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Jun is already annoyed when Dylan walks into the conference room.
Which is ridiculous, because Jun is 27, a multi-award-winning actor, a ranked middleweight, and allegedly a professional. He’s faced down co-stars who threw tantrums, directors who broke chairs, and boxers who wanted to knock his head off. He should not be this rattled by a twenty-six-year-old model with a slim waist and a mouth like a knife.
But then the door swings open, and there Dylan is, gliding in like he owns the air in the room. Tall, wiry, all sleek lines and expensive black clothes that somehow cling in all the right places. His dark hair is styled to look carelessly perfect, silver earrings catching the light. His eyes flick over the table once, cool and sharp, before landing on Jun.
Dylan’s lips curve, slow and mocking. “Oh. It’s you.”
Something low in Jun’s chest tightens.
“Unfortunately,” Jun says, leaning back in his chair, playing lazily. “They said this was important. I assumed that meant adults only, but I guess exceptions were made.”
Dylan makes a soft, disbelieving sound. “Right. The nation’s beloved himbo thinks he’s an adult now. Growth.”
Jun’s manager elbows him none too gently under the table. “Be nice,” she mutters through a smile.
At the head of the table, the brand rep from VERVE Sports & Style claps her hands together, the sound slicing through the tension. “Great, everyone’s here! Jun, Dylan, thank you both for making time. This is going to be big.”
Jun drags his gaze away from Dylan and focuses on the woman. He likes VERVE. He’s worn their training gear in half his training montages and action roles. The sponsorship is serious money, not to mention image positioning, and he doesn’t mess with those. Whatever this is, he’ll handle it.
“We’ve seen how your names interact online,” the rep continues, sliding a tablet around so everyone can see. On screen is a collage of tweets, fan edits, and fancams. “The rivalry thing? It’s huge. Dylan’s icy runway model vs. Jun, the golden retriever boxer-actor? The internet is obsessed.”
Dylan snorts softly. Jun catches it from the corner of his eye and grits his teeth.
“So,” the rep goes on, eyes bright, “we thought… why fight it?”
Jun’s manager straightens. “What do you mean?”
The rep beams. “We want to launch our new ‘DUO’ line with a campaign featuring the two of you as a couple. Training together. Traveling together. Lounging at home. Basically –”
“Fake dating,” Dylan says flatly, crossing his arms.
“Publicly,” the rep corrects, unfazed. “For the duration of the campaign. Three months, with an option to extend if it goes well. You’d be the faces of VERVE DUO – billboards, social campaigns, short film, and press. The works.”
Jun feels his brain momentarily lose traction. “You want us to… pretend to be boyfriends?”
“Exactly!” She looks thrilled. “We’ve got data. When you two sit in the same frame, engagement spikes. People are already making up stories. We just… give them a story we control.”
Dylan’s laugh is quiet and sharp. “You’re seriously asking me to hold hands with this guy for three months because some anon on Twitter wants us to kiss?”
“And the fee,” Jun’s manager says, voice mild, “is?”
The rep names a number.
Jun’s brows lift before he can stop them. That’s not too much. Even for him. But it's not little either.
He feels, more than sees, Dylan go still.
“Deliverables?” Dylan’s agent asks, voice smooth.
“Joint posts twice a week, appearances for launch events, and a minimum of three ‘date’ sightings that can be photographed. The narrative is – rivals turned lovers. Softened edges. Authentic intimacy. Of course, if you two can bring… chemistry…” She smiles like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s asking them to weaponize. “All the better.”
Jun glances sideways. Dylan is looking down at the sample storyboard, expression unreadable. There’s a sketch of a gym shot – animated sketches – Jun behind Dylan, hands on his waist, adjusting his form. An airport shot – Jun’s arm around Dylan’s shoulders as flashes go off. A couch shot – Dylan in Jun’s lap, laughing, VERVE sweatpants slung low on his hips.
Heat pricks behind Jun’s ears.
He’s known Dylan in the industry for years. They started around the same time, climbing in parallel lanes that kept intersecting. Dylan’s graced magazine covers and runway finales while Jun’s name headlines action films and championship posters. One sells fantasies with a look; the other breaks bones and box office records. They’ve shared covers, red carpets, and the occasional panel where their bickering banter stole the spotlight.
The thing no one knows is that none of it is fake. Jun genuinely wants to shove Dylan into a wall half the time. The thing Jun barely admits to himself is that half the time, he’s not sure if he wants to shove him away or shove him closer.
“Let me get this straight,” Dylan says finally, lifting his gaze to lock with Jun’s. “We parade around like we’re together. Touchy, domestic, cute. All that.”
“Mm-hmm.” The rep nods eagerly.
“And everyone believes the boxer is my doting boyfriend.” Dylan’s smile is sweet enough to cut. “While in reality, he can’t stand me.”
The word boyfriend settles under Jun’s ribs like something heavy.
He lets his mouth move before his brain catches up. “Who says I’d be doting?”
Dylan holds his stare. The air between them shifts, sharpens.
The rep claps once more. “So! You’ll think about it?”
Jun thinks about his next film, the half-finished gym renovations, and the small charity gym for kids that still needs some more funding. The offer on the table isn’t his biggest, not even close. But it’s clean, steady, and comes with something money can’t quite buy – three months of getting under Dylan’s perfect skin.
He glances at the storyboard – Dylan’s hand sketched in neat lines, fingers tangled with his – and feels a slow, dangerous smile tug at his mouth.
“I’ll do it,” he hears himself say.
His manager turns to stare at him. “Jun – ”
“What?” Jun shrugs. “It’s just fake dating, right? Acting is my job.”
Dylan’s gaze burns into the side of his face. “You sure you can act that well?”
Jun turns to him, slow and deliberate. Gives him the smile that won him a lifetime achievement award meme on social media: bright, gentle, a little stupid. “Oh, Dylan,” he says softly. “You’ll be surprised what I can do when I’m committed.”
Something flickers in Dylan’s eyes. Annoyance. Curiosity. A flash of something darker that makes Jun’s skin prickle.
“Fine,” Dylan says. “I’m in. But I’m not responsible when you choke on your own lines.”
“Boys,” Dylan’s agent sighs. “Please don’t murder each other before the contract is signed.”
Jun’s lips curve, but inside, something serious uncoils.
Fake boyfriend, huh? If they want boyfriend duties… he’ll give them boyfriend duties.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The contract is exhaustive.
Jun skims the legalese while his manager points out key highlights.
“Clause 3.2,” she reads. “You are expected to exhibit public displays of affection consistent with a committed romantic relationship, including but not limited to hand-holding, hugging, cheek kissing, embracing, and sharing personal space.”
Jun’s thumb taps the table. “Sharing personal space,” he repeats. “That’s vague.”
“Lawyers love vague,” she mutters. “It gives them room.”
“I like room,” Jun says absently.
She gives him a look. “I know. That’s what worries me.”
He signs anyway.
On the other side of town, presumably, Dylan does too.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The first joint deliverable is a “casual training day” reel at Jun’s private boxing gym.
“Perfect,” the director says, fussing with the camera on the gimbal. “We’ll start with Dylan stretching. Then Jun comes over – naturally, lovingly – helps correct his posture. Guiding hands, soft encouragements. Fans love seeing the tough guy being attentive.”
Jun wraps his hands, mouth pulling with the tape. “I’m not a cat trainer.”
“You’re a boyfriend,” the director sing-songs.
Jun huffs. “Same thing, I guess.”
The gym is closed for the shoot, but it’s full of crew. Lights, cameras, assistants with clipboards. In the middle of it, Dylan stands on a yoga mat in VERVE shorts that cling indecently to his hips. His long-sleeve top rides up as he reaches toward the ceiling, exposing a strip of pale skin and the neat line of his abs.
Jun catches himself staring and scowls.
Dylan catches him staring and smirks.
“Try not to drool on camera, champ,” he calls.
“You wish,” Jun shoots back, stepping into frame.
The director snaps his fingers. “Positions! Dylan, start in a forward fold. Jun, enter from behind, hands on his hips. Move him, guide him, whisper something cute. Got it?”
Jun rolls out his shoulders. “Sure.”
Dylan bends, palms flat on the mat, hamstrings stretched. His sweatshirt slides further, revealing the dip at the small of his back. Jun steps in behind him, heat crawling up his neck.
He’s done countless intimate scenes with co-stars. Kiss scenes, bed scenes, morning-after scenes. He’s professional. He knows how to angle his face, how to hide his mouth so the camera sees heat without needing the real thing.
This feels different, and he hates that it does.
“Action!”
Jun places his hands on Dylan’s hips.
They’re narrow under his palms. Firm. His thumbs press into hard muscle just above Dylan’s waistband. Dylan inhales, a small, sharp sound he probably doesn’t realize is audible.
“Relax,” Jun murmurs automatically, voice low. “You’re too tight.”
Dylan huffs, upside down. “If you tell me to breathe, I’m walking.”
Jun bites back a laugh. “You’re doing fine, pretty boy.”
Dylan goes still.
Jun realizes the words are out of his mouth a second too late. Something about the position, the feel of Dylan under his hands, the fact that the cameras are rolling and they’re supposed to be boyfriends – it all slips out, easy and warm.
The director makes an excited noise. “Yes. Yes, that. Keep going.”
Dylan slowly straightens, rolling up vertebra by vertebra, and Jun keeps his hands where they are. Dylan’s back presses against his chest as he comes up, their bodies aligning in a neat, inevitable line. Jun’s breath catches when he feels the solidness of Dylan’s frame shifting into him, the quiet, unconscious trust of it.
Dylan tilts his head back, just enough to catch Jun’s eyes.
“Very in character,” he murmurs, a hint of something dangerous at the edges. “Calling me pretty while you manhandle me.”
Jun leans down, lips near Dylan’s ear, he knows exactly how close the camera is.
“I’m just doing my boyfriend duties,” he murmurs.
For a moment, Dylan’s composure cracks. His pupils dilate, throat working as he swallows. Jun can feel his heartbeat through his back, a quick, insistent thrum.
“And cut!” the director crows. “Perfect. That was perfect. Can we do another, but this time Jun, even closer? Maybe a kiss to the temple?”
Dylan pulls away, quick, like he’s been burned. He turns, expression shuttered, and plasters on his camera smile. “Sure,” he says. “If our dear actor can handle proximity without getting too attached.”
Jun’s jaw twitches.
Oh, he thinks. That’s how it’s going to be.
He steps back into place behind Dylan, closer this time, chest flush to his back. His hands settle low on Dylan’s waist, fingers splaying possessively. He lowers his head until his lips nearly graze the shell of Dylan’s ear.
“Ready?” he murmurs, voice pitched so only Dylan should hear.
Dylan’s answer is a quiet, defiant, “You wish.”
Jun smiles against his hairline.
“Action!”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The reel drops two days later.
#VERVEDUO and #JunDylan shoot into trending within an hour.
Jun’s manager holds up her phone, scrolling. “Look at this,” she says, half horrified, half amused. “They’re calling you ‘boxing boyfriend’ and him ‘catboy model.’ There’s fanarts already.”
Jun glances over and nearly chokes. “Why is my head photoshopped on a golden retriever?”
“Because you keep standing behind him with your hands on his waist.” She swipes to another post. “And here is a thread of all the times you’ve glared at male hosts who touched his arm.”
Jun snatches the phone. “I don’t – ”
The thread is damning. Red carpet shots, variety shows, panels. Many he barely remembers. In clip after clip, Dylan stands in the background, being charming and sharp, while Jun’s eyes track him like a hawk.
And yeah, there are a few times where a host or co-star leans too close, fingers brushing Dylan’s shoulder or elbow, and Jun’s expression goes… dark.
He frowns. “That’s just me being normal.”
His manager snorts. “Sure. Normal. Hey, it’s good for the brand. Lean into it. They love jealous boyfriends.”
“I’m not jealous,” Jun says, too fast.
She just raises an eyebrow.
He tosses the phone back, ignoring her smirk, and reaches for his water bottle. His thumb scrolls his own Instagram instead. The VERVE post is pinned at the top, a carousel of stills from the shoot. In one, he’s looking down at Dylan with something so soft it makes his chest ache to see it. In another, Dylan’s eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, as Jun’s hand rests unapologetically on his hip.
He shouldn’t feel this strange twist in his stomach at pictures that are, technically, fake. He knows where the camera was, what the director asked for, how his face was supposed to look.
He knows, also, that no one told him to look that fucking tender.
He sighs, dropping the phone on the table. “This is going to be a long three months,” he mutters.
His manager glances at the calendar. “You haven’t even done your first public ‘date’ yet.”
Right.
The first staged date is an airport.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Dylan hates airports.
He hates the crowds, the stares, the flashes, the way people seem to lose all sense of boundaries when they see a famous face and a camera flash in the same five-meter radius.
Jun knows this only because he’s seen the videos – Dylan’s jaw clenched as managers form a wall around him, hands shoved into his pockets to keep from swatting phones away. He looks small and sharp in those clips, all spine and teeth.
They meet in the car park, away from public eyes. Dylan’s in an oversized hoodie and black jeans, hair tucked under a cap. Even dressed down, he looks like he’s stepped out of a magazine spread titled “casual but devastating.”
Jun, in contrast, is in a fitted black tee and VERVE track pants, gym bag slung over one shoulder. Sunglasses hang off his collar.
“You’re late,” Dylan says by way of greeting.
Jun checks his watch. “I’m ten minutes early.”
“Early is still late when I had to wake up for this.”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“Exactly.”
Jun snorts. “What do you even do all night?”
Dylan gives him a slow, suggestive once-over. “You don’t have the stamina to find out.”
Jun’s pulse gives an unhelpful little kick.
Their handlers herd them toward the staff entrance, running through notes.
“Okay,” Jun’s manager says. “Remember, the paps have been tipped off. You’re ‘flying to Phuket for a private getaway before your joint VERVE event.’ Play it natural. Stay close. Small touches. No need to overdo it – ”
“What does overdo it mean?” Jun asks.
“Tongue,” Dylan’s agent says dryly. “Absolutely no tongue in public, please.”
Dylan rolls his eyes. “Wow, you really think highly of us.”
Jun flashes a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll save that for later, babe.”
Both managers groan at once.
Dylan freezes.
Jun watches the word sink in – babe – and sees the ripple it causes. Dylan’s cheeks color, barely there but noticeable. His fingers curl at his sides.
“This is fake,” Dylan says, voice a little too controlled. “Remember?”
Jun steps closer, invading his space just enough. “That’s the job. I take my job seriously.”
Something flares in Dylan’s eyes. Irritation. Challenge. Underneath it, something else.
“We’re rolling as soon as you step out,” a staffer tells them. “Just be yourselves. Well. Be yourselves but in love.”
Jun huffs. “No pressure.”
The moment they enter the main hall, the sound hits them – like a wave. Screams, shouts, the high-pitched screech of metal as people jostle barriers. Flashbulbs explode in their faces. Phones rise like a forest.
“Jun! Over here!”
“Dylan, look this way!”
“Are you really dating?”
“Hold hands! Kiss!”
Dylan’s shoulders tense immediately, posture shrinking in on itself. His jaw locks. Jun watches it happen in real time – the way Dylan’s gaze scatters, how his breathing pattern changes, his steps going shorter.
Jun doesn’t think.
He just moves.
He slides his arm around Dylan’s shoulders, pulling him in against his side, body forming a shield. His hand curves around the top of Dylan’s arm, thumb rubbing once, firmly, over the fabric of his hoodie. He angles his body slightly, taking the brunt of the flashes.
“There,” he murmurs, low enough only Dylan can hear. “Just walk. I’ve got you.”
Dylan stiffens. Then, after a heartbeat, he leans in – fractionally, subtly, but enough that his weight presses into Jun. His hand hooks in Jun’s shirt at the hip, fingers gripping the cotton.
“Don’t say cheesy shit in public,” he mutters. “People will believe you.”
Jun huffs a laugh, more breath than sound. “They’re supposed to.”
He raises his free hand, waving at the crowd, throwing them that easy movie-star grin. Cameras flash faster. Somewhere, someone shrieks, “He’s protecting him! Look at them!”
Dylan glances up at him, and the look in his eyes – caught somewhere between annoyance and a kind of wary gratitude – hits Jun in the chest.
They make it through security and into the lounge, where the noise drops to a more manageable murmur. Once they’re in the private area, the handlers fall back to give them “couple space.” A camera with a long lens tracks them from discreetly across the room.
Dylan drops into a seat, exhaling hard. “God, I hate airports.”
Jun sits next to him instead of across from him, leaving their knees nearly touching. “I know,” he says quietly.
Dylan’s brows twitch. “You know?”
“You always look like you want to punch someone in those fan videos.”
“You watch those?” Dylan’s lip curls. “Stalker.”
“It’s market research,” Jun lies.
Dylan eyes him, then looks away. “You didn’t have to… do all that, out there.”
Jun stretches his legs out, ankle brushing Dylan’s. “What, be a good boyfriend?”
“Overprotective,” Dylan corrects.
Jun’s mouth curves. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is if it’s… pretend.”
Jun’s gaze drifts over Dylan’s profile, the high cheekbone, the slope of his nose, the way his throat moves when he swallows. “Pretend or not,” he says quietly, “I’m not letting some guy with a camera elbow you in the face.”
Dylan’s fingers drum on his knee, restless. “You’re taking this too seriously.”
“I told you,” Jun says. “I take my job seriously.”
“And what, exactly, do you think your job is?”
Jun doesn’t break eye contact. “To make you feel like you’re not alone in rooms like that.”
Something flickers, fast and vulnerable, across Dylan’s face. He looks away again, lashes lowering. When he speaks, his words are softer, almost grudging.
“You’re a menace,” he says. “But… thanks.”
Jun shrugs, pretending his pulse isn’t pounding. “Anytime, babe.”
Dylan kicks his ankle under the table, but he doesn’t move away.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The first cracks show themselves during the hotel shoot.
It’s a “homey couple” concept – Jun and Dylan in a tastefully expensive suite, in matching VERVE sweatpants and tank tops. The storyboard involves them lounging on the couch, sharing snacks, mock-fighting over the remote, eventually devolving into cuddling.
“Think Sunday afternoon, lazy lovers,” the director instructs. “Playful. Intimate. You trust each other’s space. Jun, you’re touchy without thinking about it. Dylan, you’re pretending you don’t like it, but you do.”
Dylan’s expression does something complicated at that.
Jun clocks it and files it away.
They start with easy stuff – laughing over some dumb show on the TV, tossing popcorn at each other. Jun leans into Dylan, shoulder to shoulder, their thighs pressed together. Dylan rolls his eyes, shoves him, but his hand lingers on Jun’s knee.
Jun lets his body move the way it wants to, not the way blocking dictates. His arm slides along the back of the couch, fingers brushing Dylan’s shoulder. He strokes absent circles into the skin where the tank top strap leaves it bare. Dylan’s skin is warm under his fingertips, his muscles twitching under the touch.
“Okay, now the cuddle,” the director says after a few takes. “Dylan, you’re stretched out with your head in Jun’s lap. Jun, one hand in his hair, one on his waist. He dozes off. Give me something tender.”
Dylan makes a face. “I don’t do tender.”
Jun’s mouth moves before his brain again. “You do when you’re tired.”
Dylan’s gaze cuts to him, sharp. “And you’d know?”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Same thing.”
The director, sensing the crackle between them, waves his hand impatiently. “Use it. In position, please.”
Dylan hesitates for a fraction of a second before he swings his legs up, stretching his body along the couch. His head drops into Jun’s lap, the weight surprisingly grounding. Jun’s breath hitches as Dylan’s scent fills his nose – clean, something like citrus and soap and the faintest hint of cologne.
He lifts his hand, fingers hovering awkwardly above Dylan’s hair.
“For fuck’s sake, just do it,” Dylan mutters, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Jun snorts and threads his fingers into Dylan’s hair.
It’s soft. Softer than he expects. His nails scrape lightly over Dylan’s scalp, and Dylan exhales, body relaxing, almost involuntarily. Jun’s other hand rests on his waist, thumb rubbing slow, absentminded circles over the thin fabric.
“Action.”
They don’t have to fake this part. Dylan’s eyes flutter closed, lashes fanning over his cheeks. His lips part a little, the sharpness in his face smoothing out. Jun watches him, something warm and dangerous curling in his chest.
He’s supposed to look at Dylan like he’s in love.
It’s disturbingly easy.
“Can you hum something?” the director calls softly. “Like… a lullaby? Or whatever feels natural.”
Jun hesitates, then tips his head down, his breath stirring Dylan’s hair.
He hums an old song his mother used to play when he couldn’t sleep before amateur fights, a low, repetitive melody. His thumb continues its path on Dylan’s waist. Under his palm, Dylan’s breathing slows.
For a moment, the crew fades. The cameras, the lights, the brand storyboard – none of it matters. It’s just Dylan’s weight in his lap, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the tiny line between his brows that smooths when Jun’s fingers find a spot at the base of his skull.
Dylan shifts, turning his face toward Jun’s stomach, nose brushing the thin cotton of his tank top. His breath warms Jun’s skin.
“Cut,” the director says eventually, voice hushed. “That’s it. Beautiful. Let’s reset for the last shot – Jun, maybe a kiss somewhere?”
Dylan’s eyes snap open.
Jun forces his features into something lazy, easy. “Where do you want it?” he asks the director, deliberately missing the flare in Dylan’s gaze.
“Forehead, cheek, nose, whatever feels natural,” the director says, waving. “Just… make it look like you can’t help yourself.”
Right.
Jun swallows.
They reset. Dylan drops his head back into Jun’s lap. This time, he’s tense under the pose, the line of his jaw hard. Jun’s fingers find his hair again, stroking, waiting.
“Action.”
Jun breathes in once, twice. He looks down at Dylan, at the stubborn curve of his mouth, the defiant tilt of his chin even when he’s supposedly resting.
Natural, the director said.
Jun lowers his head. His lips brush Dylan’s temple, light and soft. He feels Dylan’s pulse jump beneath his mouth. He should pull back.
Instead, he lingers.
His lips move, barely. “You’re doing good,” he whispers against Dylan’s skin. “Almost done.”
Dylan makes a small sound, something between a scoff and a breathless scoff. His hand curls in Jun’s sweatpants, knuckles pressing into his thigh.
Jun pulls back a fraction, just enough to see his expression. Dylan’s eyes are open now, looking up at him.
They’re not empty.
“Cut!” the director calls. “Perfect.”
Jun doesn’t move.
Neither does Dylan.
For one suspended beat, they just look at each other. The noise of the crew rearranging gear swirls around them without touching the moment.
Then Dylan breaks it. He pushes himself up abruptly, sliding out of Jun’s lap. “Bathroom,” he mutters, and vanishes down the hall before anyone can stop him.
Jun’s hand remains half-raised in the air where Dylan’s head used to be.
His manager appears at his elbow. “You’re scaring me,” she says in a low voice.
He blinks. “What?”
“You look like a man contemplating arson.”
Jun drops his hand, flexing his fingers. “Maybe I am.”
“Jun.”
He runs his tongue along his teeth, staring at the doorway Dylan disappeared through. “He keeps acting like this is some joke I’m in on and he isn’t. Like I’m the only one feeling any of it.”
His manager studies him. “Are you?”
Jun lets out a sharp breath. “I don’t know.”
She pats his shoulder. “Just remember, feelings or not, you’re both under contract. Don’t do anything you can’t walk back.”
Jun watches Dylan reappear a minute later, face carefully composed, eyes a little too bright.
Too late, he thinks.
He’s not sure if he wants to walk back anymore.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The tipping point comes at the launch gala.
It’s a sleek affair – glass and steel and soft lighting, a press wall full of logos, guests in tuxes and glittering gowns. The VERVE DUO line is displayed on mannequins, screens looping their campaign clips on repeat.
The short film – cut together from their gym, airport, and hotel shoots – plays on the main screen every hour.
Jun shouldn’t be staring every time his fingers appear on Dylan’s waist. He shouldn’t be cataloging the micro expressions on Dylan’s face when Jun leans in, touches him, shields him from the flash.
He does anyway.
They work the carpet like professionals. Jun keeps an arm around Dylan’s lower back, hand steady and warm. Dylan snarks at interviewers, eyes glinting, but when Jun squeezes his side at certain questions, he eases up.
“So, Dylan,” one host coos, leaning close, hand landing lightly on his forearm. “What’s it like dating the nation’s favorite action hero?”
Dylan opens his mouth, but Jun is faster.
“He’s the real menace,” Jun says smoothly. “Keeps me in line.”
Laughter flutters around them.
The host’s fingers curl on Dylan’s arm, lingering. “Well, you look good together.” Her eyes slide up and down Dylan’s body in a way that makes something hot and ugly spike in Jun’s gut. “Very good.”
Dylan’s lips twitch. “Flatterer.”
Jun’s arm tightens.
“Careful,” he says lightly, but his eyes are not light. “That one’s taken.”
Dylan glances up at him, surprise flashing across his face.
The host laughs it off. “Of course, of course,” she says. “We would never.” But when she moves on to the next question, her fingers still graze Dylan’s skin.
Jun smiles for the cameras, easy and charming.
He doesn’t move his hand from Dylan’s back.
Later, inside, after too many fake smiles and shallow conversations, Dylan disappears.
Jun notices the empty space at his side like the absence of a limb. One moment, Dylan is there, sipping champagne with his expression set to politely bored. The next, his glass is half-empty on a tray, and he’s gone.
Jun scans the room. No Dylan near the stage, the bar, the exit. His heartbeat kicks up. He tells himself it’s practical. Their contract requires them to appear together. PR optics. Whatever.
He finds Dylan on the balcony.
The night air is cooler out here, muted city noise drifting up. Dylan leans against the glass railing, tie loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His collarbones gleam under the lights. Smoke curls from between his fingers.
Jun blinks. “I thought you didn’t smoke.”
“I don’t,” Dylan says, raising the cigarette. “This is pure rebellion.”
Jun steps closer, scowling. “That stuff will ruin your lungs.”
“You punch people for a living and you’re worried about my lungs?”
“I punch people in a regulated ring,” Jun says, plucking the cigarette from Dylan’s hand and stubbing it out in the ashtray. “You’re sucking on burning paper.”
“You’re supposed to be my boyfriend, not my dad.”
“Boyfriends care if you die early.”
Dylan’s mouth twists. “There it is again.”
Jun stops.
“There what is?”
“You.” Dylan’s voice is quiet, but sharp. “You taking this too seriously.”
Jun’s fingers curl against his palm. “I’m doing the job I signed up for.”
“Are you?” Dylan’s pupils are wide in the low light. “Because sometimes it feels like you’re trying to prove something.”
Jun breathes in slowly. “Like what?”
“Like…” Dylan’s gaze flicks down Jun’s chest, lingers on the open line of his shirt, the faint marks on his hand from the last boxing match. “Like you want everyone to know I’m yours. Even though, last I checked, we’re both very single and very not dating.”
Jun laughs once, humorless. “You want me to be less convincing?”
“I want you to stop making it hard to remember it’s fake,” Dylan snaps.
The words hang between them.
Slowly, Jun closes the distance until he’s standing a breath away. “Is that what I’m doing?” he asks, voice softer. “Making it hard for you?”
Dylan’s throat works. “You’re being an ass.”
“Be specific.”
Dylan’s control frays visibly. “You guard me at airports. You call me ‘babe’ like you mean it. You touch me – ” His breath catches as Jun’s hand rises, brushing his fingers lightly over Dylan’s waist, thumb settling in the familiar groove. “You touch me like you own the right to.”
Jun’s gaze drops to Dylan’s mouth. “Maybe I want that right.”
Dylan stares at him, chest rising faster. “You can’t,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t.”
Jun leans in, his nose brushing Dylan’s. The air between them is electric, charged. He can feel Dylan’s breath ghost over his lips.
“Tell me to back off,” Jun murmurs. “And I will.”
He means it. He’ll step away, wrap his hands, do his rounds, let this contract be a contract.
Dylan’s fingers bunch in Jun’s lapel.
“Fuck you,” he whispers.
Then he drags Jun down.
The kiss hits Jun like a punch.
Dylan’s mouth is hot, furious, desperate. All that controlled sharpness melts into a messy, hungry press of lips. Jun groans, his hand flying to Dylan’s jaw, thumb digging in as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss.
Dylan meets him, matching his intensity, biting at his lower lip in challenge. Jun laughs into his mouth, the sound swallowed between them, and pushes him back against the glass. Dylan goes willingly, spine arching, one leg sliding between Jun’s.
Jun’s other hand finds Dylan’s waist, fingers digging into the slim curve he’s touched a hundred times on camera. It feels different now. Real.
Dylan breaks the kiss with a gasp, staring up at him, lips swollen, eyes blazing.
“This is not in the contract,” he says, breathless.
Jun’s voice is rough. “Good.”
He doesn’t wait. He leans in again, closing the gap between them until Dylan can feel the warmth of every word against his skin. Jun’s lips find the edge of Dylan’s jaw, moving slow, deliberate, tracing the sharp line down toward his throat. Each breath he exhales ghosts over damp skin, heat following wherever his mouth lingers.
Dylan’s hand fists in Jun’s shirt, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once. Jun moves with unhurried certainty, his lips brushing against the hollow of Dylan’s throat, more a taste of breath than a kiss, but enough to make Dylan shiver and let out a low moan.
“You keep doing that,” Jun murmurs against his skin, voice sandpaper-soft, “and I’m not going to stop.”
Dylan swallows hard, the motion betraying him. His head tilts back, surrendering an inch he doesn’t mean to give, eyes fluttering closed as Jun breathes him in steady and possessive like he’s memorizing the scent of the moment itself.
Every inch of air between them vibrates with restraint. It’s not a kiss, not quite – but it feels like the moment just before one, stretched out until it trembles.
“Jun,” he says, and hearing his name in that tone – that mix of warning and want – almost undoes him.
Jun bites back a curse and pulls back, panting.
Dylan’s hands slide down his chest, resting on his ribs. They’re trembling, just a little.
“This is stupid,” Dylan says quietly.
“Yeah,” Jun agrees. “It is.”
They stare at each other, the faint sounds of the gala bleeding in from inside. Someone laughs. Glasses clink. The world continues.
Jun lifts a hand, brushing his thumb over Dylan’s lower lip, smearing the faint gloss. “We can stop,” he forces himself to say. “Pretend this didn’t happen. Go back in there and do our nice little couple act.”
Dylan’s eyes search his. “And you? Can you pretend?”
Jun swallows.
He’s spent his entire adult life pretending. Different roles, different faces, different versions of himself projected onto massive screens. But nothing in those scripts ever felt like this – like his own skin might be the costume.
“No,” he says honestly. “I don’t think I can.”
Dylan’s breath stutters.
“Then don’t you dare kiss me like that,” he murmurs, “unless you intend to keep doing it when there aren’t cameras.”
Jun’s heart slams against his ribs.
“All right,” he says. “I won’t.”
Dylan’s brows draw together. “You won’t?”
Jun’s mouth curves, slow and dangerous. He slides his hand from Dylan’s waist to the small of his back, pushing him even closer. Dylan sucks in a breath.
“Because I fully intend to keep doing it,” Jun says. “Cameras or not.”
Dylan’s eyes go dark.
Inside, someone opens the balcony door to check on them. They spring apart enough to look decent, not enough to break the string of tension between them.
“You two okay?” a PR rep asks, smiling with too many teeth. “The press wants a few more shots.”
Dylan swipes his thumb over his lip, voice steady. “We’re great,” he says. “Aren’t we, honey?”
Jun’s laugh is pure, delighted, and probably a little feral.
“Perfect,” he says.
The rep beams, oblivious, and ushers them back into the light.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The fallout hits three days later.
#JunDylanHardLaunch trends overnight.
Someone at the gala leaked phone footage from the balcony – just enough to show Jun pressing Dylan gently but firmly against the glass, their faces very close, Dylan’s hand twisted in Jun’s shirt. The audio is too muffled to catch words, but the visuals are damning.
Half the internet screams about how the fake dating is clearly real. The other half screams about how it’s clearly a marketing ploy.
In the morning, Jun’s phone explodes with notifications.
His manager is at his apartment within an hour, laptop under her arm. “The brand is thrilled,” she says without preamble. “They think this is the best thing that could’ve happened. Organic passion. Authenticity. Blah blah.”
“And PR?” Jun asks, rubbing a towel through his damp hair. He hasn’t slept. His eyes feel like sandpaper.
“Officially, we’re still saying no comment.” She hesitates. “But…”
“But?”
“There’s talk,” she says carefully, “about extending the campaign. Making you two the long-term faces of VERVE. They’re floating a multi-year contract.”
Jun whistles. “That’s big.”
“It is.” She looks up at him. “But there’s a condition.”
He stiffens. “What kind of condition?”
“They want you two to maintain the relationship publicly.” Her eyes search his. “For at least a year.”
Jun stares.
“It’s not that different from what we’re already doing,” she adds quickly. “You’d have to keep attending events together, posting together. The narrative would shift from ‘fake dating for a campaign’ to ‘they fell for each other for real on set.’ It’s… romantic. Marketable.”
He laughs, short and disbelieving. “So they want us to date. For the brand.”
“Do you?” she asks quietly.
The question hangs in the air like a punch he didn’t see coming.
Does he?
He thinks of Dylan’s mouth on his, the way Dylan’s hand shook when it slid down his chest, the stubborn line of his jaw when he admitted Jun made it hard to remember it was fake.
He thinks of the way Dylan leaned into him at the airport without looking, like he trusted Jun to be there.
“Yeah,” he says, the word pulled from somewhere too deep for PR. “I do.”
His manager’s shoulders drop slightly, like she’d been holding a breath. “Then the brand isn’t the only thing that wants this.”
“What does Dylan say?” Jun asks, not caring at all what the brand says.
“That’s the problem.” She closes the laptop with a sigh. “He’s gone silent. His team says he… needs time.”
Jun’s chest tightens. “Time for what?”
“To decide,” she says gently, “if he wants to make something that started as fake into something he’ll have to live with in every headline for the next year.”
Jun drops onto the couch, towel forgotten in his lap. The thought of Dylan walking away – of him reading the contract and saying, No, this is too much, I can’t – makes something cold curl in his stomach.
“Give him a day,” his manager says quietly. “Don’t push. You can’t box your way through this one.”
He forces a weak smile. “I don’t know, my footwork’s pretty good.”
“Jun.”
“I know,” he mutters.
He waits.
For once, no amount of training, no number of rounds at the gym, no scroll through social media can distract him. Every buzz of his phone makes his heart jump.
Finally, in the late afternoon, a message pops up from an unfamiliar number.
Jun stares.
Unknown: Your private one. Now, if you’re free.
It could be anyone, but he knows.
Jun grabs his keys.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The gym is quiet at this hour.
The lights are dimmed, the ring in the middle spotlighted, ropes casting soft shadows on the mats. The smell of sweat and leather hangs in the air, familiar and grounding.
Dylan stands in the ring.
He’s in a simple black tank top and exercise shorts, hands wrapped messily, like he tried to copy something he saw once on a YouTube tutorial. The tape is uneven, knuckles over-padded in some places, not enough in others.
Jun climbs through the ropes. “You’ll break your hands like that.”
“You’ll have to show me the right way then, won’t you?” Dylan says, eyes flicking up.
His tone is light. The tension in his shoulders is anything but.
Jun steps closer, takes Dylan’s hand gently. “May I?”
Dylan swallows. “You’re asking now?”
“I’m trying something new.” He starts unwinding the tape, careful not to tug too hard.
They’re silent for a moment. The sound of the tape peeling away fills the space between them.
“Why here?” Jun asks quietly.
“Because I thought about meeting in some neutral, public place,” Dylan says. “But then I realized we’ve never been neutral. And if we’re going to hit each other, we might as well do it where it’s expected.”
Jun’s lips twitch despite himself. “Planning to punch me, pretty boy?”
“Not physically.” Dylan’s mouth curves faintly. “That would ruin the moneymaker.”
“You mean your face?” Jun teases, even as his chest tightens.
“Yours.” Dylan’s eyes flash up, then down.
Jun’s hands still for a heartbeat, then continue, wrapping the tape properly now, snug and supportive.
“So,” he says softly. “Are you going to ruin me, then?”
“Depends.” Dylan flexes his fingers as Jun finishes the wrap. “How honest are you willing to be?”
Jun looks up. “Try me.”
Dylan draws a breath, shoulders rising and falling. “When we started this,” he says slowly, “I thought I knew what to expect. PR stunt. Fake smiles. Hands on my waist when cameras are on, distance when they’re off. Easy.”
Jun’s chest hurts. “Is that what you wanted?”
“It’s what I’m used to.” Dylan shrugs, the motion tight. “People like the idea of me. They like the version they can edit into clips and stick into moodboards. No one wants the full… inconvenience.”
Jun feels something ugly twist. “You’re not an inconvenience.”
“To you, maybe,” Dylan says quietly. “Because for some reason, you came into this like you wanted extra credit. Shielding me at the airport. Kissing me like you meant it. Saying stupid shit like ‘I’ve got you’ when you don’t even know what that costs.”
Jun remembers the airport, the balcony, the hotel couch. He remembers every time he stepped closer when he didn’t have to.
“I wasn’t saying it for the cameras,” he says.
“That’s the problem,” Dylan snaps, eyes bright. “You weren’t. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Jun’s breathing goes shallow. “What do you want to do with it?”
Dylan stares at him like he’s asking him to walk into oncoming traffic. “They want us to extend the contract,” he says instead. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah.”
“They want us to be the brand’s golden couple. The narrative where the enemies in a fake dating campaign actually fall in love for real. It’s a marketer’s wet dream.”
Jun’s mouth twists. “Crude, but accurate.”
“And you.” Dylan’s voice cracks, just a little. “You just… said yes?”
“I said I wanted to,” Jun corrects. “They can’t sign anything without both of us.”
“Why?” Dylan demands. “Why the hell would you chain yourself to me like that? I’m not easy, Jun. I’m not soft. I’m not this giggling little accessory who’ll make your golden retriever image look extra sweet.”
Jun’s hand lifts before he can stop it, fingers brushing Dylan’s jaw, cupping it. Dylan goes still.
“I don’t want easy,” Jun says quietly. “I don’t want soft. I want you.”
The words hang there, heavy and irrevocable.
Dylan’s eyes shutter. “You say that now. But wait until people get tired of us. Until your agents start whispering about how you’re losing out on roles because you’re half of a package, not your own man. Until some director says he doesn’t want the distraction of your very loud, very gay relationship with the ice prince model.”
Jun’s jaw sets. “If a director doesn’t want me because I don’t fit their PR fantasy, they can keep their film.”
Dylan lets out a brittle laugh. “Must be nice to be everyone’s darling. Some of us don’t have that luxury.”
“You think I haven’t fought for every inch of what I have?” Jun’s voice rises. “You think I didn’t have managers telling me to stay in the closet until I was forty? To only date quietly, if at all? You think I didn’t lose jobs I never heard about because someone decided a boxer-actor with a boyfriend was bad for their box office?”
Dylan’s mouth opens. Closes.
“I chose this, Dylan,” Jun says, voice steadier. “I chose being honest with myself over roles that would make me hate looking in the mirror. If I’m going to be tied to somebody in public, I’d rather it be someone who makes me want to protect him on and off camera, not some brand-friendly mirage.”
Silence stretches.
Dylan looks at him, really looks, all the way down to the bone. Jun holds his gaze, heart hammering, hands still gently bracketing Dylan’s wrapped ones.
“You’re such an idiot,” Dylan murmurs finally.
Jun huffs. “That’s not a no.”
Dylan’s lips curl, almost fond. “Here’s my problem,” he says. “I walked into this thinking I’d hate every minute with you. I’ve built an entire personality around telling interviewers you’re annoying.”
“You still do,” Jun points out.
“Because you are,” Dylan says. “You’re loud. You’re clingy. You call me ‘babe’ and ‘pretty boy’ like you own me. You’re so confidently, disgustingly sincere about everything you do.” His fingers tighten around Jun’s. “And somehow, against every instinct I have, I started looking forward to it. To you.”
Jun’s pulse stutters.
“You’re in my head,” Dylan says, eyes flashing with frustration and something that looks a lot like fear. “In my phone. In every stupid edit people make of us. I hear someone mention you in passing and I know exactly where you were trending last. I started wearing the damn sweatpants we shot in, alone, like some teenager with a crush. It’s pathetic.”
Jun can’t help it. A grin breaks across his face. “You like me.”
Dylan glares. “Shut up.”
“You like me.”
“This is exactly why it’s dangerous,” Dylan says, exasperated. “You don’t know how to take anything seriously and you take everything too seriously at the same time.”
Jun steps closer, their chests nearly touching. “I’m taking this seriously.”
Dylan’s breath fans warm across his mouth. “There’s a difference between lusting over your co-star and signing your name to a year of being half of a couple in the eyes of the entire world.”
Jun’s hand leaves Dylan’s jaw, sliding down to his waist. His fingers press in, feeling the familiar narrowness there. “Is that all this is to you?” he asks quietly. “Lust?”
Dylan’s eyes flick down to his lips, then back up. “If it were just lust,” he says, voice low, “I’d say yes and ride out the year. I’ve done worse for less.”
Jun’s grip tightens. “Then what is it?”
Dylan’s gaze softens, finally, painfully. “It’s you looking at me like you did on that couch. It’s you saying ‘I’ve got you’ in an airport and meaning it. It’s you kissing me on a balcony with no guarantee no one’s watching, and then telling your manager you want me for a year.” He exhales, shaky. “It’s me wanting that. And needing to know you’re not going to wake up halfway through and decide it’s too much.”
Jun’s heart aches.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says simply. “Not halfway through. Not when the contract ends. Not unless you tell me to.”
Dylan searches his face like he’s trying to find the lie.
“What if I tell you, now,” he says slowly, “to prove you’re serious. No contract. No brand. Just… us.”
Jun’s brows draw together. “What?”
“We walk away from the extension,” Dylan says. “We finish the three months we promised. Then we tell them we’re grateful, but we won’t renew. No multi-year deal. No brand-mandated love story. Just you and me deciding on our own terms if we still show up for each other when there isn’t a paycheck dangling over our heads.” He licks his lips. “If you still want me then, I’ll know it’s not because a contract says so.”
Jun considers it.
The money would be huge. The exposure, the career synergy, all the things managers dream about. But when he pictures a year of being told when to post, when to hold Dylan’s hand, how to caption their love, something in him recoils.
He’d do it for Dylan if Dylan wanted it. He’d do a lot of things.
But what Dylan is asking for is simpler. Harder.
Trust me enough, the request says, to stay even without an external reason.
Jun smiles, slow and sure. “Okay.”
Dylan’s eyes widen. “Okay?”
“We walk away from the extension,” Jun says. “We finish this contract, because we gave our word. And then… we see what we are without the cameras.”
“You’re not even going to pretend to think it over?” Dylan asks, incredulous.
“I already decided I wanted you,” Jun says. “The rest is just details.”
Dylan makes a strangled sound. “You can’t say shit like that.”
“Why?” Jun steps closer still, closing the last sliver of distance until their bodies are flush. “Because it makes you want me more?”
“Because it makes me want to believe you,” Dylan snaps.
“Then believe me,” Jun says simply.
Dylan stares at him.
Then, slowly, like he’s stepping off a ledge, he leans in.
Jun meets him halfway.
The kiss this time is different.
The balcony kiss was anger and hunger and months of unresolved tension crashing into a single moment. This one is… deliberate. Slow. Dylan’s hands slide up Jun’s chest to his shoulders, fingers curling into the muscles there. Jun’s hands frame Dylan’s waist, thumbs rubbing gentle arcs.
Dylan kisses him like he’s learning a language. Testing. Tasting. His lips part, and Jun deepens the kiss gradually, taking his time, exploring the shape of Dylan’s mouth, mapping the way he responds to different kinds of pressure.
Dylan melts into him, bit by bit. The sharpness in his posture softens. His chest presses fully to Jun’s, their heartbeats stumbling into sync.
When they finally break apart, they’re both breathing hard.
Dylan rests his forehead against Jun’s, eyes closed. “We’re idiots,” he murmurs.
“Probably,” Jun agrees.
“We still have to finish the campaign.”
“I know.”
“We still have to deal with the internet. And PR. And you being insufferable in every interview.”
Jun smiles. “You can handle me.”
Dylan’s lips curve, the smallest, fondest smile. “We’ll see.”
Jun’s hands slide up his back, pulling him into a tight hug. Dylan hesitates only a second before wrapping his arms around Jun’s waist, face pressing into his neck.
For a long moment, they just stand there, in the middle of the ring, holding onto each other.
No cameras.
No brand.
Just them.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The remaining weeks of the campaign are different.
Outwardly, not much changes. The posts still go up – joint selfies in matching VERVE hoodies, short clips of them working out together, a candid of Dylan stealing fries off Jun’s plate.
But the captions are less carefully crafted by PR and more… them.
Jun posts a photo of Dylan asleep on the couch, half-buried in a blanket, mouth slightly open. The VERVE sweatpants logo peeks from under the rumpled fabric.
Cap: “He says I snore. Look at him. #VERVEDUO”
Dylan comments: “Delete this or I leak the video of you trying to do my runway walk.”
Jun replies: “I looked hot. 😌”
Dylan: “You twisted your ankle.”
The internet eats it up.
They still give the brand what it wants – chemistry, banter, soft looks. But now, when Jun slips an arm around Dylan’s waist, it’s not only for the camera. Dylan’s body finds his without hesitation. When Dylan leans his head on Jun’s shoulder during a long flight, no one tells them to hold the pose.
The night the campaign’s final ad drops, they watch it together at Jun’s apartment.
It’s a slick piece of work – shot in warm tones, cuts between the gym, the airport, the hotel, the gala. A voiceover talks about partnership, balance, pushing each other further. There’s a shot of their hands lacing together. Another of Jun looking at Dylan on the couch like he’s the only thing in the room.
When the screen fades to black and the VERVE logo appears, Dylan huffs. “They really made you look like a lovesick puppy.”
“You prefer how you look?” Jun asks.
“Like I’m tolerating you for the paycheck? Yes.”
Jun tosses a pillow at him. Dylan catches it, grinning.
The brand calls the next day, ecstatic about the numbers. Engagement is through the roof. They talk about the future, about possibilities.
Jun and Dylan listen, exchange a glance, and then, together, say no to the extension.
“We want to keep whatever this is… ours,” Dylan says, surprising Jun with how steady he sounds. “If we work together again, great. But we won’t be signing our relationship over as a product.”
There’s stunned silence on the other end. Then, slowly, the rep sighs. “I had a feeling you’d say that,” she admits. “Honestly? I respect it. And if you change your mind – ”
“We’ll call you,” Jun says.
They hang up.
Dylan looks at him. “We just turned down a lot of money.”
Jun shrugs, stepping into his space. “We can make more.”
Dylan’s mouth curves. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Not of myself,” Jun says, reaching up to tuck a strand of Dylan’s hair behind his ear. “Of us.”
Dylan’s eyes soften.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Six months later, the internet still talks about them.
There are still edits, still threads dissecting every glance, every accidental hand touch in the few events they attend together. Even without a contract, they don’t hide. They show up in each other’s stories, in each other’s lives.
The difference is, now, there’s no one telling them how often to post.
Jun still trains, still takes roles. Dylan still walks runways, still poses for magazines, now with the occasional VERVE piece he bought himself.
Sometimes, their schedules pull them apart for days.
Sometimes, Jun wakes up in a hotel room in another country to a photo of Dylan in his hoodie, captioned: “Smells like boxer boyfriend. 7/10, would cuddle again.” Sometimes, Dylan sits backstage at a fashion show and watches Jun’s new movie in between fittings, sending snarky running commentary and soft, unguarded praise in equal measure.
They fight, too.
About stupid things. About serious things. About how much of themselves to share, about what articles to ignore. About Jun’s tendency to take on too much, about Dylan’s habit of pretending he doesn’t care until it’s almost too late.
They always come back.
One night, almost a year to the day from the first VERVE meeting, they end up back on that same balcony at a different event.
It’s another gala. Different sponsor. Same city.
Inside, their peers mingle, cameras flash, speeches drone on. Outside, the night is cool. They lean against the railing, side by side, the city sprawled beneath them.
Dylan nudges Jun’s arm. “Remember when we first did this?” he asks.
Jun smirks. “When you tried to smoke a cigarette to look cool and I stopped you?”
“I would’ve looked cool,” Dylan says. “You ruined the aesthetic.”
“You’re cute when you care about your lungs.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
Dylan goes quiet.
Jun glances over, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment.
Dylan’s expression is softer than usual, the sharp edges dialed down. His hand finds Jun’s, fingers slotting between his knuckles.
“Yes,” Dylan says simply.
Jun’s heart stutters.
He turns fully, leaning back against the railing so he can face Dylan. “Say it again.”
Dylan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “You’re so needy.”
“I’m a boxer,” Jun says lightly. “We like hearing clearly when we win.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Dylan.”
Dylan exhales, nibbling at his lower lip for a second before meeting Jun’s eyes.
“I love you,” he says. No joke, no deflection. Just truth. “Happy now?”
Jun’s chest feels too full.
He steps in, crowding Dylan gently into the angle of the railing. One hand cups Dylan’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. The other curls at his hip, fingers pressing into the familiar line there.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I am.”
He kisses him.
There are probably phones pointed at them. There are probably people somewhere screaming about it. There will be threads, analysis, and edits.
Jun doesn’t care.
Dylan kisses back, his hands sliding up to loop around Jun’s neck, pulling him closer. The kiss is steady, unhurried. The kind of kiss that comes with knowledge, with history. With a future.
When they break apart, Dylan rests his forehead against Jun’s, breathing softly.
“Remember when you said you take your job seriously?” he murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“You really didn’t need a contract to be insufferably committed, did you?”
Jun laughs, low and warm. “Boyfriend duties,” he says, pressing another quick kiss to the corner of Dylan’s mouth. “I told you I’d take them seriously.”
Dylan snorts, but his fingers don’t let go of Jun’s shirt. “Good,” he says. “Because I’m not letting you quit.”
Jun’s grin is bright enough to rival the city lights.
“Looks like I’m signed on for life, then,” he says.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Too late.”
Dylan’s eyes glitter. “Fine,” he concedes. “Life, then.”
Jun pulls him in again, sealing the promise with another kiss.
No brand logo fades in at the end.
No slogan scrolls across the sky.
Just two idiots on a balcony, enemies turned lovers, holding on like they finally understand that this – this messy, inconvenient, deeply serious thing between them – is real.
And neither of them is faking it anymore.
The End :)