Archive of Our Own

Seongje sits in his father’s office, twenty three years old and already exhausted by a life he never chose. The room is wide, polished, a place built for people who breathe ambition like oxygen. Men in black suits fill the space with talk about revenue peaks and global branches. They speak as if the world is a machine built for them to own.

He hears them, yet their voices feel far away. He used to live in a different world. Back in high school he spent his days under a tunnel, a cigarette between his fingers, anger tucked under his tongue. People thought he joined the Union for power or thrill, but the truth was simple. That life was the only place where he could move without chains. He could choose who to hit, choose when to leave, choose what street to walk. No one back then looked at him like a product.

Nobody knew he was rich. They never guessed that the kid who beat older boys unconscious went home to a mansion larger than most hotels. They never guessed his parents owned banks and buildings that shaped half of Seoul’s skyline. His family let him run wild in those years, calling it a harmless phase. After graduation, they ended the freedom with one sentence.

Now you belong in the company.

So here he is. The heir of a massive conglomerate. A student in one of the most expensive business programs in the country. A young man who spends his days pretending the future laid out for him does not feel like a cage closing in inch by inch.

The meeting drags on until his head begins to ache. When it finally ends, he pushes the chair back so fast the legs scrape against the floor. The assistant approaches him with a polite bow, asking if he wants to eat, suggesting delivery. Seongje nods without listening to the menu. Food is food. All he wants is to leave this office, go back to his quiet apartment and breathe air that is not shaped by his father’s authority.

He stands near the window while he waits. His father already talks on another call, voice firm and cold. Numbers, contracts, more decisions made for a future Seongje has no desire to inherit.

A gentle knock breaks the silence. The assistant enters and places a lunch box on the side table. Seongje picks it up, expecting the usual corporate meal, something bland and expensive. He opens the lid and then he freezes.

Inside sits a small world of color. The rice has been formed into a round bear face. The vegetables curl into soft ribbons. A little handwritten note rests in the corner, telling him to enjoy his meal with a bright smiley drawn at the end.

He does not understand why it stops him. Why his chest feels warm for the first time today. The smile that reaches his lips comes quietly, surprising him. He picks up the chopsticks and hesitates for a moment before breaking into the rice bear.

The taste hits him with a strange gentleness. The kind of meal that feels like it came from someone who actually cared about the person eating it. The vegetables give a soft crunch. The sauce settles into him like comfort he has not felt in years.

He eats slowly, letting the warmth fill the hollow space inside his ribs.

He has no idea who made this.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Juntae is twenty two now, almost through his university years, though it still feels strange to say it. Writer. That is what he wants to be. Someone who puts emotions into words and builds small worlds where people can rest for a while. Between classes and assignments, he helps out at Suho’s grandmother’s restaurant. It started with him stopping by for meals, then helping clear tables, and eventually becoming part of the little family she built. She never calls him anything other than my grandson. He never asks for money. Warmth like this is worth more than pay.

The midday rush has already passed, leaving the restaurant in its cozy lull. The air smells like soy, garlic and something sweet simmering behind the counter. In the back kitchen, Juntae ties his apron tighter and checks the order list. One of the delivery dishes is marked as a single meal. No special request, no extra notes. That makes him think of someone eating alone, maybe at work, maybe in a small apartment with tired walls.

He always puts a bit more heart into those.

He starts with the rice, scooping it into a mold shaped like a bear. It had been a silly impulse buy when he found it in a tiny kitchen shop, but now it is one of his favorite tools. He taps the mold gently, lifts it, and a small round face appears on the plate. He smooths the edges with his fingers until it looks just right.

Next he arranges the vegetables, curling thin strips of carrot and zucchini into ribbon shapes. It takes time, but he likes the precision. He likes imagining the surprise someone might feel when they open the box. In his mind he sees someone coming home after a long day, shoulders heavy, expecting an ordinary meal, only to find a tiny bear staring up at them. It makes him smile just thinking about it.

He drizzles sauce carefully, adds a small sprig of green on top, then reaches for his stack of tiny note cards. He writes enjoy your meal in his neat handwriting and draws a little smiley in the corner. Sieun saw him doing it once and teased him about becoming a secret chef of joy, but Juntae only laughed. He does not care if it sounds childish. People deserve small moments of softness.

As he closes the lid, he feels a quiet hope settle in his chest. He imagines the person who will receive it today, maybe sitting in an office, maybe stuck in traffic, maybe lost in their own thoughts. He hopes the little bear rice brightens their day, even for a second.

He hands the box to the delivery worker with a grateful nod. Another small piece of kindness sent out into the world.

He turns back to the kitchen, ready to start the next dish, unaware that this particular lunch box is heading toward someone he once thought about thanking for the rest of his life.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Seongje’s apartment sits high above the city, one of those buildings with a silent lobby, polished floors, and security guards who speak in low, formal voices. His parents chose it, of course. They said it was safer this way, that someone with their family name needed protection. They never cared about the nights he spent sleeping under bridges in high school or the mornings he came home with bruises along his ribs. Back then, they barely noticed he existed. Now that he has a role to play, suddenly he must be kept safe.

The apartment itself looks like something pulled from a luxury catalog. Black walls softened by strips of orange light. Clean lines, cold surfaces, furniture that is expensive enough to be admired but not touched. Floor to ceiling windows show Seoul glittering beneath him, but the view only makes him feel more distant from everything real.

He walks inside and tosses his jacket over the back of a chair. The space echoes faintly, empty in a way that does not come from size but from the lack of someone who might fill it. He has every comfort money can buy, yet nothing in the apartment feels like it belongs to him. He did not choose the couch, the art on the walls, the appliances, not even the sheets on his bed. His parents call this giving him independence. To him it feels like being placed in a glass display case.

He wanders toward the kitchen, pausing by the counter as memories from the day drift back. Half the day trapped in his father’s building, surrounded by people who speak to him like a future CEO carved out of marble. The other half spent at school, where he blends in only because he learned long ago how to hide the weight of his last name.

Then the image of the lunch box slips into his mind. The round rice bear. The bright ribbons of vegetables. The tiny smile drawn on the note. He feels a small pull in his chest, something almost tender. He had not realized how long it had been since someone made something with care that ended up in his hands.

He leans against the counter, pulling out his phone. His thumb taps the screen before he fully decides what he is doing. He scrolls through recent messages, finds the thread with his assistant, and types without thinking.

"What was that restaurant from earlier?"

He stares at the message after sending it, a faint frown touching his brow. He is not sure why he asked. It is just food. A simple lunch.

Yet he cannot shake the warmth it left behind. The soft surprise he felt when he opened the lid.

His phone buzzes almost immediately.
"The restaurant is a small family place. Would you like me to place another order for dinner?"

Seongje’s fingers hover for a moment before he types.

"Yes. Same place. Anything is fine."

Another message appears.
"Understood. I will have it delivered to your apartment. Do you have any preference for the dish?"

"No."

He pauses, then adds.
"Just something from them."

The assistant types back quickly.
"Of course. I remember you seemed to enjoy it earlier. It is rare to see you finish a meal during work. Should I make this a regular option from now on?"

That surprises him a little. He usually barely touches lunch during meetings, pushing food around the plate or leaving most of it untouched. Today he scraped the box clean without realizing.

"Maybe."

Another bubble pops up.
"Noted. By the way, you have a free evening tomorrow. I have arranged your schedule as requested. No meetings after classes."

"Good."

There is a short pause, then the assistant sends one more message.
"If you need anything else tonight, please let me know."

Seongje stares at the text. The apartment is silent around him, the city lights flickering across the glass, but none of it reaches him the way that small lunch box did.

He types back.
"Thanks."

The reply sits on the screen, small and simple, but it carries a weight Seongje rarely lets anyone see. Most people never get a message like that from him. Most people only get silence or the sharp edge of his sarcasm.

Park Hyun Su is different.

He has always been different.

Hyun Su is sixty now. His hair has turned silver at the sides, and he moves a little slower than he used to, but his presence has not changed. He has been in Seongje’s life for as long as he can remember. In old childhood photos, Hyun Su is there in the background, holding a small jacket, adjusting a scarf, watching over him with gentle eyes.

Seongje remembers being a little kid, small enough to be lifted, running ahead in the park while Hyun Su followed with a patient smile. He remembers scraped knees and tiny hands gripping larger ones. He remembers someone finally noticing when he cried.

When he got older and started coming home bruised or bloody from fights, Hyun Su was the one who pressed disinfectant against his skin, not asking questions, not judging. Just quietly helping.

Everyone in the company knows it. Even his parents, who rarely pay attention to anything beyond their own plans, rely on Hyun Su when it comes to their son. They know Seongje listens to him in a way he listens to no one else. Not with obedience, but with something close to trust. Or as close as Seongje allows.

Most assistants rotated out quickly. They found him difficult. Too quiet. Too sharp. Too unpredictable. But Hyun Su has never flinched at his temper or his smirks or the cold walls he holds up. Instead, he treats him like a boy he once walked to the playground, the same boy who needed guidance even if he pretended he didn’t.

Seongje glances at his phone again.
"Thanks."
It feels bare, but he knows Hyun Su will understand what it means.

He sets the phone aside and steps toward the window, the city still glowing below him. In this empty, expensive apartment, Hyun Su is one of the few people who makes him feel like he hasn’t been entirely swallowed by the life chosen for him.

+++++++++++++++++++

Juntae is not supposed to be at the restaurant tonight. He already came during lunch hour, wiping tables and chatting with Suho’s grandmother before heading back to campus. He usually helps when he has time, or when he is needed.

Tonight he is needed.

Suho called him barely an hour ago, voice rushed, saying he had completely forgotten he promised Sieun a date. A real date. The kind where Sieun would quietly sulk for a week if Suho bailed. Juntae had laughed, fond and exasperated, and told him to go before Sieun started overthinking everything.

So now it is nine in the evening, and he is in the kitchen again with an apron tied around his waist. The warmth from the stoves feels nice against the cold that clings to the windows. Outside, the wind howls through the narrow street, but inside the restaurant the lights are soft and familiar.

Hyuntak and Baku sit at their usual table, eating like they always do. They come almost every day, sometimes even twice, claiming it is because the food is good, but Juntae knows it is also because they like being together. After everything they survived, all of them cling to this place as if it is a small corner of life that finally feels safe.

He hears them bickering loudly about some sports game, voices drifting into the kitchen. Hyuntak insists some player is overrated and Baku nearly chokes on his soup in outrage. Their arguing makes him smile even as he chops green onions.

Then the delivery tablet lights up with a soft ping. At this hour it is usually nonstop orders, with customers calling for hot meals to warm the cold nights, but tonight is quiet. Almost too quiet. Only a few people eat here, and the streets outside look almost deserted.

He wipes his hands on his apron and checks the new order. It is a single meal again. The address catches his attention. A rich area not far from the restaurant, one of those places with high buildings and private security.

He loves imagining the lives behind these orders. A busy office worker eating alone. A student too tired to cook. Someone hiding in a big, empty apartment that looks perfect in photos but feels cold in real life. Even rich people reach for simple food. Even they might want a little warmth.

Since it is calm tonight, he decides to take his time. He molds the rice into a tiny bear again, smoothing the ears until they are perfectly round. He arranges the vegetables into soft ribbon curls, adjusts them twice so the colors look balanced. He adds a small bit of sesame on top, admiring how cheerful it looks. He puts the meat and noddles in a separate box.

Then he reaches for his note cards. He chooses one with a blue border this time.

He writes "enjoy your meal and have a good night."

Below it he draws a small moon with a gentle smile, floating among tiny stars.

When he places the note inside the box, he feels that same familiar hope settle inside him. He hopes this stranger, whoever they are, opens it and feels a moment of comfort.

+++++++++++++++++

Juntae notices the pattern slowly, like something slipping into place behind the usual rhythm of the restaurant.
The same address, the same building name. Sometimes two nights in a row, sometimes a pause, then another order.

Someone out there has made this tiny restaurant part of their routine.

He wonders who it might be : a lonely office worker, a wealthy student living high above the city, someone eating alone in a big silent apartment, reaching for warmth the way people reach for hot food on a cold night.

So he puts a little extra care into the orders going to that building, even when he is exhausted from class or drowning in writing assignments.

But not every night belongs to him.
Some nights the restaurant is busy.
Some nights he is on campus or helping a friend.

On those evenings the meal is still delicious, but there is no rice shaped like a bear, no ribbon vegetables, no small note with a doodle tucked inside. Just a normal dinner for a normal delivery.

Juntae never thinks much about it once the worker leaves with the box.

What he doesn’t know is that someone on the receiving end is tracking every detail.

Because Seongje keeps ordering.
Again.
Again.
Again.

And on the nights when the box arrives plain and ordinary, he barely touches it. He pokes at the rice, takes a reluctant bite, then lets it sit on his expensive counter until the hour is too late to bother finishing.

The food is good, yet something is missing.

But on the nights when the little rice bear stares up at him, when the colorful vegetables curl into ribbons and the note carries a new drawing, he eats every grain with surprising ease. Those meals settle into him with a warmth he cannot name.

His assistant, Park Hyun Su, notices even faster. He sees the untouched leftovers on cleaning visits. He sees the empty boxes only on certain nights. He sees how quickly Seongje answers messages on the days he knows dinner is coming from that place.

So one afternoon, Hyun Su decides to solve the mystery himself.

Juntae is at the restaurant helping Suho’s grandmother with prep, expecting a busy evening ahead. He is slicing tofu when the bell over the door rings. He glances up and spots a well dressed older man entering with the kind of careful politeness that does not usually appear in their humble little space.

Suho’s grandmother greets him warmly and offers tea. After a short exchange, she calls toward the kitchen.

“Juntae, someone wants to speak with you.”

Instant panic grips him, he wipes his hands frantically. His mind rushes through every possible mistake.

Maybe someone got sick or he messed up a recipe.

Maybe his silly notes offended someone.

He steps out front and bows quickly.

“I’m very sorry if there was an issue with an order. I can redo it or fix anything that was wrong. Truly, I’m sorry.”

The older man blinks, then smiles with gentle surprise.

“No, no. Nothing is wrong,” Hyun Su says. “In fact, everything is quite right. My client has developed a fondness for your meals.”

Juntae blinks, thrown off. His shoulders loosen slightly.

Hyun Su continues, hands folded neatly.
“There is a certain box my client enjoys. A charming one. It comes with drawings. And small animals made of rice.”

Juntae’s eyes widen.

“Oh. The cute ones.”

“Yes.” Hyun Su nods. “Apparently they make the meal taste better. Or so I’ve been told.”

A soft, amused smile touches his face, the kind that belongs to someone who has watched a young man grow up and understands his odd habits far more than others do.

“I came to ask who makes them,” he says. “So I can order specifically during those times, ensuring my client receives the version he prefers.”

Juntae stands there, flour still dusted on his apron, cheeks warming.

“I do,” he admits. “Only when I have time. Sometimes the kitchen is too busy. Sometimes I’m not here.”

Hyun Su nods thoughtfully.

“Then I suppose I should learn your schedule.”

A small flustered laugh escapes Juntae.

“Why does your client like them so much?”

Hyun Su looks at him for a moment before answering, voice soft.

“Perhaps your meals give him something he does not receive often.”

Juntae blinks at the simplicity of the explanation, feeling something tighten and soften in his chest.

He swallows. “I… I’m not sure I understand.”

Hyun Su’s smile barely shifts, just enough to show he expected that.
“You don’t need to,” he says lightly. “Only to know that they matter to him.”

Juntae hesitates, fingers curling around the edge of his apron. “Is he… is your client all right? I mean—he’s not… ill, or—”

“No,” Hyun Su interrupts gently. “Nothing of that sort.”
He looks down at the untouched cup of tea in front of him, as if weighing how much he should say.
“He simply lives a life with very little… room in it.”

Juntae frowns. “Room?”

“A life can be full,” Hyun Su says, choosing each word with careful politeness, “and still feel empty. You’d be surprised how many people discover that too late.”

The words linger, soft but heavy.

Juntae shifts his weight, unsure if he should ask more.
“So the boxes… they help?”

A quiet hum of agreement.
“They give him something small, but important. Something that makes the end of his day feel a little less quiet.”

Juntae’s eyebrows lift at that. “From… a rice bear?”

Hyun Su’s lips twitch. “From the person who bothered to make it.”

That sends a warm, embarrassed flush through Juntae’s cheeks. He ducks his head, staring at the floorboards.

“I didn’t think anyone really noticed.”

“They do,” Hyun Su says softly. “More than you know.”

A tiny pause.

Then he adds almost too casually:
“So, if you’re willing, I’d like to place an order for tonight. And I hope you’ll be the one preparing it.”

Juntae looks up, startled. “Me?”

“Yes.” Hyun Su rises, brushing an invisible crease from his sleeve. “My client would appreciate it.”

Something in his tone makes it sound less like a request and more like a gentle understanding:
You’ve already been doing something for him. Keep doing it, if you can.

Juntae nods, still unsure.
“Okay. I… I’ll make it.”

“Good.” Hyun Su smiles, satisfied. “He’ll be pleased.”

Juntae takes the order, fingers brushing the edge of the small tablet as he reads the notes one more time. His mind is still a little tangled from the conversation, but the thought of preparing this particular box makes him focus.

Hyun Su doesn’t leave. Instead, he sits at one of the small tables near the window, hands folded neatly, watching quietly as Juntae moves through the kitchen. The older man doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His calm presence is enough to make the air feel almost ceremonial.

Juntae washes his hands, ties his apron tighter, and begins. He scoops the rice carefully, molds it into a tiny bear, smoothing the ears until they are perfectly round. Every placement, every detail feels deliberate, like a message he is sending without knowing if it will ever be read.

When the box is nearly ready, he reaches for the note card. His pen hovers for a moment, then he writes in his neat, small handwriting: May this meal bring you comfort

Below it, he draws a little cat smiling. He tucks it into the box with a quiet hope, a tiny gesture carrying more weight than it should.

Hyun Su watches without comment, eyes following every motion, but his expression remains unreadable. He doesn’t need to speak. The message of the box will carry itself.

Juntae closes the lid carefully, checks the edges, and places the box on the counter. He wipes his hands again, feeling a strange mix of nervousness and pride.

“Here you go,” he says softly, not looking up.

Hyun Su nods once, almost imperceptibly, and picks up the box. “Thank you. I believe he will be very pleased.”

Juntae glances up briefly, catching the faintest smile in the older man’s eyes. His chest tightens a little in something gentle, something like quiet satisfaction. He realizes that his small attention to detail really does matter.

He watches Hyun Su leave, the bell jingling behind him, and then returns to the kitchen. The knives and cutting boards feel warmer somehow, and even the hum of the refrigerator seems softer.

++++++++++++++++

Seongje sits in his family’s house like a ghost someone draped in expensive clothes.

This place is supposed to be familiar, but it never was. Even in high school, he avoided it every chance he got. Back then he lived under this roof, technically, but he barely slept here. He preferred the hum of the cybercafe monitors, the damp quiet of the warehouse, the reek of smoke under the tunnel. Anywhere felt more like home than this polished mansion full of people who wanted to shape him into something he never wished to be.

Now he is older. The rebellion he once carried like fire in his bones lost its flames long ago under the weight of expectation and the suffocating routines his parents forced onto him.

But lately something has been thawing.

A tiny bear made of rice, a note with a smiling moon.

A warmth that creeps in quietly and reminds him there is still a part of him left that can feel anything at all.

On the days he receives those boxes, something inside him loosens. A faint glow settles in his chest and stays for hours. The food tastes like care. Like someone out there is trying, even in the smallest possible way, to make a stranger’s night better.

On the days he doesn’t get them, something goes dim again.
Tonight is one of those nights.

He wanted to go home after class, collapse on his couch, eat one of those cute boxes, maybe watch some mindless movie while the city lights cast orange reflections across the floor. Maybe even fall asleep early, wrapped in silence instead of expectation.

But then came the call. His father’s voice sharp and commanding. Dinner at the family house. No excuses.

So here he is.

The table glitters with dishes crafted by a private chef. Wine glasses, polished silver, plates arranged with the precision of a magazine photo. His cousins sit on the other side, the ones who would gladly take his place as heir if they had the chance. His mother is smiling politely, playing her role. Some business partners or friends of his parents fill the remaining seats, talking like the room is a boardroom disguised as a dining space.

Every conversation feels like static buzzing in his skull. Rival companies. Expansion plans. Aggressive takeovers. Deals. Status. Power.

He says nothing. He rarely does here.

When his mother notices he hasn’t touched his plate, she leans slightly toward him and asks in her soft but empty voice, “Seongje, aren’t you eating?”

“I’m not hungry,” he says. It’s the truth. Nothing here tastes like anything. Nothing here feels edible.

His father cuts in with a tone as sharp as a blade. “Eat.”

Seongje feels his jaw tense. The voice that used to freeze him as a kid does nothing now except irritate him. “I said I’m not hungry.”

A murmur rises around the table. His father looks at him, eyes heavy with disappointment that has followed Seongje his whole life.

“If you cannot perform basic decorum at dinner,” his father says, “how do you plan to manage the company later? How do you plan to lead?”

The humiliation is public and intentional.

Something old and tired presses against Seongje’s ribs. He mutters something under his breath he thinks won’t be heard over the clinking forks and low chatter. Something about how he never asked to lead anything. 

But his father hears it. Of course he does.

“Repeat that,” the man demands.

Seongje lifts his eyes briefly, meets the stare he’s spent his whole life avoiding. “I said nothing.”

The tension is a wire pulled tight, vibrating in the silence.

Until someone else clears their throat, changes the subject, and the conversation shifts back to money and buildings and future battles. The spotlight leaves him.

But the glances don’t. His father keeps watching him from the head of the table, sharp eyes flicking toward him between sentences, like checking whether Seongje is absorbing every word of their grand future… or planning to ruin it.

The dinner drags on. Wine refills. Laughter that isn’t laughter fills the room. Someone starts discussing overseas expansion, and from there the topic shifts naturally to successions and legacy.

Then someone mentions the future of the company, and the conversation turns toward Seongje like a slow, heavy tide.

His father gestures casually, as if announcing the weather. “Of course, when Seongje takes over the company, he will need to present a proper image. Leadership is not only strategy. It is stability. A strong family.”

A cousin snickers. Someone else raises a brow with curiosity.

His mother adds, “Your father has been speaking to the Nam family. The hotel conglomerate. Their daughter would be a perfect match.”

Seongje’s fork freezes halfway to his plate.

His father continues, tone businesslike. “They will schedule a formal introduction. It’s ideal for our expansion. Their brand recognition in the tourism sector aligns well with our next phase. And naturally, an engagement would secure both families.”

An engagement with woman whose name he’s never heard.

A future sketched out like a contract he never signed.

He feels something in him twist, pulled tight.

His mother is smiling gently. “And of course, after the wedding, children will strengthen the line. In time—”

Children.

His breath stumbles.

The room keeps talking, drowning him in words he cannot escape.

He feels his throat tightening, like invisible fingers closing around it. His heartbeat skips, then races. Heat climbs the back of his neck, his fingertips going cold. The edges of the room feel too bright, too sharp, too loud.

It starts like it always does. A flicker of panic and a warning. 

One he knows very well.

He had these attacks as a kid : hidden ones no one ever noticed. Then again in business school, when his parents piled expectations on top of him until he could barely breathe.

His parents still have no idea. They never asked. Never saw. Never cared to look.

But one person always sees.

Hyun Su watches him from across the table, eyes narrowing just slightly. It’s enough. He knows. He has seen this happen since Seongje was small enough to fit in the crook of his arm during park visits.

He clears his throat politely. “Sir. Madam. I apologize for the interruption.”

The room glances at him, annoyed and confused that a mere assistant would dare cut in.

“Forgive me, but he has an early class tomorrow,” Hyun Su says with a respectful bow. “A mandatory presentation. He cannot afford to miss the preparation time.”

It is an effortless lie. One he delivers with the confidence of someone who has had to shield the boy at this table many, many times before.

His father frowns but doesn’t challenge it. The business partners look uninterested. His mother simply nods, uncaring.

Hyun Su stands, placing a steadying hand on the back of Seongje’s chair. “We should leave now, before it gets too late.”

Seongje can barely breathe. The panic is still coiled in his ribs, shaking beneath his skin. But he rises not because he can, but because Hyun Su gives him something to anchor himself to.

Outside, the cold air hits him like a splash of water. His lungs open a little, enough to keep him upright. Enough to follow Hyun Su to the car without collapsing.

They drive in silence.

Hyun Su doesn’t ask what set him off. He doesn’t force words from a mouth that can barely manage breath. He simply focuses on the road, the kind of quiet that never suffocates.

Minutes pass. The city lights blur past the windows.

Only then does Seongje notice they’re not going toward his apartment.

He doesn’t protest. He doesn’t have the energy.

Hyun Su glances at him once, briefly, as if confirming something he already knows. He saw the untouched food on the table. He knows Seongje hasn’t eaten a single bite tonight. He knows the boy—now a young man—gets worse when he’s running on nothing but stress and air.

So without a word, he turns down a familiar street.

A small, warm glow appears between the darker storefronts. A place too modest for someone of Seongje’s status. A place where the windows fog slightly from the heat inside, where the bell on the door jingles like an old friend greeting you.

The restaurant.

The one with the little rice bears.

The one that gives Seongje the only warmth he feels these days.

They park. For a moment, Seongje just stares through the windshield, unsure what he’s looking at.

“Come,” Hyun Su says softly. 

They enter, and the bell rings above them.

The warmth of the restaurant wraps around Seongje instantly. The smell of broth and spices. The soft chatter from a corner table. The faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen. It is nothing like his family’s polished dining hall. It feels human.

He looks around, disoriented, as if he hasn’t quite caught up to reality yet. Some part of him is still sitting at that cold table, suffocating under future plans that don’t belong to him.

And Hyun Su, with a quiet breath of hope, scans the interior.

He prays that the one person who unknowingly keeps Seongje alive on nights like this is here.

That the hands that shape little rice bears, the hands that write smiling moons, the hands that tuck warmth into cardboard boxes are working tonight.

+++++++++++++++++++++

The restaurant is quiet in that soft, end-of-day way that always makes Juntae feel strangely peaceful. Only one table is still occupied, two older men finishing their soup while murmuring about the cold weather. The chairs are already stacked on half the floor, the mop bucket sits waiting in the corner, and the smell of broth is fading into something gentler.

Suho already left with his grandmother, insisting she shouldn’t walk home in the freezing wind. So now it’s just Juntae closing up, humming under his breath while wiping down a counter.

The bell over the door rings.

He straightens instinctively, half expecting the last table to be paying their bill. Instead, he sees a familiar man enter first — the older gentleman who sometimes picks up the cute boxes. The polite one who always smiles, the one who asks about the rice bears.

“Ah, hello,” Juntae says, bowing lightly.

He waits to see if the man needs a pickup order, but before he can ask, the assistant steps aside just enough for another figure to come into view.

At first it’s only the outline of him, tall and rigid in the doorway.
Then the low lights catch his face.

Juntae’s heart drops, stumbles, and then slams against his ribs.

That face.

He knows that face. He knows it too well.

A face he saw years ago in a dark abandonned place, crouched above him, fists bloodied, breathing hard after knocking out the guys who were about to kill him. A face he last saw under flickering lights, unreadable and sharp and strangely protective.

He hasn’t seen it since the Union shattered.
But he never forgot it. He couldn’t.

“...Seongje?” Juntae whispers.

His voice sounds small, unsure, almost disbelieving.

He waits for that mocking smirk he remembers, or the bored lift of an eyebrow, or the lazy arrogance Seongje used to carry like armor. He waits for the sharpness, the edge, the wild unpredictability of the boy who once ruled hallways and alleys.

Instead he gets nothing.

No smirk. No recognition. No reaction at all.

Just eyes that look empty.

Eyes that look like they haven’t focused on anything real in a long time.

He recognizes the glasses — Seongje always wore them — but the hair is different now, longer, parted cleanly like something out of a drama. The jacket is gone, no more bright orange, replaced by an expensive black suit and white shirt fitting perfectly against his frame.

He looks like money. 

Juntae inhales sharply. Maybe he’s mistaken. Maybe this is just someone who resembles him. Maybe his mind, exhausted from studying and cleaning and thinking too much, is tricking him.

The silence stretches.

Then the assistant turns to him, puzzled. “Do you two know each other? You spoke his name.”

Juntae swallows hard, unable to take his eyes off the man in front of him. He forces himself to find his voice again.

“Is… is this really you?” he asks softly. “Seongje?”

Silence. A breath. A flicker of something unreadable in those empty eyes.

Juntae turns to the assistant, anxiety tightening around his ribs. “Was he… was he your client all along? The one who kept ordering the cute boxes?”

The assistant nods without hesitation, as if the answer were obvious from the start.

“Yes,” he says gently. “He is my client. The one who enjoys your boxes.”
His eyes narrow just slightly, assessing, careful. “How do you two know each other?”

Juntae freezes for half a second.
He can feel Seongje’s gaze on him, not sharp, jus present in a distant sort of way. Like someone watching through a window rather than standing in the room.

He forces a small breath.

“We… met in high school,” he answers, choosing his words with care. “Not the same one. But our paths crossed sometimes.”

It’s true, technically. Just missing a few details. Like how those “paths” involved back alleys and fists and the echo of shouts. How the Union wasn’t just a rumor. How Seongje was chaos wrapped in a school uniform with knuckles always bruised.

The assistant’s eyes flicker, knowing in a way that makes Juntae’s skin prickle.
Of course a man like him would know. He’s probably known everything for years.

He says nothing, but the look he gives Juntae is enough: a subtle, quiet acknowledgement of the truth beneath the vague words.

Then, with a soft exhale, he changes the subject.

“Is it too late to order a box?” he asks, polite but carrying an undertone of worry. “I’m relieved you’re working tonight.”

Juntae glances at the clock.
It is late. He should lock up, catch the bus, get home.

But then he looks at Seongje, at his pale face, the unfocused eyes, the shoulders drawn too tight under the expensive suit.

He hasn’t said a word since he walked in. He hasn’t even sat down properly, just standing there like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

There’s no way Juntae can say no.

“Of course,” he says, softer than he intended. “Please… take a seat. I’ll make something with what’s left.”

The assistant bows in thanks and guides Seongje to a table, the one closest to the window. Seongje moves like he’s underwater, each step slow, heavy, disconnected.

Juntae disappears into the kitchen, tying his apron back on. His hands start working on instinct : rice, leftover side dishes, the last bit of marinated chicken. But his eyes keep drifting toward the quiet dining room.

Through the pass window, he can see him.

Seongje sits with his hands clasped tightly in front of him, head lowered, staring at nothing.

He looks… lost. Like his mind has gone somewhere far away, somewhere dark.

Juntae’s chest tightens.

What happened to him?
What kind of life leaves someone like that?

He chops a few vegetables, forces his hands steady. Every so often, he glances again and every time, Seongje is exactly the same, frozen in that silent stillness.

He finishes shaping the little bear not as polished as usual, made from whatever ingredients remain, but still warm and made with care. Then he adds a second plate, some leftovers arranged neatly for Hyun Su. By the time he carries everything out, the last two customers have slipped out the door with polite bows, leaving the restaurant quiet, almost hushed.

Only Seongje and his assistant sit at the table now, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound.

Juntae sets the plates down gently.
“For you… and for you, sir,” he says, nodding to the assistant.

Hyun Su thanks him with a small smile before focusing on getting Seongje to eat, nudging the chopsticks toward his hand without forcing him.

And miraculously, Seongje listens.

He starts eating. Slow at first, mechanical even, but he eats. Bit by bit, color returns to his face, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little, like warmth is spreading through him from the inside out.

Juntae backs away, letting them have their moment. He wipes the tables, sweeps the floor, turns the “open” sign around with a soft click. The restaurant feels different now, like everything is happening in a bubble.

And then he feels it.

A stare.

He looks up and finds Seongje watching him, really watching him: the kind of stare that once used to pin people to the wall, sharp and unreadable and a little too intense. Except this time, there’s something else behind it, something tired and searching.

The air in Juntae’s lungs stutters.

Maybe Seongje was just hungry — God knows food can change everything — but this version of him, this sudden alertness, this focus… It feels familiar. Uncomfortably familiar.

It sends a shiver crawling up Juntae’s spine.

He quickly looks away, pretending to straighten a stack of bowls, but his thoughts are a mess. He’s never understood why he could never fully forget Seongje, even after all the chaos, all the fights, all the bruises and tension and stupid teenage bravado.

He always told himself it was gratitude, that being saved by someone leaves a mark.

But now, with his pulse unreasonably loud in his ears, he wonders — embarrassingly — if maybe there had been something else back then. Something small and ridiculous and barely formed. A tiny crush he never allowed himself to examine, shoved deep under years of normal life.

He swallows hard. Then forces himself forward, wiping his palms on his apron before stepping up to their table.

“Is everything okay? Do you… need anything else?” he asks, voice gentler than usual.

Hyun Su looks up first. “No, no. This is more than enough. We’ll eat quickly so you can close and head home. I’m sorry for taking your time this late.”

Juntae shakes his head, ready to insist it’s fine but he never gets the chance.

Because Seongje finally speaks.

Just one word.

“Eunjang.”

The name hits Juntae like a punch to the gut.

He freezes.

Suddenly he’s seventeen again : bruised knuckles, cold nights, and a sharp-eyed boy standing over him like some dangerous, impossible protector.

He looks at Seongje and the years fold in on themselves. Different clothes, different hair, different world.

But those eyes…

Still a wolf’s. Just a tired one.

Juntae drops his gaze, cheeks warming. He can’t hold that stare, not when it cuts through him the way it always did.

Seongje speaks again, low and rough around the edges.

“You haven’t changed.”

Juntae has no idea what that means.
A compliment? A criticism? A simple observation?

He wishes it meant he looked stronger, or taller, or something other than the fragile kid everyone assumed he was. But he can’t read Seongje’s tone; not tonight, not when he’s still half-broken and half-reassembling himself at this very table.

Before Juntae can decide how to respond, he sees it, the faintest curve of Seongje’s lips.

A smirk.

Not as sharp as before, not as cocky, but unmistakably his.
A brief, flickering reminder of the boy who once commanded entire rooms by leaning back in a chair.

Something tightens in Juntae’s chest.

Hyun Su clears his throat, neatly slicing through the tension. He stands, reaching for his wallet.

“We should go. Thank you for everything. Please, let me pay—”

“It’s on the house,” Juntae interrupts quickly. “Really. It wasn’t even a full menu, just leftovers. Think of it as… a gift. For old times.”

The assistant tries again, insisting politely, but Juntae just shakes his head with that soft smile he wears like a shield and a small, stubborn pride.

“No,” he says. “Tonight, it’s on me.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Back in his apartment, Seongje drops his jacket somewhere on the couch and sits on the edge of his bed without turning on a single lamp.

The night had started like every nightmare he keeps trying to outrun: his father’s voice cutting him open in front of strangers, plans for a future he never agreed to, a table where he didn’t exist except as an extension of a company.

He should feel hollow right now. He should feel exhausted and drained.

But all he can think about… is Juntae.

Juntae standing under the restaurant lights with that soft, awkward smile.
Juntae holding a tray with steady hands but eyes that darted away every time Seongje looked too long.
Juntae tiny, round-faced, glasses still slipping down his nose like time never bothered to move him forward.

He never thought he’d see him again. Not after everything collapsed : the union, the fights, the betrayal, Baekjin’s death.
When the school dragged him back into the world his parents carved for him, he erased almost everyone from those years. Faces blurred. Voices disappeared.

But not that one.

Not the kid who was always too polite for the streets they fought in, too soft-looking to stand with them but who didn’t flinch even once. Not the boy who threw himself between friends bigger than him just because loyalty mattered to him more than fear.

Seongje doesn’t remember every detail about the day he pulled him out of that fight but he remembers the feeling. That sharp flash of anger at seeing Juntae bleeding.
That ridiculous sense of… relief when he realized he got there in time.

He exhales slowly, falling back onto the mattress. His apartment is too big for one person. 

He hates silence, hates how much of it his parents shoved into him until he stopped being able to breathe without instruction.

But tonight, silence doesn’t hurt as much.

Because under the quiet, under the stress clinging to his ribs, there’s that image of Juntae in a pastel sweater, soft and warm like he wandered out of some gentle painting.

And Seongje feels something loosen inside him.

Of course the rice bears came from him. Of course the silly little notes and doodles were his doing. It fits. It fits too well.

Juntae is… he hesitates, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck.

Juntae is basically the human version of those cute boxes.

Small, warm, unexpected and stupidly comforting.

Seongje drapes an arm over his eyes, not sure if he wants to laugh or sink deeper into the mattress.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

The next day, the whole group squeezes into Suho and Sieun’s favorite tiny kimbap place down the street. They push two tables together, bowls clattering, chopsticks stealing food from each other’s plates. It’s loud and chaotic, their normal.

Juntae sits between Baku and Suho, still a little dazed from yesterday, stirring his soup without eating much.

Sieun notices first.
“Hey. You’re weirdly quiet today. What’s going on?”

Juntae presses his lips together. Then, with no real idea how to ease into it, he blurts:

“I ran into someone yesterday. At the restaurant. Late at night.”

Everyone stops mid-chew.

Suho frowns.
“Who?”

Juntae inhales.
“Seongje.”

Chopsticks freeze. Hyuntak chokes on his own kimchi.

Baku slams his hand on the table so hard Sieun almost drops his drink.

“SEONGJE?”

Juntae nods, face soft with uncertainty.
“Yeah. He came with an assistant. Like… a real assistant. Older guy. Very fancy.”

Baku leans in, wide-eyed.
“The hell? That guy? The one who broke my wrist that one time? He’s alive?”

“Of course he’s alive,” Hyuntak mutters, though he looks equally shocked. “We just thought—”
He stops.
“—you know. After Baekjin died… He just vanished.”

Juntae shakes his head.
“He’s… different now.”

“Different how?” Baku asks.

Juntae hesitates, trying to find the right words.
“He’s still intense but… quieter. More… tired, I guess. He looked kind of overwhelmed yesterday. And apparently he lives in that really expensive area near the river, the address where all the food boxes deliveries went.”

Gotak raises a brow.
“So he’s rich rich.”

Juntae shrugs.
“Looks like it.”

“Always knew he looked like the type,” Gotak says, half-joking. “Expensive face. Expensive punches.”

They all laugh but the humor only floats on the surface.

Underneath it, Juntae feels something heavier, tugging gently inside him.

What really happened to him?
The guy he saw last night wasn’t the street-wolf he remembered, the teenager who fought with a kind of feral confidence, who smirked even when blood ran down his forehead.

Yesterday’s Seongje had eyes that looked… hollow. Exhausted. Like every part of him was being pulled by something he couldn’t fight back against.

He had an assistant guiding him like someone who’d done it many times. He barely spoke. He looked like he hadn’t had a peaceful night in years.

Juntae pokes at his food, appetite fading.

Baku nudges him.
“What, you worried about him or something?”

Juntae startles a bit, cheeks warming, shaking his head quickly.
“No, it’s just— I mean— It was surprising to see him. That’s all.”

Suho squints.
“You’re doing the face.”

“What face?” Juntae asks, confused.

“The face you make when you’re thinking too hard,” Sieun says, smiling gently.

He ducks his head, embarrassed.

He doesn’t want to explain it — that he keeps replaying the moment Seongje stared at him at the restaurant table, that haunted look slowly warming into a smirk he remembered far too well.

That part of him feels… relieved, somehow, that Seongje is alive. That he came back into his life like a sudden gust of cold air that left warmth behind.

He doesn’t want to admit how much he worries what could hurt someone like Seongje badly enough to make him look like that.

So he just mumbles:

“It’s nothing. I’m just… curious, I guess.”

The others don’t push him, but the curiosity spreads around the table like electricity.

Baku suddenly straightens in his seat.
“Okay, hear me out, let’s just look him up.”

Suho groans.
“Dude—”

“No, come on, aren’t you curious?” Baku already has his phone out. “If he’s got an assistant and lives in some fancy apartment, there has to be stuff about him online.”

Gotak leans over his shoulder.
“Oh damn, he uses his real name, right? Search Geum Seong-je.”

“Already doing it.”

A second later, Baku’s eyes go wide.

“Holy— okay, guys, listen to this. Vice Chairman Geum Jaeho’s only son, Seongje. Heir to—” he scrolls with his thumb “—a conglomerate that owns, like, half of Seoul? What the hell?”

Gotak whistles low.
“No wonder he never ended up in jail. With all the shit he pulled back then? That’s big-time protection.”

Juntae shifts uncomfortably, not sure how to react.

Sieun asks : “But why would someone like that fight in the streets? What does a chaebol heir get out of being a thug?”

Juntae shrugs softly.
“Your family’s kind of rich too, Sieun. You still fought.”

Sieun blinks, then nods. “Okay… fair point.” He smiles, not offended.

Baku keeps scrolling, narrating dramatically:
“Oh, oh—here! He’s in Hanyang Business School right now. Fancy. And, wait why is he still in college?”

“Oh wait, listen to this article: Geum family attempted to request an exemption, but the son declined and enlisted voluntarily.”

The whole table pauses.

Suho blinks.
“He refused the exemption?”

Gotak raises a brow.
“Huh. Didn’t expect that.”

It lands heavier than they expect.

Out of their group, only two of them served in the army: Sieun and Juntae.
Suho’s old injuries kept him out. Gotak’s medical exemption came because of his knee. Baku didn’t have to go because he’s the only child of a single parent.

So they all know exactly what refusing an exemption means. What it says about the state of a teenager’s mind. What kind of desperation or stubbornness drives someone to choose hardship over home.

Juntae looks down at his soup.

He remembers the bruises Seongje showed up with, the way he never cared about getting hurt, the empty stare he sometimes had even back then.

Maybe military service wasn’t about duty at all.

Maybe it was the only place he could run to.

Baku clears his throat and tries to brighten the mood again.
“Still wild, though. Like, conglomerate heir by day, terrifying fighter by night.”

Suho snorts. “Guy’s living in a K-drama.”

Sieun hums thoughtfully. “A dark one.”

The conversation turns more playful again, but Juntae’s thoughts drift far away from the table.

He pictures Seongje sitting silently in that suit, eyes unfocused, looking like he was unraveling quietly inside.

+++++++++++++++++++

Seongje should have gone home.

He knows it the second he steps through the restaurant door and the warm smell of broth and garlic hits him. He came here on impulse, jacket still on, hair still neat from the meeting he walked out of. He came because he didn’t want to think or work or breathe the same suffocating air as his father. He came because for days, every time something felt unbearable, a memory of Juntae’s shy smile rose in his mind like a small, stubborn light.

He came for him.

But the moment he walks in, he knows he made a mistake.

Because Juntae isn’t here.

Instead there’s an older woman behind the counter — Suho’s grandmother, he guesses — and Suho himself is working in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up. The sight of Suho alone is enough to make Seongje consider turning around and fleeing.

He lowers his gaze, ready to slip out quietly.

But he’s too slow.

A loud voice calls from the right.

“So that’s true, then. What Juntae said. You’re alive.”

Seongje freezes.

Of course.

Baku is sitting at a small table by the window, a bowl half-finished in front of him, chopsticks paused midair. His eyes widen with surprise first… then narrow with recognition.

And annoyance smolders low in Seongje’s chest.

He turns slightly, expression unreadable behind his glasses.

Baku lifts a hand and waves him over, completely ignoring the silent look that clearly means Don’t.

“Long time no see.”
He gestures at the chair across from him. “Come on. Sit. Unless you’re planning to run.”

Seongje’s jaw tics. He should leave. He wants to leave.

The last time they saw each other was at Baekjin’s funeral, all shadows and silence and unspoken blame. There were no words exchanged. No closure. Just a final ending no one wanted.

Yet Baku’s stare holds him there, something oddly earnest beneath the bluntness.

With a quiet exhale, Seongje walks over and sits.

It’s awkward. Painfully so.

They don’t know where to look. Don’t know what to say.

Old memories sit between them — bruises and blood and that warehouse that changed too many things.

Baku clears his throat first.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he admits.

“Likewise,” Seongje mutters.

His voice comes out low, sharper than intended, but he can’t help it. His guard is too high, his mood too raw.

Baku snorts.
“Still rude.”

Seongje gives a cold look that isn’t quite a threat, but close.

Suho glances over from the kitchen — a flicker of recognition before he returns to his work, clearly choosing not to join whatever weird reunion is happening.

The grandmother watches too, eyes sharp with curiosity but far too kind to interrupt.

And Seongje sits there, shoulders tight, suit too stiff, heartbeat too loud.

This is not the visit he imagined.

No shy smile. No pastel sweater. No soft voice saying his name.

Just Baku, blunt as ever, poking at the past like it’s something funny and not… exactly what Seongje has spent years trying to bury.

He should leave.

He knows it.

He knows he should stand up and walk out before this turns into a scene he can’t control. But he stays there, jaw tight, hands clasped under the table, trying to pretend the air isn’t thick with history.

A few minutes pass before footsteps approach.

Suho wipes his hands on a towel as he walks over, the scents of broth and stir-fried vegetables trailing behind him. He stops at their table, eyes flicking between Baku and the stranger in a suit.

“…Do you want something to eat?” Suho asks politely, not hostile but cautious, the tone of someone stepping into a conversation he doesn’t fully understand.

Seongje glances up at him.

He has never spoken to Suho directly before.

Back then, he only knew about him through Sieun’s quiet devotion — the way the boy practically lived at Suho’s hospital bedside for weeks. Seongje remembers thinking it was pathetic… but also noticing the odd warmth behind it.

He knows Suho’s face well enough. Suho doesn’t know his.

He probably only knows rumors, old stories, maybe the parts of Seongje that Juntae’s friends hated or feared.

Seongje lowers his gaze again.

“No.”

The answer comes colder than he means it to, but the truth underneath is much simpler: If it isn’t made by Juntae, he doesn’t want it.

He stares at the table, feeling ridiculous for even thinking that.
It’s not like he came here to demand anything from the guy. He just… wanted to see him. Maybe hear his voice again. Maybe feel that strange flicker of warmth that hit him the moment he saw Juntae standing there last time.

Baku raises an eyebrow.
“Damn. So picky”

Seongje shoots him a sharp look.

Suho watches the exchange, clearly trying to piece things together, but he’s too polite to pry.

“Well, if you change your mind,” Suho says carefully, “we still have enough ingredients for a late lunch.”

Seongje shakes his head once.

“…No. It’s fine.”

He isn’t hungry anyway.
Not for food.

Suho nods politely and steps away, but he keeps glancing back, curious, maybe surprised that this is the guy connected somehow to Juntae.

And Seongje stays there, stiff in his seat, feeling out of place and exposed, painfully aware that the only person he came for isn’t here.

Silence drags.

Baku taps his fingers on the table, watching him the way you watch a dog that might bite.

Seongje exhales slowly.

“So.” He tries to sound bored. He doesn’t. “You all still… live around here?”

Baku squints, suspicious from the first word.

“Why? You writing a report on us now?”

Seongje’s jaw tightens. “Just asking.”

Baku leans back, arms crossed. “Uh-huh. And you just happened to walk into the place where we eat every day?”

Seongje doesn’t answer. He’s not going to say I thought Juntae would be here.
He’s not going to say I’ve been thinking about him for days like some idiot.

“What about Juntae?” he asks, too quickly.

Baku’s eyes sharpen.
There it is — interest.

“Why?” Baku asks flatly.

“No reason.”

“Bullshit,” Baku says immediately.

Seongje grits his teeth. “I’m just asking how he’s been.”

“Why?” Baku repeats.

God, he wants to strangle him.

He tries again, voice lower, steadier. “It’s been years. I don’t know anything about… any of you.”

Baku watches him carefully. And maybe he remembers too, the last time they saw each other, the funeral, the blood, the anger. A whole part of their lives that cracked in half.

So he doesn’t talk easily.

“Everyone grew up,” Baku says finally, tone guarded. “Gotak works now. Sieun’s in college. Suho runs this place with his grandma.”

Seongje nods once. “And Juntae?”

Baku pauses deliberately long this time.

“…He works here sometimes,” Baku says. “He helps, doesn't even ask to get paid. He is just nice like that. And he is a student. He’s doing fine.”

“That’s all?” Seongje presses.

“That’s all you need to know,” Baku fires back.

The gap between them tightens, an old tension humming under the table.

Seongje tries again, more carefully. “You don’t have to tell me everything. I just… wanted to know.”

Baku snorts. “Yeah. I see that.”

“You don’t get to come in here and poke around in his life,” he says quietly. “If you want to know how he’s been, ask him yourself.”

Seongje’s throat tightens.

He would. If he knew how. If he weren’t terrified he’d scare Juntae off by just existing.

“…I might,” he mutters.

Baku raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Then show up when he’s here. Don’t sniff around the edges.”

Seongje suppresses a groan. “And how am I supposed to know when he’s here? He doesn’t even keep a normal shift.”

Baku bursts into laughter, loud, obnoxious, and way too pleased with himself.
“Oh, look at you. Complaining already.”

Seongje glares. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem.” Baku chuckles. “Look, if destiny wants you two to meet, you’ll meet. Easy.”

Seongje stares at him.
“…That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Talk to the universe about it, not me,” Baku shrugs.

A beat of silence.
Seongje’s jaw ticks once, and then before he can stop himself:

“Give me his number.”

Baku actually chokes on his drink. “Hah?”

“His phone number,” Seongje repeats, face unreadable. “You clearly know it.”

Baku stares at him, stunned for a moment, then breaks into another laugh, this time more disbelieving than mocking.

“Oh, wow. You’re actually serious.”

“I’m not asking for anything weird,” Seongje snaps, though his ears burn. “I just… want to talk to him.”

Baku leans in like he’s discovered a rare animal.
“You want to talk to Juntae.”

“Do you have hearing problems?”

“No, I’m just making sure you hear yourself,” Baku says, shaking his head. “You disappear for years, show up in a suit looking like someone sucked the life out of you, and suddenly you’re asking for his number?”

Seongje doesn’t respond because all of that is true.

Baku’s expression softens just a fraction, not friendly, but thoughtful.

“…No,” he says simply, leaning back again. “I’m not giving you his number.”

Seongje’s expression ices over. “Why the hell not?”

“Because he’s my friend,” Baku replies bluntly. “And if you want to see him, you’re gonna have to figure it out yourself. Not cheat your way through it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Baku shrugs. “But that’s how it is.”

Seongje holds his stare for several long seconds.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll find another way.”

Baku grins. “Good luck with that. Your destiny awaits.”

+++++++++++++++++++++

The next few nights are humiliating in ways Seongje didn’t know he could still feel.

He stands across the street from the restaurant, hands in his pockets, pretending he’s just out for a walk. Pretending he doesn’t care. Pretending he’s not waiting.

It’s winter-cold, breath visible in the dark. His suit is too thin for this. He stays anyway.

The first night, Suho steps out after closing, sees him immediately.

“You should come inside,” Suho says, voice gentle but wary. “It’s cold.”

“I’m fine,” Seongje mutters.

“You look like you’re freezing.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Suho sighs, but he doesn’t push.

The second night, it’s Baku.

He arrives with a takeout box in hand, spots Seongje, and bursts into laughter loud enough to echo off the building.

“No way. You’re still here? Dude, what are you doing? Camping?”

Seongje glares. “Mind your business.”

Baku snorts. “Man, you’re hopeless. Listen, it’s exam week. He’s not coming for a few days.”

Seongje stiffens. “What?”

“Exams,” Baku repeats, amused. “You know, those things normal people take? He’s studying. At home. Not here. Go home before you freeze and die on the sidewalk.”

Seongje wants to strangle him. Instead, he turns around and leaves without a word, jaw locked so tight it aches.

He’s frustrated. And confused. And angry. At everyone. At himself.

Why are all these idiots making this harder than it needs to be?

He’s not planning on beating Juntae up. He just wants to talk. To see him. To… something.

He doesn’t have the name for it. He doesn’t want the name for it.

He even orders Hyun Su:
“Find his number.”
“Track his schedule.”
“Do something.”

But even Hyun Su comes back empty.

“I’m sorry, sir. His university records aren’t accessible. And I can’t find a public phone number.”

Seongje stares at him, furious and helpless.
Useless. Everyone is useless.

For days he can’t sleep properly. He keeps thinking of round glasses and a pastel sweater and a shy smile that shouldn’t matter but does.

Until one night.

He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, phone beside him.
He’s not expecting anything. He’s not expecting anyone.

But then, his phone buzzes.

He sits up instantly.

One unread message.

Unknown number.

He opens it.

“Hi… It’s Juntae. Sorry for texting so late.”

Seongje’s breath catches, sharp and sudden, as if someone punched him in the chest.

Juntae. Juntae texted him.

Without realizing it, he smiles small, barely there, but real.

Finally.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure where to begin, unsure why he suddenly feels like he’s seventeen again, waiting for a message that might never come.

But he types anyway.

Seongje:
How did you get my number?

The reply comes surprisingly fast, as if Juntae had been staring at his phone too.

Juntae:
Oh— your assistant came to the restaurant today.
He was looking for me, I think? But I wasn’t there.
He left a note to Suho’s grandma for me.

Seongje frowns. Hyun Su. Of course.

Seongje:
A note? What was on it?

A pause. A long one. Seongje holds his breath without meaning to.

Then—

Juntae:
Um… just your number. And a message saying… that if I felt comfortable talking to you, I should call.

There’s a tiny hesitation in the bubble that follows. Almost shy.

Juntae:
I wasn’t sure you’d want me to text, but… I thought it would be rude not to.

Seongje reads the messages again and again, something warm unfurling slowly in his chest.
His assistant did this. For him. For his sake because he knew Seongje was restless, frustrated, aching for something he didn’t understand.

And Juntae… Juntae chose to text.

He lies back against his pillows, staring at the soft glow of the screen, and types more gently than he ever has in his life.

Seongje:
I wanted you to text.

He hesitates. Adds:

Seongje:
I’m glad you did.

Juntae:
Suho told me you… um… came by the restaurant a few times. When I wasn’t there. Can I ask why?

Seongje stares at the message, jaw tightening.
He could lie. He should lie. But the truth is simpler and much more humiliating.

He types:
I like your food.

A moment passes.

Then another message arrives, hesitant but not teasing.

Juntae:
You can get our food anytime. You didn’t have to come in person.

Seongje exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen. Something compels him to be honest again or at least honest enough.

Seongje:
It tastes better when you make it.

Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.

Then—

Juntae:
…Oh.

Another pause. Then, softer:

Juntae:
I didn’t think it mattered that much.

Seongje leans his head back and closes his eyes.

Seongje:
It does.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Juntae sits on the edge of his bed, phone still warm in his hand, the last message from Seongje glowing on the screen.

"It does."

He doesn’t know why that message hits him the way it does, like someone reached into his chest and pressed a thumb right against something tender.

He shouldn’t have texted him. He knows that.

When Suho’s grandmother handed him that little folded note from the assistant, he almost didn’t open it. He thought it would be another delivery request, or maybe a thank-you. But instead it was a phone number and a polite message:

If you feel comfortable reaching out, please contact him.

Juntae didn’t feel comfortable. He felt nervous. Confused. Weirdly… hopeful?

But once he locked the restaurant, walked home through the chilly night, and sat down in his cramped studio with the lights still off, his hands moved on their own. He texted Seongje before he could talk himself out of it.

And now… they’ve been talking for almost an hour.

Not much, not deeply, just a quiet exchange of sentences. Simple questions. Blunt answers. Seongje’s messages are short, almost clipped, but there’s something behind them. Something heavy and tired and strangely honest.

They never talked like this in high school.

They never talked at all.

Most of their “interactions” back then were fists, bruises, or tense stares across cramped back-alley battle lines. And then that one day — that one moment — when Seongje helped him for no reason. A memory burned so deeply that even years later, Juntae still sees flashes of it at night.

Now they’re texting like… like what? Friends? Strangers trying to figure out how not to be strangers?

Juntae falls back on his mattress, staring at the ceiling. His heart is beating too fast. He doesn’t like it. Or maybe he does. It’s confusing.

Everything about this is confusing.

Why is Seongje talking to him? Why does he care who cooks his food? Why does he show up at the restaurant at night like some lost… something?

Why does he look so empty now, when he used to look sharp enough to cut?

And why does Juntae care?

He covers his face with his arm and exhales.

He shouldn’t feel anything. Seongje was never a friend. Never an ally. Just someone who crossed his path in a mess of fists and fear and chaos.

But tonight the messages feel soft. Gentle in a way he never expected from a man like that.

Maybe… they’re both different now.

Juntae stares at the little row of dots on his screen, then at the time in the corner, far later than he meant to stay awake. His eyes burn from the long day, and he types almost automatically:

"I should go to sleep. It’s late."

He should stop there. He should.

But something inside him, a mix of leftover adrenaline, soft worry, and that fluttering he refuses to name, nudges his thumbs forward before he can think.

Juntae:
If you’re free tomorrow… maybe… we could meet for lunch?

The moment he hits send, his entire body jolts.

“Oh no,” he whispers into his pillow, mortified.
“It sounds like a date. It sounds exactly like a date—”

He rolls onto his stomach and hides his face, waiting for the earth to split open and swallow him whole. His heart is punching against his ribs like it's trying to break out.

He scrambles to type another message before Seongje even has the chance to reply:

Juntae:
I mean— not a date. Not like that. I just, I can bring food. I just meant you should eat something. At least once tomorrow. That’s all.

He wants to throw his phone across the room. Why is he like this?

He forces himself to sit up, cheeks burning. He barely knows Seongje. They barely even talked in high school.

And yet here he is, asking him to lunch like some nervous idiot with a crush—

No.
Not a crush.
Definitely not.

Just… concern. Basic human concern. Because Seongje looked pale and exhausted and hollow that night, and someone should care whether he eats or not.

Even if that someone ends up being Juntae.

His leg bounces anxiously as he waits for a reply. Every second feels stretched thin, too fragile, too warm.

Then his phone buzzes.

And his breath catches.

Seongje:
Ok

++++++++++++++++++++++

Seongje isn’t nervous. He refuses to be nervous.

And yet, as he approaches the small park, his pulse keeps climbing higher with every step. He spots the bench before he spots the person on it.

Then he sees him.

Juntae sits there with his legs tucked close, a pastel blue jacket puffed around him like a soft cloud. His jeans are slightly rolled at the ankles, his sneakers a little worn, hair ruffled by the cold breeze. He’s looking at his phone, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, completely unaware that Seongje has already stopped walking.

Something in Seongje’s chest… shifts.

Like a gear that’s been rusted for years suddenly clicking back into place.

He swallows, forces himself forward, and when Juntae finally looks up, Seongje feels the impact like a punch: that warm, shy smile aimed directly at him.

“Hey,” Juntae says, small and gentle, as if he isn’t the reason Seongje’s heart is doing acrobatics.

“…Hey,” Seongje replies, hoping his voice doesn’t betray anything.

The silence that follows is painfully awkward.

Seongje has faced boardrooms full of executives, union brawls with metal pipes, and even his father’s quiet rage, all easier than figuring out how to talk to this one tiny man on a park bench.

What do you say to someone you barely knew?

Someone who only knew you through fights, someone who hasn’t seen you in years until you showed up looking like a corporate ghost?

Before he can attempt anything, some clumsy greeting, a bad joke, anything, Juntae suddenly reaches into the bag at his feet.

“Here,” he says softly, holding out a small lunch box. “I, um… made this for you before coming.”

Seongje blinks. Takes the box. Opens it.

And something in him melts.

Inside is a perfect rice bear, its tiny arms hugging a portion of meat, surrounded by neatly arranged vegetables. The sauce has been drawn into a small smiling face, complete with little egg-dot eyes. Everything is warm, bright, alive.

And then there’s the note.

A simple square of paper tucked into the corner, handwritten in soft ink:

Please eat well :)
(next to a tiny drawing of a smiling sun)

Seongje stares at it and his throat tightens.

Juntae fidgets beside him. “I made something simple. And… cute. I guess.”

Seongje closes the lid carefully, like he’s handling something fragile.

“Juntae,” he says quietly.

“Mhm?”

“…Thank you.”

Juntae doesn’t let the weight of the moment linger. He nudges the box back toward Seongje and slips a pair of chopsticks into his hand.

“Eat,” he says, with a tiny bossy tone completely unfitting for someone his size. “Before it gets cold.”

Seongje stares at him, at the earnest worry pinching the corners of his eyes.
“…You won’t talk until I eat, right?”

“Nope.”

It’s ridiculous. It’s strangely comforting.

So he opens the box again, lets the steam brush his face, and takes the first bite.

Warmth spreads through him so fast it almost knocks the breath out of his lungs. Not the warmth of the food — though it’s good — but the warmth of being cared for. Of someone thinking of him. Of something made by hands that wanted him to feel better.

His chest aches in a way he can’t name.

Juntae watches him with this earnest focus like he’s checking for signs of life in a half-dead plant.

And then he giggles.

An actual giggle.
Light and soft and completely disarming.

It hits Seongje harder than any punch he took in high school.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to like cute things,” Juntae says, teasing, eyes turning crescent-shaped with the smile.

Cute things. Right.

Seongje has never cared for anything cute. Never had the space in his life for that kind of softness.

But this isn’t just cute. This is something else entirely, something that coils warm and terrifying under his ribs.

He looks up, straight into Juntae’s eyes.

“I never liked cute things,” he says quietly, honestly.

A pause.

“Until now.”

The meaning hangs between them, obvious and impossible to miss.

Juntae blinks, blushes, pretends he didn’t hear it properly, gaze darting away as he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear like his hands need to do something.

Silence settles again, awkward but not unpleasant.

Then, gathering courage, Juntae speaks.

“So… what happened to you? All those years? You look…” He hesitates, searching for a word that won’t offend. “Different. Expensive. And tired.”

Seongje can’t help it, he laughs. It feels Strange but real.

“I look tired?”

“You look very tired,” Juntae confirms gently. “Like… life is squeezing you.”

He’s not wrong.

Seongje doesn’t answer, so Juntae fills the space again, voice softening.

“Baku googled you,” he admits, cheeks warming. “We found out who you are. Or… who your family is.”

There. The relief hits him deeper than he expected. At least he doesn’t have to explain the suit or the apartment or the assistant hovering like a silent guardian.

Juntae continues, smiling now, the tone light and teasing again.

“I would’ve never imagined it. You, of all people. A Kdrama character. A secret heir pretending to be a thug in high school.”

He shakes his head in disbelief.

“A guy who used to smoke under tunnels and break noses… hiding a family empire? That’s so dramatic.”

Seongje smiles.

He likes this. This softness, this teasing without judgment. This feeling that he isn’t being dissected or pitied or pressured.

So when Juntae’s question comes, Seongje doesn’t flinch away from it.

“So… how does someone like you,” Juntae says slowly, “a rich son, heir or whatever… end up fighting on the streets? Or getting dragged into that union mess?” He pauses, as if worried he’s overstepped. “It doesn’t really add up.”

For a moment, Seongje considers giving the convenient answer. The short one. The one that reveals nothing.

But something about Juntae’s face: open, patient, genuinely interested, pulls honesty out of him before he can stop it.

“It wasn’t a secret,” Seongje says, clearing his throat. “My name, my family. I just… didn’t talk about it. It was easier that way.”

Juntae hums. Not judgmental.

Seongje exhales, eyes fixed on the meal in his hands.

“And as for fighting…”

Another pause. He almost backs out. But he doesn’t.

“It might sound weird to anyone else,” he begins slowly, “but high school was probably the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Juntae blinks, surprised.

“You’re right,” he says softly. “That is weird.”

Seongje almost smiles.

“I was free,” he continues, voice lowering. “Completely out of control. No expectations. No eyes on me every second. No weight on my shoulders. For once in my life, no one cared who I was supposed to be.” His fingers tighten slightly on the chopsticks. “I wanted to see how far I could go until my family dragged me back.”

Juntae listens without interrupting, not even a shift, not even a frown. Just listening.

“But they didn’t,” Seongje says. “Not until after I graduated. So I kept going. Doing whatever I wanted. Fighting because it was… easy. Because it felt good. Because it was mine.”

He lets the words hang there. It’s more than he intended to say. More honest than he’s been with anyone in years.

Juntae doesn’t recoil or judge or pity. He just tilts his head a little, eyes softening.

And then, with a breath so small Seongje almost misses it, Juntae says:

“…I never thanked you.”

Seongje blinks. “For what?”

“For saving my life,” Juntae answers, voice low but steady. “That night.”

A chill runs down Seongje’s spine. Juntae looks down at his hands, twisting the edge of his sleeve between his fingers like he’s back in high school again, small and soft but still impossibly brave.

“I never forgot it,” he continues. “Not even once. I kept thinking… if I ever met you again, I’d say it properly.”

He lets out a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “But then you just… disappeared.”

Seongje feels something tight in his chest, something he’s spent years ignoring, years burying under duty and expectations. The memory flashes, blood, shouting, the sound of fists. He hadn’t thought about the gratitude part. It had never even crossed his mind.

“I didn’t disappear,” he says quietly, even though they both know that’s not entirely true. “I was taken.”

Juntae looks up at him, eyes wide and gentle.

“Well,” he murmurs, “I’m still glad you’re here now. So I can finally tell you.”

A small pause, then, soft as a breath:

“Thank you, Seongje.”

Seongje’s mouth curves, not the cold, polished smile he’s been wearing for years, but the old one, sharp and boyish, the one that used to get him in trouble.

“Didn’t think I’d ever be somebody’s hero,” he says.

Juntae’s ears turn pink instantly. He tries to hide it by looking down at the lunchbox, fussing with the lid, but Seongje sees everything. It makes something warm and reckless curl in his chest.

They fall into conversation again, surprisingly easy, like stepping into an old pair of shoes he’d forgotten still fit. No pressure. No expectations. No sharp edges waiting to cut him. Just quiet questions, soft laughter, the breeze pushing at Juntae’s fluffy jacket. Seongje hasn’t felt this light since he was seventeen and stupid and freer than he ever realized.

And then, after a pause, Juntae asks a question that’s been hanging in the air.

“…Why did you help me? That night.”

Seongje’s chewing slows. He sets his chopsticks down, staring ahead for a moment before answering.

“I don’t know.”

Juntae frowns a little, not disappointed, just trying to understand.

Seongje shrugs, leaning back against the bench. “It wasn’t a fair fight. Three or four guys on one? And you were alone.” His eyes flick over to Juntae, and the playful glint returns.

“Plus you were tiny.”

Juntae gasps like he’s just been gravely insulted, which only makes Seongje smirk harder.

“Still tiny, actually.”

“Hey—!” Juntae nudges him with his shoulder, mortified and flustered and smiling despite himself. “I wasn’t that tiny.”

“You were,” Seongje says, absolutely certain, absolutely teasing. “Like… pocket-sized.”

Juntae covers his face with one hand, laughing into his palm, and Seongje feels something unclench inside him.

They drift back into easy conversation, the kind that feels impossible and natural at the same time. Seongje keeps poking, nudging, testing... the old habits creeping back.

“So,” he says, mouth full of rice, “you still hang out with those idiots from Eunjang?”

Juntae’s eyes widen, offended. “They’re not idiots.”

“They were absolutely idiots.”

He starts counting on his fingers. “Sieun, who fought everyone but was somehow offended every time someone fought him back. Gotak—”

“Hyuntak,” Juntae corrects.

“Whatever. He punched like a truck. And Baku? Don’t even get me started.”

“You started!” Juntae protests, cheeks puffed, arms crossed.

Seongje laughs — actually laughs — and for a second he feels seventeen again, full of adrenaline and wind and something bright in his chest.

This… lightness. This ridiculous comfort. He hasn’t felt it in years.

And it’s all because of the tiny man in a baby blue jacket sitting beside him like this is the most normal thing in the world.

He doesn’t get it, doesn’t need to. He just knows he doesn’t want it to end.

After a moment, he nudges Juntae’s knee with his own.

“Why do you even do this?” he asks, gesturing to the little bear-shaped rice, the careful plating, the handwritten note. “The boxes. The restaurant. You don’t even get paid. Why care so much?”

Juntae looks down at his hands, fingers brushing the bento lid.

“Suho’s grandma…” he begins softly. “She took care of us. All of us. Even when it had nothing to do with her. She barely knew us, but she still welcomed us. Fed us. Treated us like we were… family, I guess.”

Seongje’s chest tightens, unexpectedly.

“And the cute food?” he asks, voice lower now.

Juntae smiles, small and embarrassed and heartbreakingly sincere.

“I don’t know. The first time I made one, it just… happened. I thought maybe people would smile. Or feel a little less alone when they opened the box. I liked that idea.”

Seongje stares at him.

At the shy curve of his mouth, the soft pink in his cheeks, the way he talks like kindness is something simple.

He feels something warm climb up behind his ribs.

“…It works,” Seongje murmurs.

Juntae looks up. “What?”

“It works,” he repeats, meeting his gaze. “The food, it helps.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seongje watches Juntae disappear down the park path, the baby-blue jacket bouncing lightly with each step. He doesn’t move for a long moment, just sits there on the bench, the empty lunch box warm beside him like it’s still holding the ghost of that quiet, gentle hour.

His chest feels… strange, almost soft.

Are they friends now? Is that what this is?

It feels ridiculous: you don’t become friends with someone after one lunch, especially someone you spent most of high school punching or glaring at from opposite corners of a street. But something shifted today, something small and warm and frighteningly easy.

Closer. He feels closer to Juntae than he’s felt to anyone in years.

They promised to keep texting. Actual texting. Not the polite acknowledgment he shares with classmates or the curated replies he gives colleagues. Real messages. Juntae even invited him to dinner with the Eunjang guys later in the week.

Seongje declined immediately. He wants to know Juntae better, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s signing up for a reunion with the entire clown parade.

Still… he hadn’t hated the idea as much as he thought he would. And that, more than anything, unsettles him.

Later that day, he meets with Hyun Su outside the university building. His assistant spots him instantly and visibly relaxes, the tension slipping from his shoulders.

“You look better,” Hyun Su says. “Less pale.”

Seongje rolls his eyes, but there’s no bite behind it. “I ate.”

“Good.” The relief is real, genuine. “I’m glad.”

Seongje hesitates for only a second before saying it.

“…Thank you.”

Hyun Su blinks. “For what?”

“For giving Juntae my number,” he mutters, gaze flicking away. “For… helping. Actually helping.”

The assistant’s expression softens into something warm. “Of course. I’m really glad it worked out. And that you’re eating again.”

It’s quiet for a moment, a comfortable quiet, not the sharp, suffocating kind he’s used to.

Then Hyun Su exhales, bracing himself.

“But… there’s something else.”

Ah. Of course there is. Good things don’t come without a price in the Kim family.

“Your father wants you home for dinner tonight.”

The lightness in his chest flickers.

Just like that.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seongje steps into the grand dining room and the familiar weight presses down immediately. The day had been too good, too light, too… human. Reality didn’t take long to catch up.

His father is already standing, beside him a man Seongje vaguely recognizes as the Nam patriarch, and a young woman with striking features and long black hair cascading over a luxury grey dress, sparkling with jewels. The air smells faintly of perfume and expensive wine.

His father doesn’t even give him a chance to speak. “This is my son, Geum Seongje,” he announces, his voice sharp and commanding. “And this is Nam June.”

Seongje glances at her. She’s elegant, poised, the kind of polished that seems designed to dazzle. She tilts her head slightly, lips curved in a practiced smile, and reaches to touch his hand, casual, flirty and very obviously rehearsed.

His mother nudges him forward. “Say hello, Seongje.”

He obeys mechanically, muttering a perfunctory greeting, shaking her hand just enough to not be rude. His mind is elsewhere, replaying the warmth of a park bench, the rice bear, the soft blue jacket of a tiny man who actually cared.

They sit, and the din of conversation surrounds him. His father and Mr. Nam speak in sharp, clipped tones about business deals, mergers, and company expansions. Their words are dense, incomprehensible to anyone outside their world. Meanwhile, the mothers chatter quietly, scheming, arranging, plotting futures as if Seongje and June were chess pieces in a board he never agreed to join.

Are they trying to marry me off? he thinks, jaw tightening. His hand twitches under the table as June laughs softly at something her father said, glancing at him with obvious expectation.

She touches his hand again. Flirty. Deliberate. He doesn’t care. Not even a little.

His mother frowns, a sharp jab of displeasure. His father’s gaze hardens. “Seongje,” his father snaps, “don’t be rude.”

Seongje swallows, jaw tight. Yes, sir, he thinks silently, but inside, his chest aches with suffocation. Every polished smile, every tick of etiquette, every forced exchange is a reminder of all the freedom he lost, all the years he traded for silver spoons and golden cages.

June leans a little too close, her laughter ringing a bit too loudly, the kind of loud that makes Seongje grit his teeth. Every glance, every brush of her hand against his arm, every word carefully crafted to draw his attention — it’s obvious. She’s flirting, genuinely interested, not just performing for her family.

And it annoys him.

Would she ever have been interested in him if he were the kid he used to be? Dirty, bruised, a street thug barely scraping by? Of course not. She’s a golden girl raised for golden boys, for carefully calculated futures and spotless reputations.

His mother interrupts the silent war in his mind, smooth and controlled. “Seongje,” she begins, eyes on him like a hawk, “we should discuss marriage. It’s time to think about settling with a proper family.”

Too early, he thinks, jaw tightening. Too early, too forced, too everything.

Before he can stop himself, words tumble out. “I’m not interested in marrying anyone yet. I’m still a student.”

June laughs, as if he’s made a joke, tilting her head with that practiced smile. “Oh, you have time, don’t worry,” she says lightly. Then her tone softens, curiosity peeking through. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t ditch your military service like every other rich kid.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Not because he doesn’t have an answer, but because the truth is complicated. He wanted the army — every harsh rule, every early morning, every drill — because it was something he could claim as his own, something tangible and rough and honest in a life otherwise dictated by wealth and expectation. The army let him feel alive in ways the polished, velvet floors of his father’s world never could.

But he also knows it was just postponing the problem. The business. The obligations. The life that his parents carefully groomed him for, that he can’t escape.

And that’s why he’s here tonight. Stiff-backed and polite. Eating food that smells too perfect, listening to conversations about money and alliances. Surrounded by people who feel like strangers and strangers who feel hungry for his family’s wealth.

Seongje feels a spark of something he hasn’t felt in years: a recklessness, a bite of anger that tastes almost sweet. The stares of both families, the hum of polite conversation, the clinking of silverware, it all sharpens him, makes him sit straighter, makes him aware that he’s trapped in a gilded cage he doesn’t want to inhabit.

June leans in again, her perfume sweet and heavy, brushing against him as if she owns a piece of this evening. He smirks at her, not at her charm, not at her flirtation, but at the absurdity of it all. She tilts her head, eyes bright, thinking she’s won a little victory. She doesn’t know who he really is. She doesn’t know the wolf hiding behind the polite posture, the wolf that used to roam streets freely, that once fought for nothing but the thrill of control.

“I might never want to get married,” he says, soft but deliberate, letting the words hang in the air like a challenge. He laughs lightly, almost teasing, almost dismissive. “That would be very scandalous, wouldn’t it?”

His mother forces a laugh, tight and uncomfortable, eyes flicking to his father for backup. His father, however, doesn’t blink. He leans slightly forward, sharp gaze cutting into Seongje, reading him like an open ledger. He knows exactly what his son is doing, pushing, provoking, testing limits in front of witnesses.

June leans closer, bold, undeterred. “I can make you change your mind,” she says sweetly, almost teasing. “I could be a perfect spouse for you.”

Seongje chuckles, the sound low and sharp, letting it slide over the table like a blade. “Who knows what the future will bring?” he says, eyes glinting with mischief and something darker beneath. “Maybe business won’t be so good. Maybe things won’t go exactly as planned.”

The words are calculated to sting, the polite veneer of the dinner starting to crack. He knows the implications. He knows how this looks, what it might suggest about his obedience, his role, his conformity. And for the first time that night, he doesn’t care.

The wolf is awake again.

The air in the dining room grows taut, like a string pulled too tight.

Seongje leans back slightly, feeling it all: the stares, the murmurs, the thinly veiled frustration of the Nam family.

His father’s jaw is tight, the lines in his face sharp as knives. His mother’s hands tremble ever so slightly as she gestures, trying to smooth the tension, apologizing for her son’s behavior.

“He’s been tired,” she says quickly, eyes darting toward the Nam. “And… unwell recently. Please forgive him.”

June’s smile is rigid now, lips pressed too hard together. Her eyes flash, just slightly, with irritation. She had expected a compliant, charming heir, and instead she got this raw defiance, a wolf masquerading as a polite son.

“I’m not a prince charming,” Seongje says softly, almost casually, and the words hit the table like a slap.

“It doesn’t matter,” June shoots back, tone sharp but controlled. “One day you’ll be a king.”

“And I suppose you want to become my queen?” Seongje snaps, voice low but dangerous.

June smiles, but it’s bitter, tight. The kind of smile that tastes like a warning.

The room grows heavier with silence. The Nam family shifts in their seats, their polite composure fraying. They are aware — painfully aware — that the Geum family holds more power, more influence, more wealth, but the humiliation stings, and they will not simply sit quietly. They rise, the father’s chair scraping against the marble floor, June’s hand tucked tightly into his, her expression a mixture of frustration and fury.

The mother of the Nam family leans slightly forward, her face forced into a polite mask, but the tension radiates from every line of her body. They will leave, they have no choice but to retreat.

Seongje watches them go, each step deliberate, each glance a mix of pride and fury. The door closes behind them with a soft click, leaving him in the silence of the room with only his parents.

And then the storm hits.

His mother’s palm lands sharply across his cheek, a stinging smack fueled by frustration and desperation. “You… you will ruin everything!” she hisses, eyes wide.

His father leans in, voice sharp, venomous. “Useless. You’ve squandered everything we invested in you, and for what? To humiliate us in front of others? Do you think this is acceptable?!”

Seongje feels nothing. Not the sting of the slap, not the weight of their words. He stares at them evenly, uncaring. The anger, the threats, the shame, they bounce off him.

Seongje steps out into the crisp night air, the chill brushing against his cheeks, and doesn’t look back at the house behind him. The tension, the lectures, the suffocating wealth and expectations are all left inside, echoing behind the walls. He slides into the car silently, his assistant already waiting, hands on the wheel, calm and collected as ever.

“You caused quite a scene tonight,” Hyun Su says, a teasing edge in his voice. “You’ll probably regret it tomorrow.”

Seongje leans back against the seat, letting out a short, sharp laugh. “Regret what?” he asks. “That I finally said no? That I refused to perform like a puppet? What could happen to me? If they want to get rid of me, they’ll just have to. I wish they would sometimes.”

Hyun Su glances at him, saying nothing, letting the words hang in the air. There’s a rare weight in the silence, comfortable yet heavy, as if the car itself contains the chaos of the night without judgment.

Seongje reaches for his phone. His fingers hover for a moment, then type out a message.

"Are you asleep?"

Almost instantly, a reply pops up.

"I’m just getting ready for bed."

He exhales slowly, a small, almost invisible smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t want to burden Juntae with his family drama. He doesn’t even need to. Just knowing that Juntae is there, that they can share a quiet moment together, is enough.

"Thanks for lunch today", he texts instead. "It was… nice. Goodnight."

A few moments later, Juntae replies with a simple, warm acknowledgment, and Seongje feels it: a flicker of calm, a quiet anchor in the storm of his life.

+++++++++++++++++++

He regrets it the very next morning.

Not because he feels bad — no, that part never comes — but because his father makes sure the consequences land on him with precision. Meetings stack on top of meetings, schedules pile up, and suddenly Seongje has no time to breathe between business classes, office duties, and family expectations.

By midweek, he’s moving through halls like a ghost. A well-dressed, polished, hollowed-out ghost. A robot in a suit.

The only thing tethering him to something warm, something human, is Juntae.

He had texted him once, casually — What days are you working this week? — and from that moment on, lunch or dinner became the only thing worth waiting for.

Every time he orders a box, it arrives with something cute inside, something that shouldn’t make his chest feel the way it does:

Noodles arranged like a lion’s mane. Eggs shaped into a tiny family. Vegetables cut into stars. Rice molded into a bear with a sleeping face.

And always, always a note.

“Eat well today!”
“Don’t skip meals.”
“Fighting!”

Each one with a tiny drawing : a sun with a smile, a moon with rosy cheeks, fluffy clouds with sparkles.

Seongje eats them alone, door locked, tie loosened. He keeps the notes. All of them, folded carefully into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

It’s pathetic, maybe, how much he needs these small reminders that someone sees him, thinks of him. But they keep him alive in a week that feels like drowning.

He wishes he could go further — that he could stop showing up to meetings, that he could walk out of the house and never return, tell his parents exactly what hell they’ve turned his life into.

But he’s trapped. Or maybe… maybe he just doesn’t have the courage yet.

That night, it all presses down on him at once: the meetings, the expectations, the suffocating silence of his apartment. Even the rain feels heavy, streaking down the floor-to-ceiling windows like it’s trying to drown the view.

He doesn’t think, he just moves.

His fingers type on their own, desperate, reaching for the only thing that’s made him feel remotely alive these past days.

Seongje to Juntae :
"Are you still at the restaurant?
Can I… get one of your boxes?"

He stares at the message the second it sends and instantly hates himself for it. Pathetic. Needy. Clinging to something soft because everything else is knives.

Minutes pass.

Too long.

His chest tightens with every second of silence.

Of course Juntae isn’t working this late. Of course he’s busy. Of course Seongje is—

ding.

He doesn’t breathe as he opens it.

Juntae:
Ah— sorry, I’m not at the restaurant anymore. I’m home already! Why? Did you need something?

And Seongje tries — he really tries — to type something normal, something casual, something that doesn’t scream I’m falling apart and your food is the only thing keeping me tethered to myself.

But his hands won’t move, he erases sentence after sentence.

Nothing sounds right.

Nothing sounds safe.

He ends up sending nothing at all.

The screen stays empty.

And just when disappointment finally sinks its teeth into him, just when he drops his head back against the cold leather couch with a bitter laugh—

His phone vibrates again.

Not a message.

A call.

Juntae is calling.

Seongje stares at the name lighting up the screen, small and warm in the dark of his lifeless apartment, and something in his chest loosens, painfully.

He answers without thinking.

“...Hello?” he mutters, voice rough.

There’s a soft rustle on the other end, followed by Juntae’s gentle voice, worried and warm in a way no one ever is with him.

“Seongje? Why didn’t you answer my text? Are you okay?”

For a second, he almost slips, almost lets his voice tremble the way his chest is trembling.

But old habits snap into place like iron bars.

“I’m fine,” he lies, steady and practiced. “Just… busy. Long day.”

He hopes it sounds normal. Hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s standing on the edge of something sharp.

If Juntae notices, he doesn’t press. Maybe he’s being polite. Maybe he’s giving Seongje a way out. Maybe he just doesn’t know him well enough to hear the cracks.

“Oh,” Juntae replies softly, “okay. I just thought— well, you sounded like you needed something.”

Seongje lets out a breathy, humorless huff.

“It’s nothing. I just… would’ve liked to eat your food.”

He forces a laugh. “I’ll get something else delivered. Don’t worry.”

There’s a tiny pause.
Not long enough to be awkward, just long enough for Seongje’s heart to twist.

“If you want something of mine,” Juntae says gently, “you can come by tomorrow. I’ll be at the restaurant during lunch.”

It hits harder than it should, the softness, the way Juntae sounds like he actually cares.

But reality crashes back just as fast.

Lunch tomorrow? Impossible. Meetings stacked back to back.

He feels like a child caught sneaking cookies, disappointment tightening in his throat.

“I… probably won’t have time,” he admits, voice low. “My schedule’s a mess.”

“Oh.” Juntae tries to make it sound light, but Seongje hears the small dip in his tone anyway. “Well… another day, then.”

In the background, Seongje hears the faint shuffle of clothes, a drawer sliding, the soft thump of something being closed. Juntae is getting ready for bed.

Seongje suddenly feels like an intruder.

“You should sleep,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry for bothering you this late.”

“You weren’t bothering me,” Juntae answers immediately. “But… yeah. I was actually about to turn the lights off.”

“Right,” Seongje murmurs, throat tightening for reasons he can’t name. “Then… goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Seongje.”

“And… please eat something.”

The line clicks off.

An hour passes.

An hour of staring at the ceiling. An hour of the rain beating against the windows like a second pulse.

Sleep doesn’t come, of course it doesn’t.

So when the doorbell suddenly rings, Seongje jolts upright like he’s been shocked.

Who the hell? At this hour?

He grabs his phone, checks the building camera feed, and—

His breath stops.

There, dripping under the lobby lights, wrapped in a giant fluffy coat that looks two sizes too big for him, glasses fogged slightly from the rain…

Juntae.

Juntae, standing at his door.

Seongje panics.

He looks around his apartment like he’ll find a crime scene on the floor.
He checks if there are shoes scattered, if the blanket on the couch is crooked, if the empty bottle from earlier is still there — fuck, it is.

He tosses it out of sight.

Then he runs to the mirror.

His hair is a mess. He tries to flatten it.

His shirt is wrinkled. He yanks it straight.

He looks tired as hell. There’s no fixing that.

And then the ringing comes again and he opens the door.

And everything inside him… melts.

Juntae stands there, small and soaked, cheeks pink from the cold, his hood slipping back just enough for his bangs to cling damply to his forehead. His glasses are dotted with rain, his nose is red, and his hands — trembling ever so slightly — are clutching a familiar little lunch box.

He looks like something soft fallen from the sky.

Something warm in Seongje’s chest ignites so suddenly he almost sways.

“Hi…” Juntae says, barely above a whisper.

He’s blushing. Even his ears are pink.

“I, um— I was scared you wouldn’t eat. So I… made this for you.”

He pushes the box forward like he’s offering treasure. A fragile, precious thing held in delicate hands.

Seongje isn’t sure he’s awake.

His voice doesn’t work for several long seconds.

“You…” he finally manages, rough and stunned. “How did you—?”

“Oh—” Juntae adjusts his glasses nervously. “The building security already had my name and picture on file, so they let me in. I thought they’d… stop me. But they didn’t.”

And then, the final piece clicks.

His assistant.

Of course.

He must’ve pre-authorized Juntae in case something like this ever happened. Efficient bastard. Seongje makes a mental note to give him a raise — or yell at him. He hasn’t decided yet.

But right now?

All he can do is stand there, staring at the tiny miracle dripping water on his marble floor.

Warmth spreads through him, flooding cracks he didn’t know were still open.

Juntae showed up. In the rain. At night. Because he wanted Seongje to eat.

“Come inside,” Seongje says, voice low, unexpectedly tender. “You’re freezing.”

But Juntae immediately shakes his head, flustered.

“I shouldn’t stay. I didn’t mean to invite myself, I just— I just wanted to drop it off, that’s all.”

As if he hasn’t just crossed half the city in the rain and his hair isn’t dripping onto Seongje’s hallway floor.

“No,” Seongje says, firmer this time. “You’re soaked. Come in.”

When Juntae still hesitates, Seongje does something he barely thinks through...
He takes Juntae’s wrist. And he gently pulls him inside.

Juntae stumbles a little in surprise, and the sight hits Seongje like a punch of… something. Something warm and painful and tender all at once.

He takes the lunch box from his hands and places it on the counter.
Then helps Juntae out of the giant wet coat.

Under it, Juntae looks even smaller. His sweater is damp at the shoulders. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are flushed from the cold.

He doesn’t belong in a place like this, Seongje thinks, looking around his pristine, dead apartment.
The dark Walls, the cold marble, the empty bottles. No laughter. No softness.

Juntae looks like sunlight trapped in the wrong world.

“Sit,” Seongje says, motioning to the couch.

Juntae obeys, small and polite and dripping water on the designer carpet.

Seongje takes a moment in the hallway to breathe— to not panic at the tiny boy sitting in his living room, to not melt at the thought of him running here in the rain, to not think about how warm his hand felt.

He grabs towels and a hoodie. The thickest one he owns.

When he comes back, Juntae is looking around, wide-eyed, like he’s afraid to breathe too loudly.

“Here,” Seongje says, offering the hoodie and draping a towel over his shoulders. “Wear this before you freeze to death.”

That gets a laugh — soft, musical, the kind that transforms Seongje’s apartment from dead to alive.

Juntae pulls the hoodie close to his chest, smiling shyly.
“I never thought I’d see you in a place like this,” he admits. “All I remember is you smoking under a tunnel or sleeping in abandoned buildings with your face covered in bruises.”

Seongje actually laughs. A real one, loud and unguarded.

“Yeah, well. Life’s weird.”

He doesn’t know how they got here either.

How the boy he barely spoke to, the one he saved once and then never saw again became the person he waits for, the person he texts, the person he thinks about when the world feels too heavy.

They were practically strangers a month ago.

And now he’s here, in Seongje’s home, wearing his clothes.

“Warm your food,” Juntae says, suddenly bossy in a soft way. “And eat. You sounded… you sounded sad on the phone.”

Seongje freezes.

So Juntae did hear it.

He tries to shrug it off. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to come in the rain just for that.”

But Juntae shakes his head, earnest.

“I couldn’t sleep after our call. I just kept thinking— you didn’t sound okay.”

A pause.

“So I made something. With what I had at home. And I came.”

He gestures to the box on the counter.

Not a paper takeout box. A metal one chosen with care.

It’s covered in tiny customized doodles. Suns. Moons. Little clouds.
Words written in careful handwriting: eat well, enjoy, take care

Seongje’s throat tightens.

Juntae notices him staring and fidgets.
“Oh— I, um… I bought it for you. I wanted to give it the next time we met. But after the phone call, I thought maybe… maybe you needed it today.”

Needed him. That’s what it feels like he meant.

And Seongje has no idea how to handle the warmth swelling behind his ribs, threatening to spill over.

“Juntae…” he says, voice low, roughened.

His heart feels too big for his chest.

This tiny boy, wet, shivering, blushing in his hoodie, crossed the city to feed him.

To care for him.

To hold him together when everything else is falling apart.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Juntae’s eyes stay on him, quiet, gentle in a way Seongje doesn’t know how to survive. Every time he lifts his chopsticks, those eyes soften even more, like Juntae is relieved he’s obeying. Like feeding him actually matters.

Then Juntae says it calmly, like he’s talking about the weather.
“Whenever you want food, just bring the box. I’ll make something for you.”

Something tightens in Seongje’s throat, a little painfully. He doesn’t answer, because answering means acknowledging that someone is caring for him in a way he’s not sure he deserves.

So instead, something slips out.

“Why do you care so much?”

Juntae blinks. He looks genuinely surprised.

And Seongje hates how desperate he must sound. He hates that the question came out like a plea, like he’s asking why on earth anyone would bother with him.

“I wasn’t exactly the best kid back then,” Seongje adds. “Especially not to your friends.”

Juntae laughs softly.
“You were indeed a bastard.”

That makes Seongje smile in spite of himself, but the sting in his chest stays.

Juntae continues, quieter now:

“But you saved my life.”

And that—God.
That hurts in a way he didn’t expect. The hesitation before it, the implication. Like it’s a debt. Like this warmth is a repayment.

“So you’re doing all this because of that?” he asks, and his voice betrays him. It cracks. Just slightly.

Juntae hesitates and that half-second is enough to crush him.

But then—

“No,” Juntae says. And suddenly he looks almost offended at himself for taking so long. “No, Seongje. That’s not it at all.”

He stands, flustered, grabs a chair, drags it next to him so close their knees almost touch. His cheeks are pink but he meets Seongje’s eyes.

“I started making those cute boxes way before I even knew it was you ordering them.”

That stops his heart.

Juntae exhales, gathering courage, then continues.

“I just… want you to eat well. And feel better.”

Seongje swallows, the warmth in his chest almost unbearable.

“How do you know I don’t feel good?” he asks, voice lower now.

Juntae smiles, not his usual bright one. A softer one, almost sad.

“The first time I saw you at the restaurant? With your assistant?” he says. “You looked… unfocused. Lost. Like the suit didn’t belong to you.”

God. Is it that obvious?

“And tonight,” Juntae continues, eyes drifting to his messy hair, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, bare feet on the cold marble floor “you look more like the Seongje I remember. Not the… robot version with too much pressure on his shoulders.”

Emotion claws up Seongje’s spine, too sharp, too honest. He hides it the only way he knows, by leaning back, smirking.

“So what? You want me to go back to being a thug? Maybe I should go find one of the Eunjang guys and beat them up for fun.”

Juntae rolls his eyes so dramatically it almost makes him choke on his own laugh.

“See?” he says, elbow bumping Seongje’s arm. “You’re still the same bastard when you want to be.”

The warmth that spreads through Seongje’s chest is embarrassing.

So he throws it back, lightly.

“Do you like bastards, then?” he asks, leaning back in his chair with a slow, lazy smirk. “Usually people prefer men in expensive suits rather than… guys in ugly orange jackets.”

Juntae sputters, face turning a shade of red that should be illegal.

“I— that’s not— I didn’t mean—”

Seongje laughs. Juntae looks like he wants to sink through the floor.

But the teasing fades when Seongje realizes something: they’ve been talking about him this whole time. His life. His misery. His mess.

So he shifts, softer this time.

“What about you?” he asks. “You study literature, right?”

Juntae brightens a little, nodding. “Mm. I like it a lot.”

Seongje asks about his studio (tiny), his daily life (simple), his family (far away), and how Suho’s grandma is the closest he has to an adult who actually cares.

It hits Seongje in the chest harder than he expects.

And then, he doesn’t know why he asks it, or what devil takes over, but the words slip out before he can stop them.

“What about your love life?”

Juntae freezes. And blushes so red Seongje nearly chokes on his own breath.

Perfect question.

“You have a girlfriend?” Seongje asks.

Juntae bursts into laughter, offended laughter. “No! God, no.”

It takes a second.

One full, blank second.

Then Seongje gets it.

“Oh.”

He doesn’t know why that oh feels like a fire catching at the base of his spine.

Juntae, desperate to escape the spotlight, flips the question back.

“What about you? Are you seeing someone? Dating?”

And the warmth inside Seongje dims. His smile drops before he can catch it.

“My parents want me to get married soon,” he says quietly.

Juntae’s expression shifts instantly, worried and sad.

Seongje pushes on, because for once he doesn’t feel like hiding.

“I’m supposed to inherit everything. Take over the company. Become chairman. And for that I need a woman at my side. A perfect family.” His jaw clenches. “A perfect lie.”

He feels anger bubbling up again but before it spills over, Juntae reaches out and takes his hand gently. So gently it almost breaks him.

“Why don’t you just leave?” Juntae asks. As if it’s simple. As if it’s obvious. As if the world isn’t built to keep him trapped.

Seongje wishes—God, he wishes—it were that easy.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “Even if I left the country, my father would drag me back. One way or another.”

Juntae’s thumb brushes the back of his hand. A tiny, careful touch.

“What happened to you?” he asks quietly. “What happened to the guy who used to bully the whole city if he wanted? The guy no one could stop?”

Seongje exhales, long and shaky. He wishes he knew.

“I think…” he starts, voice low, “I think I just kept trying to make them proud. I thought if I followed the rules, did everything right… maybe they’d finally look at me like I was their son. Like we were a family.”

Juntae’s eyes soften painfully, beautifully.

He listens. Really listens. And when Seongje finishes, chest tight and empty, Juntae squeezes his hand.

“Sometimes family isn’t blood,” he says. “Sometimes… you find love and comfort somewhere else.”

Somewhere else. Someone else.

They stay like that, too close, hands still touching, breath almost mingling, something trembling between them that neither of them knows how to name.

Juntae’s eyes flick down, then up again, shy and unsure. Seongje can feel the world narrowing to the soft shape of him.

A beat.

Another.

Then Juntae clears his throat, voice tiny.

“…I should go home. It’s really late.”

The words feel like cold water.

Seongje feels something inside him tighten: the dread of silence, of returning to an empty apartment, of letting this warmth slip out the door.

He can’t.

Not tonight.

“It’s raining too much,” he says quickly. “Look outside.”

Juntae glances toward the window, at the heavy sheets of rain slashing down the glass.

“It’s fine,” he insists softly. “Really. I’ll be okay.”

But Seongje shakes his head. No. Not tonight.

Not when everything inside him is already cracking.

“You were soaked when you got here,” he says, voice low, almost rough. “You’ll get sick if you go back out in that.”

“Seongje—”

And before he can lose courage, before logic or shame pull him back, Seongje reaches out.

He catches Juntae’s wrist.

Carefully but with a desperation he can’t hide.

“Stay.”

His voice is barely a whisper, but it sounds like a plea. Feels like the truth he’s been swallowing for weeks.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Juntae’s breath hitches.
He looks down at Seongje’s hand on his wrist, then at Seongje’s face.

Juntae’s lips part, surprise flickering there.

“Seongje…” he breathes, unsure.

“Please,” Seongje adds, quieter still. Not commanding. Not demanding. Just honest.

The most honest he has been in a long time.

“Just… stay.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Juntae’s brain short-circuits.

Stay.

Seongje asked him to stay.

His heart practically launches itself out of his chest, slamming against his ribs like it’s trying to escape the situation on its own. Which—fair—Juntae also wants to do. Except he also very much doesn’t want to go anywhere at all.

Because Seongje is holding his wrist and looking at him like that, and saying please in that low, tired, unfairly beautiful voice.

Inside his head, alarms are going off. Screaming. Crying. Breakdancing.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
He wants me to stay.
Not the food. Not the box. Me.

This is NOT good for his health. Emotional, mental, physical—any of them. Juntae is a simple man; he can barely handle Seongje’s texts, let alone Seongje in person. In a hoodie. In an apartment big enough to swallow his entire studio. Asking him to stay the night like it’s nothing.

Juntae tries to think rationally bu fails. His brain is just a high-pitched scream now.

Okay okay okay, calm down, you cannot have a crush meltdown NOW, he is sad, he is vulnerable, stop thinking about how pretty he looks with his hair messy—STOP—why is he even prettier when he’s tired?? Is that even allowed?

And then Juntae makes the absolute mistake of looking up at him.

Seongje, beautiful in the kind of way that ruins lives, is staring at him with quiet desperation and soft eyes, the kind that tug right at Juntae’s ribcage.

“No pressure,” Juntae tells himself internally. “It’s just that the man you maybe-kind-of-sort-of-absolutely have a crush on is asking you to stay in his penthouse apartment at night while it rains dramatically outside. Totally normal. Totally fine. People do this all the time and don’t spontaneously die.”

His face feels hot… like, fever hot. He is certain he looks insane. He hopes the lighting is too expensive for Seongje to notice.

And Seongje still hasn’t let go of his wrist.

Nope. Dead. I’m dead. This is how I die. Cause of death: Seongje’s fingers.

“Juntae,” Seongje says, voice a little rough.

Oh no. He said his name.
That’s illegal.

Juntae’s resistance crumbles instantly, he is weak, he admits it, he is WEAK for this man who used to bully half the city. And who now looks at him like he’s the only warm thing in the room.

“…Okay,” Juntae says, because of course he does. Of course he caves. Who wouldn’t?

His voice comes out small, embarrassingly small.

“I… I’ll stay. Just for a bit.”

Inside, he is screaming.

YOU ABSOLUTE FOOL JUNTAE HOW ARE YOU GOING TO SURVIVE THIS NIGHT YOU CAN’T THIRST OVER HIM RIGHT NOW YOU HAVE ONE JOB—BE NORMAL—YOU ARE FAILING HORRIBLY—

Outside?

He just gives a shy, soft smile.

And that’s all Seongje needs.

Warm fingers circle Juntae’s wrist and suddenly they’re both standing, the air between them buzzing. Seongje clears his throat, almost sheepish.

“Do you… want a tour?”

A tour? Of this place?

Juntae nods before his brain catches up, and Seongje leads him through the apartment, a luxury labyrinth of marble floors and soft lighting, huge windows overlooking Seoul, a bathroom bigger than Juntae’s entire studio, and a terrace that looks like it belongs in a magazine.

“It’s… wow,” Juntae says.

But Seongje barely reacts. It’s like he’s showing the place to a client, not walking through his own home.

“This is the guest room,” he says flatly.
“This is the storage closet.”
“This is the wine cabinet, I don’t drink any of it.”
“This is the terrace, my parents said it was important for resale value.”

Everything sounds rehearsed. Hollow. Detached.

And it hits Juntae—not for the first time—how Seongje is somehow surrounded by beauty but living in something completely lifeless.

When the tour ends, Seongje gestures toward the living room.

“Make yourself comfortable. Couch’s yours.”

Juntae sits and Seongje is suddenly bustling around with this… domestic energy that absolutely does not match the man who once threw a brick through someone’s windshield.

“Wanna watch a movie?” he asks, already grabbing a remote. “Do you want a blanket? It gets cold here at night.”

“And tea? I can make tea.”

Tea.
Geum Seongje. Making tea. In a kitchen that looks like it came with instructions and a maintenance contract.

Juntae stares. Of course he stares.

Seongje moves around the huge kitchen like he’s trying to pretend it’s normal, sleeves rolled up, pouring water like he’s auditioning for some drama where he plays the brooding, emotionally damaged heir.

Who IS this man? When did the guy who used to fight like a cornered tiger turn into… this? A gentleman in a designer hoodie, making him tea and stealing glances over his shoulder.

Maybe, Juntae thinks, he’s both.

The wolf and the man.

Sharp edges and soft hands.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice Seongje returning until a voice interrupts.

“You’re staring.”

Juntae jumps so hard he almost spills the tea.

“I—I wasn’t—!”

Seongje laughs, warm and low, and Juntae wants to melt into the couch and die at the same time.

Then Seongje sits next to him.

Not near, next to him. Side by side, knees almost touching under the blanket he gently draped across Juntae’s legs.

Seongje hands him a cup, their fingers brushing longer than necessary.

“Pick a movie,” he says.

Juntae grabs the remote with hands that are absolutely NOT shaking (they are).
Seongje leans back, close enough that the warmth of his arm is a distraction Juntae wasn’t prepared for.

They scroll through movie titles, neither of them paying attention, the quiet between them thick and warm.

They start a movie, something neither of them had cared enough to actually choose, something with colors and sound but no real meaning, just background noise to the soft, impossible moment they’ve slipped into.

The rain keeps tapping against the windows, soothing, like the world outside is far away.

Juntae sips his tea, fingers curled around the warm cup, and tells himself the heat in his cheeks is definitely from that and not because Seongje is right next to him. Not because their knees are almost touching. Not because every time Seongje shifts, Juntae feels it like a spark under his skin.

Yeah. Definitely the tea.

The movie plays on, and slowly, slowly, Juntae’s eyelids start to droop. He tries to fight it, he really does, but the couch is soft, the blanket warm, the tea comforting, and Seongje…

Seongje is warm in a way that isn’t physical. In a way Juntae hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

His head tipsJ just a little at first.

He sits up again. Tries to blink away sleep. Fails.

Tips again.

And this time, he doesn’t catch himself.

His head lands against Seongje’s shoulder, like it was meant to be there.

Juntae freezes for a heartbeat, somewhere between asleep and panicked.

But Seongje doesn’t move away. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t stiffen.

He just breathes in, slow and quiet, and lets Juntae stay there.

A moment passes. Another.

Then Seongje tilts his head slightly so it rests more comfortably against Juntae’s hair. Almost without thinking.

Juntae’s breath evens out. His body relaxes.

His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his face soft and peaceful for once.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Juntae wakes slowly, the way people do when they’ve slept too deeply: mind foggy, limbs heavy, vision blurry without his glasses.

Something soft is under him. But also… something solid.

A pillow?

No. Pillows don’t breathe.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

The ceiling swims into view.

Where…?

He shifts slightly, and something tightens around his waist, an arm. A very firm, very warm arm.

His heart stops. He freezes.

He is on a couch. A very expensive couch. And he is lying on top of someone.

No.
No, no, no—he wouldn’t—

He lifts his head just an inch, sees a collarbone, a chest. A very defined chest, rising and falling beneath his cheek.

His eyes widen in horror.

Oh my god.

He is lying on Seongje, full body. Head on chest. Arms curled against him like a koala clinging to a tree.

Seongje’s arms are around him, loose but undeniably holding him, like they’d fallen asleep that way naturally. Like it was easy. Like it was normal.

Juntae’s entire soul catches fire.

What? how? WHEN?

He tries to move but Seongje shifts in his sleep, tightening his hold, pulling Juntae in closer like Juntae is something precious he refuses to let go of even unconscious.

Juntae stops breathing.

His face is burning. His ears are burning. His existence is burning.

He looks at Seongje’s sleeping face, peaceful, the kind of calm Juntae never thought that man was capable of. His lashes are long. His mouth relaxed. He looks younger. Kinder.

Beautiful.

Too beautiful.

And Juntae—poor, panicked Juntae—realizes with a flash of absolute doom:

I fell asleep on him. He lay down with me.

We slept cuddled up like this for HOURS.

I am going to die right now on this couch.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Seongje wakes up slowly, warm, comfortable, and with the rare, pleasant feeling of not being alone.

His first thought is that something, no someone, is pressed against him. Soft and small and warm.

His second thought is that it feels… right.

He cracks his eyes open just enough to see the top of Juntae’s head, hair fluffy and slightly messy from sleep, resting against his chest. Juntae’s breath is warm against his shirt, too warm.

Seongje smirks internally.

He’s awake.

The way Juntae’s face is practically burning through the fabric makes it obvious. He’s probably silently dying of embarrassment. If Seongje opens his eyes now, Juntae will launch himself off the couch like a panicked rabbit.

So Seongje decides, with great maturity and dignity, to absolutely not move.

He keeps his breathing slow, pretending to sleep while holding a whole tiny, flustered man in his arms. Juntae fits ridiculously well against him, light, compact, like something he could easily lift or tuck under one arm if he wanted to.

And he doesn’t want to let go.

Not even a little.

This is the closest he’s felt to comfort in months. Maybe years.

He gives himself a few minutes. Just a little longer with this warm weight, the soft tickle of hair under his chin, the faint scent of rain and tea on Juntae’s skin.

Eventually, he shifts, letting his arms loosen enough to signal he’s awake.

Juntae goes stiff like a startled cat.

Their eyes meet.

They don’t move.

For a long moment, they lie there, facing each other, still half tangled together in a way that should be awkward but somehow… isn’t.

Juntae clears his throat, looking anywhere but directly into Seongje’s eyes.
“…Sorry. I fell asleep. It’s not… very polite.”

Seongje laughs, low and warm. “I’m glad you did. It’s the best sleep I’ve had in months.”

Juntae’s already red face turns a deeper shade of crimson.

Before he can hide, Seongje lifts a hand, hesitates a second, and then gently runs his fingers through Juntae’s hair. Slow, feather-light strokes, like he’s afraid the man might break or bolt.

Juntae melts for half a second.

Just half.

Then he short-circuits completely.

He jolts upright faster than a shocked squirrel. “I— I should— I need to— go. The rain stopped. Um. Shoes. Where are my shoes?”

He starts pacing, tripping on the blanket, checking under the table, behind the couch, everywhere except where the shoes actually are.

Seongje can’t help it, he laughs.

“You don’t have class this morning,” he reminds him gently. “And it’s too early to catch a bus anyway.”

Juntae freezes, defeated by sheer logic.

Before the poor man combusts, Seongje stands and disappears down the hallway. He returns with neatly folded clothes, a towel, and a small toiletry set.

Juntae blinks at the pile like it’s a trap.

“What… is this?”

“You’re staying for the morning,” Seongje says simply. “Your clothes are still damp from yesterday. And you’ll feel calmer after a shower.”

The teasing glint in his eye is unmistakable.

Juntae’s ears turn nuclear.

“Y-you—! Since when are you like this again?! Yesterday you were a gentleman!”

A slow, familiar smirk spreads across Seongje’s face.
“Maybe I’m both.”

Juntae looks personally wounded by this information, grabs the towel, and storms toward the bathroom, still pink from head to toe.

Seongje laughs, warm and genuine, watching him go.

Seongje laughs as Juntae disappears down the hallway in a cloud of mortification and oversized towels. When the bathroom door clicks shut, he finally moves.

He heads to his own room, grabs a clean sweater and a pair of long shorts, and showers quickly. The hot water wakes him fully but doesn’t wash away the lingering softness in his chest. By the time he’s toweling his hair, he’s… calm.

Calmer than he’s been in ages.

When he returns to the living room, he hears the other bathroom door open with a tiny squeak, like someone is trying very hard to be unobtrusive.

Then he sees him.

Juntae steps out wearing Seongje’s clothes, more like drowning in them. The sweater hangs halfway to his thighs, sleeves swallowing his hands entirely. The shorts look like they’re trying their best to fall off his slimmer frame, held only by the drawstring.

Seongje’s smile is instant. Painfully fond.

Juntae, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust. His glasses are slightly fogged, his hair damp and fluffy, his cheeks pink.

He looks everywhere except directly at Seongje.

Seongje can practically see the thoughts screaming behind those big eyes:

You wore his clothes.
You slept on his chest.
You’re in his house.
Abort mission. Abort mission.

Still, all he says is a gentle, “Feel better?”

Juntae nods so fast his glasses slip down his nose.

“Let’s have breakfast.”

Instant panic.
“Outside?! I’m not going outside like—like this!”

The horror on his face is almost adorable.

Seongje huffs a laugh. “Relax. We’ll eat here.”

Juntae deflates with relief, mutters a flustered “Good,” and marches toward the kitchen like a man reclaiming the scraps of his dignity.

It lasts approximately two seconds.

He opens the fridge. His shoulders slump.

“…You have nothing.”

“ I have enough,” Seongje says, leaning against the counter, arms folded. “Probably.”

“Probably?!” Juntae digs through the fridge with the despair of a chef stranded in a culinary desert. “Eggs… rice… and, um… ketchup packets from takeout?”

Seongje shrugs. “See? A feast.”

Juntae shoots him a look like he might throw an egg at him.

But he cooks anyway.

Simple things, fluffy eggs, warm rice, a little seasoning from one of the two spices Seongje apparently owns. It’s nothing fancy, nothing special. Yet as Juntae moves around the kitchen, small and competent, sleeves still falling over his hands, barefoot on Seongje’s polished floor—

He looks like he belongs there.

Like he’s always belonged there.

Seongje watches him the whole time, chin propped on his hand, quiet and content in a way he didn’t expect. Juntae mutters to himself as he cooks, completely unaware of the way Seongje’s gaze softens every time those big glasses slide down his nose.

Seongje watches him for another indulgent heartbeat before speaking, voice low and easy:

“I put your clothes in the laundry machine,” he says casually. “They’ll be clean when you leave later.”

Juntae freezes mid–rice scooping, ears immediately turning pink.
“Oh—uh—thank you,” he mumbles, scrambling to set the bowl down as if the gratitude physically embarrasses him. He finishes arranging the plates, fussing with them like they might explode if he doesn’t align them perfectly.

They sit.

No awkward tension now, just a warm, quiet ease threading between them, like the rain from last night left something soft in its wake.

Juntae takes a bite, cheeks puffing a little, clearly pleased with the food. He doesn’t notice the fondness tugging at Seongje’s mouth. Not until—

“You look very cute in my clothes,” Seongje says, tone smooth, almost innocent.

Juntae chokes on his rice.

He coughs, grabs water, swears under his breath, and glares at Seongje with betrayed eyes.
“I—can you not—”

“What?” Seongje leans his cheek into his palm, blinking at him like a cat who knows exactly which vase he just knocked over. “I’m just saying. It suits you.”

“It’s huge on me,” Juntae mutters, stabbing at his egg like it offended him. “I look ridiculous.”

“No,” Seongje says simply. “You look adorable.”

Juntae becomes red. Not pink, full, catastrophic scarlet.

“I—stop teasing me,” he demands weakly.

Seongje hums. “But you get so flustered. It’s entertaining.”

“I hate it,” Juntae insists, voice wobbling.

“You don’t,” Seongje counters, eyes flicking to the way Juntae keeps tugging at the sleeves, nervous, yes, but not pulling away.

Juntae shrinks in his chair, hiding behind his hair and his glasses and absolutely none of it helps.

“Seongje,” he mutters, voice tiny, “please.”

Seongje grins, slow and warm. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

Juntae exhales in relief.

For approximately three seconds.

Then Seongje adds, lightly:

“But the sleeves are still cute.”

“Oh my god,” Juntae groans into his hands and Seongje laughs, the sound bright, delighted, filling the apartment like sunlight.

They spend the rest of the morning drifting between topics like they’ve known each other for years, light, aimless conversation that feels like breathing. Juntae asks about favorite foods, terrible teachers, the best hiding spots in their old neighborhood, and then, casually:

“Do you still play video games?”

Seongje blinks. “I stopped after high school.”

Juntae’s face falls in a way that punches straight through his ribs.
“You stopped? You loved games.”

Seongje shrugs. “Didn’t really have time.”

“Do you at least have a computer?”

“…Yeah.”

“Then show me.”

Seongje doesn’t know how he ends up doing exactly that, but suddenly he’s leading Juntae down the hallway to a room he never opens. His gaming room. Or what should have been a gaming room.

The door creaks. Dust dances in the early light. Everything is expensive, high-end, top-tier… and untouched.

“Do you even use it?” Juntae asks, frowning.

“Not really,” Seongje answers. “My father—”
He stops. Juntae’s expression softens instantly.

“You don’t have to say it,” Juntae whispers. “It’s okay.”

It hits Seongje like an unexpected blow, how easily Juntae lets him be quiet, how gently he handles the parts of him everyone else pushes.

Before the air can get heavy, Juntae claps his hands. “Can we play something? Anything? Teach me.”

Seongje stares. “You… want to play games?”

“I’m terrible,” Juntae admits. “But if this is one of the very few times you’re actually allowed to rest, then we’re going to do something you enjoy.”

The words slot into some hollow place inside him and warm it.

So he nods.

They turn the computer on, the RGB lights flickering awake like a long-forgotten heartbeat. Juntae sinks into the giant gaming chair—absolutely swallowed by it—while Seongje drags a kitchen chair next to him because he refuses to sit farther away.

He clicks open a game.
“Call of Duty?” Juntae says, scandalized. “I thought we were gonna play Mario Kart or something.”

Seongje smirks. “Too late.”

They start.

And the tension starts too, slow, then steady, then pulsing.

Every time Seongje leans over to guide his hand on the mouse, their fingers brush. Juntae jolts like he’s been shocked. Every time he leans closer to explain something, his knee bumps Juntae’s, and Juntae’s breath stutters.

Seongje pretends not to notice.
(He notices. God, he notices.)

Juntae dies in the game for the fifth time in two minutes.

“Oh my god, I hate this, I hate this so much,” he whines, smacking the keyboard lightly.

Seongje snorts. “We should’ve played Animal Crossing.”

“Shut up,” Juntae mutters, cheeks pink, eyes huge behind his glasses. “I’m trying my best.”

“I know.” Seongje’s voice slips lower without permission. “You’re cute when you’re trying.”

Juntae stops breathing for a full second.

The room is warm. Too warm.

Their arms brush again.

Their knees stay touching.

Their shoulders lean closer without meaning to.

The tiny, contained space of the desk draws them in until the air feels thick, humming with something they haven't said yet.

Juntae is focused on the screen, lip caught between his teeth in concentration, completely unaware of just how soft his profile looks under the cool glow of the monitor.

Seongje watches him, the pull in his chest tightening, deepening.

Something shifts. Not loud or obvious, just a quiet click inside him, like the moment a door unlocks.

Juntae is completely absorbed in the game, fingers flying clumsily across the keys, glasses slipping down his nose again. His shoulders tense each time an enemy appears. His breath catches every time Seongje leans close to point something out.

And Seongje… He can’t stop leaning closer.

Their hands brush again. A ghost of contact. Just fingertips passing.

Juntae jolts.

“Sorry,” Seongje murmurs, but he doesn’t move away.

Juntae’s voice is tiny. “I-It’s fine.”

But his cheeks are scarlet. His ears too. The back of his neck.

He’s glowing red everywhere.

Seongje swallows, heat curling through his ribs. He wants to touch him again, wants to see that blush deepen.

So he does.

He reaches over, guides Juntae’s hand on the mouse, deliberately slower this time. His fingers slide over the back of Juntae’s hand, staying there a second too long to be an accident.

Juntae’s breath stumbles—an audible little oh—and the silence in the room thickens instantly.

“You’re tense,” Seongje says quietly.

“I—I’m concentrating,” Juntae squeaks.

“Mm.” He smirks. “Sure.”

He lets his fingers linger, softly tracing the knuckle with his thumb before pulling back. Not fully, just enough that their hands still touch. Just enough to make Juntae freeze, uncertain whether to move or lean in.

Seongje leans closer.

Close enough that their shoulders press, close enough that his breath brushes the shell of Juntae’s ear.

“You don’t have to panic,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s just a game.”

Juntae makes a noise that is absolutely not human, like a soft, strangled squeak.

Seongje barely stops himself from laughing.
“It really is cute,” he says, softer, “how red you get.”

Juntae turns even redder.

“I—I’m not— it’s hot in here,” he mutters, which would be believable if he weren’t practically steaming.

Seongje moves even closer, his thigh brushing Juntae’s.
“Want me to turn on the AC?” he whispers. “Or is this fine?”

“F-Fine,” Juntae croaks.

He doesn’t lean away, doesn’t move at all.
He sits there trembling like the shyest, sweetest little mess Seongje has ever seen.

The silence gets heavier.

Seongje’s eyes drop to Juntae’s lips for a second too long.

Juntae notices. He definitely notices because his next breath shudders, tiny and helpless.

Their hands brush again, and this time, Seongje lets his pinky hook around Juntae’s. Barely there. Barely touching. A question disguised as an accident.

Juntae’s fingers curl back.

And that’s when Seongje feels it: The moment everything tips. The moment where the tension stops building and starts pulling, drawing them into the same orbit, the same breath, the same rising heat.

Juntae doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the computer. But between them? It’s loud.
All those unspoken things pressing into the tiny space their bodies haven’t closed yet.

Seongje shifts closer, barely an inch, but it changes everything.
Their knees touch, heir shoulders press. Seongje can feel the heat rolling off Juntae, radiating through the oversized sweater like a secret.

And Juntae—
He’s frozen, not pulling away, not looking at him either. Just staring at the screen he’s no longer seeing, fingers hovering uncertainly above the keys.

“Are you still playing?” Seongje murmurs, voice low.

“N-No,” Juntae whispers.

“Then look at me.”

Juntae does.
Slowly.
Like he’s scared of what he’ll find if he really looks.

His eyes are huge behind his glasses, already glistening at the edges from nerves, breath quick and shallow. And Seongje feels something warm and dangerous curl in his chest.

He lifts a hand slowly, giving him time to step back if he wants.

Juntae doesn’t move.

So Seongje slides two fingers under his chin, nudging it up gently.

Juntae makes the softest sound. A tiny, breathless oh.

“You’re shaking,” Seongje says, almost a whisper.

“I—I’m not used to…” Juntae swallows hard. “People getting close like this.”

Seongje’s thumb brushes his jaw. His own breath stumbles.

“I can stop,” he says quietly.

He means it. He’ll pull back if Juntae wants him to.

But Juntae shakes his head. Small and almost desperate.

“Don’t.”

The word is so soft it almost disappears between them but Seongje hears it.

Something inside him snaps clean in two.

He leans in just a little more, close enough that their foreheads almost touch, close enough to feel Juntae’s breath hitch, close enough that if either of them moved another centimeter.

Juntae whispers, barely audible, “Seongje…”

And the way he says his name, it knocks the air out of Seongje’s lungs.

Their fingers brush again, not accidental this time. Juntae’s pinky curls around his.

Seongje closes his eyes for a second, steadying himself.

Because if he doesn’t breathe now, he never will.
Because Juntae’s pinky hooked around his, his breath warm against his cheek, his eyes wide and wanting, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

When he opens his eyes, Juntae is still looking at him like that. Like he has no idea what he’s doing, like he’s afraid to move but even more afraid to pull away.

So Seongje leans in.

Slowly. So slowly it feels like torture.

He gives Juntae every second to stop him but Juntae doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just parts his lips a little and trembles.

Their noses brush first. Juntae lets out the smallest gasp.

And then Seongje kisses him.

It’s barely a kiss at first, more like a soft press of lips, gentle, almost hesitant.

Juntae answers by going perfectly still. Not scared, just overwhelmed and shaking.

Seongje pulls back a breath, just enough to see him.

Juntae’s cheeks are burning red. His glasses are slipping down his nose, his chest rises and falls too fast.
He looks like he’s trying to breathe and forgetting how.

But he’s looking right at Seongje. Straight into him. No doubt. No fear.

Just… wanting.

“Are you—” Seongje starts.

But Juntae moves first.

He leans in, tiny and brave and trembling, his hands clutching the hem of the oversized sweater like he needs to hold onto something
and he kisses Seongje back.

Tentative. Warm in a way that makes Seongje’s heart punch against his ribs like it’s trying to escape.

This kiss is different.
A small, shy, yes whispered against his mouth.

Seongje melts.

He cups the back of Juntae’s neck carefully, like he’s holding something fragile. Their lips move together softly: no hunger, no rush, just tenderness and careful affection. Juntae breathes a tiny sigh into him, and it ruins Seongje completely.

When they part, barely, their foreheads touch, breaths mixing in the thick quiet of the gaming room.
The tension is still there but now it feels like it’s wrapped around them instead of pushing them apart.

Juntae pulls back a fraction, blinking fast, cheeks scarlet.

“Wow,” he whispers.

Seongje can’t help but smile.

Juntae suddenly giggles, tiny, nervous, adorable, and hides half his face in his hands.

“I just— I can’t believe—”
Another giggle.
“I never thought I’d kiss Geum Seongje one day. Like ever. Not in any universe. Not even the weird ones.”

He keeps rambling, words tripping over each other in a panic:

“I mean, you were always so cool and scary and you never talked to anyone and now you’re— you’re doing that and I— I don’t know, I think my brain stopped working—”

Seongje watches him, stunned. Completely floored and gone.

He didn’t know a person could be this cute. He didn’t think he could feel this much. Not anymore.

He lifts a hand, brushes Juntae’s cheek with his thumb, and Juntae freezes mid-ramble, eyes wide, breath caught.

And Seongje thinks:

"God help me.
I’m done for."

+++++++++++++++

Juntae’s brain is gone.

Gone as in nothing exists anymore except Seongje’s mouth.
Gone as in he is pretty sure his soul just climbed out of his body and is now screaming somewhere in a corner.

Because he kissed him.

He, Seo Juntae, tiny, anxious, soft-spoken literature student, kissed Geum Seongje.

And worse? He liked it.

His lips still feel warm, chest still feels tight. His entire face is boiling.

Oh god oh god oh god.

He’s sitting there in Seongje’s gaming chair, wearing Seongje’s hoodie, drowning in the fabric and in embarrassment, in his lap still the memory of Seongje’s hands, and he can’t even breathe properly because—

he KISSED him.

“Wow,” he whispers again without meaning to.

Seongje smiles at him. Like the sun coming out of a thundercloud.

It hits Juntae like a truck and that is exactly when his brain finally aborts mission and says:

RUN.

Juntae shoots up to his feet like he touched electricity.

“I—I should go,” he blurts, voice about three octaves higher than usual.

Seongje raises an eyebrow, amused. “Already?”

“I—YES. I mean—no. I mean— I just— the laundry! Right! The laundry must be done. I, um— I can’t keep wearing your clothes.”

He gestures helplessly at the enormous hoodie swallowing his entire torso.

“I mean, I shouldn’t. I—this is— I should change. Yes. Clothes. My clothes. Normal clothes. Clothes that aren’t yours.”

He is dying. Actually dying.

Seongje is laughing which somehow makes it worse.

Juntae tries not to look at him but every time his eyes flick over, Seongje is still smiling, like he hasn’t smiled in years and Juntae has to physically grab the back of the chair to stay upright because his knees are weak.

“Look at you,” Seongje drawls, leaning back in his seat with a smugness that should be illegal. “You’re adorable.”

Juntae squeaks and covers his face.

“I need to go,” he mumbles through his hands, face burning.

“But you don’t want to,” Seongje says softly.

Juntae’s heart does something violent.

And he hates that he can’t deny it. He doesn’t want to leave. Not even a little.

He wants to stay in this apartment that somehow felt more peaceful than anywhere he’s been in months. Stay on that couch where he fell asleep on Seongje’s chest like some cheesy drama character. Stay here where Seongje looks soft and relaxed and alive, not like the stiff, pale boy from the restaurant.

But if he stays another minute, he might actually explode.

And then— oh god— his friends.
How is he supposed to explain any of this?

“Sieun is going to kill me,” Juntae whispers.

Seongje blinks. “What?”

“I— I spent the night at your place,” Juntae says, horrified at his own words. “All night. And you— we— I mean— we kissed. They’ll think— oh my god, they’ll KNOW. Suho’s going to lecture me. Baku’s going to scream. Gotak will faint. Sieun will never let me live this down. They already think you’re some villain out of a comic book!”

Seongje laughs so hard he has to hold his stomach.

And it makes something melt in Juntae.

But he still keeps rambling because he is at full panic level:

“And I can’t believe this is happening and also I’m wearing your hoodie and also why are you looking at me like that—stop it—this is illegal—you can’t smile at me after kissing me—”

Juntae stops only because he runs out of air.

Seongje stands, slow and feline, and walks past him to the laundry room. When he returns, he sets Juntae’s clothes in his hands, clean and warm.

“Here,” he says, voice soft. “If you really want to change.”

Juntae clutches the clothes like a lifeline.

He doesn’t meet Seongje’s eyes because if he does, he won’t leave. He knows it. His heart knows it.

“I—I’ll just—go change,” he mutters, fleeing toward the bathroom.

Behind him, Seongje’s laugh follows, the happiest Juntae has ever heard him.

And even as he hides in the bathroom, face red, heart pounding, trying not to scream into a towel, Juntae realizes something terrifying.

He doesn’t want to run from Seongje at all. He wants to run toward him.

But reality hits as soon as he finishes pulling on his freshly washed clothes, warm from the dryer, smelling like detergent and something faintly, unmistakably Seongje.

He stares at himself in the mirror, red, glowing.
Still not okay in any way.

He breathes then he opens the bathroom door.

Seongje is waiting for him in the living room.

Just standing there, hands in his pockets, hair still a little messy from before, watching him with eyes that are far too warm, far too soft, far too dangerous.

Juntae can feel his entire face heat all over again.

He clears his throat. “I—I should go.”

Seongje nods, but he doesn’t look disappointed, just amused, one corner of his mouth lifted like he’s trying not to laugh.

Juntae moves to the entrance, puts on his shoes with shaky hands, and can feel Seongje’s gaze on him the whole time. It makes his skin tingle. It makes his knees weak. It makes his brain absolutely nonfunctional.

He knows he needs to leave before he combusts.

So he stands, exhales, and turns around… and sees Seongje leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like he’s the single most interesting thing in the universe.

And Juntae doesn’t think.

At all.

He just walks up to him. Rises on his tiptoes and presses the quickest, softest, barely even real kiss to Seongje’s lips.

A tiny touch.

Then his brain catches up with his body and he freezes.

Eyes wide, face exploding red, hands flying to his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he squeaks. “Oh my— I— that wasn’t— I didn’t— I’m so— oh my god, I’m SORRY—”

He starts backing up, tripping over his own feet, mortification radiating off him in waves.

“I didn’t mean— I mean I DID mean— no I didn’t— I mean I don’t know what I meant— I— OKAY I’M GOING—”

He turns to flee but Seongje catches him gently by the wrist.

Just enough to stop him.

Juntae’s breath stops in his throat.

Slowly, achingly slowly, Seongje lifts Juntae’s hand while keeping his eyes locked on him.

And presses a soft kiss into his palm.

Juntae nearly faints.

Seongje smirks, that soft, devastating curve of his lips that absolutely ends Juntae’s entire existence.

“See you soon,” he murmurs.

Juntae makes a sound that is not human.

Then he runs out the door, down the hall, out of Seongje’s sight, practically tripping over air, heart pounding so loudly he’s sure the whole building can hear.

He doesn’t stop running until he’s outside.

And even then, his hand is still burning where Seongje kissed it.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It starts with a kiss in his gaming room and somehow it haunts Seongje more than anything else in his life ever has.

He thinks about it constantly. In class, during meetings with his father, while pretending to listen to company reports he couldn’t care less about.

That tiny, warm, trembling press of Juntae’s lips.
The way Juntae looked afterward like he’d set himself on fire and only just realized it.

Seongje has no business being this obsessed.

But he is.

He texts him all the time now, nothing dramatic, nothing flirty enough to scare Juntae, but enough for Seongje to get replies that make him grin at his phone in public like an idiot.

He drops by the restaurant too, carrying that stupid custom takeout box Juntae gave him. Every time he enters, he sees Suho’s raised eyebrow, or Baku’s squint like he’s trying to decide whether to punch him first or ask him what his intentions are.

And Suho’s grandmother… She just smiles at him. Softly. Kindly. Like she doesn’t mind him coming back again and again. Like she already knows.

It feels… nice.

But they haven’t kissed again.

Not since that day.

Which is torture.

Because Seongje thinks about Juntae’s lips constantly.
Every picture Juntae posts on Instagram, laughing with friends, carrying a kitten, helping Suho in the kitchen, smiling under summer sun… Seongje stares at them longer than he should.

He wants to be in one of those photos.

Not just hidden in his private messages like he’s something secret.

So two weeks after their almost-accidental kiss, Seongje finally snaps.

Juntae is working the lunch shift.
Gotak and Baku are sitting at a table with Suho, arguing loudly about something as usual.

It’s the perfect stage.

Seongje walks in, back straight. Arrogant.
Teenage-warrior-mode fully activated.

The restaurant goes quiet.

Juntae looks up, sees him and immediately blushes to the tips of his ears.

Perfect.

Seongje walks right up to the counter, places his custom takeout box down like a challenge, and says, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Juntae. Are you free on Friday? I’m asking you on a date.”

Three things happen instantly:

Juntae makes a tiny dying-noise.

Gotak chokes on air.

Baku stands up like he’s about to throw Seongje out the window.

Suho just mutters, “Here we go,” like he’s already tired.

Juntae hides behind the cash register like it can protect him.

Gotak points a threatening spoon at Seongje.
“Back off. Juntae is way out of your league.”

Seongje shrugs. “Obviously.”

That only seems to infuriate Gotak more.

But Seongje isn’t here to fight them. Not really.

He glances at Juntae who is covering his face and whispering please don’t please stop under his breath and Seongje can’t help it.

He grins. Big and smug and proud.

“If we’re going to get closer,” he announces, “his friends should know. No point pretending.”

Baku is practically vibrating with outrage.
“Closer?! Since when? Since WHY?!”

And that’s when Seongje drops the bomb.

Completely casual and shameless.

“Oh—well—we already kissed.”
He waves a hand.
“So we’re basically halfway to marriage.”

Juntae dies.

Makes a noise that sounds like his soul is escaping his body.

Suho nearly drops the ladle.
Gotak screams something unintelligible.

And Baku—sweet, dramatic Baku—
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU KISSED?! WHEN?! WHERE?! HOW?!”

Seongje just leans on the counter, looking at Juntae with the softest eyes he’s probably ever had in his life.

“Friday,” he repeats gently. “Date?”

Juntae peeks through his fingers, face cherry-red, lips trembling, eyes wide and gives the smallest, shyest nod.

Seongje’s heart hits his ribs hard enough to hurt.

And suddenly all their shouting is just background noise and all the chaos is irrelevant.

Because Juntae said yes.

And Seongje would walk through fire for that tiny little nod.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

He doesn’t overthink the date.

He forces himself not to. If he does, he might show up with a limousine and a private chef and somehow scare Juntae into the next galaxy.

So he keeps it simple.

After classes, he waits in front of the campus gate, hands in his pockets, pretending he isn’t absurdly nervous. Students stare, whisper—Geum Seongje is waiting for someone? But none of it matters when he sees Juntae running toward him with his backpack bouncing, hair messy from rushing, glasses slightly crooked.

He skids to a stop, panting. “Sorry! I thought I’d be late!”

“You’re right on time,” Seongje says, trying not to smile too widely. “Ready?”

Juntae nods, cheeks pink.

God, he’s cute.
How is he real?

They walk to a small café nearby, warm lighting, pastries behind glass, quiet music. Nothing intimidating.

Juntae glances around, then looks at him like he can’t believe Seongje picked a normal place.

“You were expecting chandeliers?” Seongje asks, amused.

“A little,” Juntae admits, pushing up his glasses. “But this is… nice.”

They order simple drinks, iced tea for Seongje, a caramel latte for Juntae, who takes the first sip and lights up like someone turned on a lamp inside him.

“That good?” Seongje teases.

“This café has the best latte in the city,” Juntae says earnestly.

Seongje stores the information away forever.

They talk about school, about Suho’s grandmother’s cooking, about a stray cat Juntae fed the day before. Juntae waves his hands when he speaks; his eyes sparkle; he giggles at his own stories.

Seongje doesn’t even drink his tea, he just watches.

It feels… easy. Like they’ve been doing this for years.

“Want to go somewhere else?” Seongje asks once they leave the café.

“Where?” Juntae asks.

Seongje smirks. “You’ll see.”

The arcade lights flash even from outside, neon blue and pink, music loud, people laughing. Juntae’s eyes widen like a child seeing snow for the first time.

“You brought me here?” he asks, awe dripping off every syllable.

“Video games bring us closer,” Seongje shrugs.

Juntae blushes instantly.

Seongje laughs. God, he missed this. That warm, bright, teasing feeling they had in the gaming room.

They start with a racing game. Juntae picks the pink car. Seongje picks black. Juntae beats him. Twice.

Then they move to the rhythm machine.
Juntae tries, fails miserably. Laughs until he almost falls over.

And then the claw machine.

There’s a rabbit plushie sitting inside. Round, soft, ridiculously cute. Exactly Juntae.

Juntae stops in front of the machine.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “It’s so cute.”

Seongje doesn’t think. He pulls out his wallet.

He tries.
Fails.
Tries again.
Fails harder.

Juntae eventually says, horrified, “You don’t have to spend all your money—”

“It’s fine.”

“You just lost 10,000 won—”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s 20,000 now—Seongje—!”

“It’s COMPLETELY fine.”

Juntae covers his face.
“Please stop! I’m embarrassed!”

But when Seongje finally gets the claw to clamp just right, when the rabbit drops into the prize chute, Juntae lights up.

He genuinely gasps. “You got it!”

And he hugs the plushie like someone gifted him the moon.

Totally worth the ridiculous amount of money.

For dinner, they go to a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop. No fancy plating. No private booths. Just warm broth, simple bowls, and an aunty yelling orders from the kitchen.

Juntae hums while he eats, eyes closing in happiness.

“This is amazing,” he says.

“You like simple things,” Seongje murmurs, watching him.

Juntae shrugs, cheeks warm. “They’re honest.”

Honest. Unlike his whole life.

It hits Seongje harder than expected.

They talk while they eat. Laugh. Juntae rants about a literature professor who hates the books he assigned. Seongje vents (carefully) about his father. Juntae listens, soft, understanding.

And the whole time, Seongje keeps thinking: How did I survive without this? Without him?

After dinner, they wander outside, the night cool, streetlights warm.

Juntae walks beside him, silent for once, fingers brushing Seongje’s. Light, hesitant, until it’s not. Until Juntae’s small hand slips into his. Just like that.

A soft click between them. Like something falling perfectly into place.

Seongje freezes for half a second. His chest squeezes so hard it hurts.

Juntae looks away, flushed.
“I, um… I wanted to.”

Seongje’s voice comes out lower than he intends.
“I’m glad you did.”

They walk like that hand in hand.

And then, Juntae swallows nervously.

“Um… Seongje?”

“Mm?”

“Do you… want to see my studio? It’s really small, nothing like your apartment, but… I’d like to… show you.”

Seongje doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t care if the place is small. Or messy. Or falling apart.

He’d go anywhere Juntae asks him to go.

That thought echoes in him the entire walk to the studio.

Somewhere along the way, something shifts.

The silence is heavier, the hand holding his feels hotter. Juntae is quiet, too quiet, and every time his thumb brushes Seongje’s palm, it sends a sharp pull through Seongje’s chest, straight down to the parts of him that have been starved for warmth for years.

By the time they reach the building, Seongje is barely breathing.

It’s too much. Too soft. Too good. And he’s not built for good things.

Not with the life he lives, not with the blood on his teenage hands, not with the pressure of the empire chained to his name.

He shouldn’t want this. He definitely shouldn’t want Juntae.

But as they climb the stairs, as Juntae fumbles for his keys, as his small hand trembles just slightly while unlocking the door, Seongje feels something inside him snap.

The door closes behind them with a soft click.

It’s dark, the coats are still on.Juntae is turning, probably to find the light switch.

And that’s when Seongje moves.

Fast but not rough, urgent but not violent, he takes Juntae’s wrist, pulls him close, and kisses him before Juntae can even gasp.

Juntae melts immediately.

A soft breath against his lips, a tiny sound escaping him, his hands grabbing weakly at Seongje’s coat as if to anchor himself.

Seongje presses him gently against the wall because his knees are dangerously close to giving out.

God. Juntae is so warm.

Their coats brush, their breaths mix, and the dark of the studio feels like a cocoon, like the world stopped at the threshold and left only the two of them behind.

Juntae pulls back half a centimeter, breathless, wide-eyed, lips swollen already.

“S-Seongje?” he whispers, voice trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Seongje breathes, forehead against Juntae’s. “I couldn’t—… I needed—”

He can’t finish.

Words aren’t enough.

Juntae swallows, chest rising and falling fast, and then he lifts a hand, grabs the front of Seongje’s coat, and pulls him back down for another kiss.

Warmth poured directly into Seongje’s ribs.

He groans quietly not from want, but from relief as if something long-withered inside him is finally drinking water again.

Juntae kisses like he’s trying to calm him.
Like he’s saying I’m here. I want this too. It’s okay.

When they part again, barely a breath between them, Juntae whispers, dazed:

“Wow…”

It makes Seongje smile.

Juntae hides his face in his hands, giggling, blushing so violently Seongje can feel the heat through the dark.

And Seongje…
God.

Something in his chest folds in on itself.

He can’t stop staring even in the dim light, even with only the vague shapes of Juntae’s silhouette and the faint glow leaking through the window. He doesn’t need perfect lighting to see it.

He’s beautiful.

Not in the way people in magazines are beautiful, not polished or practiced or posed but alive.

A burning ember in a life that has been cold for too long.

Seongje lets out a tiny breath, almost a laugh, because he can’t believe this is real, that the boy who once glared at him in hallways, who always had warmth Seongje refused to touch is now blushing in his hands.

His eyes, those huge, soft, earnest eyes behind those glasses, Seongje thinks he could drown in them.
He thinks maybe he already has.

He feels alive.

More than he ever did with his family, or in the office, or in that huge empty apartment.

Just here in a dark doorway, holding a boy who tastes like warmth and safety.

He’d give anything to stay like this a little longer.
To keep Juntae between his hands.
To keep breathing next to him.
To keep feeling this whatever this is before the world steals it away.

But Juntae swallows, still shaking a little from nerves, and finally untangles his fingers from his face.

“I—uh—maybe we should… take our coats off?” he whispers.

Seongje can only nod.

They hang their coats near the door, and Juntae reaches for the switch.

The lights flick on.

And Seongje freezes.

The Studio

It’s small.

But it’s full of warmth, full of softness, full of life… full of Juntae.

There are pastel pillows on a tiny couch, mismatched but charming.
Drawings and tiny watercolor doodles cover the Walls clouds, flowers, animals, sunshines with uneven rays. Books stacked everywhere on shelves, on the floor, even on a stool near the bed. The kitchen is smaller than one of Seongje’s closets, but there are cute magnets on the fridge and a little plant dying in a cup.

Seongje feels it punch him in the chest.

“This is… you,” he says softly.

Juntae beams, proud and shy all at once, toes curling out of embarrassment as he takes off his shoes.

“I’ve been living here for two years now,” he says, smoothing his hair. “It’s tiny, I know, but I love it. It’s warm. Cozy. And the landlord doesn’t bother me.”

Seongje’s throat tightens.

He slips off his shoes as well, stepping onto the slightly worn rug, and it feels better than marble floors and luxury.

He turns slowly, looking at everything, and a quiet, unexpected ache grows in him.

Why didn’t he see him back then?
Why was he so stupid, so angry, so blind?

They could have been here years ago. They could have been this close and he could have held these soft hands before the world broke him.

Seongje swallows, overwhelmed by the wave hitting him.

He wasted so much time fighting and breaking things.

And Juntae was always something he should have held instead.

The thought hits Seongje like a wave he can’t swim through.
It’s too much, this little apartment, this boy with warm hands and soft eyes, the feeling swelling in his chest until he can’t breathe.

Juntae turns away for a second, flustered, brushing his hair behind his ear.

“I can make us some tea—”

“No.”

It comes out too fast, too rough, and Juntae blinks at him, wide-eyed.

Seongje steps forward before he can think, before he can talk himself out of it, before the fear in his ribs can stop him.

He needs him.

He needs to feel him, hold him, be close to him, just for a moment or he might fall apart right here on this pastel rug.

And when their lips touch again, it’s nothing like the previous kiss.
No nervous stumble nor darkness hiding them.

This kiss is deliberate. Hot, desperate, but careful, always careful. Seongje cups Juntae’s face between both hands, thumbs brushing those burning cheeks as if they’re something fragile.

Juntae makes a sound—soft, surprised, breathy and something inside Seongje breaks in the best possible way.

He kisses him deeper.

Juntae melts, actually melts, hands fisting gently in the front of Seongje’s shirt as if he’s afraid letting go would make the moment vanish. He tilts his head, opens up to him, follows his lead with a trust that knocks the air out of Seongje’s lungs.

Every tiny noise Juntae makes, those little sighs, those tiny breaths pushes him further into a place he’s never been.

He guides him toward the couch without even breaking the kiss, slowing just enough to make sure Juntae is okay, lips brushing, breathing the same warm air.

Juntae nods tiny, glowing and Seongje feels it more than he sees it.

Then they sink onto the couch together.

Juntae’s back settles against the cushions, Seongje half leaning over him, one hand on the armrest, the other cradling the side of his face, thumbs grazing the corner of Juntae’s mouth as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss again.

It’s perfect.

The tiny studio around them fades away, the pastel pillows, the mismatched mugs, the little humming fridgeand all he sees is Juntae.

Juntae’s flushed cheeks, his trembling lashes, his fingers curled in his shirt as if asking him silently not to go anywhere.

Having Juntae here, underneath his hands, open to him, trusting him, it feels like something Seongje was never meant to have.

Juntae kisses him back with a sweetness that hurts, a softness that makes Seongje’s heart throb painfully.

He wants to protect him. He wants to hold him forever.

The kiss slows eventually, turning gentle, turning almost shy again, Juntae’s breaths little puffs against his lips.

Seongje pulls back just enough to see him, his lips red, his eyes dreamy, his whole face glowing.

“Juntae…” he whispers, voice low, chest tight.

Because he doesn’t know how to say you’re going to ruin me.

The kiss should slow down.
It doesn’t.

Because the moment Seongje feels Juntae’s hands slide hesitantly, so timid it nearly breaks him, up to his shoulders, everything inside him tightens and burns.

Juntae lets out the smallest sound when Seongje deepens the kiss. Not loud but it goes straight through him.

A soft, trembling exhale against his mouth. A tiny catch of breath when Seongje’s fingers stroke his jaw.
The quietest whimper when Seongje presses closer.

Every noise Juntae makes feels like an invitation, a please don’t stop whispered in silence.

Seongje kisses him again, slower but deeper, and Juntae’s hands grip his shirt like he’s holding on to something dangerous and precious in the same breath.

His head is spinning. He hadn’t known a kiss could make him feel this alive.

He kisses the corner of Juntae’s mouth, then returns to his lips, drawn back like a tide he can’t resist.

Juntae gasps and his whole body tenses for a heartbeat before he melts again, fingers sliding up the fabric of Seongje’s shirt to clutch at the back of his neck.

The touch is small but for Seongje, it’s devastating.

His thoughts scatter completely.

God, he’s beautiful.
God, he’s soft.
God, he tastes like summer and hope and everything Seongje thought he wasn’t allowed to want.

He pulls back just a fraction, not enough to break the moment, just enough to look.

Juntae’s eyes are half-open, shining, dazed. His lips are swollen, breath coming fast, tiny puffs against Seongje’s cheek.

He’s the prettiest thing Seongje has ever seen.

And he’s letting Seongje touch him.

“Juntae…” he murmurs, voice low, strained.

But Juntae answers him not with words, he leans up and kisses him again.

It’s shy for a second.
And then it’s not.

Juntae’s fingers slide into his hair, tentative but desperate in their own way.
He tilts his head a little, fitting perfectly against him, and when their mouths meet again, it’s deeper. Hotter.

A soft, breathless sound escapes Juntae, one he tries to hold back but can’t and Seongje feels it more than he hears it.

His heart slams against his ribs.

He kisses him like he’s trying to memorize every angle of his mouth.
Juntae responds with hesitant eagerness, meeting him halfway, giving just enough, asking without words for more.

The couch creaks softly when they shift, Juntae’s back pressing deeper into the cushions as Seongje moves closer, bracing one arm beside him so he won’t put too much weight on him.

Juntae’s chest rises and falls quick and uneven beneath him, every breath warm against Seongje’s trembling lips.

“Are you okay?” Seongje whispers, hovering for a beat to make sure.

Juntae nods fast, flustered, pupils huge.
“Y-yes,” he breathes. “Please… don’t stop.”

Everything in Seongje lights on fire.

He kisses him again, slower this time, savoring the tenderness even as heat coils tight in his stomach. His thumb brushes Juntae’s cheek, feeling how warm he is, how alive he is, how much trust is in the way he leans into every touch.

Juntae’s leg brushes his by accident, and the sharp inhale he makes at the contact almost undoes Seongje entirely.

He kisses him until they’re both breathless, pulling back only when oxygen becomes absolutely necessary.

Juntae looks wrecked in the softest possible way, lips red, cheeks flushed, hair mussed from Seongje’s fingers, eyes shining like he’s been given something he never expected.

And something in Seongje breaks open.

He leans in again without thinking, kissing him harder this time, still careful, always careful, but with a hunger he can’t hide anymore. Juntae answers with a soft, startled sound that only pulls Seongje deeper, makes his pulse thunder, makes heat coil low and tight inside him.

His hands, the same hands that once knew nothing but fists and bruises, cradle Juntae’s face as if holding something sacred. Every touch is a vow. Every stroke of his thumb is restraint, reverence, devotion.

Juntae trembles under him.

“Seongje…” he whispers, barely a breath.

God.
He didn’t know his name could sound like that.
Didn’t know he could want anything this fiercely and still be gentle.

He kisses him again, urgent, aching, one hand sliding down to the warm curve of his waist. Juntae arches into the touch so naturally that Seongje stops breathing.

They’re both losing control, slowly, inevitably.

Juntae tugs lightly at his shirt, not quite pulling it off, but enough to say more, without words. And Seongje kisses him like an answer, letting his fingers slip beneath the fabric of Juntae’s sweater, just to feel heat, just to feel him.

Juntae gasps against his mouth.

Every second deepens, heat building, breaths shortening, kisses turning sloppy and desperate at the edges. The kind of urgency that comes from wanting but trying not to rush. The kind of closeness that leaves no space between their bodies, no space between their breaths.

“Are you sure?” Seongje murmurs, his forehead pressed to Juntae’s, voice shaking with how much he wants, how hard he’s holding himself still.

Juntae nods immediately shy, red, eyes burning with something tender and certain.

“Yeah,” he breathes, fingertips brushing Seongje’s jaw. “Just… stay close.”

Seongje could’ve died right there and felt fulfilled.

He kisses him again, and again, slower now, deeper, his hands wandering only as far as Juntae guides them. Clothing shifts, not removed all at once, not rushed, but loosened piece by piece as they explore each other carefully, breathlessly, every new inch of skin a shock of heat under trembling fingers.

Juntae’s hands are in his hair, desperate. Seongje’s mouth is at his throat, reverent.
Their bodies are pressed together on the small couch, heat rising between them like a tide neither wants to stop.

It’s going somewhere and they both know it.

Both want it.

But Seongje forces himself to move slowly, to stay soft, because Juntae feels like something precious, like a tiny star burning in his hands, and he won’t risk even a moment of hurting him.

Juntae pulls him closer anyway.

The room fades, the couch, the pillows, the quiet hum of the fridge until there’s nothing left but heat and breath and the way Juntae whispers his name like a secret.

And when Seongje kisses him again, deeper than before, everything tilts toward something neither of them want to stop.

His breath shudders. Juntae’s fingers tighten in his shirt.
The world narrows to warmth, to touch, to the soft, helpless noises Juntae makes when Seongje kisses just beneath his jaw.

“Juntae…” Seongje breathes, voice already wrecked. “We should—maybe… move? The couch—”

Juntae nods immediately, shy, breathless.

Before he can think too long or panic himself out of it, Seongje gathers him into his arms, lifting him effortlessly. Juntae’s legs wrap around his waist on instinct, a surprised gasp slipping out against Seongje’s neck. It nearly brings him to his knees.

He carries him through the tiny studio, every step slow, controlled as if he’s afraid Juntae might disappear if he’s not careful.

The lights are soft, warm.
The walls are covered in pastel drawings and tiny memories.
It feels like stepping into Juntae himself.

And somehow, Seongje gets even more overwhelmed.

On the edge of the bed, Juntae looks at him eyes wide, lips red, chest rising and falling too fast and Seongje feels something inside him unravel.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, touching Juntae’s cheek with trembling fingers.

“I won’t,” Juntae whispers. “I… don’t want you to.”

That’s all it takes.

Seongje kisses him again, slow and trembling and hungry all at once. Juntae pulls him down with him, bodies molding together in the soft sheets.

Juntae is warm beneath him, soft in a way that feels like a miracle. Seongje can’t stop touching him, his waist, his shoulders, the curve of his neck.

Not to take, never to push but to memorize. To worship.

He kisses every inch of skin he’s allowed, slow and careful, tasting the warmth of Juntae’s laughter, the sweetness of his tiny gasps, the shiver of his whispered “Seongje…”

Hearing his name like that does something devastating to him.

Because this isn’t just desire.

It’s years of misunderstanding, of distance, of longing he never let himself feel.
It’s the first time in forever he touches someone without fear, without anger, without walls.

They move together like they’ve been waiting for this moment since forever, hesitant at first, then surer, then drowning in each other completely.

Their voices fill the small studio quiet, shaky, needy in the gentlest way.
Juntae whispering his name like a plea.
Seongje answering with kisses against his shoulder, his throat, his lips again and again.

It’s unbearably intimate.

And when they finally give in fully,when the last bit of space disappears and Juntae pulls him close, closer, as close as two people can be, it feels less like heat and more like coming home.

Seongje holds him the entire time, one hand curled protectively around his waist, the other cradling the back of his head as if he’s something fragile and precious.

“Juntae,” he breathes, over and over, each time softer, like a prayer.

And Juntae whispers back, voice shaking with emotion, not fear, fingers buried in Seongje’s hair.

“I’m right here.”

The room is filled with warmth, with shuddering breaths, with soft sounds that only the walls and their bodies will ever know.

And when it finally settles, when the heat fades into something quieter, deeper, Seongje stays exactly where he is, wrapped around Juntae, one arm under his head, the other holding him against his chest.

He presses a kiss to Juntae’s temple.

He feels alive.

Like something broken inside him finally knit back together in the shape of Juntae’s embrace.

Juntae curls closer, small and warm and trusting, and Seongje swears he could protect him from every storm in the world.

In the soft afterglow, in the tiny pastel-colored room, with the sound of their breathing mingling in the dark…

Seongje thinks he could stay like this forever.

++++++++++++++++++++

Juntae wakes slowly, drifting upward from sleep like rising through warm water. The first thing he notices is heat, solid, surrounding him. The second is breath, slow and deep against the back of his neck. And the third is the arm around his waist.

He freezes.

Oh.
Oh God.

He turns his head just enough to see the man behind him.

Geum Seongje, sleeping in his tiny studio bed, looking like some kind of unfairly sculpted morning deity. Tousled hair falling over his brow like he stepped out of a drama. Bare chest rising and falling, strong and careless and perfect. His hand, heavy and warm, splayed across Juntae’s stomach like it belongs there.

Juntae’s heart tries to escape through his ribs.

They… did that.
Last night.
They actually—

He hides his face in the pillow, kicking his legs in silent panic.

He had liked Seongje for years quietly. Ever since that day Seongje saved him on the street, bloodied and furious and brilliant. That crush had only gotten worse when he became an absurdly handsome adult with expensive suits and a sad smile.

But what he feels now…
Lying here in the morning light, surrounded by Seongje’s warmth…

It is absolutely not a crush anymore.
It’s something bigger, deeper, scarier.

No. No no no.
He cannot say that word.
He will spontaneously combust.

Instead, he lets himself do the smallest, softest thing, he gently runs his fingers over Seongje’s arm, tracing the muscles he pretends not to notice. His skin is warm. Smooth. He looks unreal like this, vulnerable in a way Juntae thinks only he gets to see.

Juntae is so busy staring that he doesn’t notice Seongje waking until he hears a low, very smug voice right against his ear.

“…That tickles.”

Juntae squeaks and immediately tries to bury himself under the blanket.
Seongje laughs, a quiet, lazy morning laugh that melts every bone in Juntae’s body.

“Good morning,” Seongje murmurs, stretching like a cat before sliding closer. “Did you sleep well?”

Juntae nods mutely.

Then Seongje gives him that smile—the dangerous one, the smirking one—and says:

“Or did you not get enough last night? Should I be worried?”

Juntae’s face burns.
He smacks Seongje’s chest with the back of his hand.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

Seongje laughs again, delighted. He pulls Juntae closer, arms wrapping around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Their legs tangle under the sheets. Juntae is 90% sure he has died.

“I still can’t believe,” Juntae whispers, “that all of this started because I kept making you those cute food boxes.”

The mood shifts. Subtle, but real.

Seongje tightens his hold, almost protective and his voice drops.

“Those boxes…”
He swallows.
“…probably saved my life.”

Juntae stops breathing.

Seongje opens his eyes fully now, looking at Juntae with a seriousness that steals every thought from his head. Then, gently, so gently it aches, he lifts his hand and kisses the tip of Juntae’s nose.

Juntae giggles.
He can’t help it. It bubbles out of him like champagne.

Seongje smiles, small and fond and devastating.

They lie there in comfortable silence, the morning light soft through the curtains, their breaths mingling. Juntae traces circles on Seongje’s collarbone. Seongje brushes a thumb over his hip. Nothing rushed. Nothing loud. Just… them.

Finally, Juntae speaks.

“You remind me of one of my favorite stories,” he says quietly.

Seongje lifts an eyebrow. “What story?”

Juntae hesitates, suddenly shy.
“It’s from Charles Perrault,” he says. “A tale called Peau d’âne.”

“I don’t know it,” Seongje murmurs. “Tell me.”

Juntae smiles, his heart squeezing in his chest.
He turns to face him fully, their bodies still close, their knees touching, the sheets gathered around their waists.

“Okay,” he whispers.
And begins.

He shifts a little so he’s facing Seongje fully, their knees brushing. Seongje props himself on one elbow, hair falling adorably into his eyes. He looks at Juntae like he’s the only thing worth watching.

“So,” Juntae says, clearing his throat, “Peau d’âne is about a princess who hides in a forest after escaping her father who… um… wanted to marry her.”

Seongje blinks.
Then bursts into laughter.

“Wow,” he says. “Did not expect it to start like that. This is already terrifying.”

“It’s a fairy tale,” Juntae protests, poking his chest. “Let me start!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Seongje grins, raising a hand. “Continue, storyteller.”

“So,” Juntae goes on, cheeks a little pink but voice steady, “she runs away. And she hides by wearing the skin of a donkey.”

Seongje stares at him.

“A donkey?”

“A dead donkey,” Juntae clarifies.

Seongje drops back onto the pillow, laughing into the sheets. “This story is REALLY weird.”

“I KNOW,” Juntae says, laughing too. “But listen—whenever she’s outside her tiny house in the forest, everyone thinks she’s just this strange, dirty girl with no manners or beauty or anything.”

“That’s a horrible disguise,” Seongje mutters. “Ten out of ten, would never guess she’s a princess.”

Juntae rolls his eyes but smiles. “She stays hidden. Alone. Until one day… a prince from a nearby town goes hunting in the woods and finds her little cabin.”

Seongje quiets slowly, watching Juntae more intently.

“He looks through the window,” Juntae continues softly, “and what he sees isn’t a weirdo in a donkey skin. He sees the princess. Dressed in one of the gowns her fairy godmother gave her.”

“Gowns?” Seongje asks.

Juntae brightens.
“Yes. Three of them. One the color of the sun, shimmering gold. One the color of the moon—silver and soft and glowing. And one…”

He pauses, smiling at the memory.

“One the color of weather. Clouds and storms and sky. Changing every time you look at it.”

Seongje’s breath catches, so small a sound Juntae nearly misses it.

He sees realization flicker in his eyes.
The little doodles.
Juntae’s lunchbox notes.
The sun, the moon, the clouds.

Juntae blushes, suddenly shy.
But Seongje says nothing, he just listens.

“So,” Juntae goes on quietly, “the prince sees her in one of those dresses. And instantly, he falls in love. Completely, hopelessly.”

Seongje smiles crookedly. “Fairy-tale love at first sight.”

“Mm.”
Juntae tucks a strand of hair behind his own ear. “He goes home and gets sick. Really sick. Like he’s dying of heartbreak.”

“Dramatic,” Seongje murmurs.

“So his parents try everything. Medicine, healers, entertainment. Nothing works. The prince just whispers that only a cake baked by the forest girl can save him.”

“Oh, he’s dramatic and picky.”

“Exactly,” Juntae says, laughing. “So the queen’s men go into the woods to find Peau d’âne and ask her for a cake.”

He lowers his voice a little, like he’s telling a secret.

“Without noticing, she drops her ring into the batter. And when the prince eats the cake… he finds the ring inside.”

Seongje’s brows rise.
“Oh. So he tries to find her?”

“Mhm.” Juntae nods. “They ask every woman in the kingdom to try the ring on. If it fits, she’s the one he’ll marry.”

“Let me guess,” Seongje murmurs, smirking, “it doesn’t fit anyone.”

“No one,” Juntae confirms, biting his lip to stop a smile.

Seongje shakes his head. “That’s actually kind of cute. Still weird, donkey skin and all, but cute.”

Juntae feels warmth spread through his chest.
He shifts closer, brushing their foreheads together without thinking.

“And,” he says softly, “that’s where the best part of the story begins.”

Seongje’s voice drops to a murmur.
“Oh yeah? What happens?”

Juntae smiles, just gentle.

“I’ll tell you,” he whispers. “But only if you want to hear more.”

Seongje’s hand slides to the back of his neck, thumb stroking his skin.

“I want,” he says simply.

Juntae bites back a smile. Then, instead of continuing the tale as it actually goes, he clears his throat with suspicious solemnity.

“Well,” he begins, “the prince finds the ring and everyone thinks it’s very romantic but actually, Peau d’âne is a serial killer.”

Seongje freezes.
“...What?”

“She poisoned the cake,” Juntae says, unable to keep a straight face. “Boom. Prince dead. Whole kingdom chasing her through the forest. The end.”

Seongje stares at him like he just recited the plot of a horror movie.

“That is a very stupid ending.”

Juntae bursts out laughing, folding over Seongje’s shoulder as he wheezes. “That’s not the real ending. I’m not telling you yet.”

“Why not?” Seongje demands, half amused, half offended.

“Because.” Juntae taps his nose. “I’m enjoying watching you fall for the fake ones.”

Seongje narrows his eyes.
“You’re evil.”

“Maybe,” Juntae says sweetly.

They settle back into the pillows, their legs tangled, Seongje’s arm warm around Juntae’s waist. The laughter fades into a quieter kind of closeness.

Then Juntae speaks, softer now.

“But you know… the prince does remind me of you.”

Seongje lifts a brow. “Should I be offended?”

“No,” Juntae murmurs. “Just… the way he yearns for someone. The way he gets sick because he misses her. And how only something specific, something she makes, can save him.”

A beat of silence.
Then Seongje smirks, slow and shameless.

“I don’t understand,” he says in the most obvious lie ever told. “Are you implying I’m yearning for you?”

Juntae flicks his forehead.
“If you weren’t, we wouldn’t be naked in my bed right now.”

Seongje laughs, low and pleased, the sound rumbling against Juntae’s chest.

“So,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “does that make you my princess?”

Juntae hides his face in the pillow, groaning. “Don’t say it like that—”

“My princess,” Seongje repeats, absolutely delighted. “Baking for me to heal my sickness.”

Juntae peeks up with pink cheeks but sparkling eyes.
“You were sick,” he says. “I literally had to feed you back into existence.”

Seongje cages him in with one arm and presses a kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, then just beneath his ear, warm and slow.

“Then keep doing it,” he whispers. “I like being healed by you.”

Juntae feels his heart trip, fall, soar.

And Seongje must feel some version of it too, because a second later he rolls them over, pinning Juntae to the mattress in a ridiculous tangle of limbs. Juntae yelps, then laughs, breathless, as they wrestle like two teenagers trying to pretend they’re not deeply in love.

“Stop—!” Juntae protests through laughter as Seongje kisses down his neck.

“Never,” Seongje says, grinning against his skin.

They flip again, Juntae on top now, hair falling into his eyes. He leans down and kisses Seongje, messy, smiling, half-laughing. Seongje’s hands slide up his sides, slow, gentle, like he’s touching something precious. They kiss again, deeper this time, all warmth and morning softness, forgetting they ever had lives outside this tiny room.

The world feels impossibly far away.

Until it isn’t.

Seongje’s phone starts ringing on the floor.

They both freeze.

Seongje groans and ignores it, pulling Juntae down into another kiss.

Then it rings again.
And again.

Juntae pulls back, forehead still pressed to his. “You should probably…”

“Ugh,” Seongje mutters, reaching blindly and snatching the phone up. “Fine.”

He answers with the cold, clipped voice Juntae hates.

“Yes?”

Juntae watches his face shift as the assistant speaks, something tightening, dimming.

“…Now?” Seongje asks quietly.

A pause.

“I’ll be there.”

He hangs up.

His jaw locks for a moment.
Then he forces a humorless smile.

“Well,” he says softly. “End of the fairy tale.”

Juntae scoots closer, cupping his cheek. “Hey.”

Seongje doesn’t look at him. Not yet.

Juntae lifts his chin gently. “Look at me.”

And Seongje does.
God, he looks so young like this. So tired. So reluctant to leave this bed, this room, this morning.

Juntae kisses him slow. Then another on his cheek. Then his forehead.

“It’s going to be fine,” he whispers.

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t have to.” Juntae smiles, soft but sure. “Because you’re calling me after. Right?”

Seongje swallows. “Juntae—”

“You’re not alone anymore,” Juntae says, more firmly. “You have me now.”

Something cracks in Seongje’s expression, something raw.

He pulls Juntae into a sudden tight hug, burying his face in his shoulder. “You make it very hard to leave.”

“Good,” Juntae murmurs against his neck. “Then come back to me after.”

Seongje pulls away, looks at him one more moment like he wants to memorize everything, the messy hair, the flushed cheeks, the warmth in his eyes.

Then he nods.

“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll come back.”

And he kisses Juntae once more before he goes.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

At first, Juntae doesn’t worry.

Seongje’s father had called him in urgently. That world is unpredictable. Maybe Seongje is stuck in meetings, or being lectured, or having his phone confiscated by his father who hates distractions. It happens.

So Juntae waits.

He tidies his apartment.

He tries not to stare at his phone every two minutes.

By evening, he gives in and sends a gentle text.

Juntae:
Hope you’re okay. Text me when you’re free.

No answer.

He tells himself it’s fine.

An hour passes.
Two.
Five.

He sets his phone on loud, just in case, and sits on his couch all night, wide awake, heart thumping at every little sound.

Nothing.

The next morning, a tight coldness settles in his chest.

He calls.

Once.
Twice.
Four times.

Straight to voicemail.

No message.
No read receipts.
No sign of life.

Hours crawl by, thick with dread.

Juntae’s mind spirals.

Did his father hurt him?
Did I pressure him?
Did he lie?
Did I misread everything?
Was I just… nothing?

By the second night without answers, Juntae barely eats. His hands shake when he tries to pour himself tea.

By the third, he hasn’t slept more than an hour.

His friends notice.

At the restaurant, Suho frowns the second he sees him. Gotak’s chopsticks clatter against his bowl. Baku stops talking mid-sentence and just stares at Juntae’s hollow eyes.

“Hey,” Sieun says softly. “You okay?”

Juntae tries to nod.

He can’t. His throat closes. His chest aches.

Gotak stands, worry flashing in his face. “Tae—”

That’s all it takes.

Juntae breaks.

A raw, shaking sob tears out of him as he collapses into Gotak’s arms, clinging like he’s drowning. The others rush around him, hands on his back, shoulders, sleeves, trying to understand what’s happening.

Between choked breaths, Juntae tells them everything.

The date. The kisses. The night.

The promise Seongje made before leaving.

And then—

“And he never called,” Juntae whispers, tears spilling again. “Three days and nothing. No messages. No calls. Nothing.”

His voice shakes harder.

“I don’t know if he’s okay. I don’t know if he’s alive, or if he just played me. Or realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. Or—”

He sucks in a sharp breath.

“Or maybe I just wasn’t enough.”

“Bullshit,” Baku snaps instantly, furious. “If he ghosted you, I’ll break his damn legs.”

Sieun tries to be rational, even though his eyes are wet too. “Maybe something happened. Maybe he’s stuck. You know how controlling his father is, maybe he can’t reach you.”

“But he should’ve found a way,” Juntae whispers. “If he cared, he would’ve found a way.”

Gotak grabs his face gently but firmly, forcing Juntae to meet his eyes.

“You listen to me,” he says, voice low. “Out of all of us—all of us—you are the most worth loving. You hear me?”

Juntae’s breath hitches.

“If someone can’t see that? They’re making the biggest mistake of their life,” Gotak says. “And that’s on them. Not you.”

A week passes.

Seven days.
Seven nights.
Seven attempts at sleep that only end in staring at the ceiling with tears drying on his cheeks.

Nothing from Seongje.

Silence thick and heavy enough to crush.

Until… a notification lights up his phone.

Breaking news.

He swipes it open absently.

And his heart stops.

“GEUM SEONGJE TO WED NAM CORPORATION HEIRESS — UNION BETWEEN TWO BUSINESS EMPIRES EXPECTED BY END OF YEAR.”

The room goes silent.

The world tilts.

Juntae’s breath disappears completely.

His fingers go numb, his vision blurs.

He rereads the headline.

Again.

And again.

And again.

A hollow ringing fills his ears.

His lips part, no sound coming out.

He drops to his knees.

The phone slips out of his hand and clatters on the floor.

A sob rips out of him, quiet at first, then shattering, then unstoppable.

He folds in on himself, hugging his arms around his chest like he’s trying to hold his breaking heart together with sheer force.

He doesn’t know if he’s crying because Seongje lied, because he lost him, because he wasn’t enough or because the only person who ever looked at him like he was worth something just disappeared without a word.

The tiny studio that once felt warm and full of hope feels unbearably cold.

He presses his forehead to the floor, tears pooling beneath him.

“I should’ve known,” he whispers to no one.

++++++++++++++++++++

Seongje doesn’t even make it to the front door of the penthouse.

His father is waiting.

His mother too.

And the second he steps inside, before he can even take off his shoes...

SLAP.

Sharp. Loud.
The kind of sound that echoes against marble.

His head snaps to the side.

He tastes blood.

And all he can think is:

…wow. How pathetic did I get?

How did the boy everyone feared in high school, the one who fought gangs and threw punches like breathing, end up standing here letting an old man hit him?

His father snarls, “Who is he?”

And then the photos hit the table.

Pictures printed on glossy paper.
Of him and Juntae on their date.

Juntae laughing in that tiny café.
Their hands brushing in the arcade.
Him placing the rabbit plushie in Juntae’s arms, that moment Seongje thought his chest might explode.

Every photograph feels like a violation.

His mother speaks first, her voice cold enough to freeze bone.

“You are putting shame on this family name.”

“And you,” his father adds, “will never see that boy again.”

Seongje actually lets out a dry laugh.

It’s absurd, it’s melodramatic.
It’s straight out of one of those over-the-top K-dramas Juntae watches sometimes.

But it’s also his life.

And that makes it worse.

His father steps closer, face twisted with disgust. “I will not tolerate a gay son.”

Seongje clenches his jaw so hard he hears something crack in his teeth.

“You’re going to marry the Nam daughter,” his father continues. “The announcement goes out this week.”

“No,” Seongje says immediately. “I’m done. I’m tired of being the perfect son to two people who don’t even fucking care about me.”

His mother’s eyes widen. She clearly wasn’t expecting him to talk back.

“I was better off when you didn’t give a shit about me,” Seongje adds. “When I could do whatever I wanted.”

His father scoffs. “You mean when you were a delinquent? When we had to cover up your crimes? When we kept you out of jail?”

“You should have let me go to jail,” Seongje spits back. “I would’ve been more free behind bars than I am in this house.”

His father’s expression curdles.

“You’re throwing your life away for what?” he demands. “Some kid who works part-time at a rundown restaurant?”

“Juntae doesn’t even get paid,” Seongje snaps. “He helps for free. Because he actually has a heart, something this family lacks.”

His father laughs ugly and cruel.

“Pathetic,” he says. “That’s what he is. And you—”

He steps forward, lowering his voice to something venomous.

“You will never know what love is. Not you. You’re a monster. A violent brat whose life would be nothing without my money.”

Seongje’s hands shake.

Not from fear, from rage, from the urge to grab Something and smash it.

But the worst part isn’t the insult.

It’s the way they talk about Juntae.

Like he’s nothing.

Like a stain, a problem.
A bug worth crushing.

His father leans in.

“You will attend the engagement announcement this weekend. You will smile. You will obey.”

Seongje laughs.

A slow, dangerous laugh that makes both his parents stiffen.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll marry her. Why not.”

His father relaxes slightly—

Until Seongje adds, voice dripping with mock sweetness:

“But I won’t get her pregnant. You need an heir, right? Guess you’ll have to pick another puppet for that.”

His father’s face pales with fury.

“You insolent little— Are you in love with him?” he demands. “Is that it? Are you actually throwing everything away for that— that boy?”

Seongje says nothing.

He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

He doesn’t trust himself not to shout Juntae’s name like it’s sacred.

But the word love hangs in the air, and his silence answers for him.

His father sees it.

And that hate in his father is enough to break something inside Seongje clean in half.

He looks around the penthouse, the cold floors, the sterile walls, the suffocating expectations.

He thinks of Juntae’s tiny studio. Warm. Soft. Safe.

He thinks of Juntae’s hands around his, his voice, gentle in the dark, his lips whispering, I have you now.

And Seongje knows he can’t stay here.

Not another hour nor another minute.

He grabs his coat.

His father shouts after him, voice shaking the walls.

“You walk out that door, don’t come back! You are no son of mine!”

Seongje pauses.

Looks over his shoulder.

“You’re right,” he says softly. “I’m not.”

And he leaves.

+++++++++++++++++++++

His father doesn’t stop.

Even after that last conversation, the shouting, the slamming doors, the way Seongje told them he’d rather rot in prison than be their son, the man keeps calling. Keeps texting. Keeps ordering him back like he’s a disobedient dog.

COME HOME.
THE ENGAGEMENT WILL BE ANNOUNCED SOON.
YOU WILL DO AS YOU’RE TOLD.

Every notification feels like a hand around his throat.
Every vibration feels like a chain tightening.

And the worst part?

He knows he’s being followed again.

He sees them. Men in black. Expensive shoes. Stiff posture. The same kind of men who trailed him that night with Juntae, the night that should have been perfect.

The night that now feels like a dream he wasn’t worthy of.

So Seongje hides.

Hyun Su, his assistant moves quietly, efficiently, all shadows and whispered instructions:
“Turn here.”
“Walk faster.”
“Don’t look back.”

They manage to lose the tail. Somehow. Miraculously.
They duck into alleys, slip through subway stations, exit on the other side of the city.

When they’re finally sure no one is behind them, Seongje’s assistant hands him a new phone, a cheap burner.

Seongje looks at his old phone one last time, at the screen full of missed calls from his father, from Juntae, and something inside him caves in.

He throws the phone into a river.

It hits the water with a small splash, swallowed instantly, like it never existed at all.

For a moment, he stands there, staring at the ripples, wishing he could sink just as easily.

Because he knows, god, he knows Juntae must be freaking out.

Juntae must be waiting. Calling. Wondering.

He must think I’m dead, Seongje realizes.

Or worse, he must think I abandoned him.

The thought feels like a blade sliding under his ribs.

He whispers, to no one, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… you don’t deserve this.”

His assistant drives him to a place no one would think to check, a run-down officetel on the outskirts of the city. A forgotten building. No cameras. No concierge. Just peeling wallpaper and thin walls.

Perfect.

Perfect for a coward.

Perfect for a son running from his own family.

The days blur.

One day. Two. Three.
A week.

He doesn’t turn on the TV, but he can’t avoid the notifications that still slip through the cracks of the burner phone. News alerts. Headlines. Gossip.

THE KANG-NAM ENGAGEMENT HAS BEEN PRIVATELY CONFIRMED. PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT EXPECTED WITHIN DAYS.

Seongje reads it once.

And then again.

And something inside him breaks so violently he sits down on the floor because his legs won’t hold him.

His mind goes straight to Juntae.

To how Juntae must have read the same headline.

To how he must have felt the moment he saw it.

He imagines Juntae’s eyes widening, his breath catching, the way he must have… broken.

Because of him.

Because Seongje is exactly what his father said:
A monster, a curse. Someone who destroys anything he touches.

He stops eating.

Hyun Su brings food; it goes cold on the table.

He brings water; the bottles stay sealed.

He tries to coax him, threaten him, beg him.

Nothing works.

Seongje lies on the mattress on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
Not sleeping. Not thinking. Not living.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees Juntae’s face.
Every time he opens them he sees the darkness of this room.

He is trapped in both.

Hyun Su finally snaps one night.

“Seongje,” he says, standing over him, voice shaking with anger and something like heartbreak. “You can’t keep doing this. You won’t last like this.”

Seongje doesn’t answer.

“Tell me what you want,” the assistant pleads. “Anything. Tell me one thing you want to do.”

But he doesn’t know.

What does he want?

He wants Juntae safe from his father, from the family, from the cameras, from everything that stains his own life.

He wants to run away, to disappear, to take Juntae’s hand and go somewhere no one knows them.

He wants things he will never deserve.

His voice is barely audible when he finally speaks.
“I… don’t know.”

His assistant sighs, rubbing his face.
“Fine. Then I’m going for a walk before I lose my mind.”

The door shuts loudly on his way out.

And Seongje stays there, alone, knees pulled to his chest.

Still breathing only because somewhere out there, Juntae is also breathing.

And that is the only thing keeping him alive.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Juntae feels like he’s moving underwater.

The restaurant is loud, customers chatting, but everything sounds far away, muffled, like someone wrapped cotton around his head.

He barely sleeps anymore. Barely eats. Barely exists.

He moves from table to kitchen and back again, mechanical, hollow, a ghost wearing an apron.

Baku keeps glancing at him with murderous eyes.Sieun keeps hovering. Gotak keeps putting cups of tea in his hands.

But nothing warms him.

Not since that headline.

Not since the world told him Seongje was getting married to someone else.

He’s wiping a counter for the fifth time when the restaurant’s bell rings and everything in him goes still.

Because standing in the doorway is Hyun-su, Seongje’s assistant.

Holding that box.

The box Juntae gave Seongje the day.

He turns away instantly, heart slamming against his ribs.

He can’t do this.

Suho is closest to the door, so he walks up first, brows furrowed.

“Uh… can I help you?” Suho asks cautiously.

Hyun-su bows slightly. “I’m here to order food.”

His voice is too calm. Too polite.
Dangerously polite.

“And,” Hyun-su adds, lifting the box a little, “I’d like this returned to the chef who originally packed it.”

Suho blinks. “Chef…? Juntae?” He turns toward where Juntae is trying to disappear into the wall. “Wait—why would he—?”

“I need him to prepare the meal,” Hyun-su says, tone sharpening. “No one else.”

The entire restaurant pauses.

Juntae forces himself to turn.

“No,” he says. His voice cracks, but he doesn’t care. “I’m not cooking anything for him.”

Hyun-su meets his eyes. His expression is unreadable, but something in it feels like desperation, tightly masked.

“This isn’t about—”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Juntae snaps, stepping closer. “Your boss is getting married, isn’t he? To the Nam daughter? I saw it in the news. Everyone saw it.”

Hyun-su’s jaw tightens.

“And he couldn’t even call me back,” Juntae whispers, trembling now. “Not even once.”

The silence is suffocating.

Suho, Baku, Sieun, they’re all watching, stunned, furious on Juntae’s behalf.

Hyun-su takes a breath. “He doesn’t eat.”

Juntae goes still.

“He hasn’t eaten in a week,” Hyun-su continues. “He doesn't know I'm here.”

The words hit Juntae like a blow.

Suddenly, another story comes to mind: Peau d’âne. The prince dying, saved only by the cake the princess bakes.

Is he seriously thinking about fairy tales now?

Juntae closes his eyes.

Then he exhales, sharp and shaky. “Fine.”

Baku grabs his arm. “Juntae—”

“It’s just a meal,” Juntae says, voice flat. “I’ll cook it, and then I never want to hear about Geum Seongje or his assistant ever again.”

Hyun-su nods once and hands him the box.

Juntae carries it to the kitchen like it weighs fifty kilos. His hands shake as he cooks, chopping, stirring, seasoning.

He tries not to think about the last time he held this box. The way he smiled as he packed it for Seongje. How full of hope he was.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid.

He finishes the dish.

But before closing the box, something makes him pause.

He opens it again.

Inside, taped to the bottom, is a piece of paper. An address.

Not Seongje’s luxury apartment.

A place Juntae has never seen.

His breath stutters.

Why would—?

He folds the note into his pocket.

When he returns to Hyun-su, box in hand, they lock eyes.

Neither speaks.

But something passes between them, understanding, urgency.

Juntae hands over the box.

Hyun-su bows.

Juntae doesn’t.

And as Hyun-su turns to leave, Juntae keeps one hand in his pocket, fingers curled tight around the address.

++++++++++++++++++++++

Juntae isn’t sure when he decided to go.

Maybe it was the moment he saw the address or the moment he remembered the tale of Peau d’âne.

Regardless, he finds himself on two different buses, hands clenched on his knees, staring out the window as the city melts away into outskirts and then into empty roads. The sky is gray, the kind of color that makes everything look abandoned. Juntae feels small. Foolish. Terrified.

When he gets off the second bus, there’s barely anything,just an old industrial neighborhood, quiet and cold. The address leads him behind a warehouse, up an exterior metal staircase, each step creaking under him.

He hesitates outside the door the note indicated.

Why is he here? Why did he come alone?

He forces himself to breathe.

Then he presses the doorbell.

It opens almost instantly.

Hyun-su stands there, eyes widening in relief, shoulders dropping like he’s been bracing against the world. He even gives a faint, tired smile.

“You came,” he says softly.

Juntae can’t answer. He can only nod.

Hyun-su steps aside and Juntae enters.

The room is dim, barely furnished, just a small table, a chair, and a narrow bed in the corner.

On that bed lies Seongje.

Juntae freezes.

Why is he here? Why isn’t he celebrating his engagement? Why is he hiding in a place like this, like some fugitive?

Hyun-su gestures him toward a chair. “Sit. Please.”

Juntae sits stiffly.

Hyun-su brings him a glass of water and sets it on the table like he’s afraid Juntae might drop it.

“He hasn’t been home for days,” Hyun-su says quietly. “He ran away. From all of it.”

Juntae blinks. “Ran… away?”

“His family found out. About you. About the two of you. They have photos. From your date.”

A cold tremor goes through Juntae’s entire body.

Photos.
Of them holding hands.
Of their smiles.

Juntae shakes his head. “This doesn’t—why does this involve me? Why am I here?”

“You’ll understand,” Hyun-su says. “When he wakes up, he’ll tell you everything.”

Juntae doesn’t trust that answer.
He doesn’t trust any answer he could possibly get right now.

He stands.

Hyun-su doesn’t stop him.

Juntae takes slow steps toward the bed, toward the man who shattered him and still manages to pull him like gravity.

“Seongje…” he whispers.

He kneels beside the bed.
His hand trembles as he reaches out, brushing Seongje’s hair off his forehead.

Seongje doesn’t move.

He isn’t sleeping. He’s just lying there, staring at nothing, hollow in a way that doesn’t even look like him. Juntae’s stomach twists.

“Seongje?” Juntae tries again, voice breaking.

This time, Seongje turns his head slowly, so slowly it looks painful. His eyes are red, unfocused, like he hasn’t slept in days and cried through the ones before that.

Then he sees Juntae.

He blinks once. Twice.

His lips part.

“…am I dreaming?” he whispers, voice hoarse. His hand lifts almost weakly, fingertips brushing Juntae’s cheek like he’s afraid it will disappear if he presses too hard. “Are you… real?”

Juntae’s breath catches.

He covers Seongje’s hand with his own.

“I’m real,” he whispers back.

But the way Seongje looks at him, as if Juntae is the only thing in the world that still exists, makes it feel like he’s the one dreaming.

He swallows, voice small. “What happened to you…?”

Because this isn’t the boy he remembers from their old battles, the fierce, electric storm of a teenager, the one who walked into rooms like he owned the air, the one who challenged the world with a smirk and bruised knuckles.

This man lying before him is barely holding himself together.

Juntae wants to cry.
How does someone go from terrifying the whole city… to looking like this?

He reaches out again, thumb brushing Seongje’s cheek.

“What happened?” he repeats, almost begging.

Seongje’s mouth trembles.
And all he manages is:

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

Then everything inside him breaks open.

He bursts into tears.

Not silent tears, full, shaking sobs that wreck his whole body.

Juntae freezes for half a second, shocked.

Geum Seongje. The Wolf of the Hollow. The boy who never cried, who refused to show weakness even with broken ribs…

This same boy is crying in his arms.

And Juntae’s heart folds in on itself.

“Oh… Seongje,” he whispers, pulling him close.

He hugs him tighter, one hand on the back of his head, the other around his shoulders.
He rocks him gently, instinctively, like soothing a frightened child.

Seongje clings to him with desperate fingers, fists trembling in Juntae’s shirt.

“I’m sorry— I’m sorry—” he repeats over and over, voice shattering.
“Juntae, I— I just wanted— I just— I wanted you— I wanted—”

He doesn’t make sense.

Juntae keeps whispering, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here,” even though nothing about this is okay.

From the corner of the room, Hyun-su quietly says, “I’ll give you two some time,” then slips out, closing the door gently behind him.

Minutes pass.
Long, quiet minutes filled only with Seongje’s breathing slowly stabilizing against Juntae’s chest.

Eventually, the shaking stops.

Seongje goes still, tired but no longer drowning.

Juntae presses his cheek to Seongje’s hair. “Tell me,” he says softly. “Please.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Seongje inhales, voice raw.

“My parents found out about… us.”

Juntae’s stomach drops.

“They saw photos. From our date… our hands…” His voice cracks again. “They— they lost it. They—”

He swallows.

“They told me I was putting shame on the family. That they’d never accept a son who, who liked men.”
A bitter laugh escapes him. “They slapped me. They kept calling. Threatening. They said I’d marry the Nam daughter whether I wanted to or not.”

Juntae feels rage coil inside him, hot and helpless.

“And I refused,” Seongje continues. “I told them I wouldn’t do it. That I was tired. That I didn’t want any of it anymore.”

He shuts his eyes, ashamed.

“I ran. I hid. I threw my phone so they couldn’t track me. I didn’t call you because—”
He stops, struggling to breathe.
“Because if they knew how much I cared about you, they’d go after you too.”

Juntae’s heart cracks clean in two.

All week, he’d thought he was the fool. The abandoned one. The unlovable one.

And all this time… all this time Seongje was breaking alone.

Juntae cups his face, making him look up. Seongje’s eyes are swollen, still wet, still shining with fear and relief.

“I thought you left me,” Juntae whispers. “I thought— I thought I wasn’t worth—”

Seongje flinches, pained. “No. Never. Juntae, I— I just wanted to protect you. I thought if I disappeared, if I stayed away, you’d be safe.”

Juntae lets out a shaky breath.

The world feels tilted. Like a bad drama plot they both got trapped Inside only this time the pain is real, and the stakes are real,
and the boy in his arms is shaking from something deeper than fear.

Seongje grips Juntae’s wrist, pulls it to his chest, holds it there like he needs it to breathe.

And then—

Quietly. Hopelessly.

“I love you.”

Juntae stops breathing.

His heart stutters, stumbles, drops into his stomach and shoots straight up into his throat.
He blinks because the words hit him like a punch wrapped in silk.

He wasn’t ready.

He wasn’t prepared.

He thought maybe, maybe someday, but not like this, not broken and fragile in a dark rented room far from everything they know.

Seongje is still looking at him, terrified of the silence, eyes glassy, mouth trembling.

And Juntae—

Juntae starts crying.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quiet tears that slide down his cheeks before he can stop them.

Seongje panics immediately, sitting up, reaching for him. “Juntae—? Did I— did I make it worse? I didn’t mean to— I just— I needed you to know—”

“No—” Juntae shakes his head, wiping at his face uselessly. “No, you didn’t make anything worse. I just… I wasn’t expecting… I didn’t know…”

He can’t say it back. He wants to.

God, he wants to.

But his heart is still bruised from the week of silence and panic and heartbreak.

So he cups Seongje’s face gently and whispers:

“You don’t know how much I needed to hear that. Just… give me a bit of time, okay? I feel so much for you, I just… I need to catch up.”

Something in Seongje melts, relief washing through him, and he nods with aching softness.

“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll wait. I waited my whole life to love someone like you. I can wait more.”

Juntae’s breath hitches because how is he supposed to survive this man?

He steadies himself, wipes Seongje’s tears again, then asks the question he’s been avoiding:

“What do you want to do now, Seongje? You can’t hide forever. You… you have a future. A real one. You can be whoever you want. And you’re not alone. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Seongje’s eyes close, like the words hurt and soothe him at the same time.

They talk.

For hours.

In low voices, whispered confessions, quiet fears.

Juntae holds his hands the whole time, grounding him, reminding him he’s real, reminding him he’s safe.

They talk about leaving, about staying, confronting his parents, cutting ties.
About dreams, the ones they never let themselves have.

Every so often, Hyun-su slips in—checking on them, bringing water, making sure Seongje isn’t spiraling again.

The last time he enters, the lights are low.

Juntae is sitting on the bed, back against the wall.

And Seongje is asleep in his arms, face hidden against Juntae’s chest, breathing slow and even for the first time in days.

Juntae’s hand is in his hair, petting it gently.

Hyun-su pauses, quietly relieved. “He’s okay?”

Juntae nods. “He’s exhausted.”

“You’re staying?” Hyun-su asks, though he already knows the answer.

Juntae looks down at Seongje, at the boy who once seemed untouchable, now curled against him like he finally found a place to rest.

“Yes,” Juntae whispers.
“I’m staying.”

Hyun-su leaves them alone.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

He wakes to warmth.

Warmth, and the faint rise and fall of someone breathing against him. For a second he doesn’t know where he is, only that he’s safe, held, wrapped in a softness he isn’t used to.

Then he tilts his head and sees it.

Juntae, arms around him like he’s something precious.

Something worth keeping.

And that’s what breaks it open inside him.

Juntae was right.

He can’t keep hiding and running from a life that never gave him anything except loneliness and bruises on the inside where no one could see.

He deserves something better.

Juntae deserves something better.

So he moves slowly, carefully, not wanting to wake him as he reaches for his phone. He types the message with hands that don’t shake for the first time in days.

"I’m ready."

His assistant replies instantly.

"Are you sure?"

He glances at Juntae’s sleeping face.
"Yes." He’s sure.

Juntae stirs then, lashes fluttering. A soft groan, a warm breath against the side of Seongje’s neck.

“Everything okay?” he mumbles, voice still cracked with sleep.

Seongje smiles and brushes hair from Juntae’s forehead.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I just… might need a place to stay. I’m not going back to my apartment.”

Juntae blinks at him in confusion. “Why? What happened?”

“You’ll understand soon,” Seongje murmurs, and leans in to kiss him.

Juntae blushes without meaning to, and that alone nearly breaks Seongje all over again.

A few hours later, everything is in motion.

The safehouse door closes behind them. His assistant is tense but supportive, making calls, arranging transport. And through it all, Juntae is there quiet beside him, fingers brushing his arm like he wants to hold on but knows he shouldn’t cling.

When they reach the point where they have to part, Seongje hesitates. Juntae does too. The air between them is a tight trembling line.

“I need… a few days,” Seongje says quietly.
“I know that’s asking a lot. But I need to do this alone.”

Juntae’s face crumples.

Just a little.
But enough to make Seongje want to stay, to shut the world out again, to choose the small warm room and the boy who held him through the night.

He hates himself for hurting someone so small, so open, so brave in ways he never was.

So Seongje cups his face gently, like last night, like breathing.

“I swear I’ll come back this time,” he says. “No more hiding. Not from you. Not from myself.”

Juntae swallows hard. Then nods.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Come back to me.”

++++++++++++++++++++++

The doors open with a heavy sound he’s known since childhood. He steps inside and the man behind the desk smiles proud, triumphant, relieved.

“You finally came to your senses,” his father says.

For once, Seongje doesn’t feel the old cold fear.

He simply reaches into his jacket, takes out a single sheet of paper, and places it on the desk.

“What is this?” his father asks, already frowning.

“A statement,” Seongje answers. “I sent it to the media before I came. It should go public in the next few minutes.”

His father begins reading.

His face darkens.

Official Statement from Geum Seongje

To the members of the press and the public,

After long reflection and with the support of my family, I have decided to step down from my position as the designated successor to the Geum Group.
This decision was made for the sake of my mental health, personal integrity, and future well-being. I believe it is the most responsible path forward for both myself and the company.

I also wish to address recent reports regarding my engagement to Ms. Nam June. Ms. Nam is an exceptionally intelligent, kind, and capable woman, and she deserves nothing less than a partner who can love her sincerely and wholeheartedly.
I cannot be that person. For reasons of my own identity, I am unable to pursue a romantic relationship with her.
With mutual respect, the engagement will not proceed.

I understand the weight of the role I was born into, as well as the privileges that came with it. For this reason, I have chosen to relinquish the benefits, financial support, and future responsibilities tied to my former position. It would be unfair and contradictory to refuse the duty while accepting its advantages.

My intention is to step away from public life entirely and to build a quiet, ordinary future, one lived honestly and without fear.

I am grateful to those who have supported me and ask for privacy for everyone involved, especially Ms. Nam and both of our families.

Sincerely,
Geum Seongje

His father throws the paper across the desk.

“You think you can just walk away from your family?” he spits. “From everything we built for you?”

“We were never a family,” Seongje says calmly. “We were a contract.”

His father stands abruptly, furious. “You’re going to embarrass us. Ruin us.”

“No,” Seongje replies. “I protected you. I protected the name. Conservatives will say you made the right choice not to let a gay man lead the company. Progressives will praise you for supporting your son’s happiness.”

His father opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

And for the first time in his entire life, Seongje sees it:

The man isn’t powerful. He’s scared.

“You’ll find a cousin to take over,” Seongje says. “Someone who wants it. Someone you can mold.”

“And you?” his father demands. “What will you be without this family?”

Free, Seongje thinks.

But he only answers:

“Me.”

His father’s office is already buzzing when he leaves, voices rising, something collapsing behind him like a dynasty cracking at the edges. But he doesn’t stay to watch. He doesn’t owe them the spectacle.

The next hours are a blur of noise.

Journalists calling, notifications exploding.

Breaking news banners multiplying like sparks in a wildfire:

GEUM HEIR STEPS DOWN
ENGAGEMENT CALLED OFF
WHO IS THE MYSTERY MAN?
NAM FAMILY REQUESTS PRIVACY

He didn’t even write the word gay but the media didn’t need him to. They’re already stitching the headlines, demanding June’s reaction, speculating what the Nam family will do, wondering if she was cheated on.

He turns his phone off.

He doesn’t care.

All he cares about is the small restaurant with the wonky sign and the warm lights, where someone is probably reading the same news… and thinking God-knows-what about him.

He runs.

And when he pushes open the restaurant door, he doesn’t even get to breathe before he sees them:

Juntae.
Baku.
Gotak.
Suho.
Sieun.

All crowded around their phones, jaws hanging open.

Juntae looks up first.

“…wow.”

Just that.

Baku immediately ruins the moment.

“Holy— this is crazy! You two are like— like— freaking Romeo and Juliet!”

Gotak snorts. “Tragic, overdramatic, terrible communication. Accurate.”

Sieun elbows him. “But… kind of romantic?”

Suho sighs. “We need to talk about your coping mechanisms.”

Seongje shakes his head. “No. Not Romeo and Juliet.”

He steps forward, gaze locked on Juntae.

“It’s Peau d’Âne.”

A beat of silence.

Everyone but Juntae looks deeply confused.

“What the hell is that?” Baku mutters.

“A fairy tale,” Juntae mumbles, cheeks already pink.

Seongje stops in front of him. Close. Too close. Close enough to see the exhaustion around Juntae’s eyes, but also the spark and something still fragile.

“I know how it finishes,” Seongje says quietly.

Juntae frowns. “What?”

Seongje reaches into his pocket.

Juntae freezes.

It’s a small ring. Simple. Silver. Worn at the edges, like it’s something Seongje kept in his pocket for days, rubbing it with anxious fingers.

He swallows and continues the tale, voice softer than anyone has ever heard from him:

“In the story… after the ring is lost, everyone in the castle tries it. Everyone fails.
Until the woman with the donkey skin is invited to try the ring. And it fits only her.”

He lifts Juntae’s hand.

Juntae inhales sharply, eyes wide, trembling.

“And this,” Seongje says, “is yours.”

He slides the ring onto Juntae’s finger.

It fits perfectly.

Juntae makes a strangled noise—half gasp, half cry—and Seongje’s chest squeezes so tight he nearly pulls him into a hug then and there.

Baku gags.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “I’m gonna puke.”

Sieun covers her face. “This is so sweet it’s physically painful.”

Gotak mutters, “Kids these days…” but he’s smiling small and soft.

Suho looks like he wants to politely excuse himself from this emotional explosion.

Juntae, red as a tomato, finally finds his voice.

“You… you know the prince marries the princess at the end, right?” he whispers.
“…Because that ring looks suspiciously like a proposal.”

Seongje chokes.

“What—no—I mean—It’s not—I wasn’t—”

Juntae giggles. Actually giggles. Like he can’t help it. And suddenly everything feels right again.

Seongje presses a hand to his face. “It’s not a proposal. Not yet. It’s a promise.”

“A promise?”

Seongje nods, eyes warm.

“Yeah. To stay. To not run anymore. To choose you.”

And Juntae’s breath catches, the way it always does right before he breaks open.

He looks at the ring.
Then at Seongje and steps closer, heart in his throat.

“Seongje…?”

“Hm?”

“I love you too.”

And the world finally stops hurting.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Epilogue — Five Years Later

The apartment smells faintly of coffee and old books and the lemon detergent Juntae insists on using even though Seongje says it makes the place smell like a fruit stand.

It’s small, a little two-bedroom on the fourth floor of a building with thin walls and an elevator that breaks every other month. The windows are scratched, the balcony barely fits two chairs, and the rent is too high for how the plumbing behaves.

But it’s theirs.

Sunlight spills across the living room, illuminating the mugs left from last night’s late tea and the stack of manga on the low table: research material for Juntae, according to him, even though Seongje thinks it’s just an excuse to buy more books.

Juntae sits on the floor, tablet in hand, drawing pen between his teeth as he sketches a new storyboard. His hair is longer now, tied loosely at the nape of his neck. There are soft lines beneath his eyes, not from exhaustion, but from smiling too much.

A gentle sort of life. The kind Seongje never believed he’d have.

From the tiny kitchenette, Seongje watches him.

Five years.
Five quiet, chaotic, exhausting, wonderful years.

And the best part, he decides, is the way nothing feels heavy anymore.

The first year wasn’t like that.

The first year was hell.

After he cut ties with his family, the media behaved like wolves released from a cage. Cameras outside Following him. Photos snapped of him buying toothpaste. Talk shows discussing whether he’d “snapped.” June doing interviews with practiced trembles in her voice publicly wounded. His parents holding a press conference, smiling too wide, saying they “supported his mental health journey,” even though he hadn’t heard from them once.

It was exhausting and humiliating.
Lonely, except for one constant.

Juntae.

Juntae who made him ginger tea when his voice went hoarse, who, without even realizing it, kept choosing him every single day.

It made surviving possible.

Then year two came, and something shifted. The noise faded. His name trended less, then not at all. The world found new scandals to chase. And in the quiet that followed, Seongje started building himself from scratch.

He opened a gaming café.

At first, it was just a cramped basement space with mismatched chairs and two second-hand PCs that crashed when you pressed the space bar too hard. But the kids didn’t care. They came anyway… kids who didn’t fit, kids who needed a place to breathe, kids who reminded him uncomfortably of himself at fifteen.

He watched them come back day after day, laughing, arguing, sharing snacks, escaping their problems for at least a little while.

And Seongje made sure no one ever felt scared here.

People sometimes joked it was funny to see the former Wolf of the Hollow running a warm, cozy gaming café. Seongje usually laughed along. Privately, he thought it was the only place in the world where he felt like he was doing something good.

Juntae kept teasing him about retiring early if the café ever made real money.

Which was rich, considering Juntae became the successful one.

He hadn’t expected the webtoon to do so well. No one had.

He started it on a whim: Peau d’Âne, but make it modern, make it gay, make it tender and bruised and healing at the same time. He posted it on his blog every week, unsure if anyone would care.

People cared.

Within six months, he had a million readers. Within a year, he had a publisher. Then came the offers. Two animation studios fighting over rights. A live-action adaptation greenlit in Thailand. Seongje joked they were going to need bodyguards if it kept going like this.

The funniest part was that no one realized the story was basically their love story, except for the parts that were way more dramatic. Even Baku took a year to figure it out.

Speaking of Baku.

Seongje glances at the clock on the wall. Three minutes until Baku and Gotak knock on the door, ready for their boxing lesson.

He still has no idea how that happened.

One day Juntae asked him to go to therapy because, apparently, punching holes in walls when stressed wasn’t a “healthy coping mechanism.” The therapist suggested boxing classes. Baku overheard. Gotak followed for fun. Now the three of them religiously break each other’s ribs every Wednesday.

Life is strange.

He wouldn’t trade it.

Seongje steps away from the kitchen, walks to where Juntae is hunched over his tablet.

“Your hand’s shaking again,” he says.

“It’s artistic expression,” Juntae replies without looking up.

“It’s carpal tunnel.”

“It’s passion.”

“It’s bad posture.”

Juntae finally lifts his head, glaring half-heartedly. “You’re ruining my flow.”

“You’ve been drawing for five hours.”

“Four and a half.”

Seongje brushes a hand through his hair, fingers catching on a loose strand. “Take a break.”

“No.”

Seongje leans down.

“Kiss break?”

Juntae turns red in one second flat.

“…ok,” he mutters.

Seongje kisses him slow and familiar. Five years and kissing Juntae still feels like breathing sunlight.

When they part, Juntae rests his forehead against Seongje’s chest. “You’re distracting.”

“You like when I distract you.”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a knock on the door, loud, clearly Baku.

“HEY, LOVE DOVES, OPEN UP! GOTAK SAYS HE CAN TAKE YOU BOTH TODAY!”

A muffled voice follows. “I did NOT say that—”

“TRAINING TIME!”

Juntae sighs. “Please remind me why you hang out with him voluntarily.”

“Character development.”

“Terrifying.”

Another knock, harder this time.

“SEONGJE! IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR, WE’RE EATING ALL YOUR PROTEIN BARS!”

That makes him go pale.

“Those are expensive!” he shouts, already running to the door.

Juntae laughs.

When the door opens, chaos immediately spills in.

Baku barges inside with the energy of a thousand suns, Gotak follows behind with a resigned expression, and both start arguing about whose fault it was they missed last week’s class. Suho arrives ten minutes later with packed meals “in case anyone dies of stupidity.” Sieun texts the group chat that he’ll join dinner but not boxing because he doesn’t want to watch grown men suffer.

Later, when they’re all at Suho’s restaurant crowded around a too-small table, stealing each other’s food, laughing at jokes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, Seongje leans back in his chair and watches them.

His family.

Not the one he was born with. The one he chose. The one that chose him back, even when they had every reason not to.

Juntae nudges him under the table, foot brushing his ankle.

“You’re staring,” he whispers.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“How I ended up here,” Seongje says softly. “With all of you. With you.”

Juntae smiles in that shy way that still kills him.

“Probably because you kept breaking into our lives and refusing to leave.”

“Accurate.”

“And because,” Juntae adds, cheeks warming, “you kept choosing us too.”

Seongje looks at him and feels something settle deep inside him.

Peace.

Five years ago, he thought walking away from his family meant losing everything.

He didn’t know he was making space to gain something better.

When they finally get home that night, their little apartment is dark and soft and comforting. Juntae showers first, humming the theme song from his Thai adaptation. Seongje folds laundry with two left hands and gives up halfway. When they slip under the blankets, Juntae curls naturally into his chest, like he was made to fit there.

“Hey,” Juntae murmurs.

“Mm?”

“You know the fairy tale?”

“What about it?”

Juntae pulls back enough to look at him.

“In the end… the prince and princess live happily ever after.”

Seongje brushes a thumb across his cheek.

“Yeah,” he says. “They do.”

Juntae closes his eyes, content. “Just checking.”

“Why?”

“To make sure we’re doing it right.”

Seongje kisses the top of his head.

“We are,” he whispers.