Kelsey’s phone buzzed against the worn leather of her parents’ couch, the screen lighting up the dim room with a text notification. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. It had been over a year since she’d seen Jisung in person, and the digital thread between them had become a constant, humming presence in her life. Another buzz. And another. She finally picked it up, a smile already tugging at her lips.
Jisung: jagiya
Jisung: please come
Jisung: Tenley said your parents are considering it
Jisung: say yes
Jisung: i’m begging
She could picture him perfectly—probably sprawled on his own couch in the dorm, hair messy, bottom lip jutting out in a pout he’d deny to his grave. The ‘jagiya’ had started as a joke months ago, a teasing affectation, but now it slipped into his texts with a casual intimacy that made her chest feel tight. She typed back, her thumbs moving slowly.
Kelsey: Jisung what am I supposed to do? You can’t kiss me in front of my parents.
Kelsey: And am I going to sneak out of my parents hotel room and into your apartment that you share with Minho?
His reply was immediate.
Jisung: yes
Jisung: that is exactly what you are going to do
Jisung: Minho-hyung can sleep in the studio. He won’t care.
Jisung: or we’ll get a hotel. i’ll pay. i don’t care.
Jisung: just come.
The desperation in his texts was a live wire. It was the same energy she’d felt through the phone for weeks, a restless, possessive need that had only grown since his late-night confession of missing her. It vibrated through her now, sitting alone in her childhood living room with the ghost of their teenage years in every corner. She could hear her sister Tenley’s voice from down the hall, chattering to their mom about Felix’s latest Bubble message. The conspirators. Jisung and her eleven-year-old sister, plotting a trans-Pacific birthday invasion.
Kelsey: You’re enabling her. She’s going to think this is normal. Showing up in Korea for a birthday trip.
Jisung: it IS normal. for us.
Jisung: she’s my little sister too. i’ve known her since she needed a step stool to reach the kitchen counter.
Jisung: she wants to see where i live. let her.
Jisung: let me see you.
The last line landed differently. It wasn’t about Tenley anymore. It was a quiet, stark demand. *Let me see you.* Her breath caught. On the muted TV, some reality show played silently, colors flickering over her bare legs. She was wearing an old pair of sleep shorts and one of Jisung’s stolen practice shirts, the fabric soft and thin from wear. She brought the collar to her nose instinctively. His scent was gone, washed out months ago by her detergent, but the habit remained.
Her phone buzzed again, a photo this time. It was a selfie, clearly taken just now. Jisung in a black beanie, his face close to the camera, his expression deliberately pitiful. His eyes were big and pleading. The caption read: *look at me. i’m wasting away.* She laughed, a soft, choked sound in the quiet room. He was being dramatic, but the ache behind it was real. She’d seen it in his eyes during their last video call, a hungry, restless thing that his jokes couldn’t quite mask.
Kelsey: You look fine.
Jisung: i look lonely.
Kelsey: You have seven roommates.
Jisung: not the same. you know it’s not the same.
Jisung: a year, kels. it’s been a year.
She did know. The knowledge was a physical weight, a hollow space under her ribs that only ever felt full when his name lit up her screen or his voice, sleep-rough and intimate, filled her ear late at night. They had built a bridge of traded objects and whispered promises, but she was tired of walking the bridge. She wanted to be on the other side. With him.
Kelsey: My parents are talking about it. Seriously talking. Mom was looking at flight prices earlier.
Jisung: YES.
Jisung: tell them i will personally be their tour guide. i will take Tenley to all the studios. i will get Felix and Jeongin to record a birthday message for her. i will buy your dad so much barbecue he’ll forget to ask why you’re never in your hotel room.
She could feel him spiraling, planning, trying to control the scenario through sheer force of will. It was so *him*. The same boy who, years ago, had meticulously planned their route for a spontaneous road trip to the Grand Canyon, down to the exact rest stop where they’d watch the sunrise.
Kelsey: Slow down. It’s not a done deal.
Jisung: make it a done deal.
Jisung: what’s holding you back? really?
She stared at the question. The flickering TV light played over her hands. She spun the thin silver ring on her thumb, the one he’d sent in a small velvet box two months ago with a note that just said, *so you have something to fidget with.* He’d noticed, even through a pixelated screen, her nervous habit. She took a deep breath and typed the truth.
Kelsey: What if it’s weird?
Kelsey: What if we get there and this… thing we’ve built over the phone doesn’t work in person?
Kelsey: What if you take one look at me and realize you’ve built me up into something I’m not?
The three dots appeared. They pulsed for a long, agonizing moment. Then a voice call request flashed on her screen. Her heart leapt into her throat. She glanced toward the hallway, then accepted, bringing the phone to her ear.
“Hey,” she whispered.
“Don’t do that,” his voice came through, low and clear, a direct line to Seoul. It was quieter than usual. He was probably in his room. “Don’t doubt this. Don’t doubt *me*.”
“I’m not doubting you. I’m being realistic. This is a fantasy, Jisung. The texting, the calls… it’s safe. Real life is messy.”
“Our entire friendship has been messy,” he countered, and she could hear the frown in his voice. “You spilled an entire milkshake in my lap the day we met. I broke my arm trying to impress you on a skateboard. We got lost in Phoenix for three hours because you refused to ask for directions. Messy is our default setting. This is just a new kind of messy.”
She leaned back into the couch, pulling her knees to her chest. “A new kind of messy where my little sister is a Stray Kids stan and my parents think we’re just good friends planning a reunion.”
“So we’ll be discreet.”
“You’re terrible at being discreet. You look at me like…” She trailed off, her face warming.
“Like what?” His voice dropped, intimate. A shiver traced her spine. “How do I look at you, Kelsey?”
“You know.”
“Tell me.”
She closed her eyes. “Like you want to eat me alive.”
A beat of silence. Then a low, rough sound from him, almost a groan. “Yeah. Because I do. I have for years. You’re just finally letting me.” He took an audible breath. “The way you look at me back… that’s not just friends either. You think your dad doesn’t know that? You think anyone who’s ever seen us together for five minutes believes the ‘just friends’ thing?”
He was right. The ‘just friends’ lie had always been tissue-paper thin, even before anything happened. It was in the way they gravitated to each other in a room, the way they communicated in a shared glance, the easy, possessive touch of his hand on the small of her back. The label had been a shield, and now it was ashes.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, the words leaving her in a rush.
“I’m terrified,” he said, no hesitation. “I’m terrified you’ll get here and I’ll have to share you with my members, with your family, with Tenley’s endless questions about Felix’s freckles. I’m terrified I won’t get a single second alone with you. But I’m more terrified of not seeing you for another year. So the mess? The sneaking around? I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever scraps of you I can get.”
His honesty disarmed her, left her raw and aching. She could feel the truth of it in her own body—a deep, throbbing want that had nothing to do with fantasy and everything to do with the memory of his weight on her, his mouth, his hands. The ghost of his touch was a constant echo. She shifted on the couch, a flush spreading across her skin that had nothing to do with the stuffy house air.
“What are you wearing?” he asked, his voice changing, softening into something dangerously sweet.
“What?”
“Right now. What are you wearing?”
She looked down at the stolen shirt. “One of your old practice tees. The gray one with the hole in the hem.”
“Are you wearing anything under it?”
Her breath hitched. “Jisung.”
“Answer the question, jagiya.”
The endearment, spoken in his real voice, did something to her. It pooled low in her belly, a slick, hot pulse of need. “No,” she whispered. “Just shorts.”
“Good.” A rustling sound, like he was moving, settling. “I’m in bed. Thinking about you in my shirt. Thinking about how you looked the last morning I was there. All sleepy and warm and mine.”
She was melting into the leather, her free hand drifting to her thigh, her skin hypersensitive. “Stop.”
“You don’t want me to stop.”
He was right. She didn’t. The distance was a cruel joke, but his voice in the dark felt like a touch. “My parents are down the hall,” she murmured, a weak protest.
“Then be quiet.” His instruction was gentle, firm. “Put your phone on the pillow. Let me talk to you.”
With a trembling hand, she did as he said, switching to speaker and laying the phone beside her head. She stared at the stucco ceiling she’d known since childhood, her body humming. “Okay.”
“I remember the exact shade of pink you turn,” he began, his voice a low, steady stream in her ear. “Right here.” As if he could see her, her hand instinctively rose to the column of her throat. “And here.” Her other hand skimmed over the swell of her breast through the thin cotton. A soft sound escaped her, and she bit her lip. “I remember the way you gasp. Like it’s being punched out of you. I remember how you feel, Kelsey. How tight and hot and perfect you feel when I’m inside you. I think about it every night. I wake up hard and aching for it. For you.”
Her hips lifted off the couch, a tiny, involuntary movement. The seam of her shorts pressed against her, and she was already wet, the fabric clinging. She was glad for the darkness, for the empty room. Her hand slid under the hem of the shirt, over her stomach.
“Are you touching yourself?” he asked, his voice barely a breath.
“No,” she lied, her own voice shaky.
“Liar.” He sounded pleased. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”
“You. In my bed. That last time.” The memory was vivid, visceral. The morning light, the solemn look in his eyes, the slow, deep cadence of his thrusts that felt less like fucking and more like a vow. “You telling me to watch you.”
“I wanted you to see,” he said, the rawness back. “I wanted you to know it was me. Only me.”
Her fingers dipped lower, beneath the waistband of her shorts. She found the slick, swollen heat of herself and moaned, softly, pressing the back of her other hand to her mouth to stifle it.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, hearing her. “I’m right here. I wish it was my hand. My mouth. I’d taste you for hours. I’d make you come until you forgot your own name.”
She circled her clit, her back arching off the couch. The pleasure was sharp, immediate, amplified by his voice painting pictures in the dark. She could see him—the intense focus in his eyes, the way his jaw would tighten. She imagined his hands, the calluses from his guitar strings, on her skin. His weight pinning her down.
“Jisung,” she gasped.
“I’m here. I’m with you. Let go.”
His permission, his presence in her ear, was the final thread to snap. The climax rolled through her, a silent, shuddering wave that clenched her whole body. She rode it out, her fingers working through the pulses, her breath coming in ragged, silent hitches against her hand. Stars burst behind her closed eyelids.
Slowly, she came down, boneless and trembling. The room came back into focus—the flickering TV, the familiar shadows. The sound of his steady breathing in her ear.
“Come to Korea,” he said, his voice thick with his own want. A command. A plea.
She was still floating, her body humming, her mind quieted. All the practical fears seemed distant, trivial. There was only this need, this bridge, and the man waiting on the other side. She reached for the phone, bringing it back to her mouth.
“Okay,” she whispered, the word a surrender and a promise. “Okay, I’ll come.”