Lines Between Us

"It's not ethical to keep your guests waiting"

"Jack" he says softly, reaching for his Jacket.

His heart stutters at the sound of his name—familiar, grounding, dangerous in how easily it settles into him.

The reply is brief. Controlled. Familiar.

"I-I'm heading home," he answers, lowering his voice as he steps out onto the street.

The call ends.

Jinu exhales and starts walking faster, thoughts tangling despite his best efforts. Why now? Why tonight? He tells himself not to overthink it—he Never wins when he does.

The city feels quieter than usual, like it’s holding its breath.

Jack doesn't wait while at the studio.

He moves through the space slowly, deliberately, as if timing matters less than understanding. His gaze tracks everything: the walls, the floor, the half-finished canvases leaned carefully against one another. The faint scent of paint and charcoal lingers in the air.

The balcony doors are slightly open.

Light spills in, soft and warm, brushing against the space instead of cutting through it. The flowers catch his attention—green, alive, unevenly arranged.

They aren’t decorative.

They’re cared for.i

No threats.

No traps.

just life.

That unsettles him more than anything else.

When the door opens behind him, Jack already knows it's Jinu.

He turns.

For a moment, Jinu forgets how to speak.

Jack isn’t standing like a guest. He isn’t sitting, either. He’s leaning near the balcony, framed by soft light and flowers, as if he belongs there. As iF this place recognizes him.

“Has anyone ever told you—” Jinu blurts, then stops himself abruptly, heat rushing to his face.

Jack looks at him.

"Go on."

"... that you look perfect when you're not trying to intimidate a room?"

Something shifts in Jack’s expression. Not a smile. Something quieter. Thoughtful. Almost vulnerable.

Longing, maybe.

Jinu looks away quickly, drops his bag, and grabs his sketchbook before his courage disappears. He slides a pencil behind his ear and moves closer, settling beSide Jack—close enough to feel warmth, not close enough to touch.

“Just be yourself,” Jinu says, forcing calm into his voice. “Pay me no attention.”

Jack huffs softly. “That might be difficult.” He then looks at Jinu who is sketching.

Jinu smiles despite himself.

The questions come gently, like they’ve been waiting.

“When do you feel most like yourself?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. He turns his gaze toward the sky instead. The stars are faint, almost swalLowed by city light—but they’re there if you look closely.

"Before," he says at last. "Before the Mafia."

Jinu’s pencil stills for just a secoNd before moving again.

"I worked small jobs," Jack continues quietly. "Bad pay. Long hours. Sometimes we barely had enough to eat."

A pause.

"But we were together. And we laughed."

His shoulders ease as he speaks.

"I didn't feel... Watched."

Jinu doesn’t interrupt. He lets the silence hold them.

Charcoal moves softly over paper.

Time slips.

When Jinu finally leans back to look At his work, his breath catches.

Jack is asleep.

The realization sends a strange warmth through him—unexpected and fragile. Trust, Unguarded.

Without thinking, Jinu lifts a hand and traces the lines of Jack’s face, following what he’s already drawn. He leans in, gently lifting Jack’s chin—

Then stops.

“What am I doing,” he whispers, flustered. “You can’t do this to someone who’s sleeping.”

He stands, pacing once, then sighs.

Carefully, he lifts Jack and carries him to the bed. Jack stirs but doesn’t wake. Jinu pulls a blanket over him, Tucking it around his shoulders with care.

He steps back, heart racing.

This wasn't supposed to mean anything.

Jinu retreats to the bathroom and locks the door behind him, pressing his hands to the sink.

“Get it together,” he mutters to his reflection.

His face is flushed. His ears are red. He splashes cold water on his cheeks, hoping it’ll cool both his skin and his thoughts.

He breathes in. Out.

Maybe he needs tea. Or ice cream. Or to think about literally anything else—like his grandmother yelling at him for leaving dishes in the sink.

“Grannies,” he mumbles, trying not to laugh. “Think of grannies.”

It doesn't help.

He groans softly, resting his forehead against the mirror.

From the other room, everything is quiet.

Safe.

And somehow, that scares him more than anything else.

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