The clock had long ticked past midnight when {{user}} finally pushed open the apartment door. The soft click of the latch echoed louder than it should have in the hush of the hour. The living room was cloaked in the faint glow of streetlights bleeding through gauzy curtains, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. He kicked off his shoes with a sigh, tossing his keys into the bowl by habit, expecting silence, maybe the distant hum of Jisung’s sleep playlist through the wall.

But the soft beat of music lured him down the hallway — muffled, rhythmic, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The door to Jisung’s room was ajar. A sliver of warm light spilled into the corridor like a secret begging to be caught.

Curious, half-sleepy, {{user}} approached.

And froze.

Inside — framed in the golden pool of lamplight, lips parted in a sultry pout — stood Jisung.

Not Jisung in the hoodie and sweats he wore while gaming or making late-night ramen. Not Jisung with bed hair and sleepy eyes, complaining about the morning sun.

This was a version of Jisung {{user}} had never seen.

The skirt clung to his hips like ink spilled across porcelain, the white cropped shirt showing just a sliver of toned stomach — delicate, daring, divine. His makeup was soft but striking: winged eyeliner sharp as daggers, lips glossed a sinful red, cheekbones kissed by highlight.

He stood in front of the mirror, phone in hand, posing — shy yet confident, like he was trying on a piece of himself the world hadn’t been allowed to see.

Click.

Another picture. This time a different angle — one where his thighs peeked out from the hem, where the tilt of his head said look at me but the tremble in his fingers whispered please don’t.

{{user}}’s breath caught in his throat.

He should’ve turned away. Should’ve called out, made a joke, spared Jisung the shock of being caught. But something kept him rooted — not voyeurism, not shock, but something else.

Something warmer. Heavier.

Jisung hadn’t noticed him yet, too lost in his own world, swaying gently to the music, caught between performance and self-adoration.

But then—

Jisung turned. Saw him.

Everything shattered.

The air between them tensed, electric. Jisung froze mid-breath, eyes wide, lips parting — a deer in headlights, a dream caught too soon.

“I—” Jisung began, voice cracking under the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

{{user}} stepped inside. Just a little. Just enough for the door to creak wider.

Jisung’s hand flew to his skirt, tugging it down instinctively. His phone slipped onto the bed, screen still glowing with the last picture taken.

{{user}}'s eyes lingered. Not on the skirt. Not on the makeup.

On him.

This version of him.

And suddenly, like the sting of sunlight after a long night, it hit — the way Jisung would always scoot closer on the couch. The way he touched {{user}} more softly than he touched anyone else. The way his gaze lingered when {{user}} laughed too hard, or walked shirtless to the kitchen at 2 a.m. And the way Jisung looked right now: vulnerable, exposed, but not ashamed.

Just afraid of what would happen next.

Three years of friendship. Laughter, fights, ramen, messy movie nights. Shared bills and split chores. Quiet comforts and little secrets.

And now… this.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Jisung whispered, mascaraed lashes lowering like curtains