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The notification ping echoed in the quiet of Mark’s apartment. The moment he saw the subject line—“Congratulations, Dr. Lee”—his heart stuttered.
For a second, he just stared at it, eyes scanning the lines that confirmed it: the project pitch went through. His name, now tethered to one of the most promising innovations in his field, would be everywhere in a matter of weeks.
Tenure. Recognition. Financial stability.
Everything he’d worked for since he was old enough to be called gifted.
He leaned back in his chair, the breath he'd been holding finally releasing in a soft, tired laugh. Relief washed over him like a warm tide—expected but fleeting. He closed his eyes.
But then… nothing.
No rush of joy, no flood of satisfaction, no desire to celebrate. Just silence. The kind that hums in your bones and reminds you something's missing.
This was supposed to be it. The moment. The culmination of every all-nighter, every award, every sacrifice. And yet, here he was, still hollow, still exhausted—not from work, but from being. The burn-out had faded into something quieter, more permanent.
Not a fire, but ash.
He looked at the email again. He was relieved, yes. The pressure to succeed had momentarily lifted.
But happy?
He didn't even know what that meant anymore.
When you realize you never really felt proud after an achievement—sometimes it makes you question a lot of things.
For example, how well do you really know yourself? In all the years of being a gifted child, surviving on the sense of relief rather than feeling important, have you ever thought about which direction you should’ve gone instead?
Is this the kind of happiness the mundane classrooms and a backwards society had taught?
Or is this the kind of happiness a starving jack of all trades only thought?
Mark felt selfish.
Selfishness is subjective too.
To some, it’s chasing dreams at the cost of sleep, of relationships, of youth burned out too fast. To others, it’s choosing peace over expectations, silence over applause.
Mark had been called selfless for giving everything to his work—his time, his mind, his soul—but wasn’t that a form of selfishness too? Wanting to prove he was worth something, needing validation so badly he forgot how to live without chasing it.
He used to think the finish line would make it all worth it. Now, standing at the edge of everything he thought he wanted, all he could feel was the absence of desire. The ache of success that didn’t satisfy. The quiet echo of a question he couldn’t ignore anymore.
What if I never did this for me?
Mark just wanted to feel whole. But how could he, when he was fragments and fractals from the beginning of his consciousness? His thoughts weren’t his thoughts alone. He had privilege. He had the influence of his parents, the doctrines of his teachers and mentors, the societal law imprinted at the back of his mind.
Even his ambitions weren’t entirely his. They were echoes of expectation—refined, reshaped, regurgitated. When had he last made a decision without the ghost of someone else's voice whispering approval or disapproval behind it?
He didn’t remember choosing engineering because he loved it. He remembered being good at it. Being praised. Being told he was exceptional. And in that moment, like every other, he’d confused validation for passion.
Now, with a title before his name and the future cracked open like a ripe fruit, he realized he wasn’t sure if he’d ever tasted anything for himself.
How do you feel whole, when you’ve spent your entire life building a version of yourself that never included your own desires?
Mark laughed.
A sharp, breathless sound tore from his chest, so sudden it startled him. It echoed through the empty apartment, bouncing off white walls and glass windows like some cruel, mocking joke. He clutched his phone tighter, reading the email again—the one congratulating him, the one that was supposed to mark the beginning of everything he worked for.
He laughed again, but it sounded like a sob swallowed wrong.
This was what he wanted. Wasn’t it?
And yet, all he could feel was the hollowness gnawing at his insides. The silence inside his head is louder than any applause.
He dropped the phone to the floor. It hit the ground with a soft thud and slid out of reach, like it was trying to leave him too.
He let it.
Mark sank to his knees in the middle of his apartment—still dressed in the suit he wore to the pitch, tie half-loosened, knuckles red from the grip he’d kept all day. His breath came in shallow gasps, chest tight, throat raw with the pressure of everything he refused to feel for years.
And then it cracked.
A sob escaped him, broken and aching. It twisted his face into something unrecognizable. The tears came fast, hot and relentless, spilling down his cheeks like punishment.
“I did everything right,” he whispered, choking on the words. “I did everything they asked me to.”
He wasn’t sure who he was talking to—
His parents.
His mentors.
God.
Himself.
He pressed a trembling hand against his mouth as the grief surged forward, grief he hadn’t given a name. Not grief for failure, but grief for the life he lost in the pursuit of perfection. Grief for the boy who used to love music, who used to laugh without guilt, who wasn’t built entirely out of expectations.
He sobbed until his body ached, until there was nothing left but silence and the dull throb in his chest.
The mask—flawless, untouchable, brilliant—lay shattered at his feet. And for the first time, Mark was alone with the pieces.
Then his phone rang.
A sharp vibration against the floorboards, the screen lighting up in the dim room like a flare in the dark. Mark didn’t move. He just watched it buzz.
Mom.
Followed, moments later.
Dad.
Then again.
And again.
Alternating.
A rhythm as rehearsed and hollow as the life they carved out for him.
They probably found out already. Maybe a manager tipped them off. Maybe it was a press release—he wouldn’t know, wouldn’t care. He hadn’t even read past the first paragraph of the email.
The article probably praised him, called him a prodigy, a once-in-a-generation mind, a golden boy. He could already hear the proud voices of his parents filtered through the static of performance.
“We always knew you’d make it.”
“You never let us down.”
“This is just the beginning.”
The phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
Each call is a reminder. Of how his victories were never really his. How love was measured in accomplishments, how pride came only when it was earned—earned, never given.
He stared at the screen, lip trembling, chest hollow.
He could answer. Say thank you. Play the part. Pretend he was happy, pretend he wasn’t drowning.
But Mark didn’t move. He let it ring out. Let it fall silent. Then ring again.
He curled into himself on the cold floor, voice barely audible as he whispered into the nothing.
“I didn’t do this for me.”
And the silence that followed? That was the most honest thing he’d heard all day.
But he loved his parents.
God, he loved them.
Even now, as the phone continued to ring—Mom. Dad. Mom. Dad—he didn’t feel anger. There was no bitterness in his chest when he saw their names. Just… exhaustion. A bone-deep ache that love couldn’t erase, and understanding couldn’t soothe.
He never blamed them.
They were just products of the same machine. They gave him what they knew—structure, discipline, expectation—believing it was love, because for them, it was. Their pride came in the form of grades, degrees, awards. They thought it would protect him. That if he was exceptional enough, untouchable enough, he’d be safe from the world’s cruelties.
They didn’t see the loneliness that bloomed in the cracks of his perfection. They didn’t hear the silence that followed every applause.
But they loved him. He knew that.
He just wished they had loved all of him. Not just the parts that made headlines.
The phone went silent again, screen fading into darkness. Mark let out a shuddering breath, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. He wasn’t angry at them. He wasn’t angry at anyone. He was just tired—of being brilliant, of being strong, of being everything but okay.
And maybe one day, he’d pick up the phone. Maybe he’d find the words to tell them—not to hurt them, not to blame them—but to be honest.
But tonight, all he could do was sit there, surrounded by his success, and cry quietly for the boy who had never been told that he didn’t have to earn love to deserve it.
He loved God, too.
Not in the loud, performative way his relatives did—crosses on walls, verses stitched into throw pillows—but in the quiet, intimate way of a child who once whispered prayers under his blanket when the world felt too big. He still did, sometimes.
When loneliness hit too hard, or when he needed to believe someone out there saw him—not the accolades, not the achievements, but him.
Even now, knees pressed into the cold floor, face stained with tears, Mark didn’t curse Him. Didn’t scream “why me?” like maybe he would’ve if he had bitterness in his bones.
Because he knew.
God didn’t make the system. People did. God didn’t carve those expectations into his skin. The world did. And Mark… Mark had just been too desperate to be loved to push back.
“I tried,” he whispered, voice cracking like porcelain. “I really, really tried.”
He wasn’t looking for an answer. He just needed to say it. To someone. Anyone. Even if it was only to the ceiling above, to the quiet presence he still believed in, even when he couldn't feel it.
His fingers dug into the fabric of his pants, his shoulders trembling. He had done everything right. He had kept his faith, kept his head down, kept pushing. Because somewhere deep down, he thought maybe if he was good enough—brilliant enough—he’d earn a moment of peace. Maybe even joy.
And yet here he was, shattered in the silence, whispering into the void.
“I don’t want to be empty anymore.”
It wasn’t a prayer, not exactly. But maybe it was the most honest one he’d ever said.
The knock came like a ghost.
Soft. Almost shy. Like it didn’t want to intrude but had no choice but to exist.
Mark didn’t move.
He was still on the floor, body curled into the shell of itself, eyes wide open and staring at nothing. The tears had dried, leaving his skin cold and tight. The silence had settled thick around him like dust. Even his breathing had dulled—mechanical, quiet, like he’d forgotten how to live in his own body.
Then the voice came. Muffled, careful.
“Mark?”
His name, spoken so gently, like it was something fragile.
Jeno.
That didn’t make sense.
Mark blinked once, slowly. He was supposed to be gone—backpacking across mountains, disappearing into fog and soil and wind like he always did when the world closed in.
Mark had envied him for that. For being able to run. For not having to stay.
Then he remembered. Mark was the one he was running away from. He had been sensitive lately, and Jeno was at the receiving end of his unpleasant behavior.
Snappy remarks. The cold shoulder when Jeno tried to ask if he was okay. Mark hadn’t meant to lash out—he didn’t even notice he was doing it half the time. It was just easier to isolate than explain the hollow ache gnawing at his ribs.
So why was Jeno here? Now? Why was he standing outside Mark’s door, knocking gently, like he hadn’t been the one quietly edged out weeks ago?
Another knock, louder this time.
“Hyung, are you okay?”
Mark’s lips parted, but no sound came out. There was nothing inside him to give. No answer. No pretense. The mask had been stripped away hours ago—or maybe it had never been real to begin with. Maybe this was who he truly was: a brilliant shell, cracked down the middle, holding nothing but echoes.
He didn’t even know what okay looked like anymore.
Mark swallowed the lump in his throat, guilt curdling in his stomach. He didn’t deserve this. Not the concern. Not the patience. And definitely not Jeno.
“I know you’re in there,” Jeno said again. The weight in his voice was quieter this time. Not panicked. Not pushy. Just real. “I heard you.”
He paused. Mark imagined him pressing his forehead against the door, voice barely a whisper now.
“Please… just let me in.”
Mark stared at the door like it was something ancient and impossible. A threshold too heavy to cross. The distance between where he sat and the doorknob felt like miles.
A different planet.
But still—he found himself standing, his legs unsteady beneath him, the ache in his chest sharper than ever. His body moved anyway.
Maybe out of instinct.
Jeno shouldn’t have come back.
But God, Mark was glad he did.
Maybe because he didn’t know what else to do.
His hand shook as it turned the knob.
The door creaked open.
And there Jeno stood—dust on his shoes, wind in his hair, wearing the same old hoodie that always smelled like pine and sun. His backpack was still hanging from one shoulder, like he hadn’t even taken the time to put it down before coming straight here.
He looked at Mark and stilled.
Mark knew how he looked—eyes sunken, face hollow, like something had been scooped out of him. Like grief had chewed through his insides and left nothing behind but breath and skin.
But Jeno didn’t say anything. His eyes just softened, and Mark hated it—hated how kindness still found him when he didn’t feel like he deserved it. When he didn’t want it.
“I got back early,” Jeno said, like it mattered. “I just… I felt like I should come home.”
Mark didn’t answer.
Mark stood still for a moment, staring at Jeno—his eyes blurry with something unspeakable. His heart ached, but it wasn’t the same ache from before.
It was something heavier and sharp, like a clean-cut boulder pressing against his chest.
He forced his lips to curl into a smile.
A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was there.
He had to say it. He had to.
“I got approved,” he said, the words leaving his mouth slowly, almost like a confession. He felt the weight of them settle between them, floating in the air, awkward and fragile. “The project. It… it passed.”
Silence.
Jeno’s gaze didn’t waver. His eyes softened, but he didn’t speak, just stood there, waiting. Mark could see the concern in his face, the way he was watching him, but he couldn’t bear to meet it—not yet.
He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but it was no use. The tears came anyway—slow at first, then quicker. He could feel them sliding down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe them away.
They were warm, heavy, and real.
“I got approved,” Mark repeated, voice shaking this time, the words falling from his lips like broken pieces. “I—I did it. I… finally did it.”
Another beat of silence, thick and suffocating.
And then, Jeno stepped forward.
Without a word, without any more hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Mark. It wasn’t gentle at first. It was raw, as if Jeno had been waiting for Mark to fall apart for so long, not knowing if he ever would.
But when he did, Jeno’s hold was firm—strong, as if anchoring him to something real, something solid.
Mark couldn’t hold it in anymore. His sobs came harder now, choking him as he buried his face into Jeno’s chest. His arms hung limp at his sides, no strength to fight it, no mask left to wear.
He let the tears fall, let them drown him, feeling the sting of years of pretending, years of waiting for something that wasn’t coming.
“I don’t know… I don’t know if I’m happy,” Mark gasped between sobs, clinging to Jeno like he was the only thing that was keeping him from floating away. “I thought… I thought it would fix me. I thought it would make me whole.”
Jeno didn’t say anything. He just held him, pulling him closer, as if the words were enough.
As if Mark didn’t need to explain any further.
He didn't.
“I got approved…” Mark whispered again, more to himself than to Jeno. “But it doesn’t… it doesn’t feel like anything.”
And then Jeno tightened his hold, just a little, and Mark’s tears fell harder, spilling out in a way they never had before.
The ache in his chest didn’t fade, but for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to be held—allowed himself to feel something real.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the first step toward finding a way out of the emptiness.
Jeno’s arms tightened around him, pulling him even closer, and Mark could feel the tremble in his body. Jeno was shaking, too. Mark could hear it in the way his breath hitched, in the subtle quiver that ran through his chest. He wasn’t alone in this, even if he felt like he was.
Mark blinked through his blurred vision, the tears still streaming down his face as he pulled back just enough to look up at Jeno. His hand reached shakily to touch Jeno’s cheek, tracing the path of the wetness there, the silent proof that Jeno was crying too.
“Why are you crying?” Mark asked, his voice hoarse, raw, desperate for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.
Jeno didn’t immediately answer, his own tears falling freely now, mingling with Mark’s. His gaze was distant, unfocused, as though he was still trying to process something that was just too overwhelming.
For a long moment, Jeno stayed silent, his hands gripping Mark's shoulders like he was afraid to let go, afraid to lose him to the abyss that was threatening to swallow both of them whole.
“Because you’re crying,” Jeno finally whispered, his voice barely audible over the rawness of the moment. “Because you’ve never cried before. Not like this.”
Oh, Jeno. You really are an angel who doesn't know anger.
Mark’s chest constricted. He wanted to say something—anything—that would make sense of this mess, this storm of emotions that had caught him off guard. But his words failed him. The ache inside him was too great, too all-encompassing.
“You… you never let yourself feel it before,” Jeno continued, his voice cracking with emotion. “You’ve been hiding it for so long, Mark. I didn’t even know if you’d ever let it out. But now… now you are. And that’s why I’m crying. Because I never thought I’d see it. I never thought I’d see you feel anything.”
Mark’s heart ached with the weight of Jeno’s words. The truth of them. He’d buried everything—everything—under the pressure of expectations, the weight of the facade he had built so carefully over the years. And now, here he was, broken, shaking in Jeno’s arms, and for the first time in ages, he wasn’t pretending.
Jeno wiped his own tears away, but more kept falling, as if there was nothing he could do to stop them.
“You don’t have to carry it alone,” Jeno whispered fiercely, his hands still holding Mark as if he was afraid to let him fall. “Not anymore. You don’t have to be perfect. Not for anyone. Not even for yourself.”
The words were so simple, so achingly genuine, and yet they shattered something inside Mark. He hadn’t known how much he needed to hear that—how much he needed someone to see him, to feel him.
And for the first time in years, Mark allowed himself to lean fully into Jeno’s embrace, to let the weight of it all crash over him.
He wasn’t whole, not by a long shot.
But he wasn’t alone.
As Jeno’s arms wrapped tighter around him, Mark’s mind wandered, taking him back to a time before this. Before the hollow ache, before the quiet despair had taken root. He remembered the first time he met Jeno—how distant they were, how little they truly knew of each other despite the years that had passed since then.
Back then, Mark hadn’t thought much of Jeno.
He had seen him as just another face in the crowd—another brilliant kid with a clean-cut image and a perfect smile that made everyone think he had everything together. Mark had been the same way. They were both too busy—too wrapped up in their own worlds of ambition and perfection—to care about anything beyond their own goals.
Jeno had always been kind, but there was distance in his kindness. Mark had never bothered to get closer, never sought the vulnerability that hid beneath Jeno’s quiet exterior. They had exchanged polite words, casual greetings, never crossing the invisible line between acquaintances and anything more. They had been the sort of people who shared a space but never truly occupied it together.
But now, here they were.
Mark could barely catch his breath, his chest still tight, his hands trembling as he clung to Jeno. It was Jeno—the same person he had barely shared more than a few glances and hollow conversations with over the years—who was holding him now, who was the one comforting him as if they had always been this close.
His chest tightened with something unnameable. The irony hit him like a punch.
Jeno—the one person he had barely known, barely thought about—was the one who was here for him now.
Wasn’t it always like this? That the people you never expected, the ones who seemed so distant and impossible, were the ones who ended up pulling you out of the dark?
Mark’s voice trembled when he spoke, but he couldn’t hold it back.
“I don’t… I don’t get it,” he whispered, his words ragged. “We’ve never really been close, have we?”
Jeno didn’t answer right away. His hands moved slowly, as though trying to steady Mark, or maybe trying to steady himself. And then, softly, he spoke.
“No. We weren’t close.” Jeno’s voice was steady now, but there was a deep sincerity in it that Mark had never heard before. “But I never… I never wanted to be just another face to you, Mark. I wanted to be friends...if you let me."
Mark closed his eyes. It was as if the truth of Jeno’s words cracked him wide open.
“I never knew you were carrying all this too, but I had a hunch when you were constantly hiding behind your room. Your friends probably have seen me more than you did when they come and visit—but... of course you wouldn't let them see you.” Jeno’s voice was gentle, the words weighed down with empathy, with the understanding Mark hadn’t known he needed. “I was angry at you, you know? I was hurt. You could be really mean sometimes, but even I had limits. I just... didn’t know how much you were breaking inside. But I see it now. I feel it now.”
Mark couldn’t hold back the sob that broke through him. The weight of it all—the weight of his years spent pretending to be fine, pretending to have it all together, came rushing down in that moment. He hadn’t realized until now just how much he had been holding in, how much he had been hiding behind a smile and a perfect image.
"I'm sorry. I'm really s-sorry."
And Jeno—Jeno, who had only ever been a distant presence in his life—was the one who had seen past the mask. Was the one who had pulled him out of the wreckage he’d buried himself in.
Mark’s breath hitched as a fleeting memory resurfaced, sharp and unwelcome in the midst of his grief. It was a night, a few months ago, when Jeno came home drunk—too drunk to keep his usual composure, too far gone to maintain that polished, distant version of himself.
It had been a quiet evening, the kind where Mark had been focused on work, his mind occupied by a thousand things that had no room for anything else.
But then, Jeno had stumbled through the door, swaying slightly, his eyes glazed over with something Mark hadn’t seen before—vulnerability, maybe, or maybe just the weight of the world pressing too hard on him, too.
Jeno had smiled at him, a slanted, almost mischievous grin, before leaning against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him up. His words had been slurred, but his eyes—his eyes were searching, as if they were trying to find something in Mark that Mark himself didn’t even understand.
And then, out of nowhere, Jeno had kissed him. It was soft at first, slow, as if he wasn’t quite sure of what he was doing, but there was an urgency in it too—like he was trying to pour something into Mark that he couldn’t say with words.
Mark had stood frozen for a moment, confused and stunned, but then the kiss deepened, and he felt the heat of it—the weight of it. It was a strange mix of tenderness and desperation, and for a brief second, Mark thought maybe it was the beginning of something—something he’d never expected from Jeno.
But then, the next morning, it was as if nothing had happened at all. Jeno had acted as though the kiss had never existed. He’d been his usual self—distant, composed, as if the night before had been a figment of Mark’s imagination.
Had it meant nothing?
Mark had asked himself, over and over, but he had never been able to shake the feeling that it had meant something more. Maybe it was just a moment of weakness for Jeno, something born of too much alcohol and too much unsaid.
Maybe it was nothing at all.
Maybe all his childish tantrums had changed Jeno's mind. Maybe it made him rethink his decisions if he wanted an angry man in his life.
But now, as he stood here in Jeno’s arms, his heart racing with emotions he didn’t know how to handle, he couldn’t help but wonder if that moment, that kiss, had been a sign.
Had it been a crack in Jeno’s own carefully constructed mask? Had it been a moment of connection he had been too afraid to acknowledge, too afraid to let Mark see?
Damn.
Was it important now?
The thought clung to him like a shadow, but he couldn’t focus on it. Not now. Not when he felt like he was unraveling, his entire world coming apart in Jeno’s arms.
But somehow, somewhere deep down, he knew it mattered. He knew there was more to it than what they had let themselves believe.
And in the silence between them, as the weight of everything hung in the air, Mark’s heart whispered something he wasn’t ready to say out loud.
Maybe that kiss had been the start of something neither of them were ready for.
Mark pulled away slightly, just enough to look at Jeno, his hands still resting on Jeno's arms. His breath was shaky, his chest heavy with the weight of everything they’d just shared. But there was something he needed to ask—something he wasn’t sure would make sense, but maybe that was just the point.
He didn’t have the luxury of clarity right now.
He only knew what he wanted.
Jeno was still close, his face soft with the aftermath of their embrace, eyes still red from the tears they’d both shed. There was a new vulnerability there, one that Mark had never seen before.
For the first time, Jeno didn’t look like the perfect person everyone else saw. He looked... human.
Just like Mark felt at this moment.
“Hey,” Mark’s voice was a little rough, quieter than before. “You wanna take me up in the mountains sometime this week?” He almost laughed at himself as the words left his mouth. “You know, for some fresh air? I want to be friends with you Jeno.”
It wasn’t a big gesture, not a grand invitation. It wasn’t some attempt to solve anything, or to fix everything that had been broken between them.
It was just a question—an attempt to break the silence, to take a step away from the chaos of the world they were both drowning in.
"Friends?"
"Yeah?" Mark's eyebrows furrowed. "Well I'd like to think we are friends now considering we've been in each others arms for quite a long time to be strangers still."
"And you think friends do?"
Mark blinked. "Um, I think so? You don't think so?"
Jeno’s expression shifted, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips, though it was laced with something tender, almost fragile. He tilted his head slightly, as if he didn’t quite expect Mark to ask him something like that, but the sincerity in Mark’s eyes made him pause.
“You want to go up there?” Jeno asked, his voice quiet, but there was a warmth in it—a softness that hadn't been there before. "I thought you hated the mountains. You made it perfectly clear when you kept commenting on my gear."
Mark gave a small, tired laugh, rubbing his face with his hands for a moment. “I don’t know. I guess I just… I don’t feel like I have much of anywhere else to go. And maybe the air up there won’t make me feel like I’m suffocating.”
"Interesting."
Mark pouted. Did Jeno not like the idea of going to the mountains together? "Why are you hesitating? Didn't you say you wanted a buddy or something like that?"
"You actually listen to me when I talk?" Jeno mocked him, laughing. "Geez, and here I thought I was talking to the walls."
Mark went red. Of course he listened. He always listened even though he pretended not to. He was a jerk, sure, but in his defense, Jeno talked a lot whenever he was ever at home. If he responded, he probably wouldn't stop talking and that would take his precious working time away from him.
Okay... So maybe that really meant he was an asshole this entire time. It would be a miracle for Jeno to say yes now, actually.
Should he take it back?
But Jeno studied him for a moment, his gaze gentle but piercing, as if he could see all the cracks in Mark’s soul laid bare before him.
After a long pause, Jeno nodded, his smile growing a little more. “Okay. We’ll go.” Then, he laughed. “I think we both need that, don’t we?”
Mark smiled back, just a little—his first real smile in what felt like forever. "Yeah. I think we do."
"Yeah. As friends."
"Sure. Friends."
"Cool."
"...Cool?" Mark tilted his head. "You don't look like you're fine with it. Are you sure?"
Jeno rolled his eyes, laughing once again. Like there was an inside joke Mark didn't have the time to catch.
"You're an idiot, hyung. Let's just say that."
"An idiot? Me? I'm an engineer and a doctor, you can't just say—"
Jeno covered his mouth and clicked his tongue. "Totally an idiot. Don't even try."
In that moment, as they stood there in the quiet of the room, it felt like something shifted between them. It wasn’t a fix, wasn’t a promise of anything more, but it was something.
A small step, maybe, but it was something they could take together.
And maybe that was enough—for now.