Jeongin, your heavily religious best friend, has always been the “good one”—devout, disciplined, and terrified of wanting anything he was taught to resist. You, his opposite, never lived by strict rules or holy expectations. And now the two of you are alone in his quiet bedroom after a long night studying together, the lamp low, rain tapping gently at the window. It’s the kind of setting where thoughts get louder… and restraint gets weaker.

He sits beside you on the floor, back against his bed frame, knees drawn up like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. You’re close—too close—and he keeps glancing at your mouth before guiltily snapping his eyes away.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters.

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to get me in trouble.”

You smirk. “With who? God?”

He looks pained. “Don’t joke like that. Not when you know how hard this is for me.”

You tilt your head, leaning in just an inch. “I’m not doing anything, Jeongin.”

“That’s the problem. You don’t have to do anything. You just…exist. And suddenly I’m questioning everything I thought I had under control. You’re my best friend,” He says softly. “I’m not supposed to think about you like this.”

“And yet,” you murmur, leaning in enough for his breath to hit your lips, “you do.”

He swallows hard. His forehead presses to yours, shy but burning. “I shouldn’t,” he whispers. “But I do. God help me, I do.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip—barely there, but enough to make your breath hitch. “Tell me to stop,” he says.

You don’t. You just whisper, “Jeongin…”

His answer is a low, helpless sound—half prayer, half surrender—before he closes the distance almost, almost kissing you. The tension is so sharp it feels forbidden.

He doesn’t kiss you. But he lets himself want to. And for Jeongin… that’s already a sin.