The sun doesn't ask permission.It just lays itself across your shoulder, the sheet, the place where his breath found you last night. The room smells like skin and hotel soap and something you promised yourself you wouldn't need.
He's still asleep when you slide free. Not far—just enough to breathe without tasting him. His arm drifts to the mattress and closes on nothing, then stills, like his body knows you even when he doesn't.
You stand at the window. City noise hums a floor below the glass, a thousand small lives choosing coffee, cabs, bad decisions. You are considering all three.
"Hey." His voice is rough silk. "Don't run."
You turn. He's propped on an elbow, hair a mess, mouth soft with the kind of smile that could ruin you in a grocery store aisle.
"I'm not running," you lie.
He hears it. Of course he does. He pushes up, sheet slipping, history mapped across a chest you swore you'd never touch. The night puts itself back together in your head: the way he took his time; the way you didn't; the way saying stay without saying it still counts.
"Last night," he says quietly, like a man testing the volume of a prayer."I meant it. All of it."
"I know."You look down at your hands. "That's the problem."
He swings his legs off the bed and crosses the small battlefield of carpet between you. His fingers land at your hips and stop there, asking. You let him. Of course you do. The word mine has never sounded good in anyone else's mouth, but somehow it sounds like safety in his.
"No more pretending," he reminds you. "We said that."
"We did." You make yourself look up. "So start with the truth."
He blinks."The truth?"
"About why your phone wouldn't stop buzzing at three in the morning."
The air changes. His hands tighten, then release. He steps back, the space between you widening like a crack in good porcelain.
There it is—the unfinished business you felt in the static of the night and ignored because want is a louder instrument than sense.
He scrubs a hand down his face."She and I were done before I boarded."
"Done," you repeat. The word tastes like aspirin.
"I ended it. The night before we left." He meets your eyes and doesn't look away. "It should've been earlier. That's on me."
"Does she know you ended it?" It comes out soft. Somehow that's worse than anger.
"She knows what I said." His jaw flexes. "She doesn't accept it yet."
You let that sit. A long minute. Two. On the street, a siren climbs and falls. In your chest, the same.
"So last night," you say, because you need the math to add up, "wasn't cheating."
"No."He's immediate. Solid. "It wasn't. But it was fast. And messy. And—" His mouth twists. "—and I should've told you before it told us."
Your laugh is small and mean to no one. "Room 713 isn't exactly famous for clean timing."
He smiles at that, grateful for the angle, but he doesn't move into it. "Do you want me to call her now?" he asks."With you here. So there's no shadow on it."
You weren't expecting that. It hits strange, a bruise turning into proof. "That's not… I'm not asking for a performance."
"It isn't one."He reaches for his phone. "It's a boundary."
He dials. Puts it on speaker. You watch your reflection in the window while the call rings. You look like someone trying to learn a new language with an old mouth.
She answers on the fourth ring. Sleep-ragged, wary. You can hear city air in the line, different from yours.
"Chan?"
"Morning."His tone is gentle, not apologetic. You realize how careful he's being—kind without invitation, firm without cruelty. "I'm calling to repeat what I said before the flight. We're finished. I'm sorry for the hurt, but I'm not changing my mind."
Silence. Then a brittle laugh. "Because of her?"
He doesn't look at you. You are grateful for the mercy. "Because it was over. Before her. I should've ended it sooner. That's my fault."
"You always do this," she says, and you hear history like broken crockery. "You disappear into a song and call it honesty."
"I'm not disappearing." He keeps his voice level."I'm being clear."
A long exhale. "Then be clear: don't call me again."
"I won't," he says. "Take care."
She hangs up. The room is very quiet.
He sets the phone down like it could still explode. His shoulders drop. And then he looks at you with something dangerous and unguarded in his eyes—relief, fear, hope, all sharing a coat.
"I didn't do that for points,"he says. "I did it because I don't want anything touching you that feels like a lie."
You hate him a little for making your chest ache like this. You step into him and press your forehead to his collarbone. His arms go around you without asking. You fit like you were designed in the same factory.
"We're not the good guys here," you murmur into his skin. "We're just trying to be better ones."
"Then let's keep trying." He swallows. "With everything on the table."
You nod into him. You mean it. Then the universe, smug as a cat, knocks a glass off the counter.
A buzz. Another. His phone lights the nightstand. New messages stack like a deck of bad cards.
He groans."I haven't even posted today."
"It's not your fans," you say, because you recognize the look, that specific flavor of dread reserved for family. "It's yours, isn't it?"
"Worse."He shows you the screen.
Mom: Breakfast at Aunt's 10am. Bring her. Or don't, but I will keep setting an extra plate until you stop being twelve.
You stare. "She knows?"
"She suspects." A sheepish wince. "Moms do math before there are numbers."
"You want me to come?" You don't mean it yet. You're testing the way the question feels in your mouth.
He tests the answer the same way. "I want you where I am," he says finally. "But I won't make you carry my fallout."
You breathe. Count to five. Somewhere between four and maybe, bravery sits down at your table and orders coffee.
"Text her yes," you say.
His head jerks up. "Are you sure?"
"No." You kiss him once, quick. "But I'm done letting fear drive the car."
He grins the kind of grin that could ruin reputations and fix spines. "God, I—" He stops himself, like he almost said too much for breakfast. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." You back away toward the bathroom. "I need ten minutes to make my face look like I didn't spend the night being foolish."
He leans on the doorframe while you splash water on last night's glow. "You weren't foolish," he says."You were brave. There's a difference."
"Brave is a nice word for reckless."
"Reckless is a nice word for alive."
You try not to smile. You fail. You're allowed.
The mirror throws you a woman you recognize and a stranger you might like. You pull your hair into something that implies you slept alone and lost the argument. He watches you the way people watch tide maps.
Another buzz. He checks the screen, eyebrows lifting.
"What?"you ask, toothbrush pausing midair.
He shows you: Aunt has texted too.Are you bringing the girl from the elevator? The one who pretends she doesn't look at you when she is absolutely looking at you? Tell her I make indecent pancakes.
You choke on mint foam.
"I told you," he says, delighted. "Math."
You spit, wipe, breathe. "Indecent pancakes sound like a trap."
"They are," he says. "But with butter."
You laugh despite yourself, the sound knocking something rusted open in your chest. Maybe there's a version of this where honesty is a staircase instead of a fall.
You dress. He does too, slower, like the act of putting on a shirt is an admission of something enormous. Shoes. Wallet. Keys. A life, packed in a pocket.
At the door he stops, hand on the handle. The morning finds its way between you again. He reaches for your fingers and doesn't take them, just offers.
"Before we go," he says, voice small not with weakness but care, "there's one more truth."
You look at him;, at the way the light makes a promise of his face. "Okay."
"I'm not good at halves." He takes a breath. "I tried to be. For years. With everything. Music. Sleep. Love. It made me quiet and cruel and tired. I don't want to do halves with you."
You stare at his offered hand and think about balance sheets. What you owe. What he does. What you could both forgive yourselves for if you wrote it down in a careful font.
"Then don't," you say. "But don't ask me to sprint while I'm still learning to stand."
"I won't." His mouth tilts. "I'll walk. I'll match you. Or I'll sit on a porch somewhere and wait like an idiot until you decide I'm allowed to carry the groceries."
You take his hand. It fits. You thought it would.
"Let's go meet our mothers," you say. "And your aunt. And your indecent pancakes. And the part of my life that stops hiding."
He opens the door. The hallway smells like coffee and carpet cleaner and the kind of ordinary that used to feel like safety. He looks back once, at the bed, at the room number, at the night you were and the morning you are.
"New rule," he says, a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. "We don't avoid hotels. We reclaim them."
"Bold of you to assume we'll survive breakfast," you say.
"We will." He squeezes your hand. "I've got math on my side."
"And what's the equation?"
He thinks for a beat. "You plus me, minus the lies, divided by whatever the world throws, equals—"
"—indecent pancakes," you finish.
"Exactly."He pulls you into the light.
The door clicks shut. Not an ending. Just a room that learned your names and let you go.
Outside, the city is awake. Somewhere, a phone you're not holding lights up with a message that won't be answered. Somewhere else, a mom sets an extra place. Between those two somewheres, you decide to keep walking.
You do.
Together.