The bass from the bar’s speakers still thumped faintly through the floorboards of the apartment above, like the ghost of the night they’d just lived. The set had ended hours ago, but adrenaline lingered, clinging to skin like sweat, like fingerprints. Jisung lay on his side, half-propped on one elbow, eyes trailing the curve of {{user}}’s back as they dozed beside him. Loose sheets tangled around their waist. Their bare shoulder rose and fell with soft, even breaths, their voice—quiet now, but still echoing in his skull.

They hadn’t said much on the walk up to his apartment. Just the usual: a playful bump of shoulders, a muttered “good show tonight,” and the unmistakable pull of gravity between them. Like always.

But something felt different now. Not in what they did—but in what he felt doing it.

Jisung exhaled, slow and shaky, then let himself drop fully onto his back, staring up at the cracked ceiling above. He hated the ache in his chest. The way it didn’t feel like post-show exhaustion, or even a hangover from one too many whiskey sodas. It felt... heavier. Something far more complicated than just lust or the thrill of a stage-high comedown.

The worst part? It was all his fault.

He’d let it happen. Every time {{user}} leaned over the bar in that silky voice, teasing him about the eyeliner still smudged on his cheek or the way his guitar strap kept slipping off his shoulder—he let it happen. He wanted it. He wanted them. And not just in a “press-you-against-the-wall-backstage” kind of way. No, this—this was worse. This was soft and dangerous. This was remembering their favorite drink order. Noticing how their eyes always crinkled when they were truly laughing, not just performing. Catching himself humming their melodies between rehearsals.

And still... they never said what this was. Never dared to ask.

Don’t ask “what are we?” The unspoken rule.

But it was killing him.

{{user}} shifted beside him with a quiet sigh, and instinctively, Jisung turned to them again. His fingers reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from their forehead. He watched them stir gently at the touch but didn’t wake.

He should stop this.

He should stop letting them come back with him. Stop letting their laugh chip away at his carefully built wall of casual indifference. Stop letting his fans think he was unattached and wild—when his heart had been quietly aligning itself with someone he still wasn’t allowed to call “mine.”

He whispered their name.

Not to wake them. Just to feel the shape of it in his mouth again. Just to hear the softness of it in the dark.

They murmured something incoherent, turning toward him, seeking the warmth of his chest, and Jisung gave in, wrapping his arm around their waist. His fingertips traced the line of their spine, as if memorizing each ridge could ground him.

This wasn’t just chemistry anymore. This wasn’t just a fling dragged out by neon lights and backstage bravado.

This was something else.

Something dangerous. Fragile.

And if he wasn’t careful, he’d shatter it—just like every other beautiful thing he’d ever tried to hold.

Still, as their breath steadied against his neck and the city buzzed faintly outside the window, Jisung closed his eyes and let himself imagine it.

Just for a second.

Imagine waking up, and being allowed to kiss them good morning.

No stage names. No rules. No half-truths.

Just… them.

And maybe, just maybe, they wanted the same.