one more night

He wants to argue otherwise.

But the words catch in his throat like thorns. Because maybe . . . she’s right. Maybe he’s known that for a long time now, and he just couldn’t face it. Or maybe he just has been a fucking coward that he not only kept hammering his own heart, but subconsciously squeezed hers too till they both were suffocating.

“It’s her.“ Jihyo swallows hard, voice trembling, “It has always been her. You love her. And I was just-“ She lets out a bitter laugh. “I was just a placeholder. A timepass.“

“No-“ His voice cracks, despite his futile attempt to not do so. “That’s not . . Jihyo-“

But even as he says it, he feels the guilt carving into him, cold and deep; like an icicle stabbing right on the throb of his heart. He feels the stab, and surrenders to the chair with his hands burying his head.

“I didn’t. . I didn’t mean to, Jihyo. . I thought. .“ his voice shakes, and Seokjin doesn’t even try to hide it. Nothing really anymore can hide anything, to be honest. There was nothing to hide honestly. . if you squinted hard enough.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says, voice cracking painfully. “You have to believe me, Jihyo. I. . . I really liked being with you. I liked you. I just. . . ” He drags a hand down his face, words dissolving into the rain. “I just couldn’t give you the part of me that was already hers. And I hate myself for not realising it sooner. For making you think that you were anything less than important.”

“I’m.. I’m so sorry. . . .“

He feels the warmth of her palm as it pats his shoulder. He looks up at her smiling face, sad and eyes tired, yet full of understanding. “I know. . It’s okay.“

She withdraws her hand as Seokjin watches her adjust the strap of her purse on her arm, sobering up a bit when her eyes are on him once again.

“Go tell her, Seokjin.“

“Jihyo?“

She stops in her tracks as confusion pinches in between her brows. Seokjin doesn’t hesitate, for he thinks that he’s been terrible enough to her. He did not and could not imagine it would end like this, but now that it has, he cannot muster courage further to speak directly to her. “Thank you. For. . for understanding. For everything. For being my friend.“

A small smile stretches on her crimson painted lips as she nods, but it’s no longer the longing smile she used to give him earlier. It somehow feels. . more genuine. Real.

“But you have to tell her, Jin.” she adds softly. “You cannot keep hurting yourself like this forever. If not now, never.”

Then she turns and walks away, her silhouette swallowed by the rain.

The sky splits open as he makes his way to your house.

If not now, never.

Rain lashes at the streets, puddles bursting under his sneakers. His clothes are soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead, dripping into his eyes but he simply does not care. By the time he reaches your porch, he’s shivering, jaw clenched so tight he can barely speak. His fingers feel numb, maybe from the cold. . . or maybe not.

His heart pounds with uncertainty and fear as he contemplates if this is a good decision.

If not now, never.

He’s never felt this scared before; but if he’s learnt anything in his life it’s the fact that the best way to get rid of your problems is to face them. And for now, his only problem is his aching heart which longs for a sight of you.

You open the door in a worn sweatshirt and pants, blinking like you’re not sure it’s really him.

“Jin?” Your voice is soft, almost disbelieving. “What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be on a date with —”

He flinches, and you notice; you always do. Without another word, you step aside to let him in.

He drips rainwater onto your hardwood floor, miserable and silent like a broken faucet as he follows you silently like a helpless puppy.

“Goodness, you’re soaked,” you murmur, already moving toward the hallway. “Give me a second, I’ll grab you a towel. And—” You hesitate, turning back. “Do you want something dry to change into? I think I still have one of your hoodies in my wardrobe. I’m sure getting changed is better than getting sick, yeah?” Your joke is lighthearted and soft, but he doesn’t respond. Just stands there, wordless and shivering.

He notices that you catch his silence too. You regard him with a confused air for a moment, but you soon disappear into your room.

You return a minute later — towel in one hand, hoodie in the other — and place them gently on the arm of the couch.

“Would’ve made more if you’d texted,” you say over your shoulder as you reach up for bowls in the kitchen counter. “But since you’ve caught me with a single-serve lasagna and a nearly empty fridge, you’ll just have to manage. And do not remind me about this having garlic, please.”

You sound warm. . . familiar, warm. Almost as if everything you do is not making the ache in his heart intensify.

“And you know if we ordered something it would take hours to be delivered in this downpour, anyway.”

He watches you move around your cramped little kitchen, opening cabinets, cutting a portion of the lasagna as you plate it carefully. . . like it’s all normal. The clink of cutlery and the hiss of the kettle, the scrape of a chair leg, the sound of his heart shattering.

You don’t notice. . . or maybe you’re pretending not to.

You carry over the food, two plates balanced carefully in your hands — and set them down on the tiny coffee table that’s been there since you moved in,where you used to eat together all the time. It’s always been that small. He used to complain about it, joking that he’d break his back crouching like this. You always told him to shut up and eat.

The same apartment which feels more of a home than his own place.

He notices how you take the chipped, older plate for yourself, and how you give him the pink ceramic one which you got as a gift from secret santa some few years ago. . . the one you know he likes, even though he’d never voiced it out loud before.

Has it always been like this before?

Next to his plate, you place a can of his favorite soda. You hate soda, but Seokjin has always found a can of his beloved drink in your place - lemon lime. And just like that - neither he’s asked you why, or you’ve told him what for.

It always has been like this before.

You glance over at him then — heavens, Seokjin wishes he could paint you in the chambers of his weak heart. You look gorgeous, as you always have, his cool, beautiful noona to whom he’s always looked up to.

Your hair is tied loosely, most likely left open to air dry since your clumsy ass somehow always forgets heat protection. He remembers when he used to apply the protection gel with his bare fingers on your damp hair before using a blowdryer during your university days when the rush of the morning got you for good. He flushes momentarily as your eyes meet and your brows pinch the longer you look at him.

“Jin? You’re literally standing in a puddle. Why don’t you go change?”

Your voice is soft with concern. You reach out, like you might touch his arm, or maybe even pull him to the couch to feed him with your own hands like he’s been numerous times before. . . but you don’t. You stop short, like you’re hesitating.

A weak smile tugs at your lips. “What, did Jihyo eat your dinner too?”

“I’m not with her anymore.”

The words rip out of him, loud and harsher than he’d intended, that too in your small apartment. It’s not about her. It never ever was. Fuck. He does not know where or how did that tone come out from.

He sees your startled flinch as you go still.

He swallows hard, his guilt crashing down on him like waves now. It all feels like it’s booming loudly in his ears. The pink plate, the soda, the hoodie — his hoodie. The chipped plate you kept for yourself without a second thought.

How messed can he be to yell at you?

His knees give way as he drops onto the couch. His hands cover his face, but the sound of him falling apart leaked through his fingers anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, the first sob shuddering out of him. ”I’m so sorry, I didn’t— I didn’t mean to . . I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

You’re beside him in a second, arms wrapping around his shaking shoulders like muscle memory, like this is where he’s always belonged. Your hands rub his damp back as he bites down on his fist to muffle the sounds, but his shoulders shakes with every inhale.

“I’m sorry, noona..” he choked out, again and again, the words warped by sobs that refused to stop.

One step, and then he’s falling. . . surrendering. Melting into your warmth like it’s the only thing keeping him from breaking apart completely. The fabric of your sweatshirt grows damp beneath his cheek, but you don’t seem to mind.

He breathes you in — fabric softener, warmth, home. Your fingers thread through his hair, slow and steady, as you’ve done a thousand times before. Your voice is soothing against his ear - just his name, just ‘it’s okay’ — and somehow he believes you.

You somehow always know how to catch him when he tumbles and falls down.

He’s always okay when he’s with you.

It was always you.

Even back when he was just the nerdy kid next door, darting after you with scraped knees and dirt-streaked cheeks. He’d pretend to be brave — a superhero, a knight, the brave Mario who saves princess Peach as he’d seen in video games — but the second he tripped on the pavement and skinned his elbows, it was your voice he cried for. Your hands that cupped his flushed face, your fingers that dabbed his wounds with tissues from your backpack.

Your arms that held him like he was something precious.

You used to ruffle his hair and call him kiddo, teasing him for being such a crybaby. You’d buy him popsicles from the convenience store down the street whenever he got sad, holding his tiny hand as he sniffled his way down the aisles, and he’d always choose grape because you said it was your favorite.

Even back then, he wanted to like what you liked.

You were older, smarter, cooler — and yet, never once did you make him feel like he was less. Never once did you treat him like a nuisance. Not even when he tagged along to your hangouts, not when he messed up your notes with his doodles, not even when he stood outside your classroom just to walk home with you. Not even when the adolescent him could not handle his own emotions.

You never made him feel small. You never looked at him like he was less than.

When his parents fought downstairs and the yelling got too loud, it was your window he tapped on, shaking hands and tear-filled eyes. And you, sleepy, barefoot, wrapped in an oversized hoodie, always let him in. You never asked any questions; you just opened your blanket and let him crawl in beside you.

When he failed his exams for the first time, when he got scolded in front of his class, when he got dumped by his first crush via text message, when his parents forced him to pursue what he didn’t like — you were always the one he ran to. You, with your words that stitched him back together.

You, with your strength and big heart. You, and your words of wisdom which taught him more than what lies beyond the horizon and how big the stars in the skies actually are. You, and your insanely strong ability to be the coolest and strongest person he’d ever known, living alone in such a cruel world since a very young age.

“But why can’t I be cool like you?” he’d pouted, wriggling his tiny thumb in one last desperate attempt to win. “You’re like—the coolest person ever.”

You’d giggled, letting him pin your thumb this time, and pushed his sweaty bangs back from his forehead.

“Because,” you said, like it was obvious. “You’re not me, silly. You’re you. And one day, you're gonna be cool in your own way. Like,the kind of cool even I can’t pull off.”

He held onto your words, and he still does till date.

It didn’t take him long to realize your smile was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. That your laughter—especially when it burst out because of something he did—was a sound he wanted to listen to forever. Back then, he thought maybe if he was funny enough, loud enough, cool enough. . . you’d look at him like something more than the kid next door.

So he started growing up trying to match your stride, always a few steps behind, but never stopping. He wanted to catch up, to stand beside you, to be someone you could look at not like a little brother, but as a man — worthy enough for your love.

And somewhere along the way, he stopped wanting to chase. He realised that he wanted to stand beside you. In the way of him growing up with you, he realised maybe he was a bit more selfish than he thought he was. It was always you who gave selflessly, and him who absorbed endlessly.

So he tried; he dated. He smiled. He convinced himself that someone else could fill the space in his chest.

He convinced himself all those nights of being in the arms of strangers actually felt good and didn’t worsen the void in his chest, the longing for you. That maybe if he eventually stops hanging out with you, controlling himself to not leap into your arms whenever he sees you, that if he loved someone else hard enough, long enough, maybe the ache would fade. Maybe if he tries to stay away from you, he will man up, and one day, he can be your Mario, too.

Maybe the part of him that burned for your praise, your laughter, your touch, you — maybe it would quieten down, but it never did.

The more he tried to fill the hollow in his chest, the more it screamed for you. For your warmth, for your kindness. For the familiarity of your couch and your mismatched socks and the way you always still kept his old, snapped guitar from his highschool. People kept coming and going like waves, but you were like the moon fixed in his sky. It was like he kept searching for the miracle in the ocean when all it needed was a raise of his head to get a glimpse of your brightness.

He was loved by few in the way he chose, but he knew it didn’t feel right because he wasn’t loved by you.

It was tonight when he realised that maybe he can give himself to you too, and that didn’t require him being Mario or something superhero. All what he wanted. . . was you.

It was always you.

After the sobs fade into shallow breaths, when the storm quiets to a drizzle against the windows, he finally finds his voice to speak.

“I . . . I broke up with her,” he murmurs. “A while ago.”

You don’t say anything. Your fingers stay in his hair, moving with that same familiar rhythm — the one that always soothed scraped knees and sunburnt shoulders. He cannot afford to look into your eyes, because he’s sure they’ll be the ocean of his doom, and he’ll be strangled once more from voicing out his feelings which he’s suppressed since an eternity. Call him a coward, but right now, he can only lean into your embrace like he’s scared it’ll stop his fear of what will happen next.

Like you’re the only tether keeping him grounded.

“I tried,” he continues, eyes on something you can’t see. “She was kind. Really kind. The kind of person anyone would be lucky to love. But I...” His voice falters. “I. . . ”

His chest feels incredibly tight now.

“I thought it would go away,” he says. “That I could make it go away. That I could stop looking for you in everyone else.”

Suddenly he’s not crying anymore. He feels your fingers halt in his scalp as he tries not to break down once more, but he’s stripped bare in a different way. Fragile in the light of his own truth, scared of his own vulnerability. He does not know what your reaction is, and he tries and shakes like a last leaf hanging onto a shedding tree to not look at you.

He exhales shakily, “I think I’ve always known.”

“Maybe it wasn’t since the very beginning,” his fingers dig down on the flesh of his inner palm as he fights off the feeling of nervousness creeping in. “But somewhere along the way, it just . ..I just. . . I started looking for you in people I dated. In the way they laughed, or how they listened. I think I treated them how I wanted to treat you, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.”

“I’d sit across from someone at dinner,” he goes on, voice quiet, “and wonder if you’d have liked the same dish. Or hear a joke and wish I’d told you instead. I felt disappointed in their actions which weren’t like yours. It. . it wasn’t fair to them. I was chasing pieces of you in people who weren’t you.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, shoulders curling inward like he’s ashamed.

“I knew. Deep down,” he says, barely above audible.“ I knew it wouldn’t ever be enough. Because they weren’t you. And because. . .I was terrified.” At this point he does not want to think if you’re even listening to him. He feels small and lost, and he feels a tad bit like his teenage self again.

“But pretending stopped working a long time ago. And being around you started to hurt more than the fear of losing you. I didn’t want to reduce this—” he gestures between you, and back to him. “—to a memory. . .”

His breath feels a bit more stable now. Although his heart feels unstable, “. . . I was scared I’d lose you if I said anything. Scared that all the years we’ve shared would collapse because of my feelings. I thought if I kept it buried, I could at least keep us—keep you. Even if it meant hurting myself a little. But it was just recently when it dawned on me that. . . I have subconsciously hurt everyone involved with me.”

“It was never her,” he says, voice breaking open. “It’s always been you.”

The second the words leave his lips, he tenses. His heart pounds wildly, like a trapped animal trying to escape. Regret floods his veins like a tsunami, and even after knowing he should have expected, it hurts. Your silence is deafening — a clear rejection, one he deserves. He didn’t think of how he should frame his words or articulate his feelings out loud; but he atleast has the satisfaction of being honest : to you, and to himself. He sounded blunt, stupid and selfish and now you probably can’t stand the sight of him.

He starts to get up, but your hand clamps around his wrist, with a force that has him startled and astonished at the same time. Your grip is firm and determined, but so tight that he feels like if touch could burn, his wrist would be scalded by now.

“Where do you think you’re going?” you snap. Your eyes are hard, your jaw clenched. Anger out of all the things was the least he expected. Did he cross a line too far of no return? “Don’t run out on me again, Seokjin.”

He freezes, heart hammering against his ribs. This is probably the first time you’ve called him by his full name in a long time ; and he feels that his worst fears are coming true to life. Perhaps this was the exact reason he pressed down on his burning feelings for so long that it’s already back fired on him. “I . . . ” he has to take a quick, nervous gulp before he can continue. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said any of that, n-noona,” he stammers, eyes darting away from your fiery gaze. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I —”

“Stop it,” you cut him off and the intensity of your voice scares the daylight out of him. “Stop trying to escape this. You can’t just blurt out something like that and then bolt out when I don’t immediately react the way you want me to.”

Your voice is raw, trembling slightly but still firm. He knows your pupils are shaking wildly and he physically cannot gather the balls to look you in the eye. Seokjin swallows hard, his gaze flickering back to you hesitantly. “You really had to wait until my fridge was empty to confess?” you ask, and Seokjin feels his left eye twitch at your question.

“Huh. .” he starts, but gets cut off just as immediately. “Do you think I kept all your hoodies and bought grape popsicles every summer just because I’m a nice person? Seokjin, my home is every fragment of me that I carefully decorate with my own hands. If something exists here, it’s only because I want it to.”

He sees you close your eyes and shake your head. “I think we are both idiots.”

“What—”

You bring your pointer to your lips, and he knows he needs to shut up when he hears that “hush” coming from your lips. When you speak again, your voice is somehow smaller, and somewhat softer. “I thought it was irrational. I thought you were already dating other people, so who was I to insert my feelings into that? Feelings which felt wrong to harbour?”

Seokjin’s mouth falls open in shock, throat dry. “You . . you?” he whispers, hardly daring to hope. But your nod is certain, which has his heart leaping in his chest and breathing erratic as he tries to believe the words you speak. “I’ve loved you for years,” you confirm quietly. “It took me a lot of time to realise and settle down on it, but I never wanted to upset you or your relationships or be another girl you dated just because I was convenient.”

Convenient.

The word makes Seokjin's stomach churn. “No,” he says firmly, cupping your face with his hands for the first time. His newfound confidence has his own eyes widening, and he knows that you replicate them with the way your eyes light up admist the liquid stars that threaten to spill over. Your skin is warm and soft against his cold fingers, but he can’t bring himself to care about the delicacies when he’s handled the most delicate of them all, your heart, in his hands all along.

“You were never convenient, ____. You were everything. You are my everything.”

He means it with his whole being. His heart thunders as he takes in the sight of your damp hair, your flushed cheeks and your parted lips. He remembers holding you in his arms as you cried after your very first shitty boyfriend said something so mean that it broke your heart. He remembers your sobs echoing in his own ribcage as throbs of hurt and vowing then that he would never be the reason you hurt like that.

But now here he is, causing you pain again with his cowardice.

He hates seeing you cry. Hates it with every fiber of his being. Your words that once said that crying is a sign that we are alive, alive enough to feel and care, still resonate within his soul. But seeing you hurt makes him want to erase every fucking thing in this world that causes you pain.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers, thumb brushing away a stray tear. “Please, don't cry because of me again.”

“It’s,, it’s not solely your own entire fault, Seokjin,” you hiccup. “I myself kept hurting you for so long.”

“Do not blame yourself for something I chose, ___.” he rasps, voice thick with emotion and hanging by a lone thread which threatens to break at the sound of your sniffles. “I’m so sorry I didn’t realize sooner what I had right in front of me all along. I’m sorry for being so blind. I’m sorry I couldn’t love myself enough to love you right from the beginning.”

His confession seems to break the tension. You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him tightly. The thrill of finally having you, of you loving him silently for so long, dawns on him as he holds you back just as fiercely, crushing you against his chest as if he can absorb your hurt into his own body.

You both stay like that for a long moment, hearts pounding, tears falling freely, silently, and tenderly. His hands roam your back, fingers digging into the fluffy fabric of your clothes. You bury your face into his chest, breathing him in like you’re trying to erase the scent of anyone else from his skin, and he doubts if you can hear his heart wanting to rip off his chest.

When the first time your lips brush against eachother, he thinks he will go insane if he does not do this every single fucking second of his life. You taste like the grape popsicles he’s loved, the warm smiles passed to each other at the bonfires, the soda he’s always found at your place, like the strum of guitar with fingers, dreamlike, but like home. “I love you,” he mumbles against your lips, peppering kisses across your face.

He feels like an over excited puppy, and he thinks he is, because he cannot wait any longer. “I love you so much. I’ll spend forever making this up to you if I have to.”

Your giggles are muffled against his mouth, but he hears it anyway, and knows that he would die to listen to them everyday. “. . love you too,” you breathe. “I don’t care if it's forever. As long as it's you. Only you.”

At that moment, nothing else matters. Not the rain outside, not the mess they’ve made of things, not even the fact that he probably soaked both of you to the bone. All that exists is the two of you — together and whole, mending and fracturing, coming together in a desperate tangle of limbs and lips.

He feels you push him down on the couch, and he leaned back against the soft cushions, his breath coming in ragged pants as you straddled his lap. His ears burnt crimson as the heat of your body seeped through your clothes, igniting a fire deep in his core. Your lips crash against his in a bruising kiss, teeth clashing, noses bumping and tongues tangling as you lose yourselves in the passion.

His hands roamed hungrily over your curves, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he pulled you harder against him. You could feel his hardness pressing insistently against your core, separated only by the thin barrier of fabric. The friction was maddening, stoking the flames of his desire to new heights.

You rocked your hips in slow, deliberate circles, grinding your clothed sex against his straining erection. He groaned into your mouth, hips jerking upward to meet your movements. His hands slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he held you close. Fuck. Never in a thousand years did he ever imagine himself in a situation like this, underneath you, but not that he is complaining anyway.

Breaking the kiss, you sat up slightly, looking down at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Your chest heaved with each ragged breath, nipples pebbled and visible through your thin sweatshirt. His gaze locked onto your breasts, mouth dry and eyes wide. No bra? His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he imagined taking one into his mouth, tasting your flesh, nibbling on it just enough to coax a lovely moan out of you.

You leaned down, nipping at his earlobe before whispering in a dulcet voice that makes him roll his eyes to the back of his head. “I want you so badly. I need to feel you..”

Holy fuck. He has never ever heard that tone from you before.

A shiver ran through him at your words, his cock twitching against your core. He knows that he must stop before it goes too far, because he’s just a second away from busting a nut in his pants. As much as he wants this, he knows that it’s wrong, and way too early. Closing his eyes, he takes a minute to collect himself, run his fingers through his wild, tousled hair as he shakes his head.

“Seokjin,” you whine, and the sound goes straight to his groin as your nails dig into his shoulders, hips circling a slow, deliberate grind. “Please, please . . ”

He pulls back with a groan, hands flying to your hips to stop you. His chest heaves as he forces himself to breathe. “Do not tempt me, ____.” he pants. The rush of calling you with your real name is so fucking strong and more arousing than he’d ever think, because he feels his cock leak out in his boxers. “I want you, fuck no, I need you. But. . . but not like this. I want to take you out first. I want to go out with you first. . . I need to do this right.”

Although the flash of disappointment is a bit too visible in your eyes, you nod breathlessly, eyes hazy with lust and satisfaction.

“Okay,” you agree. “Okay. Let’s do this right. As long as I have you with me.”

Later when the drizzle has quieted down , both the plates of your single serve lasagna which just served two empty and a happy tummy, you return with a towel in hand. He sits slouched on the couch, shoulders loose with exhaustion, but a grin on his face, because he just cannot stop smiling. You stand infront of him, working the towel through his hair, muttering for him to hold still and how stubborn he is that he cannot even dry himself on his own.

He huffs, but lets you fuss over him, eyes slipping shut at your warm and familiar touch. This isn’t something new to him either, the action of you drying his hair, and the position of you standing so close to him. He’s always imagined what it’d be like to hug you right there, because you smell so damn good and warm . . ! so, without warning, his arms wind around your waist, tugging you close until his cheek presses against your stomach.

You freeze, towel dangling, until you feel him relax into you, his voice muffled against the fabric of your shirt. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

He hears your startle and the surprised laugh, but soon your hands soften, carding gently through his damp hair, combing them with your fingers.

And for the first time, Seokjin knows that he’s finally got what he’s wanted since so long : to get close to you.