Minjae stared at the screen for so long that his phone went dark.

He tapped it again, just to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

Kaito:
“It wasn’t stupid.”
“I’m just scared.”

His chest tightened. Not in that painful heartbreak way. No, this was something softer. Gentler. Like a string had been pulled somewhere deep inside him and now refused to let go.

He wanted to reply. God, did he want to reply.

But what do you say to someone who finally let their walls crack—just enough to show you they bleed?

After a long moment, he started typing.

Minjae:
“I’m scared too.”

“Come over.”

“Not for anything. Just… I’ll cook.”

“Or try.”

He stared at it. Then hit send.

He threw his phone across the futon and immediately regretted it. Then groaned and buried his face in his pillow.

Thirty minutes later…

A knock.

Minjae almost tripped over his own camera bag scrambling to the door.

He opened it.

Kaito stood in the hallway, looking a little out of place with a blazer over his arm, tie missing, and a takeout bag in his hand.

“I brought food,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “In case your cooking kills me.”

Minjae smirked. “Fair.”

Kaito stepped in. The place was dimly lit, cozy, and very much lived-in. Art prints taped to the wall, film canisters on the shelf, camera gear piled in a corner.

He looked around. “You really do live like a college student.”

Minjae shrugged. “Welcome to the dream.”

They sat on the floor, legs crisscrossed, food between them. Ramen, karaage, and a few side dishes that Kaito clearly picked up on the way. There were no fancy bowls. Just mismatched plates and convenience store chopsticks.

“You really didn’t cook,” Kaito said, amused.

“I panicked,” Minjae replied, popping a bite of karaage into his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d actually come.”

Kaito didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Minjae studied him between bites. Kaito looked tired—worn down, yes, but something else too. Like he’d dropped his armor at the door but wasn’t sure what to do with his bare hands.

“So,” Minjae said quietly. “What are you scared of?”

Kaito set his chopsticks down.

Minjae waited.

“I don’t do this,” Kaito finally said. “I don’t… open up.”

“Because?”

“Because people leave.”

Minjae blinked. “Have you been—?”

“Not just romantically.” Kaito cut him off, voice low. “Friends. Family. People get tired of me. I’m… too cold. Too much.”

“You’re not too much,” Minjae said, no hesitation.

Kaito met his eyes.

Minjae’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’re guarded. That’s different.”

Kaito looked away again. “Same difference in the end.”

Minjae set his food aside and scooted a little closer. Close enough for their knees to brush. Close enough to feel Kaito freeze up—just a little.

“Can I show you something?” he asked.

Kaito nodded.

Minjae reached for his camera, pulled up a photo, and turned it toward Kaito.

It was him. That first morning in Shibuya. Mid-step. Half-blurred. But something about the shot made it feel raw, alive. Like a man trying so hard to stay invisible that he forgot how to be seen.

Kaito stared.

“I took this before I even knew you,” Minjae said. “But I saw something in you. Sadness, maybe. Or… the way I feel when I’m not sure if the world would notice if I vanished.”

Kaito’s throat tightened.

“I notice you,” Minjae whispered. “Even when you don’t say anything.”

Kaito set the camera down gently. His hands were shaking.

Minjae reached over and took one of them—lightly, like offering a question instead of a demand.

Kaito didn’t pull away this time.

Minjae leaned in, forehead brushing Kaito’s.

They stayed like that—breathing the same air, not quite kissing, not quite talking. Just… being.

“You don’t have to be anything else around me,” Minjae whispered. “Not perfect. Not strong. Just… here.”

Kaito exhaled like he hadn’t in weeks.

His hand slid up Minjae’s arm, curling around the back of his neck.

Their lips met.

Soft.

Exploratory.

No rush, no heat—just the pressure of something real, something terrifyingly gentle.

Kaito pulled back first, blinking.

“Sorry.”

“For what?” Minjae whispered, lips still tingling.

“I don’t know,” Kaito admitted.

“Don’t be.”

Minjae kissed him again, slower this time.

Deeper.

This time, Kaito didn’t hesitate.

Later, they lay on the futon, facing each other in the dim light. Clothes rumpled, but untouched. Their kiss hadn’t gone further. Not yet. Not tonight.

But something had shifted.

Kaito watched Minjae’s face soften in sleep, the way his chest rose and fell, the messy strands of hair across his cheek.

He brushed them away gently, lips curving into something dangerously close to fondness.

Maybe it wasn’t stupid after all.