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The rain outside fell in delicate threads, tapping against the window like a rhythm meant only for them. The room was dimly lit, shadows soft across the walls, and on the couch, two figures were pressed close together.
James sat back against the cushions, posture naturally elegant even in relaxation. His features carried that sharp, impossible kind of beauty that seemed carved rather than born: a jawline defined, cheekbones catching the dim light, and lips full and strikingly shaped. His hair, brown with a faint golden cast, fell in tousled strands across his forehead, the disarray only amplifying his unreal handsomeness. There was something about his eyes, dark, deep, a little heavy-lidded that made it feel like he was always on the verge of saying something profound, even when silent.
Across his chest lay Keonho, sprawled with the careless comfort of someone who had claimed his place long ago. Where James was sharp edges and stillness, Keonho was brightness incarnate. His hair was soft and dark, falling naturally into light layers that framed his face, every strand seeming made to accentuate the youthful glow of his skin. His smile, even when subdued, carried a radiance that seemed to light the space around him. His lips curved easily, revealing teeth that made his laughter brighter, and his eyes, gentle yet mischievous were the kind that seemed always caught between childlike wonder and quiet daring.
They were opposites, almost impossibly so. James looked like he belonged on billboards, every angle of his face a picture of maturity, masculinity, and restraint. Keonho looked like he belonged under sunlight, too beautiful in a way that wasn’t just about symmetry but about life itself, as though he was meant to be admired for the warmth he carried more than the shape of his face.
“Don’t move,” James murmured, his voice a low rumble that brushed against Keonho’s ear.
Keonho tilted his head up, grin spilling across his face, eyes catching the dim light and reflecting it like glass. “I wasn’t moving,” he shot back, his beauty alive not in perfection but in motion, in expression, in the way his laughter always seemed a little too big for the room.
And James just looked at him, his unreal features softened, undone by the boy who never seemed to realize just how luminous he was.
---
They had first crossed paths at the town’s ice rink. James was finishing practice, the familiar burn of exertion cooling across his skin, when he heard it: a laugh, bright and unrestrained, echoing far too loudly in the vast, chilly space.
He looked up to see a boy darting across the edge of the rink, slipping without skates as his friends shouted in alarm. His dark hair was messy, his clothes casual and ordinary, but his grin—his grin lit up the cold air like sunlight.
James skated closer, intending to warn him, maybe even tell him to leave the ice before he got hurt. But before he could open his mouth, the boy looked up at him, eyes widening in recognition.
“You’re James Zhou, right?” the boy asked, breathless, cheeks flushed from the cold. His voice wasn’t reverent the way most people’s were when they recognized him. It was curious, almost teasing.
James nodded, expecting the usual: maybe a shy hello, maybe a request for a photo. But instead, the boy leaned in, his grin tilting, and said, “Wow. You’re prettier in real life.”
It was so unexpected, so bold, that James’s carefully practiced composure faltered. He blinked, caught between irritation and amusement, before finally letting out a quiet huff of laughter.
That was Keonho.
---
Their paths crossed again not long after. Keonho started showing up at the rink with his friends more often, lingering at the edges even when he wasn’t skating. He’d sit in the stands with hot chocolate, legs swinging carelessly, shouting encouragement—or teasing remarks—toward James as though he had every right to.
“Number sixteen! You skate like a penguin when you’re tired!” he called once, his laughter ringing across the empty seats. James turned, glared lightly, but couldn’t suppress the twitch of a smile.
Another time, Keonho had shown up with steaming coffee in his hands. He pressed one into James’s without warning, saying, “You look like you need this more than me,” before bounding off to join his friends. James had stared at the cup for a long moment before realizing he was smiling at it.
What started as scattered encounters became something more deliberate. James found himself waiting for those familiar bursts of laughter, for the sight of that bright-eyed boy leaning against the rink rail, waving at him like an old friend. And Keonho—despite his teasing nature—never treated James like a name, a title, or a public figure. He spoke to him like a person, like someone worth knowing beyond the headlines.
Somehow, slowly, they started talking outside of the rink. Messages at odd hours, jokes sent in the middle of the night, a photo of Keonho’s messy desk during exam season with the caption, “Save me.”
James responded more often than he expected to. And more easily.
From friendship, the lines blurred. James found himself reaching out, asking to meet up after practices, driving across town to pick Keonho up from college under flimsy excuses. The boy was far too young, too reckless, but James couldn’t seem to help himself. Keonho had a way of slipping past every defense he’d built.
And before long, friendship had grown into something more—something fragile, complicated, and terrifyingly real.
---
Now, on the couch, with Keonho tucked safely against him, James let his fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer.
“Do you ever regret this?” Keonho asked suddenly, his voice quiet but steady. He didn’t lift his head, but his question hung in the air like something he’d been holding onto for a while.
James blinked, caught off guard. “Regret what?”
“This. Us.” The boy’s grin was still there, but it was softer now, uncertain, like he was bracing himself for the answer.
James tightened his hold slightly, a subtle reassurance. “Not for a second.”
It was simple. Firm.
And for Keonho, it was enough—for now. He smiled into James’s chest, breathing in his warmth, letting the answer soothe the ache he sometimes didn’t want to admit was there.
James pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, lingering there like a promise only the two of them would ever hear.
The rain outside fell heavier, but inside, the world was just theirs.
---
Loving James felt natural to Keonho, like breathing. He never had to force it; it simply spilled out of him in the way he texted James after every exam, the way he bragged quietly about him to Martin, Seonghyeon, and Juhoon without giving away too much, and in the way he lit up whenever James’s car pulled up outside the college gates.
Keonho adored him—openly, recklessly. He clung to James’s arm when they walked together, laughed too loudly at his rare dry jokes, and sent him songs at two in the morning with little messages like, “This is so you.” To Keonho, love was something to be worn proudly, like his smile.
James, on the other hand, carried it differently. His love was quieter, folded into moments behind closed doors. He held Keonho’s hand under the blanket during movie nights, brushed kisses against his forehead when no one was looking, memorized the way Keonho liked his tea and brought it to him without asking. In private, James’s love was all-consuming, steady, and gentle in ways that left Keonho trembling with how deeply it ran.
But outside, James wore restraint like armor.
---
Sometimes James would come to pick him up from campus, standing out like he always did: tall, broad-shouldered, his air unmistakably different from the boys in Keonho’s classes. His friends would nudge each other, whispering, until one of them—usually Seonghyeon—asked, “Hey, Keonho, who’s that guy waiting for you?”
And before Keonho could even open his mouth, James would answer smoothly, “I’m his tutor.” His tone left no room for doubt, his expression unreadable.
Martin would whistle, half-teasing. “Man, wish my tutor looked like that.”
Keonho laughed along with them, pretending it didn’t sting. Pretending he didn’t want to say, He’s mine. He’s my boyfriend. He’s the one I love. Instead, he slipped into James’s car afterward, and James would glance at him once, the faintest smile playing on his lips, as if to say, Thank you for not pressing it.
And Keonho—soft-hearted, endlessly forgiving—brushed it off. Maybe that was just how James loved. Quiet. Careful. Private.
---
There were moments, though, that made everything else disappear, moments so sweet they wrapped around Keonho’s heart and made him forget the questions he sometimes carried.
Like the evenings at Keonho’s house, when his parents were away, and James would sit on the floor of his room, long legs stretched out, watching as Keonho rattled on about his day. James barely spoke, but his eyes never left him, tracking every movement, every laugh, like he was storing them away.
Or the time James had fallen asleep on Keonho’s bed after practice, exhaustion pulling at him. Keonho had sat beside him for over an hour, chin propped in his hands, staring at the relaxed lines of James’s face. He had reached out once, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, whispering, “You’re so handsome,” even though James couldn’t hear.
Moments like these made Keonho feel like James loved him more than anyone else in the world.
---
But the questions still slipped out sometimes, unplanned.
It was late one evening, the two of them curled together on Keonho’s bed. The soft yellow lamp lit the room, and James’s arm was draped lazily around Keonho’s waist, their legs tangled. Keonho hesitated, his fingers fiddling with the hem of James’s shirt.
“James,” he started, voice quieter than usual.
“Mhm?” James’s tone was low, distracted, his thumb brushing slow patterns on Keonho’s hip.
“Why do you… why do you never tell people about us?” The words came out rushed, like he was afraid he’d lose the courage if he said them slowly.
James went still for a fraction of a second—so quick most people wouldn’t notice, but Keonho did. Then, just as smoothly, James chuckled under his breath, tugging Keonho closer as if to end the conversation before it began.
“Don’t overthink,” he murmured against the top of his head. “We’re fine like this.”
Keonho’s lips pressed together. He wanted to ask more, to push, but James’s warmth was so close, his hand so steady at his back, that the words crumbled before they left his mouth.
So he brushed it off again, tucking himself deeper into James’s chest, telling himself that maybe this really was just how James loved.
---
Sometimes, James’s love was too unclear.
There were days when he came straight from practice, still wound tight from training, the weight of his career pressing into his shoulders. On those days, his voice was sharper, his silences longer. He would sit in Keonho’s room, scrolling through his phone or staring blankly at the floor, and when Keonho leaned close, asking gently, “What’s wrong? Talk to me, James.” he would let out a humorless laugh.
“You wouldn’t understand,” James said, shaking his head. “You’re still a kid. Just drop it.”
The words landed like a slap. Keonho froze, lips parting, but nothing came out. He wanted to argue—that he wasn’t a child, that he wanted to understand, that loving James meant he was willing to carry every heavy part of him—but James’s eyes were tired, distant, already somewhere else. So he swallowed it down, hugging his knees to his chest while James scrolled through his phone as if Keonho wasn’t even there.
Sometimes, the frustration went further. When work stressed him out too much, James’s voice would cut sharp. “Can you stop asking me the same thing over and over? Not everything is about you, Keonho.” The second the words left his mouth, James sighed and rubbed his face, but the damage was done. Keonho would curl up smaller, trying not to let his eyes sting.
And sometimes, it was quieter, almost invisible—the kind of hurt that sank in slowly. Like when they were outside, walking side by side. Keonho would slip his hand toward James’s, fingers brushing tentative against his palm. For a second, James’s hand twitched like he might take it—but then he shifted away, shoving both hands into his pockets. Once, when Keonho tried again, James actually pushed his hand gently aside, eyes flicking nervously toward the crowd. “Not here,” he muttered, already looking ahead. Keonho laughed it off, pretending it didn’t sting, but the rejection sat heavy in his chest.
But then—other times—James’s love was so overwhelming it made Keonho forget every doubt.
Like the time James dragged him into a photobooth near the train station. Keonho had whined that it was silly, but James only smirked, pulling him inside. “Come on, you’re always saying you want pictures together.” The booth was cramped, their shoulders pressed tight, and Keonho giggled as he stuck star stickers to James’s cheek just as the flash went off.
And then, just before the next click of the camera, James turned his head and kissed him. It wasn’t hurried or teasing—it was soft, lingering, careful in a way that made Keonho’s breath catch in his throat. The light flashed, catching Keonho’s wide eyes and flushed cheeks, his hands frozen in midair while James stayed close, lips gentle against his.
When the strip printed out, one frame showed the exact moment: Keonho blushing so hard his ears were red, while James leaned in with the faintest, tender smile, like the kiss had been the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re keeping these,” Keonho teased weakly, trying to recover, waving the photos with shaky fingers.
“Give me that,” James muttered, snatching them, but his ears were pink. Weeks later, Keonho found the strip tucked into James’s wallet, edges worn soft like he’d taken it out too many times.
Or the late-night car rides. When James picked him up after long hours of studying, he never complained. He just leaned across the console, hand open, waiting. Keonho slid his fingers into his automatically, warmth seeping through. James didn’t speak much, but his thumb brushed lazy circles against Keonho’s palm, steady, reassuring.
One night, at a red light, James leaned over suddenly and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Don’t stay out so late next time,” he murmured, voice low, almost embarrassed. Keonho’s cheeks burned, but he smiled so wide he had to bite it back.
Then there were the smaller, quieter gestures. James remembering exactly how sweet Keonho liked his coffee—“Too much sugar again?” he teased, handing it over anyway. Fixing the strap on his backpack himself, sitting on the floor with needle and thread instead of telling him to buy a new one. Throwing his hoodie over Keonho’s head when he complained about the cold, the sleeves swallowing his hands, the scent of James wrapped around him.
“You look like a kid in that,” James said with a laugh.
“Then stop staring,” Keonho shot back, cheeks red, but James only shook his head, grin softening as his eyes lingered.
All of it—the photobooth, the car rides, the coffee, the hoodie—made Keonho feel like James’s love was deep and steady, even if he never said the words out loud.
But then came the silences again. The brushing away. The sharp reminders that James was twenty-eight and Keonho was nineteen, and that he’d never really understand.
Sometimes, lying awake at night, Keonho wondered if he was just a secret James tucked away between the cracks of his life.
And then the next morning, James would show up at his door with coffee in hand, pressing a kiss to his forehead like nothing had ever been wrong.
And Keonho—soft, reckless in his devotion—let the questions slip away again. Because James was his, and sometimes that felt like enough.
---
The rain came sudden, violent. One moment the roads were dry, the next the sky opened up, sheets of water pouring down like the heavens themselves had split. The sound of it pounded on the roof of James’s car, loud enough that Keonho flinched. The wipers fought against it, slashing back and forth, but the windshield was a blur of shifting gray.
James’s hands were steady on the wheel, but his jaw tightened, concentration sharp. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced sideways at Keonho, who sat curled against the passenger door, cheek pressed lightly to the cool glass, watching rivulets race each other down the pane.
“It’s not safe to drive you home in this,” James said finally, decisive. “We’re going to my place.”
Keonho blinked, turning his head. His place. For months of dating, James had never once invited him there. His heart gave a startled leap, even through the thunder rumbling above them. He opened his mouth to ask—why now?—but James’s focus was locked on the road, his profile hard and unreal in the dim dashboard glow.
So Keonho only nodded, pretending calm while inside something restless unfolded.
By the time they pulled into the driveway, the storm had swallowed the world whole. The tires hissed against wet concrete, rain hammering the windshield so hard Keonho could barely see past the wipers. When the car finally rolled to a stop, his breath caught.
James’s house wasn’t just a house. It loomed in the dark, clean lines illuminated by warm porch lights that glowed stubbornly against the storm. The driveway curved elegant and long, the manicured lawn glistening even under the assault of rain. It was the kind of place that spoke of quiet wealth, of stability, of a life Keonho felt he could only look at from a distance.
James was already out of the car, rushing around to open the passenger door, his hoodie tugged over his damp hair. “Come on,” he called over the roar of rain, reaching for Keonho’s hand. The downpour soaked them both in seconds as they dashed up the steps, Keonho’s sneakers squeaking against the porch.
The door opened to warmth, the hush of a home muffling the storm. Inside, it smelled faintly of cedar and coffee, the lights soft against wide, tidy rooms. Keonho’s shoes left little puddles on the polished floor as he kicked them off.
He barely had a moment to take it in before voices floated from deeper inside the house.
“James?” A woman’s voice, gentle but carrying. Then she appeared—hair tied neatly back, her features warm and welcoming. His mother. Her eyes landed on Keonho at once, curiosity brightening into a smile.
Behind her came James’s father, taller, broader, carrying the same air of discipline James sometimes wore. But his smile was easy, softening his presence.
“Oh,” his mother said warmly, stepping closer. “And who’s this?”
Keonho bowed quickly, murmuring a polite greeting, but James’s answer came too fast.
“He’s my coach’s son,” James said smoothly, his voice practiced. “The rain was too heavy, so I told him to stay over tonight.”
The words slid into Keonho’s chest like ice. Not my friend. Not my boyfriend. Not even someone important. Just… a convenient excuse.
Still, James’s mother’s smile widened, unbothered. She stepped forward, pressing a towel into Keonho’s hands, fussing at his damp hair. “Oh, you poor thing. You’re soaked through. Let me get you another one.”
James’s father chuckled, shaking his head as he took in the storm raging outside the window. “That rain won’t let up anytime soon. You’ll be lucky to see sunlight before morning.” He glanced at Keonho kindly. “Good thing you ended up here, huh?”
Keonho forced a smile, fingers tightening around the towel. Warmth spread through him at their easy kindness, the way they welcomed him without hesitation. But the lie James had spun lingered, sharp and heavy at the back of his throat.
---
James’s mother ushered them further in, the warmth of the house wrapping around Keonho like a blanket. His damp clothes clung to his skin, but the homeliness—soft lamps glowing, the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen—was enough to soften the edges of the storm still pounding outside.
“Sit, sit,” his mother insisted, guiding them toward the living room before disappearing to fetch more towels. James’s father dropped onto the couch with a low sigh, glancing at his son with a teasing smirk.
“You only bring friends home when the weather threatens to kill you, huh?” he remarked.
James rolled his eyes, tugging Keonho to sit beside him. “It’s not like that.”
Keonho stayed quiet, towel draped over his lap, his heart beating unevenly. The word “friends” hovered like smoke, clinging to him. Still, when James’s father turned to him with a warm smile, he found himself relaxing.
“So, you play hockey too?” the older man asked.
Keonho blinked, startled. “Ah—no, sir. I just… watch sometimes.” His voice came out softer than he intended, but James’s father chuckled, nodding approvingly.
“That’s good. Someone has to cheer him on when he’s too stubborn to cheer for himself.”
It made Keonho smile despite himself.
Soon, James’s mother called them to the dining table, and the smell of food hit Keonho’s senses—rich, comforting dishes that felt like home even though he’d never been here before. He hesitated at the threshold, uncertain if he should sit, but James’s mom noticed at once.
“You, here,” she said warmly, patting the chair beside her. “Don’t be shy. Eat, eat.”
James took the seat across from him, reaching automatically for the side dishes, his movements casual in a way that spoke of years of routine. Watching him like that, Keonho felt like an intruder slipping into a life that wasn’t his to touch.
But James’s parents didn’t let him feel that way for long. His mother kept piling food onto his plate no matter how many times he protested, clucking her tongue when he tried to refuse.
“You’re too thin,” she said firmly. “Eat more. Boys your age need strength.”
James choked on his water, grinning as he coughed. “Mom, you sound like Coach.”
“And Coach is right,” she fired back, making Keonho laugh, though quietly.
His father added in his dry, teasing tone, “If he eats more, maybe he’ll grow taller than you.”
James groaned, tossing his chopsticks down. “Dad.”
Laughter filled the room, bouncing against the warm walls, and for a moment, Keonho let himself soak in the softness of it. James’s parents were sweet, easy in their affection, and they treated him like he belonged—even if James had called him something else entirely.
The table was lively in a way Keonho hadn’t expected. Between the sound of rain hammering against the windows and the soft glow of the overhead light, the house felt cocooned, safe. James’s mother busied herself making sure both boys’ bowls stayed full, and James kept trying to stop her only to get scolded like a child.
“Don’t act like you’re starving him,” she chided, tapping James’s wrist when he tried to block the ladle. “When you were his age, you used to eat twice as much and still sneak into the kitchen at midnight.”
“Mom,” James groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Not this again.”
Keonho’s head tilted, curious. “You… really did that?”
James’s mother’s eyes lit up at the chance to embarrass him. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it. He used to raid the fridge in the middle of the night—standing there in his pajamas, hair sticking up, stuffing cold dumplings into his mouth. Once, I caught him with ice cream and rice mixed together because he said it ‘balanced the flavors.’”
Keonho burst out laughing, clutching his chopsticks. James’s ears turned pink as he tried to defend himself. “It was good, okay? Don’t listen to her.”
His father shook his head, chuckling low. “Good? You almost threw up on the carpet. I had to clean it at two in the morning.”
“Dad!”
The room erupted into laughter again, warmth threading between them like a ribbon. Keonho couldn’t stop smiling, the image of a younger, messier James somehow making his heart ache more.
“And when he was little,” his mom continued, relentless now, “he had this habit of dragging his hockey stick everywhere. To the store, to the park, even to the dentist. People thought he was training for the Olympics at age six.”
Keonho’s eyes widened, glancing at James, who groaned into his hands. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”
“Don’t encourage her,” James muttered, peeking at him through his fingers, but the slight curve of his lips betrayed his amusement.
His mother leaned closer to Keonho with a conspiratorial smile. “Did you know, once he cried because he lost a game of rock-paper-scissors to his cousin? He locked himself in his room for hours until we bribed him out with cookies.”
James’s father snorted. “And look at him now—still sulking when he loses.”
“That’s not true!” James shot back immediately, and his mother rolled her eyes in fond exasperation.
The whole exchange made Keonho’s chest ache in the sweetest way. He sat there quietly, cheeks warm from laughter, trying not to let it show how much it meant to be included in their circle, even just for tonight. He wasn’t family, wasn’t even officially anything—but for a fleeting moment, it felt like he belonged.
Still, every time James’s hand brushed his under the table, subtle and deliberate, Keonho’s chest tightened with both hope and hurt.
---
By the time James pulled Keonho upstairs, the storm outside had settled into a steady roar, the rain thrumming against the wide windows of the house. Dinner had left Keonho warm, his cheeks still flushed from laughter, but the weight of James’s earlier words—Coach’s son—pressed down on him no matter how he tried to shake it off.
James didn’t give him much space to linger on it. He caught Keonho’s wrist, tugging him down the hall with an energy that was both casual and charged. His grip was warm, certain, and when they reached his room, James pushed the door shut with his shoulder, pulling Keonho inside like he’d been waiting for this all night.
The room was neat but lived-in—trophies lined the shelves, framed jerseys and medals spoke of years of discipline, the faint scent of cologne clung to the air. Before Keonho could even take it all in, James was already closing the distance.
“Finally,” he muttered, almost to himself, pressing Keonho back gently against the door. His lips brushed over Keonho’s jaw, then his mouth, urgent and sweet at once. His hands found Keonho’s waist, tugging him closer, trying to deepen the kiss, to turn it into something hot and certain.
But Keonho didn’t move. His body stayed stiff, his lips unmoving beneath James’s.
It took James a second to notice. He pulled back, breath slightly ragged, brows furrowing. “What’s wrong?”
The words cracked something inside Keonho. He swallowed, throat tight. For a long moment, he couldn’t speak. He could only stare at James—this beautiful, impossible man who made him laugh until his stomach hurt, who made his heart feel too big for his chest, and who, in front of his parents, had called him nothing.
Finally, his voice broke through, quiet but sharp. “You told them I’m your coach’s son.”
James blinked, confusion flashing across his face before his expression hardened into something defensive. “Keonho, don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” Keonho’s voice cracked, louder now, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “James, do you even understand how that felt? Sitting at your table with your mom fussing over me, your dad cracking jokes—and I couldn’t even say what I am to you. Because to them, I’m nobody. Just some excuse you made up on the spot.”
James exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re nineteen. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think—”
“They’d think what?” Keonho snapped, tears already burning his eyes. “That I’m too young for you? That I’m just a kid? God, James, I’m so fucking tired of that being your excuse for everything.”
James stepped forward, trying to calm him, his hands reaching out. “Hey, don’t—”
But Keonho jerked back, tears slipping free now, his voice trembling. “No. You don’t get to shut me up and kiss me to make it go away. I’m not stupid, James. I know what it means to love someone. I know what it means to want to be claimed, to be—” His voice cracked, raw. “To be yours.”
The words hung heavy, the air thick. James’s jaw clenched, his voice dropping low, almost sharp. “You are mine. Why are you acting like you’re not?”
Keonho’s laugh was hollow, broken. “Mine? Really? Then why can’t you ever fucking say it out loud? Why can’t you even say it to your own parents? You hide me every second we’re outside this room, like I’m some dirty little secret you don’t want the world to see.”
“That’s not fair.” James’s tone sharpened. “I’m protecting you. Protecting us. Do you have any idea what people would say if this got out? About me? About you?”
“Protecting me?” Keonho’s voice rose, thick with tears. “Bullshit. You’re protecting yourself. You’re fucking scared, James, and you’re using my age to cover it up. And I’m the one paying for it—I’m the one who has to sit there, invisible, pretending like none of this means anything when it means everything to me.”
James’s chest heaved, his voice caught between pleading and defensive. “Keonho, stop. You don’t understand how complicated this is.”
“Stop saying that!” Keonho’s sob ripped free, his shoulders trembling. “I do understand. I’m not some kid who doesn’t get it. I love you, James. I love you so much it hurts. And all I want—all I want—is for you to love me back in a way that doesn’t make me feel ashamed.”
James froze. The sight of him crying—really crying, cheeks wet, lips trembling—ripped something out of him. He stepped forward, hands reaching again. “Baby, come on—”
But Keonho flinched, shaking his head violently. “Don’t. Don’t call me that right now. You don’t get to touch me and make this go away.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. James’s fists curled, his voice low, almost broken. “You think I don’t love you? You think this isn’t tearing me apart too?”
“Then prove it,” Keonho whispered, tears streaming freely. “Prove it by letting the world know I’m not just some kid you fuck behind closed doors. Prove it by telling people I’m yours.”
James’s breath hitched, his lips parted like he wanted to say something—but nothing came. His silence was louder than any confession.
Keonho’s heart broke clean in two. He wiped his face with his sleeve, voice trembling but steady with finality. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep being your secret. I can’t keep begging for scraps of love when I deserve the whole fucking thing.”
James moved, desperation breaking through. “Keonho, wait...don’t—”
But Keonho stepped past him, his hand trembling on the doorknob. He paused only once, his back to James, voice raw and cracked.
“Maybe one day, you’ll figure out that love isn’t supposed to feel like this heavy fucking burden. But I can’t wait around forever for you to grow brave.”
And then he was gone, his footsteps pounding down the stairs, the sound swallowed by the storm outside.
James stood frozen in the middle of his room, the rain hammering against the windows, his chest hollow. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel untouchable. He just felt alone.