The frame of our bed had been successfully put together, and the mattress and box-springs placed atop it, yet still we preferred to sleep on the floor in our tattered, flannel sleeping bags we’d unrolled our first night in our new place, side-by-side, but hardly touching. Jong was usually comfortable to sleep aside, but something about tonight was different—be it the immediate memories of our guest running through my mind which left me skittish and preoccupied, or the feel of his hesitant, reticent hand crossing from his side to mine in order to the curve of my shoulder. At first I kept staring at the ceiling, allowing the strange touch without necessarily responding to it; all I wanted to do was trace the outlines of Key’s facial features with my mind, touch the ridge of his cheekbone as he smiled, memorize the sparkling color of his eyes, feel the soft tissue of his cupid lips against mine—

            Wait, what?! I cried internally. These kind of longing thoughts were a rare thing for a like me. Never mind that I caught myself sensually imagining the feminine details of a gay man’s body. This is crazy. Stupid girl, stupid girl…

            Jong’s hand suddenly became more adventurous, adding to my surprise. “Rex, what are you—”

            He silenced my lips then by crossing his index finger across them, and I immediately complied. 

            “Raina,” he said, and upon hearing my name I knew he was serious. But he didn’t have to say anything else for me to understand, and I watched as he rolled over and hovered closer to my side of the “bed.”

            “Jonghyunnie…” I say, not thinking straight. I’d merely said it out of shock, not considering the origin of my first hearing it.

            “Eh? You’ve never called me that before. Key’s rubbing off on you,” he chuckled lightly.

            The mention of his name caused my cheeks to flush. I was thankful, more than ever, for the darkness of our room. 

             I felt his finger graze my temple slowly, before he swept back a shock of my long, brown hair. I knew where this was going—at least, where he wanted it to go. My heart was racing. “I—I’m not on anything,” I say as a desperate attempt to dissuade his drive. His expression sank a little, and I knew he was disappointed.

            “Are we really going to wait?” Jong asked, inferring our impending marriage. “If so, I’d really like to set a date—as soon as possible, if you know what I mean…”

            I did. I knew perfectly well what he meant. And I knew he was only half joking. We were both in our early twenties, both s. I knew Jonghyun was ready to cross over to the other side of adolescence into a very literal manhood. But the thought of actually sleeping with him made me nervous. Him—my best friend, my childhood companion. To see him in a new way… what would happen the minute after he claimed my physical innocence with his own? Absorbed me into himself, and I into him? I would be his in a very tangible, irreversible way, and he, mine, but how could I stand to ever see him the same after so willingly changing it? Besides, a sleeping bag in the middle of a cluttered, unkempt apartment was hardly what I had envisioned for my first time…

            Still, this was the man I’d agreed to marry, and the man I’d someday create children with—and it was hardly something to be fearful of, considering he was otherwise a perfect match for any woman: attractive, kind, loyal… so what was the hang up? Why was I so hesitant to sleep with him, my chosen forever-partner and best friend?

            “I’m sorry,” I say, and I really am.

            He really is desperately attractive, I think, I should be thrilled to share my first time with this man whom I love. But I just can’t shake the small whisper that argues against it, even though I don’t know why.

            Jong, a gentleman at heart, sighed deep and propped his head on the flat of his hand, his elbow pivoting against the hardwood floor. “So? Tell me what you thought of him.”

            I recognize this as his attempt to switch the conversation to something he thinks will be more comfortable, but in reality it only makes me more nervous. “Who, Key?” I asked, though I knew damn well who he meant.

            “Yeah. Did you like him? Be honest.”

            I blushed again, the question too ambiguous for me to ignore. “Um… yeah. I like him. He’s kinda funny in his own way.”

            “Kibum is hilarious when you get to know him,” he chortled. “I hope you get to see that side of him. He’s a great guy.”

            I nodded along, even though I didn’t have any evidence aside from his words. “Why do you call him Key? He never answered me.”

            “That’s a long story.”

            “Everything is a ‘long story’ with you two. Can’t I be in on it?”

            “It’s long, but uninteresting.”

            I pouted. “Why don’t you ever talk about him? Your friendship is so secretive and mysterious.”

            “Huh? You jealous, Squishy?” Jong teased, tickling my side.

            I refuted the claim with an arduous shake of my head. “Ani~ just curious. I still don’t know much about you during the Black Hole years.”

            “They were just that—Black Hole years. Burdensome and meaningless.”

            “Well you clearly gained a good friendship out of it; you met Key in ninth grade and haven’t stopped talking to him since.”

            “High school was hard on us both. We had that in common,” was Jong’s rather disinterested reply. It didn’t seem he really wanted to discuss Key for long periods of time. At least, not with me.                    

            “Oh…” I settled back in the sleeping bag and watched the lines on his forehead come together for a split second, wondering what thoughts had caused such a reaction. “Will you ever tell me about those lost years—why they were so hard on a big, tough guy like you? Won’t you tell your wife?”

            “ 'Big tough guy'?” he laughed. “You obviously forgot how I looked in high school.”

            But I hadn’t. It was the most petite and “feminine” of all his periods, by no effort of his own. He was just a smaller man with an otherwise delicate frame, but that all changed in his senior year when he started lifting weights on a regular basis. “So, what, you got teased, or something? That’s no big deal now, right? You showed all those haters—look at how handsome and strong you are now,” I smiled.

            “Raina, you think I’m handsome?” This was the word that stood out to him. It was bad timing, considering his conspicuous needs.

            “Er… yeah, of course I do,” I said somewhat quietly, not because it wasn’t true, but because I was afraid where I had unwittingly led the conversation. “You think I’m pretty?”

            “I think you’re gorgeous, of course.”

            “Of course? You never say it…”

            “You’re gorgeous. Would I marry you if you weren’t?”

             I threw him a dissatisfied look, even though I was happy to hear it. “You would if you weren’t shallow,” I teased. “Looks aren’t everything.”

            “But they’re certainly something.”

            This was true: looks were definitely important. But looks faded over time, leaving behind the core of a person's undressed soul. And this was certainly something I had with my Jonghyun. At least, it had always seemed self-evident enough for me to never have to deny anything otherwise; so why was it that now I found myself wondering, for the first time in my life, if the simplicity I prized was enough to last? 

            Suddenly, he hovered close against me once more, so that my frame was somewhat beneath his, and all at once I felt his mouth pressing against my own, and though I do not recoil from his kiss, I couldn't bring myself to return it; instead, I lied there motionless and shaky as I felt his body for the very first time in this way.

            “I won’t take no for an answer forever,” he cooed, voice as gentle as always. We are so close that I can smell the scent of his hair and skin, can hear the light crash of his breath against my cheek. I inhale him in my senses, finding it comfortable, but still not as intoxicating as I'd hoped.  

            "I promise we will soon. Okay?"

            But I don't need to promise this in order for him to accept my refusal. Like a patient saint, Kim Jonghyun settled back onto his flannel pallet and said, mid-yawn, "Good night, Squishy."

            "I love you," I called softly to him, but by the time I glanced over to see if he'd heard it, found he was already fast asleep.