“I will kiss your scars as you heal, I will sit by your side and hold your hand. I will write invisible secrets and paragraphs and maybe a book into your skin at night, while you sleep warm next to me.”

—Unknown

“Why are you worried about this? It’s going to be fine.” Junmyeon’s voice guides my hand to the handle of the pot, where a cold grip meets mine. “See? There you go. That wasn’t that bad.”

It’s Wednesday morning in late June, and today is the first stage of His Great Plan. It’s a plan that involves cooking from scratch. No more pre-made recipes. No more microwaves. No more shortcuts. Just farmer’s markets, utensils, and my hands. My hands. Junmyeon says he’ll guide these hands to the correct areas—meaning he’ll make sure that I don’t burn or cut myself, but then who will guide him when I endanger the both of us?

Still, I love him, so I let him.

“What’s the next step, hm?” His voice is directly next to my ear, lulling and soft.

“Fill the pot with water,” I reply. This isn’t new; this is old-school spaghetti making. But the last time I ever made this particular recipe is too long ago. A different era. A different me. A me that can see. “You don’t need to do all this tutorial crap. I know how to make spaghetti.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt for me to remind you, right?”

I roll my eyes, reaching for the faucet. Since we’re in his apartment, I still have to get used to all the surroundings. Fortunately, I’m almost always there, and its little nooks and crannies have become a part of my life.

Once the pot is half full of water, I take a step back from the sink and bump into Junmyeon.

“What are you doing?” I sigh, making sure not to spill any water as I make my way back to the stove. “Standing directly behind people isn’t healthy. What if I had a knife?”

“But that’s the thing. You didn’t.” Junmyeon laughs and wraps his arms around my waist, effectively pulling me away from the stove. “You’re so cute.”

“How will we ever get anything done like this, Jun?”

“You’re right.” As much as I’d like to not admit it, it’s a joke. I like his touches more than I like anything else, and I don’t want them gone. But he takes his arms and hands away, and it’s just me standing in what feels like an island. The only sign saying he hasn’t left the room is the way his voice sounds from a few feet away. “I’ll warm the water up for you.”

“Thanks,” I mumble. While he shuffles over to the stove, I feel my way back towards the counter where it’s a fact that a package of pasta lies there. But there’s nothing. Instead of a plastic package, cold droplets of water greet my hand. “Jun?”

“What’s up?”

“Where’s the pasta?”

“Oh, I put it on top of the microwave since the counter’s kind of wet.”

“I can tell.” With warning, I lunge forward to where his voice comes from and place my hand there. I don’t touch his mouth, however. I touch his neck—which is perhaps the best the choice anyways because of how loud his gasp is.

“Sunhee, you !” Junmyeon pushes me backward just in time for me to erupt in a fit of giggles. “What is that? Why is your hand so cold?” A pause. “And wet?”

“That’s for putting the pasta on the microwave without telling me, you idiot—Jun!” Droplets of cold water land across my face and drip down into my shirt. They’re little snowflakes against the dessert of my skin. As I stand there gasping at the contact, Junmyeon’s laughter fills the air. “Who now, Jun? What’s your deal?”

“Revenge is best served cold.” He must be shrugging. Or raising his eyebrows. “How do you like it now?”

“Hm,” I huff. “I guess you’re not my boyfriend anymore.”

“No,” he whines, and a pair of arms engulfs me. “I’m sorry, Sunhee.” Within the walls of his body, a laugh reverberates down from his neck to chest like a landslide. “You know, you’re right. How are we ever going to get anything done when all I want to do is hold you?”

“And all I want to do is be held by you.” Smiling, I breathe in his familiar cologne.

Home is an abstract noun—a clever idea constructed by people who know about the logic of love. Now, I’ve always been some sort of nomad. For me, there really isn’t one place worthy of being called the safe haven the word home means. In December, my home is in the snowy peaks of linen bedsheets, tucked behind doors covered with tinsel and rainbow-colored LEDs. On the weekends, home is synonymous to stuffy, butter-scented kitchens at the back of a certain café. The point is, home isn’t just one place. It never is. So today, home is in the arms of a man who smells like aloe vera moisturizer and feels like a punch to the heart.

“Sunhee, can I ask you something?” Junmyeon’s hands begin to twirl around the ends of my hair.

“Go for it.” I squeeze his waist, shocking myself with how tangible this moment is. How real it is that he is here. With me.

“We’re not like most couples, yeah?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, you know, I’ve been wondering… Do you ever want me or are you just not into that whole thing anymore?” The spaces between the words on the transcript of his dialogue disappear. “I’m not going to mad if you’re not. That’s obviously y-your choice. But you know, I’m just wondering because I don’t want this to be awkward o-or—”

“Jun, what are you saying?”

“You know, do you, maybe, I don’t know, want me?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? I do want you, yes. We’re here now, aren’t we?”

“No, not like that. I meant, do you want me? In, you know, a more—you know.”

“No, I don’t know!” Frustrated, I pull away from his tight grip and attempt to find his face. Thankfully, I reach his jawline with one hand in one try, so I cup his face, feeling his soft cheeks. “Jun, are you okay? You’re nervous about something, aren’t you?”

“Well, of course I’m n-nervous. I don’t know what you feel about me!” Junmyeon begins to pant, and his hands begin to feel hot against my back. “So, do you?”

“Do I what? ‘Want’ you? Of course, I do! What are you talking about? Are you sick or some—”

“Do you physically want me?” He blurts out.

A wave of embarrassment hits me at the same time a storm of silence rolls in.

“And there’s my answer.” He sighs, his breath pushing my hair back. A hand reaches up to one of mine, pressing it against his cheek even more. “That’s okay. I was just wondering. We definitely don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Junmyeon.” For some reason, after the initial embarrassment, something in me snaps and causes me to laugh. “J-Jun. What? That’s what you’re so worked up about? ual attraction?”

“Well, sorry.” He scoffs, but he pulls me in closer anyways. “I’m 27, and I’m a guy that went to med school. I know basic human biology. You can’t blame me for thinking about this.” He pauses, drawing a sharp intake of air in. “You haven’t been thinking about this, have you? That’s it, right?”

“No, no.” I shake my head as my cheeks heat up. He’s serious about this. “I have, okay? Ever since I’ve been blind, I’ve been thinking about it. Not a lot, but it comes to my head every now and then—especially when I read something with that kind of content. But,” I bite my lip, not knowing how to construct such an explicit thought, “I figured that I’d just cross that bridge when it came to it. Because, you know, no one really wants to do it with someone blind…”

“You shouldn’t make assumptions like that.” Junmyeon’s whisper sends shivers to careen down my spine. But as quickly as his voice becomes knee-shaking, the sun in his voice emerges behind the clouds. “Okay, but on a more serious note, you know I’d never want you to feel obligated to doing anything, right? I love you and support your choices to anything.”

“Yes,” I murmur, suddenly growing hot in the cheeks. Joanne and I have discussed this before, and it’s not a fond memory. “Thank you.”

“And vice versa.”

“Yes,” I force it out. “I will keep all of that in mind. Now can we go back to cooking?”

“Hey.” He takes my hand and places it in between the two of his. “I’m just trying to be a good person. Obviously, it’s not easy being blind, and there are things in the world that might be uncomfortable to do or not to do—like when you first touched me by accident. You remember that, don’t you? I just don’t want anything between us to be weird like that time. I don’t want you to feel shy or embarrassed regarding anything.”

“Well, good job on that.”

“Sunhee,” Junmyeon asserts. “I’m being serious. I don’t see us as some short-term thing. We’re not even a ‘thing.’ This is more than that. I am genuinely looking out for us and our future. And it’s not just . I don’t care about that. I care about you. If you’re not comfortable around me or to even talk to me about stuff like this, then what’s the point?”

My feet seem to pull me in the ground even though I don’t move them.

“See, look?” He places a hand on my shoulder, sighing as he goes. “You’re not talking to me.”

“It’s because this is weird,” I reason. “I’m talking to my boyfriend about having . With him.”

“The way I see it, we’re talking about how open we should be communicating. And really? I’m weirded out too, so don’t worry.” He pauses and sighs again. “But I understand if this conversation can wait. We can go back to cooking.”

“Okay.” I nod, now feeling guilty. Junmyeon has always had to take the first step in talking about anything. To asking for my number, to our first kiss, and to now this—it’s him. Never me. “I’m sorry. It takes a lot of courage to even bring questions like that to light. I should be more mindful.”

“No, no. It’s your life. Your choices. None of that is obligated to accommodate me or anyone.”

“Thank you.” I smile, feeling his words take root in my heart—where all his other belongings are. “You’re really understanding, you know that? Where does all this come from?”

“Helping people and understanding is sort of part of my job description.” The smile drips off his voice. “I’m technically Dr. Kim now, remember? Columbia University alumni?”

“Ugh, shut up.” I roll my eyes. “So, what were we making again?”

“Spaghetti, Sunhee, spuh-ge-tti.” Junmyeon laughs and pokes me in the side. “I’m actually really hungry, so we should get to it.”

And so, we do get to it. It takes a while, but in between burning garlic bread and spilling tomato sauce, we manage it. It’s the first time in years where I actually make something. Not from Joanne’s pre-made dough, but out of nothing. From scratch, you can say. From love—

“Stop doing that,” Junmyeon says through a mouthful of food. “You’re going to get all the flour dirty.”

“But I washed my hands.” I keep doing it—keep my hands running through the soft flour. Its powdery composition makes me feel like I’m molding clouds. “It’s fine.”

“Since you look so happy doing it, I’ll let you. But if we get the stomach flu, I’m blaming you.”

It takes another 20 minutes, but Junmyeon grabs my flour-covered hand and presses it against his lips. And I can’t tell what I like better: the flour, or his kiss against my fingers.

“You should do this more often. Do you know how happy you look?” He plays with my fingers before leading me towards the sink. Cold water runs down from my wrist to my hand. “Instead of reading all the time, you should cook more. I’ll help you before my residency starts.”

“No, you don’t have to do that.” I shake my head, horrified at the thought of adding onto his stresses. A residency is difficult work, and so am I. “You’re going to be tired all the time. Of me too.” This is part where I remember all that Jun has spent up on me—his patience. “What if I come visit you instead? I can bring you lunch or something.”

He rubs my hand with his, soaping it down with bubbles.

“I’d really like that.”

- - - - -

Before Junmyeon awakens, it becomes some sort of a mission to wander around his apartment. Sometimes, Sehun leaves his briefcase in hazardous places—such as in the middle of the hallway, so I have to scan where I walk with a foot. It doesn’t happen anymore, though—thanks to Jongdae. He’s always awake before anyone else is. It makes sense; it’s only fitting that the sun rises with the sun. He works out using the TV, tends to the plants he has in the patio, and does meditative painting out there too.

Today, it starts out differently. Today, I’m not looking to complete missions. Today, I relish the feeling of being in bed with someone you love.

Touch becomes the greatest gift when you’re blind. My eyes will never trace the outline of his body or prick themselves against his jawline, but my hands will always finger the wrinkles in between his brows when he dreams, and they’ll be Picasso. My hands will become legendary painters, and they will draw all his curves and grooves.

Junmyeon murmurs something just as I’m beginning to draw his Adam’s apple with a pinky.

I know this murmur. He dreams of something. Not a particularly good dream, however. Unfortunately, it’s one of those that he has frequently. A dream about medical school, he says, an