes her pulse. Intimate. Controlled. Like he’s reminding himself she’s real.

She lets him.

Chenle barrels in, dramatically out of breath. “I climbed six flights of stairs for this,” he announces, dropping drinks onto the table. “If the broth isn’t life-changing, I’m suing.” “You took the lift,” Jaemin says instantly behind him. Chenle pauses. “That’s not the point, I'm still suing.”

Laughter ripples through the group, easy, familiar. Collapsible chairs scrape. Yangyang pulls Luna closer without thinking when they sit, their knees fitting together like they’ve always belonged there. Their smiles soften. Whatever they’re talking about doesn’t need an audience. Somi and Hendery sit shoulder to shoulder, not touching, but close enough that their elbows keep knocking, both of them pretending it’s 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 — relaxed, hair loosely tied back, wearing one of his shirts without comment. That should be enough to calm him.

It doesn’t.

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. He’s quiet as he moves toward you, taking both your hands into his, slipping into your space like he knows it’s always been his. “You did all this?” 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. “Earlier.”

“This is amazing work, cupcake.” 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.

“Thank you.” 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, “Hello guys.” 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 he’s counting exits. His smile comes easy — it always does — but it doesn’t 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...

“Okay,” Chenle announces, clapping his hands together. “No one touches anything until we all sit. I’m serious.” “No you’re not,” 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 — 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 — the kind that doesn’t ache, just glows. Chenle sees it too. “Wow. Tragic. True love is dietary accommodation.” “Shut up,” you say, laughing, elbowing him lightly.

Shotaro doesn’t laugh. He sees everything.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp in a way that doesn’t match the warmth of the night.

Because suddenly he’s remembering you sophomore year, sixteen— 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 — quieter, smaller — and how she couldn’t quite reach you then either.

Somi remembers differently.

She remembers knocking on your door and getting no answer. Remembers how you’d still show up, still smile, but like you were acting yourself from far away.

Shotaro’s voice cuts through the moment while stabbing harshly into a ready steamed dumpling, Jaemin had out in his bowl as he looks at you. “You know,” he says casually, too casually, “it’s funny how fast some people settle into playing house.”

The table quiets — not fully, but enough.

Jisung looks up, confused but calm. “What?” Shotaro shrugs, eyes still on you. “Just saying. You barely know him.”

Something in your chest tightens.

You straighten, turning a bit toward Shotaro. Your voice stays steady, but it’s firm now — no softness cushioning it.

“Stop.”

The word lands clean.

Shotaro blinks. “I’m joking.” “No,” you say. “You’re not. And you don’t get to talk about him like that.”

Jisung’s hand freezes mid-movement.

The city hums below you. The broth bubbles louder in the silence. Shotaro’s jaw tightens. “I’m just looking out for you.” “I didn’t ask you to and I don't know what's going on with you...” you reply. Not angry. Clear. “But I won’t let you take it out on Jisung.”

That hits.

Because he is taking it out on Jisung.

Because Jisung is everything he isn’t right now — certain, grounded, sure of his heart. Because Shotaro is stuck between Hana’s quiet pull and Mina’s sudden spark, trapped by his own indecision, angry at himself for letting it get this messy.

And that’s what gets to Shotaro. Not arrogance. Not entitlement.

Certainty.

The way Jisung doesn’t hesitate. The way he knows what he’s doing. He’s angry at himself. So it leaks sideways.

“Careful,” Shotaro says lightly. “You’ll spoil her.”

The table laughs. You stiffen slightly. Jisung glances at you before responding. “She spoils me too.”

Shotaro smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks at you then — really looks — 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 didn’t even know existed.

Jeno watches the exchange, chest tight.

He remembers you back then — remembers piecing it together too late. Remembering Jungwoo had been the reason, and hating himself for not protecting you sooner.

Karina notices Jeno’s silence immediately.

She shifts closer, their knees brushing under the table, her hand resting lightly on his thigh — intimate, careful, restrained. There’s warmth there, but also distance.

She feels his tension and doesn’t understand it. In her mind, they had already talked this through. In his worry, it has teeth because Johnny’s name also flickers through Jeno’s thoughts like a warning light. He hates that it does.

Even Jaemin’s 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 Luna’s hand, needing to ground himself in whatever twin telepathy argument the hotpot has turned into.

You straighten.

“Taro,” you say slowly, warning already in your tone. He ignores it, eyes fixed on Jisung now. “You don’t even see it, do you? You decide things so fast. You fall fast.”

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 — not loudly, but cleanly. You turn fully toward him. “Don’t.”

The word lands firm. Shotaro blinks. He’s not used to that from you.

“I don’t know what you think you’re protecting,” you continue, voice steady but tight, “but this—” you gesture between you and Jisung, “—is not your call.”

Jisung opens his mouth. You lift a hand, stopping him gently without looking.

“This is my relationship,” you say, eyes locked on Shotaro now. “You don’t get to imply he’s temporary or unsafe or something I’ll regret. Not at this table. Not ever.”

The silence stretches.

Shotaro’s anger folds inward, sharp and messy. Because he’s not angry at Jisung — not really. He’s angry at himself. How unsure he is. At how he’s 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 you’re already gone.

That terrifies him.

“You don’t understand,” he mutters. “I understand enough,” you say softly, but your boundary doesn’t soften. “And I need you to trust me.” Jisung finally speaks, voice calm. “I’m not here to hurt her.”

Shotaro looks at him then — really looks. And that’s 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. “Okay! Wow! Hotpot got spicy and not in a fun way.” Jaemin jumps in immediately after. “Does anyone want more beef? Emotional beef? Literal beef?”

Laughter breaks the tension — awkward, grateful. You exhale slowly, fingers curling into Jisung’s sleeve. He turns to you, thumb brushing your knuckles once, grounding. Yangyang leans toward Luna, murmuring something that makes her smile softly — intimate but contained, their world quiet and separate from the chaos.

“Okay but,” Hendery says around a mouthful of noodles, pointing his chopsticks at Jisung, “why does your girlfriend have a custom plate?” “It’s not custom,” Jisung defends himself.

“You literally separated vegetables,” Yangyang muses knowingly.

“My little rabbit loves her carrots,” your boyfriend says easily with a grin, making both Jaemin and Chenle groan in disgust.

“That’s worse.”

Jaemin laughs so hard he nearly tips his bowl. “He knows her preferences. Let's get them married.” You nudge Jisung with your knee, scolding. “Stop it. This is your fault now; they won't shut up.” “I can’t,” he says, smiling. “They’re loud.” Making everyone laugh as the night slowly resumes its rhythm.

But under the table, Shotaro’s hands shake just a little. Because he knows now — you’re not hovering on the edge anymore.

You’re 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 everything—the laughter, the clatter of dishes, the sharp edges of words that hadn’t 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. There’s a towel draped over your shoulders, catching droplets before they can slip down your spine. The scent of your soap lingers—clean, faintly sweet, familiar.

Your fingers are still slightly wrinkled from the heat of the water, your thoughts even more so—softened, but tangled.

Shotaro’s face lingers. The way his jaw had set. The way your name had sounded in his mouth—tight, unfamiliar.

You don’t notice the door opening behind you.

You don’t 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 then—

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 haven’t looked at him. You’re still somewhere else, and that— 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 he’s been holding something in for too long and doesn’t know where to put it anymore.

For a second, neither of you moves. You’re still half inside your own head. He’s entirely outside of his. Then he closes the distance.

Fast.

His hands come up—both of them—cupping your face, fingers warm against your damp skin, thumbs brushing just under your ears as he pulls you into him and kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

It’s everything he didn’t say downstairs.

Your breath catches, hands instinctively finding his wrists, but you don’t push him away—you 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 he’s still thinking about it. Like he’s still hearing it.

You. Defending him.

“My relationship is with Jisung. Not anyone else.”

Your chest tightens. He kisses you deeper. Then, suddenly, you’re moving—because he’s moving—one 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 he’s chasing the sound. Your fingers slide up his arms, then into his hair, slightly damp from earlier, and you tug—just enough to ground yourself.

“Jisung—”

He hums against your lips, not pulling away. Not yet. His hand shifts—slips under the edge of your robe, palm settling warm against your thigh, thumb brushing once, slow, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

That this is real.

You inhale sharply. Your other hand presses against his chest—not 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. “Say it again,” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges. “What you said downstairs.”

Your stomach flips. You shake your head a little, breath uneven. “You’re being—” “I’m serious,” 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. “You—”

He leans in again, brushing his lips against yours, not quite kissing, “—defended me.” Your face warms instantly, “That’s not—”

He kisses you again.

Short this time.

Quick, but it lingers.

“You did.”

For a second, you’re both just… close. Breathing. Looking, and then something shifts again—playful 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.

“Oh?” he murmurs. “Don’t,” you warn, already feeling your composure slipping. His hands settle at your waist again, steady, grounding, thumbs brushing absent patterns against your sides.

“You were saying?” he prompts, far too pleased with himself. You narrow your eyes. “I was not saying anything.”

“You defended me,” he repeats, softer now, but no less smug. “Against your twin brother.”

You groan, dropping your head briefly against his shoulder. “Jisung—”

“I think,” he continues thoughtfully, one hand sliding slightly under the edge of your robe at your waist, warm against your bare skin, “that makes me your favorite person.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m right.”

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 he’s real. He exhales sharply at that. His head tilts back just slightly, giving you space—letting you take it—before 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 this—this 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, it’s not far.

Your nails lightly dig into his skin, and for a second, you’re 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.

“Why are there so many bowls?” Hendery is complaining loudly, sleeves rolled up as he stands at the sink, staring at the pile as though it personally offended him. “Because you ate out of three,” Yangyang shoots back from beside him, elbow-deep in soap suds. “Don’t act brand new.”

“I needed options!”

“You needed discipline.”

Chenle is laughing somewhere behind them, nearly dropping a stack of chopsticks. “No, because why did you keep changing broths like it was a personality trait?” Somi is perched on the counter, swinging her legs, holding a half-eaten skewer. “Let him live, oh my God.”

Karina is wiping down the table beside you, movements a little too precise, like she’s 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 doesn’t know how. Jaemin—Jaemin—was by the doorway, stacking empty trays, watching all of it with quiet amusement. “If this place floods, I’m blaming all of you.”

“It won’t flood,” you say absentmindedly, stacking the last of the plates.

From the living room, Chenle’s voice cuts through—“IF ANYONE TOUCHES MY DRINK, I’M SUING.” Luna laughs too loudly while lazily scrolling through the TV. “You don’t even know what suing means.”

“I know it means consequences.”

And then, you feel it. That shift. When you turn, Shotaro is already looking at you, not angry anymore. Just… tight. Like he didn’t 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.

There’s a beat. Then another. Before he finishes and steps forward. You do too, because it is time for everyone to go home. The hug is— awkward. Not unfamiliar.

Just… unfinished.

His arms wrap around you, firm, protective even now, but there’s hesitation in it. Like he almost pulls back halfway through and then decides not to.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he, but his grip tightens for a second. Just once before he lets go. “I’ll… see you,” he mutters, not quite meeting your eyes.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

There’s more. There’s so much more, but it stays there. Unsaid.

For now.

“Oi!” Chenle calls out, breaking the moment instantly. “If you two are done being dramatic, someone help me find the lid for this—why do we even own this?”

“That’s not ours!” Karina calls back, exasperated with a groan.

“It is now!”

Luna giggles at that while hugging YangYang, who had pulled her to sit on his lap. “Who the hell is we?” 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. “ I'm part of this family, mate, try to keep up.” He argued back.

“When did that consensus happen?”

“Jisung and I are a 2 for 1 package deal.”

“Speak for yourself.“ 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.

“Ain't no way the ice princess is abandoning me, right princess?”

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.

“Text me when you get home!” Somi shouts at Hendery as he head out after Yang Yang and Luna

“We’ll see each other tomorrow!”

“Text me anyway!”

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 hasn’t 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, “…you’re a lot right now.” He huffs a quiet laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. “You made me like this.”

“I made you—”

“You sat there,” he says, softer now, but no less intense, “in front of everyone, Your brother and you didn’t even hesitate.”

Your chest tightens. Something in your throat shifts. You look at him properly now, and the words come out before you can overthink them.

“I’m sorry.”

He blinks,that throws him more than anything else. He stills, “What?” Your hands slide up to his shoulders again, holding there, steady but unsure.

“For taking so long,” you say quietly. “To say it like that. To… be that sure out loud.” His expression softens immediately, “hey.” 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, “you don’t get to apologize for that.”

“I made you wait.”

“I would’ve waited longer.”

It’s immediate. No hesitation. No performance. Just truth.

Your chest tightens painfully. “Jisung—”

“I mean it,” he says, quieter now, but firmer. “Nothing about this changes because you took your time. I wasn’t going anywhere.”

Your eyes search his. He doesn’t look away.

“I’m still not,” 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.

“…still,” he adds, quieter, a little smug again, “I’m not complaining.”

You blink. “About what?”

He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, “having a girlfriend who scares people for me.” Your jaw drops slightly, and you narrow your eyes. “You’re very bossy today.”

“And you’re very damp,” he shoots back as he shifts slightly beneath you, then—In 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.

“Careful,” you murmur, half-breathless.

“I’ve got you,” he says winking, like it’s obvious.

Like it’s always been obvious.

He turns.

Gently lowers you back onto the bed, slower this time, more deliberate, making sure you’re 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 he’s not trying to fill space—just 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 he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.

The tension fades. Little by little.

“Turn,” 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 he’s focused.

Your chest tightens again—but differently this time.

Quieter.

Fuller.

When he’s 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.

It’s softer now.

Not less.

Just… steadier.

When he pulls back, it’s only to rest his forehead against yours.

Breath shared.

“Still think I’m insufferable?” he murmurs.

You smile, just a little. “Yeah.”

He grins and kisses you lightly again.

“Go shower,” you whisper.

He huffs. “You just want me gone.”

“I want you clean.”

“That hurts.”

You laugh quietly, pushing his shoulder. “You smell like all types of broth.”

He steals one more kiss anyway. Then another, making you giggle before finally pulling away with a reluctant sigh.

“Don’t fall asleep without me.”

“No promises.”

“I’ll be fast.”

“You won’t.”

“I will tonight.”

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 Jisung’s hoodies, and comb through your hair one last time before settling back on your side of the bed. You reach up instinctively—fingers 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 mind—distant now, like a memory that doesn’t 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 doesn’t ask you to huide to be loved.

You exhale.

When he comes back, hair damp, shirtless in sweats, changed and moisturized, he doesn’t say anything—just slides into bed beside you, pulling the duvet over both of you before tugging you into him like it’s instinct.

Your head finds his chest.

His arm wraps securely around you.

Safe. Easy.

His lips press softly to your forehead., “goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

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 now—but not gone.

There’s still uncertainty somewhere in the distance; it still echoes with things you haven’t 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 it— you don’t feel like you’re losing yourself. You feel like you’re finally standing still, and maybe that’s enough.

For now.