Chapter Text
⭑
“That’s fucking ridiculous,” Seongje hisses into the phone as he steps onto the train, the doors sliding shut behind him with a pneumatic sigh. He shoulders his way down the aisle, dodging knees and bags, irritation simmering hot under his skin. “Whatever you’re up to, you can forget it—”
“I’m just saying,” his brother’s voice crackles through the speaker. “We work together, and Mom invited her—”
“And you just so happen to think she and I would be perfect together,” Seongje finishes, juggling his bag as he drops into an empty seat. The strap catches on his elbow. He swears under his breath and yanks it free. “How convenient. Do I at least get to know her name?”
“It’s Miseon, and I really do think you’ll like her, man. And I think she’ll like you, too.”
“I doubt that very much,” Seongje mutters, fishing his notebook from his bag. The familiar weight of it settles him a little. “You remember the last time you pulled this shit?”
“She was nice, Seongje.”
“Exactly my point.” He flips to a blank page, pen hovering uselessly. “Nice people don’t typically enjoy my company, and I can’t say I blame them. At this rate, I’m better off getting a vasectomy and cutting all ties with the human race.”
The person across the aisle is giving him a long, uneasy look, but Seongje doesn’t acknowledge it. He’s made peace with people looking at him like he’s a problem a long time ago.
“Seongje,” his brother sighs. “I really don’t need to hear about the plans you have for your genitals, but don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?”
“Don’t you think you should be minding your own business?” Seongje mumbles down the line.
“Listen, I already invited her, and she said she’d come. It’s not like you can get out of it, anyway. You know how much Mom and Dad are looking forward to seeing you. You’ve got to at least give one of your famous speeches. Dad loves those.”
“Gee,” Seongje deadpans, flipping to the back of his notebook. The only way you’ll know, his own handwriting reminds him, is if you put yourself out there. “You’re such a pal.”
“Dude, just try,” his brother pleads into the phone. “You’ll find the right person eventually. Why don’t you ever take your own advice? What was it you wrote last week—”
“What? I told you not to—”
“Oh, I’ve got it right here, actually,” he says, followed by the unmistakable sound of a paper crinkling in the background. “Take a few risks. You might be surprised at what you find.”
“How many times,” Seongje starts, voice muffled in the hand pressed to his face in mild annoyance, “have I told you not to read that column? It’s not even mine, I just—”
“I know, I know. You ghostwrite it. Still. Miseon brings me the paper every morning because she knows you work there.”
Seongje exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “She really does sound nice,” he says flatly. “I’ve always wanted to date a golden retriever.”
“Just talk to her, all right? Take a risk, man. For once in your life, follow your own advice.”
“I take plenty of risks.”
“Yeah?” Junho laughs. “Name one.”
Seongje opens his mouth—and comes up empty.
“Fuck off, Junho.”
“Fuck off to you, too, dumbass. Glad to hear you’ve still got your sense of humor. Mom and dad are really—”
“Looking forward to seeing me,” Seongje cuts in. “I got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He pulled the phone away from his ear to glance at the time. “It should only be a couple of hours. Think you can manage until then?”
“I’ll try, dude. Just hurry, I can’t do this on my own,” his brother replies.
“I’ll call when I’m close,” Seongje says into the phone.
"And Seongje? Don’t give up just yet. Things will work out.”
They exchange goodbyes before Seongje presses end call and shoves his phone into the pocket of his jacket, which he places in the seat beside him. He taps the end of his pen distractedly on the page he’d opened in his notebook for a few minutes, thinking about that damn column.
The actual columnist had asked Seongje to fill in for him a while back. It was supposed to be only a few months, which turned into six, and now the guy is on an indefinite vacation while Seongje is stuck writing ridiculous columns he has no interest in. It’s to the point now where he has to constantly remind himself why he chose this line of work in the first place.
You already don’t work in your specialty, his boss had argued, keeping a level head like she always did when he felt most like throttling anybody within arm’s reach. We already have plenty of investigative journalists in a city like this, Keum. Try to have fun with the column, at least.
It wasn’t his proudest moment taking on the advice column, but it paid the bills, and truthfully, he was good at it.
Still, writing fluff pieces, ghostwriting an advice column, getting set up with one of his older brother’s coworkers at his parents’ thirtieth anniversary party—it all felt like the world was laughing in his face.
“Excuse me? I couldn’t help but overhear—”
Seongje jerks, nearly knocking his notebook off his lap and onto the dirty floor of the train.
“Jesus,” he stutters out. “You scared the hell out of me. What the fuck?”
It was the person across from him. The guy, really lean-muscled and long-legged, looked a little worried in a delicately concerned sort of way. “Your conversation,” he continues, nodding at Seongje’s jacket stuck unceremoniously on the seat next to the window.
God. What is it with people who can’t mind their own business? Maybe if he didn’t make eye contact, the weirdo would leave him alone. “What about it?”
“Do you ever read the horoscopes in Seoul Journal?”
Seongje pauses, his hand hesitating in the middle of writing in his notebook. Slowly, he looks up. “What?”
“Seoul Journal,” the guy says brightly, and waves a copy of it as though to illustrate it. “I just figured you probably knew the paper since we’re both at the same—”
“I know it,” Seongje cuts in. Not only did he know it, but he wrote some of it too. “I don’t really put much thought into astrology, so—”
“You should consider it,” the guy says. “It’s very insightful. Have you ever read ‘Change Your Life’?”
“Never heard of it,” he said shortly. He really needs to finish his parents’ anniversary speech. And for this weirdo to stop bothering him.
“Really? You should definitely check it out. It’s a bestseller!”
“So was The Da Vinci Code,” Seongje says, bored.
“Another good one!” The guy exclaims. Seongje huffs in disbelief. This guy cannot be serious. “Anyway, I’d lend you my copy, but I need it for a date.”
“You need a book for a date?” Seongje questions unenthusiastically.
“It’s how we’ll recognize each other!”
“So it’s a setup? Those always go well,” he utters sarcastically.
“Well, yeah—if the matchmaker actually does their research,” the guy says, flashing Seongje a grin that borders on mischievous. What a psycho. “I like to give everything a try at least once. Otherwise, what’s the point? You’ve got to have hope. Life without hope is just death, isn’t it?”
“Death it is, then,” Seongje mumbles under his breath.
“Sorry?” There’s a faint edge to the guy’s voice now, irritation slipping through even as that annoying smile refuses to leave his face.
“Nothing.”
The guy studies him for a second, tilting his head. “So—what’s your sign?”
“My sign?” he questioned.
“Ah,” the guy sighs, “when’s your birthday?”
“April thirteenth,” Seongje answers automatically. “Wait—”
“Aries,” the weirdo chirps, already flipping through the paper. “Aries… Aries… ah—here it is.”
“Fantastic,” Seongje mutters. He lifts a hand, cutting the guy off before he can get another word out. "Look—no offense, but I don’t give a single fuck about my horoscope. Or Seoul Journal, for that matter—” Not on his days off, anyway. “—and I’m over this conversation, so it’d really mean a lot to me if you could please shut the fuck up.”
The guy’s mouth falls open. “You want me to...?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Seongje repeats, snapping his notebook shut and shoving it back into his bag. He sinks lower in his seat and closes his eyes. “I’m going to sleep. Enjoy your mercury-in-retrograde bullshit.”
“Mercury isn’t—”
Seongje raises a hand without opening his eyes. “No,” he says flatly. “No more talking.”
The guy seems to take the hint, not saying anything else.
For the first time all day, Seongje relaxes. The noise of the train dulls, the knot in his chest loosens, and the weight of work, family, and his nonexistent love life fades as sleep finally pulls him under.
Somewhere, distantly, there’s an alarm going off. The sound of it is grating and obnoxious and way too loud. Seongje thinks it’ll stop after a few moments if he ignores it, but it doesn’t.
“Final stop,” comes a voice from overhead, just as saccharine sweet as it is robotic. “All passengers, please exit the train. Final stop, all passengers please exit the train. Final stop, all—”
Seongje groans and claps his hands over his ears, squinting through the smudged lenses of his glasses as the world swims back into focus. Fluorescent lights. Empty seats. The familiar smell of public transportation.
Ah, fuck.
For a few sluggish seconds, his brain refuses to cooperate. Sleep still clings to him, weighing down his eyelids, his limbs, his thoughts.
The car is empty now. No shifting bodies, no murmured conversations. Just Seongje and the echo of the automated announcement. He missed his stop. Of course he did.
“Great,” he mutters.
At least that dipshit from earlier is gone. Small mercies.
He reaches for his bag, groggy as hell and twice as clumsy, as the contents spill out into the seat.
“Fuck my life,” he curses under his breath, gritting his teeth. His bag slips from his hands as he struggles to gather his belongings. He shoves everything back inside mindlessly, skin prickling until his hands pause.
There’s one thing left on the seat.
It isn’t his.
Seongje stares at it for a long second, heart giving a small, bothered jolt.
Change Your Life.
The stupid book. The one that guy had practically tried to force-feed him earlier.
He lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The book is worn around the edges—the spine is creased, and the pages are softened with use. That alone makes Seongje bristle. He flips it over, scans the obnoxiously cheerful blurb on the back, then turns it in his hands again. He almost chucks the thing into the other seat and forgets about it until he sees a gap in the book, held open by a flimsy sheet of paper.
Something about it sets his teeth on edge.
Against his better judgment, he opens the book.
The paper slips free and falls into his lap. A torn section of a horoscope column—just above the advice column Seongje ghostwrote last week. His stomach twists as recognition sinks in.
Seongje swears under his breath and stuffs the clipping into his bag, heat creeping up his neck again.
He looks back at the book, eyes catching on the highlighted words, impossible to miss, glaring at Seongje and mocking him.
Your negative thoughts are ruining your life.
Try to be optimistic, or you may never find what you’re looking for.
No. No fucking way.
Some stranger did not just slip judgmental nonsense into his belongings and disappear like some kind of ghost. If Seongje had woken up in time, he would’ve dragged the guy back by his collar and pummeled him into the concrete platform. Maybe shoved him in front of another train for good measure.
The thought is comforting.
Unfortunately, the guy is gone. And Seongje is left alone in an empty train car, the automated voice still chirping at him for taking too long to exit. There’s no chance of catching up now—especially not with those long legs and that athletic build as his competition.
Still.
He could try. And if it ends with him getting to kick someone’s ass, all the better.
The raucous voice coming from the speakers makes a final call as the lights flash insistently, reminding Seongje to hurry before the automatic doors close. Seongje snaps the book shut, fingers clenched tight around it, and briefly wonders if this qualifies as one of the risks his brother keeps telling him to take. Then he’s moving, shoving his way off the train.
The rubber soles of his sneakers squeal against the tile as he pivots, scanning the station. His pulse picks up, urgency flooding his limbs, though he isn’t entirely sure whether he’s running toward something—or away from it.
Then he sees a familiar letter jacket and sportswear.
“There,” he breathes, breaking into a jog.
“Hey!” he shouts, still falling behind. The loudness of the train station drowns out Seongje’s voice. “Fucking—hello! Jerk! You left your stupid book!”
He weaves through the crowd without apologizing, ducking shoulders and muttering curses as he barrels toward the escalators. The guy is already at the top, stepping onto the second level, but Seongje refuses to slow down.
He missteps and loses his balance.
Tripping on an escalator hurts like hell. He skins his shin, probably bruising it too, but there’s no time. He grits his teeth and pushes back up, pride stinging worse than the injury as strangers stare with equal parts concern and judgment. He gets up, staggers onto the second level, and tries to run after the stranger again.
By the time Seongje gets his feet on the ground, it's too late.
The guy is gone. Lost and out of sight. Nowhere to be found.
The crowds were too thick, and there were too many people bumping into him.
It hits him then: some asshole on a train managed to one-up him using a copy of Seongje’s own goddamn newspaper and a book he hates on principle. And now, the chance for Seongje to do something about it is gone.
“Where the fuck are you?” he mutters, breathless, half to himself and half to whatever god might still tolerate him and his piss-poor attitude. “Fuck. What the fuck—”
“I didn’t think I was that late.”
Seongje freezes.
The voice is too close not to be directed at him.
Seongje spins around, probably a little wild-eyed and undone—bag slipping off his shoulder, jacket half unzipped, the stupid book still clenched in his hand. He opens his mouth, ready with something sharp and nasty, but when he looks up at the person speaking, he suddenly forgets every word in the Korean language. Or any language for that matter.
“Actually, I—” the guy continues, glancing up at the clock overhead to double-check, before his eyes flit back down to Seongje’s face, visibly flustered. “I think I’m a few minutes early.”
“Early,” Seongje echoes stupidly, taking an instinctive step back.
This had to be a prank. A setup. Junho has to be lurking somewhere nearby, laughing his ass off.
“Yeon Sieun,” the guy stutters out, lurching forward as though to make sure he doesn't bolt. “You must be Park Humin. You’re… um. Different from how Juntae described you.”
He waits, tense and clearly panicked, bracing for a response. Seongje should probably correct him—clear up whatever misunderstanding is happening right now.
Instead, Sieun sucks his bottom lip into his mouth—and Seongje’s train of thought derails completely.
He isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. If this is a joke, it’s the most elaborate one he’s ever been subjected to. And if it isn’t—
Well. Then Seongje has somehow wandered into the presence of a literal angel.
“Sorry,” Sieun rushes. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way. Should we—should we start over?”
Seongje blinks, still half-expecting his brother to leap out from behind a pillar.
“…Okay?” he says.
“Right. Um.” Sieun clears his throat. “I’m Yeon Sieun. I’ve never really done this before, so I’m probably rambling. Juntae’s told me a lot about you. It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
Seongje realizes then that this is very real. Not a setup. This guy genuinely thinks Seongje is Park Humin—whoever the hell that is. And worse, he’s soft-spoken, wide-eyed, hopeful. The kind of person Seongje should absolutely not be lying to.
So he does the only reasonable thing and sticks out his hand for the boy to shake.
“Nice to meet you. Yeon Sieun?”
“Yeah, that’s—" he nods, grabbing Seongje’s hand softly, giving it an awkward shake, and pulling away before Seongje can even acknowledge the touch. “Nice to meet you.” Despite the boy’s obvious nervousness, he’s able to speak with ease.
What’s weirder is that Sieun doesn’t seem immediately put off by Seongje’s presence.
He also doesn’t avert his gaze.
Usually, that would piss Seongje off, but it doesn’t this time. It intrigues him.
Sieun was cute, really fucking cute. And pretty. Seongje thinks he looks a bit like a cat with those eyes, wet and bleeding through with something that Seongje isn’t quite sure of yet.
Sieun fumbles with his bag, struggling a little with it—and then pulls out a pristine copy of the same book Seongje himself is still holding.
“Juntae reminded me to bring this. I’m glad you remembered, too. It’s a good way to recognize each other.”
“Right,” he says automatically, without thinking, as if he understands anything at all.
“Have you known Juntae for long? I’ve never been on a blind date, but he put in a good word for you, so I figured you two were close.”
A blind date. This was a blind date. Suddenly, everything clicks into place. The book. That stupid bastard from the train—or Park Humin, apparently. Yeon Sieun was Park Humin's date. The blind date that Park Humin would be with right now if he hadn’t gone obnoxiously shoving his nose into Seongje’s business.
“Yeah,” Seongje replies, like a coward. “Yeah, Juntae. God. What a guy. I’d take a bullet for him.” He clears his throat.
Take a few risks, said his older brother’s voice in the back of his head.
Humin had shoved this book off on him—the book only Sieun would know him by—and now Seongje is here, and he went through all the trouble of chasing that guy down for nothing, and just—
Fuck it, okay?
Blind dates never work out anyway. And if Seongje weren’t already lonely and dreading his parents’ anniversary party, maybe he’d think this through more carefully. Besides, there’s no way this guy has anything in common with Park Humin and his stupid fucking horoscopes.
Sieun blinks at him, eyes huge. He worries his lip for a second. “Sorry—it’s really loud here. Do you want to grab a drink somewhere?”
Seongje contemplates. Not very hard, but enough to pretend that it makes a difference.
What’s the worst thing that could happen anyway? If Seongje declines, then wouldn’t it be a shame if the boy in front of him continues standing around waiting for someone who couldn’t have the decency to show up on time?
Besides, could you even steal a date? Was that a thing? People have done worse, right?
Try to be optimistic, the horoscope had said. Or you may never find what you’re looking for.
Seongje clears his throat.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I could go for a drink.”
They stop at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change.
The boy beside Seongje clears his throat. Seongje leans against a nearby pole, fingers brushing the inside of his jacket pocket out of habit. He quit smoking years ago, but the urge still crawls back whenever his nerves spike like this.
“So,” Sieun says quietly. “Juntae mentioned you’re training for a triathlon. What’s that like?”
Seongje startles, yanking his hands free from his pockets before turning to him, trying to process his words.
An image of Park Humin flashes behind his eyes—tall, long-legged, all effortless muscle—and it makes his stomach churn. You gotta be fucking kidding me.
“Oh. Uh,” Seongje says, wincing internally as he dredges his memory for anything correlating to the topic of sports. Or triathlons. Or anything. “Really… cool. Just really—really great. Love all those active—activity things. Big fan of cardio.”
“I don’t think I can relate,” Sieun says. Me either, Seongje agrees. “But I’m glad you have something that you enjoy. It must be a lot of work.”
“Yeah.” Seongje shrugs, finally popping the piece of gum he’s been holding into his mouth. “What about you? What do you like to do?”
“I don’t have a lot of free time outside of school and work,” Sieun explains.
Seongje’s phone buzzes insistently in his pocket—Junho, probably. It’s been hours since they last talked, and Seongje is definitely not at home like he said he’d be. Instead, he was pretending to be the date of some stranger he ran into at the train station, who unfortunately had the bad luck of crossing paths with Seongje. Though he really doesn’t think crossing paths with that asshole would have been any better.
He feels a bit guilty anyway, wondering if he’s wasting Sieun’s time, or if all of this is really worth lying about. But Park Humin wasn’t there, and seriously? He sounds like a muscle pig with worms for a brain. Sieun is way out of his league—way out of Seongje’s league at that.
It’s fine, he’ll tell Sieun the truth soon. The next chance he gets.
“What are you studying?” Seongje asks distractedly.
“I’m double-majoring in Physiotherapy and Biochemistry. Minoring in Data Science.”
Jesus, Seongje thinks. This kid must be a genius. The dark circles under his eyes make sense now.
“I can see why you don’t have much free time. You ever sleep?” Seongje jokes.
Sieun smiles along, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sometimes. It’s my last year, though.”
“That’s good to hear,” he says, and means it. He finds himself unable to stop looking at Sieun, at all the soft and sharp features of his face.
He really is pretty.
Maybe Seongje stares too long, but Sieun doesn’t comment on it, or doesn’t seem to notice. He shivers slightly instead, from the cold.
“The light’s green. Let’s go.” Seongje only snaps out of it when Sieun reaches out, fingers catching gently at the fabric of his sleeve and tugging him forward.
“I also—” Sieun stumbles, then tries again. “I like movies.”
That gets Seongje’s attention.
“Yeah?” he asks, genuinely curious. “What kind?”
Documentaries, Seongje guesses. It tracks. He can already picture it—Sieun on a bus, watching something educational on the way home from class or work.
“I like documentaries.”
Bingo.
“No shit?” Seongje says, a little smug.
“I like the nature ones. The ones about ocean life,” Sieun continues. “It’s amazing how much is still undiscovered. Did you know there are seventy-seven different species of whales?”
Seongje listens. Or tries to. The problem is that Sieun does this thing with his mouth when he talks—his lips curve into a small, unconscious pout—and it’s wildly distracting.
Very distracting—which is probably why Seongje completely misses the boy’s question. He only realizes when Sieun stops talking.
By the time Seongje’s brain catches up, Sieun is already aborting the topic, looking apologetic and ready to change the subject. “Sorry. Am I boring you? I can ramble a lot. It’s probably not that interesting.”
“What? No—no way,” Seongje blurts. He doesn’t want Sieun getting the wrong idea this early, so he rushes to recover. “Fish are cool, man.”
Sieun blinks, somehow flustered and perfectly composed at the same time, glancing up at Seongje as they reach the curb on the other side of the street. Whatever uncertainty flickers there disappears when he turns back toward Seongje almost immediately. “They’re mammals.”
“What?” Seongje frowns.
“Whales,” Sieun clarifies. “They’re mammals. Not fish.”
“Right,” Seongje chuckles. “Sorry. Not exactly my area of expertise.” He pauses, then pivots. “You into true crime?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Sieun admits. “I don’t really get into that kind of thing.”
“No?” Seongje grins. “Too scary?”
Sieun slows, looking briefly offended, and Seongje might’ve been intimidated if the guy weren’t so pretty and soft around the edges.
”I’m not scared.”
“It’s okay if you are. Real creepy shit is going on in the world.”
”I’m not.”
“I believe you,” Seongje says, only half-convincing, because the look on Sieun’s face is too good not to poke at. “I am, though. Listened to this podcast about a local serial killer from the eighties while walking home late one night. A stray cat jumped out of the trash, and I pissed myself so bad that I was standing in a puddle. Paranoid as hell—couldn’t sleep for a week.”
Sieun studies him, then, as if he’s trying to decide whether Seongje is joking, lying, or just deeply ridiculous.
Then he scoffs, a smile cracking through—small, not quite reaching his eyes, but warm anyway. “Seriously?”
“Yeah,” Seongje agrees, feeling oddly dazed. He doesn’t listen to any podcasts these days, not really, but he’s seen his share of horror stories in the paper. “I was twelve,” he laughs. “Not really my thing anymore. I get the appeal, though. Definitely can have you on the edge of your seat.”
”I’ll take your word for it.”
They keep walking down the sidewalk together, and Sieun still hasn’t let go of his sleeve. The contact makes something in Seongje’s chest twist uncomfortably. He hasn’t been this close to anyone in a while. Even something as harmless as holding—well, sleeves—has him sweating.
Another minute passes before Sieun slows to a stop in front of a brightly lit entrance. Music filters through to the outside, the bass heavy and muffled. Sieun steps forward, finally letting go so he can pull the door open. “After you?”
Inside, the place is sleek and upscale—frosted glass glowing with color-shifting lights, shelves lined with expensive liquor. Every surface is smooth and reflective. It smells like stale beer and faint pine from the potted tree near the entrance.
Sieun follows Seongje in, staying just behind him until they reach the bar.
“Um,” Sieun starts. “So—”
“What are you having?” Seongje asks at the same time.
Sieun laughs—nervous, a little self-conscious—as he waves a hand toward the bartender, still fumbling with the buttons on his coat. “Um—could I get a mojito, please?”
The bartender nods and turns to Seongje. “And you?”
“I’ll take a beer,” Seongje says, his attention drifting back to Sieun almost immediately.
When their drinks arrive, they slide into a booth tucked toward the back of the bar.
“Juntae said we were a good match,” Sieun says softly, fingers curling around his glass. “But that we should, uh… write down some things we’re looking for in a partner.” He pulls out a notebook—almost identical to Seongje’s—and flips through it before handing it over, waiting expectantly.
Seongje’s mouth goes dry. Shit.
“Uh, actually,” he starts, already scrambling, “I think I might’ve left mine on the train—” He reaches into his bag, pretending to search for something he knows isn’t there. “Yeah, I don’t think—”
His notebook chooses that exact moment to fall from his bag and betray him, sliding free and hitting the stained concrete floor with an ominous thud.
Sieun bends down immediately, faster than Seongje can react.
“Wait—!” Seongje yelps, the pitch too high to sound casual. He lunges for it, panicking, but it’s too late.
“I’ve got it,” Sieun says quickly, straightening and slipping back onto his stool. He smiles awkwardly, eyes flicking from Seongje to the notebook. “I can go first, if you want.”
“I don’t know if—” Seongje stammers, reaching for it and then pulling his hand back like he’s been burned. “I think that’s—uh—in a different one.”
Too late.
Sieun is already flipping to the last page. The last page. The one with notes for Seongje’s next advice column. A half-assed to-do list. Fragments of a speech for his parents’ anniversary that he barely remembers writing.
“‘Put yourself out there,’” Sieun reads aloud, brow furrowing. “‘Don’t let who you were hold you back from becoming what you could be.’”
“Well, that’s—” Seongje rushes. “Those are just notes to myself—”
“‘Learn from your mistakes,’” Sieun continues, then lets out a surprised, wry laugh. “That’s a good one.” He sets the notebook on the table, murmuring something under his breath that Seongje still hears clearly. “Don’t ever get engaged.”
Seongje looks up, startled. He really wasn’t expecting that.
Sieun freezes, color flooding his face as he fumbles with the notebook. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I mean—young. Don’t get engaged when you’re young. While you’re still in school.”
Seongje laughs—awkward at first, then brittle. It probably wouldn’t work out anyway, timing or not, but he keeps that to himself. “Got it.”
“Just—my experience,” Sieun says, wetting his lips as he lifts his untouched drink. “But you never know. If it’s the right person.” He takes a sip, his lips pink and soft as he swallows the sweet drink he ordered. They’re less chapped than they were outside in the cold, and Seongje has to actively stop himself from cataloguing the difference. “Sorry. I’m trying to keep that in mind, but things don’t always feel optimistic when I remember I’m a twenty-three-year-old with an ex-fiance.”
Twenty-three. Four years younger than Seongje, and already with a more serious relationship history than him—even if it crashed and burned.
“I hear that,” Seongje says, and it carries the weight of every failed date he’s had in the past five years. He gestures toward the bar. “Another round?”
Seongje has slept with plenty of people—men and women alike—over the last decade. A few relationships, mostly brief. More dates than he cares to count.
Still, with Sieun, it feels like a first. Like he’s floundering somewhere past his depth, and Sieun—equally unsure, but still hopeful—is somehow keeping him afloat just by existing.
They’ve had roughly the same amount to drink, but Seongje feels far more buzzed than Sieun looks. He isn’t nearly drunk enough to forget that he stole someone else’s blind date, though.
How drunk do you need to be to make that feel like a good idea?
“Hey,” Sieun says suddenly, brushing his bangs back with nervous fingers. His cheeks are pink now, eyes a little heavy-lidded, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “Do you want to do something… more fun?”
Seongje chokes on his drink, eyes going wide. He forces his face to behave through sheer willpower. “More… fun?”
“Yeah,” Sieun says evenly, already reaching for his wallet. “Juntae filled me in on some of your other interests.”
Oh, shit. Was Park Humin secretly a pervert? Was Sieun?
Seongje has always said he’ll try anything once.
“My other interests,” he repeats carefully.
“I looked it up,” Sieun admits, blushing. “Found a few places nearby. We could go and try it out—if you want.” His phone is already out, a taxi app open on the screen.
Seongje has already stolen a date, ignored his brother’s calls, and nearly skipped his parents’ anniversary party. What’s one more bad decision?
Or, good decision?
Okay, maybe Seongje is a pervert, too.
“Yeah, sure—” he says quickly, then hesitates. “It’s just… been a while for me. Might need a second to bounce back into things.”
Sieun laughs, caught completely off guard.
“Ah,” he says softly, understanding settling in as he looks at Seongje through his lashes, a small smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. “Juntae mentioned you were good with puns.”
“A fun park,” Seongje says as they stop outside the entrance.
He isn’t sure whether the knot in his stomach is relief or disappointment. His eyes skim the ad plastered on the window—Video games. Laser tag. Go-karts. Water park. Basketball.
I might need some time to bounce back into things.
“Right. Of course,” he adds, nodding to himself. “I get it now. This makes sense.” He wets his lips. Of course, that bastard plays sports.
“Did I get it wrong?” Sieun freezes, shoulders pulling tight. “Juntae said you liked this kind of thing. But we can go somewhere else if you—”
“I—I love basketball,” Seongje blurts, a little too fast, a little too loud, but hopefully convincing. He’s pretty sure he’s never played in his life. At least there are video games.
Inside, it smells like sweat and beer.
Turns out, Seongje isn’t half bad at basketball. Not the stripped-down arcade version, anyway. They play versus—two hoops, two scoreboards, a timer ticking down the moment they hit start. He sinks shot after shot, misses a few, and lands most. He takes the first round. Then the second.
He almost feels bad. Almost. But Sieun just watches him, impressed, unfazed by his own missed shots.
There’s a bar tucked near the arcade machines, and they alternate grabbing drinks until they’re teetering close to too many. After two more rounds, Seongje’s arms are aching, and boredom is creeping in. He stretches, glancing at Sieun as the flashy sign above the scoreboard flashes CONTINUE?
“Wanna do something else?”
Sieun nods, visibly relieved. “I don’t think I have another round in me.”
“You into video games?” Seongje asks. “Street Fighter?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever played,” Sieun says, words slurring just slightly now. The alcohol has definitely settled in. He leans closer—closer than Seongje expects—and lowers his voice. “Don’t go easy on me, though.”
“Right,” Seongje says, shivering despite himself. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“You’ve really never done this before?”
When Seongje glances over his shoulder, Sieun isn’t looking at him. He startles slightly, eyes flicking up to meet Seongje’s. “Want to try?”
Sieun nods, hesitant. “How do I do it?”
One of Seongje’s brows arches, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “Here. Switch with me. I’ll show you.”
He steps aside so Sieun can get situated in front of the machine.
“Use this to move,” Seongje explains, fingers wrapping around the joystick and nudging it side to side. “Dodge first. Take your time. When you’re ready, hit these to attack.”
He pauses, watching Sieun’s face to make sure it’s sinking in. “Think you can handle it?”
“Seems straightforward,” Sieun says, already sounding more at ease.
“I’ll start it for you,” Seongje says, slipping in the credits and pressing the glowing green button.
He watches as the round begins. Sieun lasts longer than Seongje expects—almost impressive—before getting taken out a minute or two in.
Sieun finds the joystick easily, the other hand hovering uncertainly over the buttons. He dodges late, his HP dropping fast. Confusion crosses his face, then frustration, his movements jerky as he adjusts.
He’s not fast enough, misclicks out of surprise, and then that’s it.
GAME OVER
The words flash across the screen. Sieun huffs, blowing his bangs out of his eyes, glaring at the screen like it personally offended him. He tries to play it off, but Seongje can tell—he’s competitive.
“You just make everything look easy, or what?” Sieun groans.
Seongje laughs. “Good attempt. I’ll put another credit in.”
He crouches, feeds the machine, and watches the loading screen fade.
“Be patient,” he says as the game starts. “Focus on dodging before you attack.”
Sieun’s character lurches awkwardly, barely missing incoming hits.
“Like this? Do I—?”
Sieun’s reaction time is dulled just enough by alcohol that he doesn’t move when Seongje steps closer—too close—sliding in behind him and reaching around his narrow shoulders to cover Sieun’s loose grip on the joystick.
“If you wait,” Seongje murmurs near his ear, “you’ll start seeing patterns.”
Sieun turns his head, flustered.
Seongje guides the joystick back, then forward, his hand engulfing Sieun’s, heat buzzing where they touch. He watches Sieun’s focus sharpen, serious now as he studies the screen. “It’s just algorithms,” Seongje adds quietly. “Seems like something you’d be good at.”
“I—I guess?” Sieun says, face flushed.
“Get ready,” Seongje mutters, guiding Sieun’s finger over the trigger. “Now.”
Sieun presses the buttons in quick succession, and the opponent’s HP drains. The timer runs out.
YOU WIN
“Nice!” Seongje yells.
Sieun jumps slightly, still pressed back against Seongje’s chest, then looks at the screen—proud, bright. “Fun, right?”
His eyes flick toward Seongje. Subtle, but unmistakable—the corner of his mouth lifts. He relaxes. “Yeah. It is.”
Only then does Seongje register how close they are. The lack of room between them. The heat. The faint scent of Sieun’s shampoo.
He clears his throat and steps back, giving him room. Sieun doesn’t seem bothered.
“What next?”
“Hey,” Seongje calls, waving uselessly over the crowd in a futile attempt to catch the bartender’s eye.
There are too many people between him and the bar. Half of them are drunk, and the other half are expertly avoiding eye contact and moving out of the way. It takes some effort, but he squeezes through, reaching the counter slightly breathless and smelling like strangers’ cologne.
“Hi,” he says again, waving at the bartender and making a poor attempt at a smile. “Can I get another—”
“Oh my god!”
Seongje immediately freezes at the sound.
The voice has his blood moving thick and sluggish through his veins, caught off guard, mouth stuck around the words that don’t come out.
“Seongje? Is that you?” He closes his eyes and counts down from ten. “Keum Seongje?”
Fucking great. Just what he needed.
Seongje turns, plastering a forced smile on his face. “Minha,” he says, voice coming out tight and strangled. “Crazy running into you.”
Minha—one of Seongje’s ex-girlfriends, technically speaking, if you count the total of four dates they had, mostly set up by Seongje’s brother. She looks the same, just as thin and tall as she had always been. It’s been at least two or three years since they last spoke.
“I heard you might be back in town,” she says, stepping forward to nudge Seongje’s arm companionably with an elbow. “Junho has been pretty excited. Are you just visiting, or are you here on a more permanent basis?”
“Visiting,” Seongje says, throat constricting. “Just visiting. For my parents’ anniversary.”
Shit. He really can’t believe his luck. Nothing of the good kind. And he knows this is technically a stolen date, and that he decided to steal said date in the first place. But it was going a hell of a lot better than he ever thought it could. Plus, Sieun may be a bit awkward and soft-spoken. But he was cute and nice and smart and all of the things Seongje knew he was probably undeserving of. Regardless, he couldn’t let things come to an end like this.
“And how long have they been together?” Minha asks.
“A long time. Um—” Seongje waves desperately at the bartender again, who had wandered off when Seongje got distracted by Minha. “Look, it’s really great to run into you again after all this time—”
“Two years,” Minha supplies.
“—right, two years. Time flies. Um—” The bartender finally starts heading back his way. He needs to pay the tab and get Sieun out of here, preferably away from other people, especially the ones he knows. “I’m actually on a date, so I should—”
Her brows lift. “A date? Oh god—sorry, I’m totally keeping you, aren’t I?” Then she steps in close again, a mischievous look in her eye, and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Is she hot? Do I know her?” She glances around, trying to make herself hidden but failing miserably.
Seongje opens his mouth to say no, but at the same time, someone tugs on the sleeve of his jacket.
Sieun steps closer, expression brittle, pale. “Hi,” he says carefully. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s fine,” Seongje blurts, watching realization dawn across Minha’s face. “I’m still waiting for the drinks, but I can go ahead and pay so we can go somewhere quieter.”
“Seongje,” Minha says slowly. “I didn’t know you liked guys. Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Then she laughs, delighted, nudging him. “No wonder we didn’t work! Oh my god, I’ve always wanted a gay friend.” She starts digging through her purse now, the gin and tonic sloshing dangerously in her hand. “Do you have an Instagram? Give me your handle and we can—”
Words keep coming out of her mouth, but Seongje is burning alive. He can feel Sieun getting progressively more and more baffled by the second, the weight of it in the air growing heavy and thick. Minha keeps calling him Seongje. She keeps mentioning his brother, whose photo she happily shows to Sieun on her phone without being asked.
“No. I—“ Seongje interrupts, blinking awake into a new, cold, terrible world of his own devising. His stomach knots violently. “I don’t have any socials. I’m gonna pay the tab. Nice seeing you again, but we should really go.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Please leave.”
Minha blinks at him. “Oh.” She frowns then. “You’re not out? Shit. I’m really sorry.”
“Minha—”
“I'm going,” she chirps, waving happily as she turns away to wander off again through the crowd. “Enjoy your date!”
It becomes silent almost immediately, and Seongje can feel the weight of Sieun’s eyes drilling into him. He avoids them for as long as he can manage.
“So,” Sieun says at his shoulder, sounding a little bit dazed, tone laced with a hint of anger and a lot more confusion. “Seongje, huh?”
“I’m gonna pay the tab,” Seongje repeats, digging his wallet out of his back pocket.