I go about making coffee, eyes still at half-mast, practically dropping the carafe when I hear the bathroom door open and belatedly add more water to the pot.

  “Good morning,” Jaeyong croaks, his voice impossibly deeper in the morning, and I squint over at him, bringing him into focus, dying on the inside ’cause he’s wearing nothing but his boxers, his stupid chest and collarbones and abs on display, and God, don’t get my started on those magnificent thighs.

  I feel my eyes getting wider and wider, and it’s too early since I fully got vertical to be fully aware of what I’m doing to have any kind of tact. It’s a wonder really how I don’t point at his body and start slobbering like some kind of animal.

  Yikes.

  “Jaeyong,” I say, voice sleep-rough and my own version of raspy.

  I watch him reach his arms over his head, grunting at the stretch, twisting at the waist until something cracks and pops like the cereal with milk, a symphony of sounds that makes me a little queasy. I rub my hand over my face, close my eyes, as if that’s going to make any of this better, as if the image of him in nothing but boxers isn’t branded in my brain like a wicked kind of tattoo.

  I will myself to treat him like any other guy friend I have ever had, noting with some sort of odd detachment that yes, they’re attractive, but none of that really matters unless they got the personality to back it up.

  Beautiful faces can hide ugly actions, cruel intentions. And it’s hard now, superimposing the Jaeyong I knew back then on the man that’s in front of me. The boy could be a blueprint for the man he is today, or some he’s been lost altogether.

  Jaeyong hikes up his shoulders when he notices me looking, arms falling at his sides, a flush moving over his face and down his neck. “Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t sleep with my clothes on—”

  I snort because what else am I gonna do? Cry? I wave him off, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and whirling towards the counter where my coffee machine is situated, and placing the pot in its rightful place, scooping in the Tim Hortons blend I got from the duty-free a whole month ago when I came to Seoul.

  “It’s not like I haven’t seen a guy’s body before, Jaeyong, relax.” I call over my shoulder, not relaxed. “What do you want to eat? It’s gonna be a Western breakfast—I don’t want to make something Korean and completely butcher it. I’m hungry.”

  I turn to Jaeyong after setting the coffee to brew, his pants now on, donning the billowing t-shirt that just hangs off his shoulders, loose around his middle and falling to mid-thigh. He looks so freaking cuddly I immediately want to snuggle, and I have to will myself to stand still, to keep my muscles tense so I don’t do the dumb thing and reach out to touch.

  “Eggs and bacon? I haven’t had that in years,” Jaeyong grins, flashing that idol smile my way.

  “Pancakes, too?”

  Jaeyong’s eyes look ready to fall out of his head, and he bends forward a little, like he’s trying to make sure I’m real. “You’re going to make me pancakes?”

  I nod, smiling a little, shrugging. “It’s a protein pancake mix that I made myself, so...” I haul out the giant jug of maple syrup I also bought from the duty-free, one of the three I had stashed in my carry-on, lugging it around Incheon Airport and then the metro to get into Seoul when I arrived here. It was totally worth it, and I’ll never complain.

  “Wait...” Jaeyong runs a hand through his hair, mouth gaping open, not believing what he’s seeing. “Maple syrup?! Real maple syrup?! Ah, shit, no way!”

  I clench my jaw hard, ignoring the way I think he’s being so cute in the face of something like maple syrup. I shut my eyes instead, as if that makes it better when he makes what can only be described as happy noises and murmurs about the maple syrup, of all things.

  Yikes.

  I go to the bathroom to wash up, leaving him to his own devices, and run through my morning routine, ignoring the fluttering in my belly, the way it feels like my apartment isn’t so depressingly empty and lifeless anymore. I pull on a bra once I’m back in my bedroom, hike up my hair to the top of my head and go back to the kitchen to start making good on my promise.

  Jaeyong helps me in the kitchen, clearly not one of those guys who’s completely useless, asking for permission to go through my cupboards and fridge, which is so freaking endearing I might just explode. He stands close enough to me while he starts frying us some eggs while I take care of the pancakes, Jaeyong leaning down more often than not to swipe at the bowl of batter, liking the taste with the protein powder mixed in.

  Breakfast is done in the next half hour with me steadily drinking down my second cup of coffee topped off with chocolate soy milk, the question plaguing my mind I’ve heard in dramas more than once (and probably Western shows, too)—how do you like your eggs?

  It’s all I can think about – that I now know how Jaeyong likes his eggs.

  Jaeyong sits across from me at my tiny kitchen table that barely holds our plates and the jug of maple syrup and stack of pancakes between us, eating his scrambled eggs.

  “Thank you for the food,” Jaeyong says the common phrase, attacking his food like it’s his first time seeing it. I eat at a more sedate pace, almost losing my cool as his eyes get big, and he makes the happiest noises when it comes to the taste of the food, almost making me blush.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Yeah, this colossal crush is going nowhere. Absolutely nowhere!

  I watch him eat more than anything else, laugh when he nearly busts a nut at his first taste of maple syrup in God knows how long. I get complimented for my cooking skills no less than fifty times, Jaeyong putting all of it away faster than I can take my pancakes onto my own plate.

  “Shit, that was so good. Sooooo good.” He rubs his belly, leaning back in the chair, pushing back from the table as if he needs all the space to rest and digest. He keeps smacking his lips, eyes closed, and if I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s ready for a nap.

  I push his glass of water back to him, knowing it’s probably the last thing he wants to drink right now, but he doesn’t seem to be horribly hungover. Hell, he was more awake than I was this morning and that’s saying something.

  “I don’t want to move ever again,” Jaeyong groans, staring up at the ceiling and huffing out a breath. “Shit, that was so good.”

  I laugh again, because that’s where we’re at now, him complimenting me and me not being able to take it. “Good. I’m glad.”

  “Leave it, I’ll do the dishes as soon as I can move, you just gotta give me like twenty minutes.”

  I stop collecting the dirty dishes, Jaeyong still rubbing his stomach, looking at me earnestly.

  “Please, it’s the least I can do. You let me sleep here and fed me. I’ll do the dishes, I’ll do them.”

  I nod slowly, a little unsure. I’m used to always doing things by myself, used to going it alone. It’s weird, letting go of the reins for something as innocuous as him washing the dishes.

  “Uh, okay, sure.”

  Jaeyong opens his eyes to slits, licking at his lips and pushing himself upright, groaning like an arthritic old man, pain in every movement. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

  Oh, so we’re gonna talk about it, huh?

  “There’s nothing to apologize for other than you showing up at my apartment off your face and demanding entry.”

  He squints at me. “Pretty sure you’re the one that let me in.”

  Good, this is good. I can handle playful Jaeyong, the version of him that flirts with the cameras whenever the members of Trickshot do their live streams. I can handle this, I can handle him. I know how to deal with it since this is all a part of the show.

  My scoff sounds forced to my ears, but I keep going. “Right, only ’cause you were outside my apartment with your face uncovered, easily recognizable.”

  He blanches, golden skin paling out as he slaps at his face with both hands. I nod at him, proving my point. “I didn’t wear a mask? Me? Not wear a mask? I really didn’t drink that much, I swear. I lose my head real quick.”

  I nod like I understand, when I don’t. We never got to see each other inebriated.

  Honestly, get your head out of the past and focus on the now, eh? You could end up missing it.

  “Good to know. I’ll keep the beers away from you, then.” I watch him looking at me, starting to panic as the silence stretches and lengthens, threatening to snap. “Serious question.”

  Jaeyong raises his eyebrows, pushes his hair back only for it to flop forward in front of his eyes again—he’s going to need a trim sooner rather than later. “My favourite kind of question.”

  “Jaeyong,” I grit out, wanting to be serious for once, needing to figure this out while I can, while my head’s above water.

  “Raleigh,” he says in the same tone, face open and calm, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, not in cruel amusement, no, but letting me talk it out and giving me a soft, safe place to land when I’m done.

  I sigh, scratching at the side of my neck. “You’re different than I thought you would be.”

  Jaeyong grins at that, teeth flashing, looking exactly like the male K-pop idol that has a faction of fans who’ve pledged to lose their virginity to him.

  “Yeah?”

  I nod, not knowing what to say. “And maybe I’m different, too.”

  He tilts his head at me, that smile still on his mouth, making me long for something I can’t have.

  “I thought we could be friends,” I continue, wanting to get it out, but my breakfast settles in my belly like I’ve gone and eaten a cinderblock.

  Jaeyong nods, solemn now, smile a little stiffer, hiding something instead of showing something off. “We can be friends. Absolutely.”

  I shake my head, sighing again, having a hard time finding the right words to say what I mean, so I switch to English, wanting to get it out right.

  “Maybe I was hoping for too much, is what I’m saying, and that’s...not fair to you. I didn’t expect you to come and see me last night, as if you had something to apologize for.”

  “Raleigh...”

  I shake my head, wanting to finish.

  “A lot’s changed, you know? And I came here, to Seoul, wanting that change, but also wanting the comfort of how it used to be.” I look at him, wanting him to understand, needing him to understand. “I’m chasing a past that doesn’t exist anymore, yeah? You haven’t been part of my life for a very long time.”

  There’s a part of me that wants to reach around the plates and make a grab for his hand, snaking through them so I don’t knock anything over. There’s another part of me afraid to make that connection, knowing it shouldn’t go anywhere, can’t go anywhere.

  There’s another part of me that’s even too afraid to try.

  “I don’t want to pressure you into a friendship you won’t have time for,” I say, laying it out there, limiting myself to that word, friendship, and not something else.

  In an alternate universe, I really believe that Jaeyong and I would’ve been high school sweethearts, if we had the chance, if he didn’t go ahead and chase his dreams, achieve them.

  How could I begrudge him that? What kind of person would I be if I begrudged him that?

  An asshole, that’s what, and I am not an asshole.

  “You’re still stubborn as ever, so that hasn’t changed,” Jaeyong murmurs, more to himself than anything, but I get all offended anyway.

  “Excuse me?”

  Jaeyong juts his chin out, rounding his dark, dark eyes to me, all confrontational. “You heard me, you’re stubborn. Fucking stubborn.” He shakes his head. “Always have been. Shit, you think I can’t make my own decisions, Raleigh-ssi?” He raps his fingers against the surface of the table, punching out a song against its surface. “Don’t think for one second that I’m not old enough, that I’m not smart enough, to make the right kind of decisions for myself.”

  He’s angry now, not the explosive anger that’ll cause a ton of fallout, but the low, simmering kind that creeps up on you when you least expect it. My heart drums against my sternum, and my breath goes all shaky. I’m aware that I’m alone in my apartment with a man I don’t really know, and every police procedural drama I’ve ever watched (in English or Korean) has things to say about it.

  Jaeyong pushes back from the table, leaving space between us, not looming now as much as seemingly making himself smaller.

  “I’m going to do the dishes now,” he says, before getting up and stacking the plates in his hands, balancing them like a pro before heading into my kitchen, donning the yellow rubber gloves and going to town with the cleaning and putting them on my plastic dish rack.

  I stew in it for a while at the table, watching him but not saying anything.

  What can I say?

  “Stop staring and tell me where to put these,” he says, switching back to Korean, tilting his head over to the stack of plates.

  “Don’t remember you being so bossy.”

  I round my table, head into the kitchen and start drying off the plates with the dishrag, not looking at him, not having the traitorous thought that he looks good in my space, sharing it with me.

  Stop it, Raleigh, just stop it.

  Jaeyong snorts, scrubbing down a plate with a particularly loud squeak. “Yeah, ’cause you didn’t let me be bossy. Every project we ever had, we had to go with your ideas.”

  “That’s ’cause my ideas were always superior. Or are you remembering the grades we got differently?” I grin when he swears in French under his breath, murmuring to himself, not calling me names, but just being annoying.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Jaeyong turns to look at me as I finish up drying the plates and stacking them away in my sparsely occupied cupboards. He smiles at me when he catches my eye, leaning to the side just enough that we sort of bump shoulders, a friendly I’m here that has that tightness, that ache, trying to claw its way up my throat.

  “You don’t know what it’s been like over here,” he says, paying attention to handing me over a soaking wet plate and not really looking at me, shy, unsure.

  “Were you very lonely?” I ask, voice hardly above a whisper, hard to make out over the sound of running water.

  Jaeyong shrugs, and that definitely means a yes. “I had good days and bad days, just like anybody else. My hyungs helped me out, talked me through it, even if they didn’t get it. I became a trainee when I was fifteen, a little older than the other kids, obviously—the maknae was thirteen. Thirteen years old, and already working. I was angry a lot of the time, wondering why it didn’t come easier for me, why I had to work so much harder than everyone else.”

  “But you’re an amazing dancer—you’re so fluid. What do they say? Like smoke coming off a wick of a candle? Yeah. That’s you, Jaeyong.” I move my hands around, trying to act fluid when I am not.

  Jaeyong won’t look at me, even if I can see the flush under his golden skin. “I was always really hard on myself, you know that.”

  “Guess you didn’t grow out of that, huh?”

  Jaeyong shakes his head, grinning, bumping me with his hip so I almost go flying into the counter, not prepared at all for that kind of playfulness.

  “It was hard, being a trainee, getting accustomed to school here. I had to get used to wearing a uniform again, and they give you this little name tag thing, and it’s odd. Stricter rules on the way you look—skirt length, hair length for guys, earrings for guys...just took some getting used to. I was tired all the time, all the time.” He groans up to the ceiling, remembering.

  “It took me a while to find friends that weren’t part of what would become Trickshot. High school was hell. I tried hard to fit in, even as the foreign kid, found the other foreign kids, too, doing the same thing I was for different companies. My Korean got a shit ton better though, let me tell you.” Jaeyong smirks, turning to look at me, the smirk turning into a grin.

  My poor heart’s doing acrobatics in my rib cage, and I pull in a sharp breath through my nose, glancing away, as if Jaeyong’ll figure me out. How inconvenient would that be—wanting that from him when he doesn’t want that at all?

  Yup, we just gotta get over this little crush. It’s fine. He’ll fart in front of you or something and it’ll be all she freaking wrote.

  “I got to read Dragon Ball in Korean, though, which was an experience.”

  I snort. “Don’t get me started on written Korean, I had such a hard time with it, still kinda do. I wouldn’t mind reading it in Korean, though, if you’re offering to let me borrow it.”

  “It took me twelve years to get my volume 10 back, do you think you’ve earned it, Raleigh-ssi?”

  Is he flirting? Is Jaeyong flirting with me? I just can’t tell. Maybe he’s just being playful, maybe he doesn’t know how to turn off the ‘I’m an attractive K-pop idol and you’re not’ button and I’m being hit over the head with his aura.

  “Hey, I’ll lend it to you, okay? Better yet, why don’t I take you to the comic book cafes around here?”

  I nearly drop the plate I’m drying, have been drying for the last couple of minutes. “Say what now?”

  Jaeyong laughs, the odd, booming one that always used to surprise me, too big for his smaller body, but fitting him just perfectly right now, filling up the entire apartment with the sound. Still snickering, he says, “Comic book cafes. Did you not know that cafe culture in Seoul is real?”

  I shake my head, making a mental note to explore more besides going out for groceries or searching out the things I forgot to buy for the apartment. I haven’t explored in forever, I missed out on all the cool things Montreal had to offer—Igloofest in the winter, the jazz festival in the summer, the Just For Laughs festival...all of it, without me participating in it, just being a boring homebody.

  I promised myself that when I got here things would be different, that I would be different, and it’s time to make good on that promise.