King staggered down the hallway, but as soon as the door shut behind him, his knees gave out. He sank to the floor, his chest heaving as if all the air had been stolen from him. The silence pressed in, merciless, until the only sound left was his own ragged sobs.
Win's words wouldn't stop replaying in his head.
"All I ever gave you was love…"
"You never cared enough to ask…"
"Now that I treat you like you've treated me, suddenly it hurts."
Each memory landed like a blade, sharper than the last. King pressed his palms against his face, but it did nothing to stop the ache in his chest.
He had always told himself he loved Win, that much he never doubted. But love, he realized now, wasn't enough if it was selfish. He had never once asked about Win's burdens, his sleepless nights, or the weight of his responsibilities. Not because he didn't care, but because he was afraid.
Afraid that if he showed too much concern, if he cared too openly, Win would twist it into something ugly. Win would see it as weakness, as proof of the sickness he believed lived inside King, the sickness of loving another man.
So he stayed quiet. He swallowed his questions. He built walls around the very love he was desperate to give, thinking it would keep Win from looking at him with disgust.
But in protecting himself, he had done worse, he had made Win feel unseen. Unloved.
King's hands shook as he pressed them to his face. His body trembled with sobs he couldn't control, each one breaking him further. The truth burned: Win hadn't lied. He had given everything, his time, his care, his devotion. And King, too afraid to give back, had only taken.
Now Win looked at him with the very eyes King had always feared. Cold. Distant. Like his love was something dirty, unwanted.
And the worst part was knowing Win's anger wasn't built on lies. It was built on truth.
King didn't know what else to do, only that he had to try. I'll prove it to him, he thought. I'll show him I care. I'll do everything.
But when he finally stood up from the floor and dragged himself to bed, exhaustion took over. He tossed from side to side, his chest heavy with guilt, until sleep claimed him.
By morning, he was up earlier than usual. He wanted to be ready, wanted to catch Win before he left for work. When Win finally came downstairs, dressed simply in his casual robe, he found King waiting at the dining table.
"Good morning," King greeted softly, almost timidly.
Win's eyes flicked to him but he said nothing. He kept walking, cold and indistinct.
Desperate, King reached out and caught his hand. He pressed it between his palms and whispered, "Win, please… I'm very sorry. Can you forgive me?"
Win's jaw compressed. "Take your hand off me."
The words stung, but King obeyed, letting go slowly. His heart sank when Win finally turned toward him.
"You don't get it, King," Win said, his voice even but heavy. "I'm not angry with you. From now on, I'll treat you the way you've been treating me. So don't force it. Don't greet me. Don't suddenly act like you care."
The words landed sharper than a slap. King's lips parted, but no sound came out.
Win didn't wait for an answer. He moved to the counter, pouring himself coffee. He didn't prepare a second cup, the small gesture he had done countless mornings before. He only made one. For himself.
King sat frozen, watching the quiet cruelty of it. It wasn't yelling, it wasn't anger, it was worse. It was indifference.
When Win finished, he left the kitchen without a glance back. He returned upstairs, and not long after, he came back down again, dressed sharply in a dark suit, his tie knotted with precision.
King rose quickly, searching for some way to hold him back. "Wait… my breakfast, you haven't…"
Win stopped, his gaze cutting to him. "Make it yourself. Or order something."
King's throat constricted.
"I'm done cooking for you," Win added, his tone final. "From now on, take care of yourself. All the care I gave you… That's in the past."
Without another word, he adjusted his cufflinks, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out the door, leaving King standing in the silence of the house.
King had only wanted a little freedom, a chance to breathe outside the shadow of Win's constant presence. He never thought that simply getting close to James…laughing with him, letting him in, would cost him this much. Now he was staring at a side of Win he had never known before: sharp, distant, deliberate in his coldness.
And the worst part was, King didn't even know if Win would ever treat him the same way he used to.
He sat at the dining table long after Win left, the silence of the house pressing down on him like a punishment. His stomach grumbled, but he couldn't bring himself to move.
For years, Win had been the one who cooked for them. Every morning, every night, it was his quiet way of caring. King had never bothered to learn, never even thought he would need to. Now, faced with the empty kitchen, he realized just how helpless he was without Win's care.
Cooking felt impossible. Pointless.
With a heavy sigh, he picked up his phone and ordered something small to eat.
With a heavy sigh, he picked up his phone and ordered something small to eat. Even then, when the food finally arrived, it tasted hollow, cold, even though it was warm. Nothing like Win's meals, which always carried an unspoken comfort, a sense of belonging King hadn't appreciated until it was gone.
As he ate in silence, guilt churned in his chest more bitter than the food. He realized Win hadn't just been feeding him all this time, he had been holding him together in ways King never understood.
And now, stripped of that care, King felt the weight of emptiness he had created.
He didn't bother calling Charlotte or anyone else. What could they do? What could they say?
King had already made up his mind. If Win wants to treat me badly, I'll take it. If he wants to push me aside, I won't fight back. I'll cry alone, hide my pain, swallow my pride, whatever it takes. As long as I can stay under the same roof, as long as he doesn't send me away, I'll endure it all.
Because beyond Win, there was no one.
And if there was one thing King feared more than Win's cruelty, it was being left alone.
King sat alone in the living room, waiting for Win the way he always did. Hours slipped by quickly, the silence stretching as night settled in. Win still hadn't returned. Eventually, exhaustion weighed on King's eyes, and he drifted off on the couch, curled up against the emptiness of the house.
When the door finally opened, Win walked in. His expression was indistinct as he went straight to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, drinking slowly, his back turned. King kept still, pretending to sleep, waiting, hoping, that Win would come to him, check on him, maybe even wake him gently. But Win didn't. He drank, placed the glass down, and walked upstairs without a single glance at the man on the couch.
King's chest hurt at the indifference. After a while, he pushed himself up, waited until Win had showered and settled, then made his way upstairs. He didn't bother waiting for permission; he opened the door and stepped into Win's room.
Win was lying on the bed, scrolling through his phone. He didn't look surprised, nor did he ask King to leave. The silence between them was heavy, but not hostile.
Without a word, King slid onto the bed beside him. Slowly, carefully, he moved closer until his head rested against Win's chest. Win neither pushed him away nor acknowledged the touch. He simply kept scrolling, as though King wasn't even there.
But King's tears betrayed him. They slipped silently down his cheeks, soaking into Win's shirt. His body trembled with quiet sobs, every drop carrying the weight of regret.
Win finally spoke, his voice low but firm.
"After tonight, don't come into my room again. Don't sleep on me like this. I don't want my girlfriend getting the wrong impression when she comes around."
The word struck like lightning.
King stiffened, raising his head, eyes wide and glassy with tears.
"Your… girlfriend?" he asked, his voice breaking.