The air in the empty dressing room was thick with the smell of hot stage lights and cold cream. Jisung stood before the vanity, his hands braced on the edge, head bowed. Fuck. He was a mess. The evidence of his release was a cold, sticky patch on his stomach, a stark contrast to the heat still flooding his veins. She’d sent that picture right after he finished a run-through, and the whiplash had been absolute—one moment he was a focused performer, the next he was gone, utterly dismantled by the image glowing on his screen.
That picture.
His hoodie, pushed up. The dark fabric a frame for the cream of her skin. The delicate lace of her bra, a pale whisper against the curve of her chest. His silver ring, a familiar band of metal, was a bright point on her thumb. He could see the constellation of freckles across her collarbone, even in the low light of her bedroom. He’d memorized them years ago, tracing them with a finger after she fell asleep in his lap during a movie marathon. Now all he could think of was her chest, the weight of it, the heat. The taste. And he had to go back out there and be normal. Be Han. After she’d just broken him apart with the sound of her voice and the sight of his own hands moving over himself, a poor substitute for her.
He grabbed a towel from a stack, dampened a corner with cold water from a bottle. He shoved his shirt up, the air cool on his flushed skin, and wiped his stomach clean. The action was clinical. Necessary. But his hands weren’t steady. The simple cotton felt abrasive. Every nerve was still lit up, screaming for her. He tucked himself back into his pants, the fabric a rough confinement. He caught his own eyes in the mirror. They were dark, pupils blown wide. Haunted. Hungry.
“Get it together,” he muttered to his reflection. The words were a command, but his voice was shot, ragged from the rehearsal and from her. He splashed water on his face, the cold a shock. It didn’t help. The phantom scent of her—vanilla and sleep and Kelsey—seemed embedded in the air he breathed. He pulled his shirt down, adjusted the fit of his jeans. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to summon the easy, witty mask he wore like armor. It felt miles away.
The door to the practice room felt heavier than usual. He pushed it open, the sound of chatter and someone running a vocal scale hitting him. The lights were brighter out here. Too bright. Felix was by the water cooler, laughing at something. He glanced over as Jisung re-entered.
“There you are. You okay? You look…” Felix trailed off, his head tilting.
“Fine,” Jisung said, too quickly. He forced a grin, felt it strain his face. “Just hot. Dressing room’s stuffy.”
Felix’s eyes lingered on him for a second too long. Jisung knew that look. His friend saw too much. But Felix just nodded, accepting the lie. “We’re running the bridge again. You ready?”
“Born ready,” Jisung said, the old bravado automatic. He moved to his mark on the floor, the familiar scuff marks grounding him. The music started. He fell into the choreography, his body moving on muscle memory. But his mind was a thousand miles away, in a dim Los Angeles bedroom. Every sharp hit of the beat was the pulse of his own blood. Every spin was the dizzying spiral of his thoughts. Her. Her. Her.
He performed. He smiled. He rapped his lines with precision. But it was all surface noise. Beneath it, a single, possessive truth thrummed: *Mine. She’s mine.* The thought was a live wire, electrifying every step, every glance at the clock. The rehearsal ended. The goodbyes were said. He got into the car, the silence a relief. He leaned his head against the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold. His phone was a weight in his pocket. He didn’t take it out. He needed to be somewhere private before he looked at her again.
Later, in the dark of his room, the picture glowed on his tablet screen. He’d saved it in the folder he kept hidden, encrypted behind two layers of passwords. A digital vault for every piece of her he owned: old photos from Arizona, screenshots of texts, the video of her spinning his ring. He lay on his bed, the tablet propped on his chest. The blue light washed over his face. He traced the line of her jaw on the screen with a fingertip, leaving no mark.
It wasn’t enough.
He needed it closer. A version he could carry without the risk. He sat up, pulling his laptop over. He made a copy of the image and opened an editing program. His movements were deliberate, focused. He applied a blur filter, sliding the intensity just enough. The details melted away—the specific pattern of the lace, the exact shape of her smile. What remained were shapes. Impressions. The dark pool of his hoodie. The soft cream curve of skin. The lighter halo of her hair against the pillow. To anyone else, it would be an abstract study in shadow and light. A moody art piece. But to him, it was a map. A secret. Only he could decipher the terrain.
He set it as his lock screen. A test. He locked the tablet, then woke it. The blurred image appeared. His breath caught. It was safer. It was more dangerous. Because now, every time he glanced at his device, he’d see the ghost of her. A constant, aching reminder. A claim he’d made in the digital ether.
His gaze drifted to the small box on his nightstand. He’d already sent her birthday gift. It was sitting at her parents’ house in Arizona now, waiting. Fifteen days. The ring was custom. White gold, set with a sliver of his favorite guitar pick, preserved under a clear cabochon. He had the matching one, a plain band with a fragment from the same pick. He’d worn it for a week after it arrived, then took it off, saving it. A promise for when she was here. When he could put it on and she would have its twin.
Now, looking at the blurred photo, the gift felt pathetic. Inadequate. A piece of plastic in a ring. What was that against the reality of her? Against the memory of her breath hitching in his ear over the phone? Against the image of her wearing his clothes, her skin flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded and wanting?
He needed to give her something that meant more. Something that couldn’t be misinterpreted. The ‘just friends’ charade was a paper shield, and it was dissolving in the heat of this… whatever this was. He was tired of sending fragments. He wanted to send the whole truth.
He picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over her name. He could call. It was late for her, but not too late. He could tell her. The words were there, a pressure behind his ribs. *I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend you’re just my friend. I see you in everything. I need you here.*
He didn’t call.
Instead, he opened a new text. He typed, deleted. Typed again. The cursor blinked, a tiny, relentless pulse. He looked at the blurred lock screen, then back at the empty message box.
He typed three words. Not the three words. Different ones. Raw and honest and stripped of all playfulness.
*I’m not okay.*
He sent it before he could think. The whoosh sound was final. He dropped the phone onto the bed like it had burned him. He stared at the ceiling, his heart hammering against his sternum. It was a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself. A crack in the performer’s facade. He’d just handed her a piece of his wreckage and asked her to hold it.
The phone buzzed. A single, sharp vibration against the sheets.
He didn’t reach for it immediately. He let it sit there, a contained explosion. He counted to ten. The silence in his room was absolute, pressed down by the weight of his confession.
Finally, he picked it up.
Her reply was simple. *Tell me.*
Not a question. A command. An invitation into the dark. He closed his eyes. The compass tattoo on his shoulder seemed to burn, its needle spinning wildly, uselessly, because his true north was an ocean away, lying in a bed wearing his hoodie, waiting for him to find his way.