Four days. Just four days.

Gawin hadn’t expected life to turn that fast — fast enough that he’d be standing there, in a room full of music and dim lights, staring at the one person he thought he wouldn’t be seeing again so soon.

Joss.

He was across the room, tall and still, dressed in a dark shirt that clung to his shoulders. He held his glass the same way he always did — like it weighed more than it should. And those eyes... not searching for anyone, but impossible to look away from once they caught you.

Gawin almost turned around. One step.
But he stopped.

Because Joss had already seen him.

Their eyes locked — like gravity. Just a second. Maybe less. But it held everything they didn’t say last time, thick in the air between red wine and overpriced cologne.

They didn’t speak during the party. Didn’t cross the crowd to find each other.
But hours later, when Gawin was out on the hotel balcony, cigarette in hand, eyes on the glow of the city below — he appeared.
Just like that.
Like a sigh that had been trapped in his chest all night.

“You’re still smoking the same brand,” Joss said behind him — voice low, rough at the edges.

Gawin turned. “And you still show up like you knew I was waiting.”

Joss paused. Then exhaled slowly.
“I wasn’t planning to come back. But here I am.”

Silence stretched between them. The wind brushed Gawin’s collar. He put the cigarette out and turned fully to face him.

“That night… you disappeared like it never happened.”

“I didn’t want to,” Joss said quietly.

“Then why?”

“Because if I’d stayed… I don’t think I could’ve stopped.”

The words sank into Gawin’s chest — not like a punch, but like a blade. Not enough to scream. Just enough to leave a cut.

“Then don’t come back,” he said, steady, eyes never leaving Joss’s. “Not if it’s just to make me remember again.”

Joss didn’t answer. He stepped forward. Hand gripped the back of Gawin’s neck, pulled him in, kissed him.
Hard.
Not gentle. Not apologetic.
Like he was saying: I’ve missed you. Every damn hour.

This time the room was different. Bigger bed. Darker curtains. And their bodies — no longer tentative.

Gawin pushed Joss onto the bed first. He climbed on top, eyes burning with something strange — hunger, but not desperation. Anger, but not hate.

“This time,” Gawin said, voice low, “I’m not letting you control everything.”

Joss didn’t argue. He just looked up at him. Hands on Gawin’s hips, firm — not to stop him, but to feel: You’re here. Right now. Not a memory.

Gawin leaned down, kissed along his neck, bit the soft skin just below his ear.
Joss groaned — unguarded. His hand slid into Gawin’s hair, pulled tight.
This time, neither of them was soft.

Clothes hit the floor fast. No ceremony. No hesitation. They knew each other’s bodies too well to fumble — but not enough to forget how much it still meant to touch.

Joss rolled Gawin beneath him, pinned him down. His eyes didn’t say want.
They said need.
He kissed him like he’d fall apart if he didn’t.

“You can treat me like I’m just anyone,” Gawin whispered, breath catching as Joss gripped his wrists against the mattress, “but if you do… I’ll hate you for it.”

Joss froze. Just for a moment.
Then he moved again — slower this time. He let his hand slide down, wrapped both arms around Gawin, held him like he was trying to shield the exact wound he’d caused.

Their rhythm wasn’t fast. But it was deep.
Each time he pushed in, Gawin had to bite his lip to keep from breaking.
Not from pain — but from how real it felt. From how seen he suddenly was.

They weren’t just sleeping together anymore.
They were stripping each other down.

When it was over, Gawin lay flat, hand covering his eyes. Joss turned toward him, pulled him into his chest. No words. No promises.
But something had shifted.

This wasn’t a one-night stand.
It wasn’t love yet, either.
But it was something that bound.

@nopbyy VIETNAM 🇻🇳