(Yijeong POV)

...

You've been out to eat with a friend and you actually managed to have a good time, but you start to feel like something's wrong as you walk back from the bus stop. Those types of predictions have a habit of coming true, especially for you, so you're not exactly surprised when you find him sitting outside your door and playing some noisy game on his phone. Somehow he still manages to hear you approaching and looks up from his phone. He smiles and your heart aches, but you manage to smile back at him for a moment. "You should give me your code or something. It's cold." You stare at him. "No, it's not." He shrugs and stands up. "My point still stands. Happy birthday," he adds, shaking a plastic bag in his hand. You sigh and unlock the door and let him follow you inside, because you've never been able to shut him out and you probably never will. "It's not my birthday yet. Not for an hour." He sets the bag on your coffee table and unpacks it: a cupcake, a candle, some cheap beer. "Unless you'd rather wait for midnight..." 

"No, I don't want to wait." He grins and you sit on the couch while he fixes up your birthday cupcake with a candle, and he lights it with a lighter from his pocket. Then he sits next to you and holds it up expectantly and your heart is breaking as you blow out the candle and wish for things to change for the better for once. 

You open your eyes and he looks at you, prompting. "I'm not gonna tell you my wish. It won't come true," you say, setting the cupcake down on the table. "You believe in birthday wishes?" You shrug. "I wouldn't bother making a wish if I didn't." That's a lie, a little one. Of course, you don't believe in birthday wishes, but you can't bear to miss a chance just in case it works this time. (If everybody gets one miracle, then you hope to God and the heavens and the galaxies and anyone else who's listening that he's yours.)

"So, what did you get me?" He points to the table. "Cupcake," he says simply. "And?" you say. "I'm kind of broke right now," he replies by way of explanation. "I didn't say you had to buy me something." You just want him to stay. That's as close as you ever expect to get to your wish coming true. You were lucky enough for your birthday to fall on a weekend and you just want him to stay. "I don't?"

"Nope." You know he knows what you want. He's just being stubborn and admittedly, so are you. "Ah. Got it." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a toothbrush. He holds it up proudly. "Is that supposed to mean something to me?" He shakes the toothbrush and rolls his eyes just a little. "Oral hygiene is very important." He puts the toothbrush back in his pocket. "To you?" He grins and you want nothing more than to kiss that smile from his face. "All matters of public safety are important to me." You poke him in the chest, hard. "You're shameless," you mutter and he scoffs. "What was that for? I was being serious."

"It's my birthday so I can do whatever I want," you state firmly. "You want to poke me like a 3rd grader?" You nod. "For starters." You look down at your hands and notice that your fingers have tied themselves in knots, and you didn't consciously realize how nervous you were until this moment. "Fair enough. So, what else do you want?" Now or never, you think, and you haven't been a big fan of 'never' for a long time. You set your jaw and he sits up straighter. "You." He's grinning again and he looks so smug and you can't help it anymore, you lean over, fully intending to kiss him senseless, but he stops you.

"Just a minute," he says, taking off his jacket and patting the pocket that holds a toothbrush. "Wouldn't want that to get damaged," he says smugly as he lays his jacket on the table and you scoff. "I hate you," you say even though you can't muster even an ounce of venom in your voice. "You love me," he says without thinking and his smile fades as he realizes his mistake, and you're worried he's going to want to talk, and you really, really don't feel like talking and it's your birthday so you shouldn't have to do anything you don't want to, so you kiss him as intensely as you can and hope you'll make him forget whatever things he had to say that you're not ready to hear. He shouldn't be so embarrassed, what he said is as true as what you did. (You hate him, you hate him so much, but somehow you manage to love him so much more.)

He lifts you from the couch so effortlessly and you've forgotten, you've forgotten what it's like to be held by him, like you can pretend you're safe even though you know you're not, like he's the only thing standing in between you and the cold, harsh world outside your window, like you don't have to feel alone anymore. He carries you to your bed and hovers over you, but his eyes are soft and kind and somehow that makes your heart ache more than when his eyes are dark and clouded with lust. He whispers your name, but you don't want to hear it, you don't want to talk, you cut him off and arch your back so you can kiss him, so you can slide his shirt from his skin, so you can remember how he feels beneath your fingertips. 

He's not moving fast enough, he's air and you're suffocating, you've been suffocating for days, for weeks, you're not sure but you need him more than you have in a while, and you don't want to wait any longer. You finally manage to work his shirt far enough up that he leans back to take it the rest of the way off and, oh, you're so glad he's here, you're so glad he remembered your birthday, you're so glad that he hasn't left for good yet, and you might not deserve him, but you need him more than anyone else does and that's probably never going to change. He looks down at you again, and you're about to ask him what's wrong when he whispers your name, more desperately this time. 

"Yeah?" you say, even though your throat feels dry. "I want you," he replies, his voice dark and deep, and it is unbelievable and almost cruel how much of a reaction only his voice can elicit from you. You don't want to say anything to prolong the unnecessary conversation he keeps wanting to have and your hands never leave his skin as you maintain eye contact with him, never blinking, not once. "I'm already yours," you respond and you wish you'd said it hours ago, months ago, years ago, because his expression changes and he finally leans down to kiss you the way you need him to and his hands are exactly where he knows you like them and this is it, this is the moment you've been aching for, this is the reason why you keep doing this, why you keep letting him in the door, why you'll never shut him out, even if you want to, even if you know you should. He's air and you are suffocating, he's right even though you feel so wrong, he's a gift from the heavens and galaxies, he's not perfect and neither are you, but he is here right now and he is everything you need. (You know you'll never deserve his forever, but if you can deserve his right now, that's more than enough.)

For once, you don't wake up in the middle of the night. For once, you sleep soundly until he wakes you up as he nuzzles his face in the back of your neck and you're not sure whether or not to pretend to still be sleeping. "Aren't you cold?" he asks, and you're not sure how he knew you were awake. "I'm fine. Are you cold? I can turn up the heat," you suggest, your voice still gravely from sleep. "No, I was just worried about you." You close your eyes and he kisses your shoulder. "What did you have planned for today?" he asks gently. "Nothing really. Right now, I just want to sleep." He nods against your skin and you hope he doesn't know how much better you sleep in his arms. "Whatever you want." He readjusts his hold of you and sighs heavily. 

You don't remember falling asleep when you wake up again, and he's not next to you, but you hear clanking noises and you know he's trying to turn the leftovers in your fridge into a five-course meal, so you sit up and rub at your eyes, even though you know you look like a mess. He notices that you're awake and carries over some coffee. He laughs when he sees you up close and you shy away, grumpy. "I know, I look awful." He shakes his head and chuckles. "No, you just haven't looked this much like an angry frog in a while." You can't help it, you laugh. "We can't all be Greek gods," you grumble as he hands you a mug of coffee. He's teasing you and being as normal as he's been in a long time and your heart is breaking over and over again because you could have this, you could have mornings like this for the rest of your life if only one of you was different, or if the world was different, or if he thought you were worth all his mornings. (If this hadn't been doomed from the start.)

He sits down next to you and grabs the remote to turn on your stereo. You don't recognize the song that he's playing, but you don't really feel like trying to figure it out either. "You have no food, did you know that?" You nod and take another sip of the very strong coffee he knows you've been living on. "That's probably why you keep losing weight every time I see you." You shrug. "I ate last night." He chuckles. "Are you out of money?" he asks gently. "I'm fine. Just too busy to keep the cabinets stocked." He leans back against the wall and folds his arms loosely. "If you want, I can bring you something to stock." You shake your head. "I'm fine," you insist. "Yeah, I can tell. But really, my mom sends me so much food these days, I can't possibly eat half of it." You shake your head again, because you knew that was where he was getting food from and that is a line that you are never, ever, ever going to cross. It might not matter to anyone else in the world, but it feels heavy and symbolic and wrong to you. "It's not your mom's job to feed me. She wants you to eat it, you should." He nods slowly. "So, whose job is it?" 

"Oh," you say before you can stop yourself and to his credit, he only looks a little confused. "Once upon a time, it was mine. Whose job is it now?" You stare into your coffee cup because for once you really wanted to pretend, you wanted to pretend you were a normal person spending your normal birthday with the person you... want to pretend could be yours. You don't want to talk, but he doesn't have anything else to keep himself occupied with, so your only option is to talk, at least a little. "It's mine, it always should have been mine." 

"You're fired," he says. "What, are you dying to get your job back?" He shrugs and you're trying to shrug it off too, you're trying to turn it into a joke and act like it's not a big deal, like none of this is a big deal, like the fact that he's in bed with you isn't a big deal and the fact that he probably has to leave soon isn't a big deal and the fact that he might not come back someday isn't a big deal, you're trying so hard but you feel like you're suffocating, you feel like your head will finally explode from all the stress and you feel yourself spinning out again until he captures your attention again. "Give me my job back. Just on a trial basis. You can fire me again if you want."

"I'm not going to steal food intended for you." You don't really know his mom, but she seems lovely and polite and even though you know she wouldn't mind him sharing her food with his friends, you have a feeling she still might mind if she found out you were one of those friends. "Then give me your card and I'll go to the store." You shake your head, even though you're having a hard time paying attention. "Someone will see you, you can't." He rolls his eyes. "Even former celebrities have to eat," he says decidedly as he jumps up from the bed, almost sending your coffee flying across the room. Former, you think solemnly, because somehow it's still sinking in. "I'll run out for food and you should take a shower and think of what you want to do after we eat." He takes a few steps toward the corner where you pants ended up last night to grab your wallet before he stops and turns back around. "Unless you want to wait for me to get back to shower."

He really shouldn't be able to make you blush like that, but he can. "What if somebody sees you? What if they notice you're using my card?" He sighs heavily. "Nobody cares anymore. Isn't that the point?" You feel stunned by his words. "That's not the point. That's not the point at all." He grabs your wallet from the floor. "Couldn't it be?" God, you wish he wouldn't say things like that. God, you wish he wouldn't say things and do things and make you feel things that he has no intention of taking responsibility for. God, you wish he'd leave already so you could cry this out in the shower before he comes back. "If that was what you wanted," you whisper, "it would be."

"What?" he says, and you can't believe you actually said something softly enough that he couldn't hear you for once. "Don't spend too much. My gas bill was high again." He nods. "Just the necessities." He walks back over to you and kisses your hair. "On second thought, you should definitely shower before I get back." He's teasing and you're not hurt by it, but you can feel tears starting to gather and you hope he doesn't notice before he leaves. He doesn't. (If he ever did, maybe things wouldn't be the way they are right now.)

You weren't lying about the gas bill and you're debating whether or not to take a cold shower when you remember that it's your birthday and you deserve a hot shower, and also you feel achy and uncomfortable and stressed and a little hot water couldn't possibly hurt. You step under the shower, weak water pressure and all, but at least it's warm and loud enough to block out some of your thoughts. 

Not the dangerous ones, not the ones you'd like to erase. Mainly the ones that tell you that he's bored with you, that you have to step it up or he'll leave for good next time. He mentioned that you're too skinny, should you try working out again? Didn't he like you before you worked out? Everything that's happened over the past two years is such a blur and you don't remember anything starting and you don't remember anything ending, all you remember is this endless limbo, you remember airplanes rides and hotel beds and ill-advised 3am confessions, you remember lots of drinking and idiotic fights and crying in showers, you remember everything, but you don't remember when it started, all you know is that it's never ended. (No matter how much you try to imagine the actual end, it never seems plausible enough.)

You don't waste too much hot water, you hold back your emotions and wipe off the mirror to look at your sunken features. One night of good sleep does not make up for months, for years of less than satisfactory slumber, and if you were never quite sure what he saw in you in the first place, then you sure as hell don't know what he could possibly see now. He's right, you have dropped a couple more pounds and your skin looks dull, you look lifeless. Everything you see makes you more convinced that you have no idea why he keeps coming back to you, because if it was really just all about , he surely would have found someone else by now. (If it was about more than , he could've have found someone to give him the future he deserves by now.)

You feel about as put together as you've been a month by the time he gets back, and you guess you must be right because he kisses you to say hello and wraps his arms around your waist while you pile ramen into a cupboard. "Did you miss me?" he asks, and maybe you should go back to pretending you're a normal person having a normal birthday because you almost burst into tears right then and there. "Did you miss me?" you say in a desperate attempt to turn any of this around on him. "Is that a new way of saying yes?" You turn away, focus on unpacking the other bag he brought back. "No one recognized me, you'll be happy to know."

"We probably don't have to be as careful anymore," you muse, even though you don't exactly remember ever being careful in the first place. "Want to watch a movie or something? After I finish cooking..." You nod. "I'll set up the computer." He finishes cooking instant food in a flash and you're actually hungry, so you eat quickly. He keeps chiding you and saying you'll make yourself sick, but part of you thinks he'll have to stay longer to take care of you if you do, so you keep shoveling food into your mouth. He puts on a shockingly boring movie, but you don't mind because you can't focus on something as trivial as a movie with your head on his chest and his arm around you. You have an idea, you sit up suddenly and lean over him to grab a pen from your makeshift nightstand before resting your head back down on his chest. 

"You okay? Song lyrics or something?" You shake your head as you hold his hand in yours, take the cap from the pen, scrawl a few numbers in ink on his palm, replace the cap. You blow softly on the ink to dry it, check that it won't smudge by pressing a kiss to the combination on his hand. "What is it?" He pulls you closer to him so he can examine his hand. "What do you think? I wouldn't want you to freeze to death in 60-degree weather." It didn't seem like anything significant when you thought of it, but a smile breaks out on his face the second he sees the number and he looks up at you like he's won something, and it makes your heart feel heavy, like you've walked into some kind of trap. "I totally could've guessed this," he quips. "Yeah, right." He's full of and you know it because you picked your code deliberately, months ago when you thought you should probably try to let him go, to shut him out, to move on. (You've since decided to stop lying to yourself about your abilities where he's concerned.)

He falls asleep about twenty minutes into the movie he chose and you prop yourself up on your arm to make sure he's actually asleep, and before long you realize you're staring at him and this time it's not because he's beautiful. (Even though he still is, even when napping. Loser.)

What do you see in me? you wonder as you stare at him, hoping you can telepathically force the answer from his head. Why are you still here? Why aren't you sick of me yet? If you ever had the chance to get an answer to one question, you'd probably ask something like that. Why do you keep coming back? Eventually, you give yourself a headache and return to resting on his chest. You close your eyes, suddenly deciding that even more sleep is exactly how you want to spend your birthday, but he runs a hand along your arm so you know that he's awake again. You could take advantage of his groggy state, you could ask him for the answers you've been longing for, but you're too scared of the consequences. (Why do you only want answers to questions that have the power to destroy you?)

"Sorry," he mumbles, "I really didn't mean to pass out on you." You clear your throat out of habit. "Are you getting enough sleep?" you ask, because you worry about him a lot too. "Yeah, I am. You're just too comfy." Warmth floods your heart at the simplest of words when they come from his mouth and you feel like an idiot for falling for it over and over again. "My fatal flaw," you say, but the words taste wrong as they leave your mouth. "Ah, I see. Well, then what's mine?" Me, you think without even trying. Your only flaw is me. "You smell good," you say to keep up the bit you started unintentionally. "Could be worse, I guess." 

"You're leaving, aren't you," you say flatly, because it's never a question. "Not yet," he responds, but it doesn't make you feel any better. "What else do you want for your birthday?" he asks and you never realized how much you wanted until you had a birthday to use as an excuse. "Nothing really." Yeah, that's mostly a lie. You want him to stay, you want to play house a little longer, you want to forget about the past and the future and focus on the present, but that's not something that's ever worked out for you before and it doesn't seem likely to start now. "Are you sure? This opportunity doesn't come every day, you know." You nod. "In that case, can we just stay like this a little longer?" He chuckles and it almost sounds colored by sadness. Almost. "If that's all you can think of, sure. But you shouldn't let this chance pass you by..." I'm not, you think quickly. This is the best birthday I've had in a while. 

"So," he begins, and you know there's no way he's about to say anything good, "about what I said last night..." You shake your head almost on instinct. "No," you say plainly. "No?" he asks and for once he doesn't sound amused, he sounds cautious. "Whatever you're going to say, don't." You can feel him relax a little, so you feel a little more relaxed too. "It's my birthday and I don't want you to say it, so you can't." Now he sounds amused again as he chuckles deeply at your childishness. (Add that to your never-ending list of reasons why this can't work, the difference in your outlooks and life stages.)

"Well, then, can I at least say I'm sorry?" Sure, you think, but what for? For stating the truth? For speaking without thinking? For calling you out? You've never expected him to apologize for those kinds of things before, why on earth would you start now? "You can, but you don't have to." He sighs. "I want to. I am sorry." His apologies have only served to make you feel guilty for months, or maybe it's more like years now, because you're still trying to figure how what part of this is his fault, what he even has to be sorry for. He should be sorry he started this with you in the first place, what does he have to feel sorry to you for? All he's ever done is try to give you what you want. (And sometimes he even succeeded.)

"I'll forgive you if you kiss me," you say, a sudden burst of boldness flaring up again. "Promise?" You nod as you turn to face him and you lose your breath when you find his eyes, you always feel lightheaded when that look flickers across his face, the look that says he means it this time, the look that says he's all yours, the look that says he'll always come back to you eventually, the look that says he's about to kiss you not because you asked, but because he wants to. "I promise," you manage to say out loud before his hands are in your hair and his breath is in your lungs and you have to try not to cry again because even after everything that's happened, everything that you've put each other through, somehow this still feels more right than anything else ever has in your entire life and you're not sure if you'll ever feel this right again. 

(Eventually he has to leave again and you don't want to let him, but you don't have a choice so you tell him you have plans with a friend anyway, which you actually do, so he won't worry and you ask him to kiss you again as your last birthday gift even though he laughs and says you really didn't need a wish for that, and you find his toothbrush sitting in the bathroom next to yours and you suppose you should've known that would be the kind of thing to finally lead to your inevitable breakdown on the bathroom tile and you should really be done crying over this by now, but you're not, not even close.)