The night ached in silence.
Jun-ho's arms wrapped around Salin with the same intensity as always, like letting go meant losing him. And that night, it did. When he let go, Salin would really leave.
They shared one last coffee. Got ready one last time, sharing the bathroom between clothes, silent glances, and a quiet tension. Jun-ho brushed his lips against Salin's neck with the tenderness of someone who knew he wouldn't get another chance anytime soon. And his eyes, as dark as they were bright, held the pain the mafia leader tried to hide. But he couldn't.
It hurt just to look at him.
Salin went back to the bedroom. The room felt quieter than ever. As if it also knew he was leaving.
Each folded piece of clothing seemed heavier than the last. It wasn't just fabric—it was scent, memories, the feel of Jun-ho soaked into every inch.
And then there was the jacket.
