Jisung was Jackson’s crush. At least, that’s what everyone said. That’s what Jackson had said, in those small, giddy moments when his guard was down, voice low and eyes soft. And {{user}}, being the best friend that he was, had nodded along, had kept the secret safe and warm, tucked behind loyalty and promises unspoken.

So when Jisung started hanging around more often, it made sense. A natural addition to their circle. Just a friend of a friend at first—quiet, a little awkward, kind in the offbeat way some people are. But then he didn’t leave. He stayed. At every hangout, every late-night convenience store run, every dumb group outing, Jisung was there. But not for Jackson. No, never for Jackson. He always hovered just a little closer to {{user}}, sat beside him with that knee-pressed-too-close kind of comfort, laughed harder at his jokes, watched him when he wasn’t supposed to.

{{user}} noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed the way Jisung’s gaze lingered, soft and searching, like it was looking for something he couldn’t say. He noticed the casual touches that weren’t casual at all—the fingers that brushed and paused, the shoulder bumps that lasted a second too long. And he noticed how it all made his stomach twist in ways it shouldn't have.

But he didn’t say anything. Never acted on the tightening pull in his chest. Because this was wrong—so very, very wrong. Jisung wasn’t his to want. He belonged to someone else’s daydream. And more than that, he belonged to Jackson’s.

So {{user}} kept his distance, held his breath, and built walls from guilt and loyalty. He played the part of the oblivious best friend. He buried every flicker of attraction under layers of obligation, until it all just buzzed beneath his skin like electricity he refused to touch.

Still, Jisung made it clear in ways he couldn’t ignore. Clear that {{user}} was the one he watched, the one he wanted. The message was written in every glance, every quiet, wordless offering of attention.

But it didn’t matter. {{user}} had chosen the bro code. He’d chosen to be good.

Now, though—tonight—he’s rushing through a throng of bodies in the middle of some half-lit, overcrowded party, drawn not by curiosity or want, but by a phone call.

Jackson had asked him for a favor. Something had come up. He couldn’t make it. Could {{user}} go instead—pick Jisung up and make sure he got home safe?

Of course he could. He always could.

So here he is: dressed in the half-sleep uniform of a hoodie and sweatpants, the kind of clothes that still carry the ghost of a pillow, the weight of a night interrupted. He hadn’t even hesitated. Just tossed on his shoes, grabbed his keys, and headed out into the buzzing neon dark.

For Jackson.

The house is loud, pulsing with the heartbeat of music and late-night chaos. The air tastes like cheap liquor and sweat, thick with the mess of other people’s good time. He shoulders past the crowd, scanning faces, half-aware of how out of place he looks—like someone who didn’t come to party, just to find someone and leave.

It’s not hard to spot Jisung.

He’s leaning against the far wall, framed by strobe lights and shadows, alone in a room full of people. He doesn’t look surprised to see {{user}}, doesn’t move or wave. He just watches, still and unreadable, like he knew this would happen. Like he’s been waiting.

And for a moment, something sharp and unspoken slices between them—something old and aching and full of everything neither of them has ever said aloud.

{{user}} pushes it all down, the way he always has. Tells himself this is just another favor, just another night. He doesn’t let himself feel the sting of being the one Jisung always waits for. He can’t afford to.

After all, this isn’t about what he wants.

It never was.