With Every Breath [JinAkin]

Jin

Walls Closing In

It was already dark by the time I reached the edge of the set, outside.

I had every intention of going home - I should have. I'd returned my badge, handed in my resignation, and told myself I was done. But as I passed the fringes of the set, something tugged at me to stay. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was the feeling of watching someone leave behind something important - or someone.

My eyes caught a silhouette of Akin again at the corner of the parking lot, sitting on the hood of one of the security cars, his head tilted back to the sky.

There was no anger in his posture.
No resentment.

Just a kind of calm patience, like he was waiting for the world to stop spinning for a second so he could breathe properly.

I stood behind a pillar and watched him like a damn coward.

The moonlight caught in his hair, painting soft gray streaks across the dark strands.

There was something incredibly vulnerable about him like that - relaxed, unguarded, unaware that anyone was watching.

For a moment, I hated myself for what I'd said. For the way I'd used my knowledge like a weapon against someone who was entirely vulnerable.

Akin had a reputation to maintain. He had a face to sell. He had a body to retail. His entire existence has been hijacked by the entertainment industry.

His daily routines involved tiptoeing around broken comments from fans and media scorpions.

And here I was getting cranky about him securing the only thing he valued best.

I took a breath.

It all made sense now. I ran my fingers through my brown curls and paced.

Tomorrow, I told myself.
I'll apologize tomorrow.

But part of me - the scared, ugly part - whispered back:

Or maybe you won't.

Because once you start apologizing, you start unraveling. And once you unravel...there's no putting yourself back together again.

The director's voice carried through the cooling evening air.
"Let's do the last scene now! Akin, get ready in five!"

I walked around the corner of the lighting rig, hidden partially by stacked crates. And there he was, Akin. Dressed in his costume for the scene, still tense, standing as if his entire worth depended on the next ten minutes of performance.

His profile glowed under the harsh set lights, sweat glistening along his neck and collarbone, his lips slightly parted like he was holding in a scream. Or a sob.

My chest tightened.

I paused near the rigging area, hiding in the shadows of unused props and lighting equipment, just beyond the set's glow. My eyes found him almost immediately - Akin, he was now standing near the cranes and wires, already in costume. The light caught the sheen of sweat at his temple, his hands tight at his sides.

He looked tired. But more than that - he looked pressured.

He was beautiful in a way that made you uncomfortable. Not just because of the way he looked, but because of how deeply he wore his walls, like armor. Like he knew what the world expected and hated them for it.