One-shot

The dressing room curtain didn’t close all the way.

It left a narrow slit of light, a sharp line cutting the dim space in two. Jun noticed it the moment he stepped inside, noticed everything the way he always did when Dylan was near — too aware, too awake, like his body had learned a language his mouth refused to speak.

Dylan stood in front of the mirror.

The red shirt clung to him like it had been designed to tempt and punish at the same time. See-through enough that Jun could trace the lines of his skin beneath it, the subtle shadows of muscle and bone. The fabric barely reached past his ribs, loose but dangerous, sliding when Dylan moved, revealing the sharp curve of his waist. At the collar, two thin buttons were tied together, creating a fragile knot, a mockery of restraint.

Red looked like a warning on him.

Red looked like a promise.

“You’re staring,” Dylan said softly, not turning around.

Jun didn’t apologize.

He shut the door behind him. The click of the lock sounded too loud, final in a way that made the air thicken. The dressing room smelled faintly of new fabric and metal hangers, but underneath it — Dylan. Warm. Familiar. Ruinous.

“It’s too much,” Jun said, his voice low. “You know that.”

Dylan’s reflection met his eyes in the mirror. A slow smile curved his lips — not happy, not kind. Something darker. Something that had learned how to survive by provoking.

“That’s the point,” Dylan replied.

He shifted his weight, and the shirt lifted just enough for Jun to see more skin, pale under the harsh lights. The mirror multiplied him — Dylan from every angle, trapped in glass, red bleeding into white walls. Jun felt like prey pretending to be a hunter.

“You shouldn’t wear that,” Jun said.

“And you shouldn’t follow me into dressing rooms,” Dylan shot back.

Silence fell between them, stretched thin and vibrating. Jun stepped closer. One step. Then another. He stopped just behind Dylan, close enough that their heat tangled, close enough that the mirror could no longer pretend they were separate.

Dylan’s breath hitched.

Just once.

That was all it took.

Jun raised his hand — but didn’t touch.

His fingers hovered near Dylan’s waist, so close he could feel warmth without contact. The restraint hurt worse than anything else. He hated himself for it. He hated Dylan for knowing exactly how to stand, how to breathe, how to wear red like a confession.

“Say the word,” Jun murmured. “And I’ll leave.”

Dylan swallowed. His throat moved, exposed and tempting beneath the tied collar.

He didn’t say it.

Instead, Dylan turned — slowly, deliberately — until they were face to face in the cramped space. The mirror framed them like a crime scene. Jun could see his own expression now: tight, hungry, terrified of what he might become.

“You never leave,” Dylan said quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

Jun’s jaw tightened. “You don’t want me to.”

Dylan lifted his chin, defiant even as his hands trembled at his sides. “Want has nothing to do with it.”

Jun finally touched him.

Just barely — his knuckles brushing Dylan’s waist, where skin met air, where the shirt failed to protect. Dylan sucked in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before he caught himself.

The touch was brief. Controlled. Cruel in its gentleness.

“Red suits you,” Jun said. “It makes it hard to remember what’s right.”

Dylan laughed under his breath, soft and broken. “You never cared about that.”

They stood there, suspended, the world outside reduced to muffled footsteps and distant voices. A dressing room meant for trying things on. For deciding what fit. What stayed. What was too dangerous to take home.

Jun leaned in, stopping just short of Dylan’s mouth. Close enough that their breaths mixed. Close enough that the mirror blurred.

“This ends badly,” Dylan whispered.

Jun nodded. “It always does.”

Neither of them moved away.

And the curtain stayed open, just enough for the light to keep watching.