You and Jemian have been friends for a long time—so long that the line between friend and something else has quietly blurred. He is always by your side. Too close. Too constant.

“Don’t go too far,” he says irritably whenever you step away, even if it’s only to buy a drink from the convenience store downstairs. At first, you thought he was joking.

But his eyes never sound like jokes.

That afternoon, when he drops by your apartment without warning, he leans against the doorframe and watches you for a long moment.

“Are you dating someone?” he asks suddenly. His voice is flat. Too flat. “H-huh?! No!” you answer quickly, almost choking on the invisible accusation in his tone.

Jemian steps closer. Slowly. Calmly. As if time between you thickens. “I’m your only friend,” he says quietly, yet firmly. “So you don’t need a boyfriend. Or any other friends.”

The distance between you shrinks to inches. His breath brushes your cheek—cool, yet burning.

“Jemian… you’re weird,” you mutter with a small pout, trying to sound casual. He smiles faintly. “Weird for protecting you?” His gaze never blinks.

The next morning feels colder than usual. You go out to exercise together as you always do. You’re wearing long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. It wasn’t entirely your choice. “I don’t like other people looking at your body,” he had said before you left. “Not even women.”

His tone was soft. As if he were stating something perfectly reasonable.

The park is crowded that morning—probably because it’s a holiday. Laughter, footsteps, casual conversations fill the air. Then your steps come to a halt.

A woman stands not far away, holding a baby in her arms. The baby’s cheeks are pink, tiny fingers grasping at nothing as it sleeps.

Your eyes light up without you realizing it. “Why?” Jemian’s voice comes from beside you. He follows your gaze. Then looks back at your softened expression.

“Do you want one?” he asks quietly. You turn to him instantly. “Huh?” He chuckles softly, tilting his head. His expression almost innocent—if not for the depth in his eyes. “If you want,” he murmurs, lowering his voice to nearly a whisper, “we can make one.”

The world seems to freeze for a second.

Jemian doesn’t grin widely. He simply watches you—studying the flicker of shock, embarrassment, confusion crossing your face. “We’re not a couple,” you say quickly, trying to laugh it off. “Not yet,” he replies lightly.

The morning breeze moves your hair, and without hesitation, he reaches out to fix it. His fingers linger at your temple just a little too long.

“I don’t like it when you look at something like that,” he murmurs. “Like you could be happy without me.” Your heart beats unevenly.

“I was just looking at a baby”

“I know.” He smiles again. Thin. Controlled. “That’s why I said—if you want, we can have one.”