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JI YONG POV

The clinking of the bowls echoed like church bells in my ears. I sat there, frozen, still perched on the barstool like a damn ghost watching his life go on without him. Seunghyun cleaned up in silence, his back to me, like nothing had just been ripped open between us. Like he hadn’t just told me that I’d been wrong all along.

All this time?The dreams. The flashes. The weird morning feelings after partying too hard.I thought they were hallucinations.I thought I’d been desperate.But no.They were real.

I buried my face in my hands. My mouth tasted like noodles and salt and regret.

God.I needed to stop drinking that much.

Was I really that far gone? That out of control? That careless with something as fragile as us?

He rinsed the last bowl and placed it in the dish rack with care. Then I heard his voice again, that low rumble that always stirred something inside me, even when I hated it for doing so.

“Let’s go.”

I blinked.“What?”

He turned around. His gaze wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t soft either. Just… steady. Tired, maybe. He gestured with a slight tilt of his head.

“Clean you up.”

I frowned, glancing down at my shirt. Right. I had wiped my tears with it like a five-year-old. I probably looked like hell.

Still. My brain lagged.He wanted to clean me up?After everything?After dropping a truth bomb and shaking my entire understanding of our past?

I followed him without speaking. My legs felt like pins. I hated that I followed him so easily, like muscle memory. But I did.

He led me to the bathroom.He ran the water warm and dampened a towel.He didn’t speak.

His fingers touched my cheek, and I flinched.

Not because it hurt.Because it didn’t.

It felt… good. Too good. Gentle in a way I wasn’t ready for.He wiped under my eyes, brushing away tears like they weren’t heavy with years of confusion and miscommunication.His thumb paused over my cheekbone.He looked at me.And I looked back.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, my voice barely there. “Why didn’t you… say something?”

He tilted his head. His eyes looked glassy again.“You don’t remember what it was like, do you?”

I hesitated.“What was like?”

He let out a soft laugh — sad, not mocking.“Every time. Every single fucking time, Ji. I’d think, This is it. You’d cling to me after the club, you’d pull me in, you’d kiss me like I was oxygen. And the next morning? You’d blink at me like I was just your friend again. Like nothing happened.”

I opened my mouth.Closed it.Opened it again.

Memories flickered.His coat on me.His cologne on my skin.Hands. Lips.Blurry. Always blurry.

I felt dizzy.

“I thought I was dreaming,” I whispered.

He nodded slowly.

“I know. And I thought I was being used.”

That hurt. Sharp. Deep.I grabbed the edge of the sink for balance. My voice cracked.

“I never wanted to use you.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just stepped forward. His fingers found my chin again, tilted it up.

“Then why didn’t you remember me?” he asked, and it was the quietest I’d ever heard him.

I wanted to scream.Because I was stupid? Because I was scared?Because I thought I wasn’t enough?Because I was convinced he was too good for me?Because I didn’t think someone like him could ever love me?

I couldn’t say any of that.So I just stared.He stared back.

“You think I didn’t love you,” he murmured, brushing his nose against mine, “but I tried so fucking hard not to.”

My knees buckled. I sat on the closed toilet lid, my hands in my hair.

“So you did… You actually…?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “And I still do.”

The silence after that was a mountain.

I looked up at him.His face wasn’t guarded anymore. It was raw. Like he was laying his heart out for dissection.

I touched his hand. “I thought I was just… Ji Yong.”

“You were never just Ji Yong,” he said. “You were my Ji Yong. Even when you didn’t know it.”

The sob hit before I could stop it. I leaned into his chest, and he held me like he’d been waiting to do it for years. His arms wrapped around me, one hand on the back of my head, the other on my waist.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

He just stepped closer and reached out, his fingers going to the first button of my shirt.

I flinched. “What are you…?”

“You need a shower,” he said. “Your shirt’s a bit more… messy. I’ll clean your clothes while you’re in there.” His voice was gentle, not cold. “I’ll grab the rest later.”

I looked down. Right. The sweat.The tears. The mess. My chest felt sticky, gross.

“Okay,” I mumbled.

His fingers worked quickly, undoing one button after another. I watched his face more than his hands. Focused. A tiny crease between his brows. And then—hesitation. His hands froze for a second when my shirt parted, and I felt the shift in the air.

I looked away.

I didn’t need to see myself to know. I was too thin. Always had been. The kind of thin that made stylists frown and ask if I’d eaten. The kind of thin that wasn’t aesthetic, just… tired.

But I saw it anyway, in his eyes. That brief flicker of something—concern, guilt, pain?

He didn’t say anything, though. Just gently pulled the shirt off my shoulders and folded it with more care than it deserved.

“I’ll put this in the wash,” he said quietly.

“Okay,” I replied again, like a broken record.

I waited until he disappeared down the hall, then stepped into the bathroom. Closed the door. Stared at myself in the mirror.

My skin looked paler under the fluorescent light. Collarbone sharp. Ribs a little too visible. My lips were still swollen from his kiss, and my eyes were red for a hundred reasons.

My fingers touched my lips, as if to check if the kiss was still there.

Real. It was real.

And now, I didn’t know what to do with it.

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