(Yijeong POV)
...
You're getting used to working yourself to death. You've always needed a productive distraction from your problems, and you don't want to call him a problem, but you're still in desperate need of a distraction. You haven't seen him much for the past few weeks and you think it's probably better that way. There was one night, one moment that he wasn't away and he didn't avoid you, he came into your studio and he laid down on the couch and fell asleep while you were working, and there is no distraction big enough to take your attention away from him when the two of you are occupying the same room. 

So it's nothing new, sitting here and working and trying to block out his existence. There's nothing happening that indicates that this isn't just another ordinary night of your life, except for the fact that there is a cloud of uncertainty and finality choking the room in which you try to work yourself into exhaustion, pass out in your chair. You knew he must be out with his friends and you weren't expecting to see him at all before he leaves until he's kneeling in front of you, brushing your hair from your eyes and whispering your name. "Is everything okay?" you ask, your voice muffled with sleep. "Want to take a walk?" It's freezing, you think, but you've rarely been one to miss opportunities to be with him, and this is the last opportunity you're going to have for a while, so you take it. You stand up from your chair and he hands you your jacket, smiles sadly down at you. You follow him into the darkness of night, walk at a leisurely pace for a few minutes and you're already bogged down with thoughts of what this means, what you should do, what he wants, but you think he can tell because he reaches over to interlock his gloved fingers with yours and slides your hands into his coat pocket. (Sometimes he's really good at reading your mind.)

You can see your breath, tiny puffs spiraling out from your lungs, and your skin is cold but your heart is on fire and you're not wasting one more second, you reach over to clasp your other hand around his arm, lean into his side, rest your head against him. "How long do we have?" He chuckles. "Until we freeze to death?" You shake your head weakly, rub your cheek against the fabric of his coat. "Until you leave." 

"Ah," he hums, "I think we're down to hours now." You're not quite sure why you bothered to ask, why you're pretending not to know, because you know exactly how many hours until everything changes forever and you gave up on trying to forget months ago. "Be safe," you say, "and don't get sick. You're no use to anyone when you're sick." He swallows hard, looks always from you. "You too," he whispers. "Promise. Promise me you won't do anything stupid." He turns back to face you, a smirk plastered against his lips. "You know me better than to think I can promise something like that." 

"Because you've been doing something stupid for almost a year now?" He wrinkles his nose. "What?" he asks and you think he just wants you to say it so he doesn't have to, but you do it anyway, squeeze his hand pointedly. "This thing with me. Stupid," you trail off, kick at the pavement. He stops walking suddenly, and you stumble back a few steps. "Hey. That's not true." His expression is hard but fragile, and you almost let it go, but if you don't have this conversation now, you'll never have it, and you've put off reality for long enough. "I ruin everything, I ruined your last year before..." He lets go of your hand and pushes it from his pocket, turns to face you. "Stop," he commands harshly. "Those things I said in London? Stupid. Not letting you tell me how you felt about me? Stupid. Lying to you about being unhappy? So, so stupid."

You can't really argue that, and you can tell that your words have wounded him because his eyes are watery and you could probably blame the chilly weather, but you know him better than to believe that tonight. He clears his throat, reaches out to rest his hands on your waist, beneath your jacket. "But this? This past year? Being with you, lov—" he stops abruptly, looks at you for a moment, his eyes teary and desperate, and it's almost too much for you to take, you think this moment might be the most honest you've ever shared and it's terrifying, because it's real and it's really ending this time. "Loving you?" he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I've done stupid things, I've said stupid things, but you are the... least stupid thing that's happened to me in ages. Maybe ever."

"How romantic," you joke, but your throat is tight and your eyes are stinging and his hands leave your waist. "I'm not... good at this. You know I'm not." You shrug. "I'm not good at it either." He shakes his head. "You're not supposed to be. You're still young." You start to tell him he's young too, but if he really were, he wouldn't be prepared to leave you in a matter of hours. "So you finally admit that I'm bad at this, and at the last possible second too."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it. I really should have... figured something out by now." You walk ahead of him, feel a little relief when he follows after you, try not to shiver too noticeably. "Why'd you bring me out here?" you ask over your shoulder. "I wanted to ask you to wait." You stop in your tracks, turn around to look at him. "Wait for what?" He steps closer to you. "Wait for me," he whispers. "Oh," you sigh. "I'll be waiting whether you want me to or not," you explain. "I want you to," he assures you. He reaches up to run his hand beneath his hood, over his scalp, nervously. "I like it," you say. "You do?" You nod. "It makes you look... dignified." 

"Maybe I'll keep it this way then," he teases. "It doesn't matter to me how you style your hair," you remind him. "Even if I go bald?" he asks. "Even if you go bald," you reply, and it should feel like a joke, but it feels more like a confession, like those kinds of words carry a weight behind them, a weight that he's not prepared to withstand. "What about my hair?" He laughs. "I think you'd look pretty cute bald." You roll your eyes as an attempt to cover up the fact that you're starting to blush like an idiot. "We should go back," you tell him, look down at the ground. "Yeah," he breathes, but he doesn't move and he doesn't drag his eyes away from yours and he doesn't say anything else. "So I guess this is... goodbye for now." He nods. "I guess."

"Be careful, okay? I mean it," you have to say. "Don't miss me too much," he replies. "Don't miss me too much either," you say as a joke, to turn the situation around on him, but he doesn't smile and his eyes don't soften. "I already miss you too much." You have to look away, you can't let him get to you this easily, not again. You exhale sharply, watch your breath leave your lips like a plume of smoke. There's no one around, you feel hidden and relatively safe, so you look back up at him, bite your lip. "Then don't do it anymore." You're not sure why this is what it takes to make him stop staring, but he rips his eyes away from yours. "You're the one who said we had to get used to this," he mutters. "We don't have to until tomorrow."

"Right now?" he questions you and you shrug. "It's now or never," you say and you're planning on elaborating but he looks back into your eyes, moves in closer to you, and you couldn't speak if you wanted to. "I love you," he whispers, leans down to kiss you tenderly. It's not the right time and it's probably the wrong place and you're definitely freezing your as.s off, but you wouldn't give this up for anything, for even one more minute of this. He pulls back, his eyes sad and weak. "I love you too," you say, because you're not going to miss another chance. "Let's go home, you're about to turn into a snowman."

Fifteen minutes later, you're standing in front of the door to his room and trying not to let the final moments get to you. "Good night," you say, but he shakes his head before you can finish the sentence. "Stay," he counters. "For me or for you?" He blinks slowly. "For me." You nod. "Okay." You follow him through the door and climb into his bed next to him. "Your hands are freezing," he tells you as he reaches for your hands, slides them underneath his shirt, shivers at the temperature of your skin. "You're warm," you say without thinking. "You're frozen, I kept you out too long," he muses, his eyes locked on yours, and it should feel like teasing, but he looks too serious for that. 

"I'm so bad for you," he whispers, ashamed. "If you feel that bad, then warm me up." Your voice is steady but you're still doubting your every word, your every action as you take your hands from under his shirt and move them to his face, move closer and press your lips to his. He slings an arm around your waist and pulls you in to lay flush against him. "Warmer?" he says when you pull back. "Not enough," you mutter because you're not wasting one more moment of your precious time talking, you've finally learned from your mistakes. 

You know you shouldn't still be in his bed when you wake up and he's already showered and getting ready for a day of farewells. He looks up at you when he hears you clear your throat, his expression guarded carefully. "I know I asked, but it's not fair to make you wait for me. I drank last night and I shouldn't have..." You wave him off. "Don't say you regret it even if you do. Today's going to be hard enough." He walks closer to you, his skin still damp and glistening in the morning light. "I don't. I don't regret... any of this. That part was true. I just don't want to tell you to wait until I can promise that something will change if you do."

"Something will change," you say, your eyes fixed on your hands as you run your fingers against the waistband of his jeans, "and you don't have to ask me to wait. Even if you tell me not to, I'll do it anyway." He leans down to kiss the top of your head. "You should get ready, it's getting late," he mumbles into your hair. "Five more minutes," you plead, your hands resting on his hips. "I don't regret it," he repeats because he knows you don't believe him, "do you?" You shake your head, press your nose into his chest, breathe in deeply. "It's not forever," he begins, but he leaves it at that. "I'll call you if... if you want," he adds and you look up at him, try not to be affected by the look in his eyes, fail miserably. "I'd like that," you say, lean up to kiss him softly. 

(You say your goodbyes in a crowded room with guarded hearts and veiled sentiments and he looks at you with regret and sadness while you force him to promise to take care of himself and Jaeho puts his hand on your shoulder as you watch him walk away, but you shake him off because you don't deserve  to feel better, and your friends don't deserve to be inconvenienced because of your mistakes.)