When he spoke, his voice was low enough that you felt it more than heard it, the sound threading into your skin.

“I’m hungry, YN.”

It wasn’t about breakfast. It wasn’t even close.

The way he said it was raw — as if he’d finally allowed himself to speak after holding it back for far too long. As if the words themselves were an admission he wasn’t supposed to make, but couldn’t bury anymore.

The heat in your stomach coiled tight, sharp and low, like the first drop of a freefall you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t stop.

You should have cut the tension. You should have said something sharp, made a joke, stepped away — anything to shatter the charged air between you.