Chapter Text
The studio lights were blinding. The kind of sterile, clinical brightness that flattened everything, skin, memory, emotion. Sanghyuk stood on set, bare-chested, hugging himself. He'd read the call sheet three times that morning and still didn’t believe the name written next to his.
Donghyun.
It felt like a joke. A cruel one. And yet, there he was. He looked the same, almost—just a little older. His hair was longer now. Pierced lip. Pale skin. A little more tired around the eyes.
Donghyun didn’t flinch when their eyes met.
“Hey,” he said easily, his voice as smooth as always, like he wasn’t standing on the wreckage of their past. “Been a while.”
Sanghyuk gave him a thin, professional nod. “Yeah.”
No handshake. No smile. Just cold silence between them as the director gave notes, blocking instructions, fake chemistry advice neither of them needed. They’d been real, once. Nothing faked would ever come close.
He flips through the final draft of the script. His face is blank, unreadable. But his fingers tremble just slightly at the edges of the page.
“Sometimes I think we broke up just to see if the pain would kill us.”
He laughs under his breath—humorless. "Cute," he mutters, setting the script down like it’s something toxic.
This story is his.
It’s Donghyun’s.
It’s theirs.
And now he’s expected to pretend he doesn’t remember. Pretend he can do this—professionally, impersonally—when the script is basically his fucking diary.
Sanghyuk didn’t hear half of what the director said. He was watching Donghyun stretch—Then it wasn’t about watching Donghyun—it was about remembering him.
The barely-adult boy he’d met four years ago. All sharp and smug, but with hands that trembled the first time they touched him.
Back then, they weren’t actors. Not really. Just two kids doing what they had to, pretending it didn’t hurt to be wanted only when the camera was rolling.
But Donghyun—Donghyun had made it feel like more.
It had been a small amateur shoot.
Low pay. Tiny crew. It was raining outside—somewhere in Busan, a hotel room that smelled like mold and damp blankets.
They were too young, too hungry. Sanghyuk had just come out to his parents. They'd disowned him a week later.
Donghyun was feeding his little brother with tips from bartending and money from scenes he never wanted to do. A dad who never remembered his name unless he was drunk and yelling it.
“You sure you’re okay with this?” Donghyun had asked, fiddling with the lamp to get the lighting just right.
Sanghyuk nodded, his jaw tight. “It’s work.”
Donghyun had watched him for a long moment. “You ever think about it?”
“Think about what?”
“Doing it. On camera. With me. Forever.”
Sanghyuk snorted, curled on the bed. “You sound like a fucking pervert.”
Donghyun grinned, that crooked little smile. “I’m serious. You trust me, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer. Not out loud.
The second the camera started rolling, the second Donghyun touched him—really touched him—he felt it.
It was messy, unpracticed, mouths colliding more than meeting. But it was real. God, it had been real.
They shouldn’t have kissed like that. Not on camera. Not with that kind of heat. But they had.
Sanghyuk had whispered, “Don’t let this be nothing,” and Donghyun had agreed, but it didn't take long before it became too much.
They’re in love. They won’t say it, but it’s obvious.
Sanghyuk’s started turning down gigs that would pair him with other people. He wants to try real acting.
Donghyun’s scared he’s starting to believe in things—hope, dreams, a future.
They're backstage after a shoot.
Sanghyuk was glowing, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded from the high of it all, skin still humming where Donghyun had touched him.
He pulled Donghyun close, arms winding lazily around his waist like he belonged there. Like he always had. And maybe he did.
“Are we picking up Woonhak tonight?” Sanghyuk murmured into his neck. “I miss him.”
He didn’t notice the bruises yet. The purple blooming up Donghyun’s side, the way his lip piercing looked freshly torn.
He didn’t clock the way Donghyun flinched ever so slightly when held too tightly, or the way his eyes darted to the dressing room door like he was expecting it to be kicked in.
Sanghyuk didn’t see any of that.
But Donghyun was scared. Not for himself—he was used to the bruises, the pain. He’d learned to live with it.
What he couldn’t live with was the thought of Sanghyuk getting caught in the crossfire.
Of Sanghyuk trying to help, trying to save him, trying to stay.
Because if Sanghyuk stayed, he would get hurt too.
So Donghyun made the choice. The only one he could.
He pried Sanghyuk off him gently. Took one last look at the softness in his face, the hope still blooming there.
Then he killed it.
“Why would we? You're way too clingy.”
Sanghyuk blinked. Confused. Laughing a little, like he misheard.
Donghyun didn’t let him ask questions. Didn’t give him time.
“This is just my job; you don't need to get close to my brother.”
The words came out flat. Surgical. Designed to slice clean through the moment.
Sanghyuk’s arms dropped. “What?”
It was a lie. A poison-laced dagger. And he twisted it himself.
Sanghyuk stared at him like the world had gone off-axis. Like gravity had let go.
“You’re lying,” he said quietly.
Donghyun didn’t answer. He just turned, walked away while Sanghyuk was still half-naked, still reaching for him.
And he never came back.
God. He didn’t even mean it. He said it himself and broke his own heart in the process.
The threat is gone. His little brother’s older now, safer. Donghyun’s been in therapy, maybe.
He’s been rebuilding. He’s been carrying the weight of what he did, and now that he’s finally strong enough, he came back.
Not to win Sanghyuk back—not yet. He’s not arrogant enough to think he deserves that.
But he came back to see him. To try to look him in the eye and apologize. To say the things he couldn’t say back then.
Maybe he asked the director for the job. Maybe he took less money just to be there. Maybe this was his only shot at seeing Sanghyuk again.
Now, Sanghyuk watches from the bed as Donghyun walks in, shirt already half off. The cameras haven’t even started rolling yet, but the room’s thick with something heavier than heat.
Donghyun looks good. He knows he looks good—tattoos down his ribs, that look in his eyes he never lost. But tonight, his smile’s too tight.
His eyes flicker over Sanghyuk like he’s bracing for impact.
“You good?” Donghyun asks.
Sanghyuk gives a hollow laugh. “You suddenly care?”
Donghyun flinches, barely. But he steps closer. “Sanghyuk—”
Sanghyuk smiles, all teeth. “Trust me. I’ve been worse.”
Camera rolling.
Sanghyuk’s knees bracket Donghyun’s thighs as he leans in. Fingers ghost over his cheek.
“You still want this?” he says, voice low. It’s the script. But it’s not.
Donghyun’s eyes search his face. Something flickers—soft, then gone.
“I never stopped.” It’s the script. But it’s not.
They kiss. Slow. Lingering. Familiar.
Donghyun’s hands curl around Sanghyuk’s waist. He pulls him in—presses their foreheads together.
“I missed you,” Sanghyuk whispers.
“I know,” Donghyun breathes.
The director’s voice echoes in the stale air.
“Cut.”
The lights don’t dim. The room doesn’t change. But Sanghyuk feels like something in him should have.
He should have moved. Should have pulled away. Should have rolled to the edge of the bed and reclaimed what’s left of his dignity.
But his body doesn't listen.
Donghyun’s still inside him, chest pressed to his back, breath hot against the shell of his ear. It’s all so familiar, it makes his skin itch and ache in the same breath.
They don’t speak. The crew shuffles out in hushed steps, leaving only static in Sanghyuk’s ears.
He stares blankly at the wall in front of him, lips parted, lungs shallow. Donghyun shifts behind him—slow, like he’s afraid even movement might shatter this moment.
And maybe it would.
Donghyun pulls out.
But he doesn’t move away.
Just stares down at him—sweat-drenched, red in the cheeks, thighs still trembling from orgasm, chest rising fast like he can’t catch his breath.
“You didn’t look at me at all,” Donghyun says. His voice is low. Unsteady. Not angry—hurt. “Not once.”
Sanghyuk doesn’t answer at first. He rolls onto his side, away from him, drags the sheet up with shaking fingers.
Donghyun doesn’t let it go.
Sanghyuk scoffs. “What are you asking me, Donghyun? If I enjoyed it?”
“I’m asking,” Donghyun says, voice cracking at the edge, “if I’m really just a fucking body to you now.”
Sanghyuk turns to face him. Not all the way. Just enough for Donghyun to see the flicker in his expression. Something sharp and trembling and defensive.
“Why would I look at you?” he bites. “This is my job. You made sure of that.”
Sanghyuk hates the way his body still reacts to him. The way it betrays him—leans back, tilts just slightly toward the heat of Donghyun’s skin. How his muscles remember him. How his heart remembers him.
Even now.
Even after four years of silence.
Four years of waiting for an explanation that never came.
But instead,
His gaze drops.
Donghyun’s still hard.
Just fucking. Just a job.
So he offers, flatly—
“You want to finish first?”
Donghyun blinks. His brows knit like he didn’t hear right. Like he wants to misunderstand.
Sanghyuk doesn’t let him.
He points at him. At his cock. At the scene that never really ended.
“You’re still hard,” he says, voice quiet and tired and sharp enough to bleed on. “Go ahead. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Donghyun doesn’t move.
Sanghyuk laughs, bitter and humorless. “What, you want permission now?”
Donghyun’s jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he snaps. “Let you use me? Isn’t that what you came back for?”
“That’s not why I came back.”
“No?” Sanghyuk says, a tremor creeping in. “Then what is this, Donghyun? You miss ruining me, is that it?”
Donghyun flinches. But he still doesn’t say anything.
“Why?”
Why.
God. That word.
He bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds.
Donghyun’s hands find his waist. Hesitant. Soft.
Sanghyuk doesn’t stop him.
Another silence.
Then Donghyun leans in, lips brushing the curve of Sanghyuk’s shoulder.
“I miss you,” he says. “I missed you every fucking day.”
Sanghyuk flinches. His eyes sting.
“I didn’t ask you to say that,” he breathes. “Just fuck me.”
He tells himself it’s just closure. That it doesn’t mean anything.
But his body opens for Donghyun like it remembers him—like it still belongs to him.
There’s nothing graceful about it. It's frantic. Desperate.
The same way you might kiss someone if you knew it was the last time. The same way you'd hold someone if you wanted to forget how they ruined you.
Sanghyuk’s hands fist in Donghyun’s shirt.
It hurts. It always did.
His hand slides between Sanghyuk’s legs—two fingers slipping back into the mess he left behind, fucking into him slowly, like he's trying to prove a point.
Sanghyuk gasps and tries to close his legs.
Donghyun moves like he’s trying to undo every terrible thing he ever did with the rhythm of his hips.
And Sanghyuk lets him.
Not because it’s right.
Not because he’s forgiven.
Sanghyuk’s nails drag down Donghyun’s chest, leaving red lines.
Donghyun leans in close, thrusts slower, deeper. “Say my name.”
Sanghyuk glares at him.
Donghyun grabs his chin, forces eye contact. “Say it.”
Sanghyuk gasps as Donghyun angles just right—brushing that spot that makes him tremble all over.
His pride crumbles in pieces, scattered between breathy moans and ragged confessions caught in his throat.
“Fuck you,” he whimpers.
He comes again, body going rigid, tears stinging his eyes—not from pleasure. From everything else.
Donghyun follows seconds later, muffling his groan in Sanghyuk’s shoulder.
They collapse. Sweaty. Shaking. Quiet.
Donghyun reaches out like he might touch his face.
Sanghyuk turns away before he can.
“Don’t,” he whispers. “Just...get dressed.”
Donghyun doesn’t move.
Not at first.
He stays there, half-curled behind Sanghyuk, hand hovering just inches from the curve of his shoulder.
He wants to touch.
God, he wants to touch him.
But the wall Sanghyuk just built between them is solid and cruel.
“Just get dressed,” Sanghyuk had said.
So Donghyun does.
He sits up slowly, the condom already discarded, limbs aching with exertion and emotion and the ghost of something sweeter. Pulls on his jeans, the fabric scraping against raw skin.
The silence stretches thick between them.
“You know I didn’t come here just for the shoot,” Donghyun says eventually, voice rough.
Sanghyuk doesn’t answer.
He curls in tighter, spine exposed, beautiful and bruised in the low studio light. His voice is quiet when it comes, but it slices clean through the air.
“Too bad. That’s all you’re good for now.”
Donghyun laughs—short, humorless. “You don't mean that.”
Sanghyuk turns his head, finally looks at him. His cheeks are still flushed, eyes glassy with unshed tears.
“Don’t do this to me. Don’t pretend you didn’t leave me bleeding for years.”
Donghyun opens his mouth, but the words die on his tongue—it’s not just guilt.
“Say something,” Sanghyuk says, sitting up, the sheet pooling around his waist. His voice is trembling, but he doesn’t stop.
“You walked out on me while I was still in love with you. While I was planning a future with you.”
Donghyun presses his lips together. “I was scared.”
“Yeah?” Sanghyuk spits. “So was I. But I stayed.”
“I never stopped loving you,” he barely forces out.
A truth that’s been rotting inside him for years.
Sanghyuk looks at him like he wants to believe it. Like he almost does. Then he leans in, so close their foreheads touch.
“You should’ve said it before I learned to live without it.”
The next day, the studio is cold in that artificial way, and the interviewer’s smile is the kind that cuts deep even when it’s friendly.
Sanghyuk sits poised in his chair, makeup flawless, posture relaxed, but his hands are clasped too tightly in his lap. The new project’s name is printed in bold on the backdrop behind him. His name, too. And Donghyun’s.
The interviewer leans forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “There was a time, a few years back, when everyone thought the two of you were...real. Off-camera.”
Sanghyuk doesn’t blink.
He smiles. “We’re really good actors.”
The interviewer laughs, clearly expecting more. A wink. A tease. Some acknowledgment of what they all saw—what no one could fake.
Sanghyuk gives them nothing.
Just that smile.
The clip is going to go viral. He knows it. Knows the fans will dissect his tone, his expression, the tension in his jaw. But he won’t give them more.
Off to the side, Donghyun watches the monitor, arms folded, jaw tight. His reflection in the screen flickers just slightly—like a ghost.
After the interview, they don’t talk. Not until they're in the dressing room, alone, and the silence wraps around them like old sheets.
“Really good actors?” Donghyun asks quietly, not looking at him.
Sanghyuk doesn’t answer right away. Just takes a slow breath, peels off his mic, and places it gently on the counter.
“I think we were good at pretending,” he says. “Even when we weren’t supposed to be.”
Donghyun stares at the floor. “I wasn’t pretending.”
Sanghyuk swallows hard. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Then why’d you leave?”
Donghyun doesn’t answer.
Exactly.
Donghyun’s keys hit the counter. His body is heavy. He walks in like gravity’s doubled.
Woonhak doesn’t even look up from his textbook.
“You look like shit.”
Donghyun raises a brow. “Nice to see you too.”
“I’m just saying,” Woonhak shrugs, still reading. “If I had a job fucking people for a living, I wouldn’t come home looking like that.”
“Shut up and do your homework.”
He tries to laugh it off, but the words sink deeper than they should. He disappears into his room without another word. Closes the door. Sits on the bed.
Stares at nothing.
That one sentence has been echoing in his head since Sanghyuk said it.
He can’t sleep.
Because now he knows; he’s not over it. Not even close. He doesn't want to be.
Donghyun shows up early.
Earlier than call time. Earlier than the director. Just in case.
He paces. Checks his phone. Thinks of every version of what to say.
When Sanghyuk finally walks in—coffee in hand, sunglasses hiding his eyes—Donghyun steps in front of him.
“I need to talk to you.”
Sanghyuk barely looks at him. “We’re shooting in twenty. Say it fast.”
Donghyun’s jaw ticks. “No. Not here. Not like this.”
A flicker of recognition in Sanghyuk’s eyes. He sighs and turns, heading toward the green room.
Donghyun follows.
Sanghyuk sits, arms folded.
Donghyun stands, pacing again. “I can’t stop thinking about last time.”
“That’s the job.”
“No,” Donghyun snaps. “It’s not.”
Silence.
“I know you. I know when you’re pretending,” he says. “You were shaking when I kissed you. You were about to cry when I—”
“Don’t.” Sanghyuk’s voice is quiet. Sharp.
“I’m not the same as I was,” he says. “I’ve grown up. I’ve worked through it. I know what I want now.”
“And what is that?” Sanghyuk whispers, eyes burning.
“You. Just you. I can take care of you this time. I can love you the way you deserve to be loved.”
Sanghyuk looks away like he can’t handle it. His walls are up—but his hands are trembling.
Donghyun’s voice cracks. “I never stopped.”
Sanghyuk stands abruptly, but Donghyun grabs his hand.
“Please. Let me try again.”
Sanghyuk stands so quickly his chair scrapes against the floor.
Donghyun stays kneeling, hand still reaching for him, open and desperate.
Sanghyuk pulls away like he’s been burned.
“No,” he says, voice too quiet.
Donghyun blinks. “What?”
“I can’t do this again.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” His voice sharpens like a blade. “You don’t get to come back after all this time and decide you’re ready. Love me when it’s convenient.”
“I’m not—”
“You left me,” Sanghyuk says, cutting him off. “You left, and you didn’t look back. And I—I had to survive that. Alone. I had to rebuild myself from nothing. So no. You don’t get to knock on that door again.”
Donghyun’s throat bobs. “I didn’t know how to stay back then. But I do now.”
Sanghyuk laughs—cold and bitter. “If you really loved me, you would never say this to me, not now — not ever.”
A breath, then softer, almost broken
“You said you didn't love me. Don't go back on that.”
Silence.
Donghyun stands now, slow, like he’s trying not to scare a wounded animal. “I didn’t know you felt like that.”
“Of course you didn’t. You were too busy running and now you're too selfish to let me go.”
A long, thick silence fills the space between them.
Then someone knocks on the door. “Ten minutes to start.”
Sanghyuk nods toward it without looking. “You should go. We’ve got a scene to shoot.”
Donghyun hesitates. “Hyuk...”
“Don’t call me that.”
The moment the red light clicks on, the tension snaps taut.
Donghyun grabs him by the waist and pushes him back against the mattress. Their mouths crash together—open, messy, too much tongue. It’s supposed to be hot. It is hot. But it’s also—
Too familiar.
Donghyun bites his lip just a little too hard. Sanghyuk gasps, fingers twisting in his shirt to yank it off roughly.
"You still taste the same," Donghyun mutters into his mouth.
Sanghyuk shoves him. Not hard. Just enough to make a point. “Focus.”
Donghyun's jaw clenches.
He flips Sanghyuk onto his stomach, hands spreading his thighs. “I am,” he lies. His voice is hoarse.
Sanghyuk laughs, breathless.
Donghyun says nothing. Just grabs the lube, slicks his fingers, and presses in slow—deeper than he needs to, rougher than he should.
Sanghyuk gasps. Whimpers. Bites down on the pillow.
But he doesn’t say stop.
“Look at me,” Donghyun says, voice low, breaking. “Look at me when I fuck you.”
Sanghyuk turns his head, eyes shining under the lights.
“This is what you wanted, right?” he growls. “Me buried in you like old times? Me making you forget anyone else ever touched you?”
Sanghyuk throws his head back and lets out a sound that’s half laughter, half broken cry. “Fuck you.”
“You’re letting me.”
He pushes in deep—slow, brutal, desperate. Sanghyuk cries out, back arching, eyes glassy with something between hate and want and aching, aching need.
Their rhythm builds. It’s not choreographed—it’s chaos. Years of unresolved tension, unsaid apologies, desperation translated into thrusts and gasps and bitten lips. Sanghyuk claws at Donghyun’s back. Donghyun grips his hips like he’s anchoring himself.
“You think I forgot what you sound like when you fall apart?” Donghyun growls, voice ragged.
“You think I forgot how you used to whisper my name after?”
Sanghyuk shatters first—hands shaking, body trembling, silent scream as he cums between them.
Donghyun follows with a choked gasp, burying his face in Sanghyuk’s neck like he’s trying not to fall apart too.
Cut.
Silence.
They don’t move.
Donghyun’s still inside him. Sanghyuk’s hand is still tangled in his hair.
The cameras stop rolling.
Still, neither of them lets go.
The shoot ended an hour ago. It’s 2:14 AM.
They're staying in the same production hotel, rooms across the hall from each other.
Sanghyuk hasn’t moved from the shower floor in thirty minutes.
Donghyun knocks at 2:15.
The water's long gone cold, but Sanghyuk doesn’t notice. His forehead’s resting on his knees, fingers wrinkled and trembling, the ache between his legs nothing compared to the one in his chest.
His phone buzzes on the sink.
[1 New Message: Kim Donghyun - Actor]
“Open the door.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
The knock comes again. Firmer this time. Then:
“Sanghyuk...please.”
It’s the please that does it.
He opens the door in just a towel, hair dripping, eyes rimmed red like he hasn’t stopped crying since they yelled cut. Because he hasn’t.
Donghyun looks at him like he’s seeing a ghost. Then steps inside without a word.
The door shuts behind them.
Silence.
Just the hum of the mini-fridge and the storm of everything unsaid choking the air between them.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Sanghyuk whispers, voice shredded.
Donghyun nods. “I know.”
Donghyun doesn’t speak. Just crosses the room in two slow steps and cups Sanghyuk’s face.
Sanghyuk flinches. “Don’t.”
“I know what you said earlier,” Donghyun says, barely breathing. “I admit I'm selfish.”
“I don't want you here.”
“I know.”
The next breath breaks between them like glass.
And Sanghyuk’s voice shakes as he says, “Was it just a scene?”
Donghyun doesn’t answer.
He can’t.
So Sanghyuk shoves him. “Was it just a scene?!”
Donghyun grabs his wrists, not rough, but firm. “No. You know it wasn’t. God, Sanghyuk—”
Sanghyuk’s fists hit Donghyun’s chest with no rhythm, no restraint—just pure, guttural rage. It wasn’t about hurting him, not really. It was about feeling something. Anything. Because everything else was too numb, too soft around the edges, too fucking quiet.
"I was doing fine without you," he spat, even as his voice cracked.
Donghyun stood there and took it. The scratching, the yelling, the tremble in Sanghyuk’s hands as they balled into the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move—only let his arms hover awkwardly until Sanghyuk gave in and collapsed against him, sobbing into his chest like something inside him finally snapped loose.
“Why did you come back?” Sanghyuk gasped between sobs. “Why’d you take the job? Why are you coming back to me now, Donghyun?”
He didn’t mean for it to sound like a plea. But it did. And it killed him.
"I hate you," he whispered, voice hoarse and breaking. "I hate you so much."
Donghyun wrapped his arms around him then—slow, careful, like Sanghyuk was something sacred and fragile. His chest rose and fell in time with Sanghyuk’s ragged breaths, and he pressed a kiss to the top of his head that was more apology than affection.
“I’m sorry,” Donghyun murmured, voice shaking with its own grief. “I’m really sorry.”
There wasn’t a fix in that moment. No magic words to mend what had been broken years ago. But Sanghyuk stayed there, curled against him, letting himself be held.
And Donghyun didn’t let go. He catches a glimpse of something around Sanghyuk's neck that takes him back to something he fought so hard to erase years ago.
They're lying on the roof of Donghyun’s shitty apartment building, backs pressed against warm concrete, city lights blinking like slow heartbeats above them. Sanghyuk has his eyes closed, smiling just faintly, wind brushing through his hair.
Donghyun is fidgeting beside him.
Then he sits up.
“Close your eyes,” he says, voice boyish and nervous.
Sanghyuk opens one eye, suspicious. “Why?”
“Just trust me. Come on, hyung.”
Sanghyuk sighs but obliges, lids fluttering shut again, arms folded under his head.
He hears the soft clink of metal. Feels the brush of fingers against his throat. Then the light weight of something cold settling at the base of his neck.
“Okay. Open.”
Sanghyuk blinks his eyes open—and looks down.
A delicate chain glints in the city light, holding a small locket. Old, a little scratched. But clearly loved.
“Donghyun...”
“It was my mom’s,” Donghyun says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She wore it every day. Even when she was sick. She said it kept her brave.”
“Why are you giving this to me?”
Donghyun shrugs, but his smile is soft. “Because you’re the bravest person I know. And because I want you to have something that matters.”
Sanghyuk stares at him for a long time, lips parted like the air’s caught in his throat. Then he touches the locket gently—like it might break.
“I’ll never take it off,” he says.
Donghyun beams.
That dumb, lopsided, kid grin. The one that made Sanghyuk fall in love before he even realized he was falling.
He doesn’t say I love you.
He doesn’t have to.
It’s in the way he says never.
The silence is unbearable. Like the universe knows something happened last night.
Sanghyuk fixes his collar in the mirror, eyes dark, lips swollen. He can still feel Donghyun’s fingerprints on his hips from the last shot.
Donghyun’s sitting on the bench behind him, shirt hanging loose, still sweaty. He hasn’t said a word since they left the bed.
Donghyun stands up. They’re close now—chests nearly touching, tension crackling between them.
He looks down at Sanghyuk, eyes unreadable.
Sanghyuk flinches. Like he’s been slapped.
He turns back to the mirror, but Donghyun’s already moving. Closing the space again. Pressing into him from behind. Their reflections side by side now, both ruined in different ways.
“You still wear the necklace,” Donghyun murmurs, eyes on the small silver chain around Sanghyuk’s neck.
Sanghyuk stiffens. “It’s just jewelry.”
“You’re lying.”
He brushes Sanghyuk’s hair back, fingertips ghosting over his neck, and Sanghyuk shudders.
“You still tremble when I touch you.”
“Because I hate you.”
“You're lying again.”
Sanghyuk sighs but he still kisses him—sloppy, furious.
Donghyun grabs his face like he’s trying to memorize it, like he’ll never see it again.
They stumble back against the mirror, hands tearing at shirts again.
Clothes half-on, breath ragged.
Sanghyuk breaks the kiss first. “This is a mistake.”
Donghyun nods, leaning in to mouth at his throat. “I know.”
Sanghyuk fists his hand in Donghyun’s hair. “I hate you.”
“I know.”
Deep. Desperate. Like he’s trying to kiss the years away, like he’s sorry, like he never meant to leave.
Sanghyuk lets him.
He lets himself be pushed back against the mirror. Lets Donghyun grab his wrists, pin them above his head. Their reflections are wild—flushed and furious and trembling with everything unsaid.
Donghyun mouths at his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “Tell me and I will.”
Sanghyuk’s breath stutters. “Don’t.”
His jeans are tugged down again. Donghyun drops to his knees. No teasing this time, no games just hunger, just pain.
He mouths at the inside of Sanghyuk’s thigh, sucks him down like he needs it, like this is how he says sorry.
Sanghyuk fists his hands in Donghyun’s hair, gasping, body arching forward. “Fuck—Hyun—” he whines, and it sounds too much like the old days.
Too much like home.
Donghyun looks up at him with wet lips and ruined eyes. “Turn around,” he says, voice hoarse.
Sanghyuk does.
They’re both watching in the mirror now.
Sanghyuk braced against the glass, cheek pressed to the cool surface. Donghyun behind him, yanking his own jeans down, one hand on Sanghyuk’s hip, the other stroking over his back.
“I missed you,” he breathes, lining himself up.
Sanghyuk’s breath hitches. “Don’t say that.”
“I did.”
And then—
He pushes in.
Inch by inch, until they’re both shaking.
Sanghyuk’s mouth drops open, eyes fluttering. He watches himself fall apart.
Donghyun moves slow at first.
But Sanghyuk reaches back, grabs his hand, laces their fingers together and pushes back—and that’s all it takes for Donghyun to lose it.
He fucks into him with desperation now, slamming Sanghyuk against the mirror with every thrust. Their breath fogs up the glass. Their skin is loud. Raw. Real.
Sanghyuk sobs as Donghyun kisses the back of his neck.
They come hard together, like they used to.
Sanghyuk’s knees give out, Donghyun catching him before he hits the floor. They sink down in a heap, holding each other.
Both trembling.
And when the afterglow fades, and the silence creeps back in.
Sanghyuk leans his forehead against Donghyun’s, voice barely audible.
“Get out.”