Another Chance
The Ghost in the Passenger Seat
The sunlight that filtered through the heavy blackout curtains of Net’s hotel suite was a dull, mocking grey. It caught the dust motes dancing over the tangled white sheets—sheets that felt far too warm, far too heavy.
JJ woke up with a start, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. For a few seconds, the world was a haze of soft cotton and the rhythmic, deep breathing of the man sleeping behind him. Then, the memory hit him like a physical blow to the stomach.
The hallway. The keys. Net’s arms around him. The sofa. The kiss.
The bed.
JJ’s eyes flew open, staring at the unfamiliar bedside lamp. The alcohol had mostly cleared, leaving behind a pounding headache and a soul-crushing sense of dread. He turned his head just enough to see Net’s arm draped over his waist, the skin golden and relaxed in sleep. Net looked peaceful—the sharp, teasing edge of his face softened by rest.
It was too much. It was too real.
JJ felt a surge of pure, unadulterated panic. This wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to fight. They were supposed to exchange barbs in front of cameras and ignore each other in private. They weren't supposed to be *this*. They weren't supposed to be skin-to-skin, sharing the same air, the years of silence bridged by a single night of weakness.
He moved with the desperate stealth of a hunted animal. He lifted Net’s arm with trembling fingers, holding his breath until he could slide out from under the weight. Every rustle of the sheets sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
He found his clothes scattered across the floor—a trail of evidence he desperately wanted to erase. He pulled on his trousers, his hands shaking so violently he could barely work the zipper. He didn't even look for his blazer; he grabbed his phone and the replacement keycard he’d apparently dropped on the nightstand at some point, and he bolted.
He didn't look back. If he looked back, he might see Net waking up. He might see the look in Net’s eyes—that terrifying, hopeful softness—and he knew he couldn't survive it. Not without his armor.
***
Net woke up an hour later to an empty bed.
He reached out instinctively, his hand searching for the warmth of JJ’s back, but he found only cold, rumpled fabric. He sat up, his hair messy, his eyes searching the room.
"JJ?" he called out, his voice husky with sleep.
Silence.
He got out of bed, checking the bathroom, then the living area. The suite was pristine, save for the indentation on the sofa where he’d dropped JJ the night before. There was no note. No lingering scent. Just the hollow ache of a room that had been full and was now suddenly, violently empty.
Net sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands. A bitter laugh escaped his throat. He had thought—foolishly, desperately—that the night had changed things. That the way JJ had clung to him, the way he had whispered Net’s name into the dark, meant the war was over.
"Coward," Net whispered to the empty room, though he wasn't sure if he meant JJ or himself.
The hurt hit him then, sharper than the anger. He had opened his heart, shown JJ the wound he’d been carrying for years, and JJ had responded by running away before the sun could even catch them.
Fine. If JJ wanted to play it that way, if he wanted to pretend that the most honest moment of their lives was just a drunken mistake, Net would play along. But the polished, charming mask he usually wore felt heavier than ever.
***
The following week was a masterclass in avoidance.
JJ became a ghost. He was present for the final ADR sessions, he showed up for the promotional photo shoots, but he was never *there*. He arrived exactly one minute before he was needed and vanished the second the director yelled "cut." He stopped the biting remarks. He stopped the eye rolls. He simply stopped looking at Net altogether.
The "Net-JJ Beef" shifted. The fans noticed.
*@daily_netjj: Is it just me or is the vibe... weird? JJ isn't even fighting back anymore. He looks like he’s seeing through Net.*
To JJ, every day was a battle against his own memory. He could still feel the phantom pressure of Net’s hands on his hips. He could still hear the way Net’s voice had broken when he said he was sorry. He stayed busy, filling every second with lyrics he couldn't finish and melodies that sounded too much like dirges. He told himself he was protecting his heart. He told himself he was regaining control.
But control was an illusion, and the industry was a very small world.
The production wrap dinner was mandatory. A high-end Japanese fusion restaurant had been rented out for the evening. JJ had spent three hours in his car outside his apartment, trying to find an excuse to skip it, but his manager had been relentless.
"It's the final push, JJ," his manager had said over the phone. "Just two hours. Eat some sushi, smile for the group photo, and you’re free."
JJ arrived late, hoping to blend into the shadows. The restaurant was dimly lit, smelling of toasted sesame and expensive sake. He saw the cast gathered at a long table in the back, their laughter echoing off the glass walls. And there, at the head of the table, was Net.
Net looked impeccable in a black turtleneck, leaning back and laughing at something the director said. He looked like he hadn't spent a single night tossing and turning. He looked like he had already moved on.
JJ felt a surge of nausea. He couldn't do this. He couldn't sit across from him for two hours and pretend he didn't know the exact way Net’s pulse quickened when he was kissed behind the ear.
He turned on his heel, heading straight back for the exit.
"JJ! You just got here!" a co-star shouted, but JJ ignored him, pushing through the heavy glass doors into the cool night air of the parking lot.
He fumbled for his keys, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. He reached his car, his fingers trembling as he tried to hit the unlock button. The lights flashed, but before he could pull the handle, a hand slammed against the driver’s side window, pinning the door shut.
JJ jumped, spinning around.
Net was standing there, his face illuminated by the harsh overhead streetlights. He wasn't smiling. The polished charm was gone, replaced by a cold, hard intensity that made JJ’s blood run cold.
"Move," JJ snapped, his voice thin.
"No," Net said. He didn't budge. He stood like a monolith, his body blocking JJ’s only exit.
"Net, move out of my way. I’m not in the mood for your games. Go back inside and entertain the crew."
"Is that what you think this is?" Net’s voice was low, vibrating with a suppressed rage that JJ had never seen before. "You think I’m playing a game? You ran out of my room like the place was on fire, JJ. You haven't looked at me in seven days. You think you can just delete what happened?"
"Nothing happened!" JJ shouted, his voice cracking. He tried to push Net’s arm away, but it was like trying to move stone. "We were drunk. It was a mistake. A messy, stupid mistake because we were both stressed. Now move!"
Net stepped closer, invading JJ’s personal space until JJ was pressed back against the cold metal of his car. "A mistake? The way you held onto me was a mistake? The way you asked me not to leave again—was that the alcohol talking, too?"
"Shut up," JJ whispered, his eyes darting around the parking lot, terrified someone would hear. "Just shut up."
"I’m done shutting up," Net said, his eyes burning into JJ’s. "I spent years away from you because I thought I was doing the right thing. I came back and I let you treat me like a villain because I thought I deserved it. But I won't let you lie about that night. I won't let you pretend that you don't still love me."
"I don't!" JJ lied, the words tasting like ash. "I hate you. I hate that you left. I hate that you came back. I hate that you think you can just walk back into my life and fix everything with one night!"
"I don't think I can fix everything!" Net roared, finally losing his composure. He grabbed JJ’s shoulders, not roughly, but with a desperate grip. "I know I broke it! I know I ruined us! But I’m here, JJ! I’m standing right in front of you, trying to own it! And you’re running! You’re always running!"
"Because it hurts!" JJ screamed back, the sound echoing off the concrete walls of the parking lot. "It hurts to look at you! It hurts to remember why you left! You say you were protecting me, but you left me alone to deal with the silence! You left me to wonder every single day what I did wrong!"
"You did nothing wrong," Net said, his voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. "It was never you, JJ. It was my father, it was the contract, it was the fear that they would destroy your career before it even started if they knew about us. I was a kid, and I was scared, and I thought if I just disappeared, you could be free."
"I didn't want to be free," JJ sobbed, the first tear finally breaking through. "I wanted you."
The dam broke. The icy facade that JJ had spent years perfecting shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. He slumped against the car, his hands coming up to cover his face as he began to cry—not the quiet, dignified tears of a lead actor, but the raw, racking sobs of a boy who had been holding his breath for five years.
Net’s expression crumbled. The anger vanished instantly, replaced by a look of profound, agonizing regret. He reached out, pulling JJ into his arms.
This time, JJ didn't fight him. He collapsed into Net’s chest, his fingers clutching at the black fabric of Net’s sweater as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. He cried into Net’s shoulder, his body shaking with the force of his release.
"I’m sorry," Net murmured into his hair, his own eyes wet. "I’m so sorry, JJ. I’ll say it every day for the rest of my life if I have to. Just stop running. Please."
JJ couldn't speak. He just clung to Net, the scent of him—the same scent from the hotel, the same scent from their youth—filling his lungs. The parking lot was empty, the city hummed in the distance, and for the first time since Net had boarded a plane years ago, the silence didn't feel like abandonment.
It felt like a beginning.
"I can't... I can't do the 'beef' anymore," JJ managed to gasp out between sobs, his face still hidden. "I can't pretend to hate you when I’m this tired."
Net held him tighter, his chin resting on JJ’s head. "Then don't. Let them talk. Let the fans wonder. Let the whole world think whatever they want."
Net pulled back just enough to look at JJ, his hands framing JJ’s tear-streaked face. He wiped away a stray drop with his thumb, his touch infinitely tender.
"From now on," Net said, his voice firm and clear, "we only tell the truth to each other."
JJ looked up at him, his eyes red and swollen, his heart raw and exposed. He took a shaky breath, the cold air stinging his lungs, and for the first time in a very long time, he didn't reach for his armor.
"Okay," JJ whispered. "The truth."
Net smiled, a small, sad, beautiful thing, and leaned down to press his forehead against JJ’s. In the shadow of the car, amidst the smell of exhaust and expensive perfume, the war finally ended. Not with a victory, but with a surrender.