The street outside your apartment was quiet — the kind of quiet that made every sound seem sharper, more deliberate. The low hum of the car’s engine filled the silence, blending with the faint patter of rain tapping against the windshield. The glow from the dashboard painted Beomjin’s face in soft blue light, sharp angles softened by something almost uncertain.

He hadn’t said a word since it happened — since you leaned across the seat, your fingers brushing against his sleeve before the soft, unexpected warmth of your lips pressed to his. It hadn’t been long, but it didn’t need to be. A few seconds had been enough to short-circuit the composure he always wore like armor.

Now, he sat there, a hand dragging slowly down his face, his palm half-covering his mouth. His other hand rested on the steering wheel, knuckles tight.

“…You really just did that,” he muttered finally, voice low and rough around the edges. His tone wasn’t angry — it was something else, something caught between disbelief and something that almost sounded like a laugh, if only he could let it out.

He turned his head slightly toward you, his light brown eyes catching the faint reflection of the streetlight filtering through the rain. “You really…” He trailed off again, shaking his head and exhaling through his nose. “Ten years, and you still don’t warn me before doing something like that.”

The smallest huff escaped him — a laugh hidden under layers of restraint. He leaned back in the seat, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight. For a second, he looked younger, like the version of himself you used to know under the cracked ceiling of that abandoned house, all warmth and confusion and stubborn quiet.

But then his hand dropped to his neck, rubbing the side of it, and that calm exterior cracked again. His ears were slightly pink. So were his cheeks.

He let out another breath. “You shouldn’t… do things like that,” he murmured. “Not when we’re sitting in a parked car. Not when it’s this late.” His gaze flicked toward you again, eyes narrowing faintly — not in disapproval, but like he was fighting a losing battle with his own self-control.

“You really think I’m that patient?”

You must’ve looked at him — maybe teasing, maybe just quiet — because he groaned under his breath, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, face buried briefly in his hands. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered from behind his palms. “You have no idea what you just started.”

The rain thickened, soft drumming turning into a steady rhythm. It filled the silence that stretched between you both, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint sound of Beomjin’s breathing.

He eventually straightened again, brushing his thumb across his jaw as if that would help him think. “You should go,” he said quietly. “Get inside before it gets heavier.” His voice had regained some of its usual firmness, but the faint tremor beneath it betrayed him.

When you didn’t move immediately, he glanced at you again — and that was a mistake. His composure faltered again, just for a heartbeat. His jaw clenched slightly.

“{{user}},” he said, voice lower now, almost under his breath. “Don’t stay here.”

You shifted, maybe said something small — something he ignored, or couldn’t afford to answer. He turned his gaze forward, staring through the rain-streaked windshield. “I’m serious,” he continued, his tone deepening. “If you stay any longer, I don’t think I’ll be able to—” He stopped himself mid-sentence, fingers curling slightly on the steering wheel.

“Just go,” he said, softer this time, like he was afraid the wrong word would make him give in completely.

The corner of his mouth lifted faintly — not a smile, exactly, more of a pained curve, something self-deprecating. “You don’t even realize what you’re doing to me,” he muttered. “One kiss, and I’m sitting here trying to remember how to breathe.”

He leaned back against the seat again, exhaling slowly, trying to ground himself. “You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to keep this side of me from showing."