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The air in the room was thick, heavy with memories neither of them wanted to unearth, yet they lingered like an echo impossible to ignore. Kung Jin sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tightly over his knees, staring at the floor. Takeda stood by the window, gazing at the Outworld horizon, where the purple sky blended with the orange of the sunset. Neither spoke, but the silence was filled with unspoken things. It had been months since that night in December when everything changed. Jin could still feel the weight of Takeda on his chest, his steady breathing, the warmth of his body against his own. It had been a stolen moment, an instant of weakness and desire neither had planned. Jin remembered holding his breath, fearing any movement would shatter the fragile perfection of that moment. But now, it all felt like a distant dream, something he could never touch again. “Takeda…” Jin said, breaking the silence, his voice barely a whisper. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t. Takeda turned slowly, his eyes meeting Jin’s. There was something in his gaze, a mix of guilt and determination that made Jin’s heart tighten. He knew what was coming. He’d seen it coming ever since Takeda started spending more time with Jacqui, since his smiles grew softer when he spoke of her, since their glances shifted from mere camaraderie to something more. “Jin, we need to talk,” Takeda said, his voice firm but careful, as if treading on broken glass. “We can’t keep doing this.” Jin let out a bitter laugh, his fingers gripping his knees tighter. “Doing this? And what’s ‘this,’ Takeda? Ignoring each other? Pretending nothing happened? That we didn’t share a bed, that we didn’t…?” “Stop,” Takeda interrupted, taking a step toward him. His eyes glimmered with something Jin couldn’t decipher. Regret? Pain? Or just pity? “It’s not fair. Not to me, not to you… and not to Jacqui.” Jacqui’s name hit like a blow. Jin felt the air rush out of his lungs. He knew Takeda and Jacqui were together now, that whatever they’d had—whatever it was—hadn’t been enough to keep Takeda by his side. But hearing it out loud hurt more than he’d expected. “So what do you want?” Jin asked, lifting his gaze for the first time. His eyes, usually full of fire and defiance, were glassy. “To act like nothing happened? To go back to being just friends, as if I didn’t feel you tremble under my hands, as if we didn’t…?” “Don’t say that,” Takeda cut him off, his voice harder now, but there was a crack in his armor, a vulnerability Jin recognized instantly. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.” Jin stood, his body tense, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re the one making it hard, Takeda! How do you expect me to look at you and act like you’re a stranger? Like I didn’t feel every damn thing that happened between us?” His voice trembled, and he took a step toward Takeda, invading his space. “Tell me, how am I supposed to do that?” Takeda didn’t back away, but his expression softened, and for a moment, Jin saw the old Takeda: the guy who joked with him on missions, who challenged him to fights only to laugh when Jin knocked him down, who looked at him like he truly saw him. But that Takeda faded when he spoke again. “I can’t change what happened, Jin,” Takeda said, his voice low, almost broken. “But I’m with Jacqui now. She… she’s my future. What we had… it was a moment. A mistake.” A mistake. The word hit Jin like a punch to the gut. He felt something inside him break, but he forced himself to stay upright, to not let Takeda see how much he was shattering. “A mistake?” Jin repeated, his voice barely a whisper. He let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Right. A mistake.” “Jin, please,” Takeda took another step toward him, reaching out a hand, but Jin stepped back as if the touch burned. “No,” Jin said, raising a hand to stop him. “Don’t touch me. Not now. Not when you’re with her and pretending what we had meant nothing.” Takeda lowered his hand, his shoulders slumping. “I’m not saying it meant nothing. But… I can’t keep holding onto it. And neither should you. We can go back to being friends, Jin. We can move past this.” Jin stared at him, feeling the weight of Takeda’s words crush him. Go back to being friends? How could he even suggest it after everything? “How can we go back to being friends when we just shared a bed? How can you look at me and pretend I’m someone you’ve never met?” Takeda stood before him, asking him to pretend, to erase everything they’d shared, as if Jin could simply turn off what he felt. “I don’t know if I can do that, Takeda,” Jin admitted, his voice breaking for the first time. “I don’t know if I can look at you and not remember how it felt to have you close, how it felt… to have everything.” Takeda looked away, and Jin saw the flash of guilt in his eyes. But he said nothing more. There was nothing left to say. The silence filled the room again, heavier than before, as if the whole world had paused to witness the end of something that never had a chance to begin. “I need time,” Jin said finally, stepping toward the door. “Don’t ask me to be your friend now. Not when I can still feel you on my skin.” Takeda opened his mouth, but no words came. His eyes followed Jin as he left the room, closing the door behind him with a click that sounded like the end of an era. And as Jin walked through the empty halls, the echo of that December night still resonating in his chest, he wondered if he’d ever be able to look at Takeda without feeling a part of himself crumble. Because, though Takeda wanted to go back to being friends, Jin knew he could never pretend he hadn’t loved him.