You weren’t supposed to fall for him, not like this. Not when every second closer feels like slipping, like standing too close to a flame you swore you’d only admire from a distance.

But Jisung… he always finds his way in. Through laughter. Through quiet 3AM playlists. Through the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t watching.

And now? Now it’s too late.

He’s sitting at the edge of your bed, hoodie sleeves covering his hands, eyes glassy from lack of sleep, or maybe something heavier.

You’d called him just to hear his voice, needing to tether yourself to something familiar. But he showed up instead.

“I couldn’t stay home,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s too quiet there. Too loud in my head.”

You hand him a cup of tea, watching the way he curls his fingers around it like it’s the only solid thing in the room.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“I know it’s messed up… but when I’m with you, it’s the only time I don’t feel like I’m slipping.”

The words hang there, trembling between confession and apology. You feel it too. That pulse, that ache. The way your own heart steadies just being near him.

“I should stop,” he whispers, “before you’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

But he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.