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Anri—Saturday, June 14th—Bunkyo, Tokyo 3:13 AM
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My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth, and my stomach is doing a slow, nauseating roll like it's trying to remember what shape it's supposed to be. My eyes hurt, my head hurts, everything hurts. My throat feels dry like I've swallowed sand. I can't tell if I'm still dreaming or if maybe I'm still at that bar in Shibuya. Akio, his friends—that dimly lit room—I feel sick.
My eyes flutter open, and my head throbs more. The room is dark; it's the middle of the night.
Where am I?
Then I feel a soft breeze.
My hands grip onto the sheets; they smell like me.
I'm home.
My eyes blink open, slow and gritty, struggling to make sense of the darkness. The air in my room feels oddly cool against my skin, and it takes a moment before I realise why—the balcony door is wide open, curtains shifting with the faintest night breeze, and both windows are cracked, letting in the distant hush of the city. I try to push myself upright, but the room lurches sideways, heavy and unsteady, as if gravity itself is tugging me down, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to keep from tipping over completely.
I try to open my eyes again, but everything is blurred. My own room feels unfamiliar. As my vision sharpens, I see Kai's silhouette; his hair is messy, his head leaning back against my desk chair, deliberately turned to face my bed. He looks so impossibly out of place, his long legs stretched out in front of him, arms folded in front of the steady rise and fall of his chest, tension in his shoulders like he's not fully committed to sleeping, but exhaustion won in the end.
Why is he here? In my room. My apartment.
Kai's eyelashes flicker. His eyes open too fast, as if he's been pretending to be asleep the whole time, and his gaze locks onto mine with that same unreadable calm he always wears.
"You're awake," he says, voice low, slightly rough, like he hasn't spoken for hours.
"Why are you…"
The words don't even come out right. My brain keeps trying to find something dignified to say, but it keeps failing. I feel exposed in my own bed, hair probably a mess, breath probably disgusting, eyes probably red. I hate that he's seeing me like this. I hate that a part of me is relieved that he is.
Kai stands up, the chair legs scrape lightly against my floorboards, lifts his arms into a stretch, his back arching slightly, letting out a soft groan that definitely shouldn't make my heart flutter. He picks up a glass from my desk that I hadn't noticed before.
"Drink," he says, and it isn't a suggestion.
I take it because my hands move before my brain can catch up. It's just a glass of water, already poured as if Kai had planned for this exact moment. I take a small sip at first, just to wet my mouth, but the second the water hits my tongue, I realise how parched I actually am. I tip the glass back and gulp down the rest in three greedy swallows, not caring about manners or appearances, just desperate for relief. It's only when I lower the empty glass and catch my breath that it hits me—I'm not alone. Heat prickles up my neck as I remember Kai is right there, watching, and I suddenly feel exposed, like I've just done something private in front of someone else.
"Sorry."
"Don't," Kai says, immediately, like he's cutting the word off before it can become a habit. He takes the empty glass from my hand and sets it back on the desk with controlled care.
My fingers curl into the sheets again as if that could be enough to ground me. Kai is in my apartment, my room, and all I have to hold onto are fragments of last night replaying. I have so many questions, and that makes my head hurt even more. "Why are you here?" is all I can manage, but my voice comes out small and hoarse. I can still taste the alcohol at the back of my throat. I smoked enough cigarettes last night to take at least a decade off my life expectancy.
Kai's gaze stays on my face like he's checking for something specific. "How do you feel?" he asks, not soft, not cold. Practical.
I open my mouth and realise I don't know how to answer without sounding pathetic. "Like twice-boiled shit," I admit, before my lips betray me with a tremble. My throat catches like I'm going to cry.
Kai moves closer to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Anri, sit up—slowly," he says, like he's thinking it through as he speaks.
I try to sit up. The room tilts anyway, sharp and sudden, and a sound slips out of me that doesn't feel like it belongs to my voice. My chest tightens, breath catching halfway in, like my body forgot the rest of the motion.
Last night won't come into focus. Just fragments. Heat. Noise. The sense that something almost went wrong. That it still might. It's like I remember, but I don't.
I'm losing it; my mind supplies unhelpful, loud thoughts.
Kai's hand comes to my shoulder—too brief to be a hold, too steady to be accidental. The contact sends a small, embarrassing rush through me, like I'd been waiting for proof that I wasn't tipping over alone.
"I'm sorry…" I choke on the words. I feel like I'm drowning in my own breath. "I didn't mean to—I didn't—I'm sorry—"
"Hey," he cuts me off. Not sharp. Not rushed. "Breathe," he adds, quieter. His voice is close enough that I can feel it more than hear it, and my lungs stutter, then obey, pulling in air like they're being reminded how.
Why did I agree to go on a date with Akio? I'm so fucking stupid. I wanted Kai to notice me all this time. But not like this. Not when I'm helpless and need to be rescued. I wanted Kai to see that I'm untouchable just like him.
"Kai…"
"You're home," Kai says, slower this time, like he's placing the words carefully. "I've got you."
"You're actually here." I look up at him because maybe I'm just dreaming. I have to know that this is real. He's here.
The relief hits so hard that it turns into something uglier, something frantic, laced with pure want. My body doesn't know what to do with it except reach. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stand, ignoring the way my knees wobble, ignoring the sour roll of my stomach. For a second, all I can smell is the bar again; the back room, the disinfectant, the way the air changed the moment the door clicked shut. On my feet, I move across to where Kai is sitting on the bed still.
If he wants me, I can stay here, and the bar stays somewhere else.
"Kai," I say, and it comes out wrong, too thin, too needy.
I reach for him before I can stop myself.
It isn't subtle. It isn't careful. I grab at him like I'm already slipping, hands fisting in his shirt, catching on his arms, dragging myself toward him with a kind of desperation that makes my chest burn. I need him closer—need the solid proof of him—like if I can just get enough of Kai around me, my head will finally shut up.
I press my body flush against him. I've never been this close before. The contact feels rough, desperate; it's overwhelming. Kai inhales sharply, like he didn't expect me to be this reckless. His hands don't touch me, but he doesn't move away either. That hesitation is louder than any action.
My thoughts are skidding, circling the same image—the wrong door, the sound behind it—and I can't hold them still. I smell like smoke and alcohol and something sour with fear, and the shame of it flashes hot and useless through me, but it doesn't stop me. Nothing does.
Please, my body says, even if my mouth doesn't.
When I try to climb into his lap, Kai catches my wrist. The restraint is immediate—too fast, too deliberate—and when I struggle against it, his grip tightens, firm enough that my body finally registers that I've hit a boundary.
The realisation lands harder than the resistance: I wasn't asking. I was begging.
My chest caves in, like I've just been reminded I don't get to be held this way.
"Anri," he says, standing up from the bed.
"You don't want me…"
"That's not what this is."
I look up at him, breath coming too fast, heart slamming against my ribs like it's trying to get out. "Please…don't leave."
"I'm not leaving," Kai says, and relief hits so hard it almost makes my knees give. His grip doesn't loosen, and his voice goes careful—measured—like he's holding me together instead of pulling me closer. "But not like this."
The words sting before I understand why. Heat crawls up my neck, slow and sickening. "Not like what?"
Kai's gaze doesn't soften. It focuses. "You're not thinking clearly. You're hungover. You're dehydrated. You've been sick. I would be no better than Akio. I'm a lot of things, Anri, but I'm not that."
I feel myself shrinking under it, not because he's wrong, but because he sees all of it. The mess. The need. The part of me that grabbed instead of asking.
I swallow, throat raw. The shame comes in late and overwhelming, and suddenly, I'm terrified he can feel how badly I still want him anyway.
Kai doesn't let me go too far down that path.
"Hey," he says first. His tone is gentle, almost testing to see if I can still hear him. "Listen to me."
I do, mostly because his voice is the only steady thing in the room.
"You should shower," he says after a moment. There's a pause, as if he's deciding whether to continue. "Then get into bed. Properly." Another pause. "It'll help."
I stare at him, feeling annoyed by his instructions and the way he takes charge. But I can't deny that relief washes over me right after, even if I don't want it.
"I don't want to shower," I mutter.
Kai's gaze shifts away from my face and then back again, as if looking too long might make this harder than it already is.
"Yeah," he replies softly. "You do."
I open my mouth to argue, but then the room tilts. My stomach churns enough that the thought fades.
Kai lets go of my wrist and places a hand on my shoulder to steady me. He doesn't pull me closer or let his touch linger. The restraint feels intentional.
"Bathroom," he says, gentler now. "Slow."
I hate how quickly my body reacts. I hate how much I need him to keep saying things like that.
I shuffle past him, still dizzy and feeling exposed. When the bathroom light flicks on, my reflection hits me like a slap.
Messy hair, red eyes, a mouth that tastes wrong, earlobes mildly throbbing from the new studs, or maybe it's embarrassment. I look like someone who reached too far and suffered the consequences.
Kai remains in the doorway. He doesn't enter, but he doesn't step back either. His hands curl briefly at his sides, then relax, as if he's grounding himself as much as he's grounding me.
"Do you… need help?" he asks, and his tone is careful, showing that it took effort to ask.
My stomach twists. "Um—No…thanks."
He exhales slowly through his nose, controlling his breath as if my answer matters more than he wants it to.
"Okay," Kai says. Then, quieter and firmer, almost for himself, "Shower. Call for me if you feel dizzy."
I look at him, stubborn, like I can outlast him just by staring.
Kai slides the bathroom door closed, sealing me in, close enough to stay, far enough to leave me alone.
My fingers fumble at the shirt snaps, hands unsteady. I peel it off, then the jeans. Bathroom light on bare skin, prickling, embarrassed for me. The clothes reek—smoke, alcohol, sweat. I hate how real it makes last night.
Behind me, I hear Kai shift past the door, moving his weight like he's trying to decide how to exist in this space without making me feel watched.
"Are you still out there?" I ask before I can stop myself.
There's a pause, short enough that it's barely a pause, and then Kai answers, calm.
"I'm here," he assures, his voice travelling through the door.
My throat tightens anyway. I step under the water. Heat hits my shoulders, too sudden to trust. It runs down my back, over my chest. I let out a shaky breath, like I've been holding it since Shibuya.
I scrub my hair twice, nails scraping my scalp, trying to wash the night out of my skin. It helps, but it doesn't fix it. You can clean yourself and still feel dirty. The dirt isn't on your body. It's in the fact that you were there.
Water stings my eyes. I blink hard, like I can blink last night away.
I swallow. It doesn't help. My stomach rolls, reminding me it's still in charge. I press my palm to the tiles and breathe until the dizziness fades.
"Kai," I say, hoping he'll hear me past the door, my voice rough like it's been scraped out of my throat.
"Anri?" His tone stays flat, but it's there—steady, close, cutting through the hum of the bathroom light and the rush of blood in my ears.
"I hate this."
The words come out thin, swallowed almost immediately by the silence between us, the trickle of the shower, by the smell of soap and stale smoke still clinging to my skin.
There's a pause. Longer this time. I swear I can hear him breathe on the other side of it, slow and controlled, like he's anchoring himself before he answers.
"I know," he says quietly, and something in my eyes stings at the weight in it.
It's not pity. It's not comfort. It's just an acknowledgement, and somehow that's the only thing that doesn't make me feel worse.
I rinse off. Water runs clear. My skin feels cleaner, my head a little lighter. I turn off the shower. The silence after is too loud.
I wrap a towel around myself and slide the bathroom door open again as if he's going to disappear if I take too long.
Kai's still in the doorway. He doesn't look at me directly. His gaze stays angled away, like he's proving a point without saying it. It makes something inside me twist, because he's being careful with me in a way that feels almost unfair. Like he's doing the right thing so cleanly that I can't even be angry about it.
I brush my teeth hard while he clearly doesn't know where to put his gaze; the mint burns, but it's good. Mouthwash after, because I can still taste whiskey, and I don't want that anywhere near him. Not because he'd judge me. I just can't stand him remembering me like that—sick, desperate, reaching.
I step out of the bathroom, towel grasped tight, and Kai's already turned slightly, giving me his shoulder. He doesn't pretend I'm not there. He just doesn't make me feel like a specimen.
"There are clean clothes on the bed," he says.
I freeze. "You went through my stuff?"
"Yeah," he says immediately.
I shuffle into my room. One of my black shirts is folded on the bed, placed there on purpose. My stomach flips at how domestic it feels. He's been in my space, making it work. I know it's strange to feel relieved, but I do, and the real unease doesn't come from him touching my things; it comes from how easily I let myself like it.
"Turn around," I say, quieter. "I don't have anything on under my towel."
Kai turns without a word and stops by the desk chair, shoulders squared, gaze fixed on the wall. He doesn't rush it, doesn't make it awkward—just claims the space and holds it.
When I hold the shirt he picked out for me up in front of me, I feel slightly embarrassed. It's a K-Pop merchandise shirt for the boy group: Tomorrow X Together.
I'm sure Kai can feel me pausing as I hold it up, stare at the shirt and pretend I have no idea what K-Pop is, what boy groups are. Absolutely futile because Kai is literally staring at the wall that hosts the collection of posters and photocards I've collected over the years of my favourite idols.
Now he's giggling like he understands what I'm thinking. Actually giggling, I'm almost offended. I would be if this weren't the first time I'm hearing such an uncharacteristic sound from him.
"What?!?" I huff under my breath, but it comes out too loud.
He keeps his eyes locked to my wall so as not to peek at me while I'm nude, but he taps a finger on one of the photocards. "Should I be jealous?" he teases.
"What…?" I say again, because what is he even getting at?
"Soobin[1] is your bias, isn't he?"
"What would you know about that?" I scoff, still with the T-shirt bunched in my fist.
He huffs out another laugh, and I know he's wearing that smirk, even when I can't see his lips. "Soobin is your favourite member of TXT, correct me if I'm wrong. I know you better than you think." He hums.
I almost want to play dumb just to see what he actually means.
"So," I say, keeping my voice light on purpose, "what else do you know?"
Kai doesn't turn around. He keeps his eyes on my wall, like he's decided that's the safest place to put them, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
"Enough."
"That's not an answer," I say, automatically, because apparently my mouth doesn't consult me first.
He taps one of the photocards with his finger. Just once. Like he's thinking.
"You like things a certain way," he says. "You're particular. You just pretend you're not."
Heat creeps up my neck. I hate being read. I hate that he's right.
"You didn't get that from my posters," I say, pushing even though I shouldn't. "You didn't know Soobin was my bias from just… standing here for five seconds."
Kai hums as if I've amused him.
"Me standing here confirms what I already knew. Me knowing your bias is only the tip of the iceberg; you have 'txt' in your username, so it's kind of obvious, you repost clips, and you like most posts about him. You post on Instagram—"
I blink. "What?"
"Not a lot," he adds, like he's being charitable. "But you do. And you're predictable when you think you're being subtle, you've been reckless with it lately too."
Something cold slides in under the embarrassment. Thin. Sharp.
"Predictable," I repeat. I pull the shirt over my head, tug it down, and give my hands something to do while my brain catches up. "What does that even mean?"
"It means you have habits," Kai says. His voice is calm but not detached. Like this is something he's noticed over time, not something he's filing away. "You post more recklessly when you're spiralling, and you don't really notice who's paying attention."
I stare at the back of his head as I pull my boxers up. He's still facing the wall. Still giving me space. I swallow. "Then what?" I say, my voice sharpening despite myself. "Tell me what you know."
There's a pause. Not because he's flustered. Because he's choosing.
"You don't eat when you're stressed," he says finally. "You smoke more when you're angry. Sometimes you stay inside for days at a time. You spend your weekends alone most of the time."
My stomach drops, slow and sick.
I should stop. I know I should.
But my mouth gets there first, dragging a thought up with it that I didn't mean to voice.
"Is that why you have a torn planner page in your jacket," I ask quietly, "with my schedule on it?"
Silence.
Real silence this time.
The words hang in the air, too blunt to be taken back. I expect him to snap. To deny it. To go cold and tell me to mind my own business.
Kai doesn't move.
His hand is still lifted near my wall, as if he forgot what he was doing. His shoulders stay squared. His gaze stays fixed on the photocards, but the stillness in him shifts, like something has been caught and is deciding whether it wants to bite.
For a second, I can hear my own pulse louder than the apartment.
Then Kai exhales slowly.
"You weren't supposed to see that… originally," he says.
My stomach drops, but not in the way it should. Not in the way fear usually makes it drop. It's a strange, hollow tumble that turns into heat almost immediately, like my body is misreading danger as intimacy on purpose.
Kai adds, quieter, as if he's choosing the truth because I dragged it out of him, and now it has to be clean. "I like to think I have control of what happens, but I was reckless myself when I gave you my jacket after your recital. I guess you make me reckless too, Anri."
I stare at him. My brain tries to assemble the obvious response—that's terrifying, that's wrong, what the fuck is wrong with you—and it just… doesn't arrive. Instead, there's this sharp, humiliating thrill in my chest, like I've just been handed proof that I mattered enough to be tracked.
It should make me feel small. It makes me feel chosen.
"You—" My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat, pretending I'm steady. "So what, you just… keep tabs on people?" I sit on my bed now that I'm dressed, and I didn't realise how much I needed it.
Kai's head tilts a fraction, the smallest movement that reads like annoyance and warning in the same gesture.
"Don't make it sound casual," he says.
I almost laugh, because it's absurd. I'm sitting here in a TXT shirt, towel on the floor, talking about a torn planner page in his jacket like this is normal conversation. Like I'm not supposed to be afraid.
And still, I'm not.
Or I am, but it's layered under something else. Something worse.
"Have you ever done that for anyone else?" I ask, and the question is so intimate I hate myself for it. It's not even an accusation. It's curiosity. Possessive curiosity. Like, I'm asking if I'm special.
Kai is quiet for a moment.
Then he says, flat, like it's a fact that doesn't require explanation.
"No."
My throat closes. "No?"
"Only you," he repeats, and this time there's a sharper edge under it, like he doesn't like being interrogated, but he's answering anyway because he's already stepped over the line by admitting the first part. "You're the only one."
"How long?" I blurt out. "How long have you been…" tracking me, stalking me… whatever this is.
Kai exhales like he's bracing himself for impact. "You really want to know?"
"Yes."
Kai walks over to the bed and sits down next to me. His body is angled towards me, but he stares at his hands in his lap.
"High school…Second year." He admits, and I'm already trying to do the math. Kai and I hadn't exchanged words until the third year, and that was only because he took pity on me when I was bullied.
"But…"
"You got my attention when Sensei called upon you to read a passage in English. Your accent changed. Your English was always better than mine—like you didn't even have to think about it. I could read English perfectly fine, but speaking was different…I hated sounding stupid, and you made it look so easy."
"You make it sound like it bothered you…"
"I was supposed to be good at it. I wasn't…And I was envious." Kai hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck while he keeps his gaze locked onto anything but me. "I got so fixated on you that I started getting impulsive."
I swallow. There's a cold thread of fear in it now—finally, belatedly—because that isn't normal noticing. That's attention. It's the kind that doesn't let go. Kai's eyes flick to me, then to my desk, then back to me. Like he's mapping the room while he talks. Like it's a habit.
"And then third year," he says, and his voice goes colder, the way it did in the bar when he stopped negotiating.
My spine prickles. "What about third year?"
"The locker room," Kai says.
My hands feel numb before I can stop it. I see it again, too fast: the showers, the water, the ruined manga pages, the laughter. The way I held myself together, as if I weren't breaking, even as my chest caved in.
Kai's mouth tightens.
"Your manga," he says. "They ruined it."
My throat closes. "Don't—"
"You didn't cry," he continues, like he's not even talking to me now, like he's talking to the memory. "You didn't beg. You didn't fold."
"I was humiliated," I manage.
"I know," Kai says, immediately. "And you still didn't fold."
The room feels smaller.
"That was the first time," he says, "I realised you're not weak."
I laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. "You realised that in a locker room?"
"You bit back," he says. "Even when they were bigger than you, even when you were outnumbered."
My heart thuds with something that isn't pain. It's worse, it's pride, shame, and the fact that he was there. Watching.
Kai says quietly, "And that's when it changed."
"Changed into what?" I ask, even though I already know.
He holds my gaze.
"Into wanting to keep you in my sight," he says.
I let out a breath that shakes. "Why didn't you just… talk to me?"
"I did," he says.
"What?"
"You just didn't count it as talking."
The words slide under my ribs, hot and mean. My face warms because I know exactly what he means—every bicker, every little jab, every time he gave me attention in a way I pretended didn't matter because it felt safer to call it irritation than admit I liked it.
"You're saying you teased me on purpose," I whisper.
"Yes," Kai says. He doesn't soften it, he doesn't apologise. That lack of apology should make me furious.
Instead, it makes my pulse jump.
"Why?" I ask, and it comes out too quiet.
"Because it worked," he says. "Because you looked at me."
My stomach drops again, and this time it's pure, sick want. My brain is screaming that this is wrong. My body is acting as if I've just been given a gift. My chest does that stupid, stupid thing where it warms like I've been praised.
I force my face to stay neutral. I fail. I can feel it in the way my mouth wants to soften.
"You're insane," I say, but it doesn't land as an insult. It lands like awe.
Kai's gaze shifts for half a second, flicking toward me—just enough to check my expression, just enough to realise I'm not reacting the way a normal person would.
That makes his jaw tighten.
"Don't act like you're flattered. This isn't flattering," he says.
I swallow harder. The dry part of me wants to argue. The honest part of me just says, "It kind of is."
Kai's eyes hold mine now, and the look in them isn't teasing anymore. It's the kind of directness that makes my skin prickle, like he's stripping me down without touching me.
"Anri," he says, low.
I hate how much I like the way he says my name when he's warning me.
Silence stretches between us, thick with all the other things he could say. All the other things he's done that I haven't proven yet.
Then Kai's voice drops, almost quieter than it was before, and that makes it worse.
"You should stay away from me."
The words hit like cold water and electricity at the same time. They're not a threat. They're a warning.
And they make my chest ache in this stubborn, ugly way, because I can see exactly what he means—the bar, the men, the torn note with Mizuno's name, the way Kai can switch from calm to quietly lethal in a blink.
He's dangerous.
He knows it.
He's telling me, finally, plainly, like he's giving me an exit.
I should take it.
I don't even hesitate.
"No," I say, and the word comes out too fast, too honest. "No. I don't want to."
Kai's eyes narrow slightly, like he expected that and hates it anyway.
"Anri," he says again, like he's trying to get through to me.
I shift closer to him on the bed before I can think better of it. Not touching him. Just closing the distance enough that I'm forcing him to feel my presence the way I've been forced to feel his.
"You said you don't do that for anyone else," I whisper, and it comes out like a confession. Like I'm admitting something shameful about myself. "So you don't get to tell me to stay away."
For a second, Kai doesn't move at all. Like he's deciding whether to pull back or pull me in. Like he's holding himself by the throat.
Then he looks at me with something that isn't softness but isn't nothing either.
"This is what I mean," he says, quietly. "You don't understand what you're asking for."
My mouth goes dry. My heart pounds. My skin feels too hot.
I do understand. I understand enough to know it's wrong and enough to know I want it anyway.
"I'm asking for you," I say.
And the fact that I can say it that plainly should scare me more than anything else.
It doesn't.
It makes me feel alive.
It makes me want to do something stupid, like grab him again and make him stay with my hands instead of words.
I don't. I swallow the impulse.
"Lie down, you need to sleep," Kai says.
I hesitate anyway. My eyes flick to him, out of habit. Checking he's still real.
"But," I start, and my utterance catches on the sentence because it's humiliating to admit, "what if you leave?"
"Right." Kai's voice is flat. He tugs his long-sleeve shirt off like it's been irritating him for hours; he's wearing a black vest underneath, clinging to his skin in a way that makes my face heat before I can stop it. He stands up from the bed and looks at me like he can tell I'm short-circuiting and doesn't care. "Can I borrow some shorts?"
I blink at him, still stuck on the fact that he's half-undressed in my room like it's the most normal thing in the world.
"Shorts?" I repeat, stupidly, like I don't know what those are.
Kai's gaze doesn't shift. "To sleep in."
"Oh." My face stays warm. I clear my throat like that's going to fix anything. "Yeah. I—yeah, I've got shorts."
"Okay, lie down then."
I actually obey this time and gesture vaguely toward my drawers and immediately regret it because it looks like I'm flustered, which I am. "Just—grab anything. Actually—wait." I swallow. "The soccer shorts. They stretch, and you're… taller. Bigger. They'll fit."
Kai is quiet for a moment, and I feel it like pressure in the room. Then he moves with that same calm certainty he always has, as if he's solved the problem and doesn't need to announce it.
He doesn't hesitate. He opens the bottom left drawer—my shorts drawer—like he already knew where they were. The ease of it should unsettle me, but I'm too far gone to care.
He's turned in a way that I could look away if I wanted to, close enough that the choice feels loaded.
He unbuttons his trousers and steps out of them with the same ease he's had all night. I'm realising too late that I didn't think this through.
I look away.
Then I don't.
The normalcy of the way he adjusts the waistband of his boxers, the way he stands there in my room as if he belongs, makes my heart stutter.
Then I see something else, and I immediately feel guilty; I'm only seeing it because I'm shamelessly looking. A pale line of a scar on the outside of his thigh, slightly diagonal, with faint little dots on either side like the skin still remembers the thread of the stitches.
Kai doesn't notice me watching. He pulls the shorts up, smoothing them and adjusting the strings.
I open my mouth to ask about the scar, but whatever he says won't be gentle, and we've both shed enough skin for tonight.
Kai crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed again, closer than he's been since I grabbed him. I tense, half-expecting him to pull away. He doesn't.
"I'm going to get in," he says, like he's narrating a procedure. "I'll stay. You sleep."
Heat crawls up my face anyway. My brain betrays me.
Kai shifts on the mattress—practically climbing over me—and settles over to the side by the wall, careful, keeping a deliberate distance.
It's stupid, the logic of it, but my body understands before my mind does. He can't leave without me knowing. I'd feel the mattress shift, the space beside me change; he'd have to climb over me to escape. I can't help but wonder if he just prefers sleeping on that side of the bed, or if he just knows how my brain works.
He lies down like someone not used to sharing a bed, body still trying to keep rules even as he breaks them.
I stare at him for a moment, surprised by how gentle the whole thing feels. There's a tenderness in the way he approaches this—still practical, still measured, but somehow suffused with care. He's here not out of obligation, but because he wants to be, and that simple fact makes my heart ache. It's not a negotiation, and yet it's more than just a solution; it's an unspoken promise he offers quietly, wrapped up in the easiest warmth I've ever felt.
Kai exhales slowly, like he's surrendering something he's been holding for too long. His arm lifts, opening the space at his side.
"Come here," he murmurs, low and soft—a command and an invitation all at once. The words linger in the air, gentle, almost reverent.
My body answers before pride can object. I shift closer, heart thundering, and rest my head against his chest, just as I've dreamed so many times. Now, it's real—his shirt is warm against my cheek, his steady breathing grounding me. For a few precious seconds, the world rights itself, quietly, intimately.
He doesn't touch me straight away, letting the closeness settle like a soft shackle around us.
Then his arm slips around me, slow and careful, as if he's savouring the moment. The embrace is solid, unwavering—more protection than fantasy yet tinged with quiet affection. It's both a boundary and a promise, holding me close in a way that feels safe and cherished.
That's until his grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to make me feel contained.
My eyes sting again, emotion brimming at the edge. I hate how near I am to tears, but there's something beautiful in the closeness of feeling claimed—something I never expected to feel.
"Kai," I whisper, his name feeling delicate and precious in the dim quiet.
"Hm?" he responds, his hum sounds gentle and close, as if he's waiting for me to say something important.
"Don't disappear."
"I'm here," he assures me, his arm remaining steady, holding me as if he means to stay through the night and every uncertainty beyond.
And for the first time, my body and mind both believe him, the quiet adrenaline of the moment seeping into my bones.
I stay there, tucked against him, breathing him in. I let the moment stretch until it feels real enough to trust.
"Kai," I murmur again, softer now.
"Yeah?" His chest rises under my cheek, slow and steady.
"Happy birthday."
There's a pause. Not long—just enough for me to feel like he's thinking about it.
"It's technically not my birthday anymore," he says.
I tilt my head just enough to look up at him. "That doesn't count."
His arm tightens around me more, without him realising. "It does."
"No," I say, quietly certain. "Your birthday isn't officially over until you sleep."
He exhales, a soft breath against my hair—almost a laugh, but not quite.
"…I don't usually get rules like that," he admits.
"Well," I say, settling back against him, "you do tonight."
Another pause. Then his voice drops, lower, less guarded.
"Then I guess," he says, "I'll stay awake a little longer."
His hand shifts on my back.
Then, slowly, as if he's testing the idea before committing to it, his fingers slide upward. He doesn't rush. He pauses at my shoulder first, asking a question without words.
I don't move.
His fingertips skim the nape of my neck, barely touching, and my breath catches like my body has forgotten what happens next. Every nerve ignites at once. It tingles—sharp, electric, unfamiliar—and my mind goes blank.
Then Kai lets out a breath like he's been holding it.
He doesn't ask this time. His hand moves into my hair and stays there, palm firm against my scalp, thumb pressing just enough to keep me anchored.
I inhale sharply.
Kai strokes through my hair once—slow, deliberate—fingers curling slightly at the roots, not pulling, but holding. Keeping me where I am.
"Relax," he murmurs, low against the crown of my head. Not a suggestion. A quiet claim.
The word sends a shock straight through me. My knees feel weak. Heat slides down my spine in a way I've never felt before. I don't know how to breathe around it. I don't know how to exist inside this without coming apart.
His grip tightens a fraction when I shift—subtle, corrective—like he's reminding me I'm already exactly where he wants me.
I freeze.
I don't trust myself to do anything else.
Kai's hand moves again, slower now, possessive in its patience, and something in my chest aches painfully with the realisation that he's not just comforting me.
He's keeping me.
His thumb brushes my temple, and my thoughts scatter. I make a sound before I can stop myself—soft, humiliating—and immediately want to disappear.
Kai's fingers tense in my hair. "What's wrong?" he murmurs, but he almost sounds pleased.
I shake my head too quickly, forehead pressing into his chest as if I can hide there. "Nothing," I say, my voice thin. "Just—don't stop."
His hand resumes, not gentler—steadier. Like he's decided where it belongs.
The world narrows to the slow rise and fall of his chest and the quiet authority of his touch. I don't know what to do with my hands. I don't know where to put my face.
So I don't move.
And the realisation hits me all at once—this isn't something he's about to take away. He's holding me like he expects me to stay like this.
Kai's fingers tighten around a handful of my hair, a slight tug tingling down my scalp, then my spine. "See?" he murmurs. "You make me reckless."
I don't answer.
I don't trust my voice, not when all I can think is that I never want him to let go.
[1] Soobin is a South Korean singer and songwriter. He is the leader of the South Korean boy band Tomorrow X Together.