The Act

by beathewriter

Summary:

The thing was, neither of them wanted this.
But they both needed it — or at least that’s what they told themselves.

Johnny Suh had wrecked his image after a bar fight with a fan in California, just hours after a devastating loss that nearly cost his team the season.

Ten Lee had finally escaped a toxic relationship, quietly vanishing from the spotlight months before his long-awaited return to music.

The narrative their managers pitched was simple:
The wild, reckless quarterback “tamed” by the soft-spoken, fragile pop star.
Crisis meets comeback.
Redemption meets romance.
It made headlines. It made sense.

They only had to put on the act for a few months.
Smile. Be seen. Pretend.

Then they could go their separate ways — clean, quiet, done.

Simple.

Until it wasn’t.
Not when they'd already shared a story before the fame.
Not when that story never really ended.

Chapter 1: First Act - The quarterback and the prince

First Act - The quarterback and the prince

 

“The whole field shouts your name, but the loneliness seems to hit harder. If you always wanted this, why do you feel like you're drowning?”

Chapter 2: Perfect timing under bad situations

"Could you turn that shit off for a minute, please?" Johnny asks in a tired tone as he moves the package of frozen peas from his head to his cheek.

 

"No," Jaehyun responds angrily, pressing the red button of the remote and dropping it hard to the side of the couch. "I don't understand what the fuck was going through your head, Suh. The press already hates us for having a shitty game and now you... You hit a fan and put our damn team at risk with our sponsors."

 

"If you keep up that damn speech, I'm going to punch your face too Jeon," Johnny threatens in a tired tone.

 

"The guys are worried about you. You understand that you're the quarterback, right?"

 

"I fucking know, Jaehyun. Stop it!" Johnny shouts, standing up too quickly and feeling some pain in his shoulder. "I screwed up, okay? I get it. Coach Hunt and my manager have already been repeating it to me for the last hour on the damn phone. I'm not in the mood to listen my best friend do it too as if he was talking to a fucking two-year-old brat." 

 

Jaehyun clenches his jaw tightly before exhaling forcefully. "I'm sorry," he apologizes, relaxing for the first time since he arrived. "It's just... shit, you look a little washed up bro," he scoffs.

 

Johnny lets his head fall to the side and rests his free hand on his hip as he tries not to laugh. "He was a huge guy."

 

“Yes he was,” Jaehyun laughs “Look how he left you,”

 

"It's all pretty fucked up, huh?"

 

"A little, but we'll figure it out."

 

"You think so?"

 

"I believe in Taeyong," Jaehyun answers with honestly. "He'll find a way to work this shit out."

 

"Good."

 

“Good” Jaehyun nods, trying to make the whole situation as if it was nothing. "Do you want me to order some hamburgers? I'm hungry and tomorrow we'll be back on track for Sunday's game."

 

"Make them with double patties, onions and extra cheesy fries," Johnny points out, stretching his shoulders. "I'll go take a shower and put on some cream so the purple doesn't scare anyone tomorrow."

"Shhh, shhh"

 

Ten can feel the warmth of the voice that lulls him even though it sounds too far away and his heart feels too fast to be healthy.

 

"I'm here, Tennie, I'm here."

 

The voice sounds closer. Ten can feel the soft warm caresses on his cheeks and a minute later, his wet eyes blink heavily, adjusting to the darkness of the night.

 

"You're safe," Xiaojun smiles fondly at him as he lovingly combs Ten's dark, silky hair.

 

It had been too long since Xiaojun had seen his best friend with his natural hair. It was long and wild, like the old Ten. However, his best friend looked small, skittish and fearful. Xiaojun never thought he would find him like that.

 

"I'm sorry," Ten says, holding Xiaojun's hand fondly and his eyes watering.

 

"It's okay, I was awake anyway" Xiaojun replies while still running his fingers through Ten's hair. "Yuta called me because he couldn't sleep."

 

"Is he fine?"

 

"Yes," Xiajun nods, sighing. "His team captain got into a fight and everyone is afraid that he will be suspended or that they might lose some sponsorships."

 

"Oh..."

 

"Poor John will be the talk of the tabloids for a couple of days," Xiaojun points out, "but I'm glad he takes some of the attention off... of... you," he adds, taking care of his words.

 

"Has Jungwoo told you something?"

 

"He's in London collecting your things and making sure the police do their job, darling," Xiaojun points out. "We'll hear from him tomorrow, probably in the afternoon? Before he gets back here. When he's in the car with me, we'll call you, okay?"

 

"I wish I could come pick him up with you," Ten complains, sinking into the soft pillows of his best friend's guest bed. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this whole situation."

 

"You calling me was the best decision, Tennie. You weren't safe and you just looked for help when things got bad, don't feel guilty."

 

"I should have left sooner" he whispers with tears in his eyes. "I should have left him the first time he raised his voice at me, but he said he would change and I loved him..."

 

“Shh, shh, honey,” Xiaojun shushes him. "Don't think about it anymore. You left him and that's it. You're safe."

 

"Thank you, Jun."

 

"You're welcome, Tennie," Xiaojun responds in a soft voice. "Do you want to move a bit so we can sleep together?"

 

"Please," Ten smiles lightly as he moves to the side.

Chapter 3: One incident is a bad day, two incidents are bad luck

Xiaojun had told him that Jungwoo was with him in the car and that they would go get burgers for lunch. Then they would go straight home to watch a stupid football game and then, finally, would talk about the next steps they should take to solve everything, but Ten had no patience.

 

Anxiety gnawed at him inside, especially since Xiaojun had confiscated his phone and all internet access. The last thing he knew that anyone else knew was that he had fled from London to Los Angeles and to Kansas with a couple of bruises on his face and a police report for his ex-boyfriend before finally hiding in Xiaojun’s sanctuary -which was actually more of a field house mixed with a farm. 

 

Ten couldn't complain, the place was beautiful and the hospitality that his best friend was giving him was incredible, but the idea of being the talk of the international press overwhelmed him greatly. Especially now, that he was ready to announce his return with a new album and a campaign that the label hoped would be as big as the investment they were making.

 

Ten didn't want to ruin things, but he was sure that if he didn't run away from there after that night, he would never be able to.

 

The sound of glass vases breaking and the screams of Taek's voice still vibrated in his head. The blows had hurt, but the fear of dying in his hands had been worse. Ten could remember how his throat thirsted at the strength of Taek's fingers and how the darkness in his eyes grew denser every second he felt Ten’s breath leave his body.

 

He had brushed death too closely and had come out alive by barely a miracle.

 

"Tennie?" Xiaojun calls him, entering the kitchen. "Oh, here you are" he smiles as he places the bags on his huge dark granite countertop. "We brought lunch, are you hungry?"

 

"Yes," he answers, watching Jungwoo enter while he struggles with two huge suitcases and a couple of bags.

 

"You look like shit, Lee," Jungwoo says, giving up and walking forward with his arms open. "Remind me to send you some skincare, your skin can not look like that."

 

"I missed you too, Woo" Ten replies with a light laugh as Jungwoo hugs him tightly. Jungwoo had this weird way of saying ‘I care about you’ , that would make people get mad or confused, but he knew his friend well.

"I know that your head can only think about the press, the record label and shit; so I'll give you a summary," Jungwoo list, as he looks through the box of hamburgers. "The label has given us a three-week 'vacation' to sort things out," he begins. "They're not mad at you and they're willing to pay for you to get away from that trash, Tennie," he says, looking Ten in the eyes and with an overly serious tone, unusual for Jungwoo. "We're looking for a house and a car for you to get around Los Angeles, it's more convenient than being in London, honestly; but, you’ll have to stay here for a little longer. Kansas is better than L.A, right now” he adds with a soft tone. “American tabloid press is less shitty than British press, which reminds me," he says, putting a potato in his mouth and Placing his hand on Xiaojun's man, "I will send the LA Mad Dogs a huge basket of meat for occupying the tabloids this week, they have fallen on us like true angels" he says in a mocking tone.

 

"What?" Ten asks, not really understanding what Jungwoo just said.

 

Xiaojun rolls his eyes and chews his burger slowly before speaking. "Do you remember Yuta's call last night? The quarterback got into a fight with a fan who started insulting him for losing an important game of the season or something like that. They're the new talk of the tabloids."

 

Tennie just nods slowly, grateful and saddened by the misfortune of others, but with some relief warming his stomach.

 

"We are still on the cover of People's Magazine, but it could be worse," Jungwoo says with a shrug. "You are the victim of this story and all the press releases say so, your fans and netizens are on your side," he adds, taking Ten's hand. "That garbage has a restraining order on you throughout Europe. We are already working on one for America."

 

"Thank you," Ten smiles shyly.

 

"You're welcome," Jungwoo responds, caressing Ten's palm and then taking a burger from the box. "Now, please,” Jungwoo says with a big smile, looking at Xiaojun’s direction. “I need to hear how you ended up being the boyfriend of the LA Mad Dogs' sexiest tackler. I need the dirty, juicy details, traveling by economy from London here has been a real punishment."

 

"His penis is huge," Xiaojun says, swallowing a piece of bread without hiding a big smile at all.

 

"That's what I'm talking about!" Jungwoo yells and Ten laughs.

 

So for a minute, it's just them. Best friends talking about nonsense.

The temperature of the tub was perfect, cold enough to make the tension in his muscles dissipate but not too cold to let him catch a cold.  His mind could finally rest from the training and the press, which seemed to have colluded to be the biggest pain in the ass that he'd had in a while.

 

Johnny was used to paparazzis. They followed him in Kansas, Chicago and Los Angeles, even South Korea. Wherever he went, they would appear like flies on shit. He was even used to Coach Hunt pushing him with greater amounts of weight or exercises, Johnny only took it as a challenge and did not allow himself to be defeated by either of them. However, this time was different.

 

It wasn't just the coach or the press, it was the entire team that was almost as tense as he was. It was the annoying sponsors and the NFL breathing down his neck too hard. The situation was bad and could get worse if they didn't act carefully.

 

“Two days,” says Taeyong's voice, entering the room with the elegance that characterizes him. “I asked you for two days of peace, while Doyoung and I were going to Hawaii and you decided to go and beat up a drunk asshole who takes football too seriously.”

 

“You took longer than I thought,” Johnny complains, sliding a little further into the ice bathtub. “Hey Yongie, how was your romantic getaway?”

 

“Good,” Taeyong responds with a shrug. “We fucked, ate fruit and swam naked in the sea. A fairy tale” he adds.

 

“Sounds like a good plan,” Johnny scoffs. “Did you relax?”

 

“Enough to not hit you as soon as I landed.”

 

“Excellent,” Johnny sighs, closing his eyes. “Then you're ready to save my ass.”

 

“I hate you,” Taeyong complains, sitting on a huge dark green couch. “You're going to have to testify, explain what the guy told you and try to sound remorseful.”

 

“No,” Johnny replied coolly. “Declare yes, but I'm not going to repeat what that guy told me. I'm going to apologize, at a press conference.”

 

“Johnny” Taeyong calls him more seriously. "This is serious. The NFL is upset, especially after you came out a year ago. And now you are not giving them a good image, you are the bisexual player with anger problems on the lips of the entire country.”

 

“It's not my problem,” Johnny responds indifferently. “I'll apologize to you, pay the fine out of my own money, and do… I don't know, community service?”

 

“The guy hasn't pressed charges yet, so we can negotiate about that. Maybe give him enough money for you not to go to court so you do not testify,” Taeyong sighs. “If you're not going to explain, get off your heavy ass and take a shower. The conference is in an hour” he indicates. “Wear a nice white shirt and light jeans, try to look… as innocent as possible, okay? I want you handsome and smart, no cockiness, understand?”

 

Johnny was silent for a long moment.

 

Shit.

 

A press conference and an apology he didn't mean should be enough to save his ass before the season gets tough.

The room was packed with hungry journalists, cameras ready to flash and try to find the perfect photo where he looked vulnerable and pathetic.

 

Johnny knew that they hated him for being gay, this was just the icing on the cake to continue being the talk of his detractors and even some LA Mad Dogs fans.

 

The long white tablecloth table and wall of logos looked long and empty. Intimidating.

 

“You go, you sit down and smile. Look sorry while you say you are and then we can leave,” Taeyong says, taking him by the shoulders and looking at him with the sweetness that only Taeyong, one of his best friends, could offer him. “For whatever reason you want, don't answer questions, okay? Do you understand?”

 

Johnny nods and swallows hard, his nerves of steel betraying him for the first time since he was sixteen.

 

“You can do it,” Jaehyun says, hitting his back hard to encourage him.

 

“We are all here to support you,” Yuta adds, appearing to the right of him, pointing with his jaw at the rest of the team.

 

“Thanks,” Johnny responds in a deep voice before walking away from his friends.

 

Johnny squeezed his hands and squared his shoulders before stepping onto the first step of the stage. The camera lights went off furiously making him want to get away from there and not have to feel as exposed as he did. After all, the last time he had been there had been a year ago and it had been to declare that he also liked men and that he was bisexual after someone leaked personal photos of him.

 

“Good morning,” he greets in a timid voice as he drags the heavy black metal chair so he can take a seat. “Thank you all for being here,” he continues as he settles in to take a seat.

 

“I know that everyone is here waiting for me to explain and justify what happened on Saturday, after our match with the Miami Carats,” Johnny begins in a clear and silky voice. “My behavior as a quarterback was not appropriate, but even more importantly, my response as John Jun Suh was reprehensible. I am in favor of peaceful solutions and solving everything with maturity, although the weekend that passed does not show it. I want to make it clear that I am deeply sorry and I apologize not only to the fan I had the altercation with, but also to my team, Coach Hunt, the sponsors and all of our fans. I am committed to improving as a person, player and friend. Thank you."

 

The next thing that happens is a blur.

 

Johnny hears questions from the press being thrown at him quickly and flashbulbs going off aggressively. Johnny throws 'faggot', 'anger issues' and 'explosion' out of the air, but he doesn't really pay attention to anything until someone grabs his arm and drags him out of there.

 

"Are you OK?" Jaehyun asks.

 

“How bad did it all go?” Johnny asks, hiding his face behind his hands.

 

“It's a little disaster,” Yuta explains with a shrug.

 

“It's always the bastards from Sport Reporter,” Taeyong complains, entering and slamming the door.

 

“It went well, kid,” Coach Hunt soothes, patting his back affectionately. “The press is always shit, but you sounded genuine and that's what the sponsors wanted. On that side, it is enough.”

 

“That's good,” Johnny sighs. "Now what?"

 

“Now,” Taeyong begins. “The lawyers are negotiating with the guy, some money and season passes are on the table.”

 

“That fucking moron,” Jaehyun says indignantly.

 

“What about the NFL?” Yuta asks.

 

“A small fine that the team will pay” the coach responds. “Johnny, son, you might have to do community service a month after the season and be on the best behavior possible. Another mistake like this one and it will cost you an expulsion” he explains. “It will be a difficult season, but not impossible, boy.”

 

“Shit,” Johnny complains, plopping down on the dressing room bench.

 

“It could have been worse,” Taeyong points out. “Your guardian angel is working overtime, so be grateful, Suh,” he mocks lovingly. “Now go and pack your bags.  We're going to Kansas and you better win every game or I'll kick your ass.”

Chapter 4: Old friends, new friends, just friends

 

Yuta's lips moved wet and hungry along Xiaojun's neck, it had been two weeks since they saw each other in real life rather than facetime and they both could feel how the clothes were beginning to be more annoying than usual.

 

“Tomorrow you have a game,” Xiaojun complains, pulling Yuta's shirt tightly over his head. “We can't,” he moans when his boyfriend grabs his hips forcefully. “Yuta” tries to scream, but fails.

 

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Yuta responds, moving down from his neck to Xiaojun's chest. “Come on baby, you can do it.”

 

Xiaojun gasps and moans loudly as Yuta bites and pulls on one of his nipple piercings through Xiaojun’s shirt. “Yuta” moans again, trying with all his might to push away the haze of desire that fogs his mind, “Yuta stop” he orders and his boyfriend's tongue stops tracing circles over his sensitive skin.

 

“You're always stronger than me,” Yuta sighs, resting his forehead over Xiaojun's.

 

His heaving chests breathe heavily, trying to catch his breath.

 

“I missed you,” Xiaojun says, deeply inhaling the aroma of tobacco, vanilla and Yuta from his chest, while he wraps his arms behind the neck of the boy with dark straight hair.

 

“And I missed you too,” Yuta responds, taking him into his arms. “How are things around here? How is Ten?”

 

“He's fine,” Xiaojun responds, settling down on Yuta's lap while he settles into one of the corners of their huge bed. “Jungwoo is taking care of everything now. I’m glad Ten is here, away from Taek and anything that could hurt him.”

 

“You're so good,” Yuta points out, combing Xiaojun's hair. “So good and sweet,” he repeats, burying his face in the boy's chest on top of his legs.

 

“Stop,” Xiaojun says, cutting off Yuta's advance. “Tomorrow you have a game and if you fuck me and lose I'm going to have to listen to you complain all month.”

 

“Good, sweet and evil ,” Yuta points out, falling on his back. “You're going to kill me, you know that?”

 

“I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. It’s just your horny self, Nakamoto,” Xiaojun reproaches, getting off his boyfriend's lap and looking for his t-shirt. “For someone who has a damn superstition, you have no will.”

 

“It's not fair,” Yuta complains, leaning on his elbows to watch Xiaojun move around the room. “Not when I have you in my room after not seeing you for too damn long.”

 

“What a shame,” he mocks Xiaojun, putting on his shirt and heading to the door. “I'll go make dinner,” he points out in a mischievous tone. “You have an hour to take a cold shower and go down to eat.”

 

" Shit ".

 

"Manners, Nakamoto!" Xiaojun shouts coming down the stairs.

The night breeze is fresh and cold, pleasant. Ten walks around the house's huge grounds and it is calm and peaceful, although it is somewhat dark. Nature sounds far and busy, the crickets sing and Ten manages to see a pair of fireflies flying in the distance.

 

Dinner had been good. Xiaojun had made spicy fried chicken with noodles and Yuta's company had been good. The Japanese man was nice, funny, and was as kind and warm as Xiaojun. Ten hadn't felt out of place or like an intruder, but rather like what he really was: An old friend.

 

He and Yuta had had few interactions as meaningful as this in the two years he had been his best friend's boyfriend. They had met at parties, dinners from a couple of brands here and there or on their birthdays, but the three of them had never really been alone like that.

 

Xiaojun and Yuta were cozy and easy to be around. It has been nice to see them being homely and intimate. Ten noticed the way Yuta looked at Xiaojun, a mix of longing, love, and pride, making him wonder if Taek had ever looked at him with the same eyes.

 

Had he even wanted him? Did he really care or was it all a business like Taek said? Was he all that Taek yelled at him? A good fuck that only served to make people take what they needed until they found something better? 

 

Ten felt empty, dirty and used, like a doll a child abandoned. The wounds from the words his ex-boyfriend had thrown at him still bled, the fear still consumed him.

 

Perhaps, Taek had told him everything the others thought. Maybe he was just someone from whom you could take things because he was not enough to love as a whole. Maybe the press was right and he was a hollow pop star who had already gone through his prime and refused to let go of a dream that could no longer be.

 

“Ten?” Xiaojun calls from afar and he quickly wipes the tears from his face. “Honey,” Xiaojun says with relief. "What are you doing here? You are far from the property, you are almost on someone else's land,” he points out.

 

“I just wanted to walk,” he responds, avoiding the light of Xiaojun's flashlight from hitting his face.

 

“Here,” Xiaojun says in a worried voice, as he lowers the flashlight to one side of him. They both look at each other in silence, barely lit and a few steps away.

 

Xiaojun can see pain and sadness on the face of his best friend, but he decides to remain silent, because he knows that this embarrasses Ten and he has had enough. “Let's go inside, I'll make you some lavender tea, so you can rest,” he points out with a half smile.

 

“Thank you,” Ten responds, taking Xiaojun’s hand. “I'm sorry I got you out of bed.”

 

“It's nothing,” Xiaojun smiles. “Thanks, actually,” he laughs. “Yuta is too restless about the game tomorrow, he can't sleep and we can't have sex so he's… well, restless.”

 

“You can not fuck?” Ten asks, giggling in disbelief.

 

“A player thing,” explains Xiaojun, rolling his eyes. “To keep the testosterone balanced or some shit,” he continues. “It's a stupid superstition, but if it helps, I'll obey,” he adds with a shrug. “Tomorrow will be fun, we will go to a special room and there will be food and sweaty players and you will be distracted.”

 

“Sounds like a good plan,” Ten nods, entering the house.

 

“It will be, I promise,” Xiaojun insists with too much joy.

Kansas' sun is bright and hotter than Ten could have imagined. The air is warm, and although Ten feels a little short of breath, Jungwoo and Xiaojun's company is comfortable.

 

“I didn’t know you were a country bitch,” Jungwoo scoffs, turning up the volume on the radio. “I like this new Junjun.”

 

“I'm not a country bitch,” Xiaojun refutes, rolling his eyes without taking his eyes off the road.

 

“You have cowboy boots, a truck bigger than you, and we're listening to 'Joline' while driving to see your football player boyfriend,” Ten notes with a laugh. “You’re a country bitch.”

 

The trio bursts into laughter and continues their journey along the heavy road.

The locker room was packed from end to end with the Mad Dogs’s logo, the adrenaline was in the air and Johnny couldn't help but smile about it.

 

“Are you mad dogs ready?” Johnny shouts, abruptly entering the room.

 

An echo of howls and cheers fill the room and the room becomes a wave of testosterone, shouts and friendly hits.

 

Johnny can see Yuta's dark, ecstatic smile, Jaehyun's exaggerated confidence, and the concentration in Jeno's sharp eyes, his newest recruit, a catcher as agile as a gazelle.

 

“We are ready to destroy them” Sicheng smiles as he hugs Johnny effusively. “The MXs of Kansas City won't see who hit them.”

 

“I like that energy,” Johnny responds with the same energy. “Now, y'all take a seat. I want to talk to you for a minute before we go out there and kick some asses.”

 

The team then obeys and calms down, taking seats where they can to pay attention to the Quarterback.

 

“I know we've had a hard week and it's my fault,” Johnny begins. “However, you guys have been able to perform better than ever and I am proud of you and this season, whatever the result may be.” Johnny is silent for a minute, feeling the room heat up. “So, let's go out and kick ass and bring home victory!” he shouts and ends the speech with a howl that the others follow.

The field is full of confetti, there is beer falling everywhere and Xiaojun is no longer next to him, but Ten admits that the match had been entertaining.

 

The VIP room had been filled with drinks, hot dogs and juicy hamburgers. He had met a couple of the players' relatives and a couple of sponsors who asked him for a photo and Ten graciously agreed to take.

 

The game had been tense and long, Ten could feel the tension of the 'mad dogs' fans and had even shouted in anger and joy along with the others.

 

“Wow, wow,” Jungwoo says next to him, as he slides his Prada glasses down the bridge of his nose while looking at the players walk across the hallway. “The delicious smell of testosterone,” he mocks. “Come on, Xiaojun says Yuta wants to introduce us to the team.”

 

The path from the VIP room to the dressing rooms seems like a maze, but thanks to the escorts neither of them gets lost and they arrive at a room that is too small for the number of sweaty men inside.

 

“Huh,” Jungwoo says entering the room as he adjusts his pretty white cotton shirt to show more of his collarbones. “Wow, sports are interesting.”

 

“Fucking is not a sport, Woowoo,” Ten taunts as he walks behind him.

 

“You need to get into it, darling,” Jungwoo mocks and they both laugh until they reach Yuta and Xiaojun.

 

Yuta looks tired, sweaty, and out of breath, but Xiaojun doesn't seem to care because of the way he seems to sit on his lap.

 

“Did you guys enjoy the game?” Yuta asks, drying his face.

 

“It was fun,” Ten smiles with a shrug. “Thank you for the invitation and the passes, Yuta.”

 

“You're welcome,” he smiles without taking his eyes off Xiaojun. “Everything to make my boy and his friends happy.”

 

Xiaojun rolls his eyes, but his cheeks light up and Ten can't help but smile at seeing his best friend this happy.

 

“Your team looks like a very interesting group of guys, why don't you introduce them to us?” Jungwoo asks unsubtly.

 

“Sure,” Yuta responds, standing up and dragging Xiaojun across the room while Ten and Jungwoo follow him.

 

In fifteen minutes Ten remembers meeting Hendery, a runner; Jeno, a catcher and a couple of other guys that played as catchers. The crowd is friendly, lively, and as close-knit as a college sorority can be.

 

“John and Jaehyun?” Xiaojun asks when the last conversation ends.

 

“The quarterback must be in an ice bath because of the hit he received and Jaehyun… Oh, here he comes,” Yuta points out as he waves his hand over the others. 

 

“Bro” he greets a boy with light blonde hair, brown eyes, and adorable dimples.

 

“Jun” Jaehyun greets Xiaojun with a fist bump. “Oh shit, you are Ten!” he says automatically when he notices the presence of Jungwoo and the black-haired man. “Damn, I stink of sweat in your presence, I'm so sorry,” he says with a white, even smile. “I'm a big fan,” he explains as his ears turn red. “Birthday was the most incredible thing I had ever heard.”

 

"Thank you" Ten answers with a shy smile. "I’m glad you liked my work."

 

"The whole team suffered when you put it on a loop during training."

 

"Oh, come on, your ass loved it, don't lie," he laughs as he takes off his shirt.

 

"I told him to release it," Jungwoo says, smiling as he adjusts his glasses on his head and flutters his eyes flirtatiously. "Kim Jungwoo, manager and best friend of Ten and Junjun" he introduces himself, stretching out his hand.

 

Jaehyun remains still, his dark brown eyes blinking heavily and his ears, already red, light up more intensely.

 

“I think Jungwoo expects you to say hello back, idiot,” Yuta scoffs as he sees his best friend still motionless.

 

“Jaehyun Jeon,” he introduces himself, “or just Jamal, you can call me Jaehyun or Jamal,” he says awkwardly.

 

“Jamal sounds cute,” Jungwoo smiles pleased.

 

“Cute,” Jaehyun nods, repeating Jungwoo’s last word without letting go of Jungwoo’s hand.

The celebration party had moved from Sicheng's house to a fancy club filled with girls in tight clothes and blonde hair. The cowboy boots were the common denominator and the noise was so loud that he could barely hear his thoughts. 

 

Ten was not used to it, but he liked it a lot. 

 

"Are you having fun?" Xiaojun asks, approaching Ten. “Do you want a drink?”

 

“I am,” Ten responds, trying to give his friend a big smile. “I’ll just have a beer tonight."

 

“Okay,” Xiaojun responds, before heading to the bar.

 

The club was packed with people, the players were out hunting and Ten did not feel intimidated or daunted by all that. What's more, he was having a better time than he had in years.

 

The black chiffon and glitter shirt he was wearing reflected the lights of the club and his body seemed to move automatically to the rhythm of the music.

 

Further on, Jungwoo seemed to whisper something to Jaehyun, who seemed overly enchanted by his presence. It had been an almost automatic match thanks to the charming effect of his best friend. Jaehyun may not be necessarily gay, but there was definitely curiosity and nerves in his eyes.

 

“Yuta went to convince John to come,” Xiaojun explains, handing him a drink. “He's charming, you'll like him.”

 

“The players are nice, but I just came to make friends, Junjun.”

 

“I know, but I just…,” Xiaojun laughs, drinking from his glass. “I think Johnny is sooo much your type. I know you probably are not ready for anything, tho. So no pressure, but I think you two would get along well.”

 

Ten then rolls his eyes and downs his glass in one gulp, waiting for the alcohol to make effect. “Let's dance,” he says, grabbing his best friend and dragging him to the dance floor.

 

They both make their way to the center of the floor and Ten gives Xiaojun a flirtatious look, making them remember his beginnings as dancers. Their hips then move to the rhythm of the music that goes from electro pop to afrobeat. 

 

The lights change from red to pink to orange and Ten feels hypnotized. 

 

Their sweaty bodies stick and rub against each other as they both give the show of their lives, just like old times. Ten's arms move above his head and for a moment, it's not Ten Lee, but simply him. Chittaphon.

 

Huge, heavy hands grab his waist all of a sudden. Ten decides to let go while the music still keeps him in a trance. His new dance partner follows the rhythm and they both synchronize each movement. Their movements are sensual and gracious. They follow each other with grace and somehow a familiarity that Ten finds warm and seductive.

 

Ten can feel the boy's huge, strong thighs behind him, the solidness of his chest and the delicious wild woody smell mixed with the natural heat of the guy's body.

 

“Hey,” his voice whispers, thick and raspy against his ear. Wet lips moving against his ear.

 

Ten feels his skin burn, a flame lights up on his stomach. The voice sounds delicious, making his skin crawl and sounding too attractive to make Ten want to run away. Then, curious and agitated, he turns to face him.

 

“You?!” Ten says more to him than to the huge guy he was grinding on two seconds ago.

 

“You?!” Johnny responds automatically. 

 

"You guys know each other?" Yuta and Xiaojun shout, appearing between them.

Chapter 5: Second Act - An american football player, a singer and a lie

 

Second Act - An American football player, a singer and a lie

 

“Is it an act or is it true? Where do you draw the line between a white lie and a show?”

Chapter 6: Strangers that know each other

“No” Ten answers. “Yes” Johnny replies at the same time as him.

 

“I'm very confused,” adds Xiaojun, taking turns looking at the player and the singer.

 

“Johnny and I…” Ten tries to say, until he detects the glow of a flash around his perimeter. “Someone is recording us,” he suddenly points out. "We have to go."

 

The next thing that happens, feels like a rush. Multiple people have their phones pointed at them. Flashes and lights interrupting their way out. Ten feels his body tense as the sea of people grows tighter, the air becomes difficult to breathe and he can feel a panic attack rising in his chest.

 

“Take my hand,” Johnny offers, moving in front of him. “I will make a way for us.”

 

Ten doubts for a second. Johnny's eyes look sincere and his frown denotes the same level of stress he feels. “Do you want to run away from here or not?” he insists hastily.

 

Ten nods and intertwined his fingers with Johnny's.

 

The mass of people breaks through with ease now that the huge player makes his way. Ten's feet move automatically, blindly following Johnny's long steps.

 

“Jaehyun will take Jungwoo home before they see them,” Johnny explains as he loads Ten into the huge black Jeep.

 

“Let's go to the farm,” says Yuta, closing the door. “Use the long route in case someone follows us,” he orders, getting in next to the co-pilot.

 

“Ten?” Xiaojun calls next to him. "Honey, are you ok?"

 

“Too many people,” Ten responds, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

 

“No, I'm sorry,” Xiaojun contradicts him as he takes his hand. “I shouldn't have insisted you come, but I thought you needed a distraction and… I didn't think it could go wrong.”

 

“I hate phones,” Johnny complains from the front. “People have the stupid need to record everything that comes across them,” he continues, slamming the steering wheel.

 

"Are they following us?" he asks Ten, unable to recognize anything through the thick black tint of the windows.

 

“A couple of cars are behind us,” Johnny points out, looking at Ten through the rearview mirror. “I'll lose them on the next street and then I'll leave you guys at home” he says with a warm, calming tone. “Now breathe,” he orders without breaking eye contact.

 

Ten obeys and a second later he notices how his body finally relaxes and lets himself fall onto the soft leather of the truck.

 

“So,” Yuta says, clearing his throat. “You know each other,” he insists.

 

“Yuta!” Xiaojun reproaches him.

 

"What?" he responds with a shrug. “He is my best friend and Ten is yours, aren't you curious?”

 

"It is not appropriate!"

 

“We dated in college,” Johnny answers, trying not to give too much importance to the matter.

 

“I was your secret in college,” Ten corrects. “It was five months of kissing and groping in your room or the janitor's.”

 

“Wait a second, you had only one ‘boyfriend’ during college” Xiaojun says, connecting the dots. “Johnny was Jay?” he questions excitedly. “Jay the korean soccer player you were always talking about?”

 

Ten sighs and nods. “Just to be clear, I was not talking about him all the time, but yeah. He wasn't made up after all, huh?” he responds with a bitter smile.

 

“Jay?” Johnny questions, looking for Ten's annoyed look.

 

“You didn't want anyone to know,” he explains. “So I changed a couple of facts.”

 

“But, soccer?” he insists, somewhat offended.

 

“I couldn't think of anything better.”

 

“Wow, so you guys..?” Yuta questions pointing at both Johnny and Ten.

 

“No,” Ten responds in a sharp tone, causing the entire car to go silent.

 

Johnny drives a few more minutes before turning onto a dirt road and through a small forest. Ten can see the huge house twenty minutes later. The yellow porch lights illuminate part of the way and the warmth of calm and familiarity warms his blood after all the stress of the last forty-five minutes.

 

As soon as Johnny parks, Ten opens the door and gets out of the truck without looking back to see if anyone is following him.

 

Life was playing a very bad joke on him and Ten was two seconds away from bursting into tears.

 

“Wait,” Johnny says, taking him by the arm before Ten walks through the front door. “Damn, you're still as elusive as ever.”

 

“Do not act like you know me,” Ten responds, trying to get out of the hold.

 

“I know you enough,” says Johnny, releasing him and showing him his palms in peace. “I just wanted to know if you were okay. You looked ready to throw up when we left the club.”

 

“Don't worry, I wasn't going to dirt your truck,” Ten responds, somewhat irritated. "I am fine, thank you very much."

 

“I’m trying to be polite to you, why are you such a fucking stuck up bitch now?”

 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Ten says, pretending to smile. “Did I hurt your feelings? Do you prefer me to talk to you in this tone? Should I sound more grateful because you saved me ?” he adds, pretending to sigh.

 

“God,” Johnny complains, rubbing his face. “You're just as unbearable as ever,” he continues. "Forget I said anything. You're already home and I have nothing to do with you. Bye."

 

"Bye bye!" Ten shouts, stomping his foot and entering the house without turning to see how the rest of his friends looked at the scene with bewilderment.

 

“Damn stuck-up midget!” Johnny complains to himself as he gets into the car and starts the engine. “I should have left him at the club,” he screams and drives off, driving away from the entrance to Yuta's house.

 

“Ah,” Jungwoo says, getting out of Jaehyun’s car. “What the fuck was that?”

 

“I don't know,” Xiaojun responds, blinking rapidly, trying to understand the situation. “I just saw them dancing at the club and then I found out that Johnny was Jay.”

 

“Ten's made-up boyfriend?”

 

"Yeah"

 

“Wow,” he answers, putting his hands on his hips. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."

 

“It's eight in the morning,” Johnny complains, answering the phone. “You shouldn't bother me so early.”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry. My apologies for interrupting your sleep,” Taeyong responds sarcastically. “It happens that, uhmm, someone recorded you last night in a club and you are, again, the talk of the whole country.”

 

Shit.

 

“I didn't do anything,” Johnny excuses himself, burying his face in one of his fluffy pillows. “We barely dance.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t care,” Taeyong continues. “You and Ten Lee seemed too close to each other. How long have you known?”

 

"It is not relevant".

 

“Ah, yes. Yes it is,” Taeyong insists. “From the video I'm watching and the way you guys danced, I'd say you've at least slept together.”

 

“Still not relevant, Taeyong,” Johnny repeats. "What’s the problem?"

 

“The problem is that there is a huge photo of you two together looking at each other like you are about to kiss with an interesting headline. Do you want me to read it to you?”

 

"No, not really."

 

“' The Quarterback and the Knight in Peril: A Romance No One Saw Coming ,' that's the problem,” Taeyong continues on the other side, ignoring Johnny's snort. “Ten Lee, the pop star who has just fled London to America following the abuse scandal by his ex-boyfriend, Kim Taek, a former model; is seen comfortable and cozy in the arms of NFL problem boy, Johnny Suh. Yesterday, the couple was seen dancing and running away from the cameras together after almost throwing each other after their hot dance. Will we see more of this new relationship? We hope so, since Ten could be a good influence on our favorite bad boy.”

 

“We only danced for a second, we didn't even-”

 

“Open the door for me, I'm outside,” Taeyong orders and ends the call.

 

Johnny gets out of bed wishing he had turned off his phone or at least left it far enough away that he hadn't heard it and answered it. But, to his chagrin, Taeyong was right, damage control was important and, from what the article said, there was a whole movie already set up.

 

People were crazy and he knew it for sure.

 

“I'll pour us some tea and then I'll listen to what you have to say,” Johnny greets, opening the door to his apartment.

 

“Just black tea with some honey,” he asks Taeyong, leaving his shoes at the entrance.

 

“Okay, make yourself comfortable,” he invites you.

The sound of hot water hitting the bottom of the cups is Taeyong's green light. “Where do you know each other?” he starts.

 

“The club,” Johnny answers, still with his back turned. “He's Xiaojun's friend, Yuta's boyfriend?”

 

“Okay, now be honest,” Taeyong asks, settling into the bar chair in the kitchen.

 

"It's the truth."

 

“Look at my face Johnny,” he asks Taeyong again in a condescending tone. “Where do you know him from?” he repeats with a serious tone.

 

“We went to the same college, we saw each other in the hallways,” Johnny answers, giving up. “I didn't remember it and certainly none of the others did.”

 

"Others?"

 

“Jungwoo, his manager, and Xiaojun also went to the same university as us.”

 

“Well, then, who else knows?”

 

“Them, us, and everyone who went to college with us.”

 

“That information is not public knowledge yet,” Taeyong tells himself. “Maybe people don't remember.”

 

“No, amm, we didn't often cross paths. Our circles of friends were always quite different.”

 

“How did you two meet, then?”

 

“We help me with some subjects,” explains Johnny with some nostalgia in his voice. “We had the same teacher.”

 

“So you were friends,” says Taeyong.

 

“No, him and I, Chitta-, Ten and I…” Johnny tries to explain before his phone interrupts him. “Wait a second,” he says, raising his index finger to Taeyong. “Yuta?”

 

Johnny's eyebrows raise in surprise at the murmurs on the other end of the line and a second later he drops the device with the speaker on on the counter.

 

“We hear you,” Johnny says, leaning back on the bar.

 

“Lee Taeyong?” calls the voice on the other side.

 

"Yeah?" he answers, confused.

 

“Excellent,” says the voice on the other end. “I'm Kim Jungwoo, Ten's manager. “Yuta lent me his phone for a second so I could talk to you, is this a bad time?”

 

“No, not at all,” Taeyong replies. "What do you need?"

 

“How about you and Johnny come to Yuta's house and we talk for a moment about what's best for our boys? We’ll order pizzas and we can think of a good message that makes us both look good, okay?”

 

“Why would we do that?” He questions Taeyong, becoming a little suspicious of the situation.

 

“Because I have a statement ready where your client would not come out well, Taeyong,” Jungwoo threatens. “Ten was dancing quietly until Johnny approached and then the cameras attacked him at what was supposed to be a private party. So, what do you say? Do you like hawaiian pizza?”

"Come in, please," Xiaojun invites, opening the heavy polished mahogany door to Yuta's house. "Feel at home," he says kindly.

 

Johnny only responds with a smile and a nod while Taeyong maintains a blank, unreadable face.

 

Yuta's house was eclectic, while still being warm and welcoming, considering it was a country house.

 

Pictures of geometric figures in primary colors and vases filled with daffodils decorated the space. The furniture was made of natural mahogany and glass, the windows projected from end to end allowing natural light to bathe the corner.

 

"Would you like some tea?" Xiaojun offers, guiding them like Johnny wouldn't have been there thousands of times.

 

"No thanks," Johnny responds with a kind smile. "We're fine," he thanks when they reach the huge living room.

 

The room is silent and would seem to be almost empty if it weren't for Ten's presence.

 

Johnny could notice the boy's shiny, dark crown that seemed to be hiding behind the back of the huge light-colored fabric sofa that filled the room.

 

"Tennie?" Xiaojun calls, breaking the stillness.

 

"Huh?" He says, raising his face, letting the sun hit his soft skin.

 

"Johnny and Taeyong are here" he explains as Ten stands up. "Jungwoo will be here in a second. "I'll go... I'll go to the kitchen to make something to eat," he continues babbling somewhat awkwardly. "Yuta will wake up hungry and he's a bit of a grump in the mornings."

 

"It's okay," he responds with a kind smile. "Please sit down" he invites them around the furniture.

 

"Thank you," Taeyong responds, sitting on the opposite side. "Nice to meet you," he greets, stretching out his hand towards Ten. "I'm a big fan of all your albums, especially Lost," he adds, somewhat embarrassed. "It’s my favorite."

 

"Yeah?" Ten replies with a genuine smile. "Composing it was very difficult, but it is one of my best works."

 

"You had just recovered from an injury and Lola's death."

 

"I was feeling pretty lost," he nods, letting his soft chuckle fill the air.

 

"You can go to the kitchen for food or you can leave, darling," Jungwoo says, interrupting the conversation. "You're free to do as you please."

 

"I can stay if you want," Jaehyun insists, while putting on his shirt from the night before. "Or I can go and take a shower and come back and take you to eat. There's an incredible tapas place nearby," he continued stammering.

 

"Go home," Jungwoo smiles as he caresses the boy's face lovingly. "I'll let you know when I'm free" he finishes by kissing one of his dimples. "Bye, Jamal," he adds with a wink.

 

"B-bye, Jungwoo," he says goodbye before disappearing through one of the hallway entrances that direct him to the front door. Unaware that those present had witnessed that scene.

"I'm sorry," Jungwoo apologizes with a smug smile and false embarrassment. "I had to attend to some business," he adds, sitting next to Ten. "Shall we begin?"

 

"Sure," Taeyong smiles with the same false energy.

 

“Well,” Jungwoo begins, combing his silky brown hair, as if he was about to do the men in front of him a favor. "The team and Ten consider that a statement is necessary and we wanted to align ourselves with you so that both parties are happy with what is issued to the press. Both Johnny and Ten are public figures with delicate situations and my client believes" Jungwoo stops to clear his throat so he could continue. "We believe," he corrects himself, "that it is convenient that we not mention anything about our common past or anything like that."

 

Jungwoo then slides a tablet onto the coffee table and points at it with a nod. "There are several versions, we can edit the message and agree on something. The only thing we want is to have the statement before noon," he explains. "The sooner we act the better."

 

"Our team would have to review it," Taeyong responds, skimming the text.

 

"Just pick a damn statement," Johnny complains. "We crossed paths at a common party and that's it. It's not much science."

 

"A non-disclosure agreement would have to be signed for both parties," says Jungwoo. "I can have it ready in, what, an hour?"

 

"I don't think it's necessary, Woowoo," Ten interferes. "Neither Johnny nor I want this situation to be misunderstood," he continued in a calm voice. "It's not convenient for either of us right now," he points out, "or ever."

 

"Ouch," says Johnny, holding his chest as if those words had hurt him.

 

"Idiot," Ten replies, rolling his eyes.

 

"How do I know this isn't going to backfire on Johnny?" Taeyong questions. "You guys have everything way too planned.”

 

"Because I'm in a more vulnerable situation than Johnny and," Ten cuts himself off for a moment before taking a long breath. "If anyone could lose in this situation it would be me. I'm a loser that everyone seems to trample on. What do you think the media says about me? ' Poor insecure bitch, he already found a new toy to fulfill his abusive ex-boyfriend ' probably ."

 

"Don't make yourself sound like a martyr," Johnny responds with some annoyance. "I can take all the blame if you want, I'm always the bad guy at the end of the day."

 

"Just..." Ten replies, looking out the window. "Take your time, but let's just get this over with, so we don't have to be together more than necessary."

 

"Okay," Taeyong responds, looking at Johnny, then at Ten, and finally at Jungwoo. "Can you send me a copy of everything? I'll review it and tell you which option we'll take."

 

"Great," Jungwoo answers seriously for the first time.

 

"Wait," Xiaojun interrupts, entering the room. "I, um, I'm sorry, the living room is too echoey and I... I happened to listen to you and, um, have you, by any chance, checked out what the networks are actually saying?"

 

"What?" Taeyong and Jungwoo say together.

 

"I know the media has been saying a lot of things since last night, but the truth is that social media loves them," Xiaojun explains with a small smile. "There are thousands of tweets and Instagram posts talking about 'JohnTen' . They've even created this kind of love story where supposedly Johnny is the knight in shining armor that Ten needs."

 

"I'm not a princess, Jun," Ten clarifies with a serious tone.

 

"I know, I know," Xiaojun insists. "There are also those who say that Ten is the Zen that John needs," she points out with a shrug. "I think they should evaluate all of this and take it in his favor," he says enthusiastically. "The media loves them, no one talks about your relationship with Taek and no one talks about the inside of the bar. The fans are distracted and the headlines are good."

 

"This morning's article wasn't that bad," Taeyong adds, looking at Jungwoo. "It was on the cover of People's and Bazhar."

 

"TMZ called them the Victoria and David Beckham of American football," Jungwoo adds with an interested tone.

 

"We could say that they are getting to know each other through people in common..."

 

"And they're just dating," Jungwoo adds. "The press stops talking about Taek and Ten as victim."

 

"Johnny is going to look like a gentleman to everyone."

 

"We could schedule walks in the morning. I know someone from Getty who can help us."

 

"There's an empty cabin next door, not far from here. We could get horses or a dog," Taeyong adds, standing up, his face lighting up with excitement.

 

“A golden retriever,” Jungwoo says, waving his arms. "Ten will wear Johnny's 09 and maybe we can get a Super Bowl shot."

 

"Johnny can appear in a music video and finally launch his career in fashion!" he shouts at the ceiling in excitement.

 

"Shit," Johnny complains, flopping onto the couch. "Can I even refuse?"

 

"No" Jungwoo answers, looking at Taeyong with emotion. "Neither of you can."

 

"Jungwoo!" Ten demands, indignant. "I'm not going to do this."

 

"Oh, yes, yes you are," he corrects, taking him by the shoulders, "Do you remember that time, in fourth year, when I…?"

 

Jungwoo doesn't finish speaking as Ten's hand covers his lips and his face turns red and embarrassed. "You said you'd never use it against me!" he claims.

 

"I said I wouldn't use it unless it was extremely necessary," he smiles pleased, removing Ten's hand from his face. "And this is extremely necessary."

Chapter 7: Past, present and a possible future

Jaehyun had felt the need to check his phone throughout the training and see if Jungwoo had responded to his message, but he had been mature enough to leave it in the locker room and tried to get the boy with the flirtatious smile and thick lips out of his head.

 

Jungwoo made him feel uneasy and nervous, especially when he spoke softly to him and he moved his head to the side, paying attention to him when he spoke. That made his stomach tickle and his ears were dyed such a bright red that they changed temperature. Jaehyun had never been attracted to a boy before, he had only dated girls his entire life, however, Jungwoo was... different.

 

Jungwoo moved with grace and elegance, as if he floated through people and, coupled with his confident, cocky attitude and a face as pretty as… as if a man and a woman had had a baby angel. Yeah, that was Jungwoo to Jaehyun.

 

“Still no response?” Yuta asks over Jaehyun's shoulder.

 

“Not even a no,” Jaehyun responds, throwing the phone back into the suitcase of clothes. “He said he would call me after the morning of the club incident and it's been a week since that. Did I say something wrong? Do you think I should call him again? Or should I just go to his house and-?”

 

“Oh, no, no, definitely not,” Yuta says hurriedly as he takes off his shirt. “Just give it time, you met him once and then what?” he continues, as he struggles with the protective equipment on his shoulders. “Sex couldn't have been that good, could it?” he asks in a mocking tone.

 

“We, we,” Jaehyun stutters. “Jungwoo and I… We haven't had, we didn't have…”

 

“Oh shit, really?”

 

“Yes,” Jaehyun responds with reddened ears and slumped shoulders. “We stayed talking until the next morning. I wanted to ask him out but then I saw that Johnny and Taeyong arrived and we couldn't, I couldn't ask him out…”

 

“Oh, wow,” Yuta reacts, truly surprised. “I didn't know you liked boys, not in that way at least. “

 

“Me neither,” Jaehyun sighs, sitting on the bench, talking more to himself than to Yuta. “I mean, I never really liked them, or so I thought,” he continues. “I don't know, I don't know how gay people work. I don't even know if I am one. It's just... Jungwoo came up to me that night and the first thing I thought was 'shit, this guy is beautiful ' and then he started talking and I just... I couldn't stop looking at him. It was like seeing light for the first time and then he said he loved the game and that I played really well and... I've gotten the same shitty compliment my whole life, but when he said it my damn ears warmed up and he just said it was 'cute' with a laugh so beautiful that I didn't want to stop hearing, you know?"

 

“Shit boy, I think you're in love,” Yuta mocks, laughing.

 

“It's not fun,” Jaehyun responds with a frown. “I don't know what to do and I don't know if he wants something or just to play with me, but whatever it is, I… I want him to do it. Damn, I sound pathetic.”

 

“Come home for dinner tomorrow,” Yuta invites, finishing undressing before entering the showers. “I’ll tell Xiaojun to invite him for dinner. He always comes early, so be on time so you can ask him all the damn questions you want first, okay?”

 

"Are you for real?"

 

“Yes,” Yuta nods slowly. “I'll help a brother,” he says in a brotherly tone, “I know what it's like to be confused and I feel like you should talk to him and think things through. Go on a date, see how things work,” he points out. “Maybe you're not gay, maybe bisexual, or maybe you're just curious and I'll help you.”

 

"Thanks, bro."

Johnny was lying in the massage room, fresh and relaxed for the first time in a long time. His body was relaxed and ready to take a thirty-minute nap before heading home and having dinner in his quiet, lonely apartment. He would order a huge pizza with ham and extra pepperoni and drink one of the usual protein shakes and then maybe watch a movie and go to sleep to get up the next morning and repeat the day. Gym, training, massages, home, dinner, movie and bed.

 

Only he wouldn't do it anymore and, although the idea of fake dating didn't really bother him because that was common among people like him, what ate his brain was who he had to fake it with.

 

Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul.

 

Ten Lee, the superstar.

 

His Tennie. No. Just Ten.

 

Life was a damn joke that had been spitting in his face for two weeks and maybe he deserved it a little.

 

Days had passed since Taeyong and Jungwoo had decided that the most convenient thing for him and Ten was a fake public relationship to 'repair' their careers in the public eye.

 

He had only waited for Ten's reaction to decide what to do. If Ten said no, he would agree and insist that it not happen. If Ten accepted, he would do it silently and without buts. He would do whatever he wanted, after all, he owed him and Ten had reminded him of that the night before.

 

Johnny knew he had lied when he said he didn't know who he was when they had both danced the night of the disaster. Not knowing who Ten Lee was? He never could. He had it burned into his memory. Every curve, every space, every sound his body emanated, Johnny knew.

 

Seeing him at the game had been a surprise, seeing him dance again as if the world didn't exist had been a miracle that he couldn't resist. He was still soft and fine as he remembered, his face had barely changed, had he become more mature?

 

Johnny doesn't blame Ten for hating him, he sometimes did it to himself, but he knew the damage they had both done and he understood that they were just a bitter and painful memory. He had hurt Ten. Ten had hurt him.

 

And now they are together again.

 

“John?” Taeyong calls entering the room.

 

“Hey,” he responds without opening his eyes.

 

"How are you?"

 

“Ask my manager Lee or my friend Taeyong?”

 

“Your friend Taeyong,” he points out.

 

“I don't know,” Johnny answers honestly.

 

“Ten Lee is the college boy, right?” Taeyong asks cautiously. “Is this the boy from photography class you had a crush on?”

 

Johnny sighs, unable to lie to one of his best friends. “Yes,” he answers, letting out a long sigh. “Ten is Chitta, my Tennie.”

 

“Okay,” Taeyong responds. “Do you still have feelings for him?” he asks with a serious tone.

 

“No,” Johnny answers automatically. “It's just nostalgia. He and I… we were not designed to be together, it was too complicated at the time and it still is.”

 

“Good,” Tayong nods, patting one of Johnny’s damaged shoulders. “Because we can't ruin this opportunity, Johnny. You and Ten are just an act until the end of the season to keep the waters calm and our asses safe, you understand that, right?”

 

"Yeah"

 

“Great,” Taeyong nods. “Now get dressed and come down. We will go to see Ten and Jungwoo, tomorrow you have your first public outing and we must plan things well.”

'The Thai pop star has been spotted wearing the L.A Mad Dogs quarterback's number '13' while heading to the supermarket in Kansas City, after being caught dancing and flirting with American football superstar John Suh. None of those involved have commented on the status of their relationship yet, but the internet has gone crazy with the possibility of ‘JohnTen’ really happening.’

 

“A ship-name?” Jungwoo says in disbelief as he devours a juicy grape. “This plan is perfect,” he smiles enthusiastically. “I have several people interested in dressing you for papwalks, so we have to decide that with Johnny. He would look good in Levis and you in Diesel, what do you think?”

 

“Come eat before I hit you,” Ten complains, rolling his eyes.

 

“I don't understand why you're still upset,” Jungwoo says walking towards the kitchen counter of Ten's new place. "It is perfect."

 

"For you"

 

“And for you,” Jungwoo points out. “New brand deals, the label is happy, your fans and the internet are crazy, everyone is happy. You should show a little more joy that things are getting even a little better.”

 

“It's not that, it's just…”

 

“It's because of Johnny, right?”

 

“I don’t care about him.”

 

“You lie just as bad as Tern, you know that?” Jungwoo points out. “I know you and him have history. A story you never told me or Xiaojun and I respect that. I know things didn't work out with him and I know how much he hurt you, but right now this is the best option, honey. I don't want to force you into anything, I'll do whatever you want, but I ask you to give the idea of making a little effort for a couple of weeks and then being free again a chance.”

 

“Thank you,” Ten responds with a small smile.

 

“Why do you go and take a nap?” Jungwoo indicates, taking Ten's hand and caressing it lovingly. “You look tired.”

 

“I haven't been sleeping well,” Ten explains with a shrug.

 

“Go sleep for a couple of hours, I'll let you know when they arrive and if you don't want to do this, I'll understand. You won’t need to come down.”

 

“I don't want to disappoint you, Woo. It’s just that I… I don’t know if I’m ready.”

 

“Can I give you some advice as a person who has survived a lot of shit?” Ten nods slowly, attentive to the melancholic face of one of his best friends. “Sometimes the best revenge is to feign indifference.”

"Hello?" Jungwoo answers the phone in a sleepy voice.

 

“Sorry, did I wake you up?” Xiaojun asks on the other side.

 

“It's okay, I needed to wake up anyway.” 

 

“Johnny and Taeyong are about to arrive at any second.”

 

“Oh,” Xiaojun responds, somewhat unsure. "How are things going?"

 

“Well, Ten is still a little undecided,” he explains. “We were supposed to meet with them to plan their first outing, but Ten wants to think about it and I'm afraid he'll back out.”

 

“I understand,” Xiaojun’s voice on the other end is soft and kind. “This is a bit difficult for him, but I think it will help both of them,” he continues.

 

“I know, so I hope that when they arrive, Ten will come down and we can figure out how to carry this out.”

 

“Everything will be fine, you'll see, Woowoo. He trusts you and you know that you would recommend only the best for him.”

 

"Thank you, Jun."

 

“Anyway, amm, I was calling to invite you to dinner at his house tomorrow,” Xiaojun invites. “Yuta got a deal with a sushi restaurant and they are coming to make some food at our house, what do you say?”

 

"Tomorrow night?"

 

“You can come over after Ten and Johnny go out on their fake date.”

 

The doorbell rings before Jungwoo can answer.

 

“Who will we be?” he says, getting up from the couch.

 

“Just us and Jae…”

 

The doorbell rings again. "One minute!" Jungwoo yells, moving the phone away from his ear and covering the speaker. “Goddess, you know what? Sushi sounds amazing, I agree. Text me if I should bring something, okay? I gotta go,” he finishes, cutting off the call.

 

Jungwoo runs barefoot from the living room to the entrance as fast as he can, much to his surprise. Ten holds the door as Johnny and Taeyong walk through it.

 

Chapter 8: Rules of Engagement

The morning smelled like rosemary and honey.

The sun poured golden over the small hill that crowned Jaehyun’s farm, warming the grass and waking the butterflies that floated lazily between rows of flowers. A pair of horses grazed nearby, tails flicking gently, hooves soft in the dirt. Somewhere in the distance, a wind chime rang once.

The farm was small, nestled into a sloping piece of land surrounded by fences painted the kind of white that only came from someone scrubbing them with care. Bees hummed between flowers. A foal wandered curiously near the barn, tail flicking, all legs and innocence.

Jaehyun was already outside when he arrived, leaning against a wooden post with a piece of hay in his mouth like a cliché from a country song. It should have looked ridiculous. But for Jungwoo, it didn’t.

Jungwoo stepped out of the car slowly, hands in his back pockets, watching him for a moment.

“You’re early,” he said, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.

“You’re late,” Jaehyun replied.

Jungwoo raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you treat your guests?”

“You’re not a guest,” Jaehyun said. “You’re Jungwoo.”

That made Jungwoo grin, flattered despite himself. “Smooth.”

Jaehyun looked down, shy suddenly, and kicked a pebble near his foot.

They started walking without needing to say where. Jaehyun gestured toward a dirt path between tall sunflowers and lavender bushes, and Jungwoo followed, arms folded behind his back.

“Do you work here often?” Jungwoo asked, stepping over a root.

“Every season,” Jaehyun nodded. “Since I started. My parents thought it would be a good idea. Said I needed dirt under my nails to keep being down to earth.”

“And do you like it?”

Jaehyun looked up. The sun caught his lashes just right.

“Yeah. I like building fences. Fixing things. Carrying stuff,” he added with a shrug, then laughed nervously. “Sorry, that sounded dumb.”

“Not at all,” Jungwoo said, turning to face him. “That’s a good kind of person to be. The kind that fixes things.”

They kept walking. Their shoulders brushed a few times, but neither said anything about it.

A butterfly landed on Jaehyun’s wrist. He froze.

“Don’t move,” Jungwoo whispered.

Jaehyun glanced down and smiled so widely that his dimples appeared. The butterfly fluttered once, then left.

Jungwoo swallowed. His heart was beating louder than it should have been.

“You’re a bit of a walking fairytale, huh?”

Jaehyun blinked. “You think so?”

“I think you look like sunshine in human form,” Jungwoo said simply, without thinking the words that came out of his mouth.

Jaehyun flushed scarlet. His voice dropped.

“I don’t know how to take that.”

“Just say thank you,” Jungwoo said, amused.

“…thank you,” Jaehyun mumbled, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Can I show you something?”

Jungwoo nodded, and Jaehyun led him down a sloping trail toward the edge of the property, where a small wooden greenhouse stood. Inside, the air was warm and humid, the scent of basil and tomato vines hanging thick.

“Wow,” Jungwoo whispered.

Jaehyun bent to pluck a cherry tomato off one of the vines and handed it to him.

“Try it.”

Jungwoo bit into it — sweet, bright, earthy.

“That’s the best tomato I’ve ever tasted.”

Jaehyun looked proud, but shy about it.

They sat on a wooden bench outside the greenhouse. The sun was slowly beginning to set, turning the edges of everything gold.

Silence stretched between them — but it wasn’t empty.

Jungwoo turned slightly, watching Jaehyun’s fingers tap nervously on his knee. He exhaled slowly, arms crossed as he leaned against the painted white fence. His sunglasses sat perched on top of his head, forgotten. His shoes were already dusty.

“It’s quiet here,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” Jaehyun replied beside him, hands in the pockets of his worn jeans. “It’s always been like this. My mom says the silence helps the tomatoes grow.”

Jungwoo smiled, watching him.

In the daylight, Jaehyun looked impossibly young and honest. The wind pushed strands of his blonde hair across his forehead, and his sleeves were rolled up past the elbows, showing strong forearms tanned from hours under the sun training or manual labor at the farm. His jaw was sharp, but his smile was gentle, boyish. He scratched the back of his neck, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Jungwoo prompted, breaking the quiet.

Jaehyun nodded, chewing his lip.

“Yeah. I mean—yeah,” he repeated, glancing over. “I just thought… We talked a lot that night. And I felt good. Around you. I wanted to see if whatever was going on with my head was real.”

Jungwoo tilted his head, amused.

“And?”

“Is still a mess, but I think it is… Real.”

A beat passed. Jungwoo pushed off the fence and started walking toward the edge of the path. Jaehyun followed.

They strolled past rows of wildflowers and up a small slope, not speaking much. It wasn’t awkward — just quiet in a way that felt careful. Gentle.

Jungwoo knew Jaehyun liked him, it was as obvious as a black dot on a white canvas. He also knew the boy was nervous as hell for the way he was chewing his inner cheek or how he almost fell off the horse when he saw Jungwoo park his car in his entrance.

It was cute, even refreshing. 

Jungwoo dated guys he knew would run after a night or two, after just sex or after feeling overwhelmed by Jungwoo's work. But Jaehyun? The boy was fresh air. Always looking curious, always looking at him as if Jungwoo was some sort of inexplicable thing.

“Have you ever done this before?” Jaehyun asked suddenly, not looking at him. Staring way too deeply at the lake close to his place. 

“Walk in a field with a nervous football player?” Jungwoo teased, standing next to him.

Jaehyun laughed softly, a bit ashamed. 

Jungwoo couldn’t remember the last time he had been somewhere that smelled so alive.

Jaehyun’s ears turned pink.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Jungwoo said.

Jaehyun nodded.

“What made you call me after the party?”

Jaehyun looked at him, unsure how to start. Then spoke, slow and quiet.

“I’ve only ever liked girls. That’s all I knew. But then… you came up to me and smiled, and talked like it wasn’t weird. Like I wasn’t weird and, let’s be honest, I might be a little.” Jaehyun laughs. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. How you laughed. How you looked at me like I wasn’t dumb.”

He swallowed, eyes on the dirt.

“It’s different. But I like it. I like you .”

Jungwoo’s chest swelled. Slowly, he reached over and took Jaehyun’s hand.

“That’s a brave thing to say,” he whispered.

“I’m not scared of liking you,” Jaehyun replied. “I just don’t know how to do this right.”

Jungwoo smiled then, all softness.

“You don’t have to get it right. You just have to mean it.”

Jaehyun met his eyes.

The kiss was soft. Hesitant. A bit messy.

It wasn’t perfect. It was clumsy, a little too fast at first. Jaehyun's hands were not sure if to take Jungwoo’s hips or waist,, but then slowed as their mouths adjusted to each other. But it was warm. It was real. It clicked.

Jungwoo smelled like lavender and baby powder, subtle and soft, just like Jaehyun imagined. 

Jaehyun tasted warm, like a plate of steamy soup on a rainy day. He felt welcoming, cozy.

Jungwoo’s hand cupped Jaehyun’s jaw, brushing the stubble there. Jaehyun’s hand curled around Jungwoo’s waist like he didn’t want to let go.

When they broke apart, they rested their foreheads together for a moment.

“You’re kind of dangerous,” Jaehyun whispered with a big smile on his face. He looked happy.

Jungwoo laughed softly, his thumb brushing Jaehyun’s cheek.

“Why 's that?”

“Because I think I could get used to this.”

Jungwoo smiled, watching him.

In the daylight, Jaehyun looked impossibly young and honest. The wind pushed strands of his blonde hair across his forehead, and his sleeves were rolled up past the elbows, showing strong forearms tanned from hours under the sun training or manual labor at the farm. His jaw was sharp, but his smile was Jaehyun shrugged one shoulder, eyes down.

“God, you’re beautiful in daylight.”

Jaehyun turned scarlet.

The farmers’ market was buzzing with too many toddlers and too much beeswax soap.

Johnny kept his sunglasses low on his nose and a baseball cap pulled halfway down his face. Ten, beside him, had made an art of looking expensive while wearing designer denim and an oversized hoodie.

They walked slowly, side by side, as Taeyong had instructed.

“You're being watched,” Johnny murmured without looking at him.

“We both are,” Ten replied. “You could at least smile.”

“I am smiling.”

Ten gave him a look. “You look constipated.”

Johnny smirked just as a woman selling hot sauce began aggressively pitching them on her homemade Carolina Reaper blend.

“Not for the faint of heart,” he said. “One drop and it’ll blow your brains out.”

“Sounds like my last relationship,” Ten said under his breath.

Johnny choked on his laugh.

They kept walking. The press was snapping a few photos from the edges of the vendor tents, but the crowd was mostly ignoring them. It felt oddly normal.

The market had begun to thin out by the time they reached the end of the stalls. The buzz of chatter faded into a softer murmur. A kid ran past them with a half-eaten churro. Somewhere in the distance, a guitar was playing off-key. Everything smelled like cinnamon and compost.

They found an empty bench near the edge of a flower truck. Dahlias and sunflowers spilled out in overflowing crates, petals catching the last stretch of afternoon sun. Johnny sat first, shifting slightly to one side to give Ten space. Ten followed, holding his oat latte with both hands like it gave him something to do.

They didn’t speak for a while.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be filled. It just settled — light, familiar, almost comfortable. Like they had done this a thousand times.

Ten broke it first, his voice low.

“It’s weird,” he said, stirring his drink with the tiny wooden stick.

Johnny glanced at him. “What is?”

Ten hesitated, then gave a small shrug.

“Being fake. But still kind of… laughing.”

Johnny’s face softened. He looked down at his hands, flexed them once. His voice came out quiet, almost like he was saying it to himself.

“I haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

Ten looked over, brows lifting just slightly. The wind blew gently through his hair, and for a second, he looked impossibly young.

“Since when?”

Johnny let out a breath, slow.

“Since before I started lying to myself.”

That wasn’t the kind of line you drop casually. Ten turned to him more fully now, eyes searching his face. Johnny didn’t look away.

The moment stretched.

“Who are you now?” Ten asked suddenly. “Off the field. When no one’s watching.”

Johnny didn’t answer right away.

He leaned back on the bench, eyes lifting toward the sky like he might find the answer there. A bee passed between them. The scent of marigolds lingered in the air.

“I don’t know yet,” he said finally. “I used to think I was just the player. The star. I liked that version of myself. I built him. Big. Loud. Unshakable. He always knew what to say. He always won.”

He paused. His voice dipped.

“But that version of me never really loved anyone. He didn’t know how.”

Ten swallowed hard.

“And now?”

Johnny’s jaw worked. He blinked slowly.

“Now I think I’m just… someone trying not to screw it all up again.”

Ten didn’t say anything. He was too busy staring at him like he didn’t recognize this version of Johnny — or maybe he did, and it just hurt more than he expected.

Johnny shifted, then turned the question back.

“And you?”

Ten looked down at his drink. His voice came slower, more careful.

“I used to know. I was the dancer. The singer. The pretty face on glossy posters. The one who smiled even when people said awful things online. Then I was the survivor.”

He took a shaky breath. Johnny looked over, instinctively leaning just a little closer.

“Now…” Ten hesitated. “Now I think I’m trying to be whole again. Like, every day I wake up and try to forgive myself for letting someone else break me. And maybe… forgive the people who didn’t catch me when I fell.”

Johnny didn’t move, but something in him pulled tight — a flicker behind the eyes, a twitch of his knuckles.

Their hands brushed between them.

Neither of them pulled away.

Ten’s fingers were soft, cool from his drink. Johnny’s were calloused and steady. The contact was small, but it felt like more. Like all those quiet years had collapsed into that single point of skin.

They sat like that for a while — in public, on a bench, under the sun — looking relaxed. At ease. Maybe even happy.

If someone had snapped a picture, it would’ve looked candid. Natural. Like two people who knew how to be around each other.

But only they knew how hard they were trying not to fall apart.

The ride back from the farmers’ market was unusually quiet.

Not tense. Just… quieter than either of them expected, given how much they’d laughed earlier over hot sauce and screaming toddlers. The sun had moved west, casting long shadows across the dashboard. A bag of vegetables rustled quietly in the back seat, and Ten’s to-go coffee had gone cold in his hands.

Johnny drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, thumb tapping an irregular rhythm against the denim. His jaw was clenched like always, but his shoulders were less rigid. He looked almost calm.

Ten rolled the window down halfway, letting the wind tousle his hair. The Kansas air was dry but soft, like everything else there.

“You were different today,” he said after a while.

Johnny glanced sideways at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Not just at the market. I don’t know… You seemed less angry.”

Johnny gave a short laugh. “That’s a low bar.”

Ten turned his body slightly, angling toward him.

“I mean it. You made a joke. You didn’t insult the oat latte.”

Johnny’s mouth twitched at the corner.

“I still think it tastes like wet cardboard.”

Ten rolled his eyes, but smiled. A small smile.

They hit a stretch of road without any cars. The farmland sprawled wide in every direction, like the world had opened just for them.

Johnny spoke again, quieter this time.

“It’s not fake, you know.”

“What isn’t?”

Johnny’s fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel.

“The way I had a great time today, fake dating can be something, but today was… good. The I laughed for real after a while.”

Ten blinked, caught off guard.

“Then what is it?”

Johnny was silent for a moment. The road hummed beneath them.

“Everything else,” he said eventually. “The timing. The story. The press. This… us. It’s not how I ever wanted it to be.”

Ten looked out the window. The wind played with his eyelashes.

“How did you want it to be?”

Johnny didn’t answer. Or couldn’t.

Ten’s voice softened. —“Because if I remember right, back then you didn’t want it at all.”

That landed sharp.

Johnny’s knuckles whitened.

“You don’t know what it was like,” he muttered.

Ten leaned in just slightly. “Try me.”

Johnny exhaled through his nose.

“I liked you. I really liked you. But I was scared of what that meant. I couldn’t even say it out loud, and you were already brave enough to be who you were. And then when they—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “When they outed you, I froze. I panicked. I hated myself, and I took it out on you.”

Ten’s hands folded tightly in his lap. He didn’t look at Johnny, not yet.

“I was not out, someone forced me to and you left me there,” Ten said. Quiet. Controlled. “In front of your friends. Like I was nothing.”

Johnny didn’t defend himself.

Because it was true.

They pulled into the driveway of the rental house Ten had been staying at — a quiet place tucked behind a low fence and a row of wind-bent trees.

Johnny didn’t park immediately. Just let the car idle.

Ten finally turned to him.

“Do you ever think we’d still be together if you hadn’t been so scared?”

Johnny met his eyes. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Every day.”

Silence again. But this one felt different. Heavier. More fragile.

Ten’s fingers twitched on the door handle. His voice came out strained.

“You should’ve said that a long time ago.”

Johnny nodded. Once. No defense. No excuse.

Ten opened the door.

“Thanks for today.”

He stepped out. Didn’t look back.

Johnny watched until the front door shut behind him. His heart felt too big for his chest.

He hadn’t meant to say any of that. And yet now that it was out there, he couldn’t take it back.

And maybe… he didn’t want to.

 

Ten held the camera like it was something sacred — not just a tool, but an extension of himself. His hands were smudged with developer stains, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, black shirt hanging loose over pale skin. His mouth was pursed in concentration, a pair of old headphones tangled in the collar of his shirt.

Johnny leaned awkwardly against the doorframe.

He shouldn’t be here.

He wasn’t part of this world — the world of contrast, shadow, light and patience. Johnny lived in stadiums and gym bags, in noise and speed and cheer squads.

But Ten had asked. Just once, casually.

“Come with me? I need to finish a roll.”

And Johnny had said yes before he even thought about it.

Now he was standing in the corner of a room that smelled like chemicals and sweat and rain from earlier that day. His palms were sweating. His breath felt uneven. The red light made Ten’s hair look darker, softer — like velvet. Like something that shouldn’t be touched unless you knew what you were doing.

Ten moved quietly. Gracefully. He unspooled the negatives, cut them, placed photo paper in a tray, and watched it slowly reveal its secret.

Johnny, meanwhile, watched him.

It was the kind of watching you do when your chest is too full. When everything is almost something — and you’re terrified to name it.

“You okay?” Ten asked without turning around.

Johnny blinked. “Yeah. Just… watching.”

Ten’s lips curled at the edge. “Creepy.”

Johnny laughed — sharp, nervous. “You invited me, remember?”

Ten pinned a photo to the line above them. It dripped quietly onto the stained floor.

“You don’t have to prove anything here,” Ten said after a beat. “Not with me.”

Johnny went still.

Ten finally turned, leaning back against the drying table, arms crossed. There was something unreadable in his face — not cold. Just open. Raw.

“You always act like the world can’t touch you,” he said softly. “But I’ve seen it. The way your shoulders drop when no one’s looking. The way you disappear into yourself when they cheer your name like they own it.”

Johnny said nothing.

“I just think,” Ten added, voice lower now, “you deserve a place where no one’s asking you to be more than who you are.”

The silence between them cracked wide.

Johnny stepped forward.

“I don’t know who that is,” he confessed, voice uneven. “Who I am, I mean. Most days I feel like a dozen versions of someone — and none of them are right.”

Ten smiled, sad and soft. “Me too.”

Another step. Now they were inches apart.

Johnny looked down at Ten’s hands — slender, stained, steady. He thought about what it meant to have hands like that: Ones that created. Ones that captured truth in light and shadow and silver grain.

“Does it ever get easier?” Johnny asked.

Ten tilted his head. “What?”

“Being seen.”

That did something to Ten’s face. His expression cracked — not all at once. Just a flicker of vulnerability at the edges.

“No,” he said. “But it gets harder to pretend you’re okay being invisible.”

Johnny swallowed.

He wasn’t sure who moved first.

Maybe Ten leaned in. Maybe he did. Maybe it was inevitable.

But when their lips touched — soft, unsure, trembling — it felt like stepping out of a dream into something terrifyingly real.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t music.

It was clarity.

Like every version of themselves fell away in that moment — every mask, every shield, every lie — and only this remained: Two boys in a red-lit room, breathing the same chemical air, asking the same silent question.

Do you see me?
Do you really see me?

And the answer was yes.

Yes.
Yes.
God, yes.

When they broke apart, Ten’s eyes didn’t close.

He looked right at Johnny. Honest. Unapologetic. Like he knew that what just happened wasn’t a game. Wasn’t a mistake. Wasn’t something they could hide forever.

Johnny, on the other hand, was already retreating.

Not outwardly. Not yet.

But somewhere deep inside, he felt it — the panic. The weight of what this kiss meant. The risk. The truth he wasn’t ready to say aloud.

Ten saw it too.

He didn’t comment. Didn’t flinch.

He just picked up the next photo and hung it to dry.

Johnny watched him, unsure of how to breathe.

And something inside him whispered: This moment is going to matter. Even if you don’t know how to hold on to it.

The butter had finished churning nearly an hour ago, but Xiaojun hadn’t moved from the kitchen counter.

The small ceramic bowl sat in front of him, golden and perfect, wrapped in linen. The scent of rosemary still clung to his hands. Outside the window, the sun had dipped behind the barn, setting the clouds on fire. It was the kind of light that made everything seem more honest than it should.

He stared at the countertop like it might offer answers.

His apron was still on. His phone buzzed once, then again. A new email from an old client — a stylist request for Seoul Fashion Week. He didn’t open it.

Yuta’s voice echoed faintly from outside. He was laughing with one of the farmhands, his tone light, easy, glowing with the same kind of charm that made people love him before he ever opened his mouth.

Xiaojun used to live in that glow. Now, sometimes, it felt like he was just orbiting it.

The back door opened with a creak. Yuta stepped in, shirt half-unbuttoned, sweat damp at the collar. His smile was immediate when he saw Xiaojun — real, warm, familiar.

“There you are,” he said, setting a small basket of eggs on the table. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Xiaojun replied.

Yuta raised an eyebrow, stepping out of his boots. “Dangerous.”

Xiaojun smiled faintly but didn’t laugh.

Yuta walked over and kissed him on the cheek — a quick, affectionate press of lips to skin — then turned to wash his hands. His rings clinked lightly against the sink. The soap smelled like lavender.

“Did you try the butter?” Xiaojun asked softly.

“Not yet,” Yuta said, drying his hands on a dish towel. “But I know it’s amazing. It always is.”

There was a silence after that.

Not the kind that felt peaceful. The kind that felt like something had been waiting its turn to speak.

Xiaojun reached for the tea kettle, more for something to do than anything else. He poured water, hands steady, eyes not meeting Yuta’s.

“Can I ask you something?”

Yuta turned toward him, sensing the shift.

“Always.”

Xiaojun set the kettle down gently.

“Are you happy?”

Yuta blinked.

It wasn’t a dramatic question. Xiaojun hadn’t raised his voice. But it landed heavy — between them, on the kitchen tile, in the soft breath of the wind outside.

Yuta leaned back against the sink, studying him.

“Is this about something?” he asked.

“It’s about everything,” Xiaojun replied.

He turned now, fully, pressing his palms against the counter behind him for support.

“I love you,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“I love this house. I love the way you make coffee. I love that I can see stars at night instead of flashing cameras. I love us.”

Yuta nodded slowly, his jaw tense.

“But?”

Xiaojun swallowed.

“But sometimes, I miss the part of me that dressed idols. That ran around backstage with bobby pins in my mouth and tape on my arms. The part of me that made people feel beautiful.”

Yuta didn’t speak.

Xiaojun stepped closer.

“And I also think about things. About… what comes next.”

“Like?”

Xiaojun hesitated.

“Like… marriage. A home that’s not temporary. Maybe even a family.”

The word family hung in the air like the echo of a confession.

Yuta looked down. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but sure.

“You know what scares me?”

“What?”

“That the world already hates me for being who I am. I’m scared of asking it to accept more — to accept us, together, with something as fragile and as permanent as a child.”

Xiaojun nodded slowly. “I know.”

“But,” Yuta added, reaching for him now, fingers threading through Xiaojun’s. “I’m not scared of you. Or us. And I want you to have all those things. I just don’t know how yet.”

They stood like that, hands clasped, forehead to forehead, the air between them filled with butter and dusk and fear and love.

“Then we figure it out,” Xiaojun whispered.

“Together?”

“Always.”

The kettle whistled softly behind them.

But neither of them moved.

 

The house was still.

He didn’t turn the lights on. Just dropped his keys on the counter, kicked off his shoes, and walked barefoot across the hardwood. The fridge hummed in the background. Outside, the cicadas had started their nightly chorus.

Johnny sank into the couch, the leather groaning beneath him. The quiet didn’t feel peaceful — it felt loud .

He grabbed the remote and flicked the TV on, then off again.

Music, maybe.

He reached for his phone, scrolled aimlessly through the mess of apps and notifications until he landed on Spotify . His finger hovered over the search bar before muscle memory took over.

He typed: Ten Lee.

The first result was "Bloom."

The cover art was familiar. Ten in soft pastels, eyes closed, one hand reaching toward a flower caught midair.

 

Johnny pressed play.

 

The opening notes were soft — piano, maybe strings. The kind of intro that felt like falling into a memory.

 

And then Ten’s voice.

 

Not Ten the roommate. Not Ten, the fake boyfriend.

 

Ten, the artist.

The one Johnny used to sneak into galleries for.

The one he used to study instead of his textbooks.

The one who had kissed him in the darkroom like it meant nothing, and everything, all at once.

 

Johnny leaned his head back, eyes closing as the song washed over him.

 

The lyrics were in Thai, mostly. But he remembered asking Ten once what they meant.

 

"To love without a name… to bloom even if no one sees."

 

His chest tightened.

 

He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak.

 

He just listened.

 

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself miss Ten.

 

Not the idea of him.

Not the version he ruined.

 

But the boy who once believed in him, even when he didn’t.

Chapter 9: Lights, camera, action

“Are you sure you brought the dark blue jeans I gave you last year?” Xiaojun asks with half his body inside Ten's closet.

 

“I saw them the other day,” Ten answers, checking his phone. “They should be there.”

 

"Got them!" Xiaojun shouts happily, his hair disheveled. “Now,” he says to himself as he looks through the clothes scattered on the bed. “Are we going for ‘sexy cowboy’ or ‘sexy virgin’?”

 

“Ahhh,” Ten answers, thinking about it for a second. He chooses “Sexy Virgin.” “Jungwoo said I should look ‘innocent and hopeful,’ remember?”

 

“Oh, right, we have a theme,” he says, taking the long-sleeved black mesh shirt and returning it to the closet. “So,” he begins, trying to sound casual, “are you excited?”

 

“Excited isn't a word I'd use,” Ten replies, sinking under his soft, fluffy duvet.

 

“You're going on a date,” Xiaojun points out. “Dates are cute. There’s  food and a good chat, maybe a couple of drinks…”

 

“This is not a date, Junjun. It's just work,” he responds bluntly. “It’s just Johnny and I pretending to be in love.”

 

“It's still a good plan. Would you prefer to be locked up here for another weekend?” Xiaojun questions entering Ten's closet again. “I don't think so,” he adds. “I know you and Johnny don't get along that well, but at least you're going out for some fresh air and you're going to get dressed up and look cute. You can try flirting for a bit just for fun, it doesn't have to be anything serious. ”

 

“Xiaojun”

 

“Think of this as some kind of practice,” Xiaojun says, ignoring Ten words. “It's harmless and you're using it to your advantage.”

 

“Ugh,” Ten complains, getting out of bed. “I hate it when you're right.”

 

“I love you too,” Xiaojun responds, smiling pleasantly.

 

“So, what will I wear today?”

 

“Okay, so” responds the boy with high cheekbones and an excited smile. “I chose a pearl-colored silk shirt, because it make your skin look shiny and pretty. These low rise dark blue jeans that make your butt look amazing, and brown cowboy boots” Xiaojun says with a big smile. “The heels will make your legs look fabulous”, he explains while pointing to each item of clothing. “I think your diamond earrings would look good with the silver Cartier rings you always wear and you should totally wear the black Chanel Lambskin.”

 

“Wow,” Ten responds, surprised. “I had forgotten I had all this in my closet,” he adds with a soft laugh. "I love it."

 

“Obviously,” Xiaojun responds, arranging her hair.

 

“Thank you,” Ten responds in a soft tone, hugging his best friend. “You're seriously the best.”

 

“You're welcome,” Xiaojun responds, returning the hug. “It is always a pleasure to dress you.”

 

“Don't you miss it?” Ten asks, releasing him.

 

"Miss what?"

 

“You know, styling others,” he clarifies. “You used to spend hours and hours in the record company's closets when I had to shoot music videos or work in photo shoots, remember? And the red carpets? Just wow. The time you made me wear that Jacquemus suit full of fabric flowers to the Grammys,” Ten remembers wistfully. “You are behind every one of my most iconic fashion moments, you know that right?”

 

“It's just a bit of good eye, good taste, and an excellent muse,” Xiaojun smiles sideways. “They were fun times and the best experience of my life, I could never forget it.”

 

“You talk like you're fifty,” Ten scoffs. “But seriously, don't you miss working? You know that I will always wait for you with open arms or contact you with whoever you want, Junnie.”

 

“I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it,” he responds with a long sigh. “But it's not something I plan to do again, I have other things, other responsibilities.”

 

"What? “Yuta?”

 

“Yes, Yuta” he responds with a roll of his eyes. “He's… he needs me, you know? I'm in charge of the ranch, most of the things on his agenda, the house in Los Angeles, his..."

 

"Is it worth it?" Ten insists, taking the hands of his best friend. “Is Yuta worth it? Does it make stopping doing everything you love worth it? Because it sounds like you're more his secretary than his boyfriend."

 

“It's not like you think,” Xiaojun responds, squeezing Ten's hands back. “Yuta's worth it,” he adds firmly. “Yuta takes care of me and protects me, he doesn’t … he doesn't pay attention to all the hate that our relationship gets. He is public with me and he treats me like he always wanted to be treated. He may seem a little intimidating and serious but he would die before making me suffer. Having a house, planning his stuff might sound a bit… worthless, but when we are together, at home it’s just perfect. I would not change that for anything.”

 

“Good,” Ten smiles as he nods slowly. “That's what I wanted to hear.”

 

“I know you care about me, but he's good,” Xiaojun insists. “I'm… We're happy and I wouldn't change anything at all.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Ten laughs, raising his hands in surrender. “I hope to hear wedding bells soon, then,” he adds with a huge smile. “How long have you been together now?”

 

“Four years and eight months,” Xiaojun responds immediately, and then lets out a long sigh. “God, I must sound ridiculous.”

 

“A little,” he laughs.

 

Xiaojun is about to reply to him, but is interrupted by the sound of several text messages.

 

“Shit,” Xiaojun responds, dropping his shoulders as a sign of tiredness.

 

“I have to go, Yuta has invited Jaehyun and Jungwoo to dinner at home and the chef just arrived,” he explains.

 

“Oh”

 

“I'm sorry, I would have loved to do your hair, but” he adds, taking his bag.

 

“No problem, I still remember how to do that and put on a little makeup.”

 

“Try to only use high coverage concealer and a pink blush, no purple on your face and please don't forget to dry your hair well before putting on your shirt, because wet silk is something I won't allow.”

 

“Okay,” Ten replies, rolling his eyes and following Xiaojun to the front door.

 

The silence of the house is filled by Xiaojun's voice giving him explanations and his soft footsteps and for a moment the pressure on Ten's shoulders fades and a slight tickling begins to be felt in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Ten?” Xiaojun calls, turning on his heel. Ten doesn't respond, he just lets his head fall to the right side and opens his eyes in attention. “It's not my duty to tell you these things, but…” Xiaojun takes a pause that feels eternal before speaking again, he licks his lips in nervousness and seems to think in detail every word he is about to say. “Johnny… John… He's not who you think he is or maybe he is, but is different now. He… Neither of you are eighteen anymore. He… he has also had hard times in these years. I'm not telling you to forgive him, but maybe you should give him a chance to get to know him again,” he says calmly. “Have fun tonight, okay?” he adds quickly and, after a smile, runs to his truck.

 

Xiaojun finishes placing the last pair of chopsticks on the table and smiles pleased. The table looks great and the food even more so. It was perfect. The white candles flicker over the cuts of fish and the night breeze is cool and light, making the terrace look calm and romantic at the same time.

White dahlias adorned not only the table, but also the surroundings of the garden, coloring the atmosphere with a sweet touch. The Prosecco was cold and the glasses shiny in the dim light, the crockery looked shiny and the napkins were the right tone of white.

 

Xiaojun had always loved being the host. The idea of taking care of the details and harmonizing the beauty and quality of what he offered to others had been something that he had always enjoyed since his beginnings as a stylist and that he now found in organizing Yuta's events or occasions like this.

 

Yuta had mentioned some sushi and a couple of drinks. The idea was good, but it could always be better.

 

"Dear?" Yuta calls from inside. "Jun?"

 

“Down here, baby!” Xiaojun responds, arranging a glass slightly.

 

It was seven forty-six, so they still had fourteen minutes before Jaehyun and Jungwoo arrived and the night would begin for them.

 

“Oh, shit,” Yuta says, crossing the threshold to the terrace. “This looks better than Nobu,” he points out with a smile.

 

“Thank you,” Xiaojun smiles, blushing.

 

“I said sushi and beers, but this… You always outdo yourself, love,” he points out, surrounding Xiaojun's waist and kissing his forehead. “You shouldn't have, but, thank you.”

 

Xiaojun nods, snuggling into Yuta's chest and sighing deeply.

 

Yuta smells like fresh water, some tobacco, vanilla and musk. His skin is soft and warm when Xiaojun slides his fingers under the back of his neck and his lips taste even sweeter when he kisses him.

 

Yuta tastes like cherry gummies and beer.

 

Yuta's huge hands squeeze Xiaojun's hips firmly as his kiss goes from sweet to hungry in seconds. Xiaojun hisses when Yuta bites his lip and tugs on his hair, forcing him to throw his head back and expose his neck.

 

“Yuta” Xiaojun moans with barely any air in his lungs. "No."

 

“I'll be quick,” he responds, brushing his lips over the skin of Xiaojun's neck. His tongue glides easily over the creamy skin of his boyfriend and Xiaojun tenses.

 

“Yuta,” he insists, but it’s more like a moan,

 

Yuta ignores Xiaojun's voice and traces circles with the tip of his tongue over the junction between Xiaojun's neck and shoulder. Xiaojun whines, bucking his hips against Yuta involuntarily.

 

The player takes this as a cue and sucks and bites his boyfriend's skin hard enough to leave a mark. Xiaojun holds on to Yuta's wide shoulders and although he wants Yuta to stop wrinkling his shirt, Yuta's attention feels too good to say anything to him.

 

The bell echoes to the garden, causing both of them to jump and return to reality from one second to the next.

 

“Let's not open,” Yuta responds, burying his face in Xiaojun's neck. “Let’s cancel dinner today and let me fuck you.”

 

“We can eat and then fuck, Yuta,” Xiaojun responds, tucking his shirt into his pants and fixing his hair. “We can’t be so rude.”

 

Yuta grumbles and rolls his eyes before tossing out his hair and ironing his shirt with his hands.

 

“Bro,” Jaehyun greets when Yuta greets him. “I brought beers,” he says, lifting the six-pack. “Jungwoo is here yet?”

 

“He must be arriving, come in,” he says, rolling his eyes. “We'll have dinner on the terrace, Xiaojun organized a damn romantic dinner for you, so I hope this helps you at least go for a coffee or something, otherwise I'll kick your asses for not letting me fuck my boy tonight.”

 

“Oh, shit,” Jaehyun says, entering the garden. “This is great, this is very very nice.”

 

“Thank you, Jaehyun,” Xiaojun responds with a huge smile as he tries to adjust the collar of his shirt. “Jungwoo is about to arrive, so he takes a seat.”

 

Jaehyun's ears turn red and he just nods before sitting on one end.

 

“No, no,” Xiaojun points out in one of the chairs in front of the pool. “Sit here, Yuta and I will be in front of you, so when Jungwoo arrives he should sit next to you so he isn't so far away.”

 

“Oh, right,” he responds, standing up. “Sorry, I'm a little nervous.”

 

“It's cute,” Xiaojun laughs. “Being nervous is a good sign.”

 

"Oh, yeah?" Yuta questions, sitting in front of his friend.

 

“Yes, that means he really likes him,” Xiaojun explains.

 

Jaehyun's ears turn even redder and a shy dimpled smile appears on the blonde's face. “Jungwoo is very cute and very funny. I have never met anyone like him,” he explains.

 

“He tends to have that effect,” says Xiaojun. “I'll help you, I promise,” he adds with a smile. “Just don't talk about Ten or Johnny, don't mention the name of any girl you've dated before, and please don't eat with your mouth open or make any noise while chewing, okay?”

 

Jaehyun nods and the doorbell rings again, signaling that Jungwoo has just arrived.

 

"How do I look?" Jaehyun asks nervously.

 

“As if you were about to shit yourself,” Yuta responds, laughing.

 

Xiaojun doesn't stop to tell him to stop, but heads to the door to greet his best friend.

 

“Welcome,” he says, opening the door.

 

“This is a ‘ two for two ’, isn’t it?” Jungwoo asks with a serious face as he points to Jaehyun's car in the driveway.

 

“Don't be like that,” Xiaojun says in a tired tone. “Jaehyun is cute.”

 

“He doesn't have a butt and he's straight, Xiaojun,” he responds, taking off his leather jacket and leaving himself only in a black shirt.

 

“He likes you, so I don't think he's very straight anyway,” he responds, rolling his eyes. “Be nice and give it a try, plus there's fresh sushi and I'll open one of your favorite wines later.”

 

“I'll make him suffer for a while,” he responds with an evil smile. “If he survives that, I might take him on a date.”

 

“Jungwoo!”

Johnny was feeling nervous and somewhat reluctant to the idea.

 

His tutors in high school had been shit and now having to have one in college for a stupid literature class felt like a bad joke.

 

He was a football player, not a poet. He already had a B+, why was Mrs. Collin insisting that he have better grades?

 

Johnny felt listless, angry and annoyed.

 

That Tuesday afternoon the library was quiet and almost empty. It was going to be six in the afternoon and he was tired after training when light footsteps sounded closer and closer. And then Johnny saw him.

 

He looked like a forest fairy. His long, pointed nose matched his short, spiky black hair. He was wearing a sweatshirt that was too big for him and black pants so tight that Johnny thought for a moment that they were painted on his skin.

 

"John Suh?" he asked when he didn't spot anyone else in the room.

 

A silver hoop shone in the lobe of his left ear and another in the middle of his right ear. His lips were almost as pink as a strawberry and his eyelids had a light shine of almost the same shade.

 

"I'm sorry, I think I'm confusing you with someone else," he says before turning around.

 

"Johnny," he corrects him. "Call me Johnny."

 

Four paparazzis, six cell phones and three flashes is what Johnny had counted since he arrived at the restaurant. Seven cellphones.

 

That was a talent he had been forced to develop after years of becoming a public figure. He wasn't a movie star, but he was someone of public interest, especially in the last ten years.

 

"Balcony or interior?" the hostess asks with a flirtatious smile that Johnny returns.

 

"Balcony" he asks and follows the girl to the second floor.

 

The second floor is almost empty and the balcony is pretty enough for the press to call it romantic. The smell of meat and cilantro fills the air and Johnny's stomach seems happy that at least tonight they would have some delicious Mexican food for dinner.

 

He and Ten would have dinner together.

 

That sounded crazy and unreal, but that was life, a series of bad jokes and unexpected things, right? At least it was with Ten and not with someone else.

 

For him, Ten was a simple task. Not because he thought he was easy, but because guilt made it all, in a way, more bearable. He owed it to him and, because he owed it to him, he wouldn't object to any of the singer's wishes, plus he didn't care about him either. This was work and nothing but work for both of them.

 

They were a win-win deal. Companions of a lie and nothing more.

 

"I'm sorry," Ten apologizes. "The taxi got lost a couple of streets before arriving and..."

 

"It’s okay," Johnny says with a quick smile as he stands up and adjusts the chair. "Please sit down."

 

"Thank you," Ten says as he settles down. "The place is nice," he points out, looking carefully at the balcony.

 

There are roses along the railing and yellow lights overhead. Calacas full of colorful flowers decorate the tables with white tablecloths with colorful embroidery and light songs in Spanish play in the background.

 

"I knew you liked Mexican food, so I thought this place was good," Johnny says with a shrug. "I asked not to be interrupted, so I think we'll be fine."

 

Ten can't help but blush and tuck his hair behind his ears.

 

Johnny looks calm, barely smiling. Ten can tell that he is also a little nervous by the way he bites his lower lip or how he looks around, fleeing from his gaze.

 

Ten scolds himself for noticing those things about Johnny, but he can't help it, having known him so well for so long.

 

It was like traveling eleven years into the past.

 

Would Johnny still be the same? 

 

No, that was impossible. Nobody was equal, nobody could be. Maybe Xiaojun was right, maybe giving him a chance to see who it was time might be worth it.

“And then” Jungwoo laughs loudly. "Miguel tells me that I'm not very Milan and I looked him in the eyes and I said ' what the fuck is it supposed to be very Milan? ' and he just left" he finishes against and the table laughs.

 

The night is good and light. The food was delicious and the Prosecco was bubbly. Xiaojun is glad to have Jungwoo around again, Yuta can't stop laughing, Jungwoo loves being the center of attention, and Jaehyun can't help but feel like a bundle of emotions.

 

The night was good, yes, but not for everyone. Not for him.

 

Jungwoo had passed him, after greeting him. He had sat next to him and ignored him all night to reminisce about old stories and trips with Xiaojun, talk about movies with Yuta, and eat as much fish as he could.

 

However, the truth was that Jaehyun hadn't tried his hardest either.

 

Jungwoo was intimidating. He was handsome, charismatic, funny and elegant at the same time. He had traveled to different places with Ten, Xiaojun or alone. He had met celebrities, a couple of politicians and important people. Jaehyun had barely left Seoul for the United States and the biggest celebrity he knew was Ten.

 

Did he really feel like he could handle someone like Jungwoo? Maybe that dinner had been a bad idea. Maybe noticing Jungwoo had been a bad idea because it seemed impossible for someone like him to notice a football player.

 

"I'll go get a beer," he says, standing up, without waiting for an answer.

 

The night was sucking, but at least the food had been good.

 

"Jungwoo is leaving," Yuta says as the two boys follow him.

 

“It was a great dinner,” Jungwoo adds with a genuine smile. "Thank you so much."

 

"The pleasure has been ours" Xiaojun responds with a small smile. "The four of us should have dinner together again soon."

 

"Sure, it would be nice," Jungwoo agrees, hugging Xiaojun and then Yuta. "I'll look up the name of the movie I mentioned to you, I must have it written down somewhere."

 

Yuta nods, smiles and hugs Xiaojun's shoulders with tired eyes.

 

"It has been fun, Jaehyun," Jungwoo smiles. "You have an interesting opinion about goose," he adds with a laugh. "I have to go, my taxi is outside."

 

"No" Jaehyun responds immediately with a serious tone. His ears turn bright red and Jungwoo's eyebrows rise in surprise. "I'll take you home," he adds. "You can't go by taxi alone at this time, I'll take you."

 

"Oh, okay, thanks" Jungwoo's smile widens and he nods eagerly at Jaehyun's apparent order.

 

Jaehyun sets the beer on the kitchen counter and quickly says goodbye to Xiaojun and Yuta.

 

The breeze is cold now and the moon looks thin against the dark blue night sky.

 

"Let me open it for you," Jaehyun says, opening the passenger door for Jungwoo to get in.

 

"Thank you," Jungwoo answers and Jaehyun closes the door and jogs to the other side.

 

The engine starts silently, causing the car to vibrate before pulling out of the driveway of his friends' house.

 

"Where are you staying?" Jaehyun asks, approaching the road.

 

"At Ten's house," she answers. "It's the cabin that's about twenty minutes from here."

 

"Oh, Bernard's ranch," Jaehyun smiles. "The place is very nice, the lake is nearby and there are some cows that always pass by. Lulu is extremely friendly" he adds with a happy tone.

 

"Lulu ?"

 

"She's a calf," Jaehyun explains naturally. "She is brown and she has two white spots in her eyes that look like glasses."

 

"Do you know them?"

 

"When it's season" Jaehyun begins. "We can't go out to do much, so I like to go out for a walk or run. Bernard was an old man who lived in the mackerel that you rent. I used to help him with the small ranch, but he got old and his children took him to the city. "Sometimes I send him tickets and he shows up for a while at the games."

 

"That's very sweet, what were you doing on the ranch?"

 

"I used to stack hay for his horses and cows," Jaehyun explains, concentrating on the dark road. "He raised quality riding horses and cows because his wife, Daila, used to love them," he continues. "It had ducks and geese too, but they are animals I don't mix with."

 

Jungwoo laughs easily and Jaehyun turns to look at him with a serious look.

 

"They are strange animals, I already told you," he adds, somewhat embarrassed.

 

"I'm sorry," Jungwoo apologizes. "That's very adorable and silly," he notes. "You know? I've always admired people who know about those things."

 

"What things?"

 

"Animals, plants, nature... I never had the opportunity as a child and then I grew up and didn't care about it. I thought it was nonsense, that wasn't going to help me, because everything was in the city, all noisy and fast; but I see it in the way you talk and I think it's cute."

 

"The farms are simple and the animals are the same. They follow their course" Jaehyun points out as he stops the car at the entrance to Jungwoo's now house. "The city and the noise, the unknown... that's unexpected in every way possible."

 

"It sounds like we're two opposites," Jungwoo points out, looking Jaehyun in the eyes.

 

“I can teach you about the countryside if you want,” Jaehyun offers. "I could take you to the lake and teach you how to ride a horse. Nothing will happen to you, I promise. I'll take good care of you," he offers with a shy smile.

 

Jaehyun looks like an enigma to Jungwoo. He is beautiful, but clumsy. A countryman with touches of the city, without malice or double intentions. His shyness is sweet and warm, refreshing for someone like Jungwoo, who's used to watching his back all the time.

 

With Jaehyun that doesn't seem necessary and it's strange, because his walls are firm and so high that this kind of sun barely manages to sneak through the cracks.

 

“Okay” Jungwoo replies while opening the door, unsure of the warm feeling expanding along his stomach. "I would like that."

 

“Good,” Jaehyun nods with a dimpled smile. "I'll make some arrangements and then pick you up."

 

"Good night, Jaehyun" Jungwoo says, nodding and getting out of the car.

 

"Good night, Jungwoo."

The restaurant was dimly lit, a few paper lanterns swinging above their heads, and a stone fountain dripping softly in the middle of the patio. Johnny and Ten ate in silence, cutting their enchiladas and tacos with more focus than necessary.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was tense. Full of everything they weren’t saying.

Until, of course, it got worse.

"What’s happening?" Ten whispered as a group of charros in bright embroidered suits and massive sombreros approached with guitars in hand.

"I think they’re serenading us," Johnny said, blinking.

One of the musicians smiled under a sharply trimmed mustache and began to sing Bésame Mucho .

"Oh no," Ten mumbled, eyes darting around.

Johnny, without thinking, reached across the table and took Ten’s hand. His fingers were warm and steady.

"PR," he said simply, under his breath.

Ten didn’t pull away.

Johnny cleared his throat, nervous, and in a clear attempt to lighten the mood, began singing too — in awful, broken Spanish:

“Bésameee muuucho… like it’s the night of the... last timeeessss…”

Ten stared at him, horrified. Then burst into laughter.

“Oh my god,” he laughed, covering his mouth.

“What? I’m singing from the heart.”

“You’re killing the song.”

“That’s also a form of art.”

After that, the margaritas kept coming. By the third round, Ten had taken off his jacket and Johnny had unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Their laughter came easier. Their glances lasted longer.

“So… how did you become famous?” Johnny asked, sipping his drink.

“Do you want the sad version or the edited one?”

“The real one.”

Ten stared at him for a second, then shrugged.

“Dance videos. YouTube. A British producer found me after I moved to London after, well…” Ten pauses, giving Johnny a half smile. “He connected me with some other Korean producers and moved me to Seoul. I didn’t speak the language, didn’t know anyone. I sang in a group with guys twice my size. Then I realized I wanted to do something more personal, so I left… and started over.”

“You’ve got good songs,” Johnny said.

Ten tilted his head.

“Have you heard them?” Ten asked, surprised.

Johnny nodded slowly, biting the corner of his lip.

“All of them.”

Ten blushed. Genuinely. He looked away fast, as if hating how fast it happened.

The check arrived. Johnny picked it up without asking and handed over his card.

“I got it.”

“Sure,” Ten muttered, his voice softer than before.

When they stepped out of the restaurant, the night breeze was cool and smelled faintly of lime and dust.

And then came the flashes.

“Johnny! Ten! Smile over here!”

Paparazzi swarmed them from both sides. Cameras lifted. Lights exploded.

Ten instinctively stepped back to avoid a lens and misstepped off the curb. His boot slipped, and for a moment, it looked like he was about to fall backwards.

But Johnny caught him.

One strong hand on his waist, steady and sure. He held him up like he weighed nothing, like he remembered exactly what he felt like.

“Careful, starboy,” Johnny said, helping him to the truck.

The flashes kept firing. One. Two. Three.

They got in. Doors shut. The world vanished.

Johnny leaned back in his seat and exhaled hard.

“Well… that was a performance,” he said, watching the rearview mirror. “The mariachis, the laughter, the fall. We sold the hell out of that. You’re a better actor than I thought.”

Ten turned toward him.

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“I hated every second of it,” Johnny said flatly, staring ahead. “I hated being looked at. I just do not understand why am I appealing to them like that. I hate having to do all of this for money, as if hanging out together is not bad enough.”

The silence thickened.

Ten tensed, turning to the window. Then turned back, voice sharp.

“You’re such an asshole, Johnny.”

Johnny didn’t move.

“And don’t touch me without warning or asking again. I’d rather fall than be touched by you!” he screamed, slightly shaking.

They didn’t speak after that.

They drove through the quiet roads until the porch lights of Ten’s house came into view in silence.

Before Ten opened the door, he spoke.

“I know this is hard,” he said, voice low. His fingers nervously twisted the ring on his left hand. “I know you don’t like me, but you do not have to be mean, okay? I know being together is nothing you have ever wanted, but please… Let’s just try, okay?”

Johnny didn’t say anything. His jaw clenched. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles went white.

“Good night,” he said finally, voice tense and low.

Ten nodded and stepped out.

They didn’t look at each other again.

Johnny watched the door close behind him.

Then slammed the heel of his palm against the steering wheel.

Once.

Hard.

Chapter 10: Ghosts in the darkroom

The studio was minimalist — white walls, tall windows, natural light flooding in from the west. The kind of place meant to look effortless in the background of magazines. A stylist hovered with a steamer. Someone adjusted the light rigging above.

Johnny sat on a stool, jacket draped over his shoulder, one booted foot up on a crate. He looked like an ad for something expensive and emotionally unavailable.

Ten stood nearby, arms crossed, tapping his foot as he watched the photographer shuffle through lens caps.

“Don’t frown,” the photographer said, tilting her head toward Ten. “You’re supposed to look in love.”

Ten blinked, then gave a practiced smirk. “We… We are”, he lied and walked toward Johnny.

“You could try to smile,” he murmured between clenched teeth once he was close to Johnny.

“I am smiling,” Johnny said without moving his lips.

Ten narrowed his eyes. “You look like you’re holding in a fart.”

“Romantic”, Johnny smiled in a mix of cockyness and tiredness. 

The stylist cleared her throat.

“Okay,” the photographer called out. “Let’s try one with Johnny behind Ten. Hands around his waist. Maybe cheek to cheek?”

Ten sighed.

Johnny stood.

They moved into position — mechanical at first. Johnny’s hands landed lightly at Ten’s hips. Ten didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean back either.

The camera clicked.

Another flash.

“Can you look at each other?” the photographer asked. 

They did.

“Great,” she smiled. “Now, let’s recall the first time you guys met each other. Let’s think of the click you two felt, how the air shifted, how your bodies pulled each other closer.”

And just like that — the air shifted.

Ten’s eyes met Johnny’s, and for a second, the noise around them fell away.

Johnny didn’t speak. His fingers stayed where they were. But something passed between them. Something old. Something half-healed.

Click.

“Now this is what I’m talking about”, she said, shooting photos as fast as she could. 

“They look great together”, said the sytlist with a deep breath. 

“Yeah, I’m glad Jungwoo called me,” the photographer replied back. “They sold this shoot to People’s, you know? It’s gonna be so big” she added with a smile. 

Later, after the shoot, Ten stayed behind to look through the preview shots while Johnny changed out of the blazer that didn’t quite feel like him. The photographer offered them access to the proofs via tablet, and Ten flipped through frame after frame: forced laughter, shoulder touches, the “are-they-aren’t-they” poses the press loved.

Then he froze.

Image #157.

Not from today.

Not from this studio.

It was a black-and-white photograph, slightly grainy, artfully cropped. A boy — maybe twenty, maybe younger — sat cross-legged on the floor of a college hallway, bathed in soft shadow. The focus wasn’t on him. It was on the way the light hit the corner of his face. The tension in his mouth. The vulnerability in his posture. But it was unmistakably him.

Johnny.

Ten’s finger hovered over the screen.

The photo wasn’t in circulation. It had never been printed for sale. It had been part of a student exhibit — his exhibit — years ago, before everything had fallen apart.

A sharp inhale behind him.

Ten turned.

Johnny stood in the doorway, still in his jeans and undershirt, towel slung around his neck. His eyes were locked on the screen.

He didn’t say anything.

He just looked.

Ten glanced back at the photo.

“You remember this?” he asked quietly.

Johnny nodded once, slowly.

“You took that,” he said.

Ten’s voice was softer now. “You let me.”

“You told me I looked like I was thinking about the end of the world,” Johnny replied back with a sweet smile, taking the tablet away from ten’s hand.

“You said you were just hungry.”

Johnny gave a quiet laugh. But the moment held weight. The kind that hung between ribs and stayed there.

“I snuck you into that gallery at night,” Ten said, looking at the image. “Because your practice ran late and I didn’t want you to miss it.”

Johnny stepped closer.

“You wore that stupid oversized sweater,” he murmured. “And those paint-stained sneakers.”

“I told you not to make fun of them.”

“I wasn’t,” Johnny said. “I liked them.”

The silence came again, but it felt different now. Less hollow. More like the air had remembered something they’d both tried to forget.

Ten closed the tablet, setting it gently on the table.

“That photo was never supposed to be in today’s file,” he said, his eyebrows almost touching. “It must’ve gotten mixed in when I uploaded samples for the shoot.”

Johnny didn’t respond right away.

Until he did.

“I think about that night more than I should.”

Ten looked at him then.

Not the quarterback. Not the actor. Just Johnny — the boy who once held a light meter with both hands like it was sacred because Ten asked him to.

“What do you think about?” Ten asked.

Johnny’s jaw tensed, but his eyes softened.

“The way you looked at me. Like I was something worth capturing.”

 

It started with tutoring.

Johnny was failing Introduction to Classic Literature , a required course for athletes at his college that none of them took seriously — until it jeopardized their eligibility to play.

Ten was the top student in the class. He wore oversized sweaters, kept his camera strap wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet, and spoke only when he had something worth saying. Most of the guys in Johnny’s team thought he was weird. Johnny thought he was quietly brilliant and fairly beautiful .

He also thought about Ten’s mouth more than he should.

They started meeting on Wednesday afternoons in the arts building — usually in the back corner of the student lounge, near the vending machines and old projectors. Ten would lay out his notes with almost obsessive precision, pages highlighted in pastel color-coded chaos.

Johnny was the opposite — all broad shoulders, restless legs, fingers tapping the table.

“Can you just… explain it again?” he’d ask, frowning.

“You’re not dumb,” Ten would say, flipping a page. “You just listen with your body, not your brain.”

Johnny didn’t know what that meant. But the way Ten said it made him feel seen.

They had become a peculiar duet. Johnny used to pass all his free time, whenever he was not in classes or the fraternity or training, fluttering around ten. At his art studio, watching him paint or at the small forest the campus had because Ten enjoyed silence while he wrote things he never allowed Johnny to read. 

Ten allowed Johnny to be around, to be noisy and let him ask many questions about art or about books, about authors and paintings. 

They looked for each other in the hallways, around the classrooms and sometimes the field. They never exchanged a word, never interacted outside their places. 

Then came the exhibit.

Ten invited him with a text:
“My gallery opens Friday. You don’t have to come. But I want you to.”

Johnny wanted to. But practice ran late, and by the time he got to the gallery, the place was already closing.

So Ten snuck him in.

He met him at the side door, camera bag slung over his shoulder, hair pulled back in a soft tie. Johnny wore a hoodie and still had cleat marks on his socks.

“You didn’t have to wait,” Johnny had said, stepping inside.

“I wanted to.”

The gallery was quiet. Just them. The floor echoed with their steps as they walked past prints hung from wires, the walls covered in Ten’s world — blurred cityscapes, slow exposure portraits, strangers caught mid-motion, the shadow of a boy’s hand across a fogged mirror.

“These are all yours?” Johnny had asked, awed.

“They’re all me,” Ten corrected. “Or… parts of me.”

One photo caught Johnny’s eye — an empty pair of running shoes under a leaking sink. Another: A reflection of a boy’s face distorted through a glass of wine.

“You’re not scared people won’t get it?” Johnny asked.

Ten smiled, soft and secretive.

“They don’t have to. I get it.”

They stood still for a long time, surrounded by silence and color.

Johnny shifted closer, hands in his pockets. Ten stood barely a foot away.

“Why me?” Johnny asked quietly. “Why invite me?”

Ten didn’t pretend not to understand.

“Because you look at me like I matter,” he said. “Even when you don’t mean to.”

Something broke open inside Johnny then. Something small, something dangerous. His heart kicked against his chest, wild and wanting.

And then Ten kissed him.

It wasn’t perfect. Their lips brushed a little too fast, a little unsure, a little too trembling. But it made everything else blur around them. The prints on the walls, the hum of the lights, the way Johnny’s hands immediately rose to Ten’s jaw, like instinct.

They kissed like the world wouldn’t allow it tomorrow.

Like it had taken them too long to find this moment.

Like they wouldn’t get another.

And they wouldn’t.

Because the next week, Ten was outed.

Someone — no one ever said who — found photos from Ten’s hard drive. Not from the gallery. Private ones. A boy kissing another boy. Whispers turned to slurs. Posters were torn off walls. Someone graffitied FGGOT on his dorm door.

Everything was painful. Chaotic. Painful.

And Johnny?

Johnny froze.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t defend him. Didn’t show up at Ten’s room like he used to. Didn’t went to see how he was.

He laughed too loudly when his frat brothers made jokes.

Ten tried calling — once, twice, six times. He showed up at the house once, asking for Johnny. Someone dumped a drink on his shoes and told him to go back to the “art freak cave.”

Johnny heard. He didn’t stop it.

By the time he got the courage to reach out, Ten had withdrawn from school. Transferred. Vanished into London with nothing but a single text:

“I get it now. I wasn’t supposed to matter.”

Johnny blinked, still staring at the tablet in the studio, eyes glassy with something he wouldn’t name.

Ten stood beside him, quiet. Remembering too.

Neither of them said anything.

Because some memories don’t need narrating.

Some memories just sting .

The barn smelled like dust and hay, and somewhere in the distance, chickens were making a racket about nothing.

Yuta stood with his sleeves rolled up, brushing down one of the horses with rhythmic, practiced strokes. The sun angled through the slats in the wall, striping the floor in long golden lines. He looked peaceful here, grounded in routine.

Jaehyun lingered in the doorway.

He didn’t know what he was doing — just that his chest felt too tight and his head was full of Jungwoo’s laugh, Jungwoo’s hands, Jungwoo’s voice saying “You don’t have to get it right. You just have to mean it.”

But how could he mean something he wasn’t even sure he understood?

Yuta glanced up.

“You lost?” he asked, tossing the brush into a bucket.

Jaehyun gave a half-shrug.

“No. Just… thinking.”

Yuta wiped his hands with a rag, then leaned back against the stall door. “That’s a dangerous habit around here.”

Jaehyun stepped inside, arms crossed. His voice was quiet.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

A pause. Jaehyun stared at the floor, searching for the right version of the truth.

“What if I’m not… gay enough?” he said finally. “For someone like Jungwoo.”

Yuta didn’t react right away.

He reached for a bucket and sat down on it, nodding once like he understood more than he let on.

“You like him?”

“Yeah.”

“He likes you?”

Jaehyun hesitated. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Then what does the rest matter?”

Jaehyun looked up, jaw clenched. “Because I’ve only ever been with girls. And I liked them. But this… this feels different. Not wrong, just—scary. New. And sometimes I wonder if maybe he’ll think I’m confused or temporary. Like I’ll freak out and run.”

Yuta tilted his head, thoughtful.

“Are you confused?”

Jaehyun bit his lip. “Not about liking him.”

“Then don’t let the label stop you. People like boxes. Boxes are neat. Comfortable. Easy to judge from a distance.”

He paused, voice dropping.

“But love doesn’t live in boxes. It moves. It spills. It changes shape.”

Jaehyun was quiet for a long moment.

Yuta picked at a piece of straw caught on his pants.

“When I came out,” Yuta said softly, “people stopped seeing me. They saw a version of me they’d made up. The loud gay one. The threat to masculinity. The fetish. The shame. All those stories they shoved on my shoulders.”

He looked up at Jaehyun then, his expression sharp, but not unkind.

“And the hate — it doesn’t end when you come out. It just… changes flavor. You start to expect it, build shields around yourself so it bounces off. But sometimes, you worry the people next to you will catch some of it too.”

Jaehyun sat down beside him on the edge of an empty trough.

“Is that why you and Xiaojun haven’t…?”

“Gone public?” Yuta finished. “Yeah. Part of me’s still scared he’ll get hurt. That someone will say something he can’t unhear.”

Jaehyun looked down at his hands. “So what do you do?”

Yuta smiled faintly.

“You love them anyway. Quietly, loudly, however you can. And you remind yourself every day that it’s your story, not the world’s.”

A pause.

“Don’t let anyone decide how to love,” he added. “Especially not the ones too scared to try.”

They sat like that for a while. No more confessions, no dramatic revelations.

Just two men in a barn, the sun lowering, the dust catching the light like snow.

Jaehyun didn’t have all the answers. But for the first time in days, he felt a little less alone with the questions.

The light was soft.

All gold and pink and lazy shadows. Jungwoo had kicked his shoes off and stretched out on the porch swing, a half-finished lemonade sweating in his hand. Ten sat beside him, legs tucked up under him, hair still slightly styled from the shoot.

They were quiet for a while, watching the flowers move at the rhythm of the air.

“The photos came out good,” Jungwoo said, glancing sideways. “Like… really good.”

Ten raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised,” Jungwoo replied, grinning. “Just impressed. You and Johnny actually looked like you liked each other.”

Ten huffed, smiling faintly. “We’re professionals.”

Jungwoo nodded, tapping his fingers on the glass.

“That shoot’s gonna explode online,” he said. “It’s going to get people talking. Build the buzz. Reintroduce you two as a couple. Launch this whole… comeback story .”

Ten’s expression softened at that comment. Not quite a smile, but something quieter.

“Thanks,” he said, almost shy. “For all of this and for saving me, always. I don’t think I’ve said that enough.”

Jungwoo shrugged like it was nothing.

But then, his gaze lingered.

“You okay?”

Ten looked away.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Ten was silent for a long second. “It’s just weird,” he said. “Seeing the past show up like that. The photo, the posing, being touched like that again... Even if it’s fake.”

Jungwoo leaned back, thoughtful.

“You ever talk to anyone about what happened?” he asked gently. “At college?”

Ten hesitated.

“Not really.” He pulled his knees closer. “It’s not something I like revisiting.”

“Still,” Jungwoo said, voice low but steady. “That was real pain. Real betrayal. You don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Ten looked over at him. Jungwoo’s expression was calm — Open, but strong.

“He was scared,” Ten said. “Back then. Johnny. I don’t think he meant to hurt me.”

“But he did,” Jungwoo replied softly.

Ten nodded. “Yeah.”

“And it’s okay that it still hurts. It should hurt. You cared. You loved him and he let you believe that he loved you back. And then you were humiliated. That kind of thing leaves fingerprints.”

Ten didn’t answer right away. His fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt.

“I think,” he whispered, “some part of me thought I’d buried it. Moved on. But then he looks at me, and it’s like I’m twenty again, waiting for someone who never showed up.”

Jungwoo leaned in, resting his chin on his hand.

“Well,” he said with a grin, “the difference is, now you’re Ten Lee.”

Ten laughed under his breath.

Jungwoo’s tone softened again.

“You’ve survived the worst. You’ve built yourself back up. You’ve got your name on headlines, your voice on playlists, and half the world trying to dance like you. So yeah, maybe it still hurts. But don’t let that pain tell you who you are.”

He bumped Ten’s shoulder lightly.

“You’re not a sad story. You’re a fucking main character.”

Ten smiled, fully now.

“You should be a therapist.”

“Too expensive,” Jungwoo replied, flopping back on the cushions. “Besides, I like you better like this. All sharp cheekbones and emotional baggage.”

Ten rolled his eyes, but the warmth lingered in his chest long after the laughter faded.

And somewhere inside, he started to believe it, too.

 

It started with the wind.

Ten had been curled up on the couch in the main farmhouse, scrolling mindlessly through a half-loaded social media feed, his charger only working at a certain angle. Too tired to make any type of food for himself, too melancholic to really eat. He might be having a pity party, but he was allowed to. The shoot, Johnny, the conversation with Jungwoo… It has been too much for just a day. The windows shook slightly with each gust. The old wood creaked like it had secrets to keep.

Then came the rain.

First came the drizzle — soft, almost shy — tapping gently against the tall windows like it was asking for permission.

Then the sky shifted.

What had been an overcast gray deepened into something unnatural — a bruised, churning slate, the clouds rolling low and heavy like they were about to collapse.

And then the rain began.

Not a shower. A deluge.

A punishing, relentless downpour that slammed into the roof with deafening force. It hit the windows like fists. The world outside disappeared — just streaks of water and wind, swallowing the farm whole in one violent breath.

The power flickered once.

Ten froze.

It flickered again.

Then a harsh click , and the house dropped into blackness.

No hum. No light. No sound but the rain — brutal, merciless, drumming against the walls like war drums.

Ten stood in the middle of the room, his phone in his hand, thumb over the screen.

No bars.

No Wi-Fi.

No signal. No lifeline.

Just the black mirror of the screen staring back at him.

The room around him — warm and open just hours before — now felt unfamiliar.

Bigger.

Older.

Every corner seemed deeper. Every shadow longer.

The house creaked.

A floorboard groaned behind him.

He spun.

Nothing.

Just the old bones of a farmhouse shifting under the weight of memory.

But Ten’s heart was already racing. A tight, instinctive thrum in his chest.

He tried to breathe, but the air felt thin — like the storm had sucked the oxygen from the walls.

The wind howled. High, sharp, like a scream stuck in a throat.
Glass trembled in its frame.

And suddenly he wasn’t in the farmhouse anymore.

He was in a hallway.

Cold linoleum. Fluorescent lights. A crowd pressed in on both sides.

Laughter — cruel, sharp.

A voice, behind him, calling his name like it was something dirty.

A slur. A shove.

Posters ripped down.

Someone yelling — no, laughing.

The sound of a door slamming.

Hard. Final.

Ten blinked — and he was back in the farmhouse, knees slightly bent, phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip.

But the fear hadn’t left.

It had grown.

His mouth was dry. His skin was cold despite the heat.

He told himself to move, to do something, but he couldn’t quite remember how.

All he could hear was the storm, and the echo of things he had spent years trying to bury.

And then — in the distance — headlights cut through the dark.

He shook it off. Not real. Not here. But the panic scratched at his chest.

He didn’t like being alone. Not like this.

He didn’t know where Jungwoo was. Yuta and Xiaojun were likely holed up together in their place. He didn’t want to knock. He didn’t want to admit he was… scared.

A flash of lightning lit the room in white. Thunder followed like a punch.

And then — a car engine.

Tires on wet gravel getting closer.

Ten moved to the window just as the headlights cut through the rain. A truck. Big. Familiar.

Johnny.

Ten exhaled sharply. Relief mingled with disbelief.

The front door burst open moments later, soaked through and wide-shouldered.

“Knew this place would mess with you,” Johnny said, pushing his hood down, rain dripping from his lashes, his chest moving fast,a s if he was running. “Came to check.”

Ten didn’t answer.

Just looked at him. Pale. Breathing a little too fast.

Johnny’s face shifted.

“Chittaphon?,” he said, voice soft now. Walking closer to Ten.

Ten opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 

Johnny took Ten’s hands softly. “We are getting wet and you probably don’t have energy here. Let me take you to my place.”

Ten could not answer back. He nodded and followed him into the storm.

The door shut behind them with a solid thunk. The rain still slammed the windows, but inside, everything was still.

Warm, dim light. The faint scent of clean linen and cedar. A couch with a quilt. Kitchen counters with a couple protein shake bottles. A TV, unplugged. No signs of clutter. 

Johnny tossed Ten a towel from the bathroom and went to change into dry clothes. Ten stood in the middle of the room, rubbing water from his arms, trembling just slightly now that the adrenaline had passed.

Johnny returned in sweats and a t-shirt, his hair still damp.

“I left a shirt and pants in the bathroom for you to change”, Johnny said moving around the kitchen. “You want tea or something?” he asked.

Ten shook his head. “Can you just... sit with me, please?”

Johnny nodded and sat on the couch beside him — not close, not touching. Just there.

Ten leaned back, the quiet pressing in.

“I felt trapped back there,”  he whispered

Johnny looked over.

“The power cut. The doors creaked. I know it’s dumb, but it felt like the walls were closing in,” Ten keep talking. 

“It’s not dumb,” Johnny said with a soft, warm tone. 

Ten looked at him.

“I know it’s beautiful,” he said. “This farm, the nature, everything. But it’s not mine. It’s not safe. Not like it looks. And when the lights went out, I couldn’t… I couldn’t breathe.”

Johnny said nothing. Just listened.

Ten’s voice dropped lower.

“When I moved to London after everything, I couldn’t sleep for weeks. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard them. The laughter. The way they said my name. I kept thinking… if you had just said something. Anything. Maybe it wouldn’t have gotten that far.”

Johnny leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers clasped tight.

“You’re right,” he said. “I could’ve said something. And I didn’t. I froze. And then I pretended it didn’t happen. That you didn’t happen. Because pretending felt easier than owning what I’d done.”

Ten swallowed.

“And now we’re here. Fake dating me. Again,” Ten said with a bitter laugh.

“Yeah.”

“Only it doesn’t feel fake all the time.”

Johnny looked up. His eyes were tired. Honest.

“It doesn’t.”

They sat in silence. Rain against the glass. Distant thunder.

Ten shifted slightly, pulling the quilt across his lap. Johnny stayed still.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Ten asked.

“Of course.”

Johnny stood, walked to the hall, and flicked the light on in the guest room. He paused in the doorway.

“Unless you want to sleep here,” he added.

Ten hesitated. Then nodded.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Johnny offered.

“No. Stay.”

Johnny turned, surprised.

“Just... stay near. Please.”

Johnny nodded once.

He grabbed a pillow, stretched out along the other end of the couch.

Ten curled under the blanket, facing him.

The storm still raged outside, but inside the room, the stillness was softer now. The space between them was warm, not tense.

Hours passed. They didn’t speak again. They just looked at each other eagerly.

Johnny recognized every curve of Ten’s face, every dimple, every line.

Ten could see the scar under Johnny’s nose, the one Johnny told he got when he broke his nose when he was fifteen. He could see Johnny smile lines and the little wrinkles around Johnny’s eyes because he smiles with his eyes all the time. 

They fell asleep like that. Close but distant, almost touching each other, almost together.

But sometime in the middle of the night, Ten whimpered — and Johnny, still half-asleep, reached for him instinctively.

Their fingers met, barely.

Ten didn’t pull away.

And Johnny didn’t let go.

Chapter 11: Crash course in love

Jaehyun hadn’t expected the apartment to feel different just because Jungwoo walked in.

But it did.

He came with noise — voice too loud, footsteps too quick — trailing the faint scent of cologne and city wind. He tossed his shoes into a perfect mess near the door and collapsed onto the couch like he belonged there.

Like he’d always belonged.

“You live like a monk,” Jungwoo declared, surveying the tidy room. “Minimal. Peaceful. Boring.”

Jaehyun leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I have a lamp that changes colors.”

Jungwoo snorted. “So edgy.”

There was something about the way he moved — easy and loose, like nothing could knock him off balance. His limbs always just a little too long for the space he was in, but somehow graceful anyway. He had this infuriating way of stealing the attention in a room without even trying.

It wasn’t just how he looked — though God , he looked good. Loose sweater, rings flashing under the kitchen lights, hair tied back in a low, messy knot that made him look like trouble.

No, it wasn’t just that.

It was the way Jungwoo made everything feel alive.

Even the silence crackled around him.

“What are we making?” he asked, wandering into the kitchen.

“Kimchi fried rice.”

“Are you cooking for me, Jaehyun?”

Jaehyun rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But secretly, he liked the idea of feeding Jungwoo. Of doing something with his hands, something for him. It made the nerves in his chest settle — at least until Jungwoo started hovering.

Leaning against the counter. Watching.

Too closely.

“You’re good with your hands,” Jungwoo murmured, eyeing the way Jaehyun chopped vegetables. His tone was teasing — but his eyes weren’t.

Jaehyun’s ears burned.

“You know exactly what you’re doing when you say things like that.”

“And yet,” Jungwoo said, popping a piece of carrot in his mouth, “you still blush like it’s the first time someone’s noticed you.”

Jaehyun turned back to the pan.

But even with his back to him, he could feel Jungwoo watching. Like he was studying something delicate.

And that made him uneasy.

Because this wasn’t a game for Jaehyun. This wasn’t something he could joke his way out of. Not with him .

“Why do you do that?” Jaehyun asked.

“Do what?”

“Call me things. Look at me like I’m… cute.”

There was a pause.

“Because you are cute,” Jungwoo said simply.

Jaehyun dropped the spatula harder than necessary.

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable anymore.

“I’m not cute,” he muttered. “I’m not even sure I’m… I don’t know.”

He turned to face Jungwoo, jaw tight. “I’ve only ever liked girls,” he said all of a sudden, as if words were pouring out of him. “And then you showed up. And suddenly I’m wondering all the time. Wanting things I can’t explain. It’s not a costume I can put on and off—”

“And who said it was?” Jungwoo interrupted gently. “You think I’m here to test you?”

Jaehyun swallowed. His chest felt too tight.

“I don’t want you to think I’m just… trying this on.”

Jungwoo stepped closer, the teasing gone from his face. Just softness now, concern, and something else — something like awe.

“Jaehyun,” he said, voice low, careful, “you’re allowed to not have it all figured out. You’re allowed to be scared.”

He reached out, fingers grazing Jaehyun’s wrist.

“But you don’t scare me.”

Jaehyun swallowed, chest tight. Then his voice broke through, quiet but certain.

“You should know,” he said, eyes fixed on Jungwoo’s. “If I’m doing this… I don’t want it to be something casual. Not a phase or a weekend or something I get over.”

Jungwoo blinked.

Jaehyun’s words came slowly, but each landed with weight.

“When I think about you… I don’t just think about… right now. I think about... later. Months. Years, even. I want the whole thing. The good mornings, the bad moods, the holidays. I don’t want to try you on. I want to grow into you.”

Jungwoo looked at him, and for the first time, he didn’t smile.

He looked wrecked.

“You can’t say things like that,” he said, voice just above a whisper.

Jaehyun frowned, confused. “Why not?”

Jungwoo took a step back, like the air had shifted.

“Because no one ever says that. Because I’ve never had someone mean it. Because people like me… we learn not to expect forever.”

He was quiet for a beat, and then added:

“And because hearing it from you makes it worse.”

“Why?” Jaehyun asked, wounded.

“Because I want to believe you,” Jungwoo admitted. “So badly it hurts.”

The silence stretched between them, charged and heavy.

Jungwoo stared at the floor like it might save him.

“I’ve never done that,” he whispered. “The long thing. The… real thing. I’m not good at it. I’m messy and restless and I flirt too much and I run when people look at me too closely.”

Jaehyun stepped forward again, gently closing the space between them.

“Then don’t run”, he reached for Jungwoo’s hand, just barely threading their fingers together. “Stay.”

Jungwoo looked at Jaehyun with warm eyes, as if he was an answer he was not looking for.

The fear was still there. But so was something else — hope — rising behind his eyes like the edge of a storm breaking.

He didn’t answer with words.

He kissed Jaehyun instead.

And this time, it wasn’t about teasing or testing or even want.

It was about yes.

Messy. Brave. Scared. But yes.

And everything that had been tense and afraid just melted.

The kiss was warm. Surprising. A little too much and somehow not enough. Jaehyun leaned in like he was falling — not clumsy, but earnest, his hands hovering before they finally found Jungwoo’s waist.

They kissed until their teeth knocked, until they laughed into each other’s mouths, until it was clear neither of them was pulling away.

Clothes trailed down the hall. Kisses turned rough. Questions turned into touches.

In the bedroom, Jungwoo looked at him again — that same gaze full of trouble and understanding and promise. 

“You sure?” he asked, breathing heavily.

Jaehyun nodded, breathless. “Yeah. I’m sure,” said firmly, taking his pants off. 

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself go without guilt.

Let himself fall.

Right into him.

Jaehyun’s heart pounded in his chest as he traced the sharp angles of Jungwoo’s jawline, his fingers trembling slightly. The air between them was thick with anticipation, charged with the unspoken desire that had been building for weeks now. 

Jungwoo smirked, his lips curling into a confident, knowing expression that sent a shiver down Jaehyun’s spine. He leaned in, his breath warm against Jaehyun’s ear, and murmured, “ Relax, baby. I’ve got you.

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The scent of Jungwoo’s cologne —sweet and inviting— filled Jaehyun’s senses as they moved closer to the bed. Jaehyun’s legs felt weak, his body heavy with a mix of excitement and apprehension. This was his first time, and Jungwoo’s experienced touch both thrilled and intimidated him. Jungwoo seemed to sense his unease, pulling him closer and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. It was slow, deliberate, as if Jungwoo were mapping every curve and contour of Jaehyun’s mouth. Jaehyun melted into the kiss, his hands resting on Jungwoo’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Jungwoo pulled back slightly, his lips brushing against Jaehyun’s ear again. “Trust me,” he whispered, his voice low and reassuring.

Jaehyun nodded, his eyes fluttering closed as Jungwoo’s hands began to roam, touching Jaehyun’s bare chest with practiced ease. Jaehyun’s skin was milky and soft. Jungwoo’s fingers trailed down his chest, light and teasing, before dipping lower to unbuckle his belt. Jaehyun’s breath quickened as Jungwoo’s hands slid into his pants, pushing them down his legs until they pooled at his feet

Jaehyun stood there in nothing but his boxers, his heart racing as Jungwoo’s gaze raked over him. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Jungwoo murmured, his voice thick with admiration. Jaehyun blushed, his cheeks warming under the intensity of Jungwoo’s stare.

No one has ever called him that. Beautiful.

Jungwoo stepped closer, his lips ghosting over Jaehyun’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. Jaehyun tilted his head back, exposing more skin for Jungwoo to explore. Jungwoo’s mouth moved lower, his tongue tracing the hollow of Jaehyun’s throat, before finding the sensitive spot just above his collarbone. Jaehyun gasped, his hands clutching at Jungwoo’s shoulders for support.

Jungwoo’s lips continued their journey downward, pausing at Jaehyun’s nipple. He teased it with his tongue, circling it slowly before sucking it gently into his mouth. Jaehyun moaned, his head falling back as pleasure coursed through him. Jungwoo’s hands roamed lower, slipping into Jaehyun’s boxers and wrapping around his hardening cock. Jaehyun’s eyes widened as Jungwoo’s lips ghosted over the bulge in his boxers, but before he could react, Jungwoo was kissing him again, his hands pulling Jaehyun’s boxers down his legs.

Jaehyun stood naked before Jungwoo, his body flushed and trembling. Jungwoo’s eyes were dark with desire as he took in Jaehyun’s form, his gaze lingering on the erection jutting out from his body. 

“You’re perfect,” Jungwoo whispered, his voice hoarse with want. Jaehyun’s breath hitched as Jungwoo began to shed his own clothes, revealing a body that was lean and muscular, every inch of him exuding confidence and experience. Jaehyun’s mouth went dry at the sight of him, his heart pounding harder in his chest.}

Jungwoo stepped closer, his lips pressing soft kisses along Jaehyun’s chest, his stomach, his hips. Jaehyun’s hands tangled in Jungwoo’s hair, his fingers gripping tightly as Jungwoo’s mouth moved lower. Jungwoo’s tongue swirled around Jaehyun’s navel before trailing down to his cock. Jaehyun gasped as Jungwoo’s lips closed around him, hot and wet, sucking gently. Jungwoo’s tongue swirled around the head, teasing and tormenting, sending sparks of pleasure through Jaehyun’s body. Jaehyun moaned, his hips bucking instinctively, but Jungwoo’s hand pressed firmly against his stomach, holding him still.

“Jungwoo, please,” Jaehyun pleaded, his voice raw with need. Jungwoo smirked, pulling away and leaving Jaehyun whining in protest. Jungwoo pressed a kiss to Jaehyun’s thigh, his breath warm against his skin. 

“Not yet,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down Jaehyun’s spine. Jungwoo reached for the lube or anything to use on the bedside table. }

He found body cream, he has used worst things before, Jungwoo thought, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers. 

Jaehyun felt feral as he saw Jungwoo’s hand moved between his legs, his fingers brushing against his own entrance.

“Relax, baby,” Jungwoo murmured, his voice soothing. “I’ve got us.” 

Jaehyun took a deep breath, nodding as Jungwoo inserted another finger inside him, slow and steady. It was torture.

Jaehyun moved instinctively and now Jungwoo was under him. Legs open and heavily breathing.

“Let me” Jaehyun said slowly, fingering Jungwoo’s entrance now.

Jungwoo’s lips brushed against Jaehyun’s forehead, his neck, his lips, with every gentle push, whispering reassurance with every breath.

“You’re doing amazing bay, fuck” Jungwoo moaned, his voice soft and encouraging. He whimpered as Jaehyun added a second finger, scissoring him slowly, stretching him open. His body arched, his muscles tensing as unfamiliar sensations overwhelmed him.

Jaehyun kissed away Jungwoo’s tears, his lips pressing softly against his eyelids, his cheeks, his lips. “I’m right here,” Jaehyun whispered, his voice a steady anchor in the storm of emotions swirling within Jaehyun. “I’ve got you. ”  

Jungwoo nodded, his breath shaky as Jaehyun lined himself up, his cock pressing against Jungwoo’s entrance. Jaehyun gasped, his eyes squeezing shut as he pushed in slowly, his lips pressing against Jungwoo’s in a soft, comforting kiss. 

“ Breathe with me, ” Jaehyun murmured, his voice a steady rhythm that Jungwoo clung to.

Jungwoo was no virgin and definitely not new at sex, but all that was too overwhelming. 

Jaehyun smelled like fresh lemon with woody notes and his own masculine scent. It was driving him insane. Almost as much as Jaehyun’ thick and big dick was.

It was poisoning, like an addiction. All his body asked for more. More contact, more kisses, more Jaehyun.

They moved together, Jaehyuns’s thrusts gentle at first, then deeper, harder, as Jungwoo relaxed into the rhythm. Jaehyun moaned Jungwoo’s name, his body adjusting to the tightness, the pleasure building with every movement. 

“You feel so good,” Jungwoo groaned, his voice thick with desire. His lips kissed Jaehyun’s shoulder, his jaw, his lips, his hands gripping Jaehyun’s shoulders tightly. Jungwoo wrapped his legs around Jaehyun’s waist, pulling him closer, whispering, “Don’t stop.”

Jaehyun chuckled, his lips pressing fiercely against Jaehyun’s as he sped up, his hips snapping against Jungwoo’s. Their bodies were slick with sweat, their breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Come for me, baby,” Jaehyun panted, his thrusts harder, more desperate. Jungwoo cried out, his body tightening around Jaehyun as he climaxed with a sharp gasp, his cum spilling over their stomachs. Jaehyun followed soon after, his face buried in Jungwoo’s neck, his breath hot against his skin. 

“I can… I can get used to this,” Jungwoo whispered, his voice hoarse and raw. It was a declaration, a statement, a promise.

Jaehyun smiled, ears red and full of dimples.

They lay tangled together, their hearts racing, their bodies still trembling from the intensity of their release. Jaehyun pulled out gently, pressing a soft kiss to Jungwoo’s forehead. Jungwoo smiled, pulling Jaehyun close, his arms wrapping tightly around him. 

“I think we both can,” Jaehyun whispered, his voice soft and full of gratitude. 

Jungwoo smiled shyly. Jaehyung held him tight, their hearts beating as one, the world outside fading away as they lost themselves in each other.

The storm had passed, but the silence left behind was heavier.

Xiaojun stood in the hallway, still in his pajama pants, cradling a mug of mint tea. He’d been looking for Yuta — it was late, later than they usually stayed up — and the den light was still on.

He pushed the door open quietly.

Yuta sat hunched over his phone on the edge of the armchair, face lit by the blue glow. His shoulders were curled in, body tense — as if reading something painful but familiar. Something he knew how to endure.

Xiaojun knew that look.

He had seen it before. On the worst nights. On the ones Yuta never talked about.

He stepped in gently.

“Baby,” Xiaojun said softly. “It’s late.”

Yuta startled slightly and turned the phone over fast, too fast.

Xiaojun didn’t say anything. He walked in and sat down on the carpet in front of him, crossing his legs slowly.

He waited.

Yuta sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was just checking something. Doesn’t matter.”

Xiaojun looked up at him.

“Was it about us?”

Yuta didn’t respond.

So Xiaojun reached for the phone, flipped it back around.

And there they were.

Photos from earlier that morning — Yuta in his worn denim jacket, Xiaojun walking beside him, reaching for a peach at the farmer’s market. A moment that had felt small. Real. Honest.

But underneath: Bile. Spit disguised as words.

"He’s ruining his career."
"This is why players shouldn’t come out."
"They make me sick.

"Is he a new boy? Wasn’t with a blonde last week? Gays these days, fuck.”

"Yuta is infecting all the team. Gayness is a sickness!!”
"He’s tainting everything good he built."
"Hope he and his new fucking boyfriend disappear."

Most of them had already been deleted — Yuta’s thumb probably working like a reflex. But enough remained to curdle the air between them.

Xiaojun exhaled through his nose.

He set the phone down.

“You’re still doing this?”

Yuta looked away, jaw tightening. “I have to.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.” The words were sharper now. “You don’t know what it was like back then. After I came out. After some sponsors let me go. The silence. The way doors closed. The stares. The threats.”

He shook his head.

“I know what people are capable of.”

Xiaojun’s voice didn’t rise. It stayed level. Firm. But his eyes — his eyes burned with something deeper.

“I never said I didn’t understand,” he said. “But I’m not asking you to pretend it didn’t happen. I’m asking you to stop making that fea,  our home.”

Yuta blinked.

Xiaojun kept going, voice soft but sharp.

“You love me, right?”

Yuta’s gaze snapped back to his.

“Of course I do.”

“Then trust me. Trust that I know what I’m choosing. That I know the risk. I’m not naive, Yuta. I know what people say. They have been saying that about me all my life. I know what they’ll keep saying. But I also know I want a life where I don’t have to wonder if you’re ashamed of loving me or you feel the need to lie to me.”

Yuta flinched. “I’m not—”

“I know,” Xiaojun interrupted. “I know you’re not. But hiding it makes it feel like you are. You trying to protect me? It feels like I’m something fragile. Something to be hidden. And I’m not. I don’t care what could happen if people… I don’t care if your fans get to know who I am. I just care about us. I want everyone to know that we belong to each other and live our lives as we always wanted to. Together.”

Yuta looked gutted.

Xiaojun moved closer now, kneeling in front of him. He reached up and took Yuta’s face in both hands.

“You don’t have to fight the world for me. I’m not asking for an armor. I’m asking for you to stand beside me , even when it’s loud.”

Yuta’s voice cracked. “I don’t want them to hurt you.”

“They already have,” Xiaojun said, tears shining in his eyes. “Every time you delete us. Every time you silence your joy. Every time you flinch when someone points a camera our way.”

Yuta let out a trembling breath.

Xiaojun rested his forehead against Yuta’s.

“I don’t need to be safe. I need to be real. With you. In the open. Messy and loved and seen.”

He pulled back enough to meet his eyes.

“I want a family, Yuta. I want a home. I want to dance with you in the kitchen and hold your hand at a café and be able to say t his is the man I love. ”

Yuta broke then. His hands came up to grip Xiaojun’s arms.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

“Me too,” Xiaojun said. “But I’d rather be scared together than invisible alone.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was a silence that held space.

Then Yuta kissed him — soft, broken, honest.

And this time, Xiaojun kissed back like he’d finally been heard.

Like he believed they could build a world out of this truth.

Not perfect.

But theirs.

 

The storm had knocked the power out completely in that part of town.

No heat. No signal. No distractions.

Just candlelight flickering in corners and rainwater tapping against glass like it was keeping time.

The roads were flooded. The landline dead. No one coming. No way out.

They were stuck together at Johnny’s house for another day — suspended in some in-between place that felt both too close and not close enough.

“It’s like the universe hates us,” Ten muttered, tugging a thick gray sweater over his head as he passed the living room. It was far too big for him, the sleeves fell past his knuckles, the hem brushed mid-thigh — and the scent was unmistakably Johnny. Sharp, clean, warm. It clung to him like a memory.

Still, it was cozy. And Ten was glad for at least that.

From the kitchen came Johnny’s voice, quiet but clear.

“Or maybe it’s giving us a chance to talk.”

Ten froze in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame. The wind howled outside.

He didn’t turn around when he answered.

“Is that what we’re doing?”

Behind him, Johnny didn’t reply. There was the soft scrape of something being placed on the table.

When Ten turned, his breath caught.

A dusty DSLR sat between them like a ghost. Like it had been waiting.

“Where did you find that?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Laundry room,” Johnny said. “Back shelf. I forgot I still had it. From college.”

Ten moved toward it slowly, as if it might break beneath his hands.

His fingers hovered over the grip, brushing the edge.

It still had his name on it — a small sticker, faded and peeling.

“You used to say,” Johnny continued, voice softer now, “that when the world got too loud, the lens helped you breathe.”

Ten didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the camera. Like it was a relic of a version of himself he no longer trusted.

“I’ve been trying to write again,” he said eventually, like a confession. “A new single. But everything feels fake. Like I’m chasing someone I can’t find anymore. Like… I’m imitating someone I used to be.”

Johnny leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him. Not with pity. But with something heavier. Like he was holding his breath.

“Then don’t write what they want,” he said. “Make the thing that scares you.”

Ten looked up.

Their eyes locked.

And in that moment, the storm outside was nothing compared to the one between them.

“You think I can still be that brave?” Ten asked.

Johnny hesitated.

Not because he didn’t know the answer.

But because it cost him something to answer that question.

“I don’t think you ever stopped,” he said finally. “I think you just… started surviving instead of living.”

The words landed like a punch.

Ten turned his face away. He blinked, once. Hard.

Silence settled again, deep and fragile.

“Help me,” Ten said, barely audible. “Just for tonight.”

Johnny didn’t move. “With what?”

Ten reached for the camera, cradled it like something sacred.

“Let’s shoot,” he said. “Raw. Honest. No makeup. No styling. Just me. Just… us. If the lights won’t turn on, we’ll use the dark. If it rains, we’ll shoot near the window.”

Johnny didn’t smile. He just stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was low. Steady. “Okay.”

 

An hour later, they had cleared a space in the sunroom. Johnny helped Ten hang a soft linen backdrop from a curtain rod. They lit every candle they could find. 

The light flickered like memory — golden, uncertain.

Ten directed in a whisper. Johnny followed in silence.

“Sit there,” Ten said, motioning to the edge of the windowsill. “Turn toward me.”

Click. Click.

Johnny stared into the lens like it was a confession booth. Unblinking.

“You’ve changed,” Ten said after a moment. “Your face is older. Sadder.”

“Yours too,” Johnny replied. “But there’s still light.”

Ten adjusted the focus, heart fluttering behind his ribs.

“You used to smile differently.”

“You used to trust me.”

”I used to be really naive,” Ten answered back fast, stabbing Johnny in the way.

Click. Click.

Ten lowered the camera.

They were close now. Breathing the same air.

Johnny’s voice softened.

“I think I’ve been carrying you around this whole time. In the spaces I don’t talk about. In the words I can not say. In the apologies I never gave.”

Ten’s hands tightened on the camera.

“You left me there,” he said. “Back on campus. In the darkroom. In the hallway when they laughed and I couldn’t find you.”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t cry.

“Do you know what that does to someone? Being loved in secret and hated in public?”

Johnny didn’t answer.

Because he did know.

He lived with that guilt every day.

“You didn’t just disappear,” Ten whispered. “You erased me.”

Johnny looked at him then. Fully. And said the only thing he could. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t care, Ten. I left because I did — too much. I was a coward, and I let fear speak louder than love. And I’m still scared. Not of the world, not of what they’d say. I’m scared of you. Of how you still feel like home. Of how, even now, being near you feels more real than anything I’ve built without you.”

The air shifted. Grew thick.

Their hands met — not held, not interlaced, just brushed and rested, uncertain.

Johnny leaned in.

Not rushed. Not demanding.

A breath away.

Ten stood perfectly still.

But when Johnny’s lips nearly touched his.

Ten turned his face.

Stepped back.

His voice was quiet. But trembling.

“Don’t,” Ten whispered, stepping back. “Don’t kiss me unless you mean it. Not this time. I’m not some wound you can press your mouth to just because you’re lonely, or lost, or trying to feel something. I’m already broken in places you never stayed long enough to see, and if you—if this—if you aren’t real this time, I don’t think I’ll survive it.”

Johnny stepped back, too.

Ashamed. Exposed. 

But not angry.

He nodded.

“Okay.”

They stood in the candlelight — flickering, faulted, unfinished.

Ten picked the camera back up and lifted it slowly.

The shutter clicked again.

But this time, the picture wasn’t posed.

It was Johnny, looking at him like he always had.

Like a boy who never stopped seeing him — even when he’d tried to forget.

The candles were burning low now, casting long shadows across the walls of the farmhouse. The air was warm and too still — the kind of stillness that comes after a storm, when the world hasn’t yet remembered how to breathe again.

Ten sat curled on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked beneath him, camera resting on his lap. He wasn’t shooting anymore. Just… holding it. Like it might anchor him to something.

Johnny stood near the window, one hand on the frame, watching the night sky. The rain had stopped. The clouds were parting, revealing a slice of stars.

“It’s strange,” Ten said softly. “I always imagined if we were ever in the same room again… I’d have a million things to say.”

Johnny didn’t turn around. His voice came low.

“And now?”

Ten looked down at the camera. His voice cracked.

“Now I just want to know if youever think about it.”

Johnny turned then. Slowly. Deliberately.

His eyes found Ten’s across the candlelight. They were unreadable at first. But then something shifted — cracked — and what leaked out was unmistakable.

Grief. Regret. Want.

“Every day,” Johnny said. “Sometimes in the locker room. Sometimes in my car. Sometimes right before I fall asleep. You always come back in pieces. Your voice. Your laugh. The way you looked at me when you didn’t know I was watching.”

Ten swallowed hard. The air around them was too full. It made it hard to breathe.

“So why didn’t you come back?” he asked.

Johnny stepped forward. Not too close. But enough.

“Because I didn’t think I deserved to.”

Ten’s eyes shone, glassy. He didn’t cry. Not yet. But his mouth opened like he might say something, and then closed again.

Johnny knelt in front of him, slow, careful, like Ten might shatter.

He reached out — not to touch, not yet — but to be near. His knees brushed the edge of the couch.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Johnny said. “But I need you to know… I never stopped wanting you.”

Ten’s hands trembled where they rested on the camera.

Johnny’s voice dropped, just above a whisper.

“And I’m scared, Ten. Not because I don’t feel it — but because I do. And I know you deserve more than someone who left.”

Ten looked at him for a long time.

Then — slowly, shakily — he set the camera aside.

Their eyes locked.

And then Ten reached forward — just slightly — and brushed his fingers against Johnny’s cheek. Not a caress. Just a confirmation.

That he was real.

That he was here.

Johnny leaned into it, just barely, eyes fluttering closed.

Ten’s voice was a breath.

“I still want you, too. I never really stopped wanting you.”

Johnny opened his eyes.

They were so close. Inches.

But Ten pulled back.

His hand fell to his lap.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Not like this.”

Johnny didn’t argue. He just nodded, chest rising with a quiet, aching breath.

Then, gently, he stood. He reached for a blanket draped on the back of the chair and wrapped it around Ten’s shoulders.

His hand lingered, brushing the curve of Ten’s neck. Then fell away.

They didn’t say goodnight.

There was nothing left to say.

But when Johnny turned off the last candle and the room fell into darkness, Ten was still watching him — eyes wide, heart loud, wanting everything but waiting just a little longer.

Chapter 12: Third act - The Reckoning and the Rain

“You said you’d be fine pretending. So why does it hurt when they finally believe the lie?”

Chapter 13: The Line Between

The hallway was packed. Loud with lockers slamming, students laughing, sneakers squeaking on tile.

And then — it got quieter.

Ten didn’t notice at first. He was scrolling his phone, one earbud in, humming some half-finished melody under his breath.

Until he heard it.

The laughter.

Not the light kind. Not the fun kind.

The mean kind. Sharp. Ugly. Echoing off the walls.

He glanced up.

People were looking at him.

Not just looking — staring. Snickering. Whispering behind open palms.

Then a voice rang out — cruel, too loud, unmistakable.

“Guess the fag rumors were true after all.”

Ten froze. His stomach dropped like a trapdoor had opened inside him. His fingers went numb around his phone.

He didn’t want to look.

Didn’t want to know.

But he tapped the notification anyway.

Anonymous campus forum.

Post title: BREAKING — Campus’s misunderstood art boy not so straight after all.

Under that  grainy, but clear enough of Ten kissing another boy.

Him.

And Johnny.

Kissing in the darkroom.

The timestamp was from weeks ago. Someone had been watching. Waiting. And now —They’d lit a match and thrown it into the gasoline of campus gossip.

Ten blinked. Once. Twice.

His legs wouldn’t move.

And then he saw him.

Johnny.

Across the hallway, frozen like a deer in headlights. One hand still wrapped around a water bottle, jaw slack, eyes locked on the post glowing in someone else’s phone.

Ten’s breath caught.

“Johnny,” he whispered with a broken voice, not loud enough for someone to hear him.

Johnny looked up.

They made eye contact. For the first time since everything shattered.

Ten’s chest was on fire. His lips parted. “Say something,” he mouthed.

But Johnny didn’t.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even blink.

Around them, the hallway roared. Laughter. Gasps. Whispers building into a storm.

Someone shoved past Ten’s shoulder. Another took a picture.

And Johnny?

He took a step back.

And walked away.

Just like that.

He left. Left him. 

Alone.

Ten’s vision blurred.

He couldn’t hear anything anymore except the sound of his own heartbeat crashing through his ears.

He wanted to scream. To vanish. To take it all back.

Instead, he stood there — humiliated, outed, betrayed — while everyone stared like he was some kind of joke that finally got exposed.

And then—

“Ten!”

Jungwoo.

He came sprinting through the crowd, face pale with panic. Xiaojun right behind him.

Ten collapsed into Jungwoo’s arms the second they reached him.

“I—he—” Ten choked out, voice cracking. “He saw it. He saw it and he left me.”

Xiaojun wrapped his jacket around Ten’s shoulders as Jungwoo pulled him close, shielding him from the onlookers. From the laughter. From the boy who walked away.

“You’re okay,” Jungwoo whispered, voice fierce. “You’re okay, baby, I’ve got you.”

Ten shook his head. “No. I’m not. I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” Xiaojun said softly, tightening the jacket. “You don’t need him to be okay.”

But Ten did. God, he did.

And now he had no one.

Jungwoo had always believed he was good at detaching.

He could flirt without flinching, smile without meaning it, kiss without consequence.

He had perfected the art of keeping his heart elsewhere — tucked away in locked rooms and half-lit memories, buried beneath sarcasm and convenience.

But Jaehyun had ruined all of that.

Without even trying.

They were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the hardwood floor of Jaehyun’s room, tools scattered, a half-assembled IKEA shelf leaning sideways in defeat. Outside, the sun had begun to set, casting shadows through the blinds that striped Jaehyun’s face in golden lines.

He looked soft like that. Unfiltered. Beautiful .

His sleeves were rolled up, sawdust in his hair. He’d laughed five times already today, every one of them easy, every one of them real.

And Jungwoo couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t want this if you don’t mean it,” he said suddenly, his voice low, tight. His hands were trembling, so he shoved them into his hoodie pocket.

Jaehyun froze. “Mean what?”

Jungwoo didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. “This. Us. You talk like forever is some kind of furniture you’re just putting together, piece by piece. But I’ve seen this before. I’ve been this before.”

Jaehyun sat back slowly, careful not to get too close, careful not to move too far away.

“They said they’d stay,” Jungwoo whispered, not looking at Jaehyun, not looking at anything in particular. “Every single one of them. They said I was different. That they wanted more. And then they got scared. Or bored. Or ashamed.”

He finally turned, his gaze sharp now. Almost pleading.

“How do I know you won’t wake up one day and realize I’m just a phase? Something soft and shiny you liked until it got hard to hold?”

Jaehyun didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away.

“You don’t,” he said gently. “That’s the risk.”

Jungwoo swallowed hard, the ache in his throat climbing. “So you’re asking me to believe you just because you say so?”

“No,” Jaehyun said. “I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m showing you. I will show. Everyday. Every time I ask you to stay. Every time I kiss you. Every time I touch you like it matters.”

He leaned forward then — close, not touching, but enough for the tension to crackle between them.

“You’re not something I want until it gets hard,” Jaehyun said, voice low and sure. “You’re something I want because it’s hard. Because you’re worth the fight. Look, Jungwoo, I know it might be scary to be with someone who just discovered he likes boys… No, that he likes a boy. You.” Jaehyun said firmly, taking Jungwoo’s chin and making him look at him. “I can not promise this would be easy or simple, or fun all the time…, but what I can promise you is effort and me loving you with all I can, with all I have.”

Jungwoo’s breath caught. His chest burned with a thousand unanswered questions, a thousand unlived lives.

“Do you really think we’ll make it?” he asked, and it came out like a confession.

Jaehyun gave the smallest smile — soft, aching.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know I want to try. I want you. In all your mess. With all your fear. I want all of it.”

For a long time, Jungwoo said nothing.

Jaehyun was crazy. He was crazy for staying there, after that cheesy ass confession he would have laughed at other times.

Then he let out a shaky breath, reached forward, and brushed his fingertips against Jaehyun’s wrist — not a kiss, not a promise, just a signal.

He hadn’t run.

Not yet.

The fluorescent lights inside the grocery store buzzed faintly above them, casting everything in a washed-out kind of calm.

It was a Sunday. Easy. Quiet. They were out for butter, eggs, and lemons.

Xiaojun pushed the cart ahead, the hem of his sweater swaying as he hummed something cheerful under his breath. He tossed the lemons in with one hand, caught them again with a smirk. The week had been tense, but today? Today felt like a breath of clean air.

Yuta, hands in the pockets of his coat, trailed behind him in a shadow. Watching. Quiet.

They were halfway through the dairy aisle when it happened.

“Wait—are you…?” some asked, making the stop.

A girl. Then another. Bright smiles. Hesitant excitement. Phones already out.

“Oh my gosh! You are Nakamoto Yuta” her friend screamed. “I love the Mad Dogs, my brother is gonna pass out when I tell him I met one of you guys!”

Yuta’s shoulders locked instantly.

But Xiaojun smiled — the way he used to smile when he worked with idols and didn’t love one.

He waved politely. “Hey,” he said, signing a milk carton one fan pushed forward. “Nice to meet you.”

“Is that—” one girl whispered. “Is that your boyfriend?”

Yuta looked like he’d been slapped. His spine straightened, face flat, unreadable.

Xiaojun didn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he said with a soft smile, reaching out and threading his fingers through Yuta’s. “I am.”

Yuta didn’t pull away — not yet — but his hand was stiff in Xiaojun’s.

As they walked past, Xiaojun leaned in and whispered, “They love you.”

“They don’t even know me,” Yuta muttered, voice low and bitter. His eyes darted between every aisle endcap, like someone might be hiding behind the cereal boxes with a camera.

Xiaojun stopped the cart.

“Then let them,” he said. “Let them know you.”

Yuta didn’t answer.

Xiaojun’s voice became quieter, firmer. “We’re together. You can stand next to me without flinching.”

Yuta met his gaze, jaw tight. “It’s not that simple.”

Xiaojun stepped closer. “Then make it simple.”

And before he could second-guess it, he kissed him.

Just a press of lips. Soft. Short. Gentle. Real.

For a second, it felt like everything could be okay.

Until someone gasped behind them.

A phone shutter snapped.

And Yuta exploded .

He didn’t say a word — just grabbed Xiaojun’s wrist, yanked him down the aisle, out of the store, through the parking lot. His grip was tight, almost bruising.

“Yuta—!”

He didn’t answer. Just shoved the keys into the ignition, slammed the door, started the car like it owed him something.

The silence on the ride home was heavy. Thicker than rage. Thicker than shame.

Xiaojun stared out the window, breath shallow.

Back at the farmhouse, he finally broke.

“Why do you always act like I’m something you need to hide ?”

Yuta stood in the entryway, coat half off, eyes wide with fury. “Because you don’t know what it’s like!” he snapped. “You don’t get the messages I do! You don’t see the death threats! The comments! I’m trying to protect you—”

“But you’re not!” Xiaojun’s voice cracked. “You’re not protecting me. You’re erasing me.” Xiaojun’s eyes started to get watery. “Why are you so afraid of us? Of people?”

Yuta blinked.

“You said this place was for us,” Xiaojun whispered, stepping forward. “That we could build something quiet. Honest. Safe. And I followed you here. I left everything. My job. My agency. My future.”

He laughed once — bitter, small.

“All I wanted was a little sunlight. Just… one kiss. One moment where I didn’t feel like your secret.”

Yuta looked like he’d been punched.

But he said nothing.

Did nothing.

Xiaojun stepped back.

“You’re not even sure about me, are you?” he asked, quieter now. “Not really.”

Yuta’s eyes went wide. “Of course I—”

“No,” Xiaojun said. “You’re sure about hiding. That’s not the same.”

And with that, Xiaojun turned away.

His voice had gone quiet, too tired for fury. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, as if they didn’t know whether to reach for Yuta or brace for a fall.

Yuta stood frozen in the hallway, chest rising and falling like he was holding back something — an apology, maybe. Or a scream.

But he said nothing.

Not I’m sorry.

Not Stay.

Not Please don’t walk away.

So Xiaojun did.

He shut the bedroom door behind him softly, like a breath that couldn’t bear to make noise.

Inside, the bed was untouched, neatly made. The laundry basket in the corner still smelled like lavender. His mug from this morning — the one Yuta always said made him look like a grumpy cat — sat abandoned on the nightstand.

He didn’t cry right away.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall, letting the silence wrap around him until it pressed down like a weight. The kind that settles in your lungs and makes it hard to think, let alone breathe.

But then he noticed the door to the guest room creak open down the hall. Quiet steps. The sound of a drawer sliding.

And that was it.

That’s when it hit him.

He wasn’t just alone tonight.

Yuta had chosen to stay alone, too.

That was the part that shattered him.

Tears came hard and fast — not loud, but violent. Like something breaking open inside. He pressed his face into Yuta’s pillow — grabbed it, held it, crushed it like it might hold him back.

It still smelled like cedar and sweat. Like shampoo and late mornings.

Like home.

“Why couldn’t you just love me out loud?” he whispered into the cotton, voice wrecked. “Why couldn’t I be enough in the daylight? ”

No one answered.

He fell asleep like that — curled around the one piece of Yuta that didn’t flinch, didn’t disappear, didn’t leave.

And down the hall, Yuta sat alone in the dark, fists clenched in his lap, heart in his throat, with ten thousand things to say and no courage left to say them.

 

Earlier that morning, the light in the kitchen had been soft. Grey-yellow, sleepy, still smelling faintly of coffee grounds and rain-damp wood.

Johnny stood by the stove, watching the toaster like it had personally offended him. His hair was still damp from his shower, soft clinging to his forehead. He wore a worn hoodie, the sleeves pushed up, revealing the kind of arms that had made college kids scream his name in stadiums.

Ten sat at the table in one of Johnny’s oversized sweatshirts — the one that said UCLA in peeling white letters. His fingers curled loosely around a mug that was too hot to drink yet.

It felt, for once, almost normal.

Johnny looked over, clearing his throat.

“You doing anything tomorrow?”

Ten raised a brow, confused by that question. “Why?”

Johnny smirked. “I’ve got a game.Tomorrow night. It’s a home one. I was thinking... maybe you’d come.”

Ten blinked.

It wasn’t the ask that stunned him — it was how casual Johnny made it sound. Like it wasn’t loaded with history and ghosts and everything they hadn’t said.

Still, he nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Johnny didn’t smile big. Just enough to soften him. “Cool. I’ll pick you up around six.”

They didn’t talk about what it meant.

It had been surprisingly easy, going to the game.

Ten had let Johnny pick him up. Let himself settle in the passenger seat, the music low and unfamiliar, but somehow comforting. The storm between them — of history, guilt, unspoken words — had passed for now. They were just... floating in the quiet afterward.

The kind of silence that didn’t hurt.

Johnny chuckled once, glancing over at Ten’s outfit.

“You’re overdressed,” he teased.

Ten shrugged. “You invited me. I didn’t say I’d wear team colors.”

Johnny smiled, eyes back on the road. “You look good.”

Ten pretended not to hear it.

At the stadium, the lights were too bright and the noise too loud, but it felt less suffocating than it used to. Johnny helped Ten into the press row and offered him a cap to wear. Ten rolled his eyes and put it on anyway.

We are playing a couple anyway , Ten thought.

Taeyong leaned over just once. “Good PR,” he said under his breath. “One last show before the narrative fades,” he said to both Johnny and Ten while rubbing their arms. Enjoying way too much how the press appear obsessed over them.

“It’s not just OR, Tongue” Johnny said looking at the point of his shows. “I invited Ten for real, as… friends.”

Ten didn’t think much of it. 

Not until the fans saw them.

It started small — a chant from the left bleachers.

“ #Johnten! ”

Then another sign, in deep red and yellow letters: JOHN + TEN, FATHERS!

Ten blinked in disbelief. People were cheering . Smiling. Taking photos. They wanted this. Wanted them.

He looked down at the field.

Johnny stood at the fifty-yard line like he belonged there — like the stadium had been built around him. His jersey clung to him with sweat, shoulders squared, jaw set with a kind of focus Ten had never seen up close before.

He was so alive out there. So certain. The kind of person who made a crowd lean in without even trying.

Then the play snapped.

Chaos unfolded — bodies crashed, feet thundered, the ball flew. And Johnny, so effortless in motion, twisted, stepped left, then launched it forward with stunning precision.

The crowd exploded .

Touchdown.

Ten didn’t cheer.

He couldn’t.

Because his breath had caught somewhere between his ribs. Because his heart was doing something stupid.

Because when Johnny pulled off his helmet and looked up — across all the noise, all the space, all the years between them — he l ooked righ t at Ten.

Not at the cameras.

Not at the crowd.

At him.

And Johnny smiled. Not his PR smile. Not the practiced charm. A real one.One that only Ten knew.

Like he was happy Ten was there. 

Like he’d always wanted Ten to see this part of him — the one who knew how to lead, how to fight, how to win.

Ten felt something lurch in his chest.

A shift. A crack. A pull.

He smiled back, tentative. Caught off guard.

Then lifted a hand and waved — small, shy, unsure.

He played the part. He let the fans take their photos. He let the whispers swirl.

But somewhere between the touchdown and the way Johnny’s eyes had softened — like no one else in that arena mattered —

It stopped feeling like acting.

It started feeling like something he might still want.

Even after the space between them.

 

Later, the stadium was just bones and echoes.

The lights still buzzed overhead, but the crowd had drained out like water down a sink — fast, loud, gone. Somewhere in the distance, someone rolled up a banner. A janitor swept popcorn off the concrete.

And behind the bleachers, Ten walked beside Johnny in silence.

The air smelled like sweat and artificial turf. Their footsteps crunched against gravel, quiet in a way that felt more like a held breath than peace.

Johnny kept his eyes forward. His heart was still racing from the game — or maybe it wasn’t the game at all.

He hadn’t expected this. The signs. The cheering. The flash of Ten in the crowd, in that black hoodie and backwards cap, eyes bright, mouth open in surprise.

It had knocked the wind out of him.

It had felt real .

So when Ten finally spoke — voice barely above the scrape of their shoes on asphalt — it hit like a stone to the ribs.

“You are an amazing player,” Ten said while he and Johnny walked around the stadium. “You were good during college, but now? I have no words.”

Johnny smiled shyly, unsure on how to take that complement. “I try my best.”

“I’m glad you do,” Ten smiles brightly. “People love you, you really made it.”

“I think,” Johnny says, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, people’s love is good, it gets the stadium full and my paycheck good, but it’s not as good as I thought it would be.”

“How’s that?”

“I was young and naive,” Johnny explains, eyes on the point of his shoes again. “Egocentic too,” he laughs with bitterness. “But, even tho I’m glad people cheer for me and scream my name… It’s just not enough, they just know me as a player. I don’t know if I want them to know as a whole. As just me.”

“I think they would still love you,” Ten says in a soft tone. “You are funny and sarcastic, but you also have a soft heart and could inspire others.”

“i think you are just being nice,” Johnny laughs.

“Maybe, but I still stand for what I said.”

“Thank you” Johnny responds in a shy tone. “You’re also quite good, Mr. International pop sensation.”

“Oh, gosh” Ten blushes. 

“You have hella awards, presentations, and really great music, huh?” Johnny starts, hiding his hand on his hoodie. “I always knew you would be famous, you know?”

“Really?”

“yeah, you have this… This light that surrounds you everywhere you move,” Johnny explains with enthusiasm. “Your own reflector.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

“You do not sound so convinced,” Johnny points out. “What’s with that?”

“I just… I have lost myself in what people want for me, of what my discography wants from me… of what tabloids say about me… I feel like a doll everyone uses,” Ten amidst for the first time. “I think I have lost my essence… I forgot who I really am.”

“I understand,” Johnny nods in agreement. “I have felt like that too and it’s weird because you are still yourself, but not at the same time. It’s a long journey only you can have. What I can say tho, is that you don’t have to become who you were, Ten. That version of you already survived. You just have to find the version that gets to live. Even if it takes time. Even if you’re scared.”

“Thank you,” Ten says.

“I missed that,” Johnny said. “The way you look when you’re not protecting yourself.”

Ten blinked, surprised. “You remember that version of me?”

“I don’t think I ever forgot,” Johnny said. “He was kind of unforgettable.”

Ten looked at him then — really looked. The way the shadows hit his cheekbones, the way his jaw clenched when he said too much, the way his voice always softened when it came to Ten.

They had stopped walking somewhere behind the stadium — where the lights no longer reached and the roar of the crowd had faded into a distant, forgotten thunder.

Here, the world was quiet.

The gravel beneath their shoes had stilled. The wind had died down. And above them, the sky stretched wide and endless — a dark velvet canvas scattered with stars. The kind of stars that blinked slowly and gold, like they were trying to say something without words.

The air smelled like wet grass and cooling concrete. Every now and then, a breeze stirred through the chain-link fence behind them, carrying the soft scent of popcorn and victory.

But in this little pocket of stillness — this hushed moment outside of time — none of that mattered.

Only them.

Johnny stood with his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders broad and uncertain. His hoodie stuck to his back, his neck still damp from the game. He looked up once at the stars like he was trying to find answers in the constellations — but they weren’t offering any.

Ten, a few steps away, had gone still.

The stadium jacket hung off his frame like a memory. His cheeks were flushed from the cold or the walk or maybe from something far deeper. His hair was messy, soft around his ears. His lips parted like he might speak — but didn’t.

They were both suspended in it.

That fragile, fleeting moment where something could be said — something real — and the night itself felt like it might hold their secrets gently, without judgment.

The stars above them didn’t blink.

The silence didn’t press — it listened .

And it slipped out before he could stop it.

“Do you regret it?,” Ten asked. “What we had?”

The words barely touched the air. Soft. Delicate. Dangerous.

Johnny’s chest seized.

It was like someone had reached inside him and pressed a thumb against a bruise that never quite healed. He stopped walking.

Ten didn’t look at him when he asked. Didn’t have to.

That question already knew too much.

Johnny’s throat closed. His mouth opened, then didn’t move. His heart stammered like it had forgotten the rhythm.

He thought about their first kiss — how clumsy and electric it had been, half-hidden between rolls of film and textbooks.

He thought about Ten laughing at midnight in his dorm, feet on the bed, eyes glowing like he hadn’t yet learned the world could be cruel.

He thought about the day Ten was outed — the look on his face when the hallway turned into a war zone.

He thought about standing there. Frozen. Doing nothing. Saying nothing.

He had wanted to speak.

He hadn’t known how.

And now here Ten was, asking for the post-mortem of a love they had never really buried.

Johnny forced the words out.

“Every day,” he said.

It came too slow.

Too quiet.

Too late.

Ten flinched — just barely.

But Johnny saw it.

Felt it.

Ten didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream.

He just nodded — a single, tiny nod. Mechanical. Polite.

The kind of gesture people made at funerals when there was nothing left to say.

And that was worse than rage. Worse than tears.

It meant Ten had already mourned him.

It meant Johnny’s silence had already killed whatever they had.

Johnny’s gut twisted so violently he nearly doubled over.

Every cell in his body wanted to scream, Wait, that’s not what I meant.

What he meant was I regret the fear. I regret the silence.  I regret not fighting for you when the world turned its back. I regret letting you think you were something to be ashamed of.

You weren’t the mistake, Ten. The mistake was thinking you could survive my silence.

But he didn’t say any of it.

He let the words rot between them, heavy and unspoken.

Ten’s eyes — once so bright, so expressive — stared ahead like he was already walking away in his mind. Like he’d heard everything he needed to hear.

And maybe he had.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Two shadows cast by the same light, never quite touching.

By the time they reached the parking lot, Ten was already pulling open the passenger door, slipping in like it meant nothing, like his heart wasn’t crumbling piece by piece behind the calm mask he wore so well.

Johnny sat behind the wheel and gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white.

He didn’t start the car right away.

Because the storm between them wasn’t loud — It was inside.

Gnawing. Silent. The kind of heartbreak that didn’t need thunder to ruin everything.

It just needed a single, misunderstood truth.

The silence broke louder than the truth ever could.

The article hit the internet just before dawn.

Ten didn’t see it right away — but he felt something was off.

The shift in the air. The vibration of his phone on the nightstand. The kind of stillness that always comes before something breaks.

At first, he didn’t think much of it. His brain was still foggy, still tucked into the aftermath of a sleepless night and dreams he didn’t want to remember. He reached out blindly, dragging the phone off the nightstand by its charger cord.

The screen lit up in his hand.

Then everything stopped.

When he finally looked, it was everywhere.

“FAKE COUPLE SPLITS: TEN LEE & JOHNNY SUH SCANDAL EXPOSED.”

“Stylist confirms: It was never real. It was all for show.”

The headline felt like ice poured straight into his chest.

He blinked once. Twice.

Scrolled.

There they were — the photos. Blurry, grainy, too close. Johnny’s hand on his waist. Ten laughing, eyes half-lidded, smile blooming across his face like he was in on some beautiful secret.

Only now it looked like a performance.

A manipulation.

A goddamn marketing ploy.

The images were awful — not because they were ugly, but because they were intimate .

Johnny holding Ten’s hand.

Ten mid-laugh, head tilted back, eyes soft.

A moment that had felt safe. Quiet. Maybe even healing.

Now it looked like a lie.

The quotes stung more than the headlines.

“They sold the fantasy. That’s all it was. Everyone on set knew. They were just trying to save their asses.

Johnny was going through a bad press moment and Ten was looking really bad, after his boyfriend bit the shit out of him. It was the perfect match at the perfect moment.”

Ten’s mouth went dry. His stomach twisted. The blanket suddenly felt like a cage.

His heart thudded slow and hard, like it was dragging itself through wet cement.

He scrolled further, fingertips trembling, eyes stinging. Fan comments flooded his feed — some disappointed, some vicious, some flat-out cruel.

“I knew it was fake.”

  “Wow. Can’t believe I ever shipped them.”

  “Ten’s just another PR puppet.”

He wanted to throw the phone. Wanted to scream.

But he couldn’t do either.

Instead, he just sat there.

Still. Small. Silent.

He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, the phone slipping from his hands and landing softly on the mattress beside him.

He stared at the wall. At nothing. At everything .

Because it wasn’t the first time someone had called him fake. It wasn't the first time someone had made him feel like a product.

But this time... it was him and Johnny .

Everything was a mess. 

It started like any other morning.

Locker room noise. Shoulder slaps. The sharp, echoing sting of cleats on tile and the hiss of steam from a busted shower pipe down the hall.

Johnny barely noticed it.

His body ached in that good, familiar way — the ache of muscle worked right. He’d thrown a clean game yesterday. Focused. Controlled. Like nothing was wrong.

Like he hadn’t nearly torn open his chest on the walk back from the stadium.

Like Ten’s voice hadn’t haunted him the whole night.

“Do you regret it?”

He should have said no .

He should have said never .

Instead, he let the worst part of him speak — the scared part, the ashamed part, the version that still hadn't forgiven himself for standing silent all those years ago.

“Every day.”

And Ten had looked at him like he’d been punched in the lungs. And Johnny had done nothing to stop the bleeding.

Now?

Now, he sat half-laced in his cleats when Mark shoved his phone under his nose, grinning. “Yo, you seeing this?”

Johnny took it absently.

The screen was bright. The headline even brighter.

“FAKE COUPLE SPLITS: TEN LEE & JOHNNY SUH SCANDAL EXPOSED.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared.

Images blurred into each other — Ten’s smile, his profile, Johnny’s hand brushing his cheek. A thousand frames that had meant everything in the moment, now twisted into something cheap.

A photo of them laughing on the curb.

Another one of them walking side by side, heads close, like they belonged only to each other.

“Sources say the entire relationship was manufactured for the press.”
“The stylist confirms: ‘It was never real. They sold a fantasy. They even sold People’s a fake relationship launch.’”

Johnny’s throat closed.

His vision tunneled.

Jeno kept talking — maybe asking a question — but Johnny couldn’t hear a thing. His pulse was in his ears. His jaw was locked tight. His fingers, still wrapped around the phone, had gone white.

He stood without a word. Walked out before anyone could follow.

The sun outside was sharp. Unforgiving.

He got into his truck and shut the door. The silence was suffocating.

He read the headline again.

And again.

And again.

Then, like something in him snapped, he slammed the phone against the steering wheel and yelled. Just yelled. A guttural, frustrated sound pulled from a place so deep he hadn’t touched it in years.

He had done this.

By saying nothing. By not defending Ten when it mattered — again. By letting the world say the things he should have said first.

And now?

Now Ten was probably somewhere alone, thinking he’d been a fool for agreeing on being part of all this mess.

Thinking that Johnny regretted the love — not the silence.

He banged his fist against the dashboard. Once. Twice.

Blood bloomed at the knuckle. He didn’t care.

He deserved worse.

Because all this time, all this pretending — it had been for Ten’s protection. Or so he told himself. But what kind of protection leaves someone destroyed ?

What kind of protection feels like abandonment?

His hands trembled as he reached for the ignition.

He had to go to him.

He had to explain.

He had to fix it .

But even as the engine turned, he knew— It was already too late.

Because silence isn’t neutral.

It’s a weapon.

And he’d used it one too many times.

The sky was low and gray, hanging like a weight over the stadium parking lot. The kind of day that made everything feel too loud, too exposed.

Johnny pulled his hoodie up higher, duffel slung over one shoulder, and pushed the locker room door open.

He wasn’t five steps into the open air before the flashbulbs hit.

“Johnny! Johnny Suh—”

“Do you have a comment about you and Ten Lee?”

“Was it fake from the beginning?”

“Is it true that his boyfriend being an abuser is a lie too?"

“What do you say to fans who feel betrayed?”

They came out of nowhere — a wall of reporters, camera lenses and microphones shoved forward like spears. Phones recording. Shutters clicking. Words slicing through the cold.

Johnny froze, the breath punched from his lungs.

His chest tightened. His mouth went dry. His fingers clenched tighter around the strap of his bag.

And then he did the worst possible thing.

He spoke.

“I don’t have anything to say,” he said quickly, trying to move past, but someone cut him off.

“Ten’s not denying it. So was it ever real?”

Johnny’s jaw tensed. “That’s between us.”

“So you’re not denying it was fake?”

“I’m saying—” His voice wavered. Cameras zoomed in. “I’m saying it’s complicated. Okay?”

They didn’t let up.

“So you used him?”

“You sold a fantasy, Johnny. Is that all he was to you?” a journalist asked.

Johnny’s temper flared. His heart pounded.

“No. I mean—Jesus, we didn’t plan this. We didn’t lie. Not like that.”

“Then what was it?”

Silence.

Johnny’s eyes darted. Words swirled, but none of them came out right.

He looked like a deer cornered in headlights — tall and sweating under the pressure of a truth he didn’t know how to say.

And then, worst of all, he answered back. “It was just… PR. At first. It all started as a lie, but-”

The moment the words left his mouth, he felt it.

The gut punch.

The collective silence.

The horror.

The sting.

Flashes went off like gunfire.

A reporter repeated, loudly. “So you admit it was fake?”

“Did Ten make you lie to save his reputation?”

And Johnny, already spiraling, didn’t correct her.

He just turned. Shouldered past them. Stormed toward his car.

In his periphery, someone whispered, “Poor Ten.”

And the guilt sliced him open.

Because Ten was going to see that clip. That photo. That exact moment where Johnny failed him again .

Not in college.

Not behind closed doors.

But this time?

In front of the whole damn world.

Back at the farmhouse, Ten hadn’t moved in hours.

The blinds were shut. The air was still.

His phone was vibrating like crazy for the last hours. Hundreds of texts, calls, social media notifications… it was too much, too fast, too sudden.

He lay curled on his side, Johnny’s jacket still folded at the edge of the bed like it might mean something.

 But it didn’t anymore, did it? They were out and the damage was already done. Not only for the public but for them as whatever they were becoming.

His phone buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed again.

He didn’t touch it.

Because what was left to say? What was left to explain?

Johnny had said it himself.

“Every day.”

He regretted it. All of it.

Ten had built a hundred versions of that sentence in his head — trying to twist it, reinterpret it, soften the edges.

But it always came back sharp.

And the worst part?

He believed it. He believed they could mean more, that they could become more…

The truth was, he had been a mistake. 

A risk that didn’t pay off. A softness that got in the way.

A scar Johnny didn’t want to remember.

When Johnny finally made it back to the house, the door was unlocked. The air inside was heavy — like grief had thickened it, made it harder to breathe.

He climbed the stairs.

Stopped at Ten’s door. Knuckles raised.

But he couldn’t knock.

He pushed it open instead, slow and cautious.

Ten lay still, back turned, the light from the window catching in his hair. He looked smaller than Johnny remembered — smaller than someone who used to command a stage like a god.

“Ten…” Johnny said, voice breaking already.

No answer.

“I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t even know the stylist was talking to the press. I swear. I never mention shit to them.”

Ten didn’t move.

“I didn’t want it to end like this.”

That made Ten sit up. Slowly. Mechanically.

His face was pale. Eyes hollow.

“You didn’t want it to end like this,” he repeated. “But you let it.”

Johnny opened his mouth. Closed it again. His hands hung uselessly by his sides.

“I thought we were getting better,” Ten said. “I thought... maybe we had something real again.”

Johnny took a step forward. “We did.”

“You said you regretted it.”

“I didn’t mean us —”

Ten’s voice cracked.

“Then why didn’t you say that then ?”

And there it was.

The heart of it.

The split that had bled quietly until it became a wound neither of them could touch.

Johnny swallowed hard. “I was scared.”

Ten laughed — bitter and quiet.

“Yeah, I know that’s natural in you.”

And maybe that’s why it hurt more.

Because Ten had been brave. Open. Ready. Ready to receive at least a piece of whatever Johnny could give him if it was real.

And Johnny? Johnny had still flinched.

A knock came from downstairs. Taeyong. Then Jungwoo.

The house grew more crowded — but colder somehow.

They all sat at the kitchen table like strangers.

No one spoke for a long time.

Until Taeyong cleared his throat and said, “We’ll handle the fallout.”

“That fucking bitch,” Jungwoo complain. “All because I did not got her the fucking Euphoria gig!”

And Ten, without looking at Johnny, said:

“Let them say whatever they want. At least now they’re telling the truth.”

“Tennie,” Jungwoo said, in shook. 

“It’s better for us if this is over” Ten added with red eyes and a sad smile. “Tell them that it was my fault and that I just wanted to look good or whatever you guys want. I’m tired of this circus, I do not care.”

“Chittaphon,” Johnny called. “Do not do this.”

“Someone has to be the adult here, Suh” he said in a bittersweet tone. “I’m used to this tho, you know? I took shit once, I’m not scared of doing it again.”

Johnny stared at him, shattered.

Because that wasn’t true.

Not even close.

But once again — he said nothing.

And the silence this time?

It was deafening. Because it sounded exactly like goodbye.

Chapter 14: From the dark room

Notes:

hey dear reader!
so, i might have messed up and forgot to add two important chapter of the story (oops?) i'm really really sorry (Work, classes and adulthood have been really hard) so i do recommend you re-reading the whole story before reading this chapter <3 again, i'm soooo sorry this happen TT___TT but i hope you enjoy this and the other two chapter i just added!

It had been raining all day.

Not a heavy, angry storm — just a constant, quiet drizzle that streaked down the windows of Jungwoo’s apartment and made the world outside feel far away, muted, unreachable. Distant.

The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen light and the occasional flicker from the TV, which was playing a news segment neither of them had been listening to.

Jungwoo sat curled on the far edge of the couch, legs tucked up, hoodie pulled over his head even though the heater was on. His eyes were fixed on the television, but unfocused. He wasn’t really watching. He hadn’t really been present for days.

Jaehyun sat a few feet away, hands resting on his thighs, a container of lukewarm takeout between them — still unopened.

He had let himself in with the spare key after texting three times and getting no answer. He hadn’t been angry. Just… worried. Something in his chest had curled tight since the day the scandal broke, since the headlines smeared Ten’s name across every platform like blood on glass.

And Jungwoo had gone silent.

Not just with him, but with everyone.

Jaehyun had learned a few things about Jungwoo in the last few months. How he talked fast when nervous, how he sometimes laughed at things that hurt, how he loved fiercely but secretly — so secretly, sometimes even he forgot to feel it.

But this — this quiet, this haunted stillness — it was different.

So he came. With dumplings, and miso soup, and a heart ready to break.

He didn’t speak at first. Let the silence stretch between them, let it breathe. But after fifteen minutes of nothing but rain and the low hum of the TV, he finally asked, softly. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Jungwoo blinked. Shrugged. Didn’t look his way.

Another pause. “You’re worried about him.”

That got a reaction. Jungwoo’s hands tightened into fists in his lap. His shoulders curled in like the words were a blow.

Jaehyun didn’t push — not yet. Just opened the takeout container, set it gently on the table, and leaned back.

The smell of garlic and sesame filled the room.

Finally, Jungwoo exhaled. Shaky. Fragile.

“He hasn’t posted. No stories. No messages. I don’t think he’s left his bed… He doesn’t even ask me or Jun to go see him.”

Jaehyun nodded.

“It’s been weeks.”

“And the worst part?” Jungwoo’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. “I’m not surprised.”

Jaehyun frowned. “What do you mean?”

Jungwoo pulled the hoodie tighter around himself.

“The industry always breaks people like him. Soft ones. Loud ones. Queer ones. It chews them up and spits them out and no one does anything. No one says anything. We just... move on.”

He swallowed hard.

“I promised I’d never let that happen again. Not after what happened to him in college. And now look.”

He finally looked at Jaehyun. His eyes were rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears. Not from one moment — but from all of it.

 The weeks of silence. The headlines. The ghosts clawing at his ribs.

“I’m scared,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not just for him. For me. For us.”

Jaehyun’s chest tightened, but his hands stayed calm, open, steady.

“Tell me why,” he said gently, like he was asking Jungwoo to set the fear down, just for a moment.

Jungwoo exhaled shakily.

“Because I know what it’s like,” he said slowly, “to be someone’s secret.” His voice cracked. “To be loved behind doors but erased when the lights come on.”

“And you…” he swallowed. “You say things like forever and it sounds beautiful. It feels beautiful. But all I can think is — what if tomorrow you look at me and decide I’m too much? Or not enough? What if you wake up one day and I’m just... inconvenient?”

The silence between them wasn’t awkward.

It was raw. Fragile. Holding its breath.

Jaehyun leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his fingers reaching without pressure toward Jungwoo’s hand.

“I’m not asking you to give me forever tonight,” he said softly. “I’m just asking you to let me stay. Through the mess. Through the fear. Through whatever this is, however long it lasts.” Jaehyun said, looking for Jungwoo’s eyes. “Because I don’t want perfect . I want you. Exactly like this.”

Jungwoo blinked rapidly, as if the weight of those words made it hard to keep looking.

“How are you so sure?” he whispered. “About me? About this ?”

Jaehyun’s smile was quiet — not triumphant, just full of knowing.

“Because with you,” Jaehyun said, voice low but steady, “it’s not just that I’m in love with you. It’s that I like who I am when I’m around you.  I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to guard anything. I laugh without checking myself. I breathe without the weight on my chest.”

He leaned in just slightly, eyes never leaving Jungwoo’s.

“You don’t just make me feel loved , Jungwoo… You make me feel real . Like I’ve found the version of myself I was always searching for — and he only exists when you’re near.” Jaehyun’s voice was soft, almost like he was whispering a secret to Jungwoo now. “So no, I’m not just in love with you. I’m home in you.”

A pause. The kind that lingers in the ribcage.

Then Jungwoo moved. Not to kiss him. Not to speak.

He leaned forward just enough to press his forehead against Jaehyun’s shoulder — a silent surrender, heavy with emotion.

A touch that said thank you .

That said don’t go .

That said, I'm still terrified, but I want to try .

Jaehyun didn’t move. Didn’t exhale too hard, or ruin the moment with words.

He simply stayed.

Soft and real.

A constant.

As the rain whispered against the windowpane, steady and kind.

The sun had barely set, but the sky outside the farmhouse kitchen was already bruised with dusk — streaks of violet and ash dragging across the clouds. A kettle hissed on the stove. Xiaojun leaned against the counter, fingers curled loosely around a chipped mug, though the tea inside had long gone cold.

He hadn't spoken much that day. Or the day before. Or the one before that.

He was tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep could fix, but the kind that sat behind his eyes and made everything feel heavy. Ten hadn't answered his messages. The press hadn’t slowed. And Yuta… Yuta had gone quiet after the fight. They hadn't slept in the same bed since.

He heard the front door open. The shuffle of boots. And then, silence again.

Xiaojun didn’t turn around.

“You said you needed space,” Yuta said flatly. “I gave it to you.”

Behind him, a voice — low, raspy, unsure. 

“I needed more than space. I needed to stop being a coward.”

Xiaojun turned then, slowly.

Yuta stood in the doorway. His hair was a mess. His hands were trembling. And in his left palm, resting awkwardly in his calloused fingers, was a ring. Simple. Gold. No box. No grand gesture.

Just him .

Xiaojun’s throat closed.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, but it came out cracked. Like it hurt to ask.

Yuta stepped forward.

“That day in the store… when you kissed me in front of them — it should’ve been easy. But I panicked. I let fear win. Again.” He swallowed. “I’ve spent so long trying to protect you from the world that I forgot what you really needed was for me to stand beside you in it.”

Xiaojun didn’t speak. His eyes were full now, but he didn’t let them fall.

“I’ve been holding on so tight to the version of us that felt safe,” Yuta continued. “The quiet life. The eggs. The butter. The hiding. But I see it now. You were ready to build a future. And I was too scared to admit I was too.”

He came closer, chest rising and falling like every step cost him something.

“I don’t know if I deserve you. But I love you, Xiaojun. And I don’t want to keep waiting for the world to catch up to us.”

He paused. Then held out the ring.

“This is me,” Yuta said, voice rough with emotion as he dropped to one knee, “finally catching up to you — not because I’m ready, but because I can’t spend one more day pretending I’m not already yours.”

He held the ring like it carried everything he was too afraid to say before.

“If you’ll still have me...  not just for the good days, not just for the soft mornings or the quiet farm life —but for the mess, the fear, the part of me that’s still learning how to stay when it’s loud out there.”

His voice broke then.

“I want you, Xiaojun. I want the eggs and the butter and the sunlit porch.  I want the children we haven’t named yet and the late-night fights and the kiss before bed. I want the world we built when no one was looking — and I want to stop hiding it.”

He looked up, eyes full of fire and hope and regret.

“You are my world. And I’m done letting fear — their fear — take any piece of it away from me.”

Xiaojun stared at him.

His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. He felt like he’d been holding his breath for weeks, months, maybe years.

And suddenly it all broke.

He dropped the mug. It hit the tile, shattered — tea seeping across the floor like spilled time.

But he didn’t care.

He closed the space between them in two strides and kissed Yuta like a promise — one hand on his face, the other gripping his shirt like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

When they finally pulled apart, Yuta pressed their foreheads together.

“So… was that a yes?” he whispered.

Xiaojun laughed, wet and shaky.

“It’s a ‘ finally .’”

They held each other, kneeled on the kitchen tile, the broken pieces of porcelain scattered around them — the perfect metaphor for everything they’d survived.

The kettle whistled on the stove, but neither of them moved.

They had time now.

And for the first time in a long time, they weren’t running anymore.

Ten had always believed in beauty — in light, in motion, in truth that lived between lyrics.

But nothing felt beautiful now.

The days had bled into each other like bruises, each one more tender than the last. He didn’t know how many mornings he’d woken up and immediately wanted to fall back asleep — not out of laziness, but because the waking world hurt too much.

He missed Johnny. But worse than that — he missed himself .

The version of him that had once been fearless. The boy who moved cities to chase stages. Who smiled into mirrors and knew who he was.

Now, even his reflection felt uncertain. Blurred around the edges. Like maybe the Ten the world adored had been a character all along — a persona built to withstand heartbreak and headlines.

He sat in the music room with the lights off, only the pale gold spill of afternoon sun slanting through the window. The house creaked gently with the wind, but it only made him feel more alone. Like the world was continuing without him. Like Johnny was continuing without him.

Now, even his reflection felt uncertain. Blurred around the edges. Like maybe the Ten the world adored had been a character all along — a persona built to withstand heartbreak and headlines.

And through all of it — through the flashing tabloids and the whispers online, the headlines calling them fakes, the stylist’s betrayal — Johnny hadn’t called.

Not once.

Not a text.

Not a knock on the door.

Not even a damn voice note.

Ten told himself it was fine. That it meant nothing. That it was expected.

But it wasn’t .

Because Ten had believed — just a little too much, just a little too deeply — that maybe this time it would be different.

That Johnny had changed.

That the touches weren’t just PR.

That the way Johnny had looked at him — really looked — had meant something.

But now? Now he just felt stupid .

Stupid for letting his guard down.

Stupid for thinking old wounds couldn’t reopen.

Stupid for believing in love with someone who had already proven, once before, that he wouldn’t fight for him.

He gripped his notebook tightly, knuckles white.

The words inside were honest. Too honest.

I was a photo you never hung.
I was a secret you kept until it choked you.
You said nothing, and it sounded like goodbye.

His hands trembled as he reread the lines. He wanted to tear them out, to scream, to cry — but he’d already done all three.

And still, the ache stayed.

He didn’t even know what he regretted more. That he had agreed to the fake relationship, or that he let himself hope that it wasn’t fake anymore.

Because somewhere between the staged smiles and the tequila dinners, Johnny had made him feel seen again. Had looked at him like he was worth something . Like maybe the love they once had hadn’t been a fluke. Like it had never really left.

But then… that answer. Every day.

And Ten couldn’t stop replaying it.

Couldn’t stop thinking about how it sounded like shame .

How it sounded like regret .

How it sounded like proof that he had been foolish to believe in second chances.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his forehead against them.

God, it hurt.

Not in a sharp way — not like a slap or a scream.

But in the quiet, creeping way heartbreak does when it settles under your skin and starts whispering, You weren’t enough. You were never enough.

And still, despite the pain, despite the hollow — Ten loved him, after all the time, everything that happened between them. Te loved him like the first time.

That was the worst part.

He loved Johnny.

Ten wrapped his arms around himself, the weight of it all sinking in like gravity. Johnny had left him, he had chosen silence — again.

And Ten had let him.

He should have called.

That thought followed Johnny like a ghost — trailing behind him in the locker room, beneath the stadium lights, even through the roar of the crowd.

He should have called .

But every time his fingers hovered over Ten’s name in his phone, his chest locked up. Because what could he possibly say?

Sorry for letting the world destroy you — again?

Sorry for not running after you when your eyes went glassy and your heart broke because of my silence?

Sorry that I meant “I regret what I did,” but you heard “I regret us”?

The truth sat bitter on his tongue.

So instead, Johnny did the only thing he knew how to do. He trained. Harder than ever. 

He slammed tackles at practice like they were penance.

He ran drills until his lungs burned.

He ignored the ache in his shoulder, the cracked skin on his knuckles, the bruises that bloomed like confessions he couldn’t speak aloud.

It was his way of punishing himself.

The Mad Dogs were going to the Super Bowl — for the first time in over four years. It should’ve meant something. Should’ve felt like winning.

But it didn’t.

Not when the bed at home was cold.

Not when Ten hadn’t texted back.

Not when Johnny kept seeing his face in the crowd, only to blink and realize he was imagining it.

He hadn’t talked to Ten since the scandal dropped.

Since the fake dating news turned very, very real — in the worst way possible.

He had stayed silent.

And now, it was too loud inside his own head to think.

Every time he tried to speak — to Taeyong, to Jungwoo, even to himself — the words crumbled. How do you fix something when you’re the one who broke it?

He remembered the look on Ten’s face that night behind the bleachers.

“Do you regret it?”

“Every day.”

The worst part wasn’t even what he’d said.

It was that he hadn’t stopped him.

He hadn't said, No, I don’t regret us.

He hadn't said, I regret what I did to you, not the love.

He hadn’t said anything — and now the silence was all that remained between them.

The press were relentless.

Rumors. Headlines. Accusations.

Fans turning from romantic to rabid in seconds.

“FAKE.” “LIAR.” “ATTENTION WHORE.”

Johnny saw the posts, the hate, the edits. He saw what they were saying about Ten — how they twisted him into something shallow, manipulative, unreal.

And he did nothing .

Because he didn’t know how to fight back without breaking everything else.

And maybe… maybe that made him a coward.

He sat alone in his truck after practice that day, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his palms burned. His helmet sat on the passenger seat beside him, and for a second, it felt like it weighed more than he did.

He was tired. So tired of pretending he was fine.

Because he wasn’t.

He missed Ten like a phantom limb — like something vital had been torn from him but still ached every time he moved.

He missed his voice.

His fire.

His softness.

The way he held a camera like it was a weapon and a gift all at once.

Johnny had wanted to do it right this time.

He thought he’d learned.

But when the moment came — when Ten needed him to fight — all he’d done was fail .

Again.

And the worst part?

He still loved him.

Every day.

 

Taeyong’s office was silent except for the hum of the ceiling fan and the soft clink of ceramic as he set two mugs on the table.

Jungwoo sat across from him, hair slightly damp from the mist outside, fingers curled around the warm cup like it might steady him.

Neither had spoken in the last ten minutes.

Because sometimes, grief didn’t need a narrator. It just needed space.

“I saw Ten yesterday,” Taeyong said finally, voice soft. “He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.”

Jungwoo’s jaw tightened. “That’s because he hasn’t.”

Taeyong nodded, a trace of guilt in his eyes. “We shouldn’t have let it go this far.”

Jungwoo’s laugh was quiet and bitter. “What were we supposed to do? Lock them in a room and force them to talk? We did what we could as managers, but as friends… We should have listened to them and not forced them to keep on this… circus.”

“Honestly?” Taeyong said. “At this point, yes.”

Silence.

“They both think the other gave up,” Jungwoo said eventually, stirring his untouched tea. “And neither of them realizes how much they’re bleeding for it.”

Taeyong leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “They’re still in love.”

Jungwoo didn’t argue.

Because love wasn’t the question.

It never was.

The question was whether love could survive what silence did to it.

“They just need time,” Taeyong murmured. “But the public’s getting worse. Fans turning. Sponsors pulling. There’s only so much damage control I can do before—”

“They deserve to be more than PR casualties,” Jungwoo interrupted.

Taeyong looked up.

“They’re not a headline,” Jungwoo continued. “They’re two idiots who fell in love and messed up. And if we’re gonna help, we need to give people context . Not spin. Not lies.”

Taeyong frowned. “You want to go public?”

Jungwoo didn’t blink. “I want to say enough. I want people to understand the real story. That Ten’s not some fame-hungry diva that is too fragile and weak to not defend himself and Johnny isn’t some calculated player, not a bad person that doesn’t know how to manage his anger or just a bisexual player. They’re people . With history. With pain. With a love that still matters.”

Taeyong stayed quiet for a beat.

Then he nodded. “A controlled leak. A short doc. Just a glimpse into who they were before the scandal — photos, clips, old footage from college... something that humanizes them.”

“No drama,” Jungwoo said. “No commentary. Just... them.”

Taeyong exhaled slowly. “I’ll call the team.”

“And if it fails?” Jungwoo asked quietly. “If people still don’t listen?”

Taeyong looked at him, and for once, his eyes weren’t calculating or sharp. They were just tired . And sad.

“Then at least Ten will know someone tried.”

Jungwoo looked down at his hands. Thought about Jaehyun’s face that morning. The way his hands trembled when he reached for him. The way Jungwoo hadn’t pulled away.

“We all deserve that,” he said.

The room was quiet again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like silence.

It felt like the beginning of something.

It was 1:27 a.m.

Everyone was asleep.

But Ten wasn’t.

He sat cross-legged in his bedroom, barefoot, in the same sweater he hadn’t taken off in days. The air smelled like dust and tea and something older — like longing that had been left too long in a closed room.

His guitar sat on his lap like a familiar ache.

No one else was there

Just the blinking red light of the mic.

Just him and the mess inside his chest.

He didn’t warm up.

Didn’t rehearse.

He took a breath.

And began.

“I found you in the library, lost in the light,
Caught between covers, avoiding the night.
You asked me for help, I froze in my place,
But still let you stay—my heart out of pace.

We whispered through pages, our laughter was low,
Shared one pair of headphones, let the silence grow.
And though I was scared of what this could be,
You quietly opened a doorway in me.

You called me brilliant.
I called you late.  

You kissed me like it was your first act of rebellion.
I kissed you like it might be my last moment alive.

Then the hallway.
The laughter.
Then the knives threw across the floor like a grenade.

You saw me bleeding
And you... you just kept walking.
Didn’t look back.

 

And god, I waited.
Outside your door.
On your texts.
In every song I wrote after.
I waited for a sorry. A whisper. A sign.

But silence was louder than anything you ever said.
And still — still — I loved you.
I love you.
And it hurts.

Because you were real to me.
Not a rumor. Not an act. Not a name in the crowd.
You were the boy who made the world feel safe.
Until you didn’t.

You stayed silent again and I should have know better.

I should have left when I had you let me.

I should have known that you never loved me.

You didn’t say my name in the hallway. So I stopped saying yours in my prayers.

Because you were real to me.
Not a rumor. Not an act. Not a name in the crowd.
You were the boy who made the world feel safe.
Until you didn’t.

It’s not closure.
It’s just the truth.

You never loved me,

Not at least the way I needed you to.

 

You were my favorite lie.
And my hardest truth.”

He let the last chord ring out until the reverb faded into the quiet.

Then he stared at the screen of his laptop.

One blinking cursor.

One post.

He wrote slowly.

I was 18 when I fell in love with a boy who laughed too loud and sat too close and made me believe I could be loved out loud, too.

He kissed me in the dark, but left me when the lights came on.
I begged for an answer, but I only got silence.

This isn’t a comeback. It's a confession. For anyone who’s ever loved and was left in the hallway.

For anyone still trying to find the version of themselves that didn’t get broken.

This is the realest thing I have.

Please be kind.

— With love, Ten Lee.
#FromTheDarkroom #Unplugged 

 

He pressed post .

Closed the laptop.

And this time, when he curled up on his bed, he didn’t cry.

He just breathed.

Because he had finally said it.

All of it.

And somewhere — maybe — someone was listening.

 

Chapter 15: The Act

The sound of the stadium wasn’t just noise. It was a living, breathing thing—vibrating through the concrete walls of the locker room, pulsing like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to any one person, but to something colossal. Bigger than him. Bigger than football.

Johnny sat on the edge of the bench, elbows resting on his knees, helmet at his feet. Sweat had already gathered at the nape of his neck, despite not having stepped onto the field yet. The locker room bustled around him with last-minute drills, slaps on the back, coaches shouting plays, players bouncing on the balls of their feet. But Johnny barely registered any of it.

His whole body felt like a wire pulled too tight.

He was here. The Super Bowl. The biggest game of his life. The culmination of years of sacrifice and pain and pushing past every limit he thought he had.

And yet all he could think about was a song.

Ten's song.

He had seen the post just days before—a grainy video with a caption that broke his heart, a simple heart emoji and a link. No production. No lighting. Just Ten, sitting on the floor in what looked like an empty room, oversized sweatshirt drowning his frame, guitar balanced on his knee. And his voice—raw, stripped bare of glamour or polish.

The song was about a boy in a hallway. A boy who smiled like summer and kissed like hope. A boy who said nothing when it mattered most.

It was about him.

And the second the chorus hit, Johnny had to sit down in the middle of his kitchen floor and bury his head in his hands.

He’d played the song again. Then again. Then ten more times. He memorized every tremble in Ten's voice, every pause, every lyric that felt like it had been etched into his ribs. He hadn't even realized he was crying until the tears hit his knuckles.

Ten had laid himself bare in front of the world. And Johnny? He hadn't even called.

It had been weeks since the scandal. Weeks since Ten disappeared behind closed doors and left silence in his place. Weeks since Johnny had done the one thing he swore never to do again: stayed quiet.

And now he was about to walk into a stadium filled with seventy thousand screaming fans, millions watching at home, a chance to etch his name into history. But all he could think was: What if I win the game and still lose him?

His stomach twisted, nausea curling low in his gut.

He glanced down at his hands. They were trembling. Not from nerves. Not from the pressure of the game. But from everything he hadn’t said. Everything he should have done. From the weight of loving someone so much it scared him into silence.

"Yo, Suh."

He looked up, blinking.

Jaehyun stood in front of him, already suited up, sweatband around his wrist, helmet under his arm.

"You good?"

Johnny opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Jaehyun studied him for a long second before sitting beside him on the bench.

"Listen," he said, voice lower, more personal. "I know that look. You're in two places at once right now, but only one of them is going to win the game. The other one…" he hesitated, then added, "The other one might win something bigger."

Johnny stared ahead. "It’s Ten."

"Yeah," Jaehyun said softly. "We all know."

Johnny swallowed hard. "I think I fucked up big time this time."

Jaehyun placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then fix it. Start by winning. Not just the game. All of it."

Johnny exhaled, slow. Heavy. He stood.

The tunnel lights flickered.

Through the narrow opening, he could see the field. Blinding under the stadium lights. The noise was deafening now. They were chanting his name.

And then, high above in the VIP box, he saw them.

Jungwoo. With glitter hearts drawn on his cheek. Wrapped in Jaehyun's hoodie, hands clasped over his chest like he was holding his breath.

And beside him, an empty chair.

Ten wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t.

Johnny had no right to expect otherwise.

But still, something in his chest ached with the emptiness of that chair. With the thought that Ten might be thousands of miles away, never knowing that Johnny would trade every touchdown, every trophy, every chant for just one more chance to hold him.

The coach yelled his name.

Johnny grabbed his helmet.

He could barely feel his legs. Could barely hear over the roaring in his ears. But he walked forward, one foot in front of the other, until the tunnel swallowed him up.

This was it.

One last play.

Not just for the win. For the truth. For the boy who sang about a hallway and never got an answer. For the second chance he didn’t deserve but was going to fight like hell for.

 

The field was thunder.

Confetti rained from the stadium rafters in waves of silver and gold, glittering like pieces of a broken sky. The air smelled like grass and sweat and something close to victory. People were shouting, hugging, crying. Grown men on their knees with helmets in their hands, eyes full of disbelief.

And Johnny Suh stood in the middle of it all, breathless.

His hands trembled — not from the game, not from the cameras — but from something deeper. Something older. Something he had buried for too long.

He’d won.

They’d won.

The Super Bowl, his biggest dream, was his.

And all he could think about was him.

Ten.

His name burned in Johnny’s chest like a prayer and a wound.

“Johnny!” someone yelled.

A reporter pushed through the chaos, mic already raised, camera light blinding as it hit Johnny’s sweat-slicked face.

“You did it! MVP tonight — what do you want to say to the fans?”

The words blurred. The roar blurred. The stadium blurred.

Johnny looked straight into the lens.

It felt like looking into the universe.

And for once, he didn’t have a script.

No PR lines. No platitudes. No football clichés.

Just the truth.

He reached out. Took the mic gently from the reporter’s hand. His fingers clenched around it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

His voice cracked before he even started.

“I know I’m supposed to say something about the team,” he began, gaze steady, throat dry. “About the game. About how much this means.”

He paused.

And the world seemed to hold its breath.

“But I need to say something else. Something I should’ve said a long time ago.”

He took a shaky breath.

“There’s someone out there I hurt,” he said. “Someone I let down when it mattered most.”

The camera zoomed closer. The crowd noise dipped, almost like the stadium itself was listening.

“I thought love could be quiet. That I could protect it by hiding it. That maybe if I just stayed silent, no one would get hurt. That if I ignored problems, my problems… They would go away.”

His hands clenched tighter around the mic.

“But I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

A hush began to fall over the reporters around him. Even the players stopped. A few turned to look.

Johnny’s voice grew steadier, like he was walking into something sacred.

“I loved him from the first time I saw him at the library for tutoring during college. I loved the way he laughed. The way he saw the world through light and color and impossible angles. I loved the way he believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. Especially when he believed in us, when I was too scared to see us.”

He blinked fast, but the tears caught anyway.

“And I let him go. Not once, but now, maybe twice. I let the world tell me that love had to look a certain way to be worth fighting for. I let fear take the wheel. And I am losing him because of it.”

He looked into the camera like it was a lifeline.

“Ten.”

His voice broke.

“If you’re watching... please.”

A beat. The stadium screen caught his face. Millions were watching. Around the world. Holding breath.

“I’m done pretending,” Johnny said. “I’m done hiding. You were never the mistake. The mistake was letting you think you were. I love you. I loved you then and I love you even more now. I love you.” Johnny’s chest moved up and down like crazy, as if air was running out of his lungs, nervous, scared. “Ten, if you are watching, please… please come back.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

Then a roar.

Not of confusion. Not of hate.

But of support .

Fans started cheering. Some clapped. Some screamed his name.

Then JohnTenn began to trend again within seconds.

But Johnny didn’t hear it.

He only felt the words finally leave his chest. Finally say what he had never said when it mattered.

He handed the mic back and walked off the field, eyes burning, heart shaking in his ribs.

He didn’t know where Ten was. Didn’t know if he was watching. Didn’t know if it would fix anything.

But he’d said it.

Finally.

And whatever came next — at least now, he didn’t have to lie anymore.

The locker room pulsed like a beating heart — raw and victorious.

Steam clung to the tiles, fogging mirrors and turning every surface slick with celebration. Jerseys half-off, music blaring, champagne bottles popped open with reckless hands. There was the metallic clang of cleats, the shouting of overexcited teammates, the rattle of lockers slammed shut with joy. Victory sweat. Spilled water. Broken rules.

But Johnny sat still, balanced on the edge of a bench with a towel around his neck and his game jersey draped in his lap like a second skin he hadn’t figured out how to shed.

He was there — and not.

The roar of the stadium still echoed in his bones, but the mic’s weight lingered heavier. He had done it. Said it. Screamed it.

“Ten, if you’re watching please… please, come back.”

But now the adrenaline was starting to fade.

And reality was creeping back in like cold air under a closed door.

What if Ten hadn’t seen it?

What if it was too late?

What if the only sound Johnny ever got back was the echo of his own confession?

He blinked hard, grounding himself. Just then, the door swung open with a gust of hallway noise, and in walked Yuta and Xiaojun.

Hand in hand.

Soft. Steady. Like a lighthouse.

The locker room buzzed — some players paused, some grinned. Teammates elbowed each other knowingly. The energy shifted, tension relaxing into something warmer.

Yuta cleared his throat, pulling Xiaojun gently into the center of the room. He looked flushed but determined, his fingers tight around Xiaojun’s.

“Okay,” he said, voice loud enough to cut through the chatter. “Before everyone gets too drunk or starts making out with the trophy…”

Laughter broke out.

He turned to Xiaojun. “I’ve got something to say.”

Xiaojun blinked. “Yuta—?”

But Yuta was already reaching into his pocket.

And then he knelt.

The room exploded .

A roar of cheers. Clapping. Someone flung a towel in the air like confetti. A few teammates tackled each other out of pure excitement.

“He said yes,” Yuta declared, barely able to get the words out through his grin. “This beautiful man said yes.”

Xiaojun’s face crumpled into the kind of smile that only comes after surviving. After doubting. After hurting. He knelt too, burying his face against Yuta’s shoulder, as the locker room erupted into celebration around them.

Jaehyun was the first to reach them — his own eyes glassy as he grabbed them into a hug. It was like watching a full circle close. From secrets and shame to this — being seen , loudly and unapologetically.

“You guys,” he whispered. “You actually did it.”

“We’re doing it,” Xiaojun corrected with a watery laugh. “For real.”

Johnny couldn’t help but smile through the haze of his own thoughts. He clapped along with the rest, chest aching in that bittersweet way — full of hope and envy and something more tender than he could name.

He wanted that. He wanted it.

That kind of love. That kind of peace.

But his smile faltered when he caught the tail end of a quiet conversation between Jungwoo and Xiaojun, half-muffled behind a rack of jerseys.

“I still can’t believe he’s actually leaving today,” Xiaojun said gently, almost like it physically hurt to say it out loud.

Jungwoo exhaled. “He needs space. He’s flying back to Seoul. Said he couldn’t… couldn’t stay after the headlines.”

Johnny froze.

Every muscle in his body turned to stone.

“What?” His voice cut through the noise — too loud, too sharp. Heads turned.

Jungwoo looked up, startled. “Johnny—”

“Ten’s leaving?”

Xiaojun’s smile vanished. He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. He’s on a flight this afternoon.”

“Is he at the airport now?”

“Most likely, yeah—” Jungwoo started.

But Johnny was already on his feet.

His jersey hit the floor. He grabbed his phone, his keys, didn’t even bother lacing his shoes. His bag slammed shut, adrenaline flooding him faster than any win ever had.

“Where are you going?!” Jaehyun called after him.

Johnny’s voice was already halfway down the hallway.

“To fix what I broke.”

He tore out of the locker room like he was chasing a last chance. Not even stopping for a jacket. Cold air slapped him in the face as the tunnel doors opened to the emptying stadium, and every beat of his heart thudded TenTenTenTenTen.

Please, don’t let it be too late.

Please let him still be at the gate.

Let there still be time.

Because Johnny didn’t want to live another second in a world where he hadn’t tried. Where he hadn’t screamed for him. Where he hadn’t begged for one more chance to do it right.

He shoved past security, pulling his hoodie over his head, eyes scanning every sign, every car, every impossible second slipping away like sand.

“Wait for me,” he whispered into the wind.

And somewhere in the sky above the stadium, confetti still floated.

But all Johnny could see was the storm he was about to chase.

Ten sat at the terminal like a ghost. Quiet. Almost translucent. His hoodie shielded half his face, and the sunglasses didn’t hide the way his mouth trembled around the edges.

The tea in his hand had gone cold. His legs ached from sitting too long, but he didn’t move. He hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.

His flight was already boarding.

His heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he left the farmhouse.

Since he hugged Xiaojun and whispered, “Be happy.”

Since Jungwoo offered him a ride without saying a word.

Since he passed the places he and Johnny used to haunt — the old coffee shop, the bookstore with the cracked sign, the small community market full of kids.

It was like watching someone else’s life in reverse. One he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back.

And worst of all — Johnny had said nothing.

Not one text. Not one call. Not one I'm sorry .

Just… silence.

The kind that rots.

So Ten did what he’d been trained to do: he packed up his pain, zipped it behind luggage, and sat in Gate 12B like nothing inside him was screaming.

He had waited.

He’d begged the universe. Just one sign. One word. One reason to stay.

But nothing came.

Until—

“TEN!”

The sound split the air like a crash. A hurricane.

Ten’s head snapped up.

He thought he imagined it. A final cruel echo from a love he was trying to forget.

But no.

Johnny was there

Soaked. Wild-eyed. Out of breath.

Shoes untied. Hoodie clinging to his chest.

Like he had run — no, flown — straight from the field.

People turned. Phones lifted.

And Ten?

Ten stood frozen, heart breaking again , because Johnny was here — and he still didn’t know if it was real.

Johnny staggered to a stop in front of him. His chest heaved. His eyes searched.

“I meant it,” he gasped.

Ten blinked. “What?”

“The speech. The mic. Every word.” Johnny’s voice cracked. “I love you, Ten. I’ve always loved you. I just didn’t know how to say it out loud until I saw you about to leave.”

Ten’s hands clenched at his sides. “You had weeks,” he whispered. “I waited.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I’ve never hated myself more than when I didn’t show up. But I was scared—”

Ten’s voice cut, raw and shaking. “So was I.”

Johnny stepped closer. No more space. No more caution.

He pulled out his phone with trembling fingers and tapped a clip. The one Ten hadn’t dared to watch. He held it up. Pressed play.

The terminal’s overhead screens flickered — like fate was listening.

There he was.

Johnny Suh.

Drenched in confetti, eyes red, voice shaking.

“There’s someone out there I hurt. Someone I let down when it mattered most. I thought love could be quiet. I thought I could protect it by pretending it didn’t exist. But the truth is…” Johnny looked right into the lens. “I loved him from the first time I saw him at the library in college. The way he read everything like it was poetry. The way he moved like music. I loved his laughter, his fire, his impossible hope.” His voice broke. “And I never stopped. Even when I should have. Even when I lost him.”

“Ten — if you’re watching… I’m done pretending. Come back.”

The clip ended.

Ten’s lips parted, breath caught halfway between disbelief and ache.

“I didn’t send it to you,” Johnny said softly. “Because I wanted you to see it. Not as a secret. Not in private. I wanted the world to know. You were never fake to me.”

Ten’s eyes blurred. His mouth opened. But no sound came.

So Johnny went on.

“Listen… I let fear swallow everything. I thought I was protecting you by staying quiet. But all I did was prove you were right to leave. And I swear to God, I would take it all back if I could — the silence, the shame, the way I made you feel like you were something to hide.”

He reached out, hands open, not forcing, just hoping.

“I don’t need press anymore. I don’t need cameras or fake stories. I just need you . You, in my kitchen. You, talking to plants or behind the camera when words are too complicated to be used. You, in my hoodie eating cereal at 2AM.”

Ten laughed through tears — one choked, shattered sound.

Johnny’s voice dropped. Honest. Bare.

“I want to wake up next to you when your hair’s a mess. I want to fight about what to watch. I want to learn how to be soft again, because you make me soft.”

Ten’s lower lip trembled.

“But I need you to choose me,” Johnny said. “Not for the fans. Not for the headlines. For us . For whatever this is. And I’ll prove it every damn day if you let me.”

Ten’s bag hit the floor.

His knees nearly gave out.

“I waited,” he whispered. “I waited and it killed me. You said nothing.”

“I know,” Johnny said, broken. “But I’m here now.”

Silence. A thousand eyes watching. But for a moment, there was no one else in the world.

And then Ten stepped forward — slowly — hands still shaking — and let Johnny pull him in.

Their foreheads pressed together. Breath to breath.

“I’m still mad,” Ten said, voice small.

“I’ll deserve it for a while.”

“I’m still scared.”

“Me too.”

“But I love you.”

Johnny’s arms wrapped around him like safety.

“I never stopped loving you.”

And when Ten kissed him — the real him, no act, no flash — the terminal cheered .

Because they were finally choosing each other.

Out loud.

And forever.