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Bad Ratio - Chapter 14 (FINISH)

Pairing: Jiyong x Reader Content Warning: Explicit sexual content including multiple sex scenes (intimate and rough/desperate), vaginal sex, emotional intensity, heavy angst, arguments/conflict, discussions of separation, crying during sex, grief, possessive language, strong language, emotionally difficult goodbye scenes. Potentially distressing content. Adults only. Minors DNI.

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Chapter 14 - S(e)oul Mate — Disconnected Word Count: 11,742

The light slipping into the bedroom through the not-quite-closed curtains was soft, golden. You woke up first. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Jiyong’s calm, steady breathing. Your body ached in places you hadn’t even known existed, your muscles were tired, but in your chest there was still a pleasant warmth—not heaviness, more like peace.

Slowly, you turned onto your side. Jiyong was asleep, his face relaxed, lips slightly parted. His hair was a mess, black strands falling over his forehead. You watched him for a while. You never would’ve admitted that one day you’d want to stay in a moment like this longer than necessary. And yet now you caught yourself wishing time would pause, just for a little while.

You carefully slipped out from under his arm so you wouldn’t wake him. As you did, the necklace around your neck caught briefly on his hand and you froze. Your gaze dropped to where the small pendant rested against your skin, catching the light. Your protests from the night before—that you couldn’t accept it—suddenly felt almost ridiculous.

You got up and walked slowly to the bathroom. The cold water on your face woke you up a little, and when you came back, you noticed Jiyong stirring. His hand reached for the empty space beside him and he mumbled something in his sleep. You smiled. You slipped back into bed and let him pull you toward him again, half-asleep. His body was warm, his breathing calm. Whatever was waiting for you, right now you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

You slowly lifted your hand and let your fingertips trace along his arm. His skin was warm and solid, and even though he was asleep, he shifted slightly. You hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and brushed a light kiss against his shoulder. When you kissed his jaw a moment later, he moved more. He opened his eyes, heavy with sleep, and stared at you for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. Then the corners of his mouth lifted.

“Morning,” he whispered.

You smiled softly. “Morning,” you echoed. Your voice sounded gentler than you were used to—even to yourself.

Jiyong pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair. “That’s not how you usually wake me up,” he mumbled.

You laughed and placed your palm on his chest. “Maybe I’m trying something new.”

He laughed, tired. His hand slid over your back, fingers stopping at the chain around your neck. He held it there for a moment, letting the pendant run between his fingers before he spoke. “So… last night…”

You tensed slightly but didn’t look away. “Yeah. Last night.”

His smile shifted into something more thoughtful, more searching. “You said it was the best you’ve ever had.” It wasn’t a question—more a statement, a reminder.

You bit your lip, then nodded. “I did. And I meant it.” Your voice was calm. “Nothing… nothing was ever that intense. I don’t think anything ever will be.”

Jiyong was quiet for a moment, his fingers still brushing the pendant. Then he pulled you closer, his forehead touching yours. “You have no idea how that sounds to me,” he murmured.

You smiled, softer this time. “Then maybe you shouldn’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to.”

That familiar smile, with that particular spark in his eyes, returned. “Touché.”

You lay there in silence for a while, until you spoke again, lighter this time. “So… breakfast? Am I supposed to feed you as a thank-you for completely destroying my body last night?”

Jiyong laughed, ran a hand over his face, and shook his head. “That’s one way to put it.”

The laughter slowly faded. Jiyong stretched and leaned back against the headboard, while you stayed on your side, your gaze drifting aimlessly around the room. Your fingers brushed over the chain at your neck.

“You know,” you said after a moment, “there isn’t much time left. My trip’s almost over.”

Jiyong turned to look at you, his expression hard to read. He didn’t answer right away—just rubbed his temple and exhaled through his nose. “Yeah,” he said finally.

That single word hurt more than you expected. You moved closer again, resting your hand on his chest. “I keep thinking about it,” you admitted quietly. “That when I go back, it’ll be like none of this ever happened. Like it’ll just… vanish.”

His hand slid instinctively to your back, tracing along your bare spine down to your waist. “It won’t vanish,” he said, his voice deeper than usual. “You’ll remember. I’ll remember.” A short pause. “Doesn’t mean it’ll be easier.”

You swallowed. “That’s the thing. Part of me wishes I’d never met you... Because then I wouldn’t have to think about what happens when I leave.”

Jiyong was silent for a moment, watching you. “You don’t get to choose the timing,” he said calmly, almost resigned. “Life doesn’t work like that. You got this, I got you. For now.”

The silence grew thick, broken only by your breathing and the sounds of the city outside the window. You pressed your face into the space between his neck and shoulder. You felt like if you stayed quiet, you’d explode.

“I don’t want this to end,” you finally said. The words were quiet, but there was no trace of your usual humor or sarcasm in them. Just raw truth you’d been trying to keep buried.

Jiyong froze. His hand on your back stopped moving.

“Y/N,” he started softly. “You know it has to. You’ll leave, I’ll stay. That’s reality...”

“I know,” you cut in quickly, almost desperately. You pulled back so you could look at him. “I know that. But it doesn’t stop me from wishing I could stay. Just… longer. Just enough to know what this really is.”

Jiyong’s gaze stayed on you—long, intense. Finally, he exhaled, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

“Maybe it’s supposed to be hard, maybe that’s the point,” you whispered.

Jiyong leaned back down, resting his forehead against yours. “If you keep going like this… it’s going to hurt like hell when you leave.”

“It already does,” you admitted.

Jiyong was still looking at you, his forehead resting against yours. With a slow, calm movement, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to yours. It wasn’t like the kisses from the night before—no hunger, no power play. It was soft, long, painfully aware. His lips and tongue moved slowly. You shivered, closed your eyes, and pressed your whole body against his. The air around you was charged with something that couldn’t be explained or stopped by reason—or fear.

The kiss was still lingering on your lips when the room was suddenly filled with the harsh buzz of your phone. Sharp, intrusive—a sound that cut between you like a cold blade. You opened your eyes and froze, but didn’t move. The phone vibrated on the nightstand beside the bed, persistent, relentless.

Jiyong turned his head slightly in that direction and frowned. Then he looked back at you, his hand settling on your hip.

“You should get that,” he said quietly.

“No,” you answered firmly, without pulling away. You stayed pressed against him, forehead still against his, your breath mixing with his. “Not now. I don’t care who it is.”

“Could be important,” he said, but he didn’t move either. His hand stayed on your hip.

You shook your head. “It can wait. I’m not moving.”

The phone kept buzzing, annoying and insistent, until it finally went silent. The room filled with quiet again—heavy, but different than before. Your decision to stay, to ignore the outside world, created a bubble around the two of you, fragile and yet solid.

Jiyong studied you, his gaze sharper, more searching. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re impossible,” he whispered, his voice vibrating right at your lips.

“Maybe,” you purred. “But I’m still not moving.”

Instead of answering, he kissed you again. This time more urgently, like he needed to reassure himself that the outside world could wait a little longer.

“If I don’t make breakfast now, you’ll blame me for starving you,” you said after a moment, pulling away. You got up slowly and walked into the kitchen. You found a few things—stuff Jiyong had probably bought. Eggs, toast, some vegetables. Nothing fancy. It didn’t really matter. You just wanted to bring a bit of normalcy into this very un-normal situation.

Jiyong appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, hair still messy. He just watched you, arms crossed over his chest.

“What?” you turned toward him when you noticed his stare. “Never seen someone cook before?”

He didn’t answer, just kept watching you with that knowing smile. You toasted the bread, flipped the eggs in the pan almost automatically. Jiyong moved to a bar stool by the counter, propped his elbows on it, his chin resting in his hand. He watched you, the corners of his mouth slightly lifted.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you muttered over your shoulder without turning around.

“Like what?” he asked innocently.

“Like I’m about to burn your kitchen down,” you shot back—though you were smiling (which he obviously couldn’t see).

“Am I wrong?” he said with mock seriousness. “I saw the way you fought with the frying pan.”

You rolled your eyes, scooped the eggs onto a plate, and set it in front of him. “Eat before I decide to throw it at you.”

“Romantic,” he chuckled. “Breakfast made with sarcasm and violence. My favorite combination.”

“Just shut up and eat,” you laughed, sitting down next to him and reaching for your own plate.

You ate in silence for a while. The silence felt… normal. Ordinary.

“Not bad,” Jiyong muttered after a moment, his mouth full.

“Excuse me?” you turned to look at him.

He swallowed calmly, smirked, and raised a finger to emphasize his words. “I said… not bad. For someone who almost destroyed my kitchen.”

“One more word,” you raised your own finger—this time as a warning, “and next time you’re back to instant noodles.”

After breakfast, you lingered in the kitchen for a bit longer. Neither of you seemed eager to grab the dishes and start cleaning. Jiyong leaned back against the counter, a mug of coffee in his hand. You were still sitting across from him, bare feet tucked up on the chair, his T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. It was calm.

Then his phone vibrated on the table.

You both looked at it at the same time. Jiyong sighed, picked it up, and brought it to his ear. The conversation was short, in Korean—quick, clipped. You didn’t need to understand the words. His expression said everything.

He set the mug down and looked at you. “Manager. I need to get to the studio.”

You nodded, even though it stung. “Of course.”

“I’ll try to be back as soon as I can,” he continued. He stepped closer, placed a hand at the nape of your neck, and leaned down to press a brief kiss into your hair. “You can… you can stay here if you want. Wait for me. Unless you’ve got some… tourist plans more interesting than me.”

You returned his smirk, slipped his hand out of your hair, and laced your fingers with his. “I think I’ll risk the boredom. I’ll wait.”

A moment later, Jiyong grabbed his jacket and keys. Right before leaving, he turned back to you one last time.

“Don’t get lost here,” he said lightly—and before you could reply, he was gone.

You stayed sitting in the kitchen for a while, absorbing the silence that spread through the apartment after his departure. At first, it felt silly to stay there alone—you were just a guest, a stranger, really—but with your return home drawing closer, it somehow felt right… simply waiting for him to come back.

Eventually, you stood up and slowly walked into the living room. The couch was rumpled and untidy, so you draped a blanket over it and stood there for a moment, running your hand over the fabric as if you were trying to memorize its texture, every thread.

You moved on, peeking carefully—almost shyly—into corners you hadn’t seen before, places that might tell you more about their owner. The apartment felt bigger than you had expected. The bookshelf held a few old, well-worn volumes in Korean, a handful in English.

You stopped at a shelf filled with small objects. Framed photos, little figurines—just personal things. Your eyes lingered before you allowed your hand to move closer. One photo caught your attention: five young guys—boys, really—grinning from ear to ear. You tried to imagine what that time must have been like for him, how he might have felt then, and how different it must be now. He had never talked about it. Not once. And it had seemed impolite to ask. You figured he’d bring it up himself if he wanted to.

You sat down on the couch, resting your head against the backrest, lost in thought. Everything around you smelled like him—or at least it felt that way. Your hand drifted to the pendant at your neck. You closed your eyes and, for a moment, let yourself imagine that you belonged here. That this wasn’t just a temporary stop between these days and your flight home—but a place you returned to.

You laughed quietly at yourself. It was childish. Naive. That’s not how the adult world works. But in that moment, you decided you would stay. You would wait until he came back. He’d promised he would, as soon as he could.

The clock on the wall ticked on, time stretching longer than usual. You tried to keep yourself occupied—put on some music, flipped through books on the shelf, even stood by the window for a while, watching the city move below. But as minutes turned into hours, it became clear that Jiyong’s return was being delayed.

Your phone lay on the table. You glanced at it now and then, but no message came. Images from the night before mixed with the laughter over breakfast—and with what you’d said to him. Maybe you shouldn’t have said it. Maybe it was too much. Maybe he was laughing about it now. But it couldn’t be taken back.

You walked through the apartment one more time, then finally curled up on the couch. Your eyes kept closing, no matter how much you fought it. Waiting exhausted you more than any day spent exploring the city. In the end, you fell asleep, wrapped in a blanket, your head on a pillow that smelled like him.

***

The door unlocked quietly long after midnight. Jiyong stepped inside, took off his cap and jacket, and paused in the hallway. He was exhausted—today had been more than he’d expected. He’d assumed you would’ve left after waiting a few hours, but still, a part of him had hoped that maybe…

He walked into the living room and saw you asleep on the couch. Curled up in a blanket, your head buried in a pillow. He stood there for a moment, just watching. Then he set the bag of food he’d picked up on the way home on the counter. He returned to you quietly, crouched down, and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

“You really waited,” he murmured, more to himself than for you to hear.

You didn’t move. You were fast asleep, your breathing calm and steady. Jiyong hesitated, then took another blanket from the back of the couch and lay down beside you. His eyes were closing from exhaustion, but before he fell asleep, he looked at your face. For the first time all day, he felt like he’d come back somewhere he actually wanted to be.

***

Morning light filtered in softly. The city had been awake for a long time—it never really slept—but inside, there was a strange stillness. You stirred first. Sleepily, you blinked as you realized where you were. You turned your head slightly and nearly screamed when you saw Jiyong asleep beside you. His breathing was deep and calm. You had no idea when he’d come home—you’d slept hard.

A moment later, Jiyong woke up too.

“Morning,” he murmured, still half-asleep.

“Morning.”

“I’m sorry. You didn’t have to wait,” he said quietly as he slowly surfaced back into reality.

“I wanted to. Even if it meant falling asleep on your couch,” you tried to smile. After a moment, you sighed lightly as you stretched. “By the way… your couch is terrible for sleeping. You should really consider getting a new one.”

Jiyong slowly turned his head toward you. For a second, he looked confused—then he grinned. “Really? You pass out drooling on my pillow and now you’re criticizing my furniture?”

“I did not drool,” you shot back instantly, defensive—though you could feel your face heating up.

“Oh, you did,” he added calmly, amusement clear in his voice now. “I should’ve taken a picture. For evidence.”

You rolled your eyes and hit him with the pillow. Jiyong laughed, grabbed it, and hugged it to his chest.

“Maybe next time I’ll just take your bed and you can sleep on this death trap,” you muttered irritably, trying to get up from the soft couch.

“We’ll see about that,” he replied casually, resting his head back on the pillow.

Your stomach tightened. Time was racing, and you knew you had to go back to the Airbnb—to your friend. She’d been calling, texting. There was something reproachful in her tone, mixed with concern. She knew you well. She knew you’d tell her everything—just not now. Someday.

You declined breakfast and told Jiyong you had to go, that you needed to start getting ready and pack at least some of your things. You promised it wouldn’t take long.

***

You sat silently on the bed at the Airbnb, your open suitcase beneath you. You and your friend managed to pack the essentials—clothes, boxes of small souvenirs that took up far more space than they should have. Everything you wouldn’t need before the flight was packed and ready. That was one of the reasons the heavy stone settled in your chest, impossible to shake.

You’d tried to stay cheerful the last few days, acting like everything was fine. You hadn’t told your friend anything—certainly not Jiyong. But the closer your departure came, the harder it became. Your mood hovered near freezing, even as you hid it behind smiles and irony.

It was already getting dark when your phone vibrated on the table.

J: I’ve got the night off. That’s all we’ve got left. Come over. Let’s make them ours.

You stared at the screen for a long time, your finger trembling above the keyboard. You knew saying no would be easier. That it might hurt less. But it didn’t feel fair to leave without saying goodbye… and you knew how it would haunt you later, how you hadn’t said everything you wanted to.

Y/N: Okay. I’ll come.

You told your friend you were going for a walk, maybe to look for something interesting to buy. She nodded—but she didn’t believe you. She knew you’d come back empty-handed, with an empty look on your face.

You stepped outside. The evening air felt colder than usual. The noise of the city blended together, but it felt like you were walking through a tunnel, hearing nothing but your own thoughts.

When you reached Jiyong’s place, he was already waiting. He looked different than usual—or maybe you were just telling yourself that. He reached out his hand without a word, and you took it without hesitation. Words weren’t necessary.

“You’re here,” he said finally, after a long silence.

“I am,” you replied, then added, “But not for long.”

He tightened his grip on your hand. You didn’t show anything on the outside—the worst of it was happening inside you. It was your second-to-last evening. You both felt the weight of it, even if neither of you could name it out loud.

Before Jiyong sat down, he opened a bottle of wine. You broke the silence. You were standing next to the couch, still wearing your jacket. You hesitated for too long. You reminded yourself that what you were about to say might sound foolish—but you couldn’t leave without saying it. Too many times in your life you’d regretted not speaking your truth, not saying what you felt. That regret was still lodged deep inside you.

“I haven’t met many people like you,” you said quietly, but firmly. “Actually… I don’t think there are many people like you at all. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s true.”

Jiyong paused for a moment and slowly set the bottle down on the table. He looked at you as if he were waiting to see how your words would end, where you were going to take this.

“I want to say this now. Thank you. For… for everything. You probably don’t even realize it, but I’ve learned a lot from you. Even if it doesn’t look like it from the outside,” you continued.

For a moment, complete silence settled between you. Jiyong walked over slowly, slipped your jacket off your shoulders, and placed it over the back of the couch. He cupped your face between his fingers and gently forced you to look up at him.

“You think I don’t see it?” he asked. “Every time you push back. Every time you laugh at something stupid I say. Every time you look at me like you’re not sure whether you want to slap me or kiss me. I see it. And I’ve learned too.”

You were standing so close that you could feel his breath on your face, but you didn’t look away.

“You know,” you said softly, your fingers brushing over his cheek, “it doesn’t even matter anymore what I say. I’ll be gone soon. I don’t have to hide. I don’t have to pretend.”

Jiyong stayed completely still, his eyes locked on yours.

You took a deep breath. “I really… I really like you. More than I should. You feel like a pure soul to me. Untouched, unspoiled, like…like the world hasn’t broken you yet.” Your voice faltered slightly, but you didn’t stop. “And maybe that’s why I can’t stop… caring.”

It was a confession that would have terrified you before, but now you weren’t afraid. You had nothing left to lose.

Jiyong stayed silent. After a moment, he sat down on the couch and tugged your hand so you sat beside him.

“Pure?” he asked almost incredulously, shaking his head. “If only you knew. You see me more clearly than I see myself,” he said, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand, never breaking eye contact. He paused, his jaw tightening before he continued. “I’ve lied to people I loved. I’ve hurt people who trusted me. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes because I was too selfish to see what they needed. And I’ve built this whole image everyone knows me by—the strong, unshakable, untouchable version of me. But that’s not me. Not all of me...”

The words came slower, heavier than anything he’d said before.

“You think I’m unspoiled?” he went on. “The truth is… I was spoiled a long time ago. By fame. By expectations. By mistakes. Sometimes I don’t even know who I’d be without all of it.”

You listened quietly, not interrupting him. Just letting him say everything he needed to—just like he had given you space to do.

“But then you show up,” he added softly, “and you look at me like I’m still that kid who wanted nothing more than to make music and laugh with his friends. Like you see something I stopped believing was even there.”

When he fell silent, the air between you felt heavy with truth—confessions that could no longer be taken back. Jiyong bit his lip and looked at you as if he expected judgment, as if the “purity” you saw in him would finally crumble.

“You talk about mistakes like they’re written all over you,” you said quietly. “But you know what? I’d have to look for them. Really look. Because when I look at you… that’s not what I see.”

Jiyong held his breath for a moment. He stared at you as if he didn’t quite believe you—and yet wanted to believe you more than anything.

“I see someone who works harder than anyone else. Someone who… yes, maybe hides behind masks, but still finds a way to make people laugh. To inspire them. You think that’s being spoiled? To me, that’s strength. That’s the part of you that’s still unbroken, no matter what’s happened.”

You lowered your gaze for just a second, then looked back at him. “And if you’ve hurt people, if you’ve lied… so what? Everyone has. But you—” you placed your fingers against his chest, “—you’re not defined by that, not for me. For me, you’re still one of the most real people I’ve ever met. And I wouldn’t change that. Not even if I could.”

Jiyong’s eyes were dark, his expression tense—maybe conflicted, maybe overwhelmed. Then he exhaled sharply, and his lips curved into a smile so soft it almost didn’t seem real.

“You’re either blind,” he murmured as he leaned closer, “or the bravest person I know.”

He kept that strangely sincere smile, but didn’t kiss you yet. As if there was still more that needed to be said. He took your hand—still resting on his chest—and squeezed it gently.

“Do you know why I don’t talk about this? About me. About what I’ve done? Because people don’t want to hear it. They want the picture. The perfect version. Anything less ruins the illusion.”

You watched him, your head tilted slightly.

“And then you came along,” he continued steadily. “You didn’t ask for the picture. You looked at the mess and didn’t run away. That… scared me. Still does. But maybe… maybe it’s the only real thing I’ve had in a long time.”

You smiled—openly, honestly. “Good. Because I didn’t want the picture. I wanted you. Even if I didn’t know what that meant at the beginning.”

You sat there in silence, hands intertwined. The atmosphere was different now—not easier, just more honest. You felt Jiyong’s thumb slowly stroking the back of your hand. A simple, repetitive motion that sent warmth through your entire body. When he turned toward you fully, your eyes met. He leaned in and kissed you—gently, almost restrained. You leaned into him, feeling your body finally relax. You’d said everything you needed to say. At least a little weight had lifted. His hand moved to your face, the other to your back, pulling you closer until you shifted onto his lap.

Your kisses deepened—lips, tongue, teeth, breath—but they stayed slow. Your fingers slid into his hair as you breathed him in. His lips moved to your neck and then back to your mouth.

You made your way to the bedroom. This time it wasn't a storm—it was a wave. Slow. Intentional. Every breath, every touch, every squeeze of fingers carried meaning. At least that's how it felt to you.

The bedroom was dim, only the city lights filtering through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the walls. Jiyong closed the door behind you with a quiet click that felt too final. For a moment, you both just stood there, facing each other in the half-light.

"Come here," he said softly, reaching out his hand.

You took it, letting him pull you close. His other hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone as he looked at you—really looked at you—like he was trying to memorize every detail.

"What?" you whispered, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

"Just... looking… making sure I remember."

Your throat tightened. "Jiyong—"

He kissed you before you could finish, cutting off whatever you were about to say. The kiss was slow, achingly tender, his lips moving against yours like he had all the time in the world even though you both knew he didn't.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull it over his head, then immediately returned to you, his fingers working at the buttons of your blouse with careful precision.

"I want to see you," he murmured against your lips. "All of you. I want to remember every inch."

Each button he undid felt deliberate, unhurried. When your blouse finally fell open, he pushed it off your shoulders and let it drop to the floor. His hands traced the path it took—over your shoulders, down your arms, across your collarbone.

"You're beautiful," he said quietly, like it was a fact he needed to state. "I don't think I've told you that enough."

"You have," you managed, though your voice was unsteady.

"Not enough… Never enough."

His hands moved to your jeans, unbuttoning them with the same careful attention. Every movement felt significant, weighted with the knowledge that this was one of your last times. When you were finally naked, standing in front of him in just the necklace he'd given you, he stepped back slightly.

"Perfect," he breathed. "You're perfect."

You reached for him, needing to touch him, needing to ground yourself in something physical. Your fingers worked at his belt, his jeans, until he was bare too. When you were both naked, you stood there for a moment, just looking at each other in the dim light.

"I don't want to forget this," you whispered. "Any of this. The way you look right now. The way you're looking at me."

"You won't," he said, pulling you back against him. "And neither will I."

He guided you to the bed, his hands gentle but sure. When you were both lying down, he hovered over you, propped on one elbow beside your head, his other hand roaming over your face, your neck, your chest.

"Look at me," he whispered, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw.

"I am. I haven't looked away once," you whispered back, then pulled him down by the nape of his neck and kissed him.

The kiss deepened slowly, your tongues moving together in a rhythm that felt like a conversation—questions and answers, promises and regrets, all without words. His hand moved from your chest down over your stomach, fingers trailing across your skin with reverent slowness.

When his hand finally moved between your thighs, you gasped into his mouth. He touched you gently at first, just exploring, relearning the geography of your body like it might have changed since the last time.

"You're already wet," he murmured against your lips, his fingers sliding through your arousal. "Does this mean you want me as much as I want you?"

"More," you breathed. "I want you more than I can say."

His fingers circled your clit slowly, applying just enough pressure to make your hips lift off the bed. "I want to take my time," he said. "I want this to last."

"Then take your time," you managed, even though your body was already screaming for more. "We have all night."

But even as you said it, you both knew it wasn't true. You had hours, maybe. Not enough. Never enough.

He continued his slow exploration, his fingers moving between gentle circles and deeper pressure, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan. Your hands roamed over his back, tracing the muscles there, feeling them flex beneath your palms.

"I love the sounds you make," he murmured, his lips finding your neck. "Every little gasp, every moan. I want to remember all of them."

"Jiyong," you breathed, your fingers sliding into his hair. "Please."

"Please what?" His fingers stilled, waiting.

"Please... I need you. Not just your fingers. You. All of you."

He lifted his head to look at you, and in the dim light, you could see something raw in his eyes—vulnerability mixed with desire, tenderness mixed with desperation.

"Are you sure?" he asked quietly. "Because once I'm inside you... once we do this... I don't know if I can let go."

"Then don't," you whispered, pulling him closer. "Don't let go. Not tonight."

He kissed you again as he positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. For a moment, he just stayed there, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"I'm going to remember this," he said softly. "The way you feel. The way you look at me. Everything."

"So will I," you promised.

Then slowly—so slowly it almost hurt—he pushed inside. You both let out shaky breaths as he filled you, your bodies joining in a way that felt like more than just physical. Your eyes stayed locked on his, neither of you looking away.

"God," he breathed when he was fully inside you. "You feel... perfect. Like you were made for me."

"Maybe I was…" you whispered, and even though you knew it was dangerous to say things like that, you meant it.

He started moving, his thrusts slow and deep, each one deliberate. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, pinning your hand to the pillow beside your head. The intimacy of it—the eye contact, the joined hands, the gentle rhythm—was almost overwhelming.

"I don't want to be anyone else right now," he whispered against your neck as he moved inside you. "No one but the man in this bed with you. Just... this. Just us."

"Then don't be," you breathed between moans, wrapping your legs around his hips as if trying to anchor him to you. "Just be here. With me."

Your free hand wandered over his back, stroking, scratching lightly, feeling every movement of his muscles as he thrust into you. When your nails dug in a little deeper, Jiyong's pace picked up slightly, and you met him with every movement.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured, his lips brushing your ear. "Taking me so perfectly. Like you never want to let me go."

"I don't," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I don't want to let you go."

His rhythm faltered for just a second, and when he pulled back to look at you, his eyes were glassy. "Don't say that," he whispered roughly. "Don't make this harder."

"I'm sorry, I—"

He kissed you, cutting off your apology. "No. Don't be sorry. Just... feel this. Feel us. Right now. That's all we have."

He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and his next thrust hit that perfect spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You cried out, your back arching off the bed.

"There?" he asked, even though he clearly knew the answer. "Right there?"

"Yes—god, yes—"

He maintained that angle, his thrusts still slow but hitting deep every time. The pleasure built gradually, not the sharp spike of rougher sex but a slow, rolling wave that threatened to pull you under.

"I can feel you getting close," he murmured, his hand releasing yours to cup your face. "Your body's trembling. You're clenching around me so tight."

"I'm—I'm so close—"

"Look at me," he commanded softly. "When you come, I want to see it. I want to watch you fall apart."

You forced your eyes to stay open, locked on his, even as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak. His thumb brushed across your cheek, and you realized with a start that you were crying—silent tears sliding down your temples into your hair.

"Hey," he said gently, his rhythm never faltering. "It's okay. I've got you…God... you make it hard to think," he whispered shakily as he moved inside you, his own control starting to slip.

"Then don't think. Just breathe with me," you moaned at his lips, lifting yourself to kiss him again.

The combination of his tender words and the steady, deep thrusts finally pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm rolled through you like a wave—not violent, but all-encompassing, every nerve ending lighting up as you came around him. You kept your eyes locked on his the whole time, letting him see everything you were feeling.

"That's it," he breathed, his own rhythm becoming less controlled. "That's so beautiful. You're so—fuck—"

His thrusts grew more chaotic, his breathing uneven. "Y/N—" he groaned as he got close.

You dug your nails into his back and tilted your head back, feeling him hit that exact spot that made you moan louder. "I'm here," you whispered. "I'm right here with you."

He came with a broken sound, burying his face in your neck as he thrust into you one final time. You felt him pulse inside you, felt his whole body shudder, and held him through it, your fingers gentle in his hair now.

You came almost at the same time. You kept Jiyong inside you, close to you, returning every kiss he gave you. It was intimate. Deep. More than just physical—it felt like you were trying to merge souls, to become so intertwined that separating would be impossible.

For a long time after, you just lay there, bodies still joined, neither of you willing to break the connection. His weight on you was comfortable, grounding. Real.

"I don't want to move," he murmured eventually. "If I move, time starts again."

"Then don't move," you whispered, your fingers tracing patterns on his back. "Not yet."

But eventually, he did. He carefully pulled out, both of you wincing at the loss, and rolled to lie beside you. Immediately, he pulled you against him, arranging your body so you were tucked perfectly into his side, your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you.

"That was..." you started, but couldn't find the words.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly. "It was."

You lay in comfortable silence, your fingers absently playing with the pendant around your neck. His hand came up to cover yours, stilling your movements.

"You're still wearing it," he said softly.

"Of course I am. I haven't taken it off since you put it on me."

"Will you..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the question. "Will you keep wearing it? After?"

You turned to look up at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. "Yes," you said firmly. "I'll wear it always. So I never forget this, never forget you..."

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Neither of you said anything else, but you both knew—this night, this moment, this feeling—it would stay with you forever. You knew you would carry this night with you as one of the strongest memories of your trip. Not just the physical act, but everything surrounding it—the tenderness, the desperation, the love neither of you dared to name out loud.

***

You woke up far too early—something that had become your new routine these past days. Your body seemed determined to squeeze everything out of each day: waking early, falling asleep late. For a while, you didn’t dare move. The room was still dim. Jiyong was asleep, deeply and peacefully.

You turned onto your side and watched him for a long time. Thoughts ran through your mind, one after another. Last night’s words. His touch. That quiet, slow rhythm… and then the thought you could no longer push away: there was one last day, one last night left. In the morning, you would have to leave. Not for a few hours. Not for a few days. Forever.

You took a deep breath and clenched the blanket in your fingers. You knew you’d never say it out loud, but from the moment you crossed his threshold, you’d known this moment would come. And now it was here.

You closed your eyes for just a second—until Jiyong stirred slightly, reached for you in his sleep, and pulled you closer. He was still asleep.

You let yourself be drawn into his arms, let yourself be surrounded by him. For a moment, you allowed yourself to pretend this wasn’t the last day. That time had stopped right here, right now.

You lay in his arms, but you didn’t fall back asleep. You focused only on keeping your breathing calm. When Jiyong finally woke, your eyes met. You didn’t need to say anything—both of you knew exactly what tomorrow would bring.

“Morning,” he murmured hoarsely, his fingers tracing your back. There was no usual lightness in his voice—just an attempt to hold something back.

“Morning,” you replied softly, forcing a small smile.

Getting out of bed felt hard. Deciding what to do with the day felt hard. Even speaking felt hard. The space suddenly felt too small. In the end, you got up first and went to the kitchen to make coffee. You had no appetite for breakfast, and Jiyong clearly didn’t either.

He watched you, then asked calmly but directly, “So what do we do with the time we have left?”

You set the mug down in front of him and paused mid-motion, as if thinking it through. After a moment of silence, you answered, “Anything. Everything. Or nothing. It doesn’t matter, does it? Tomorrow it’s over anyway.”

You turned back to the counter to make your own coffee. The words hung between you like smoke. Jiyong stepped up behind you, took the mug from your hands, and set it aside. He turned you to face him and wrapped his arms around you.

“Then let’s not waste a second,” he said into your hair.

You decided you couldn’t stay trapped between four walls. It would be too heavy, too suffocating. So despite the obvious risk, Jiyong suggested you go out.

You chose a quieter neighborhood, away from the rush. Narrow streets with small cafés, bakeries, a few little shops. You sat together in the corner of a tiny café, cradling your mug with both hands as if you were trying to draw all the warmth out of it. Jiyong sat across from you, slowly stirring a plain black coffee. You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

After the café, you walked to a park. You sat on a bench tucked between bushes, watching people pass by. You felt like you were running on autopilot, like your body had decided to shut down for a while.

“I’ll miss this,” slipped out of you suddenly. Maybe you’d meant to keep it inside, but the words escaped before you could stop them.

“This?” Jiyong looked at you. “Or me?”

You turned your head toward him, your eyes glistening. You shrugged and answered simply, “Both.”

You kept walking, though not far. You stopped at a street stall where you bought fried pancakes wrapped in paper. The food was hot, greasy, and completely wrong for a delicate goodbye. Or maybe it was exactly right for reality.

When you headed back to Jiyong’s place in the late afternoon, your steps were slow, like you were trying to stretch every second. The last night.

When the door closed behind you, the silence felt different than usual. Heavier. Final. Jiyong turned to you, his eyes dark and restless. He didn't speak. He just grabbed your waist and pressed you back against the door. The kiss he gave you wasn't gentle. It was hungry. Raw. Desperate. His tongue tangled with yours so fiercely you forgot to breathe. And still, you met him just as hard, fingers sliding into his hair, letting him take the lead.

But this time there was something else underneath the hunger—anger. Grief. The knowledge that this was the last time, and nothing either of you could do would change that.

"I fucking hate this," he growled against your lips, his hands already working at your clothes. "I hate that you're leaving. I hate that I can't stop you. I hate—"

You grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you. "Then show me. Show me how much you hate it."

Something snapped in his eyes. He spun you around roughly, pressing your front against the door, his body pinning you there. "You want to see how much I hate this?" His voice was rough, almost unrecognizable. "Fine."

His hands were everywhere—yanking your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra with practiced ease, shoving your jeans and underwear down your legs until you kicked them off. Every movement was urgent, almost violent, like he was fighting against time itself.

When you were naked, he spun you back around and immediately his mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking, marking you. "Everyone's going to see these," he said between bites. "Everyone's going to know someone claimed you before you left."

"Good," you gasped, your nails digging into his still-clothed shoulders. "I want them to."

He pulled back just long enough to strip off his own clothes, and then he was lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you harder against the door. His cock was already hard, pressing against your entrance.

"Last chance to tell me to slow down," he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

"Don't you dare slow down," you hissed. "Don't you dare treat me like I'm fragile. I'm not. Not tonight."

He thrust into you in one hard motion, burying himself completely. You both cried out—not from pleasure alone but from something deeper, more painful.

"Fuck," he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "You feel—god, you feel so good. Too good. How am I supposed to—"

"Don't think," you cut him off, your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling hard. "Just fuck me. Like it's the last time. Because it is."

The reminder seemed to break something in him. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, setting a brutal pace that had you gasping. The door shook with each thrust, and somewhere in the back of your mind you hoped his neighbors couldn't hear, but mostly you didn't care.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "You wanted it rough? Wanted me to fuck you like I'm angry?"

"Yes—fuck, yes—"

"I am angry," he said, punctuating each word with a particularly hard thrust. "I'm so fucking angry I can't see straight. Angry at you for leaving. Angry at myself for caring. Angry at—"

"I know," you gasped, wrapping your legs tighter around him. "I'm angry too. So use me. Take it out on me."

His rhythm became almost punishing, each thrust driving you harder against the door. Your back would be bruised tomorrow—red marks from the door, finger-shaped bruises on your hips, bite marks on your neck. You'd carry the evidence of this night on your skin.

"You're going to leave me marked up too," he said, reading your thoughts. Your nails were raking down his back hard enough to leave angry red lines. "Fair's fair, I guess."

He suddenly pulled out, and before you could protest, he was setting you down and spinning you around again. "Hands on the door," he commanded. "Spread your legs."

You obeyed, bracing yourself against the door. You felt him behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other running possessively down your spine.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough with desire and something darker. "So fucking perfect. So ready for me. Your cunt is dripping down your thighs."

The crude words sent a shock of arousal through you. "Then stop talking and do something about it."

He thrust back into you from behind, the new angle even deeper than before. You cried out, your hands scrabbling against the smooth door for purchase as he pounded into you.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it. Take all of it. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be fucked so hard you can't walk tomorrow? So every step on that plane reminds you of me?"

"Yes—god, yes—I want to feel you for days—"

His hand came around to your throat, not squeezing but just resting there—a reminder of his control. "Say my name," he demanded. "Every time I thrust into you, I want to hear my name."

"Jiyong—" you gasped as he slammed into you.

"Louder."

"Jiyong!" you cried out, louder this time.

"Again. Like you mean it. Like you're never going to forget it."

"Jiyong—fuck—Jiyong—please—"

He released your throat and grabbed your hips with both hands, pulling you back to meet each brutal thrust. The sound of flesh hitting flesh filled the room, mixed with your gasps and his rough breathing.

"I hate that I need you," he said suddenly, his voice breaking slightly on the last word.

You turned your head, trying to see him. "Say it again."

"I hate that I need you," he repeated, slower this time. "I hate that you got under my skin. I hate that losing you feels like—" He cut himself off with a particularly vicious thrust that made you both groan.

"Feels like what?" you pushed, even though your voice was barely coherent.

"Like losing a part of myself I didn't know I had."

The admission hung in the air between you, raw and honest. You pushed back from the door, forcing him to adjust, and then reached behind you to grab his hip, encouraging him to keep moving.

"Then take it out on me," you said again. "All that hatred, all that anger—give it to me. I can take it."

He practically carried you to the bedroom, never fully pulling out, stumbling together in a tangle of desperate limbs. When you reached the bed, he threw you onto it hard enough that one of the pillows fell to the floor, and in the next second he was over you.

"I don't want to forget this," he breathed as he positioned himself between your legs again.

"Then don't," you answered quietly but firmly, the same fire burning in your eyes.

He thrust back into you, and this time there was no slow build-up. He fucked you with single-minded intensity, his whole body focused on driving you both toward something that felt less like pleasure and more like exorcism.

Your bodies collided violently, every touch and movement raw, soaked in desperation and need. You writhed beneath Jiyong—needy, loud, unfiltered. Your moans were constant, broken only by gasps for air.

"Don't look at me like that," Jiyong growled as he pounded into you, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them wider.

"Like what?" you breathed, your hand sliding into his hair and pulling hard enough to make him groan.

"Like you're already leaving," he panted as he bent down and kissed you without stopping his rhythm. "Like this is already over."

"It is," you stated, tugging his hair again, making him hiss. "Tomorrow I get on a plane and—"

"Fuck you," he cut you off roughly, one hand leaving your thigh to wrap around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding. "Say you don't care then. Say this meant nothing."

"I can't," you breathed helplessly, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I can't say that because it's not true."

"Then stop pretending this is fine," he hissed, releasing your throat to brace himself on both arms, driving into you with renewed force. "Stop acting like you're not fucking destroying me."

"I'm not pretending," you moaned, your voice breaking. "I'm surviving it. That's all I can do."

"Well it's not enough," he said, his voice raw. "Nothing about this is enough. Not the time we had. Not this last night. Not—" His words cut off as you clenched around him deliberately.

"Stop talking," you demanded, pulling him down for a bruising kiss. "Just feel this. Feel me. That's all we have left."

He kissed you back violently, his tongue dominating yours as his hips maintained their punishing rhythm. When he finally broke the kiss, you were both gasping for air.

"I hate that I need you," he breathed into your ear, the words a confession and a curse.

"Say it again," you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him impossibly deeper.

"I need you," he groaned. "I fucking need you and you're leaving and I—" His voice cracked. "I don't know how to do this. How to let you go."

"Then don't," you sobbed, and realized you were actually crying now. Tears streaming down your temples into your hair as he fucked you. "Just pretend we have forever. Just for tonight, pretend—"

"I can't," he said, and you saw his own eyes were wet. "I can't pretend. All I can think about is that this is the last time I'll be inside you. The last time I'll hear you moan my name. The last—"

You grabbed his face and kissed him hard, tasting salt—his tears or yours, you couldn't tell. When you pulled back, you looked directly into his eyes.

"Then make it count," you said fiercely. "Make me feel it so deeply I carry it forever. Ruin me for anyone else."

Something in his expression shifted—from grief to determination. "You want to be ruined?" His thrusts became even harder, more purposeful. "Fine. I'll make sure no one else ever compares."

He pulled out suddenly and flipped you over onto your stomach. Before you could adjust, he was pulling your hips up, positioning you on your hands and knees.

"I'm going to fuck you until you can't think straight," he said, his voice dark with promise. "Until the only thing in your head is me. My name. My cock. The way I make you feel."

He thrust back in without warning, and from this angle it was almost too much. You buried your face in the sheets, crying out.

"No," he said, his hand fisting in your hair and gently pulling your head up. "I want to hear you. Let the whole fucking building hear you."

"Jiyong—fuck—it's too much—"

"It's not enough," he countered, his free hand coming around to find your clit. "It'll never be enough. But I'm going to try. I'm going to make you come so hard you forget your own name."

His fingers worked your clit in tight circles while he pounded into you from behind, and the dual stimulation was overwhelming. You were making sounds you'd never heard yourself make before—desperate, animal sounds that had no resemblance to language.

"That's it," he encouraged roughly. "Fall apart for me. Give me everything. I want it all—every moan, every tear, every fucking piece of you."

"I'm—I'm going to—" you couldn't finish the sentence, the pleasure building to an almost painful peak.

"Come," he commanded. "Come on my cock, let me feel you."

And you did. The orgasm tore through you with devastating force, your whole body convulsing as you screamed his name into the sheets. He didn't slow down, fucking you through it, drawing it out until you thought you might actually pass out from the intensity.

"One more," he growled. "Give me one more."

"I can't—"

"You can." His fingers on your clit never stopped, and despite your protest, you felt another orgasm building impossibly fast on the heels of the first. "You're going to come again, and when you do, I'm coming with you. We're going to fall apart together."

"Jiyong—please—I can't take—"

"Yes you can," he said, and there was something almost desperate in his voice now. "You're taking it perfectly. Taking me so well. Your pussy is gripping me so tight—like it doesn't want to let me go."

That image—your body physically refusing to release him—was what pushed you over the edge again. The second orgasm was even more intense than the first, ripping through you so violently you actually sobbed.

Jiyong groaned as he felt you clench around him, his rhythm finally losing all control. "Fuck—Y/N—I'm—"

He came with something between a groan and a shout, burying himself as deep as possible as he pulsed inside you. You felt every throb, felt him filling you, and somewhere in your barely-functioning brain you thought: this is it. This is the last time.

He collapsed over your back, both of you shaking, struggling to breathe. You could feel tears—his or yours, probably both—hot on your shoulder blade. For a long moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke.

Finally, with obvious reluctance, he pulled out and rolled to the side. Immediately he pulled you against him, arranging you so your head was on his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he could physically prevent you from leaving if he just held tight enough.

“I hate that this is the last night,” Jiyong said quietly later, lying beside you as his breathing slowly settled.

“So do I. That doesn’t make it any less real,” you replied, eyes closed, trying to calm your breath.

“You’re going to haunt me,” he said after a moment, dragging a hand over his face.

“Good. You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” you whispered.

“Come here,” he whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere. Not yet,” you said, pressing yourself against him.

After the shower, you went back to bed and lay there in silence. The only sounds in the room were your breaths—heavy, worn out. It was long past midnight, and sleep came painfully slowly. Neither of you knew how you’d find the strength to get up in the morning.

***

The morning was brutal, like a hammer blow. There was nothing gentle or soft about it—none of those quiet awakenings where you could curl up under the covers and postpone reality. You were woken by your phone alarm. You had to get up early to make it back to the Airbnb in time, grab your luggage, and leave for the airport with your friend.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hair still messy, your neck marked with Jiyong’s traces. Your phone vibrated again on the nightstand—another message from your friend, telling you to hurry up. Reluctantly, you stood and started getting dressed.

Jiyong was already awake too. You didn’t know whether your alarm had woken him or if he’d slept at all. He moved toward the window and finally broke the silence.

“So that’s it? You’ll just leave? Pack your little souvenirs, smile for airport selfies, and pretend this didn’t happen?”

“Don’t,” you breathed as you pulled your sweater over your head. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Harder?” he scoffed. “Do you even realize what you did? You walked in, turned everything upside down, and now you’re just… walking out. Like nothing.”

“Like nothing?!” You straightened up as you fixed your jeans. “You think this was nothing to me? You think I can just forget—like it was some stupid holiday fling? I can’t. I won’t. But I don’t have a choice, Jiyong. I have to get on that plane.”

He turned from the window and crossed the room in a few sharp steps, grabbing your arms and shaking you.

“Then say it. Say you’re leaving me here to rot in this fucking mess while you fly home and—”

“Stop it!” you cut him off, shaking his hands off your arms. “You know I’d stay if I could. But we both know this isn’t possible. Not here. Not now. Not for us.”

You stood inches apart, chests rising and falling like you’d just run a race. The air between you was thick with desperation, something you couldn’t turn into anything but shouting and pain.

The city roared outside the window. Your phone vibrated again—this time in the pocket of your jeans. Time was slipping through your fingers. You put on your jacket. Jiyong stayed silent, and that hurt the most. You couldn’t leave like this.

"I have to go," you said finally, your voice barely audible. "If I don't leave now, I'll miss—"

"Then go," he said suddenly, his voice hard. He moved away from you, putting distance between you. "Go. Get on your plane. Go back to your life. Pretend this never happened."

"That's not fair—"

"Fair?" He laughed bitterly. "Nothing about this is fair. But you're right about one thing—you have to go. So go. Before I—" He stopped, clenching his fists. "Just go."

You stood there for a moment, frozen. This wasn't how you wanted to leave. Not with anger between you, not with these bitter words as your last memory.

"Jiyong," you started, your voice breaking. "Please don't—"

"Say something," you whispered desperately. "Anything… before I walk out that door."

For a long moment, he just stood there, his back partially to you, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping. Then he took a breath—sharp, shaky—and finally turned to face you.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his voice was raw, stripped of all the anger from moments before. "That I understand? That I'm okay with this? I'm not. I'm so fucking far from okay that I don't even know—" He stopped, dragging a hand down his face.

"I don't need you to be okay with it," you said quietly. "I just need... I need to know that you don't hate me. That when you think about this—about us—you won't only remember how it ended."

He stared at you for a long moment, and you watched emotions flicker across his face—anger, grief, frustration, and underneath it all, something that looked like resignation.

Then he crossed the room in three quick strides. He grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you into him. His kiss was full of everything—anger, desperation, love, grief. He poured into it everything he wouldn't get the chance to say. Everything you wouldn't get the chance to hear.

You pressed into him, arms wrapping around his neck, kissing him back with the same force. Your chest tightened painfully, everything inside you breaking at once. When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead rested against yours.

"I could never hate you," he breathed, his voice wrecked. "That's the problem. It would be so much easier if I could."

"I know," you whispered, your hands coming up to cup his face. "I know."

"Don't forget me," he said suddenly, pulling back to look at you properly. His eyes were glassy, threatening to spill over. "Promise me. Whatever happens—wherever you go—don't forget this. Don't forget me."

"I couldn't," you said, tears finally breaking free and sliding down your cheeks. "Even if I wanted to. Even if it would hurt less. I couldn't forget you."

He pulled you in again, this time not kissing you but just holding you. His face buried in your neck, his arms wrapped around you so tightly you could barely breathe. You held him just as tightly, feeling his heart racing against your chest, matching your own frantic rhythm.

"I have to go," you finally whispered, even though every part of you was screaming to stay. "If I don't leave now—"

"I know," he said into your neck. He took a shaky breath, then slowly—reluctantly—loosened his hold. He pulled back, his hands sliding from around your back to your arms, then to your hands, holding them between you. "I know you do."

You looked down at your joined hands, memorizing the feeling. Then you slowly pulled away, and the loss of contact felt physical.

"Goodbye, Jiyong," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't say goodbye. Just... " He swallowed hard. "Just go. Please. I can't—if you say goodbye, I won't be able to let you leave."

You nodded, not trusting your voice anymore. You grabbed your backpack with shaking hands, shouldering it without looking at him. You couldn't look at him. If you looked at him, you'd break completely.

You walked to the door, each step feeling like moving through concrete. Your hand was on the doorknob when you heard him speak one last time.

"Take care of yourself," he said quietly. "Be happy. Even if it's not with me."

You squeezed your eyes shut, a sob catching in your throat. "You too," you managed.

Then you opened the door and stepped through it. Into the hallway. Into the rest of your life. Away from him.

The door closed behind you with a soft click.

That small sound—that quiet, final click—felt louder than any slammed door ever could.

You stood in the hallway for a moment, hand still on the doorknob, frozen. Part of you wanted to turn around, go back in, tell him you'd stay—consequences be damned.

But you didn't.

Instead, you forced yourself to take one step forward. Then another. And another. Each one feeling like betrayal, like abandonment, like the worst kind of self-preservation.

Behind that closed door, Jiyong stood exactly where you'd left him. He stayed there for a long time after your footsteps faded down the hallway. Stayed there even after he heard the building's front door close. Stayed there in the terrible silence that filled the space where you'd been.

The silence you left behind was deafening.***

You were sitting with your friend in the airport terminal. She brought you a paper cup of coffee—something to wake you up, to help you look at least a little like a functioning human being. Your suitcase was leaning against your leg, your eyes glued to the departure board.

You reached into your pocket for your phone. The screen lit up, and your heart gave a small, sharp twist when you noticed the signal bars dropping. Automatically, without really knowing why, you opened your messages. Jiyong’s name was still there. The last conversation. The last words. No new message had come—and soon, no new message would be able to.

You pulled the small metal SIM tool from your back pocket. You knew you should take the SIM card out and replace it with your European one, already waiting in its holder alongside your boarding pass and passport.

Instead, you just stared at the thin piece of plastic inside your phone.

A Korean number. The number you’d had for the duration of your trip. A number that would never ring again.

You slipped the SIM tool back into your pocket and locked the phone.

Not today. Not yet.

Your other hand moved to the necklace at your throat, thumb running over the smooth surface of the pendant. Two pieces of Korea you were carrying home. One that would stop working the moment you landed. One that wouldn't. The necklace felt like the only tangible proof that the past four weeks had been real. That he had been real.

“Boarding in thirty minutes,” your friend said gently, resting a hand on your knee.

You nodded without looking at her. Your eyes went back to the departure board. Your flight was there, glowing bright and merciless. Gate. Time. Direction. Everything was decided.

Only one thing remained open—the small piece of plastic inside your phone.

Soon it wouldn’t work, but it still felt heavy, as if you were carrying proof with you. You’d keep the SIM card. At least for now. Because some things aren’t thrown away at the airport. Some things have to be taken home first, and only then do you decide whether you can live with them.

***

Jiyong stayed where you’d left him. For a while. Maybe longer—he couldn’t tell. Time behaved differently after you walked out. It stretched and thickened, as if it had a single purpose: to remind him that now, he was alone.

He sat down on the edge of the bed. The sheets were still rumpled, the air still saturated with you. In a way that couldn’t be aired out.

He reached for his phone. Automatically. Full signal. Everything working exactly as it should. He opened the conversation, and your name lit up on the screen. The last message. The last night.

He typed a few words. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would weigh on you. His thumb hovered over the send button for a moment.

He didn’t send it.

He locked the phone.

He understood then that some messages aren’t a question of signal. That sometimes you have a connection—and still, there’s nowhere left to speak to.

He set the phone down beside him, screen facing down, and leaned his elbows on his knees.

Seoul hummed outside the window, indifferent to his silence. Planes took off. People arrived and left. And somewhere over the ocean, you were flying away—with a number that no longer worked, and memories that worked far too well.

Jiyong stayed seated. The phone beside him. On. Ready.

Just without a recipient.

He'd never believed in the idea of soulmates. It was too neat, too easy—a concept for people who wanted fairy tales instead of reality.

But he understood now why that word existed. Not because two people were destined. But because sometimes you meet someone who makes you feel less disconnected from yourself. Someone who doesn't complete you—but who sees you clearly enough that pretending becomes impossible.

He understood why people needed that word. Why they reached for it when nothing else fit. Not because what you had was meant to be. But because losing it felt like losing a language only the two of you spoke.

S(e)oul mate... He smiled faintly at the thought. The pun would've made you laugh—definitely. He almost typed it into a message. Almost.

Connections sometimes break—not because they disappear, but because they haven’t yet found a new way to exist...

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