Running to You | Park Han + JL + Steven | Haneulz + Stejay AU

Chapter 47: Silences in Between

Han

Han wasn't watching the track. He told himself that.

He sat in the far corner of the training compound's outdoor lounge, a notebook open on his lap, pen in hand, pretending to work through pacing strategies. But his eyes kept flicking, too often, too long, toward lane two.

JL was running. And Steven was beside him. Always beside him.

Han saw the way JL's shoulders moved. The slight wobble in his right knee on tight turns. He saw the way Steven paced him just close enough to protect, but never eclipse.

And he hated how natural it looked.

The notebook on Han's lap was empty. 

He didn't know when he'd stopped writing. 

Or why his pen was pressed so hard against the page that the tip had started to split.

Steven said nothing. Did nothing flashy. Just stayed. The way good shadows did. 

The way Han never learned how.

He watched them slow. Saw Steven reach for his shirt. Saw JL not flinch.

And something low and hot and shameful twisted in Han's chest.

When I kiss you, you'll be mine.

He had meant it. Still did. But there was a flicker now, thin, traitorous, that wondered if JL would even want to be claimed.

That thought made Han's grip tighten until the pen cracked. 

He'd never learned how to be vulnerable first. 

Never learned how to give without asking what he'd get in return.

But JL. 

JL was worth unlearning everything.

Han exhaled, sharp and short. Then closed the notebook, the crease from the broken pen bleeding through the page like a scar.

If JL chose Steven, Han would survive. 

But he wouldn't forgive himself. Not unless he gave JL everything first. Not a throne. Not a promise.

But himself. Unarmed. Whole.

And Han had no idea how to do that.

For now. 

Steven

The water had long since gone cold, but Steven didn't move.

He stood under the showerhead, one hand braced against the tile, forehead resting against his wrist, eyes closed. The droplets traced lazy lines down his spine, over muscle and memory and tension he hadn't shaken since the track.

JL had looked at him like he wanted him.

Had stepped into his touch.

Had whispered he didn't want to pretend.

But he hadn't kissed him.

And that silence -- that inch that didn't close -- was louder than anything else.

Steven exhaled. Turned the knob. Let the silence settle.

He dried off slowly, every movement deliberate. The shower room was empty, dimly lit, humming with the low whirr of ventilation and the soft echo of water dripping from somewhere out of sight.

He dressed in sweatpants and a thin white tank. The fabric clung in places. JL had once said Steven's shoulders looked unfair in this shirt.

The compliment had made Steven blush so hard he'd forgotten how to walk.

Now, the same shirt felt heavier somehow.

He collapsed onto his bed later that night, damp hair curling at his temple, breath slow but not easy. His body remembered too much -- the shape of JL's waist under his hand, the flutter in his voice, the way his eyes had half-lidded when Steven touched his cheek.

It had been everything he wanted.

And still, not enough.

Because Steven could feel it -- that something had changed. Not just in JL. In the air between them. A current, a shadow, something unspoken pulling JL's gaze inward again. Like a thread had been plucked, and it was tied to someone else.

Steven closed his eyes.

He didn't ask for ownership. Never had.

But he had wanted to be enough.

And that quiet want -- that patient hunger -- had started to ache.

So he whispered to the dark room, to the ceiling, to the silence between them: 

Please choose me.

He didn't expect an answer.

But he needed to say it.

Even if only the night heard.