(Yijeong POV)

...

You fell asleep alone, but you're not alone when you wake up and you can't believe you didn't hear him come in. This is not the first time this has happened, but you wouldn't be surprised even if it were because you knew exactly what you were setting yourself up for when you gave him a way to get into your place on his own. You're kind of hoping he'll wake up too, but he doesn't even stir when you roll over and push his hair from his face. You're not sure why he's here tonight, or why he came in so late. Maybe he was with his friends and your place was closer than his, or maybe he missed you, but in all honesty you don't really care much what the reason is anymore, as long as he's here. You don't care about much else when he's here. (You care about even less when he's not.)

You reach under your pillow to grab your phone and check the time. It's still fairly dark outside, but it's already 6:45 and you know if you go back to sleep now, you'll probably feel worse when you wake up again so you try not to disturb him as you get out of bed to turn on your coffee maker and wash your face. He's still sleeping when you return with your coffee, and you're starting to think alcohol must have been involved in his late night arrival so you finish your coffee and lay back down next to him, play around on your phone and wait for him to wake up. 

"You're like an old man," you hear him say after about an hour of browsing on your phone. "What?" He chuckles. "You're reading the weather forecast first thing in the morning." You click your phone off and set it down behind you. "I've been up for ages, I read everything else." You hesitate for a moment, but he's the one who showed up unannounced in your bed, so you figure it's safe to rotate your position to kiss him. (You've waited hours, after all.)

"Good morning," you say as you pull back slightly and he reaches up to touch your hair. "You were asleep early," he points out, "it was barely after midnight when I got here." You kiss him again, just because you want to. "Are you trying to say you're proud of me?" He scoffs. "No, I'm trying to say you're really getting old." You fake a laugh sarcastically and he looks pleased with himself. "You and me both," you reply. "What time is it?" he asks. "8 or so." He grimaces. "Still too early." He wraps you in his arms and kisses your hair once, twice, three times. "I have work," you whine, but you already know he doesn't care about that. "It's the weekend. You're mine on the weekend." I'm yours all the time, you think, but you don't dare say it because he probably already knows, but if by some miracle he doesn't, you don't want to be the one to tell him. "I'm busy too, you know. Even on the weekends."

"So you want me to leave?" he asks, fake pout and all. "No, but I can't laze around all day. I have things I have to get done." You know you have things to accomplish, but your memory doesn't work very well when he's here, when you're in his arms, when he wants you to be with him. "Can't you put them off for a little while? It's the weekend,” he whines again and you know this whole situation is ridiculous, but you don't really feel like getting out of bed anymore anyway, so you relent. "I can give you an hour," you decide and he nods strongly. "I can work with that," he says before he's kissing you and you're so glad he's finally awake because it feels like no one's touched you in months even though it's only been a couple weeks since he last snuck into your place. He stops kissing you way sooner than you think he should and pulls away from you to reach for his phone, which vibrates harshly on the bedside table. You take a deep breath. "Don't answer it," you say, but it comes out sounding weak. "It could be important."

"Then, check if it's important and don't answer if it's not." He grabs his phone and turns back to you. "Why?" he asks, and you're annoyed with the person who dared to call him so early in the morning and you're annoyed at him for pretending to misunderstand you and you're annoyed at yourself for letting him get to you, again. "Because it's the weekend," you respond as an explanation. You're not always mine, but you're mine on the weekend. He presses his screen to ignore the call and turns off his phone, sets it down on the bedside table and turns back to face you once more. "I'm all yours," he says with a smirk before he pulls you into his arms to give you all the proof you need. (Or, at least, all the proof he has to give you.)

You should be working, but he passed out again while holding you tightly to his chest and even though you feel sweaty and overheated, you can't bring yourself to get up, not when he's right here, not when you're in his arms, not when you're not sure if he'll ever hold you like this again once he stops. Uncertainly circles inside of your head the way it always does these days and the only way to block it out seems to be using him as a distraction. (He has always been an excellent distraction.) 

You still feel a little smug that he ignored his phone for you, even turned it off so he could give you all of his attention. Maybe it didn't mean much to him, but it must have meant a lot to you because your heart still feels heavy with the knowledge. When you're finally ready enough to get up, he notices you're leaving and reaches out to grab your arm. "I have to get some work done," you say as you pull your arms from his grasp gently. "Okay, just give me a minute." He sits up and rubs at his eyes harshly. You slide closer to him and play with his tangled bangs, he smiles softly and your heart aches. "I just wanted to tell you I'm going overseas in a few days." 

Why is he telling me this? you wonder. For a second, only a second, you think he might be asking you to go with him. It's happened once before, eons ago, when he asked you to come and meet his friends, to hang out and get to know them. You couldn't say yes then any more than you could now, and your excuse would be the same as it was months and months ago. You’d tell him you have to work and it wouldn’t be a lie but it wouldn’t really be the truth either because the truth is that all you want to do is run away with him and that's exactly why you can never do it. Because you're not the type to risk everything when there are no guarantees, and you've rarely wanted something that offered fewer guarantees than him. You're working yourself up for nothing and you know it for sure when he says, "I just didn't want you to wonder why I wasn't here next weekend." Of course he's not asking you to go, he probably doesn't want to anyway but even if he did, he knows you'd never agree to something that risky. "When are you coming back?"

His expression changes, like he didn't think you'd ask any questions, like you wouldn't be brave enough to wonder. "I don't have many days off, I just won't be here next weekend." Why weren't you here last weekend? you want to ask, but you have a sinking feeling you don't want to know the answer so you shove down your curiosity and nod in affirmation. "Have fun," you say instead of asking more questions and you think he looks relieved. "Thanks. Is there anything in your fridge?" You shrug. "I went shopping a couple nights ago. There should be something." He turns and stands up from your bed, reaches for his clothes and gets half-dressed. "You get started on your project and I'll make some breakfast and then I'll go." You want to tell him not to go, but you can't work well, or maybe at all if he's here so you suppose it's for the best. (You're getting tired of trying to do what's best for you.)

He bangs around in your kitchen and you turn on your computer before you change into some new clothes, and you really weren't planning on it but you're cold so you put on his hoodie and zip it up on top of your own t-shirt. He brings you food twenty minutes later and notices you're wearing his clothes almost immediately. "Are you trying to make it so I have to stay?" he teases but it doesn't feel like a joke and you bristle slightly, start to the hoodie but he stops you, wraps his hand against the back of your neck. "Keep it. If you're aren't going to turn up your heat, you're going to need it." You cross your arms, the sleeves of his hoodie sliding down to cover your hands. "It's not that cold," you lie. "Keep the hoodie and eat your breakfast," he demands, probably out of habit. How long has he been taking care of you, forcing you to remember to eat, dragging you out of your room and away from work for a few hours, taking care of you when you're sick? It’s no wonder you don't know how to take care of yourself, he's been doing it ever since you left home. It's not all his fault, most of the blame still falls on you, but it's still something that you share with him, even just a little. (Maybe that's the only part of this that's his fault.)

You eat quickly out of habit before remembering that he'll leave as soon as you’re finished, so you slow down. He sits on the end of your bed and messes around on his phone, waits for you to finish eating. You remember that you won't see him for a couple weeks and all of a sudden there's a lump in your throat that you try to swallow past, but you can't. You don't want to cry into your breakfast, you thought those days were over, you don't know what to do so you push your plate aside and stand up from your chair. He notices you moving toward him, but he doesn't say a word. He lets you take his phone from his hands and set it aside on the mattress, he lets you climb into his lap and bury your head in his shoulder, he wraps his arms around your waist, but he still doesn't say anything. I miss you, you think. Maybe I miss you when you're here even more than when you're gone, but that's still a hell of a lot. You think he wouldn't understand even if you said it out loud, you think he'll never understand how much more it hurts when he's here and always moments away from leaving you. (He wouldn't understand because sometimes you can't even believe this can hurt any more than it normally does.)

It's ridiculous, but you feel as if you haven't been held, just held in a really long time and if there's anyone you want to hold you, it's him. It's always him. You take the chance and he lets you hug him as long as you want, with his arms wrapped around your waist and for once he isn't the first one to let go, but that only serves to break your heart a little bit more and you think you should probably do something to stop this, but it's too late. Months too late. Years too late. (A lifetime too late.)

"I really do have work to do," you whine, with your face still buried in his shirt and he chuckles, wraps his arms more tightly around you. "I believe you. I was going to leave, you know, but I'm a little trapped at the moment." God, you wish that were true. You wish you could trap him, you wish you could keep him here with you, you wish you didn't ever have to let him go, but if one of you is trapped here, you're certain it's not him. He can come and go as he pleases, you're the one who's stuck standing still, waiting for him, hoping he won't leave for good, not this time, not yet. "Not that I'm complaining," he adds, a smile spreading on his face. "You'd better not be," you reply and you finally relax a little in his arms, some of the tension finally breaks and leaves your muscles and all you're left with is his arms around your waist and his skin against your cheek. (This may be as much you ever get, but right now that doesn't seem quite so bad.)

Eventually, you have to let go of him. Eventually, you always have to let go of him. (It’s just that he usually lets go of you first.) You lean back slowly, let yourself look at him honestly for the first time in a while, because for once your head isn’t clouded with endorphins and whatever alcohol he brought along. This time, your eyes are clear and your heart is in shreds and he is beautiful, somehow more beautiful than the last time he was here, and he is everything, even after everything, and you’re still nothing but broken and afraid, even though you keep trying not to be. (He doesn’t really scare you anymore, you’re only afraid of yourself now.) “What’s with you?” he finally says, his eyes trained on yours. “I’m just going to miss you,” you explain, but what you really mean is I’ll be here waiting for you. What you really mean is come back to me. (What you really mean is stay.)

You climb out of his lap and sit next to him on the edge of your bed. He looks down at his hands and then over at you. “I won’t be gone very long, you won’t even have time to remember to miss me.” I miss you right now, I won’t forget while you’re gone, you think to yourself, but you’ve already kept him here long enough and saying anything else will only make this harder. “Will you miss me?” you say, trying to smile like you’re making a joke but your eyes betray you, as they often do. He chuckles and you feel like you’ve made a mistake. “I always do,” he says and even though you’re sure it’s a lie, you let his words comfort you a little. (Because if he misses you, that means he’ll always come back to you someday.)

(Later in the week, he texts you from a million miles away to tell you that he misses you and that he’s not having as much fun as he thought he would and that it could be because you’re not with him, and even though you know he’s only sending you empty words, you let yourself believe that you still have some kind of effect on him even after all of this time, the way he will always have an overwhelming effect on you.)