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[ 19 February, 2728. No sender ID ]
...and the drones, of course, amaze me. I played a part in creating the technology that records the Arenas, so I already have some idea of how these things work, but I'm sure the real thing would be something else entirely. They elude classification, deceptively simple in design and utility, but mind-numbingly complex when one considers their implications. I suppose you’ve never lost anything before, not with nanobots that can enter any crack or crevice. Something so small could find anything. Anyone, too. It would be a delight to see them in person, and study their utility.
Of course, the only opportunity for that would be in the Arenas. It may be exciting, but not for me; I prefer to watch. I would hate to find myself caught up in your exhibit, at your mercy—though I would appreciate the opportunity to observe your tech up close. Their inner workings must be fascinating...
Hyeon really needed to stop losing things.
He didn't need to be organized—there was no point in keeping all of his items filed away when they would inevitably be moved, and re-moved, and jumbled from drawer to drawer until he didn't even know where they were—he just needed to stop. Stop misplacing things, especially now that someone had started finding them.
Nobody looked where they were going, all too focused on the buzz of their lives to think about the meaningless objects that rolled by their feet—nobody but Seer.
Seer. The man was trouble, even without the curse, seeking thrills wherever they could be found. When the arenas grew dull and artless, he moved on to the next big stage, and that brought him to the Apex Games.
His motivations were the strange thing, the part of him that Crypto just couldn't pin down; why did he do it? Octane was a simple sort, killing and killing for the next rush of adrenaline, but Seer was nothing like that. He wanted art, he wanted recognition, he wanted brilliance—and he could get them just about anywhere else, so why? Why here?
Seer, who found something of his once. A hard drive—one of the important ones, and damn it, he wore them around his neck for a reason, they weren’t supposed to just come loose. The drive was slid under his door the next day, with a little note attached.
Hyeon remembered it clearly. That was the problem with a brilliant memory—it kept him alive and helped him cling to those precious, precious details that others would forget—but it also allowed him to recall every one of his failures nearly verbatim.
A sticky note, and that elegant scrawl that proved impossible to imitate; having it in his hands was enough to make Hyeon’s heart race.
You dropped this in the lounge.
(Don’t worry. As curious as I was, I did not look inside.)
- Obi.
He distantly remembered the signature. Not Seer—Obi. It was the first of many moments that distinguished the two.
Hyeon tried, in the weeks that came after, to keep an eye on his things. He had to make sure that it wouldn't happen again. Once was an oversight, something he could learn from.
Twice made him vulnerable. Twice was the start of a pattern, like bickering with Witt, or telling Natalie things that he really shouldn't, or letting Octavio drag him out to eat once a week.
Twice was embarrassing.
This, perhaps, was what sent him in such a frenzy to find what he'd lost. Because it wasn't a hard drive, or a phone, or anything else that Crypto was expected to have.
It was his cat.
Jee could usually be trusted to stay where he was—in his room, in his lap, on his bed, so long as her favorite toy was somewhere nearby. When the Games tore him away from her side, Hyeon only had to offer her beloved plush: a Jee-sized replica of Seer, with far cuter proportions. He'd bought it for himself, long before all this, but it only took her a few weeks to claim it as her own. This was fine; he hadn't had time to grab any of Jee's toys when he left, and it wasn't that important, anyway.
(Secretly, Hyeon was thankful that he could use his cat to justify keeping the thing.)
His, no, their beloved plush was usually enough to keep her occupied until he got back, until it just wasn't.
Until Hyeon came back from breakfast (5 in the morning, of course, to avoid the risk of encounters) and the door was ajar. Sending Hack into the room confirmed his suspicions—no break-in, nothing missing...except for his cat.
He'd gotten complacent, and now he would pay the price.
Scouring the entire dropship was hardly a risk. Not this early. Hyeon just had to keep quiet and avoid the new room at the end of the hall, fearing that his pounding heart could be felt through the walls. Fear was good.
He held onto that fear that Seer would appear looming behind him, poised to offer an innocent did you lose this? and Jee would be in his arms, purring sweetly like the traitor she was. Fear had sharpened his senses, kept him alive for years, and it wouldn’t fail him now.
He found Jee in Octane's room. It was the only other door left open; the scheming feline was just inside, batting around a vial of stim. Hyeon reached for her, then, paused. Cautioned a glance at the beanbag in the corner.
Then the twitching mass of blankets on top of it.
Octavio really didn't stop moving, even in his sleep (funny, or it would be, if Hyeon was in the mood for it).
He scooped Jee up, taut as a wire with every step back—all until he'd made it to his room, and closed the door behind him, and sank to the floor.
Crisis averted. Nothing of his for Seer to find. That would've been embarrassing, really—his cat? God, he needed to get more sleep. This kind of imagination was going to get him killed.
Jee mewed. It was then that Hyeon noticed what she was missing.
"Where's your toy?"
She didn't reply. Just repeated herself, each sound growing in urgency.
"Did you take it with you?" He asked, like Jee was capable of anything beyond meowing for it, and getting even louder. "Aish, people are up, I can't go for it now."
To his credit, he looked. Everywhere. Each nook and cranny was scanned, first by Hack and then by him—even though he knew his technology was superior, wouldn't miss something so obvious. Jee kept going, demanding that her best friend be returned to her, and Hyeon came up with nothing.
"Why'd I even bring you," He muttered, peeking behind his monitor like it would be there, for some reason, "it's not like the Syndicate would've killed you. You're a cat."
Jee stretched out on his bed, dropping her jaw to argue when both of them heard it.
A knock, on the door.
This was a bad time. So early, too, who would be visiting him now? Everyone thought he slept until noon; another facet of the carefully curated lie that was Hyeon Kim. They’d only see what he wanted them to see. He prepared his glower in advance, practiced it in the mirror hung next to his door. Good. That looked scathing. Hopefully it was enough to send them away, no matter who they were or what they wanted. The door opened with a click.
Hyeon's mouth was open, ready to deliver a curt this is really not the time when it died on his lips, because—
“Good morning.”
—because Seer was standing there, silently confirming his suspicions that the man woke up pretty. Hyeon knew he must've looked like a mess, and that made the sight before him all the more jarring.
Obi's hair was perfect, and he was wearing a crewneck that hugged his frame in all the right places, pushed up at the stomach just slightly. This, paired with sweats that seemed to define his legs (his legs, which were most definitely not the subject of some of Hyeon's better dreams), made Hyeon wonder if he'd missed dessert. He still wasn't sure who to thank, what stroke of luck had brought an angel to his door, until he noticed the—
—the plushie, resting squarely in the center of Obi’s palm. A mini Seer.
That settled things. If god was out there, he must have hated Hyeon Kim, passionately.
“I found this, outside my door.”
“It’s mine.” Hyeon said what he could not hide.
“I thought so. May I ask…” Obi began, gesturing slightly to the toy like it would finish his sentence. Why?
Normally, Hyeon would have been quick to cover up his tracks; a well-told lie went a long way. There was still time to come up with an excuse, something that would shut down the conversation and ward away any further attempts, something that he could say right before snatching the plushie and slamming the door.
However, it was early, and Obi was pretty, and Hyeon had immense trouble dealing with either of these things separately. Together, they left him unable to come up with anything beyond:
“I don’t have a cat.”
Obi raised one brow. Smiled, then, and Hyeon noticed that his signature snake bites were gone—he didn’t wear them to bed?
“I never said anything about a cat.” He pointed out.
“Good,” Hyeon kept digging, content to burrow deeper in this hole and die there, “because I don’t have one.”
A beat of silence.
“This is yours, then?” Obi examined the plush a little closer, taking in the missing eye and torn arm. That left the unpleasant implication that the damage had been his work, and Hyeon opened his mouth to confirm that when a—
—a purr, from somewhere below. Hyeon didn’t want to look. Didn't want to confirm his suspicions, that Jee was down there, rubbing up against Obi’s legs like she’d never been loved in her entire life, but he did and she was.
“So this," Obi had the nerve to smile, like this was all very funny, "is not your cat?”
“Never seen it in my life.” Hyeon tried very, very hard to ignore her purring—like the mechanical hum of his drone, only louder. His grave would be unmarked, he decided. A patch of dirt would be the only indication that he'd walked these miserable steps.
"Perhaps its owner is somewhere nearby." Obi dangled the toy between two fingers, earning Jee's attention. “It seems to want this.”
“Maybe you should give it to her.” Another mistake, only realized the moment it left his mouth.
“Her? I thought you said this wasn’t your cat.”
“It's not. Just—" Hyeon grabbed the plushie by its neck (gently, he still had some fondness for the thing). He tossed it into his room, and Jee took off, chasing after the well-loved toy until she was somewhere under Hyeon's bed.
Right. One less thing to worry about.
Without another wor,d Hyeon slammed the door. He caught his reflection in the mirror again. He'd never seen himself so red before. Mystik would leave the back of his neck even redder if she knew. He could practically hear her, then.
Where are your manners, Tae?
On second thought, he nudged it back open. Cautioned a soft “thank you.”
From the thin sliver he could see, Obi was smiling.
"You're welcome."
Then, Hyeon closed the door. Softer, this time. He sank against it with a sigh, watching as Jee gave her old friend an enthusiastic greeting. Its arm was going to come loose, again.
Once was an oversight, and twice made him vulnerable.
Hyeon sighed.
He really needed to stop losing things.
Hyeon really needed to stop losing things.
Especially if Seer's presence would be a permanent one. After the incident (and the subsequent looks that Obi gave him, days afterwards), Hyeon kept a close eye on his things. The door to his quarters was always locked, now, save for those rare moments where he was moving in and out. He'd learned that constant vigilance worked like a charm.
Nothing was being lost, or dropped, or misplaced, so long as he was on the dropship. But in the games, Hyeon had other things to worry about. Little details often escaped his notice, especially those that weren't directly related to his survival.
(Survival. Right. What good was he if he couldn't keep himself alive?)
The footsteps were damn near silent; Hyeon wouldn't have heard anything, at all, if it hadn't been for the sound. That was familiar, from an awkward part of the floor that liked to creak and groan if someone got close. Everyone knew about it, and to tread those grounds was an intentional move.
This was someone quiet enough to sneak up on him, but bold enough to announce their presence anyways.
Hyeon spun around, prepared to—
—to do nothing. Absolutely nothing, as the thoughts in his head all fell out, one by one like pulled teeth.
Perfect. As if Hyeon needed another reminder that Seer existed. He got plenty of those in his thoughts, and his dreams, and sometimes in the dark place beneath his eyelids whenever he blinked—always those blue eyes, burning with a curse that could consume them both.
And now Seer was here, and, wow.
His outfit was flattering from every angle, but Hyeon privately thought that this one was the best; five feet away, far enough for the big picture, but still close enough for Hyeon to study it all. The bold, geometric lines running up and down the seams, coy flashes of skin here and there, gold highlights that cut through the folds...
Hyeon suddenly remembered where they were, what they were doing, and most importantly that it was rude to stare.
“At ease, my friend." Obi offered a smile, strangely genuine. "I’m not here to fight."
"You're an idiot, then."
"Even if I was, I—"
It was then that Hyeon took notice of the fact that Seer had nothing. No gun at his hip or at his back, just his wits and his utterly disarming smile.
“You came here.” He finished, almost wanting to laugh. “Without a weapon.”
Seer didn't say anything—simply smiled, confirming that he was enough of an idiot to think that Hyeon's feelings would override his instincts.
Even so, Hyeon decided that he'd make it quick. Raise the gun, finger the trigger, until—
—until then he saw what Seer was holding.
A block of metal, scuffed and worn over the years. The sunlight reflected off of its frame: a lighter. That couldn't be right. Instinct took over as Hyeon gripped at his chest, at the inner pocket. He found it despairingly empty.
It wasn't just a lighter. It was his lighter, and Seer knew it.
“Where did you get that.” He lowered his gun—it was a courtesy, if anything. Not a promise.
“It's strange—I found it on the ground, over there,” he gestured, then, to a supply chest that Hyeon had definitely opened, “nothing like the loot that we normally receive. Why? Is it yours?”
Fine. He'd bite.
"It might be. Let me see it." It was a simple matter. Ask to examine the thing, and then steal it. There would be nothing to stop him from killing Seer, after that, and then he could put the third of these embarrassing screwups behind him.
Obi, though, seemed intent to drag this out. He was curious enough to ask, “you don’t smoke, do you?"
“Why does it matter."
“I think it does. Not to brag, but I've made these into a symbol—" Oh, he was full of himself, "—like the heart of the flame. Quite clever, yes?"
"Fine. You got me." Hyeon knew how to pick his battles. "I'm paranoid, I think anyone could kill me, and I smoke. It's ironic. It's funny. Are you satisfied?"
He figured it would work—that it was more likely for Hyeon Kim to smoke. More likely than Tae Joon Park, standoffish computer programmer, being incessantly fond of some arenas fighter. Fond enough, even, to buy anything vaguely related to him.
"Not quite." Damn it." You're so paranoid, I doubt you would want to leave evidence that you'd been anywhere. That rules out smoking. Why would anyone carry around something so...archaic?"
Silence, then. Hyeon knew that Obi was watching him, closely.
He was waiting for a comeback, an excuse, a bullet, something. Instead, Obi was given something better. Hyeon's silence (and the sharp, sudden way he avoided eye contact) told him everything that he needed to know.
“I must be honest, I did not think you were the type."
Hyeon thought of threatening him for the lighter—one of them had a gun and the other did not, it was really quite reasonable. Instead the pistol went back at his hip, and he reached out with hesitant hands.
“Just—just give it.”
"Ah-ah, now, what kind of idol,” and Hyeon cringed, because the word fit, "would let a fan's possessions go unsigned?"
"I'm not a fan."
A mistake. He could hear the words before they left Seer's mouth, saw them in the way his eyes lit up, delighted. Something about that fucking toy again, a topic that neither of them had touched since the incident itself.
"Really? Then I suppose that—"
Hyeon slapped his hand over the man's mouth—a touch forceful, maybe, but since when did he care? It was almost too much to take. Seer's lips, smiling into his palm, and Seer's eyes, gleaming with delight.
(There was something that he'd learned through those years of fighting; some fights could not be won. Sometimes, it was better to concede. Tomorrow's battle would be informed by today's, and besides, there was no harm in—)
Hyeon lowered his hand, hesitant, only to find the most infuriating grin lying beneath.
(—perhaps there was some harm in seeing Obi with that look on his face, like he knew that he'd won, and Hyeon had no way of explaining the way his chest tightened. The hitch of his breath.)
He shoved the stupid thing into Obi's waiting hands.
"Shut up, and sign it."
"Gladly."
It didn't take very long. He had to resist the urge to watch—even if he did, for a moment, long enough to see that Obi wasn't using a pen. Instead, he was carving the shape of his iconic moth with those awful claws. Hyeon found it very hard to think after that.
The lighter, once pressed safely into his palms, felt warmer than before.
"All done."
Seer reached for his hand, fingers grazing over his wrist—palm pressed against the back of his hand, a soft grip that kept him there—and years of combat training could not have prepared Hyeon for what came next.
For when Obi guided the lighter, still in Hyeon's hand, closer and closer.
For when he leaned down and kissed it.
They didn't touch. Strung together by those hands, maybe, but Hyeon's knuckles didn't so much as graze Obi's jaw. As much as he wished to reach out, out, to feel if there was a real person under there and not a pleasant dream—he couldn't move.
He'd never been shocked stupid. Not like this. Even when there were bullets raining down on his back, when someone was going to kill him in any number of brutal, agonizing ways, he had always been able to react.
Who knew it would be this easy?
Obi let go of his hand—Hyeon watched it fall limply at his side, the lighter safely tucked inside. The engravement felt rough against his fingertips, hand-carved, human.
“Round two: ring closing.”
It drove through the moment like a blast of lightning, splitting them neatly in two. Hyeon pulled back like the entire thing had burned him.
(He couldn’t help but notice—because Hyeon Kim had to notice everything—that Obi looked disappointed.)
"It seems our time together has been cut short."
“Right.”
“I will be seeing you, then.” Obi gave him a smile, knowing, walked past like nothing had happened. A pause, and then: “good luck.”
Hyeon counted the steps until Obi was well and truly gone, until it was just him and this burning, embarrassing silence. Still, he decided to allow himself one moment. One moment of weakness, one that wouldn’t have happened if he’d been with his—
“Shots fired, and they’re hitting me.” Elliott Witt, the only man in these games with less sense than him, was off somewhere getting killed. After wandering off, by himself, so far away that Hyeon couldn’t hope to reach him in time.
“I’m on my way.” Hyeon muttered, marking Elliott’s location on his map. Far, but doable; he started to walk.
He kept his hands busy with the lighter in his pocket, fingers dancing across the patterns. Committing every stroke to memory. There was a slight wobble, a jagged charm to the linework--it made him think of Seer's claws, again, carving those lines into Hyeon's flesh.
He wondered, then, whether there was anything that could leech the warmth from another—to keep this moment trapped in time, forever, with the feeling of those lips hot against his knuckles and those hands clasped around his own.
Hyeon sighed.
He really needed to stop losing things.
Hyeon hadn't lost anything this time.
Really, nothing.
Late nights occupied only by zeros and ones left him feeling empty, alone. If he could not satisfy this hunger with the warmth of another (and the dropship had not yet stopped, so that wasn't an option), food would have to do.
The dropship kitchens were quiet. Vacant. This made it easier to sneak in, and out, unnoticed—and without losing anything on the way.
(He checked his pockets, just to be sure. Everything was accounted for.)
There was one thing he had lost, perhaps, but it wasn't the kind of thing that Seer could return to him—anybody who could was either dead or gone, forced away for their own safety, and none of them could truly give it back.
He had lost his name a long time ago.
When he was drafting up a new identity, filling in the blanks with lies and half-truths, he picked the name last. It was the hardest part.
It all felt slanted and off, each alias a picture that didn't suit its frame—too generic, too friendly, too proper, too awkward. Nothing came closer to him than Tae Joon Park, but that name belonged to a criminal and a murderer; he couldn't have it anymore.
Anymore. Anymore.
He'd forced his thoughts to fall in line with his words, to think of himself as Hyeon, or simply him. Tae Joon Park could not exist even inside his own head—there, too, the man was unwelcome. He needed to react to Hyeon, needed to respond to Hyeon, needed to see himself as—
"Hyeon."
He thought he'd been alone.
What a terrible time to be seen—tired, vulnerable—and an even worse person to be seen by.
Seer leaned against the counter, staring at him curiously. Hyeon didn’t like it—always felt like he was being studied. Open. Exposed. And then there was the use of his "name".
The word would be an insult on any other tongue; it was awkward, uncomfortable, wrong. A cruel reminder of all the things they had taken from him, of the life that wasn’t his anymore. No one ever meant it that way, but it stung all the same.
This was different.
Hearing that name fall from Seer's mouth, laced warmly with sugar and milk, Hyeon wished it were really his.
Still, it was late. Late enough that nobody should have been awake. There was that instinct, closing around his throat like a vice—to run, to hide, because it was always safer to be alone. Hyeon was closer to the door. He could make it.
Casual, you idiot. He thought, invisible hands firm on his shoulders. He's probably here for a late night snack, like you.
"Ya?" He replied, flatly. "What do you want."
Casual. Right. He couldn't do much about that cautious edge; it was almost second nature by now.
"We're not in the Games anymore. It's just you and I." Obi—Seer, he corrected, because first names were dangerous and Hyeon didn't deserve to have them or say them—took a step forward. His lips twitched into an easy smile.
"There's no need for such hostility."
The olive branch fit neatly in Seer's hands. Hyeon, of course, hesitated.
"I'm sorry." He offered, shaking his head. "I have trouble trusting strangers."
This was a miserable understatement; trust wasn't something that Hyeon could afford to give anymore. There were too many risks.
Still, Seer was persistent, like he could simply charm his way back into Tae's good graces.
"We're hardly strangers, are we?"
Blue eyes leered at him in the dark, like a lighthouse that would guide him out of the storm—it's an embarrassingly cheesy thought. That Seer would save him, or something like that.
Instead, Hyeon said: "I barely know you."
He chose caution, made more distance, even as Seer made less of it.
"Ah, but I know you," Obi leaned in, lips wonderfully close to his ear, "Tae Joon."
The jig was up.
(It was almost second nature by now.)
Taejoon's fingers, once hovering uselessly above Obi's back (how did they get there, again?), slid down to grip his wrist. To twist his arm back, back, back, expecting some resistance—his other arm wound up and slammed Obi facedown onto the counter.
He really needed to stop doing this.
Why couldn't he just talk, normally? Why did it always come to this? Obi looked at him from where he was, cheek pressed hard against the granite, and Taejoon fought just to keep himself from saying something stupid, like sorry.
It was worse than it was the first time, with Witt—at least then, in the din of the dropship hall, there had been something to break that tension.
The announcer's voice came, impassive as ever, and then it was back to business.
There was no announcer here, no audience, no games to whisk them away—just their own bodies, pressed flush in that hold, and the sound of Taejoon's heavy breathing.
Nothing came to save Obi, least of all himself. In fact, he looked content to stay like that. Strange.
Tae had watched him in the arenas; Seer was a force of nature, who tore his opponents to pieces (all with a smile, and a bow, and some clever line about art or death or something like that). No one could get the jump on him, and even if they did, they rarely kept it for long.
He was violent, beautiful, terrifying, not...
Not someone who didn't mind it when someone had him pinned to a kitchen counter.
"Aren't you going to push me off?" Taejoon hated how uncertain he sounded, applying a little pressure to make up for it. It was supposed to hurt, but his heart just wasn't in it.
"Are you going to let go?" Obi asked, then, lips quirking into a smile.
And then the reality of it all had set in; it finally occurred to Tae that he was still here, pressing Obi against a counter like they were—
—he jerked away.
Obi pushed himself back up, looking unfairly calm about it. Like this was just a normal thing between friends not friends, they were not friends. There was safety in distance.
“I’m…How, how do you—?” He didn’t know what to ask or how to ask it, but that one word prevailed.
How?
He’d been so careful. Wiped away all of his own paper trails and replaced them with Hyeon Kim's, shoved bribe after bribe down strangers' throats, done a good deal of things that he wasn't proud of, and now his cover had been blown by—
“I read every letter. You wrote one of my favorites.”
Favorites. His letter had been one of Seer's favorites, and that would almost be enough to make him blush if he wasn't already bright red from the ridiculousness of it all.
“I didn’t even sign them.” Tae said, weakly. This was more embarrassing than anything his nightmares could come up with.
“You took credit for the drones in the arenas. It was a bit of a no-brainer.” Obi waved one hand, as though the little details didn’t quite matter. There was something humiliating about it—years of hard work wasted because Tae Joon Park had a celebrity crush once—and it was like Mila was laughing at him from somewhere far beyond the grave.
“I kept an eye on your work, your drones—they led me to Crypto. Your style is very distinct.”
It was almost a thought, almost a word, and it left him in a resounding, “why?”
(A hand in his own. It was warm.)
Their eyes met. Obi lit up the dark, bright like the lighthouse that pulled him out from violent waters. A gloved palm that pressed against his, fingers that laced together.
“Perhaps I was too subtle.”
And Obi leaned down, down, and Tae closed his eyes and got what he expected, this time, and oh. There were lips that brushed against his own, warm and sweet save for the bite of metal—the piercings, which felt nothing like what he'd expected. It was...
It was perfect. Brief, chaste, but more than enough for both of them. Neither pulled away; they parted naturally, each creating some space between them because this could very easily get out of hand.
Obi breathed softly against his mouth, one hand snaking around his waist to pull him a little closer. Their foreheads met, and there was no need for words. It was new and it was nice, this silence that was neither lonely nor hostile—a moment of understanding. The time for talking was long past them, but Tae had to wonder—
"Was I that obvious?"
Obi laughed, then, fingers threading into his own. Warmth seemed to seep through the layers of fabric between them, melting away what little frost had kept its hold on Taejoon’s heart. He drank it in like he'd never been held before. Had he?
"Only to me."
It all felt so distant, the one-night stands that he'd planned so meticulously, a sampling size of intimacy. They broke up the months and months of self-imposed solitude and left him lonelier than when he'd started. He'd been so cold, and now he had the sun. The sun, who smiled, scattering kisses across his face like fluttering moths.
"Can—can you call me that, again, Obi?" He asked, softly, like the answer could be anything else.
Like he could still be denied, now, turned away and left to freeze.
"Tae Joon." Obi whispered, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Kisses drew further down his jaw, down his neck, searing that warmth into his skin.
"Again." He found his voice and issued it out like an order, and Obi laughed, indulged him some more.
"Tae Joon."
Tae distantly wondered how he'd ever survived on his own. People needed people, and he had been sorely without any for years—drowning in his own exile, finally coming up for air.
Obi said his name again, and again, even when Tae stopped asking. It almost made up for years of being Hyeon Kim, wearing the wrong words like a second skin, because he got to be Tae Joon Park for just one night.
Their lips met again, and again, and again.
Maybe not one night. There could be more, maybe—he still had things to lose.
Though it didn't seem like Obi would ever return his heart.
Tae sighed.
Some things were worth keeping.