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#1. welcome to the aftermath
The message comes in just as Nut is finishing a report on a burglary that no one will remember in a week.
The funeral’s over.
He stares at the words longer than necessary.
He can picture it without wanting to: the room, the flowers, the photo, the line of people with their practiced condolences. Hong standing there like a man playing a role he doesn’t remember auditioning for.
He types before he can stop himself.
Did it go okay?
He almost deletes it. The word okay looks wrong next to funeral.
Too late. The message sends.
Define “okay” for a funeral.
Hong writes back.
Nut exhales. He feels something in his chest loosen.
You didn’t leave in an ambulance or in handcuffs.
I’m counting that as a yes.
It’s meant to be dry. It’s meant to be grounding.
He can almost hear Hong’s short, sharp laugh when the next message comes.
Then yes.
There’s a longer pause. Nut turns back to his report, but the words blur.
The next message lands like a quiet weight.
The apartment feels louder now that it’s quiet.
Nut knows exactly what that means. He’s walked into his own place after bad scenes, after long nights, after the kind of news no one should have to give. The silence after adrenaline always feels wrong, like someone turned the world down but left his thoughts on full volume.
That happens.
Noise stops. Quiet shouts for a while.
It’s the reason I don’t sleep much either.
He doesn’t plan to reveal that. It spills out anyway, fingers moving faster than his filter.
For a moment, there’s no reply.
He thinks: that was too much. Too personal. Too close to the line he’s not supposed to cross.
Then:
Do you like it?
The quiet.
For a second, he considers lying.
I’m fine.
I like it.
It helps me think.
What he types instead is:
I tolerate it.
You?
He sends it before he can second-guess himself.
A beat passes. Then Hong’s reply appears almost immediately—faster than Nut expects.
I thought I’d be ready for it.
Turns out I only rehearsed the outline.
He stares at it the second it sends. That’s more honesty than he’s offered most people in the last year.
You don’t have to make it sound neat.
Or impressive.
You think I’m performing?
I think you’re very practiced.
That’s different.
Nut’s jaw tightens.
He is practiced. In holding other people’s grief. In keeping his own at arm’s length. In pretending he doesn’t still see blood when he closes his eyes sometimes, that he doesn’t catalog exits in every room, that he doesn’t feel more at home under fluorescent lights than in his own kitchen.
Most days, it works.
Hong’s next message hits a part of him that has stopped expecting to be touched.
Do you want to see what it looks like when I don’t rehearse?
Nut’s first thought is: yes.
His second is: no.
His third is: you already have.
He sits there with his phone in his hand, the station humming around him, the clock on the wall pushing toward an hour when most of his colleagues will go home.
Where are you.
He types.
Home.
The address comes through. Nut recognizes the neighborhood name. He’s seen it on forms, on IDs.
If I come, I’m not coming as a cop, he writes.
He could pretend it’s about paperwork. Follow-up questions. Welfare checks.
It isn’t. Not anymore.
Is there a difference
I should know about.
Fewer rules.
Fewer lies, he sends.
He rubs a thumb over the edge of his phone. His reflection in the dark screen looks like a stranger in his own life.
Door code is ****.
You’re allowed to change your mind.
There. An exit. A way to step back into the role he understands: detective, observer, keeper of lines.
He puts the phone down on his desk and looks at the stack of files waiting for him. Cases. Statements. Lives in fragments.
He has an entire building full of people who would tell him: don’t go. It’s messy. It’s inappropriate. It’s asking for trouble.
None of them are here.
He stands.
“Going somewhere?” one of his colleagues asks from a nearby desk.
“Follow-up,” Nut hears himself say. “Family notification.”
They nod, sympathetic. He hates how easy it is to convince them.
In the car, the city slides by in streaks of color and light.
He should turn around at the end of the street.
He doesn’t.
He should at least come up with a speech. Something measured. Something safe.
He doesn’t do that either.
Instead, he thinks about Hong.
About the way he stood at the canal, hands in his pockets, voice steady when most people would have been shaking.
About the way he looked at the car and asked was it quick, like he’d already walked every other possible road in his head and found them worse.
About the way he’d said good when Nut told him it might have been fast.
There are a dozen warning signs in that single word.
Nut has ignored warning signs before.
He parks.
The building is quieter than he expected. Hallway dim, doors closed, a faint smell of fried food hanging in the air.
He stands in front of Hong’s door for a full thirty seconds, listening to his own heartbeat in his ears.
This is a mistake, he thinks.
He knocks anyway.
The seconds before the door opens stretch.
He hears movement inside. A thud. Bare footsteps.
Then the door swings inward and Hong is there, barefoot, T-shirt creased, eyes ringed in tired shadows.
For a moment, neither of them says anything.
Nut’s first thought is: he’s smaller out of the suit. Somehow sharper and softer at the same time.
His second is: I shouldn’t be here.
His third is: I’m not leaving.
“You actually came,” Hong says. His voice is thin around the edges but intact. “I had a whole monologue prepared for if you didn’t.”
“Save it,” Nut says. “You might still need it.”
He holds up the bag in his hand before he can reach for Hong instead.
“I brought water,” he says. “And something sweet.”
It’s stupid—a plastic box of supermarket pastries, two bottles of water—but it’s better than showing up with empty hands.
Hong takes it like it’s heavier than it is.
“You’re really leaning into the tragic comfort angle,” he says. “Thanks.”
He steps aside.
“Come in, then,” he says. “Welcome to the aftermath.”
Nut crosses the threshold.
For a brief, irrational second, he thinks: this is it. No turning back now.
He toes off his shoes and tells himself he can leave at any time.
He knows he won’t.
#2. without rehearsing
It happens the night before the funeral.
Hong is in the hallway of the hospital, palms pressed to the cold wall. His breathing is uneven—not panic, just a crack that’s grown too wide to ignore.
Nut finds him there.
“What are you doing?” Nut asks quietly.
“Trying not to fall apart,” Hong says.
He hears the soft footsteps before he feels it—the warmth of Nut’s chest against his back, not fully touching, just a breath away.
“Lean,” Nut says.
Hong hesitates.
Nut’s hand finds the wall beside his. “I won’t let you fall.”
Hong exhales, a trembling sound, and lets his weight shift back just enough for their bodies to meet—shoulder blades to chest, heat to heat.
Nut’s breath grazes Hong’s ear.
“You don’t have to stand upright all the time.”
Hong’s eyes close.
“You shouldn’t see me like this.”
“I want to,” Nut says. “This is you without rehearsing.”
Hong swallows hard.
“And you?”
“I’m not rehearsing either,” Nut answers.
For a long minute, they stay like that—pressed between a wall and a warm body, breathing the same air, neither of them brave enough to turn around, neither of them willing to move away.
When Hong finally straightens, Nut steps back exactly half a pace. No more.
Hong doesn’t look at him.
“If you stay close like that,” he says, voice rough, “I’m going to start needing you.”
Nut answers without hesitation.
“Then need me.”
Hong’s hands curl uselessly at his sides.
“I said that’s dangerous.”
“I didn’t say I was safe,” Nut says.
Hong finally looks over his shoulder.
There’s something broken in Nut’s eyes. Something familiar.
“Fine,” Hong says softly. “Stay close.”
Nut nods once.
“I already am.”
#3. proper orbits
The first time Nut calls and Hong doesn’t answer, it makes sense.
He’s with relatives, probably. Or at the funeral home. Or sitting in some government office being asked to sign forms by people who pronounce his name wrong.
The second time, it’s less neat.
The call goes to voicemail, again, after three rings.
Nut stares at his phone at his desk, surrounded by stacked case files and the stale smell of the station after 9 p.m.
He shouldn’t be calling this much. There are rules. Boundaries. Suggested best practices for not entangling yourself with the people orbiting your cases.
He dials anyway.
This time, the call doesn’t even ring. Straight to voicemail.
He knows what that means. Off, or dead battery, or no signal.
Or deliberately silenced.
His chest does an annoying, tight thing.
“Nut?”
A voice cuts in from the doorway — low, tired, someone clocking out.
He doesn’t look up right away; he’s still staring at Hong’s last message,
thumb hovering over the screen like he might fall into it.
“You heading out?” the voice calls again. “It’s late.”
Nut finally lifts his head. A silhouette stands there, hand on the light switch.
“Yeah,” Nut says. His voice is rougher than he expected. “I’m going.”
The silhouette hesitates, then nods once and disappears down the hall,
leaving Nut alone with the glow of his phone and the weight in his chest.
He exhales.
He’s in deeper than he meant to be.
And he’s already past the point of pretending otherwise.
The squad room thins out. Computer screens go dark, one by one. The cleaning staff comes through with their carts, their quiet efficiency. Nut’s screen is still on when most of the others are already locked.
He opens the report again.
Female, late fifties. Long history of major depressive episodes. Three prior attempts. Found in driver’s seat, seatbelt on. No sign of external tampering with the vehicle. No skid marks.
He’s written versions of these sentences before.
His eyes drift down to the section labeled Family.
One son.
Lives alone.
Cooperative.
No sign of substance influence.
Affect: atypical, but consistent.
He remembers the first time he saw Hong in the station hallway: the too-clean kitchen, the pill organizer, the way Hong’s mouth made jokes his eyes didn’t back up.
He tries the call again before he can talk himself out of it.
This time, someone answers.
“Hello?” Hong’s voice, a little hoarse, like he’s been talking too much or not talking at all.
“It’s me,” Nut says, and hears the way Hong’s breath changes on the other end.
“Wow,” Hong says. “You really are committed to the bit.”
“What bit?” Nut asks.
“The concerned detective who can’t let go of a case,” Hong says. “You’re making my therapist’s job very interesting.”
“Are you with your therapist right now?” Nut asks.
“God, no,” Hong says. “She’d be thrilled, but I gave her the night off. We had a long day.”
“Long how?” Nut asks.
“Forms,” Hong says. “Phone calls. Discussions about coffins versus cremation and what shade of white looks the least offensive under fluorescent lights. My personal circle of hell.”
Nut leans back in his chair.
“Why didn’t you answer earlier?” he asks.
“I was in a meeting with a man who uses the phrase ‘closure package’ unironically,” Hong says. “I didn’t trust myself not to say something that would get me banned from all funeral homes in the city.”
“Reasonable,” Nut says.
“Why are you calling?” Hong asks.
“You asked me to,” Nut says.
“In a very abstract way,” Hong says. “I didn’t expect you to be so… literal.”
“You sounded like you needed it,” Nut says.
“Newsflash,” Hong says. “I always sound like I need it.”
“Not like that,” Nut says.
There’s a pause.
“Are you… okay?” Nut asks, and immediately regrets how banal it sounds.
Hong’s laugh is brittle around the edges.
“Define ‘okay’,” he says. “I cried because the funeral home coffee tasted like burnt cardboard, then didn’t cry when we picked the urn. I spent ten minutes staring at a display of candles trying to figure out which one my mother would have hated the least. I answered the same three questions twelve times. And at some point I started grading people’s condolences in my head.”
“Grades?” Nut asks.
“B+ for ‘she’s in a better place’ with reasonable eye contact,” Hong says. “‘Everything happens for a reason’ gets a D minus and a wish to step on a Lego.”
Nut’s mouth quirks.
“And you?” Hong asks. “Did you solve any murders today?”
“Paperwork,” Nut says. “Meetings. Trying to convince my captain that no, we don’t need a press statement about a woman with a known history who drove into a canal.”
“So you’re doing my version of hell in a different building,” Hong says. “We really are soulmates.”
“You’re not making this easier,” Nut says.
“I wasn’t aware that was my job,” Hong replies.
There’s another silence, this one less brittle.
“Are you alone?” Nut asks.
“At the moment,” Hong says. “My cousin tried to stay, but I sent her home. She was making more tea than the laws of physics allow. The apartment’s starting to smell like a hospital waiting room.”
“Do you want someone there?” Nut asks before he can stop himself.
“I don’t know,” Hong says. “People look at me like I might break in their hands. It’s exhausting.”
“And if it’s me?” Nut says.
Hong doesn’t answer for a beat.
“You’d break too,” he says finally. “You just hide it better.”
Nut’s throat goes tight.
“What makes you say that?” he asks.
“You think I don’t recognize it?” Hong says. “The way you watch exits, the way your shoulders tense at certain sounds, the way you stand like you’re ready to move even when you’re still. Why do you think I keep telling you you’re bad at self-preservation?”
Nut looks down at his own hand on the desk. He hadn’t realized his fingers were clenched.
“I’m fine,” he says, out of habit.
“Liar,” Hong says, without heat.
“I function,” Nut amends.
“So do I,” Hong says. “We both get gold stars for functioning in impossible circumstances. Doesn’t mean we’re fine.”
“So what do you want me to say?” Nut asks.
“The truth,” Hong says. “Same as before.”
Nut exhales slowly.
“Some days I can’t look at water without thinking about all the cars that never came back up,” he says. “Some days I can’t go to sleep because I know I’ll dream about scenes I already left. Some days I forget to call my own brother back for a week because I’m so tired of talking to anyone. And today I spent an hour writing a report and then deleting it because the sentences I was supposed to use felt wrong.”
On the other end of the line, Hong is quiet.
“Why are you telling me that?” he asks, voice softer.
“You asked,” Nut says.
“I didn’t think you’d answer,” Hong says.
“I told you,” Nut says. “You asked for the real one. You get the real one.”
“That’s survival standards,” Hong murmurs.
Nut closes his eyes.
“Yeah,” he says.
There’s a rustle, the sound of fabric. Hong moving, probably—from one end of the couch to the other, or from standing to sitting, or sitting to sliding down the wall.
“I almost didn’t pick up,” Hong says. “Thought if I ignored you long enough, you’d… drift back into your proper orbit.”
“Is that what you want?” Nut asks.
“Proper orbits are safe,” Hong says. “Predictable. Non-interfering. Very healthy. Very recommended.”
“And?” Nut prompts.
“And I’m so fucking tired of proper,” Hong says quietly. “It never saved anyone I loved.”
Nut’s hand tightens around the phone.
“I’m going to ask you something,” he says. “You can hang up if you hate it.”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t already hate everything,” Hong says.
“Are you thinking about hurting yourself?” Nut asks.
There’s a pause. Long enough that Nut’s heart starts doing unpleasant tricks.
“No,” Hong says finally. “Not… actively.”
“Not actively is not no,” Nut says.
“I’m not going to jump off the roof to make a point,” Hong says. “I promised her I’d outlive her. I’m petty that way.”
“That’s not funny,” Nut says.
“It’s a little funny,” Hong says. “But no. I’m not making plans. I’m just… not sold on the whole onward and upward narrative.”
“Fair,” Nut says. “I’m not either.”
“Comforting,” Hong says.
“I’m serious,” Nut says. “I’m not here to drag you into some heroic recovery arc.”
“What are you here for, then?” Hong asks.
The question hangs there, same as it did outside the funeral home, in the hallway, on the couch.
Nut presses his fingers into his eyes.
“To make sure you make it through this week,” he says honestly. “And then the next one. And then the one after that, if you let me.”
“Ambitious,” Hong says.
“Bare minimum,” Nut says.
There’s a small sound that might be a laugh or a sob; it sits right on the border.
“I have to pick a suit for the funeral tomorrow,” Hong says. “Is that stupid? I keep thinking about which tie she hated. I don’t want to wear that one.”
“She’d notice?” Nut asks.
“She’d find a way,” Hong says. “If there is any post-death commentary service, she’s subscribed.”
“Then wear something she’d approve of,” Nut says. “Give her one last easy win.”
“You’re very good at this,” Hong says.
“At fashion advice?” Nut asks.
“At standing in the wreckage and making it sound survivable,” Hong says.
“Maybe because I live there,” Nut replies, before he can stop himself.
Hong inhales sharply.
“You really shouldn’t say things like that to me,” he says.
“Why not?” Nut asks.
“Because I collect them,” Hong says. “I put them in a drawer in my head with labels like Reasons To Call Him Again.”
“Is that a crime?” Nut asks.
“Not yet,” Hong says. “Give it time, the legislature is slow.”
They sit in the shared quiet of the phone line for a while. Each in his own apartment, each surrounded by different ghosts.
“You should sleep,” Nut says at last.
“You too,” Hong says.
“I will,” Nut lies.
“Liar,” Hong says again. “But thank you for the effort.”
“Do you want me to call you tomorrow before the funeral?” Nut asks.
“Yes,” Hong says, instantly. Then: “No. Yes. God. I don’t know.”
“I’ll text,” Nut says. “You can answer if you want. Or ignore me if you don’t.”
“You’re very patient,” Hong says.
“I’m very stubborn,” Nut corrects. “Ask anyone.”
“I don’t want to ask anyone,” Hong says. “I want to be the only one who knows certain things about you.”
“That’s dangerous,” Nut says.
“I’m aware,” Hong says. “Goodnight, Nut.”
“Goodnight, Hong,” Nut says.
He listens to the empty line for a second after the call ends.
Then he puts the phone down, turns off his computer, and stands.
When he steps out into the night, the air smells faintly of rain and exhaust. Somewhere, traffic moves. Somewhere, people are laughing in bars, or arguing over spilled drinks, or falling asleep with the TV on.
Somewhere, in an apartment with too much tea and bad funeral home pamphlets on the table, Hong is still here.
Nut walks to his car, keys in hand.
He isn’t fine.
He functions.
For now, that’s enough.
#4. emotional jenga
Few weeks after the funeral, Hong stands in the entryway of his mother’s apartment with a roll of trash bags in his hand and absolutely no desire to step inside.
The place smells faintly like dust and old perfume. The shoes by the door are still aligned in pairs. The small umbrella stand still holds the one she never used because she hated carrying things.
He was supposed to do this weeks ago.
He did not.
He told himself it was because of work. Because of forms. Because of utilities and contracts and banks and all the small bureaucracies of grief.
Really, it was because once he started opening drawers, there would be no pretending she was still here, just… out.
Behind him, a key turns in the lock.
“I’m here,” Nut says, as if Hong might not have heard him come up the stairs.
Hong doesn’t turn around immediately. He stares at the row of shoes, at the umbrella, at the narrow hallway that feels smaller than he remembers.
“You’re late,” he says.
“I brought food,” Nut says. “That took time.”
Hong glances back.
Nut stands there in a T-shirt and jeans, a tote bag over one shoulder. The sight of him in anything other than a suit still feels like seeing a teacher in a grocery store—wrong at first glance, then weirdly soft.
“You bribing me?” Hong asks.
“Yes,” Nut says simply. “Clearly.”
Hong exhales through his nose, half laugh, half surrender.
“Fine,” he says. “Come in. Welcome to my least favorite level of emotional Jenga.”
He steps aside. Nut toes off his shoes by the door, leaving them where a visitor would have put them, not where family would. Hong notices that; doesn’t say anything.
“Have you been here alone since…?” Nut asks.
“No,” Hong says. “I kept walking past the building and pretending I didn’t see it.”
“Very mature,” Nut says.
“I’m great at avoidance,” Hong says. “Didn’t you read my file?”
Nut doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he looks around, taking in the small living room, the couch, the low table with a faint ring from some forgotten cup.
“What’s the plan?” he asks.
“Pretend we have one,” Hong says. “Then improvise.”
He drops the trash bags on the couch and rubs his palms on his thighs.
“Closet first?” Nut suggests. “Clothes are easier than… everything else.”
“That sounds like a lie,” Hong says.
“It is,” Nut says. “But it’s a believable one. Sometimes that’s enough.”
Hong snorts. “Survival standards?”
“Exactly,” Nut says.
They start with the closet.
Hong reaches up to pull the string on the light. The bulb flickers on, illuminating rows of blouses, jackets, dresses she wore to events she didn’t want to attend.
He presses his fingers into the sleeve of one blue blouse. The fabric is soft and still smells faintly like her detergent.
“Why does this feel illegal,” he says.
“Because it’s intimate,” Nut says.
“You’ve seen bodies in worse states than hers,” Hong says. “You’ve seen blood. This is just cotton and plastic hangers.”
“It’s easier to bag evidence than memories,” Nut says.
Hong huffs a breath that might be a laugh. “And here I thought I was the dramatic one.”
Nut picks up an empty box, sets it on the floor.
“Keep, donate, throw away,” he says. “We can add a fourth rule: decide later.”
“That’s cheating,” Hong says.
“Yes,” Nut says. “Use it wisely.”
They start pulling things down.
At first, Hong moves mechanically. This one she hated. That one she loved. This one still has a tag on it because she kept saying she’d lose weight and wear it. That lie sits sour in his throat.
Every few items, Nut asks, “Keep?” in a voice that makes it clear he’s fine if the answer is I don’t know.
After twenty minutes, the first box is half full, the donation bag stretched.
Hong sits back on his heels.
“This is stupid,” he says. “These are just clothes.”
“They’re not,” Nut says. “They’re… placeholders.”
“For what?” Hong asks.
“For all the things you wish she’d gotten to wear them to,” Nut says. “Vacations. Birthdays. Not-hospitals.”
Hong swallows.
“She used to buy outfits for things that didn’t happen,” he says quietly. “Trips that got cancelled. Dinners she didn’t feel well enough to go to. I think half this closet is full of ‘almost.’”
Nut’s eyes soften.
“Then donate what you can,” he says. “Let someone else finish the ‘almost.’”
“That’s very generous,” Hong says.
“It’s practical,” Nut says.
They move to the drawers next.
Socks. Scarves. A tangle of jewelry—cheap chains, fake pearls, one or two pieces that catch the light differently.
Hong picks up a small gold ring, turns it between his fingers.
“She wore this when she first moved to the city,” he says. “When she still thought everything was going to get better.”
He slips it on his own finger. It sits loose at the base.
“Does it fit?” Nut asks.
“No,” Hong says. “But that feels accurate.”
He keeps it anyway.
They find old photos in a shoebox at the back of a shelf. Hong sits on the floor with his knees up and the box in front of him, Nut leaning against the wall nearby.
“This is dangerous,” Hong says. “This is like opening a portal to a time when I had a smaller head and worse hair.”
Nut leans down to look.
The first photo is of a woman in her twenties on a beach, squinting at the camera, hair whipped by wind. She looks untired. Hong stares at her for a long time.
“Is that her?” Nut asks.
“Yeah,” Hong says. “Before she knew me. Lucky her.”
“Don’t,” Nut says.
“Don’t what?” Hong asks.
“Make yourself the villain of every story,” Nut says.
“Bad habit,” Hong says.
“Break it,” Nut says.
“You sound very sure I can,” Hong says.
“I’m very stubborn,” Nut says. “You knew that when you invited me.”
Hong flicks to the next photo.
A toddler version of himself, cheeks round, hair sticking up, holding a plastic cup with intense concentration. His mother’s hand is visible at the edge of the frame, steadying his arm.
He laughs once, softly.
“I look like I lost a fight with gravity,” he says.
“You look like you trusted the person holding the camera,” Nut says.
Hong’s throat tightens unexpectedly.
He flips further. There are school pictures, graduation photos, blurry shots of hospital rooms where someone tried to make a joke out of IV lines.
At the bottom of the stack, there’s a picture of a woman sitting at this very kitchen table, a half-eaten bowl of soup in front of her, hair braided back.
Hong’s handwriting is on the back: mom, good day.
He sets it aside.
“You okay?” Nut asks.
“No,” Hong says. “But not in a new way.”
Nut accepts that.
They take a break when the sun shifts and the air in the small apartment turns thick.
Nut uncaps water bottles while Hong sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
“This was a mistake,” Hong says.
“Cleaning?” Nut asks, handing him a bottle.
“Starting,” Hong says. “Now I can’t un-start. I can’t walk away and pretend she’s just… on a trip.”
“You never really believed that,” Nut says.
“I liked the option,” Hong says.
He drinks, water too cold against a dry throat.
“You’re doing well,” Nut says.
“You keep saying that,” Hong says. “You set the bar very low for me.”
“I’m setting it where it belongs,” Nut says. “Survival standards, remember?”
“Right,” Hong says. “Walking and not screaming and only calling you once a day.”
“You can call more,” Nut says, then clears his throat. “If you need to.”
Hong glances over.
“Careful,” he says. “I’ll start treating that like a promise.”
“It is one,” Nut says quietly.
Something inside Hong shifts. Not a crack this time. More like a small, careful weld.
He looks away first.
“Come on,” he says. “There’s a drawer in the kitchen that’s probably a museum of expired spices and takeout menus. If I die from smelling old soy sauce, you can arrest whoever invented it.”
“Deal,” Nut says.
They move to the kitchen.
By the time they reach the last cabinet, the place looks different. Not empty—far from it—but lighter. There are boxes stacked by the door, bags labeled in Hong’s quick handwriting: donate, keep, decide later.
Nut closes the last cupboard door.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Like I’ve been chewing glass,” Hong says. “But I’m still… here.”
“That counts,” Nut says.
Hong leans back against the counter. His shoulders drop an inch.
“Thank you,” he says. “For not letting me do this alone.”
“I didn’t do it for free,” Nut says.
“No?” Hong asks. “You sending me an invoice?”
“I expect payment,” Nut says.
“In what?” Hong asks. “Emotional damage?”
Nut steps closer, close enough that Hong can feel the warmth radiating off him.
“Dinner,” Nut says. “With me. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like disinfectant.”
Hong snorts, surprised.
“That’s your rate?” he asks. “You should talk to your union.”
“I don’t have one,” Nut says. “I have you.”
Hong’s breath stutters.
“Is that… official?” he asks.
Nut considers him.
“If you want it to be,” he says. “No reports. No signatures. Just… us. Trying. Badly. On purpose.”
Hong looks at him for a long, quiet moment.
He thinks of cereal aisles and hospital corridors and living rooms and this kitchen, and of a man who keeps showing up when he doesn’t have to.
“Okay,” he says. “You’re hired.”
“For what?” Nut asks.
Hong steps into his space, their shoulders almost touching.
“Survival,” he says. “On a very tight budget.”
Nut smiles then, slow and real.
“I can work with that,” he says.
They stand there for a while, in a kitchen that doesn’t quite know what it is without its previous owner, two exhausted men holding on to something small and stubborn and alive.
It isn’t happiness. Not exactly.
But it’s close enough to hope to make a difference.
#5. controlled exposure
Hong finds the photograph by accident.
He’s not looking for it. He’s looking for the warranty paperwork for his fridge, because it’s started making a noise that sounds like a distant helicopter, and Nut, very sensibly, suggested “maybe you should see if it’s under warranty before it explodes.”
The folder he pulls off the shelf in his small study is not about appliances. It’s thinner than he remembers, and the label on the spine is his mother’s handwriting.
Utilities.
“Wrong civilian,” Hong mutters under his breath, but he opens it anyway.
Bills, mostly. Receipts, notices, a few neat columns of numbers. Near the back, a postcard she never sent, a flyer for a gallery opening she never went to.
And, stuck between two envelopes as if it got shoved there in a hurry, the photograph.
It’s old. The colors are a little faded. Hong is maybe twelve, in a T-shirt that’s too big, standing on a rocky beach. His mother is behind him with her hands on his shoulders. The camera caught her mid-laugh, eyes half-closed, mouth open. His own expression is somewhere between annoyed and secretly pleased.
He freezes.
The apartment is quiet. The fridge hums in the wrong way. Outside, faint traffic. Inside, just him and paper and a version of his life that doesn’t exist anymore.
He hears the door open.
“Hong?”
In the last months, the way Nut calls his name has changed. Less like a question, more like a fact. Still careful, always, but softer around the edges.
“In here,” Hong calls back, voice a little rougher than he intended.
Nut appears in the doorway, shrugging out of his jacket. “Your building manager loves stairs more than is reasonable.”
“You chose the stairs,” Hong says.
“I don’t trust the elevator,” Nut replies. “Or maybe I just don’t trust things that sound like they’re about to fall apart.”
He stops when he sees Hong’s face.
“What is it?” he asks.
Hong looks down at the photograph in his hand. His thumb has found the bend on one corner and is pressing into it like he’s trying to convince himself it’s real.
“Time capsule,” he says. “From the era where my biggest problem was sand in my shoes.”
Nut steps closer, slow enough that Hong can stop him if he wants to. When he doesn’t, Nut moves into the room and stands at his shoulder.
Hong holds the photo up a little so he can see.
“That’s you?” Nut asks.
“I know. Shocking, right? I had fewer wrinkles and more optimism.”
“You still have good hair,” Nut says.
Hong huffs out a breath.
“And her,” Nut adds, quieter.
“And her,” Hong echoes.
They look at it together.
“What were you doing?” Nut asks.
“Trying to make a moat,” Hong says. “She said if I built it deep enough the sea wouldn’t get in.”
“Did it work?” Nut asks.
“Of course not,” Hong says. “But she convinced me it might, for an hour. That’s something.”
Nut hums.
“Can I…?” he asks, nodding toward the photo.
Hong hesitates for a heartbeat, then passes it over.
Nut takes it carefully, like it’s more fragile than it looks. His thumb ghosts over the image of the boy on the rocks.
“You look annoyed,” he says.
“Because she was taking pictures instead of helping,” Hong says. “I wanted her hands on the moat wall, not on the camera.”
“You got them eventually,” Nut says, nodding at the image of her hands on Hong’s shoulders.
“Yeah,” Hong says. His voice dips. “Eventually.”
The quiet in the room thickens, but it’s not the suffocating kind anymore. More like fog than concrete.
“Is this the first time you’ve seen this since…?” Nut starts.
“Since everything?” Hong finishes. “Yeah. I didn’t know she kept it. I thought it got lost in one of the moves.”
He reaches out, then stops himself, fingers hovering near the glossy paper.
“Feels illegal,” he says.
“Looking at it?” Nut asks.
“Letting it hurt less than it did before,” Hong says.
Nut’s eyes soften.
“Maybe that’s the point,” he says. “Not that it stops hurting. That the shape of it changes.”
“You’re surprisingly philosophical for someone who still says things like ‘perp’ unironically,” Hong says.
“Occupational hazard,” Nut replies. “We think about endings a lot.”
Hong snorts.
“Always the cheerful one,” he says.
Nut hands the photograph back.
“Where do you want to put it?” he asks.
Hong looks around the room. Shelves, walls, the edge of his desk. Too obvious, too visible, too likely to catch him off guard when he’s not ready.
“Drawer,” he says finally. “For now. Somewhere I can open on purpose.”
“Controlled exposure,” Nut says.
“Look at you, using therapy words,” Hong says.
“I steal them from good sources,” Nut says.
“How flattering,” Hong says. “I’m a good source now.”
“One of the best,” Nut says, and it’s so simple, so casually sincere, that Hong’s chest does something unpleasant.
He puts the photograph in the top drawer of his desk, under a stack of stationery he never uses. Then he closes it.
“That was a ceremony,” Nut observes.
“I like my rituals bureaucratic,” Hong says. “Paperwork, drawers, precise labels. Emotionally confusing content goes in the top left quadrant.”
“And I thought I was the organized one,” Nut says.
“You are,” Hong says. “I just weaponize it differently.”
Nut smiles.
“Did you ever find the fridge warranty?” he asks.
Hong blinks.
“What?”
“The thing you were looking for before you opened the time capsule,” Nut says. “Warranty. Fridge. Possible explosion.”
“Oh,” Hong says. “No. It’s probably in the folder marked Important or in the one marked Things To Deal With Later, which is a lie.”
“Want help?” Nut asks.
“With which part?” Hong says. “The grief or the appliance logistics?”
“Both,” Nut says. “Though I make no promises about the fridge.”
“Brutally honest,” Hong says. “That’s what I like about you.”
“You’ve said that about my coffee, my handwriting, and my moral ambiguity,” Nut says. “I’m starting to sense a pattern.”
“I’m very consistent,” Hong says. “That’s survival standards.”
Nut’s eyes flick to his.
“You did it on purpose,” Nut says. “Worked the title into casual conversation.”
“I’m shameless,” Hong says. “Also, I like the line. It’s doing a lot of heavy lifting for two words.”
“It fits,” Nut says quietly.
“Yeah,” Hong says. “It does.”
He takes a breath.
“Fridge first,” he says. “One crisis at a time.”
“As you wish,” Nut says.
They spend twenty minutes going through folders. They find the warranty eventually—in a completely wrong place, obviously. It expired six months ago. Hong swears; Nut laughs.
“I’ll find a guy,” Nut says. “Everyone has a fridge guy.”
“You have a fridge guy?” Hong asks.
“I have a cousin who owes me a favor and knows someone with tools,” Nut says. “Same thing.”
“Detective networks are fascinating,” Hong says.
“It’s not just detectives,” Nut says. “It’s people who pay attention. We recognize each other.”
“Like you recognized me,” Hong says, too lightly.
Nut sets the papers down and looks at him.
“Yes,” he says.
Hong looks away first.
“Dangerous skill,” he says. “Seeing people.”
“Useful in my line of work,” Nut says.
“And in mine,” Hong says. “What’s left of it.”
“You’re still working,” Nut says.
“I’m still… employed,” Hong says. “Functioning is a strong word.”
“You showed up to your last meeting,” Nut points out. “On time. With notes.”
“That’s just muscle memory,” Hong says. “You’ll know I’m in real trouble when I stop color-coding my inbox.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” Nut says.
“You already do,” Hong replies.
He doesn’t mean for it to come out that soft.
Nut takes a step toward him.
“Hong,” he says.
Hong meets his gaze.
“Stay,” he says. “For dinner. Or whatever meal this is. I lost track after breakfast.”
“It’s 4 p.m.,” Nut says. “So… something.”
“Limbo,” Hong says. “Stay for limbo.”
“Okay,” Nut says.
They end up with delivery containers spread out on the coffee table, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The TV plays some show neither of them are really watching, the volume low enough that their quiet fills the space between lines of dialogue.
At one point, Hong’s chopsticks slip and smear sauce on his wrist. He swears under his breath.
Nut reaches over without thinking and wipes it away with his thumb.
He could use a napkin. He doesn’t.
Hong’s arm goes still.
Nut realizes what he’s doing half a beat after his hand has already moved. He should pull back. He doesn’t.
For a few seconds, it’s just that: Nut’s fingers warm against Hong’s skin, Hong’s pulse beating under his thumb, the air between them thickening.
Then Hong looks at him, really looks, and the tension shifts from accidental to deliberate.
“Careful,” Hong says, voice very quiet.
“You started this,” Nut says. “You invited me for limbo.”
“I didn’t know it came with hand-holding,” Hong says, but he doesn’t pull away.
“This isn’t hand-holding,” Nut says.
“No,” Hong says. “It’s worse.”
“Worse?” Nut repeats.
“Better,” Hong corrects. “Which is worse.”
Nut’s mouth tips up at one corner.
He doesn’t move his hand until Hong deliberately turns his wrist over, palm up, offering more skin.
“Bold,” Nut says.
“Committed,” Hong replies.
They don’t kiss this time. They don’t need to. The memory of the last one sits between them, quiet and bright.
Later, when the containers are empty and the credits roll over a show neither of them followed, they end up back on the couch.
Hong’s head finds Nut’s shoulder like it’s done it a hundred times. Nut’s arm goes around him like it always belonged there.
“You know,” Hong says as he’s drifting toward sleep, “I don’t think I want… a big happy ending.”
“Good,” Nut says. “We’re not in a movie.”
“I just want… this,” Hong continues. “Stupid fridge. Bad takeout. You making sure I don’t get lost between cereal and pasta. Me bullying you into using coasters.”
“I use coasters,” Nut protests.
“Not enough,” Hong says. “I’m tragically underchallenged.”
Nut huffs.
“This,” he echoes. “I can do this.”
“Minimum standard,” Hong murmurs. “We stay. We show up. We don’t run, even when it’s boring. Or ugly. Or… real.”
“That’s survival standards,” Nut says.
Hong smiles against his shoulder.
“Exactly,” he says.
His breathing evens out.
Nut sits there, listening, until he’s sure Hong is fully asleep. Then he lets his own eyes close.
There will be bad days. Ugly ones. Nights where the photograph in the drawer hurts more than it did today. Cases that drag him away, memories that drag Hong under.
But right now, in a small apartment that still smells faintly like soy sauce and printer ink, there are two people who have decided to stay.
It’s not a grand redemption arc.
It’s enough.
#6. starting to stay
Hong wakes to the smell of something faintly burnt.
He shuffles out of the bedroom, hair a mess, eyes barely open.
Nut is in the kitchen, holding a pan like it’s a suspect he’s interrogating. The toast inside is… not ideal.
Hong leans on the doorway.
“…You tried,” he says.
Nut sighs. “I got distracted.”
“By what?” Hong asks.
Nut hesitates. “You.”
Hong blinks. “I was asleep.”
“That’s the problem,” Nut says quietly.
“Sometimes when you’re quiet, I check to make sure you’re still breathing.”
Hong’s throat tightens.
He walks over, takes the burnt toast from Nut’s hand, sets it aside, and slips his arms around his waist.
“You don’t have to do that,” Hong murmurs.
“I know,” Nut says. “But I want to.”
Hong rests his forehead against Nut’s collarbone.
“You know what scares me?” he asks softly. “I think I’m finally starting to want to stay.”
Nut’s hands come up to his back, steady and warm.
“That’s survival standards,” Nut says. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Hong closes his eyes.
He can live with that.