WARNING: this chapter may contain graphic images of a car crash and death.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I shuffle uncomfortably. “I have plans with Jun.” I hate bringing him up, because every time I do, Jeonghan gets really weird. Quiet, and shuffly, and squirmy, and right-out weird. And not even the I-disapprove-of-you-going-to-your-demon-slash-teacher-boyfriend’s-house-to-make-out kind of weird, but just… just really weird.

“Oh.”

I sigh.

“Can’t you cancel them?”

This is the first time Jeonghan’s ever asked me to cancel a date with Jun, and for some reason, I’m not upset that he’s asking. I’m a little flattered, really. “Why?”

“We never get to hang out anymore, not really. Ever since you guys got back together it’s been Jun, Jun, Jun.”

“…today he wanted to do something special, I can’t really cancel on him.” Now I’m starting to feel guilty all around. “I’m sorry. We’ll hang out tomorrow.”

“Psht, never mind then.” He crosses his arms, but then turns. “Why special?”

I mumble it under my breath.

“Excuse me?”

“…Christmas.”

“Oh, , it’s Christmas.”

I hold two hands up. “We don’t celebrate. I don’t celebrate. Ever. It’s Jun’s idea.”

“…I see.”

The moment he sees me, just like always, he pulls me in for a warm kiss. The kind that sinks deep into my chest and makes me grin a little.

“Hello, precious,” he smirks.

“Hello,” I sigh back. I love the way Jun holds me – like he wants me, like he can’t get enough of me. It’s a very nice feeling. “Merry Christmas, .”

“Merry Christmas, my beautiful and delectable boyfriend.”

I roll my eyes and shut the door behind myself. “It’s ridiculously cold out there,” I complain. “All the snow and the frost and I almost died because there was a puddle and it was frozen over and I just-”

Jun suddenly leans in very close, pressing me against the door again. He lets his eyes trail down my body, pinning me down until he looks back up, a dark look in them. “I could… heat you up,” he suggests, his lips slowly. “I’d be very good at it.”

I grin, even though he still makes me tremble a bit. I’m kind of used to this by now. “Can you do it with my clothes on?” I challenge.

He looks me up and down again, more doubtful. “Heat’s shared better skin-on-skin,” he tries.

“That’s what I thought.”

“.” Jun leans in and kisses me, ravaging my bottom lip, hands cupping my as he presses up against me. “Why are you so hot?”

“I got it from my momma.”

“Don’t ruin it,” he growls down my throat.

I playfully shove him off to take off my scarf and coat, letting myself into his house. “I think I’ll opt for hot chocolate. Coffee, if you have it.”

“ you,” he mumbles harmlessly, winking at me as he bests me to the kitchen.

“You wish.”

“I do.”

I let myself fall on his couch as he makes me hot chocolate – when he comes over to serve it, he grips me in his arms and puts his teeth around my earlobe. “Can I give you your present now?”

“You got me a present?”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t want a present…”

“Don’t be puffy with me, or I’ll your ear clean off,” he threatens with a grin. “Are you ready to be pampered?”

“Fine,” I sigh, doing my best to sound like he’s just asked me to have y fingernails pulled from my body one by one. Just to get the message across.

“It’s a verbal present,” he smiles.

“Verbal present?”

He grins widely, and kisses me briefly. “I love you, Joshua.”

My breath catches in my throat, halting all flow. I freeze. It’s not because it’s the first time he’s ever said it – although that’s a fine thing, nonetheless.

It’s because I, for some reason, expect Jun to disappear right out of my hands.

But he never does.

The car is full of the dull, dusty scent of cigarettes long burnt out. There’s one stub on the floor, but only one: it means somebody has cleaned the car very recently, and really tried to clean it right. The smell of tobacco has aded everything: it clings to the faux leather seats of the car, it’s seeped into the foot mats, ashes in the marble ashtray – it’s even overtaken the scented pine tree hanging from the rear-view mirror. No biggie. That pine tree only smelled like pines for a day or so before the smoke got it.

There’s live smoke, here, too – not the dusted, old kind that’s become every-day, but the new, fresh kind that comes with lit embers. There’s only a whiff of it. He’s gracefully holding the cigarette outside the window. When the lights change, he flicks it to the curb.

He doesn’t get angry, not the loud type of angry, in any case. He doesn’t go yelling and screaming, that’s not how he gets angry. The tension rolls off him in thick waves, and he goes silent – as silent as the grave. It frightens the boy next to him. He doesn’t like it when his father is like this. It usually means something bad is going to happen.

The boy knew it was his fault. He’d been playing around in the waiting room and wanted to finish his drawing on the small blackboard before he left with his father. But his father had gotten angry, and used his angry voice, so the boy had to leave his chalk drawing half-made. His father gripped him a little too hard, strapped him into the car a little too roughly.

“Dad?”

Silence.

“Are you angry with me?”

Silence.

“I’m sorry. I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean it, dad.”

He sighed, angrily. “No,” he said tensely, “I’m not angry with you, kiddo.”

“That always means you’re angry with me anyway,” the boy mumbled.

That moment, as they cruised down the highway, a motorcycle whizzed by with a startling, shocking and probably illegal sound. The boy covered both his ears against the sound, but the man just sat there.

Hands on ten and twelve. Eyes looking forward.

The boy took his hands off his ears.

The man’s eyes grew wider and wider. One hand lost its grip on the steering wheel to grip at his chest.

“Dad?”

The