Chapter Text
"The elephant…"
Brian looked up from his laptop, turning to his right.
And, there was Jae, sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling limply, with legs simply too long to fit. His eyes were shut, lips parted slightly. Brian smiled at the sight—ridiculous and endearing in equal measure.
It didn’t look comfortable at all.
He had told Jae to go to bed hours ago when he caught him dozing off, but the man had stubbornly insisted he wasn’t sleepy and wanted to stay up with him. Brian didn’t protest. How could he? Jae had him wrapped around his long, bony fingers, and he didn’t even know it.
Brian scooted closer, just enough to watch Jae’s chest rise and fall. He wasn’t being a creep. Definitely. The man was softly snoring, already deep in sleep. Carefully, Brian reached out and threaded his fingers through Jae’s hair. He moved slowly, deliberately, not wanting to wake him. His grin widened when Jae leaned into his touch, unconsciously nuzzling toward the warmth.
“Elephant…” he said again, “...here.”
Jae’s sleep habits were… something else.
(
"Don't blame me when your body aches all over later," Brian warned, glancing at him.
Jae swayed a little, head drooping lower before he jerked awake and rubbed his eyes stubbornly. "I'm not going to sleep any time soon," he muttered.
Brian had only sighed and returned to his laptop, letting Jae have his way.
)
Now, in the hush of night, Brian’s gaze lingered on Jae’s face—the way his pouty lips moved like he was speaking, the way his brow twitched as though still reacting to a dream.
"...is heavy," Jae murmured in Korean.
Brian’s heart gave a slight tug. He adored Jae’s sleep-talking. It wasn’t just random words—it was whimsical, almost cinematic. Jae talked in his sleep the way he lived when no one was watching—unguarded, soft, unintentionally funny.
He recalled a memory from Tokyo—sushi night in Ginza.
(
"Bri, what’re you doing?" Jae had put his chopsticks down, frowning.
"Talking to you?"
"In Japanese?"
Brian blinked. “Yeah? Because of the mood?”
"I can barely speak Japanese, Bribri."
Brian nearly dropped his sushi, stunned. And that was the day Jae learned about his Japanese fluency.
)
"Jae, wake up," Brian whispered, shaking him gently. "You’ll be sore tomorrow if you sleep like this."
“There’s… elephant here,” Jae mumbled.
Brian chuckled softly. “There’s no elephant here, dumbass.”
Silence settled again before Jae added with a furrowed brow, “Elephant… too big.”
Brian’s fingers moved to the space between Jae’s brows, rubbing soothing circles. His heart swelled. He wondered, not for the first time, how deeply he had fallen for this man. Jae—the sleep-talker, the dreamer, the stubborn soft-hearted idiot who refused to sleep to accompany him while he worked. He remembered the first time he saw him—golden hair, wide smile, and eyes too bright to be real. He looked like he had stepped out of a dream. Brian had frozen at the door, unsure if he was about to meet a roommate or fall headfirst into a daydream.
He’d fallen, alright. Hard.
“Bribri, the elephant... wants your food,” Jae muttered again, distressed. His voice was tight, as though wrestling with an invisible threat.
Brian laughed under his breath, brushing back stray strands from Jae’s face. He loved this. Jae and his gibberish talk. Every odd, precious second of it.
“Bribri,” Jae sighed, the name falling from his lips like second nature. Sleepy. Trusting.
Brian hesitated, his fingers ghosting along Jae’s jaw. “Jae… do you like me?”
The question floated into the room, delicate and unanswered. Did he want an answer? Or did he just need to say it out loud? He sighed and leaned closer, trailing his touch down to Jae’s shoulder. He shook him again.
“Jae, wake up.” Jae groaned, burrowing into the sofa cushions. Brian smirked, seeing some opportunity. He leaned close, warm breath brushing Jae’s ear. “Or do you want me to give you a wake-up kiss?”
It was meant as a joke—mostly. But then, Jae stirred. A clear, sleepy “No,” slipped from his lips before he dropped back onto the sofa like dead weight. Brian barely caught his head before it hit.
He blinked.
Then he laughed—helpless and breathless—at the ridiculousness of it all. Jae was either the world’s most chaotic sleep-talker or secretly enjoying tormenting him.
Shaking his head, Brian left briefly, returning with a rose-pink blanket—the one he knew Jae liked. He draped it gently over the sleeping lump on the couch. He knelt beside him, gaze soft. Jae, wrapped in pastel and asleep, looked like something out of a painting. And Brian, hopelessly, pathetically smitten, committed every detail to memory. He whispered a quiet good night and turned off the lights, leaving only the curtains open so the glow from outside could spill in. It lit Jae’s face in gold and lilac. So beautiful, it hurt. Brian lingered a moment longer, hand brushing through Jae’s hair once more, before finally retreating to his room. He closed the door behind him—quietly.
The room.
And his feelings.
The sound of rustling blankets and a soft groan was the first thing Brian heard when he cracked one eye open. He blinked blearily at the sunlight filtering through the curtains—soft, golden, the kind that makes the world feel slower, warmer.
Then he heard it again.
“Ugh… my back…”
Brian sat up halfway, hair a mess and sleep still clinging to his lashes. He wasn’t a morning person to begin with. Through the cracked door, he saw a familiar head of golden-brown hair poking up from the couch.
Right.
The couch. The elephant. And the alleged stolen food.
He muffled a laugh into his sleeve and got out of bed.
Jae sat upright with great effort, blanket pooled around his waist, one hand braced on the couch arm like he had aged thirty years overnight. Brian prodded out of his room and cleared his throat, just loud enough to get his presence noticed. Which…Jae turned his head, squinting like he was facing the wrath of the sun gods.
“You let me sleep here?” he croaked.
Brian raised an eyebrow from his bed. “You refused to move. Said about, and I quote, ‘the elephant is heavy.’”
Jae froze. Then groaned again, flopping dramatically back into the cushions like he’d rather disappear than live that down. “God. Kill me.”
“No thanks,” Brian smirked, stretching. “But I will make you breakfast if you admit you were wrong.”
“About what?”
“That you weren’t sleepy.”
A beat of silence. “…Fine,” Jae muttered into the cushion. “I was… extremely not sleepy.”
Brian snorted. “That’s not how admitting works.” But he was already up, feet padding toward the kitchen. “Eggs?”
Jae made a noise that sounded like agreement. “Fried. Please. With toast. And maybe a new spine.”
“You’re not even thirty.”
“Tell that to my vertebrae.”
Brian shook his head, laughing as he cracked eggs into a pan.
From the kitchen, he could hear Jae shuffling around, probably stretching or trying to pop something back into place. The domesticity of it all settled into his chest like sunlight after rain. He liked this. He liked them.
Too much.
By the time Jae trudged in, hair wild and eyes still puffy from sleep, Brian had already set the table—two plates of toast, sunny-side-up eggs, and a few slices of turkey ham he found tucked in the back of the fridge. Beside them sat two mugs of freshly brewed coffee.
Jae blinked at the spread like he was still dreaming. “You really cooked?”
Brian didn’t look up as he handed over a fork, voice casual. “I said I would.”
“You say a lot of things,” Jae mumbled, sliding into the chair with a yawn. His knee bumped Brian’s under the table and neither of them moved. It lingered, unnoticed on purpose.
Brian noticed. God, did he notice.
Jae lifted his mug for a sip. The moment the coffee hit his tongue, he froze, face contorting like he’d been personally betrayed. “Brian,” he said slowly, peering into the cup like it might explain itself. “Why is it so sweet?”
Brian blinked at him innocently, thinking about the four spoonfuls of sugar in Jae’s mug. “I might’ve… overestimated.”
“I do like it sweet,” Jae muttered, “but this is like drinking syrup.”
Brian reached out before he could think too hard about it, sliding his own mug across the table with quiet finality. “Here. Try mine.”
Jae paused, eyeing the offered mug like it was a peace treaty.
“But you hate sweet coffee,” he said. And it wasn’t just a casual comment—it was knowing. Laced with that strange, soft awareness Jae had when he wasn’t pretending not to pay attention.
“I used less sugar in that one,” Brian said simply. He picked up Jae’s too-sweet drink and took a sip without flinching—despite the visible twitch of his jaw. Yeah, too sweet. “Guess I’ll manage.”
Jae stared at him.
Just stared.
And slowly—so slowly—smiled into his cup. He took a sip from Brian’s mug, eyes flicking up beneath his lashes. “Thanks, Bribri.”
Brian froze mid-bite. Not because of the nickname. He’d heard it before—mumbled, dream-drenched, thrown out between giggles and yawns. But this? This was no accident. No sleepy haze.
It was intentional.
Clear.
Soft.
Awake.
And it hit differently when Jae was wide-eyed and smiling like that—like he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what it did to Brian.
Brian’s fork hovered midair. “You’re welcome,” he said, voice quieter than he meant.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Tense. Electric. It stretched between them like something taut and delicate, humming with everything they hadn’t said for months—maybe years.
Brian shifted in his seat, knees still brushing Jae’s under the table. He told himself it was a coincidence. But neither of them moved away.
He picked at his toast, tried not to glance up, tried not to see the way Jae was still watching him over the rim of the mug. But when he did—just a glance—Jae didn’t look away.
Brian looked first.
Jae let him.
But that gaze stayed, unwavering. Like he wasn’t seeing Brian—he was seeing through him. Every twitch, every inhale, every practised deflection.
And when Brian finally risked another glance, Jae was still smiling. Still watching. Still there.
Like he’d known all along.
And maybe he had.
Maybe he always had.
Brian took another bite and chewed slowly. His heart was beating too loud in his ears, and his coffee tasted like sugar and surrender.
He didn’t say anything else.
Neither did Jae.
But in that stretch of quiet, in the shared space of mismatched coffee and brushed knees and soft voices, something tilted—subtle, irreversible.
And neither of them dared name it yet. But it was there.
God, it was there.
Brian was typing half-heartedly on his laptop, legs curled beneath him on the floor, back resting against the couch that Jae had claimed earlier. His document hadn’t made it past the second paragraph in over thirty minutes.
Maybe because he kept glancing up.
Jae was seated by the window now, bathed in late morning light, flipping lazily through a book that Brian swore he only picked up because it looked pretty on the shelf. His legs stretched out comfortably, feet bare, golden hair still adorably rumpled—like sleep hadn’t fully let go of him yet.
Brian’s gaze drifted to the curve of Jae’s mouth, the way it pursed slightly when he focused.
He caught himself staring and quickly looked back at his screen.
“Bribri.”
Brian blinked. Turned his head slowly. “Yeah?”
Jae didn’t even look up. “You’re being loud.”
Brian frowned, confused. “I haven’t said anything.”
“Your thoughts are screaming,” Jae replied, finally lifting his gaze. There was a flicker in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or something warmer, something that sat too comfortably between teasing and knowing. “You okay?”
Brian hesitated. “Yeah.”
And there it was again. That smile--the one just a little too fond to mean friendship. The kind that makes your chest feel too full and too empty all at once.
Jae closed the book and stood up, stretching with a quiet groan that made Brian’s brain hiccup for a beat too long. He passed by with a casual ruffle of Brian’s hair—something he always did, something that was so Jae —easy, natural, and dangerous in ways Jae would never fully realize.
“I’m gonna shower,” he said over his shoulder, voice light. “Don’t miss me too much.”
Brian scoffed, but the sound came out softer than intended. “I’ll try to survive.”
Jae paused in the hallway, halfway through the door. He turned, eyes unreadable.
“Bribri.”
Softer this time. Quieter. Measured.
Brian looked up.
“You’re weird today.”
His mouth opened. Closed. “Am I?”
Jae tilted his head. That little half-smirk appeared again, just shy of something more. “Yeah. In a way I don’t mind.”
Then he disappeared into the bathroom.
Brian sat there, motionless, fingers hovering above his keyboard like they’d forgotten what they were supposed to do. His heart was still in the other room, thudding hard and fast in the steam of Jae’s shower.
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
He was so, so screwed.
Brian was still staring at the hallway long after the bathroom door clicked shut.
You’re weird today.
Yeah. In a way I don’t mind.
The words echoed in his head on repeat, like they’d been etched into the inside of his skull. He closed his laptop—not that he was getting anything done anyway—and leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut.
Maybe he was overthinking it.
Yeah.
He was probably overthinking it.
Except… Jae had never looked at him like that before. Not like that. Not with that unreadable pause in his step, that deliberate softness in his voice. Brian knew Jae flirted like he breathed—casual, charming, sometimes reckless—but this hadn’t felt casual. This had felt aimed.
And that was the problem. Because if Jae was just being his usual self, then fine—Brian could survive that. He had survived that. But lately, it was different. Subtler. Closer. A hair’s breadth away from something real. Something Brian didn’t dare name.
He rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re losing it,” he muttered under his breath.
The living room had settled into that lazy kind of quiet—the kind that clings to Sunday mornings even when it's not one. Somewhere in the background, a lo-fi playlist hummed softly from Brian’s speaker, all mellow beats and occasional vinyl crackles. Outside, sunlight filtered through the curtains in slanted stripes, lighting dust motes like little golden ghosts dancing in the stillness.
Brian was still on the floor, laptop long forgotten as he absentmindedly scrolled through a half-loaded article.
His focus, however, was fixed nowhere near the screen. Time to go back to work.
Brian had made the mistake of picking up his laptop again, but reading the same sentence three times with no comprehension had led him to give up entirely. It was impossible to work right now. Not with his current condition.
He was now sitting on the floor, arms resting lazily on the couch behind him, trying very hard not to listen for the sound of the bathroom door opening.
He failed, of course.
It clicked open a few minutes later, and there it was again—that familiar thud in his chest, like his heart had braced itself for something he couldn’t stop–the impending doom.
Jae stepped out, still towel-drying his hair, skin flushed pink from the heat. He was wearing one of Brian’s old t-shirts—oversized, soft, worn down to something that clung to comfort rather than shape—and a pair of shorts that had no business showing that much leg.
Brian didn’t breathe.
“You’re staring,” Jae said, voice amused but light, as if he was commenting on the weather.
Brian quickly looked away, busying himself with something else. And pretending the coffee table is fascinating sounded like a good idea. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not,” Brian repeated, weaker this time. He wasn’t fooling anyone that’s for sure.
Jae dropped onto the couch behind him with a dramatic sigh, the movement jostling Brian’s shoulders a little as he leaned against the same cushions. He draped the towel over his lap and ran a hand through his hair, brushing damp strands away from his face.
Brian didn’t dare turn around.
“You kinda are.”
Brian groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Okay, maybe a little.”
He turned his head. Jae’s smile was curved–slow and mischievous.
“Mm-hm,” Jae hummed, smug now, like he’d won something. He swung his legs off the couch and leaned forward until he was close enough that Brian could smell his shampoo—citrusy and warm. “So what gives?”
Brian swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“You’re twitchy,” Jae said, after a minute of contemplation. “You’re twitchy, you’re weirdly quiet, and you gave up your coffee without complaint. That’s, like… at least three signs of a crisis.”
Brian scoffed. “Maybe I’m just being nice.”
“You’re never just being nice,” Jae replied easily, eyes flickering across his face like he was reading him. “You’re being weird-nice .”
Brian hesitated. “It’s nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re always fine, Bribri.” Jae grinned.
Brian froze. His name— that name—spoke with a kind of gentleness that felt like fingertips against the edge of a paper cut.
Jae leaned in, close enough that Brian could feel the warmth of him against his back. “You’re allowed to tell me things, you know.”
Brian blinked hard, staring straight ahead.
He wanted to say something— anything —but everything he thought of was either too much or not enough. So instead, he shifted just slightly, letting his head rest back against the couch edge where Jae sat, feeling the faint pressure of Jae’s thigh behind his shoulder.
Brian looked away. “Nothing important,” he said.
Liar, his brain whispered.
Jae didn’t call him out this time. Just smiled. And reached to brush the wild strand of hair from Brian’s eyes like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Okay,” he said, not probing further. “But if it ever becomes important—”
Brian met his eyes.
“—you’ll tell me, right?”
And there it was again. That same too-fond smile. That same soft Bribri without even saying the word.
“You like calling me that,” Brian said, changing the subject to distract himself. “Bribri.”
“Yeah,” Jae said simply. “I do.”
Brian tilted his head to the side, half-turning just enough to glimpse him. “Why?”
Jae shrugged, eyes soft. “Because it’s yours.”
The words settled like a stone dropped gently in water—rippling, slow.
His heart, beating dangerously fast, and he was this close to losing it all. Brian’s throat tightened. He smiled, small and crooked. “You’re dangerous, Park Jaehyung.”
Jae leaned back against the couch with a content sigh, closing his eyes. “Only to you.”
And Brian…he didn’t know whether to laugh or fall.
His fingers hovered over his laptop keys again, but his brain wasn’t anywhere near his work.
He was officially losing it.
So he just sat there, quiet, letting the weight of it all settle on his chest like sunlight—heavy, warm, and something he wouldn’t dare move from.
The sun had risen higher, warm and insistent against the windows, casting lazy golden streaks across the floor. Brian was once again pretending to work, fingers poised over his keyboard—but the only thing he’d managed to type in the last ten minutes was “The,” followed by a dramatic and slightly aggressive spacebar tap.
A strange sound interrupted the peace.
A clang. Then a bang. Then… a very suspicious sizzle.
Brian blinked.
Then came the smell—something oily, something slightly burnt, something that whispered, culinary disaster in progress.
He sprang up from the floor and peeked into the kitchen.
Jae was standing over the stove like a man preparing for battle. His expression was comically focused—lip caught between his teeth, brow furrowed in deep concentration as he poked at something in the pan.
He couldn’t quite tell what it. An omelette? A crime?
“Jae…” Brian’s voice was cautious, concerned, and just a little horrified. “What are you doing?”
“Cooking,” Jae said brightly, like that much should’ve been obvious.
Brian padded over, peering over his shoulder. “Is that… supposed to be eggs?”
“Was. Now it’s... egg surprise.”
Brian gawked at the charred edges and the odd greyish colour blooming in the centre. “Surprise,” he echoed flatly, “you’ve summoned a demon.”
Jae huffed. “I wanted to make you lunch. As thanks. And to prove I’m not completely useless.”
Brian gently pried the spatula from his hand. “I’d like you to stay alive long enough to finish proving that.”
“Rude,” Jae muttered, stepping aside with crossed arms and a pout. “You never let me cook.”
“Because every time you do, I end up putting out a small fire.”
“That was one time.”
“And you tried to boil rice without water.”
Jae gasped. “Okay, that was an experiment.”
Brian arched his eyebrow, telling Jae to elaborate further. Jae rolled his eyes and that was how Brian knew it would be over something stupid–
“I was trying to make rice puff.”
–hah. Ridiculous.
Brian snorted, rinsing the pan and starting over. “You’re officially banned from stoves. Supervised only.”
“Control freak,” Jae grumbled, but there was no real bite to it. He leaned against the counter, chin in his palm, watching Brian with a slow, lazy smile. “You’re cute when you go into mom mode.”
“I’m not in mom mode.”
“You are,” Jae insisted. “You’re even wearing the ‘I love you but you’re an idiot’ face.”
Brian turned just enough to shoot him a look. What’s a mom mode anyway? Brian snorted. “That’s just my default face around you.”
Jae grinned, triumphant. “Flattered.”
Brian tried to hide his smile and tried to focus on cracking eggs and adjusting the heat, but Jae didn’t make it easy. He drifted closer, like gravity had shifted subtly in Brian’s direction. A moment later, he slid behind him, casually pressing his chin onto Brian’s shoulder.
It wasn’t new. Jae did this sometimes. He was tactile, always had been.
But today, it felt like more.
Brian’s breath hitched when Jae’s fingers brushed lightly at his waist, anchoring there as he peered over Brian’s shoulder into the pan.
“What? Afraid I’ll ruin them?”
Jae hummed. “Supervising…like you’d said.”
“I made the eggs how you like them,” Brian laughed.
“Sunny side up, runny yolk?”
“Yeah,” Brian said, voice a little softer now.
“With a little soy sauce?”
“With sprinkles of sesame seeds on top.”
Jae smiled. “You do love me.”
Brian froze for half a second—just long enough for his heart to betray him.
Jae didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. But he only hummed and pulled away to set the table like nothing had happened.
By the time Brian joined him, plates in hand, Jae had chopped some kimchi–slightly lopsided, but respectable–and arranged them into a clumsy flower on the plate.
“For aesthetics,” he said, lifting his chin proudly.
“It’s…creative,” Brian said, amused. “Is that supposed to be a rose or a cactus?”
“Depends on the lighting,” Jae deadpanned.
Brian laughed so hard he nearly dropped the plate.
They sat, side by side, knees brushing under the table. The food wasn’t gourmet. It wasn’t even all that pretty. But it was them—warm, easy, full of quiet glances and shared laughter.
At one point, Jae reached over with his chopstick, stealing a bite from Brian’s plate.
“Yours tastes better,” he mumbled.
“You made the same thing,” Brian said.
“Still. Yours has love in it.”
Brian choked. “That’s so cheesy.”
Jae grinned. “You love it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Brian didn’t argue further. Because maybe—just maybe—he really did.
And when Jae stood to rinse their plates, humming off-key and swaying slightly as he moved, still wearing Brian’s hoodie, and the proudest smile over the simplest of meals—
Brian stayed seated, watching.
Feeling.
And falling, all over again.
The afternoon dragged on, heavy and still.
Brian was hunched over his laptop again, brow furrowed, fingers flying over the keyboard with sharp, anxious taps. His coffee had gone cold an hour ago, untouched. Pages of notes were scattered around him like fallen leaves—highlighter streaks, post-its, margin scribbles that screamed help. He was deep in it. Frustrated, overstimulated, and probably halfway to burnout.
Jae watched from the kitchen doorway, silent.
He knew this version of Brian. The way everything coiled inside him, tight and quiet, until it leaked out in clenched jaws and furious typing. The storm is never loud but always present.
Without a word, Jae slipped back into the kitchen.
No fire this time. No experimental chaos. Just the gentle clink of a mug, the low gurgle of the kettle boiling, and the soft pop of the toaster ejecting its payload like it, too, was nervous.
He made tea. Chamomile with honey—something gentle. Brian always claimed it was “too floral” but somehow finished every drop when Jae handed it to him.
He made a snack too. Toast. Scrambled eggs done right. A dollop of the jam Brian insisted was “for people with no taste buds” but still licked off the spoon when no one was watching.
When he returned, he set the plate and mug down beside the laptop without saying a word.
Brian didn’t even look up. “Thanks.”
Jae didn’t leave.
He curled up at the far end of the couch, legs folded under him, cheek pressed to the back cushion. He didn’t speak and just watched--watched as Brian rubbed at his temple with one hand and typed with the other. Watched as his eyes flicker too fast across the screen. Watched his chest rise and fall in short, shallow breaths.
So Jae stayed still. Stayed quiet. Filled the room by simply being there.
Minutes passed. Only the occasional click of keys, the low whir of the fan, and the hum of the city below filled their surroundings.
And eventually, Brian stopped typing. He stared at the screen. Then at the food. Then at Jae. “You’re just gonna sit there and stare?” he muttered.
Jae shrugged. “You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust. I’m here to catch the flames.”
Brian let out a sigh, rubbing his face. “I’m just... stressed. There’s a deadline. I haven’t slept. I keep rewriting the same paragraph like it’ll suddenly stop sucking.”
“Maybe it will,” Jae offered, “on the seventh rewrite. Like summoning a demon, but for clarity.”
Brian cracked a tired smile. “More like summoning despair.”
Jae tilted his head. “Kinda dramatic.”
Brian shot him a look. “You tried to boil rice without water.”
“And you’re still talking about it two years later—that’s dramatic.”
Brian huffed, but it was soft. Lighter.
“I’m just saying,” Jae continued, nudging the cushion with his toes, “you don’t have to do it all alone.”
Brian looked at him then. Really looked. His eyes were tired—shadowed—but something in them flickered. Something that hadn’t quite burned out yet.
“I know,” he said, barely audible.
Jae nodded.
Brian picked up the tea and took a sip. His shoulders dropped just a fraction like the warmth seeped into more than just his hands.
“I don’t say it enough,” he mumbled, eyes still trained on the mug. “But...thank you. For this. For you.”
Jae blinked.
His heart did a weird little hiccup in his chest like it had tripped over a stair it didn’t know was there. He tried to cover it up with a laugh—soft, nervous.
“Okay, wow. You’re being sincere? Right now? Like, willingly?”
Brian gave him a flat look over the rim of the mug. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m not ruining it,” Jae said, grinning. “I’m just—I don’t know—marking the occasion. Might get a commemorative plaque made.”
Brian rolled his eyes. “God forbid I try to say something nice.”
“No, no, I liked it!” Jae said quickly, hand raised in surrender. “Very heartfelt. Very... ‘man on the brink of emotional collapse but still romantic.’ I’m just checking—are you feeling okay? Did you spike the tea?”
Brian didn’t even blink. “You’re the one who made it. If anything’s in there, it’s your fault.”
Jae’s grin stretched wider. “So what you’re saying is... it worked.”
Brian groaned, but he wasn’t annoyed. Not really. He took another sip of tea, hiding a smile behind the steam.
“I’m being serious, though,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ve been a mess, and you… you didn’t have to stay. But you did.”
Jae tilted his head. “Well. Someone had to supervise your inevitable breakdown. For safety reasons.”
“You’re a menace.”
“An essential menace.”
Brian huffed. “Debatable.”
“And yet,” Jae said, smug, “you drank the tea. You ate the toast. You haven’t kicked me out yet.”
“Not yet,” Brian said, but his voice was soft. Almost fond.
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it stretched between them like a thread, invisible but strong, connecting something neither of them dared to name.
Jae shifted slightly, curling deeper into the couch. “You don’t have to say thank you, you know.”
Brian glanced over at him.
“You don’t,” Jae said again, quieter this time. “Not for this. I’d do it again. Every time.”
Brian didn’t reply right away. He just looked at Jae—really looked—like he was trying to memorise the moment. The curl of Jae’s knees under the hoodie, the way his fingers tugged absently at a thread on the cushion, the half-smile that didn’t quite hide the softness underneath.
“Why do you always do that?” Brian asked.
Jae blinked. “Do what?”
“Deflect. Joke. Every time I try to be serious.”
Jae hesitated, then shrugged. “Because if I don’t joke, I’ll probably end up saying something stupid. Like—‘I think I’m in love with you and it’s terrifying.’” He caught himself too late, eyes going wide. “Hypothetically. Obviously.”
Brian stared at him.
Jae swallowed. “Too much?”
Brian didn’t answer right away.
But he set the mug down, carefully. Turned fully toward him.
And said, “It’s not stupid.”
Jae froze.
Brian's voice was low now, the kind of quiet that made everything else feel louder.
“It’s not stupid,” he repeated, adamantine in his gaze. “And it’s not just you.”
The room fell still. The fan hummed, the world moved outside—but in that small living room, time hung suspended.
And then, as if nothing had just been confessed, Jae exhaled and flopped onto his back, groaning loudly into a pillow. “Ughhh, we’re so bad at this.”
Brian smiled. “Horrible.”
“We’re gonna implode.”
“Probably.”
A beat.
Jae peeked at him from behind the pillow. “You still want toast?”
Brian nodded. “Only if it’s got emotional damage spread on top.”
Jae grinned, relief flickering behind it. “Always does.”
The toast was forgotten.
Jae didn’t move from his sprawl, arm thrown dramatically over his face, but there was something, trembling under the surface—something restless, like a note held too long.
Brian sat beside him, quiet.
He watched the way Jae’s chest rose and fell, the sharp little exhale after every breath. Watched his fingers drum against his stomach, like he was waiting—for Brian to speak, or move, or flinch.
“I meant it,” Brian said finally. “What I said earlier.”
Jae peeked at him from under his arm. “Which part? The heartfelt thank you, or the part where you implied I burn rice for sport?”
Brian rolled his eyes. “The thank you,” he said, looking straight at Jae, resolute about what he was going to say next. “And…the you part.”
Jae blinked. The teasing fell from his face like a mask slipping. “Oh.”
“I know you act like everything’s a joke. Like if you keep it light, it won’t feel like a risk,” Brian said. “But it’s not a risk, Jae. Not with me.”
Jae shifted, suddenly serious, legs pulled up toward his chest. “It is though. It’s always a risk with you.”
Brian frowned. “Why?”
Jae shrugged, voice low. “Because I never know if you’ll stay.”
Brian inhaled sharply. That landed too close.
“I’m already here,” he said. “Isn’t that the problem?”
“No,” Jae said, too fast. “That’s not the problem. That’s the terrifying part.”
Silence wrapped around them like a storm cloud. Heavy. Charged.
Brian leaned in.
“Then be terrified with me.”
Jae laughed, shaky. “You’re really pulling out the drama today, huh?”
“I learned from the best.”
“I should sue.”
Brian huffed. “Do it. I’ll counter with emotional damage from all your cursed omelettes.”
“Low blow,” Jae muttered, but he was smiling again, something aching behind his eyes. “You know, you’re actually kinda unbearable when you’re sweet.”
“And you’re insufferable when you’re scared.”
“Touché.”
Their eyes locked, and suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. It wasn’t playful. Not really.
Brian leaned closer. “You always run your mouth when you’re nervous.”
“You always fall in love when you’re tired.”
“Am I tired now?”
“You tell me,” Jae whispered.
Brian’s breath hitched.
Then their lips met—soft, searching. Then firmer. Messier. Like a dam cracking wide open after holding back for far too long.
It wasn’t perfect. It was hungry and real, Jae’s hands in Brian’s shirt like he didn’t know how to let go, Brian’s fingers threaded in Jae’s hair like he never wanted to.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, their breaths tangled like their limbs.
Jae smiled first. “We’re gonna make such a mess of this.”
Brian smiled back. “Yeah. But maybe it’s the good kind of mess.”
Jae laughed, a quiet sound. And then—like all the tension had finally burned itself out—he yawned.
The night had gotten away from them again.
Brian hadn’t meant to work this late, not really, but hours blurred when he was in the zone. He looked up from his screen and realized the room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of his monitor and the streetlamp outside. Everything else was hushed.
Except for the steady breathing behind him.
Jae had fallen asleep on the couch again, waiting.
He was curled on his side, hoodie half-slipping off one shoulder, blanket tangled around his legs. His chest rose and fell slowly, his mouth slightly parted. His hair fell over his eyes in soft waves, and he looked so peaceful, so unburdened, it made Brian’s chest ache.
He shut his laptop.
Padded over, careful not to wake him.
He crouched down, just to fix the blanket, but then—he couldn’t quite leave. His fingers lingered, brushing Jae’s wrist gently as the contact grounded him. The room was so quiet he could hear the distant buzz of the city below, and the soft breath sounds Jae made in his sleep.
Then Jae mumbled something.
Brian froze.
At first, he thought it was just sleep noise—until he heard it clearly, whispered like a dream slipping through fingers:
“…you don’t even know, do you.”
Brian’s heart tripped over itself.
He stared.
Jae shifted slightly, brow furrowing like his mind was caught between dreaming and something heavier. His lips parted again, voice almost inaudible:
“…how long I’ve been in love with you.”
The silence shattered.
Brian’s throat tightened.
The words struck like lightning—soft, shattering. Like Jae had peeled back his entire soul without knowing.
And suddenly, Brian couldn’t hold it anymore.
He leaned in, barely a breath away from Jae’s sleeping face.
“I know,” he whispered. “I think I always knew.”
His hand hovered, shaking slightly, before brushing a piece of hair from Jae’s cheek. “And I love you too. God, Jae. I love you so much it terrifies me.”
He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
But he did.
And then—
“...say it again?”
Brian’s entire body went still.
Jae’s eyes fluttered open, half-lidded but awake. And watching him.
Brian’s breath caught. “You were awake.”
“Just now,” Jae murmured. “But I heard you.”
Silence stretched. Thick. Vulnerable. Full of every moment that led here.
Brian swallowed hard. “I love you.”
Jae didn’t answer at first.
He just reached up, sleepy and soft, and tugged Brian down into his arms.
And when Brian let himself fall, Jae pressed their foreheads together, so close he could feel the words forming even before they were spoken.
“I love you too.”
A pause.
Then—“Idiot.”
Brian huffed a laugh, his chest tight and aching and light all at once.
They stayed tangled like that—heartbeats in sync, the weight of everything finally off their shoulders.
And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, they both let themselves rest.
Together.
end