Their first kiss happened in Minjae’s apartment — high above the city, all glass and shadows. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t gentle either. Minjae kissed like he was testing limits, like he needed to know how much Lee would give before pulling away.

Lee didn’t pull away.

He should have noticed then how Minjae’s hands framed his throat — not tight, not threatening, but claiming. As if memorizing the shape of him.

After that, everything shifted.

Minjae became possessive in quiet ways. A hand on Lee’s lower back when others were too close. A look that said don’t even think about it when someone flirted. He never raised his voice. Never demanded.

He didn’t need to.

Lee found himself choosing Minjae over friends, over sleep, over daylight. Found himself wanting the darkness because Minjae lived there.

“You’re changing,” Lee whispered one night, pressed against Minjae’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Minjae kissed his hair. “So are you.”

Lee realized then the truth he’d been avoiding: Minjae didn’t want to save him.

He wanted to keep him.

And Lee… Lee wanted to be kept.

The fear came later. In flashes. In the realization that Minjae knew where he was at all times. That people stepped aside when Minjae entered rooms. That love, in Minjae’s hands, was sharp-edged and territorial.

“You don’t have to own me,” Lee said once, voice trembling.

Minjae looked genuinely confused. “I don’t own you.”

Then, softly: “You stay.”

Lee did.

Because every time he tried to imagine leaving, the world felt colder. Smaller. Empty.

Because when Minjae touched him, the darkness felt like shelter instead of a cage.

Because love doesn’t always come clean.

Sometimes it comes like night — slow, inevitable, and impossible to escape.

And Lee stopped running from it.