The silence in the coupe is heavy enough to choke on.
Usually, silence with Sihwan is a victory. It means I’ve stunned him into shutting up, or I’ve worn him out, or he’s too busy glaring at me to formulate an insult. But this silence is different. It’s brittle. It’s the sound of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I keep my eyes on the road, navigating the winding descent from the hills with one hand on the wheel. Beside me, Sihwan is practically vibrating. He’s staring out the passenger window, his reflection in the glass looking hollowed out. He’s waiting for it. I can feel it rolling off him in waves of sour, anxious pheromones. He’s waiting for me to laugh. He’s waiting for me to crack a joke about the gold flake in the soup, or his mother’s obsession with hair dye, or the way his father tried to crush my hand like a insecure frat boy.
He thinks I’m going to use the ammunition his parents just handed me to tear him apart.
I shift gears, the engine growling low as we hit the highway back toward the city.
Sihwan flinches at the sound. He’s picking at the cuticle of his thumb, tearing the skin until it looks raw.
Idiot.
I sigh, short and sharp through my nose. I take my right hand off the gear shift. I don't look at him. I don't make a production of it. I just reach across the center console and cover his hand with mine.
Sihwan freezes. His entire body goes rigid, like he expects me to twist his wrist or shove him.
I don't. I just wrap my fingers around his hand—his palm is sweaty, his skin hot—and squeeze. It’s not a gentle, romantic caress. It’s a grounding grip. A physical anchor.I’m here. You’re here. Stop spiraling.
He stays frozen for a long three seconds. Then, slowly, the tension bleeds out of his frame. His shoulders drop. His hand relaxes beneath mine, his fingers curling tentatively to grip me back.
I run my thumb over his knuckles, once, twice. The sour scent of his distress spikes, then begins to fade, replaced by the faint, underlying sweetness of his natural scent trying to break through the anxiety.
We drive like that for the next twenty minutes. Hand in hand, doing seventy down the expressway. I don't say a word. I don't have to.
When I pull up to the curb outside his apartment building, the city lights are reflecting off the wet pavement. It’s late. The streets are quiet.
I put the car in park and the engine cuts out, plunging us into sudden stillness.
I withdraw my hand. The loss of contact is immediate; Sihwan flexes his fingers, looking down at his lap like he misses the weight.
"Well," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. "We survived."
Sihwan lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. He reaches for the door handle, then hesitates. He sits there for a moment, staring at the dashboard, chewing on that abused bottom lip.
Usually, this is the part where we part ways. Or, if we’re in a mood, the part where I invite myself up and he pretends to be annoyed about it until we’re naked. But tonight, the dynamic is off-kilter. The hierarchy has been rattled.
Sihwan turns his head. He looks exhausted. The gel in his hair is starting to fail, a few strands falling over his forehead, making him look younger.
"Do you..." He clears his throat, his voice rough. He looks away, then forces himself to look back at me. "Do you want to come up?"
I blink.
In all the weeks we’ve been doing this—fighting, fucking, bickering—he has never asked. Not once. It’s always been a demand, or a resignation, or a chemical necessity. This is an invitation. And underneath it, I hear the silent plea:I don't want to be alone right now.
I unlatch my door.
"I thought you'd never ask," I say.
We ride the elevator in silence. Sihwan leans against the back wall, eyes closed, head tipped back against the metal. He looks like he’s gone twelve rounds in a boxing ring. When the doors slide open on his floor, he pushes off the wall with a groan and leads the way.
The lock clicks shut, sealing the heavy silence of the apartment, and that’s all the permission I need.
I don’t give him a second to start overthinking, to start replaying the highlight reel of insults his parents just projected onto him. I drop the bag from my shoulder, hook an arm around his waist, and walk him backward until his shoulders hit the wall of the entryway.
Sihwan gasps, a sharp intake of breath, but he doesn't fight.
I press into him, crowding his space, and capture his mouth.
