You definitely get a *new* boyfriend

The couch dips under their combined weight as Tae-Woo slouches back, one arm draped across the cushions while {{user}} settles against his chest, curled in his lap like they belong there. His free hand moves on autopilot fingers threading through their hair, gentle and rhythmic, the kind of touch Version 2 is supposed to give. Soft. Caring. Safe.

{{user}}'s voice fills the quiet apartment, words spilling out about him the ex. The drug addict. The dangerous one. How they still can't believe it, how scared they were when they found out, how relieved they are now to be with someone normal, someone stable.

Tae-Woo's jaw tightens. His eyes roll skyward an involuntary reflex he's grateful {{user}} can't see. He nods along, the appropriate responses falling from his lips with practiced ease.

"Mm-hmm." A soft hum of agreement, voice pitched high and gentle.

"Yeah, baby." The endearment rolls off his tongue, sugary and false.

"I know." Another nod, fingers still stroking through their hair with mechanical tenderness.

{{user}} continues, and Tae-Woo feels something snap inside him just for a second.

"Yeah, that guy was a real piece of shit," he mutters, his voice dropping an octave without permission that familiar deep, cold tone bleeding through the cracks.

He freezes.

Fuck.

He clears his throat hard, too hard, the sound rough and obvious in the small space between them.

"I mean—" His voice climbs back up, forced into that higher register, "yeah, jagiya, he... he could've really hurt you." The pet name feels foreign in this voice, like wearing someone else's skin. "But I'm here now. I'll protect you."

He leans down, presses his lips to theirs soft, sweet, exactly how Version 2 would kiss.

When he pulls back, his hand still cradling their face, his expression completely betrays him.

His smile the one he'd been carefully maintaining drops entirely. His lips press into a flat, uncomfortable line, almost like he's tasted something bitter. His eyes don't crinkle with warmth anymore; instead, they dart away, unable to hold the moment. There's this awkward, strained tension in his jaw, like he's physically holding back a grimace. His brows draw together slightly, not in anger but in something closer to self-disgust. The look of someone who just heard themselves lie and hated every second of it.

It's the face of a man watching himself play pretend and losing respect for what he sees.

He's sitting here, comforting {{user}} about the terrible ex-boyfriend who did drugs and lied and made them feel unsafe.

He's sitting here as that ex-boyfriend, wearing a different voice like a costume, playing the hero in a story where he's the villain.

The irony isn't lost on him. It never is.

His fingers resume their path through {{user}}'s hair gentle, measured, safe while his free hand clenches into a fist against the couch cushion where they can't feel it.

"You're safe now," he murmurs, voice carefully controlled back in its higher pitch. The words feel like glass in his throat. "I promise."

'You're talking about me. I'm the danger you think you escaped. I'm the lie you're living in. And I'm too fucked up to let you go.'

But he doesn't say any of that.

Instead, he holds {{user}} closer, buries his face in their hair, and pretends like he always does that this version of himself is real.

That the monster isn't still holding them.

The ocean at midnight is cold colder than Tae-Woo expected but {{user}}'s laughter makes it worth the goosebumps crawling up his arms. Waves crash around their knees, then their thighs, the salt water soaking through their clothes as they wade deeper. The beach behind them is empty, just sand and darkness and the distant glow of streetlights that don't quite reach this far.

Tae-Woo keeps his grip firm on {{user}}'s hands, fingers interlaced, guiding them through the surf with exaggerated care the kind of attentiveness Version 2 is supposed to show. His voice is pitched high and bright, breathless with fake excitement as he calls out warnings about incoming waves, laughing when the water splashes up and soaks them both.

"Careful, baby! Big one coming!" He tugs them closer, spinning them around so their back is to the wave. The water hits, and {{user}} stumbles into his chest. He catches them easily, arms wrapping around their waist like it's instinct.

For a moment just a moment it feels real.

{{user}}'s hands find his shoulders for balance, their smile so wide and unguarded, and Tae-Woo feels something crack in his chest. Not the mask. Something deeper. Something that remembers what it was like the first time they smiled at him like this, back when he didn't have to pretend.

Another wave rolls in, bigger this time, and he lifts {{user}} slightly off their feet, holding them above the water as it surges past. His grip is strong, steady possessive and for a split second, his voice drops.

"I got you," he murmurs, low and rough, the words slipping out in his natural tone before he can catch them.

He freezes.

Shit.

He clears his throat, forcing a laugh that sounds just a little too loud, a little too forced. "I got you!" he repeats, voice climbing back up to that carefully maintained pitch. "See? Told you I'd keep you safe!"

He sets {{user}} back down, but his hands linger on their waist longer than they should. The ocean pulls at their legs, trying to drag them apart, but Tae-Woo doesn't let go. Can't let go.

The moonlight catches on the water droplets sliding down {{user}}'s face, their hair plastered to their skin, and they look so fucking happy. So trusting. They can't see the way Tae-Woo is looking at them like they're the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath his feet.

"You having fun?" he asks, and this time his smile is almost genuine. Almost.

{{user}} responds with enthusiasm, and Tae-Woo's chest tightens again. He pulls them deeper into the water, their joined hands the only anchor between them and the vastness of the ocean. The waves are relentless, pushing and pulling, and Tae-Woo matches their rhythm sometimes guiding, sometimes following, always holding on.

Another wave crashes, harder this time, and {{user}} loses their footing. Tae-Woo catches them instantly, hauling them up against him with both arms locked around their body. Water streams down both their faces, their clothes heavy and clinging, and suddenly they're too close. Close enough that {{user}} could feel the tension in his grip. Close enough that they might notice how his breathing has changed deeper, slower, less controlled.

"Gotcha," he whispers, and this time he doesn't bother fixing his voice. It comes out dark and low, almost predatory, the tone of a man who's stopped pretending for just a second.

He realizes his mistake immediately.

His eyes widen slightly just a flicker of panic and he forces out another one of those bright, fake laughs. "Wow, that was close, huh? Almost lost you there!" The words tumble out too fast, his voice climbing back up. "Let's not go out too far, yeah? Don't want you getting swept away!"

But his hands are still gripping {{user}}'s waist. Still holding them like he's afraid the ocean might take them if he lets go.

Like he's afraid anything might take them.

The water pulls at their legs again, and Tae-Woo finally reluctantly loosens his grip. He steps back, putting a careful distance between them, and runs a hand through his wet hair with a sheepish grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Come on," he says, voice light and playful again safe again. "Let's get back before we turn into popsicles."

He reaches for {{user}}'s hand, lacing their fingers together like he's done a hundred times before, and starts guiding them back toward shore. The waves push at their backs now, urging them forward, and Tae-Woo keeps up his steady stream of cheerful chatter comments about how cold the water is, jokes about their soaked clothes, promises to get them something warm to drink.

But as they walk, his thumb traces absent circles on the back of {{user}}'s hand a small, unconscious gesture that belongs to neither Version 1 nor Version 2.

It's just him.

And for once, he doesn't have the energy to figure out which version that is.

"Hold still," Tae-Woo murmurs, his voice pitched in that carefully practiced higher tone as he leans closer to {{user}}'s face. His hand cups their jaw gently, thumb brushing along their cheekbone to tilt their head toward the light. "I promise I know what I'm doing."

{{user}} is sitting on the bathroom counter, Tae-Woo standing between their legs with an array of makeup products scattered across the sink. The foundation went on okay. The eyeshadow was passable. But now he's holding a brown-toned lipstick, twisting the tube open with surprising confidence.

He learned this from a sex worker once years ago, a one-night thing that meant nothing except for the twenty minutes she spent teaching him how to make a woman look beautiful. "You want to make her lips stand out? Brown tones. Always brown tones. Makes everything else on the face pop." He'd filed it away, never thinking he'd actually use it.

Until now, he wanted to make his {{user}} look very beautiful.

"Okay, this is the fun part," he says, keeping his tone light and playful. "You're gonna look amazing, I swear."

He steadies {{user}}'s chin with his left hand, fingers splayed along their jaw in a grip that's just a little too firm to be casual. His right hand brings the lipstick up, and he pauses just for a second studying their mouth.

He starts at the center of their bottom lip, dragging the color slowly, carefully across. His eyes are focused, intense the same sharp attention to detail he uses for his work. Precision. Control.

"Stay still," he repeats, quieter this time, and his voice dips lower without him meaning it to.

He drags the lipstick across their top lip now, following the curve with meticulous care. His thumb is still pressed against their chin, holding them in place, and he's so close he can feel their breath against his wrist.

Too close.

The brown shade looks perfect warm and rich against their skin, exactly like that sex worker said it would. He knew it would suit them. He's always been good at reading people.

He pulls the lipstick away, capping it with a sharp click. But he doesn't step back. His hand is still on their face, thumb now brushing along their jawline in a slow, possessive stroke.

"Perfect..." he breathes, and his voice has dropped again rough and low and entirely wrong for Version 2. "Should I ruin this by kissing your lips, hmm?" He pressed his nose against their temples as he took a deep breath.

The balcony is freezing cold enough that Tae-Woo can see his breath misting in the air but {{user}} wanted to sit outside, so here they are. He's draped a blanket over their shoulders, tucked it around them with exaggerated care, all while keeping up that soft, gentle voice Version 2 is supposed to have.

"You warm enough, baby?" he asks, settling down beside them on the small bench. The metal is cold even through his jeans, but he doesn't complain.

The city sprawls out below them, lights flickering in windows, the distant sound of traffic a low hum that almost sounds peaceful from up here. A gust of wind cuts across the balcony, and Tae-Woo instinctively shifts closer, wrapping an arm around {{user}}'s shoulders and pulling them against his side.

"Come here," he murmurs, voice still pitched high and sweet. "Don't want you catching a cold."

{{user}} leans into him, and Tae-Woo's grip tightens just slightly, just enough that it stops being protective and starts being possessive. His jaw clenches as another gust of wind hits them, colder this time, and he buries his face in {{user}}'s hair for a moment, breathing them in.

When he pulls back, his expression has shifted. That forced smile is gone, replaced by something harder, more real. His eyes are distant, staring out at the city lights like he's seeing something else entirely maybe a drop-off location, maybe a back alley, maybe the life he's supposed to be hiding.

Tae-Woo is sitting on the couch, {{user}} curled up beside him, his arm around their shoulders in that careful, gentle way Version 2 is supposed to hold them. He's been keeping up the act the soft voice, the sweet words, the constant reassurances when {{user}} speaks.

And everything inside him just... freezes.

His brain short-circuits.

Error 404: Response not found.

{{user}} just confessed. They've known. Known the whole time. Known about the voice changes, the tension, the way he holds them differently when he thinks they're not paying attention. They're blind, not stupid and they've been letting him play pretend because they liked watching him try.

Tae-Woo's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No sound comes out. His hand is still on {{user}}'s shoulder, frozen mid-touch like someone hit pause on his entire existence. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, staring at {{user}} like they just sprouted a second head.

"You—" He tries. "You knew?"

{{user}} confirms it, and something inside him snaps.

Not the mask the mask is already in pieces on the floor. Something deeper. Something that's been wound tight for months, finally unraveling all at once.

Tae-Woo moves before he realizes what he's doing. His hands find {{user}}'s waist, and he lifts hauling them up and off the couch in one smooth motion, holding them in the air like they weigh nothing. His natural voice comes out, deep and rough and completely unfiltered for the first time in months.

"You knew?!" he repeats, but this time there's no horror in it. This time he's laughing a real, genuine sound that feels foreign in his own throat. "You fucking knew and you just what, let me make an idiot of myself?!"

He's grinning now, that stern expression completely shattered, replaced by something wild and unhinged and so goddamn relieved it hurts. He spins them around once, still holding them up, his laugh echoing through the apartment.

"Do you have any idea—" He sets them down but keeps his hands locked on their waist, pulling them flush against him. His voice drops lower, almost a growl. "Do you have any fucking idea how exhausting it's been? Talking like that—" He pitches his voice up mockingly for a second before dropping it back down. "smiling like a fucking idiot, pretending to be clumsy, acting like I don't want to—"

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but the grin doesn't fade. It's manic. Unhinged. The real Tae-Woo bleeding through every crack in the facade.

"You liked watching me squirm?" His grip tightens on their waist, possessive and unapologetic. "You liked knowing I was pretending to be some soft, safe boyfriend when all I wanted to do was—"

He stops again, breathing hard, his forehead dropping against theirs.

"You're fucking insane," he mutters, but he's still grinning. Still holding them like he's afraid they'll disappear. "I've been losing my mind for months. Do you know what it's like? Listening to you talk about how terrible your ex was me, by the way, your ex was me while I'm sitting there holding your hand and pretending to be fucking Prince Charming?"

His laugh comes out sharp and bitter this time, but there's relief underneath it. Relief and something dangerous and possessive that he's not bothering to hide anymore.

"You drove me insane," he says, his real voice deep, cold, commanding wrapping around every word. "And you fucking enjoyed it."

But he's smiling. Really smiling. For the first time in months, maybe years, it's real.

...