Kelsey’s phone buzzed against her thigh, the screen lighting up with a new text notification. She didn’t need to look to know it was Tenley. Her younger sister had been FaceTiming her at least twice a day since their parents announced the Seoul trip, a whirlwind of ten-year-old excitement about hanboks, palace tours, and whether she could bring her entire Squishmallow collection. The tickets were booked for spring break, a solid two and a half months away. It was January 15th. Her birthday, her twenty-first, was in fifteen days. Tenley’s tenth was two days after that. The calendar felt like a taunt, each square a little cell holding a unit of time she had to endure without him.
Her two younger brothers, Kohl and Jace, were predictably jealous they weren’t going, but at seventeen and fourteen, their outrage was performative, quickly buried under video games and the supreme effort of being too cool for a family trip. Their disinterest was a relief. It meant she didn’t have to explain the frantic, secret heartbeat of this journey, the reason her stomach flipped every time she thought about Incheon Airport. She didn’t have to explain Han.
Everyone who mattered already knew. Her parents, because she’d finally stopped lying and said yes, he was the reason. And his members—all of Stray Kids—they knew for a fact that Jisung and Kelsey were not just friends. They weren’t even pretending to be just friends anymore. They’d seen the swapped clothes, heard the late-night calls, witnessed the way Jisung’s entire posture changed when her name flashed on his screen. They knew they loved each other, even if she and Han were still dancing around the words themselves. That collective knowledge was a net beneath her, but it didn’t stop the fall. It just meant she wasn’t falling alone.
Alone was her apartment right now. The cheerful clutter from her call with Tenley—a notebook scrawled with potential itineraries, a half-empty glass of water—sat on the coffee table. The silence after the call had expanded, thick and heavy, pressing in from the corners of the room. It was a waiting silence. It smelled like dust and loneliness and the faint, fading trace of fabric softener from Han’s hoodie, which she was wearing. Again. She brought the cuff to her nose and inhaled. Almost gone. The scent of him was a ghost now, a memory of a memory.
The missing him was a physical ache, a hollowed-out space under her ribs that throbbed in time with her pulse. It was worse tonight, sharper, after their phone call. After his voice in her ear, painting pictures that left her skin humming and her sheets tangled. The pretense was ash. They had confessed everything but the three specific words, and the absence of those words made the need more acute, not less. She needed to touch him. Since she couldn’t, she needed him to see her.
She stood from the couch and walked to her bedroom, the hardwood floor cool under her bare feet. The bed was still unmade from the night before, from where she’d lain after his call, aching and awake. She didn’t turn on the overhead light. The glow from the living room was enough. She climbed onto the mattress, the springs giving softly under her weight.
She lay back against the pillows. His hoodie was oversized, swallowing her frame, the cuffs falling past her fingertips. She gathered the soft gray fabric in one hand and pulled it up, over her stomach, over her ribs. The hem brushed the underside of her breasts. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. The air in the room was cool against her skin where the hoodie no longer covered. With her other hand, she adjusted the angle, holding the fabric just below her collarbone, exposing the lace edge of her bra, the swell of her breasts, the scatter of freckles across her chest that he’d once traced with a dumbfounded fingertip in her parents’ driveway a lifetime ago.
She held her phone out, arm extended. The screen showed a fragment of her: the rumpled bedding, the gray cotton, her skin, the silver ring he’d sent her spinning loosely on her thumb where she gripped the hoodie. Her face was out of frame. She wasn’t stupid. But everything else was in it. The invitation. The loneliness. The truth. She took the picture. The shutter sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
She didn’t hesitate. She found his contact, the one saved under a stupid inside joke from high school, and attached the image. She typed no message. The photo was the message. Her thumb hovered for a second over the send button, her heart hammering against her ribs. Then she pressed it. The whoosh sound sealed her fate.
She dropped the phone onto the bed beside her, as if it were hot. She let the hoodie fall back down, covering her. She stared at the ceiling, counting the faint textural imperfections in the plaster. One. Two. Three. Her phone remained dark and silent. Four. Five. Six. The hollow under her ribs caved in a little more. Maybe it was too much. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was with the guys and—
The phone buzzed. Not a call. A text. A single, violent vibration against the sheets.
She snatched it up, the screen blindingly bright in the dark room. The notification preview glowed.
Han: fuck Kelsey
She exhaled, a shaky, ragged thing. Her skin prickled, everywhere. She unlocked the phone. The two words sat there, alone in the bubble. No emoji. No punctuation. Just the raw, stripped-down reaction. She could feel it, the heat of his gaze, the fracture in his control. She could imagine exactly where he was, what his face looked like. She typed back.
Kelsey: What?
The three dots appeared immediately. They pulsed. They disappeared. They reappeared. He was typing. Deleting. Typing again. The suspense was a live wire down her spine.
Han: you know what. where are you.
Kelsey: Bed.
Han: alone.
It wasn’t a question. It was a demand for confirmation, a need so sharp it cut through the digital space between them.
Kelsey: Yes.
Han: don’t move.
Her breath caught. The command was absolute. Her phone began to ring, his caller ID flashing. She answered, bringing it to her ear. She didn’t say hello.
Neither did he. For a long moment, there was only the sound of his breathing, slightly ragged, as if he’d been running. Then, his voice, low and strained. “Show me.”
“What?”
“The picture. It’s not enough. Show me now.”
Her hand trembled as she switched to video call. His face filled her screen, and the sight knocked the air from her lungs. He was in what looked like a dressing room, a mirror with glowing bulbs behind him, but he was angled away from it, focused solely on his phone. On her. His hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead. His eyes were dark, intense, roaming over the small image of her on his own screen like he was trying to climb through it. He’d clearly just gotten off stage, or out of practice. The sheen of sweat on his skin, the intensity in his posture—it was all still there, but channeled entirely at her.
“There,” she whispered.
“Wider,” he said, his voice rough. “I can’t see.”
She propped the phone against the headboard, adjusting the angle so he could see more of the bed, more of her. She was still lying back, the hoodie pooling around her. She slowly gathered the fabric again, pulling it up as she had before, exposing the same strip of skin, the lace, the freckles. The ring on her thumb.
He made a sound, a low groan that was pure ache. “The ring.”
“You sent it to me.”
“I know what I sent you.” He shifted, and the camera jostled. He seemed to be moving, finding a different position. “It’s on your hand. While you’re… fuck, Kels.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
“Yes.” The word was barely audible.
“Say it.”
“I know what I’m doing to you.” Her voice gained strength. “I’m doing it on purpose.”
His eyes closed for a second, his jaw tight. When they opened, the look in them was feral. “Why?”
“Because I miss you.” The confession tumbled out, simple and devastating. “Because spring break is a million years away and your hoodie doesn’t smell like you anymore and I can’t stand it.”
“Kelsey.” Her name was a prayer, a curse. “Touch yourself.”
The command, so direct after her emotional spill, sent a shock of heat straight to her core. She felt herself clench, empty and wanting. “Han—”
“You sent me that picture to wreck me. It worked. Now wreck yourself with me. Let me see.” His tone brooked no argument. It was the voice he used on stage, the one that commanded arenas, now focused solely on commanding her. “The hoodie. Keep it on. But move it.”
Her hand, the one not holding the fabric, was trembling. She lowered it from the frame of the phone, down her body, under the hem of the hoodie. The material was soft, worn. Her fingers skimmed over her stomach, her hip. She watched his face on the screen, watched his eyes track the movement he couldn’t see, only infer from the shift in the fabric, from the hitch in her breathing.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he demanded, his own breathing shallow. “Exactly.”
“I’m thinking about your hands,” she whispered, her fingers dipping beneath the waistband of her underwear. She was already wet. The slick heat was a confession. “I’m thinking about that time in my car, after your concert in LA. You put your hand on my leg and you didn’t move it until we got to my apartment.”
“I was terrified,” he admitted, his gaze locked on hers through the screen. “I wanted to slide it higher. I wanted to see if you’d let me.”
“I would have.” Her fingertips found the aching, sensitive flesh. A soft gasp escaped her. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second.
“Eyes open. Look at me.” She forced her eyes open, finding his. “You would have what?”
“I would have let you.” She began to move her fingers, a slow, tentative circle. The pleasure was sharp, immediate, amplified by his gaze, by his ragged breathing in her ear. “I’ve always let you. You just never asked for enough.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He adjusted the phone again, and the camera angle shifted lower. She could see the tense line of his shoulders, the way he was leaning forward, as if trying to get closer. “I’m asking now.”
“I know.” Her movements grew bolder, her hips arching slightly off the bed. The hoodie rucked up further, exposing the flat plane of her stomach, the curve of her hip. She was completely exposed to him, even with the fabric still covering parts of her. It felt more intimate than nakedness.
“Are you wet?”
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Only for you. Always for you.” The words were a truth she could no longer contain. They spilled out with the rhythm of her hand. “God, Han, I can’t wait anymore. I need you here. I need you to—”
“What? What do you need me to do?” His voice was gritted sand.
“I need you to take this hoodie off me. I need you to put your mouth on me. Right here.” Her finger pressed down on her clit, a firm, desperate pressure. A moan broke from her throat. “I need you to make it so I can’t think about anything but how you feel. I need you to make it so I can’t remember what it’s like to not have you inside me.”
He let out a choked sound. The camera view shook, then stabilized. He had set the phone down, propped it somewhere. His face was still there, but the frame was wider now. She could see the wall of the dressing room, a rack of clothes. And she could see him, his hand moving down, out of frame, the tense strain of his arm. He was touching himself. The realization made her cry out, her own movements becoming frantic, chasing the crest of a wave that was building too fast, too hard.
“Watch me,” he ground out, his eyes burning into the camera. “Watch me come for you, Kelsey. Since I can’t be there to make you come myself.”
She was so close. The coil in her belly was tight, screaming. His face, the sweat on his temple, the utter focus in his eyes—it was all too much. “I’m gonna—”
“Now. Come for me right now.”
It was the permission, the command, the raw need in his voice that shattered her. The orgasm ripped through her, blinding and violent, arching her back off the bed. A broken sob tore from her lips as she rode it out, her fingers working through the pulses, her entire body trembling. On the screen, his head fell back, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth forming a silent, strained cry. His shoulders tensed, then shuddered. He was coming, too. Alone in a dressing room across the world, wrecked by a picture, undone by her voice.
The aftermath was a slow, quiet unraveling. Her body went limp, boneless against the sheets. She pulled her hand free, bringing it up to rest on her stomach, which rose and fell rapidly. The hoodie was a mess, twisted around her. On the screen, Han had slumped forward, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. The only sound was their synchronized, ragged breathing.
Slowly, he lifted his head. He looked exhausted, wrecked, beautiful. His eyes found hers through the camera. For a long minute, neither of them spoke. The intimacy was too vast, too raw for words.
Finally, he swallowed. “January 30th.”
Her birthday. She nodded, her throat tight.
“I’m sending you something,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It won’t be me. But it’ll be from me. Open it alone.”
“Okay.”
“Kelsey?”
“Yeah?”
He looked directly into the camera, his expression utterly serious, stripped bare of all performance. “After spring break… you’re never wearing that hoodie to bed alone again. I’m going to be there to take it off you. Every night. That’s a promise.”
A tear escaped, tracing a hot path down her temple into her hairline. She didn’t wipe it away. “I’m holding you to that.”
“Good.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “Now go to sleep. Dream of me.”
“I always do.”
The call ended. The screen went black, reflecting the dim, lonely contours of her bedroom back at her. The hollow under her ribs was still there, but it was different now. It wasn’t filled, but it was outlined in gold, traced by the certainty in his voice. A promise. A destination. She curled onto her side, pulling the hoodie’s collar over her nose, breathing in the last ghost of his scent, and closed her eyes. The wait was still agony. But it was no longer endless. It had a shape now. It had his name.