Archive of Our Own

It’s one of those busy afternoons, and as much as Hanbin wants to leave early, he can’t. The meeting lasted a little longer than expected, but that happens almost all the time. Hanbin enters his office a few minutes before 3 p.m. and turns on his computer without wasting another second.

Hanbin’s phone vibrates on the desk before he can put it away to avoid distractions. His mother’s contact appears on the screen, and Hanbin mentally calculates the time in Seoul, frowning because it’s only seven in the morning and his mother doesn’t usually call him so early, especially when Hanbin is still at the office.

He doesn’t even have a chance to say hello, his mother’s voice sounding too excited and rushed for the time that is.

“Hanbin? Congratulations, my son! Oh, I can’t believe it, we’re so happy for you. What a wonderful surprise, although I would have loved that you tell us in person. But it doesn’t matter, the important thing is that you’ve taken this big step, and I’m sure you were nervous about how we were going to react, but you have nothing to worry about, we’re very proud of you.”

Hanbin blinks, confused. He sits up straight in his chair and checks his calendar as if it might give him some answer.

“What?” Hanbin asks, puzzled.

“I’m so excited to meet Zhang Hao,” she says with a dreamy sigh.

Zhang who? Who the hell is that?

“What?” Hanbin repeats again. He’d never been so confused in a conversation with his mother.

But his mother doesn’t stop. She speaks with an enthusiasm that overflows the call.

“Maybe you didn’t know how to tell us, so you sent us the certificate by mail. It’s okay, Hanbin, we understand,” she says. “Although you can’t imagine the look on our faces when we saw it…”

“Let him speak!” He hears his father’s voice.

“What are you talking about, mom?” Hanbin feels like a fool, like somebody’s playing a joke on him. He looks around to see if he notices Gyuvin or Matthew, or both of them, spying on him while recording and laughing at him. But he doesn’t see anyone.

“Your marriage, Hanbin!” she says, laughing. “Your father and I are delighted.”

Marri― What?

The silence that follows is long and heavy. He stares at the computer screen, phone pressed to his ear, trying to process what he just heard.

“Is that why you bought a new house?” she suddenly adds, with a mixture of curiosity and excitement.

With a brusque gesture, Hanbin hangs up the call.

The phone remains on the desk, but completely turned off. Hanbin knows that a flood of messages and calls is building up, and that these will surely come later. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. At least not now. He has to resolve this first.

The office is silent, except for the hum of the air conditioner and the click of the mouse. Outside, the building continues its usual rhythm, with the sounds of keyboards, footsteps, and the muffled voices of workers in the hallway, holding a cup of coffee, or papers. Inside, Hanbin feels as if the world has stopped.

Hanbin runs a hand over his face, trying to clear his head. He opens his email, his inbox is full of unread messages, but his gaze automatically travels to the emails that were forwarded to his mother. There are two emails. One with the flights he bought for his parents for his sister’s graduation in Berkeley, and below it another from a chapel in Clark County, Nevada, with the subject line “Marriage Certificate”. He feels a chill run down his spine.

The mail stares mockingly at him, daring him to open it and look inside. Hanbin almost expects it to be a fake certificate, a well-planned prank by Gyuvin. His eyes linger on the names. Sung Hanbin and Zhang Hao. He stares at the document, no blinking, his pulse racing and a growing pressure in his chest. Everything seems too real, their signatures, the seal, the date, everything.

The thing is, Hanbin was in Vegas for a work conference. He knows that on the last night he got very drunk, like everyone else, and that was it. He doesn’t remember meeting anyone outside of the people who were with him, or going to any chapel, or taking him back to his room. He woke up alone in his hotel bed with a terrible hangover. He has absolutely no idea who this Zhang Hao is or how any of this could have happened.

Until a few minutes ago, Hanbin thought that getting married in Vegas was something that only happened in the movies.

But, there’s something he can’t overlook in all of this, why that email reached his mother.

Gyuvin.

Hanbin strides out of his office, ignoring everyone around him, his focus fixed on Gyuvin several meters away, laughing at something Gunwook is telling him. Both of them turn to look at Hanbin, broad smiles on their faces, ready to include him in the conversation, smiles that vanish when they see the tense expression on his face.

“Did something happen?” Gyuvin asks cautiously.

“You forwarded the email about the flights to my mother, right?”

“Yes,” Gyuvin straightens up. “I did it right after you left for the meeting.”

“Did you check the files before sending them?”

“No?” Gyuvin tilts his head.

“Clearly you didn’t!” Hanbin replies, his voice rising a little higher than he intended. A few heads turn toward them, discreet but curious. Gunwook puts a hand to his mouth.

“What? I only did what you asked me to do.”

Hanbin exhales sharply, trying to remain calm. “Come to my office. Now.”

Gyuvin follows him to his office, completely bewildered, and they leave Gunwook there, even more bewildered. “If I did something wrong, it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t treated me like your assistant.”

“I only asked you for a favor because I was going to be late for the meeting,” Hanbin closes the door behind them and slumps down at his desk.

“So what did I do?”

“Watch it yourself,” Hanbin turns the computer screen around. Gyuvin leans over to look at the document with official seals and Hanbin’s name next to another man’s.

“What is this?” Gyuvin asks, although the answer is obvious.

“My marriage certificate,” Hanbin says, hushed voice, hoping it’s all a ridiculous dream and he’ll wake up soon. “My mother received it with the flights. She called to congratulate me.”

Gyuvin stares at him for a second, then lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “You got married?”

“No!” Gyuvin looks at the license again. “I mean, apparently legally, yes, but I have no idea with whom. I don’t remember anything.”

“No, wait. You got married in Vegas,” Gyuvin says. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone to my room early that night!”

If Gyuvin had stayed that night, probably none of this would have happened, because he doesn’t drink alcohol and he would have stopped Hanbin from doing anything stupid, just like what he did. Hanbin doesn’t say anything.

“I thought that only happened in the movies,” Gyuvin laughs again, but this time for real.

Hanbin rolls his eyes, while Gyuvin continues laughing, clutching his stomach and all. Five minutes later, Gyuvin tries to stop laughing, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Did you finish?”

“Dude, you got married drunk,” Gyuvin stifles another laugh. “Congratulations on your marriage!”

“Thanks,” Hanbin replies sarcastically. “Stop laughing, this is serious.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” Gyuvin straightens up and sits down in front of Hanbin. “What did your mother say?”

“She said she was excited to meet my husband. She even thinks I bought a new house because I’m going to live with him,” Hanbin sighed deeply. “And I hung up on her. I couldn’t say anything. I have no idea how to explain that I married a stranger in a drunken moment and don’t remember it or him.”

Gyuvin remains silent.

“This is bad any way you look at it,” Hanbin stares at the screen. “Not only I’m going to break my mother’s heart, but she’s going to be so disappointed because her brilliant son was so incredibly reckless on what was supposed to be a business trip.”

“Damn it, Hanbin, I’m sorry,” Gyuvin sounds genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t actually read the emails, I only forwarded the ones that weren’t work-related. I didn’t mean to mess things up like this.”

“No, it’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Come on, it’s not okay. I was the one who forwarded the emails.”

“And I was the one who got married drunk. If anyone is to blame, it’s me,” Gyuvin looks at him conflictedly, and Hanbin holds his gaze.

He gives up easily, sighing, but the guilt doesn’t disappear from his face. “What are you going to do then?”

Hanbin is caught between a rock and a hard place. His parents are going to Los Angeles first before heading to Berkeley for Ahreum’s graduation. His mother has been excited to see his new house and how she can help with the decorating, giving it that homey touch only mothers can. Now that they know about the wedding, they’re not only looking forward to seeing a new house but also his supposed husband, whom, if it wasn’t clear, he doesn’t know and doesn’t remember.

“I don’t know, it’s either tell my parents the truth or get a husband named Zhang Hao within two weeks.”

“Then we have to find Zhang Hao,” Hanbin stares at him as if he’s grown a second head. Before he can ask anything, Gyuvin speaks up. “If there’s a certificate, there must be records, someone had to sign it with you. Maybe there are even photos, witnesses, something.”

Just thinking about his mother’s reaction when she finds out the truth makes his stomach churn.

Hanbin’s only option is to find Zhang Hao. Not only because his parents found out about the marriage certificate—before he did—but because they need to end the marriage before things get more complicated. The idea of searching for a stranger he apparently married while drunk is complicated, but not impossible. He’ll do everything in his power to find him and avoid seeing his mother’s hopeful face as she asks about his nonexistent husband, only to later learn that there never was one.

“We have to find him, Gyuvin, right now.”

The rest of the afternoon feels endless. Hanbin tries to focus on finishing his work, as if nothing has happened, as if everything were the same as before and Hanbin had no real reason to be distracted. Even if he wanted to find Zhang Hao right then and there, he wasn’t paid to do that, so he had to fulfill his responsibilities. For a few hours, he ignores the fact that he’s trapped in a reality he can’t quite grasp.

The clock strikes six. He shuts down his computer, gathers his things, and leaves his office. As he walks, he has the feeling that the entire floor is watching him, even though he knows no one has any idea what’s going on. The elevator is empty, which is fortunate for Hanbin, but the silence does little to clear his mind. He drives home in silence, the slow traffic and the afternoon sun accompanying his scattered thoughts.

A cold house greets him. There are still unpacked boxes dispersed around the living room and kitchen, but Hanbin ignores them as he walks to his room. What he can no longer ignore are the messages from his parents.

Bin, don’t worry if it all happened so fast. The important thing is that you’re happy. We’ll talk more when we get to Los Angeles.

Hanbin lets out a long sigh and buries his face in a pillow. That sounds like both a promise and a threat.

Ahreum’s chat awaits, and Hanbin begins to feel bad. Ahreum is never left out of anything, she finds out about things before his parents, and there are even things only she knows. Hanbin tells her everything, and Ahreum tells him everything. There are no secrets between them.

You got married and didn’t tell me?! Mom called me crying. I want details NOW.

Hanbin looks at the message with a mixture of guilt and exhaustion. His family, always so expressive. He buries his face in the pillow again.

He answers messages in the shortest and vaguest way he can find, he doesn’t want to imply things that aren’t true (everything) or reveal what he is currently trying his hardest to hide.

The silence in the room feels heavier than usual. He turns over in bed, staring at the ceiling. He tries to remember something, anything—a face, a name, a moment—but all he has of that night in Vegas are blurry fragments of lights, laughter, music. He doesn’t even have a faint feeling of having been with anyone.

Zhang Hao. Who are you?

♠

Then, several things happened.

The first thing they did, perhaps the most important thing at the moment, was to contact Jiwoong. Kim Jiwoong, coincidentally a civil attorney and a friend of both of them since college, an efficient and brilliant man—the kind of help they need. It was embarrassing for Hanbin to explain what is happening, but Jiwoong remained calm as always, with that strange tranquility that comes with being a lawyer, and agreed to help him as quickly as possible. They are simply waiting for his response.

The second thing is that, Gyuvin, God knows how, found Zhang Hao.

Hanbin still doesn’t understand how he managed it, or when he found the time between meetings and calls. But there’s his professional profile, a photo, and an impeccable description. Music teacher at a prestigious academy in Los Angeles. Of course. The universe decided there was no need for geographical distance to complicate things further. Small victories, he supposes.

Hao’s photo stares back at him. He looks around his age, serene, with a small smile. The kind of person who seems to have his life perfectly in order, the complete opposite of Hanbin at this moment. But… not for long.

“See? I told you it couldn’t be that hard,” Gyuvin says, with a poorly disguised air of pride. “Unless you married a ghost.”

A mixture of relief and bewilderment floods Hanbin’s chest. He continues to stare silently at the screen, as if he could communicate with Hao with his mind alone.

“I know the man is cute, but can you stop staring at his picture?” Gyuvin leans back in the chair. Hanbin looks at him tired. “And how do you plan to explain to him that you got married and now your family knows?”

“I don’t know. How am I supposed to start that conversation? ‘Hi, I’m your husband and my parents want to meet you?’”

“It could work. Sounds honest.”

“Sounds like a psychopath.”

Gyuvin laughs, but Hanbin doesn’t. He looks at the contact email on the academy’s website, hesitating whether to click it or not. He has no idea what to say that won’t sound awkward, confusing, or downright alarming. “Good afternoon, this is Sung Hanbin. I believe there was an error with a legal document involving your name…” “Hello, Zhang Hao. I don’t know if you remember anything about Las Vegas…” “Dear Mr. Zhang…”

How can he explain the situation without sounding weird or like a stalker?

“I can help you write something—”

“No.”

“But—”

“You’ve helped me enough, Gyuvin,” Hanbin says, Hao’s email mocking him. Gyuvin ignores him, typing away on his laptop without looking up once. Hanbin doesn’t try to stop him, he won’t be able to.

“Hao gives music lessons, I emailed him to schedule one,” Gyuvin sends him the email. Okay, Hanbin has to admit that was a smart move, something that wouldn’t occur to him, at least not in this moment of inner despair. “I already have confirmation. Friday at 2 p.m. You’re going to take the afternoon off and you’re not going to object to that, because you can’t.”

Friday at 2. He has a day and a half to plan how he will tell Hao everything.

“Thank you,” Hanbin murmurs.

“It’s the least I can do,” Gyuvin now sounds serious. “I really didn’t want things to get this complicated.”

“I know. I already told you it’s not your fault.”

Gyuvin nods distractedly, his eyes fixed on the screen again. Hanbin remains silent, watching as Gyuvin’s brow furrows more and more. He observes him typing for a few seconds, with that suspicious concentration he often displays when he’s about to discover something he’d rather not know.

“Is something wrong?” Hanbin asks, feeling strange. Gyuvin doesn’t answer, he just stares at the screen, his brows deeply furrowed, the cursor motionless.

A heavy silence settles between them. Hanbin straightens up in his chair.

“Jiwoong just sent an email,” Gyuvin looked up, uncertain, his expression a mixture of surprise and a hint of worry. “He’ll call any minute now.”

At that precise moment, a video call pops up on the screen. Gyuvin accepts immediately, settling his laptop on the desk. Jiwoong is on the other side, a cup of coffee in hand, his face serious. From his expression and Gyuvin’s earlier reaction, Hanbin knows things have taken a turn for the worse.

“Let’s get to the point,” Jiwoong takes a sip of his coffee. “Did you receive my email with the documents?” Gyuvin nods and opens the tab so Hanbin can see them. “I checked everything. The documents are signed and registered, it’s completely legal.”

“But how legal can it be if I don’t remember signing it?”

“You may not remember, but you did,” Jiwoong says calmly. “There are records of your signatures and identity verification. The document was processed correctly.”

“And how can we cancel it?” Hanbin asks, suddenly feeling overly nervous. Jiwoong silently adjusts his glasses, and Gyuvin tenses beside him. Hanbin watches them impatiently, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Don’t scare me. What’s going on?”

“For now, you can’t cancel it,” Jiwoong finally replies.

There’s not a verbal respond by Gyuvin, he only points to a paragraph in the document. It’s a clause, a required cohabitation period, originally located in the license, almost hidden among legal technicalities.

“Both parties agree to live together for a minimum period of three consecutive months before initiating any proceedings to dissolve the marital bond. Failure to comply with this clause could result in financial penalties and a civil record, according to local regulations.”

Oh, Hanbin is really fucked up.

“This has to be a joke,” Hanbin rereads the text, line by line, hoping he’s misunderstood it. Just when Hanbin thinks things can’t get any worse, the universe proves him wrong. Awesome!

“I’m sorry, Hanbin,” Jiwoong says finally, his voice almost gentle. “There’s not much more I can legally do for now.”

The video call ends a few minutes later, after Jiwoong explains something else that Hanbin couldn’t pay attention to.

“You know,” Gyuvin closes his laptop and shrugs. “Maybe they’re just trying to get people to stop getting married drunk.”

“Living together for three months,” Hanbin still can’t believe it. “I don’t even know who that guy is!”

“Well, now you know he lives in Los Angeles and you have a date with him on Friday.”

Hanbin ignores it. It’s not a date, it’s an appointment! He drops his head onto the desk, squeezing his eyes shut. Hopefully, he’ll open them and it will all have been a bad dream. But he’s not lucky, because it’s his unbelievable reality.

“My parents are coming in two weeks, my mother thinks I’m happily married and I have to live with a stranger for three months to avoid a fine.”

“Technically, with your husband,” Gyuvin corrects.

“You’re not helping.”

Silence settles in again. Hanbin stares out the office window, the sunset city’s reflection distorting his face in the glass. His life has always been meticulously organized; he likes to have everything under control, something he recklessly lost in a moment that was supposed to be fun. Now his life has just been reduced to an absurd legal comedy. Three months. Three months to pretend everything is under control.

♣

Unfortunately for Hanbin, he can’t skip his date with Hao.

He spends his entire morning going through emails that don’t make sense to him because he’s incredibly nervous. And fine, Hanbin has been in tight spots before, but never in a marriage he can’t remember. Try as he might, there’s no way he can prepare himself for what’s coming.

Now he’s there, in the car, in front of the academy building, his hands sweating on the steering wheel. He’s been sitting there for twenty minutes, mentally preparing what to say, but everything sounds wrong, nothing sounds like something a sane person would say. How do you tell someone you got married unintentionally? Because, well, they’re both involved in this and they both have to take responsibility, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

The warm air from the street hits his face as he gets out of the car. He climbs the stairs with hesitant steps, silently rehearsing what he’ll say, how he’ll introduce himself, what expression he should wear. The receptionist shows him his classroom, the door half-open, but Hanbin knocks before entering. A voice on the other side, soft but clear, tells him he can come in. The door opens, and for a moment, Hanbin forgets everything he was going to say.

Hao sits behind the desk, the midday light streaming through the half-open blinds. He wears a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his dark hair styled carelessly on purpose, and a relaxed concentration that seems oblivious to the chaos of the outside world. To the chaos inside Hanbin.

Hanbin stood still. He hadn’t expected it to be like this. He hadn’t expected him to be like this. The photo he’d seen earlier didn’t do justice to what was in front of him. If someone told Hanbin that this man was an actor, a singer, or a model, he wouldn’t hesitate to believe it immediately.

There’s something about Hao that disarms him. He can’t tell if it’s his serene and elegant presence or his incredibly beautiful face. He doesn’t seem like a real person, but rather a carefully crafted image.

“Kim Gyuvin?”

“Yeah, no, uh…” Hanbin begins awkwardly. “I’m Sung Hanbin, Gyuvin’s friend.”

“Ah, hello Hanbin,” Hao smiles at him kindly. Hanbin wonders if he’ll keep smiling like that after he ruins his day with the news. “Have a seat,” he gestures to the chair next to the desk.

“Thank you,” Hanbin says, scanning the room. It’s large, with perfectly arranged chairs and music stands, decorated with murals covered in schedules, announcements, photos of students at past recitals, and handwritten notes, and a long black bookshelf at the far end. He pauses for a moment, unsure how to begin. “I’m not here for tutoring. I know this might sound a little odd, but… I need to explain something to you.”

Hao nods, saying nothing, his eyes watching him intently. That makes him even more nervous.

“A few weeks ago I was in Vegas, on a business trip. Then, there was this night, I don’t remember anything, but something happened.”

Hanbin takes out a folder, the certificate inside, along with the other information Jiwoong had gathered for him. He feels a hot rise in his neck as he places it on the desk for Hao to take it.

“Well, I received this in the email,” Hanbin said, pressing his lips together as Hao opened the folder. “It says I’m married. To you.”

The room suddenly feels cold, with an almost deafening silence. Hanbin feels his own pulse pounding in his ears. Say it right, explain it clearly. But there’s no way he can sound coherent anymore.

“I know it’s crazy,” he adds quickly, his hands fidgeting on his knees. “I don’t understand how it happened either. I just wanted to clear things up, see if you received anything too.”

Hao carefully picks up the document. His fingers trace the lines, as if he were reading a musical score. His expression doesn’t change. There’s a hint of surprise, but no anger, no disbelief, just a disconcerting serenity. “Wow,” he says finally, placing the paper on the desk. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Is that all?” Hanbin asks, almost without meaning to.

“Well. You don’t seem to be lying,” Hao looks at him again, both his expression and his tone gentle. “Or are you lying?”

“No! Not at all. I wouldn’t do something like that.” Hanbin quickly denies it. He’d have to be insane to plan something like that. Actually, he wished he were lying right then and there. “This is all very real.”

“So,” Hao rests his elbows on the desk and clasps his hands together. “As I see, you’ve already confirmed that this is real. What remains is to see what we do with it.”

Hao’s calmness makes him more nervous than he could have imagined. All the urgency and vertigo he feels seems to be bouncing off an invisible shield of tranquility.

“There’s something else,” Hanbin’s voice is barely a whisper. Hao looks at him patiently, giving him time to find the right words. “My parents accidentally received the email with the certificate.”

“Ah,” Hao raises an eyebrow slightly, without losing his composure.

“In two weeks they’re coming to my house and,” he pauses, letting out a sigh, “they want to meet the person I married.”

Hanbin tells him everything: how his parents ended up receiving the email, their belief that he’s happily married, the inevitable visit, and the trip to Berkeley for his younger sister’s graduation. He’s about to think Hao will laugh in his face or tell him to leave the room if he doesn’t want that he calls security or something. But Hao, after listening without interrupting, simply nods.

“Fine.”

The word sounds so easy that Hanbin barely registers it. He blinks. Fine? Just like that?

“Fine?” Hanbin repeats, incredulous. “Is it really fine?”

“I don’t know,” he remains composed, “but what do you want me to say? Weren’t you expecting me to accept?”

“Yes, but…” Hanin begins, trying to find a reasonable argument. He has nothing.

Hao looks at him, managing a smile, as if he understands more than he says. “Remind me how long your parents will be staying home?”

-

The reality check comes at the weekend.

The legal details Jiwoong sent them were crystal clear. It didn’t simply mean waiting three months and then signing a quick divorce papers. It meant having to live together. Hanbin wished he could change the reality behind those words.

“Three months. Verifiable cohabitation, shared address, bills…” Hanbin says.

“How romantic,” Hao jokes, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Won’t it be a problem with your place if you stay at mine?”

“I have a roommate,” Hao replies with a smile, tilting his head. What the fuck, he looks cuter that way. “I won’t be homeless after these three months if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Hanbin laughs softly. They have no choice but to joke around, or they’ll go crazy.

“I had to tell him everything. I couldn’t just go and come back in three months without giving him an explanation,” Hao lets out a chuckle. “And Ricky is like my brother, there are no secrets between us.”

“If I had found out some other way, Gyuvin would have known anyway,” Hanbin says. “Even if I didn’t tell him, he would know I was hiding something.”

That’s fine, they both have someone to talk to about the situation other than themselves.

If they plan to file for divorce after the three months—which they will—they should keep household utility bills and joint correspondence. It’s important to have evidence.

The air between them is thick with a silent resignation. Hao, for his part, remains calm, though Hanbin notices he’s more tense. He doesn’t seem very happy about it either, but he doesn’t protest. Not that either of them has a choice, because they both got themselves into this mess and have to take responsibility for it. At least they’re lucky enough to live in the same city, that makes things easier.

Hanbin’s house is big enough for both of them. But Hanbin is used to his solitude, to having plenty of space all to himself. His meticulously organized routine, his days scheduled down to the minute, his necessary silence for thinking—all of that has just become useless. Hao’s routine is also disrupted, and Hanbin feels sorry for him, because it’s Hao who has to leave his place behind to go to a new one, with someone he doesn’t know, but who is legally his husband.

“Think of it as if we’re housemates, not spouses. You have your space and I have mine,” Hanbin says, more to convince himself than Hao.

They have little time to turn the house into a home for two, with all the work and Hanbin’s parents arriving in just a few weeks. For God’s sake, Hanbin hasn’t even finished unpacking his own things. Hao arrives with a couple of suitcases, a huge box, a backpack, and—is that a violin? He moves meticulously, almost politely, greets them with a slight nod, and asks where to put his things.

Hanbin shows him around the house. The living room, the dining room, the kitchen, the laundry room, the guest bathroom, even the balconies and the terrace overlooking the courtyard, up to the second floor, where there’s another smaller living room, and they reach the hallway leading to the bedrooms. There’s another bathroom there and three bedrooms: Hanbin’s and two empty ones. They go into the bigger, empty bedroom.

“This is your room,” Hanbin lets Hao in. “It has good light in the mornings.”

“Good to know,” Hao says, looking around. The room is spotless because no one has used it, white walls, minimalist furniture, perfectly aligned curtains.

“It’s fine?” Hanbin asks, sounding anxious, and Hao nods. He goes to the window, from there, he can see the entrance to the house.

“When your parents arrive,” Hao begins, still looking out the window. “If they see us sleeping in separate rooms, it’ll be weird, don’t you think?”

Hao turns around, and for a second, Hanbin forgets how to breathe, the light filtering through the window casting a golden glow on his skin. Hao is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful men Hanbin has ever seen.

Hanbin blinks.

Of course, his parents aren’t dumb. If they’re going to meet their son’s supposed husband, they’ll expect to see at least some appearance of a life together.

“Yes,” he says awkwardly. “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

More than you already are, he doesn’t add. Hao looks at him silently, his big eyes analyzing him before speaking.

“It’s only a few days, right?” Hanbin nods. “I have no problem sharing a bed with you.”

“Alright.”

“I’m not going to invade your space. I’ll just leave a few things there and bring my work materials here,” Hanbin nods again. “That way it will be easier to move anything else when all this is over.”

Later they begin to unpack. Hanbin takes Hao’s suitcases to his room, and looks at him for a minute longer than usual as he opens his suitcase and begins to take out his things, the impersonal white gradually disappearing with all the color that Hao carries with him.

They both work without talking much. Hao finishes his room and then organizes the rest of his things in Hanbin’s room, so he won’t have to stress about it later, while Hanbin takes care of finishing unpacking his boxes, cleaning, moving furniture, and adjusting details. Between the two of them, they transform Hanbin’s lonely house into something resembling a home, though neither dares to call it that, because it isn’t. And in three months, everything will be back to how it always was.

Hanbin looks the space with a mixture of tiredness and amazement, the house feels different, more human, more real. Something is still missing, though, but Hanbin doesn’t register it at the moment.

“I think we deserve a decent dinner,” Hanbin suggets, pulling out his phone.

They order food, nothing fancy. Something quick, but that won’t force them to talk too much yet. In a clumsy attempt to maintain control, Hanbin suggests watching a movie. He doesn’t really want to watch it, but he needs time to collect his thoughts, to decide how to approach the inevitable conversation that awaits them. Hao agrees with a relaxed gesture and sits cross-legged on the sofa, observing the minimalist decor of the living room. Hanbin notices that his presence feels natural, too natural for someone who has just moved in with a stranger.

The movie starts, but neither of them is really paying attention. Hanbin’s eyes are glued to the screen, though his mind is elsewhere. They need to talk about a lot of things.

The murmur of dialogue on the television mingles with the clinking of cutlery. Hao eats his dinner, occasionally chuckling at something the characters do, making Hanbin wonder if he’s truly this composed all the time, or if it’s just a facade and he’s just as nervous inside. Hao laughs again, and again, Hanbin is oblivious to what’s happening on screen, more focused on glancing at him and half-eating. Each bite makes his stomach sink.

Outside, night is finally falling, the movie credits appearing on the screen. Hanbin leaves the remains of his meal on the coffee table and picks up his water bottle, unsure of what to do next. The credits finish and the homescreen returns, the blue light illuminating Hao’s face, and Hanbin thinks he never imagined sharing a couch with someone under these circumstances.

The more he thinks about it, the more absurd it seems. But Hao is there, as real as the bottle he holds in his hands.

“I think we need to talk,” Hanbin finally says. The elephant in the room is so big that it can no longer be ignored.

“Yeah,” Hao replies. “The sooner the better.”

Hanbin starts playing with the bottle cap, just to have something to do with his hands. He begins with what seems easiest.

“It would be good to establish some basic rules,” Hao nods. “I’m not usually much at home, usually around dinnertime, so I won’t get in your way. You can make all the noise you want, the walls are thick, and you can do whatever you want, too.”

“You have such a big house and you don’t live in it,” Hao looks at him with a mixture of amusement and astonishment. “Wouldn’t an apartment or something have been better?”

“I like having a lot of space,” Hanbin replies, feeling the blood rush up his neck to his cheeks.

Embarrassment strikes him quickly, as it always does when he talks about his domestic routine out loud. Hao continues to watch him, amused, but doesn’t add anything else.

“I have a cleaning service that comes once a week,” he continues, trying to sound casual. “I usually do my shopping on the weekends, but when I’m really busy, they deliver it to my house. If you want any specific food, just let me know and I can add it to the list.”

The topic of bills comes up immediately, with them discussing what’s fair and what isn’t. The truth is, Hanbin wouldn’t have a problem handling everything himself, and he wants to cause Hao as little trouble as he already has—even though moving in together is something they were eventually going to have to do. They reach an agreement on how to split the bills, after Hanbin initially resists most of Hao’s requests, but ultimately gives in because Hao looks at him with enough sureness that any argument falls apart before they even leave.

“Fine,” Hao settles more comfortably on the sofa. “And what about when your parents come over?”

Well, that’s it, perhaps the hardest part for Hanbin. He’s too close to his family, his parents know him very well—they’ve seen him with a partner, they know how Hanbin acts when he likes someone. But for them, he’s not just ‘the boy Hanbin likes’, he’s ‘the man Hanbin is in love with, and that’s why they got married’. They need to present this perfectly if they don’t want his parents to find out something’s wrong.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

“Look, I know the situation is awkward, the best thing is to try to make it stop being like that.” Hao says it as if it were that easy. “It’s not like we have to kiss in front of them or anything, just, I don’t know, hold hands and start looking at each other like we’re actually married and not two people who met yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Hanbin clears his throat. “Yes, you’re right.”

“Maybe pet names,” Hao continues. Pet names, yes, Hanbin can do that. “And if we have to kiss, then we will,” he adds. “It’s only a few days, it can’t be that complicated.”

Hanbin swallowed hard. The idea, even a hypothetical one, of having to kiss Hao if necessary sent shivers down his spine. It wasn’t that he disliked it—quite the opposite, Hao is incredibly handsome, and his lips are so beautiful. Stop, Hanbin, enough.

“Yeah,” he repeats awkwardly.

“So, anything else?” Hao asks, sounding slightly animated. Hao seems to accept the chaos with an ease he envies. Perhaps that’s why he finds it a little harder to bring up the next topic.

“Actually, yes,” Hanbin pulls his legs up on the sofa, hugging his knees. “About Vegas, do you remember anything?”

“I was at a friend’s birthday party,” Hao explains. “I remember you, you bought me a drink, but by then I was pretty drunk, so I don’t remember anything else. I woke up because I had a flight. I didn’t wake you up because it was around six in the morning, and well, I thought it had been a one-night stand without any consequences.”

Hanbin stares at him, unable to decide whether to laugh or cover his face in embarrassment. “Without any consequences, right. I think we did that well.”

Hao lets out a soft laugh, and Hanbin imitates it. “Ricky doesn’t remember anything either, we really got a little out of control that night.”

“On the other hand, Gyuvin wasn’t even there. He went back to his room early before things got out of hand because he’s not a big fan of alcohol-fueled environments,” Hanbin says. “It was a business trip, and it was the last night, so I guess we wanted to liven it up,” he chuckles, though it sounds more like a sigh. “And since I woke up alone, I never imagined anything like that had happened.”

“But let’s look on the bright side, at least we didn’t marry a fat old man.”

“Oh, thank God. I wouldn’t know how to explain to my parents why I have a Sugar Daddy.”

For the first time, they both genuinely laugh. It’s almost liberating, the tension barely eases, and the atmosphere becomes a little more human. The rest of the night goes better. The television turns off, the house falls silent, and Hanbin thinks that, although all of this seems like something out of a cheap romantic comedy, there’s something about Hao that makes him feel that maybe the next three months won’t be as difficult as he thinks.

♥

Monday starts differently. There’s none of the tension from the first night, nor the awkward silence of two strangers trying to share the same space. To Hanbin’s surprise, it’s not so difficult to align his routine with Hao’s, they understood each other immediately, found a natural rhythm, and it seems as if they’ve been living together for a long time, not just a single day.

Hanbin wakes up earlier and prepares breakfast. Hao appears shortly after, his hair still damp from shower. He turns on the coffee maker and also makes himself some tea. Once the coffee is ready, Hao pours two cups and places them on the island without a word. It seems as if this gesture is part of a shared habit, but it isn’t. The silence between them isn’t awkward. They move with unexpected synchronicity, avoiding getting in each other’s way, passing things without asking, filling in the gaps of a routine that doesn’t exist but, for some reason, fits perfectly. Hanbin is surprised by how natural it all feels.

It’s strange, as if they’ve done this thousands of times. But Hanbin isn’t complaining, and he won’t complain.

While they eat breakfast, Hanbin checks his schedule and mentally reviews everything he needs to do before his parents arrive. Every now and then, he glances up at Hao, who hasn’t said much, focused in his phone and finishing his cup of coffee.

“Did you sleep well?” Hanbin breaks the silence.

“Yeah. Pretty good, actually,” Hao replies with a small smile. “The bed is comfortable. Much better than mine.”

“It’s good that you like the bed,” Hanbin laughs. Hao finishes his coffee and takes both empty cups straight to the sink.

Silence falls again, the only sound is the running water. Hanbin feels the need to add anything else. He stands up and helps Hao finish washing the rest of the dishes.

“I’ll take you to work.” From there, Hao’s way is longer, slightly more inconvenient, and Hanbin doesn’t want to make Hao’s life more complicated.

“It’s not necessary. I found the perfect bus route, so there’s no problem.”

“It doesn’t bother me, I can take you there,” Hanbin says, his voice sounding more insistent.

“Don’t you have to go out of your way to take me to work?” Hao asks, raising an eyebrow. Hanbin bites his lower lip.

“Yes, but I don’t mind. I’ll take you to work,” Hanbin repeats, this time with certainty. He doesn’t give Hao a chance to refuse, so he sighs and agrees. Hanbin doesn’t mind taking longer to get to work, besides, it’s the least he can do for Hao.

The trip is easy. Hao stares out the window for most of the way, humming a tune Hanbin doesn’t recognize, and for a moment, the absurd thought that maybe he could get used to it crosses his mind.

Hanbin arrives at his building one minute late. It doesn’t matter.

But it does matter. He gets curious glances and knows he’s screwed when he makes eye contact with Matthew. As if the world is against him, that’s the very day Gyuvin has fieldwork with some rather difficult clients, so he’s not there to have his back or even talk to him all day. Great.

“What kind of miracle are we witnessing? Hanbin arriving late!” Matthew says excitedly. Too excitedly, because those who weren’t paying attention are now.

“It was only a minute,” Hanbin rolls his eyes.

“Hanbin, you’re thirty minutes late,” Matthew narrows his eyes at him. “You left early on Friday and took Saturday off. Which is unusual. Especially since you requested a weekend off this month for your sister’s graduation.”

How does he know that? Since when does Matthew know his schedule? And why does he know it?!

“I had other things to do,” Hanbin continues walking toward his office. He isn’t willing to lose any more work time, because he’d already lost too much.

"The thing is, you never have anything else to do."

They arrive at the office. Hanbin gives Matthew one last look before closing the door in his face.

To Hanbin’s dismay and Matthew’s delight, he leaves work early that day.

The house is empty when he arrives, Hao is still at work, and although Hanbin has been used to the silence and solitude for all these years, it is the first time he realizes how empty it feels.

An hour later, he hears the door open. Hao enters, carrying a plant in a pot in one hand and his bag in the other. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and his hair is slightly disheveled by the wind. The smile Hao gives Hanbin is big and bright enough to light up the entire room.

“The mother of one of my students gave it to me,” he explains, his smile smaller, but still enough to stir something in Hanbin. “This brings life to the house, and there’s an excuse to open these stupid heavy curtains.”

Hanbin can’t help but laugh. “I haven’t had a reason to open the curtains if I’m not here.”

“You don’t even open them when you’re here,” Hao says, still smiling. He places the plant on the dining room table and examines it for a moment, considering the best spot for it.

“Besides, if your parents come and see this drab house, they’ll think you’re depressed.”

Hanbin wants to say that’s probably what they thought before the news of the marriage, but doesn’t. “Does that mean you’re going to bring more plants?”

“Of course, I have more plants in my house,” he says, somehow, he’s not surprised. “And I’m not planning on living in a cave.”

Hao arranges the plant in front of the window, moves back the curtains, and lets the light in. Suddenly, the living room feels different, warmer, more lived-in.

“See?” Hao turns to him. “Much better.” Hanbin smiles, and though he doesn’t say it, he agrees.

And that’s how Hao ends up bringing his plants home. Hanbin arrives from work at his usual time and finds Hao at the door, balancing two new pots with a focused expression and a slightly furrowed brow, and a song playing softly somewhere in the house. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches as Hao tries not to spill soil in the hallway. The plants are different—one with large, glossy leaves that seem to absorb the light, and another smaller one with white flowers just beginning to open.

“Welcome home,” Hao greets, walking past him with a smile. Hanbin blinks, a mixture of disbelief and surprise in his eyes. He didn’t think Hao would take the job of bringing the house to life very seriously.

There’s no need to ask anything. Hao carefully places the plants, one on the shelf next to the television and another on the living room table, alongside some books, then steps back and looks at them with satisfaction. Hanbin feels the house changing, but it’s not because of the plants. It’s more because of Hao, making comments as he passes, murmuring observations that only he would think of, and sometimes saying something that elicits an involuntary laugh from Hanbin.

There is his smile, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes amused, sometimes gentle. It takes Hanbin’s breath away, something he can’t control. And his laughter, Hao lets it out naturally, as if unaware of its effect. It illuminates the corners where there was only silence before, and makes Hanbin surprised, wishing he could hear it more often.

-

As soon as he enters the lobby, he sees Gyuvin waiting for him with a coffee in his hand. The building is not that busy at that time of the morning, and the echo of his footsteps resonates on the perfectly polished floor. Gyuvin raises the cup in a gesture of greeting.

“How was your first week of marriage?” Gyuvin asks as they walk together toward Hanbin’s office.

“I survived,” Hanbin sighs and slumps back into the chair.

“You say it like you married the devil,” Gyuvin sits in from of him, leaning an elbow on the desk with an amused expression.

“I hope I haven’t married the devil.”

It might be too soon to say, but Hao is the complete opposite. He’s certainly not an angel, but he’s not bad at all, and Hanbin hopes things will stay this way for the next three months.

“How did he take it all?”

“Gyuvin, everything was strangely calm,” Hanbin says, looking at Gyuvin and hoping he could understand his unease with Hao and his reaction through his eyes. “I know we don’t have a choice, but he didn’t seem to spiral out of control like I did.”

Gyuvin clicks his tongue. “I think you should learn a few things from him during this time.”

It seems Hanbin will learn a few things about Hao sooner than later.

The weeks pass without any real difficulty. At first, he thought living with Hao would be an exercise of patience, an attempt to keep up appearances and survive the obligation imposed by a signature in Las Vegas, but Hao is much better than he expected.

Hanbin is usually the first to wake up, he likes the early morning silence and the order of his own routines. The truth is, he doesn’t mind Hao’s company.

The only meal they share together is breakfast, and rarely dinner. Hao isn’t a great cook, nor is Hanbin, but he’s much better, so they now have an unspoken rule: Hanbin takes care of breakfast and Hao makes the coffee, sometimes makes tea. Hanbin wasn’t a big tea drinker, but a cup of tea after a cup of coffee is a good combination.

The silence that once accompanied his loneliness is now punctuated by the murmur of a humming voice from any room, or the light touch of a violin string being tuned. Sometimes, Hanbin hears music throughout the house, from pop to classical, or Hao singing softly while preparing something in the kitchen or concentrating on his plants. Hanbin stops without realizing it, just to listen a little longer—the voice is warm and gentle, and Hanbin finds himself wanting to hear it better.

He learns that Hao studied Music Education and that’s why he teaches, since it’s not just about knowing how to play an instrument. He had the highest score on the entrance exam and was the top student every semester. Hanbin thinks Hao is a genius. He was the best in his province! He’s a true prodigy. And getting a Master of Fine Arts degree at the California Institute of the Arts is what brought him to Los Angeles.

There are times when the house seems to breathe at Hao’s rhythm. It’s as if a new plant appears every day—one on the hallway shelf, another by the study window, a small succulent on one of the living room tables. Hanbin says nothing, but he begins to make room for them, moving books and clearing corners.

Workdays can be long, and Hanbin is used to working hard. Hao leaves work earlier than him, his schedule is both more fixed and more flexible. He finds him on the sofa, with the warm lights on, working on his laptop or a piece of sheet music spread out on the table, fully concentrated, his brow slightly furrowed. He always looks up when Hanbin arrives, offering a brief smile, sometimes a cup of coffee, sometimes a cup of tea.

Their evenings become more lively. Hao always makes a comment, tells him about his day, a story about some student, or about a piece of music for the end-of-year performance—Hao invites him, albeit informally, but Hanbin mentally notes the date, eager to attend—and occasionally talks about his friends. Hanbin has less to share, but Hao seems curious and attentive whenever he says something. And… it makes Hanbin want to spend more time at home, sharing his space with Hao, because it’s interesting being with him.

And the detail that most disarms him is how cute Hao is, with his cute pajamas in cute colors, his fluffy hair that bounces when he moves a lot, or the emoji clips he uses to keep his hair from falling in his eyes, and that pout he always makes when he’s concentrating on something.

Living together isn’t awkward. Hao respects silences, understanding when to step back and when to approach. Hanbin prefers it when he’s close.

♦

Hanbin wakes up earlier than usual, and that’s saying something.

The fatidical day his parents arrive at his house. They arrive in the afternoon, and he has a restless feeling in his stomach, one he’s never felt before knowing he’s about to see them, because he’s never had to introduce them to a husband. A fake one. An accidental one. He couldn’t stop thinking about it all week, and the reality becomes even more real the moment he opens his eyes.

What surprises him is that Hao is also awake, Hanbin being the one who wakes up first. He hears him moving around in the kitchen, the familiar sound of the coffee maker filling the air. He sees Hao standing in front of the counter, wearing a pink teddy bear pajamas and with his hair disheveled, watching the coffee brew.

“Good morning,” Hanbin says, still a little sleepy.

“Good morning,” Hao replies, without raising his voice too much.

Hanbin prepares something for breakfast, nothing too elaborate, but enough so they don’t leave on an empty stomach. They follow their established routine, eating together and getting ready for the day together.

“My parents will arrive after four,” Hanbin announces. He makes Hao lift his head to look at him, and Hanbin thinks that, for the first time, he can see a slight fear in Hao’s eyes. “Everything is going to be fine.”

He says it to convince them both. Everything has to go fine.

“I hope so.”

“My mother can get a little intense when she’s excited,” Hanbin says, slightly alarming Hao. “I talked to her about it, but if you feel it’s too much don’t hesitate to let me know. I won’t be offended, I promise.”

“Okay,” Hao sighs. “Thank you.”

What Hanbin wants most is for Hao to feel comfortable, for them to have a good time, and for his parents not to scare him with their constant nagging. It’s not just an act to keep his lie safe, it’s also a way of looking out for him. He wants that day to be easy for both of them.

“I have a request,” Hao calls, drawing his attention. Hanbin hums, urging him to continue. “Could you turn up the heat? It’s always too cold in here. Unless it’s a strategy to cuddle while we sleep together.”

Hanbin blinks, his brain processing the phrase half a second late. Is this flirting disguised as a joke, or…? He can only laugh, feeling his face turn red. Hao looks at him with a smile, amused by his reaction.

“It’s not a strategy,” he coughs.

“I see, that’s a shame,” Hao feigns disappointment. Hanbin shakes his head, trying to maintain his composure while still feeling his face burn.

“We can find a temperature that works for both of us, yes.”

Hao finally laughs at him, and the conversation ends there. They collect and wash the dishes and prepare for the day ahead. Outside, the sun is already beginning to warm the pavement, early and punctual, and the day promises to unfold with that false calm before the storm. Hanbin no longer has to offer to drive Hao to work, it’s become part of their shared routine. They leave together shortly after, closing the door behind them, the echo of their earlier laughter lingering in the air.

With a smile, Hao says goodbye to Hanbin and gets out of the car. Hanbin watches Hao enter the building, and can’t help but think that, of all the things that could go wrong that day, Hao’s casual smile at him seemed, paradoxically, the most dangerous.

The fresh morning air is not enough to clear his mind completely—his mind is still divided between work and the fact that in a matter of hours he will have to receive his parents and pretend that everything in his life is perfectly under control.

Hanbin finds Gyuvin and tells him about his first few weeks with Hao before his parents arrived—him making breakfast while Hao makes coffee for them both, the growing domesticity between them, going to work together as if it were something they’d been doing for years. Hanbin doesn’t forget that it’s not real, but he can’t help but notice how natural it all feels. Maybe they could put on a good act in front of his parents. But it’s not the same doing it alone as doing it with their parents watching them the whole time.

“You know you don’t have to worry about them,” Gyuvin says, earning a confused look from Hanbin. “Ahreum. She knows you too well.”

Of course. There’s no way to forget that detail. His parents might buy the story, but Ahreum is more curious, and much more perceptive. If they don’t handle this properly, she could easily realize that something doesn’t seems right.

Hanbin grimaces, a mixture of resignation and nervousness. “We can’t make a single mistake,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Gyuvin.

“Exactly,” Gyuvin says. “So, Mr. Married, you’d better practice your happy-couple smiles.”

Again, of course. He has no choice.

“And have you bought the rings?” Gyuvin speaks again.

“Huh.”

“Rings,” Gyuvin repeats, his voice heavy with obviousness. “Married people wear rings.”

You can’t be any more stupid, Hanbin. “No…”

“You plan to meet your parents like this? Without the main visible proof of the eternal love you supposedly share with your husband?” Gyuvin continues, mockingly, enjoying that Hanbin might be on the verge of collapse at that moment.

“Oh my God,” Hanbin buried his head in his hands. “I forgot about that.” In fact, he hadn’t even thought about that.

“I can’t believe it,” Gyuvin laughs. “I have to post this somewhere. I’m being smarter than Sung Hanbin.”

Hanbin wants to kick him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But seriously, buy those rings. They don’t have to be too flashy, just two bands that look believable.”

Hanbin may or may not have listened to Gyuvin.

When he leaves the office, thirty minutes before lunchtime, no one asks too many questions, although he knows there are plenty, mostly from Matthew. Hanbin knows that Gyuvin is there to cover him this time, because even though they’re professionals, they’re still gossips.

The midday sun beats down on the city, and the traffic seems noisier than ever. He parks in front of a jewelry store, the closest he could find, and goes inside, feeling the artificial chill of the air conditioning against his face and the employee greeting him with an overly enthusiastic smile. The plan is to buy simple bands that look like wedding rings. He leaves the store with the rings, the box tucked inside his suit jacket.

The drive to the academy is peaceful, but Hanbin’s mind races, thinking of what he’s going to say. He stopped to buy Hao lunch, he doesn’t know where the urge to bring him food came from—Hao’s probably already eating—but it serves as an excuse to stay a little longer than usual, besides just giving the ring. Perhaps it’s comforting to have Hao close amidst all this chaos, even if he doesn’t really know it.

The same receptionist greets him, and Hanbin notices her not-so-discreet look of surprise and curiosity, her eyes sliding down to the bag of food he’s carrying. The hallway is in silence and Hanbin walks at a moderate pace, careful not to let the sound of his shoes disturb the peace. He knocks twice before entering.

“Hanbin,” Hao looks at him with slight surprise. The expected reaction, considering he arrived without any prior announcement.

Hanbin lifts the bag of food in one hand, a simple gesture that seems to justify his presence. “I thought maybe you hadn’t had lunch.”

Hao blinks, then lets out a short laugh and glances at the clock on the room wall. “Thank you,” he finally says, smiling. He leans back in his chair, letting out a long, almost relieved sigh. “I had no idea what time it was.”

The stack of papers on the desk is moved to a safer spot, replaced by the lunch bag. Hanbin stands for a moment, suddenly feeling uneasy as Hao opens the bag, curious about its contents. He sits down slowly, hands on his knees, letting Hao arrange the food on his table.

“I bought rings.”

Hao immediately looks up, confused, before realizing which Hanbin is referring to. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Yes. We overlooked that little detail,” Hanbin takes the red box from his pocket and opens it on the desk. “I chose some simple ones. Yours is the first.”

The rings rest side by side. Hao leans forward, studying them closely. Then he raises an eyebrow, suppressing a smile. “Simple, huh?”

They’re simple, at least his is. It’s a white gold ring with a rose gold band down the center, is discreet. Hao’s also combines both types of gold, with a white gold band down the center engraved with delicate spiral patterns, framed by rose gold edges with a pearlescent detail, which sparkles elegantly every time the light hits it.

“Well,” Hanbin shrugged, somewhat embarrassed. “I thought it would suit you.”

Hao’s gaze stirs something in Hanbin’s stomach. His expression changes, he no longer seems to be mocking him, but observing him more gently, his eyes kind. Then he smiles, a wider smile. Yes, that does something inside Hanbin too.

“It’s very beautiful,” the moment is broken, Hao looking back at the ring.

“Yes,” Hanbin says, not knowing what else to say.

“So, aren’t you going to put it on me?”

Hanbin blinks. “What?”

“The ring,” Hao extends his hand, fingers slightly splayed, a suppressed smile on his face. “Be a good husband and put the ring on me properly.”

Hanbin lets out a nervous laugh, but takes the ring anyway. His fingers brush against Hao’s before he gently takes his hand, and for some reason, his throat goes dry. He doesn’t say anything, just carefully, almost clumsily, slides the ring onto Hao’s finger, afraid of doing it wrong. The touch on Hao’s hand lingers a few seconds longer than necessary before Hanbin retires his own.

“Look at it,” Hao says lightly, turning his hand so the light highlights the metal. The ring fits perfectly. “It fits me well.”

“It does,” Hanbin agrees, trying to sound relaxed, but feeling his heart beating a little faster than normal.

When Hao puts his ring on him, he’s faster, but it has the same effect on Hanbin. Oh my god, what’s wrong with him?

“Okay, let’s eat before the food gets cold,” Hao hands him the chopsticks. Perfect moment for his mind to focus on something else.

The food is still steaming in front of them, and the conversation turns to simpler things. It’s easy to talk to Hao, and easy to forget about his parents arriving in a few hours. For a moment, everything feels a little more real, as if they really were what they were pretending to be.

It’s so easy to talk with Hao that he loses track of time, sighing when he realizes he has to get back to work and shouldn’t take up any more of Hao’s time. Hao says goodbye, his hand now adorned with the ring, and Hanbin watches it, as if it truly was meant to be there. And Hanbin, as he leaves the room, can’t help but think that this all seems like an overly elaborate joke, or that fate is playing a trick on them.

The airport is as noisy as can be, filled with murmurs and laughter, the sound of suitcase wheels on the gleaming floor, the automatic doors opening and closing endlessly. His head feels much noisier, his body filling with anxiety as he watches his parents move through the crowd.

His mother sees him first and raises her hand, with that wide smile that always seems capable of lighting up any room. She hugs him as soon as he reaches her side, she squeezing him tightly, then he hugs his father, more tranquil.

“I’m so happy to see you, my child,” his mother’s voice is familiar and loving. He missed her so much. He missed them so much.

“I’m happy to see you too,” Hanbin says, hugging his mother once more, and his father joins them with a small smile.

“How is everything? What about Hao?” His mother asks immediately, Hanbin knew she wouldn’t last long without asking about him.

“It’s been… a busy time, but everything’s fine,” he replies, in a tone he hopes will sound casual. “Hao’s still working, but he’ll join us at home later.”

“What does Hao do for a living?” His father asked curiously. “I thought he’d be waiting for us with you at the airport.”

“Uh,” Hanbin clears his throat, trying to sound natural. “He’s a music teacher. He has responsibilities with his students.”

“Is everything really alright, honey? You look more tired than usual.” His mother has this knack for noticing when something is wrong. Maybe it’s a gift that come with being a mother. Hanbin needs to stop looking so awkward, he doesn’t want his parents to worry more than they already are. And they haven’t even met Hao yet! God have mercy.

“I’m fine, mom,” Hanbin smiles with a genuine effort, though his stomach feels tight. “I’ve just been very busy. And moving isn’t easy.”

“Work never changes, huh?” His father sets one of the suitcases aside. “But you need to take a break, Hanbin.”

“You know I’ve always worried that work would consume you so much that you wouldn’t have time for anything else. You’re very young, you have your whole life ahead of you, never forget to live it, okay?”

“Yes, mom. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll never stop worrying about you, you’re my baby,” she says, pinching his cheek. “But I’m so happy you have Hao.”

Hanbin scratches the cheek that she squeezed, and doesn’t miss his parents’ gaze on the ring, his mother’s eyes shining differently.

“Well, we’ll have time to talk more peaceful later,” his father says, and they start walking toward the exit. “Your mother has already planned half the dinner menu, and I imagine poor Hao will need patience with all the questions.”

“Please!” she says, with an indignant gesture that convinces no one. “I just want to meet the man who makes my son happy.”

“Of course,” Hanbin murmurs, tightening his grip on his mother’s suitcase, trying not to show the tension in his shoulders.

On the way to the car, the conversation remains light, but every word about Hao weighs more heavily on him. His mother talks about how nice it will be to have them both for dinner, his father comments on the traffic in Los Angeles and how expensive gas is, and Hanbin just listens, responding with short phrases, afraid that any longer words might betray him.

Before entering the house, all he asks is that everything please goes well.

His mother is the first to go out of the car, excited, looking around with that curiosity she has every time she visits a new place. Hanbin just manages to open the door before hearing Hao’s easy and unmistakable voice greeting her from the entrance.

“Welcome.” Hanbin turns around, and there is Hao, perfectly composed, with a beige shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a discreet but sincere smile. In one hand he holds a bouquet of flowers wrapped in light paper and tied with a ribbon. He coughs, feeling like he can’t breathe. “I hope the trip wasn’t too stressful.”

“Oh my God…” his mother clutches her chest. “So you’re Hao!”

Hao steps forward and politely offers her the bouquet. “Yes, Mrs. Sung. I’m glad to finally meet you. Hanbin has told me so much about you.”

“You can call me Sunhee, sweetheart,” she accepts the flowers with a sparkle in her eyes, delighted, and quickly hugs Hao. “What a thoughtful boy, and so polite! Oh, Hanbin, he’s as handsome as you said.”

“Did I say that?” Hanbin murmurs, almost to himself, and his father lets out a short laugh as Hao greets him with a firm handshake.

“Mr. Sung,” Hao says, in a respectful tone. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Call me Hyunwoo. The pleasure is all mine, son,” he replies, nodding approvingly. “And thank you for receiving us. The flowers were such a lovely touch.”

“Just something small.”

“Thank you for the welcome, darling,” Sunhee smiles, and they enter the house.

“He seems like a good man,” his father remarks, watching Hao help with the suitcases and offer them water. He moves with an ease that unnerves Hanbin, as if he truly were the co-owner of that house, as if he had done it a thousand times before. Hanbin hadn’t thought he was such a good actor.

“He is,” Hanbin says low, still looking at Hao.

A huge smile spreads across his mother’s face as she chats and laughs with Hao, thanking him for the flowers and commenting on the house’s decor. Hao responds effortlessly, and Hanbin is certain he alone can convince his parents that this is genuine. He should start contributing, after all, he was the one who got Hao involved.

“I’ll take you to your room,” Hanbin calls his parents’ attention.

Hanbin leads them upstairs, opening the door to their designated room. It’s roughly the same size as Hao’s room, but better organized, in the way he knows his mother particularly likes. He took the time to do that. He sets the suitcases in a corner while his mother surveys the room. The scent of fabric softener, the perfectly made bed, the artificial plant on one nightstand and the lavender-vanilla scented candle on the other, the painting with an abstract design.

“This room is huge,” she says. “And it’s just a guest room, incredible.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Space and comfort.”

“It’s only the two of you, do you really need that much space?” His father asks. Ha. If only he knew.

“Comfort,” Hanbin repeats. “Besides, Hao uses one of the rooms, he keeps his work things there, his sheet music and his violin. We’re thinking of turning it into a studio.”

Before giving them a chance to continue the conversation, he takes them out of the room to show them the house. As they descend the stairs, Hanbin tries to swallow the weight of the lie that catches in his throat. His parents observe everything attentively, wandering the hallways with curiosity, pausing to look at the furniture, the paintings, and the other decorations.

They walk through the dining room and kitchen to reach the backyard. The afternoon light begins to soften, bathing the walls and floor in gold. The place is well-maintained and simple: a small patch of grass intended to be a garden, a few pots of green plants that Hao brought, and a sofa with a couple of chairs next to a table.

“You have a lovely space here,” his mother walks around. His father stays leaning against the sliding doorway, watching them both. “Wouldn’t you like to have a garden? It would look beautiful and more colorful with some flowers.”

Hanbin watches her for a moment, with a little smile. His mother loves to fill empty spaces with life, she dislikes monotony. He, on the other hand, prefers simplicity, something more functional. It has to do with his lack of time, most of it being spent on work. However, Hanbin thinks Hao would probably like a garden full of flowers, more color, or something like that.

“We could do it,” he murmurs, almost without realizing it.

Making dinner is easier or harder, Hanbin isn’t sure. He was willing to do it, but his mother insisted on doing it herself, alone, because she doesn’t like having company in the kitchen. His father goes to rest for a while, and Hanbin is left alone with Hao in the living room.

“Your parents are lovely,” Hao says softly. Hanbin sighs.

“I don’t know if you’ll still think the same when you’re interrogated,” Hao laughs.

“Don’t worry, I can handle them.”

So… Hao wasn’t lying, and Hanbin is surprised.

Hao helps set the table while Hanbin and his father bring in the food. The atmosphere is cozy, the aroma of the food mingling with the freshly opened red wine, the table bathed in the light of the dining room. Everything seems to be in order, eating mostly in silence, with only a few comments exchanged here and there. But that order is disrupted when his mother initiates the conversation Hanbin most dreads having, one she won’t let slip by, because she’s observant and curious and wants every detail.

“Hanbin mentioned that you are a music teacher,” Sunhee says with a smile, taking a sip of wine.

“Yes, I teach violin at an academy and give private lessons,” Hao begins enthusiastically. “I’m also part of the academy’s orchestra.”

“That sounds amazing! I’ve never met anyone in person who plays the violin,” she says, delighted. Hanbin is mentally grateful that she didn’t ask him for a demonstration, because she wasn’t going to rest until Hao played something. She can be that persistent.

“So you’re a busy man,” his father says this time. “How do you manage your schedules? Hanbin has always worked too much.”

“We both work hard, but we always find time to relax, do other things, socialize, and spend time together,” Hao replies with a brief smile. “We understand each other well, and that helps a lot.”

“Hao helps me not to get too busy,” Hanbin adds, receiving a warm smile from Hao. What an excellent actor, Hanbin is truly impressed.

“I’m glad,” Sunhee leans forward, excited. “And how did you two meet?”

Hanbin almost dropped his fork. They hadn’t talked about it. They hadn’t talked about it at all. They were so preoccupied with other things that they miss something very, in all caps, important. He felt his heart race. He glanced at Hao, looking for help, and just as he was about to improvise something incoherent, Hao starts to speak.

“At an event, almost three years ago,” Hao begins casually. “I was playing with an orchestra and Hanbin came with some friends. It was my first time in Los Angeles before I moved here permanently, and we talked a lot that night. And we haven’t stopped since.”

His mother smiles, her expression tender, which only complicates matters further. Hanbin forces a smile, his throat going dry. We haven’t stopped since, he repeats to himself. Where does he get these lines?

“I took the job to show him interesting places and spots in the city,” Hanbin continues. “I wanted to spend time with him, I guess that was a good excuse.”

“One thing led to another,” Hao smiles. “And now we’re here.”

Now we’re here. Are they, actually?

“How cute,” Sunhee laughs. “I’m so glad you let yourself go for once, Hanbin. It was about time.”

“What about the marriage?”

“We were both in Vegas, for different reasons, but we took a few days to be together,” Hanbin begins before Hao can speak. “And… it’s easy to get married there. We didn’t think about it much, we just knew we wanted this. We were sure.”

The story couldn’t be more ironic. Telling their parents they were sure about it, that it wasn’t a difficult decision, when just over two weeks ago they didn’t even know they were married or who the other person was. It sounds convincing to them, and Hanbin hopes it stays that way for the next few days until they return to Seoul.

“It doesn’t matter how it was. What’s truly important is that you are happy with each other, understand each other, and that even when things get tough, because they will, you find a way to resolve it and remember the commitment you made, the promise you sealed.”

Something inside Hanbin shifts. He feels the air thicken slightly, the room shrink, and everything he’s been pretending takes on a real weight. His mother speaks with such sincerity, with that unwavering faith in love, that for a moment he almost feels guilty. For lying to them. And because, deep down, he wishes those words were his own.

Hao’s hand in his startles him slightly, but luckily no one notices. He looks at him, listening respectfully, his eyes serene, his expression perfectly composed. He doesn’t seem affected, or perhaps he’s simply hiding it better. Then Hao returns his gaze and smiles, and Hanbin begins to feel calm.

“Why did you decide to keep it a secret?” Sunhee finally asks. “We were very surprised. Hanbin isn’t usually like this.”

“Please don’t be upset with Hanbin for not telling you sooner,” he says in a kind but sincere tone. “It was me who asked him to keep it a secret for a while. For personal reasons.”

Hyunwoo places his wine glass on the table with a thoughtful gesture. “Personal reasons?” He repeats, not sounding inquisitive, just curious.

“I just needed some space to sort some things out before sharing it with more people,” Hao explains. His mother’s tender gaze returns.

“Is everything alright now?” She asks gently.

“Yes,” Hao replies without hesitation. “Thank you for asking.”

The conversation fades, a new silence growing. It’s not awkward, but it seems each of them is processing what they’ve just heard. Hanbin knows Hao is just covering him, protecting the story they invented. He’s going to have to offer the moon to thank Hao for getting involved in this.

Hanbin’s parents go to bed early, feeling the effects of their long trip. Hanbin can finally breathe a sigh of relief, closing his bedroom door, only to find Hao standing in front of him.

Oh, right.

It shouldn’t be awkward. It’s not the first time they’ve shared a bed with someone else—they shared a bed in Vegas, maybe they did more, but they were drunk. Now they’re sober and more aware. It doesn’t help that Hanbin hasn’t had company in his room in a long time, he’s not used to sharing his daily routine with anyone, much less the night one.

“You can take the side you want,” Hanbin says, standing in the middle of the room, feeling like a stranger in his own space. “And just do what you normally do. Ignore the fact that I’m here.”

Hao hesitates, unsure whether to say something, but decides to remain silent. He moves to the right side of the bed, adjusting the pillow. They take turns going to the bathroom, and this minimal coordination feels sufficient to maintain their balance. Hao goes first and closes the door behind him. Hanbin sits on the edge of the bed, listening to the footsteps and the sound of running water on the other side.

When Hao comes out, Hanbin runs into him at the door, and for a brief, silent moment their eyes meet, without a word being spoken, before Hanbin goes into the bathroom. He takes a little longer than necessary, trying not to think about the fact that when he returns, Hao will be waiting for him in bed. When he enters, he sees Hao snuggled under the covers, using his phone with a pout on his lips.

For a moment, Hanbin stand still in the doorway, watching him. There is something so comfortable about the scene, so simple, that it sends a pang through his chest. Hao looks so peaceful, so gentle, and Hanbin thinks he never imagined someone could look so cute without even trying.

Hao raises his head, noticing his presence, and their eyes meet. A long second passes before anything else catches Hao’s attention. His eyes scan Hanbin’s body with a brief, curious glance, and Hanbin feels the weight of that gaze. Hanbin knows exactly what he’s looking at—the tattoos he almost never shows, always hidden beneath his suits. Hao’s gaze lingers for barely an instant, but it’s enough to make Hanbin feel his pulse quicken in his throat. Neither of them says a word.

Hanbin clears his throat, crosses the room and gets into bed with all the caution in the world, and Hao looks at the screen again, although Hanbin notices the shadow of a restrained smile on his face.

“I can’t believe we forgot to plan our story,” Hanbin says after a while of silence. He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling illuminated by the light from the lamp on the nightstand next to Hao.

“We’re dumb,” Hao chuckles, turning his head toward him. That way he manages to look softer, his fluffy hair falling across his forehead and the pillow.

“Thanks for handling it there,” Hanbin said, covering his face with one hand and smiling into his palm. “I was about to say something stupid, and they probably would have realized something was off.”

“It’s nothing, I told you I could handle them.” Hanbin lowers his hand and looks at Hao.

The certainty with which Hao says it throws Hanbin off a little. If Hanbin were in his shoes, the story would be different. He wouldn’t even know what to say, he can barely lie to his own parents. Helping someone else lie to theirs would drive him crazy, with the fear of making a mistake and disappointing them. But Hao makes it sound simple, as if talking to his parents and pretending to be his husband were the most natural thing in the world for him. Maybe it is for him. For Hanbin, however, it’s something else entirely.

There’s a new warmth in his stomach, a feeling of relief and danger at the same time. Because Hao didn’t just handle the situation with his parents, he charmed them.

“You did better than I could have asked,” Hanbin says, sincerity and gratitude in his voice.

“I take my role very seriously,” Hao shrugs.

Another silence falls between them, and the conversation dies there. Hao turns to turn off the lamp and snuggles more comfortably under the blankets beside him. Hanbin ignores how normal all of this feels and lets Hao’s breathing lull him to sleep.

♠

The weekend arrives faster than Hanbin would have liked.

The room is a minor mess of half-folded clothes, chargers, toiletries, and suitcases lying open on the bed. Hanbin checks for the third time to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything important, though he’s really just trying to distract himself from the knot of nerves growing in his stomach. Hao, on the other hand, looks as relaxed as ever. He neatly folds a shirt, places it in his suitcase, and zips it up leisurely.

“I think we need to start not leaving things to the last minute,” Hao jokes, although is true. Hanbin laughs and agrees.

Hanbin’s parents are waiting for them in the living room, because they had the brilliant idea of packing their bags on the very day of the trip to Berkeley. Note the sarcasm.

“So… My sister isn’t like my mother,” Hanbin finally says. “She’s more laid-back, but she knows me too well. If anyone notices something’s off, it’ll be her.”

Hao looks up, still kneeling by the bed, and looks at him with an amused expression. “Don’t worry too much. I can handle all three of them.”

That’s the confidence Hanbin needs, and to stop worrying so much. Everything will be alright, there’s no reason for it to go wrong. He just needs to have faith. Hanbin is grateful that, amidst all this madness, who he married was Hao. He has nothing to worry about with him.

-

Berkeley welcomes them with a gentle breeze. The hotel is near the campus, modern and bright, with a lobby that smells of polished wood and freshly vanilla scent. Hao checks in while Hanbin texts Ahreum, letting her know they’ve arrived, and reads hers—she still has rehearsals, preparations, and other things to be busy, so they’ll only be able to see her in the evening. He doesn’t miss the message that she’s excited to meet Hao.

The room is big, though it only has one bed in the center, with white blankets and a large window letting in the afternoon sun. He had booked this room hoping for some space to himself, but he couldn’t change it when Hao joined the trip, and now sharing it with him is a fact. It doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t even make him uncomfortable.

Hanbin is tired from the trip, and he knows Hao is too, because he sees him changing into more comfortable clothes, closing the curtains, and adjusting the temperature with the AC control. Hanbin watches him.

“Well, I guess this will do,” Hao says.

“Hey, is that my shirt?” Hanbin asks. He’s pretty sure it’s his, but he doesn’t remember packing it. Hao looks at the piece of clothing for a second before looking up with a smile.

“Yep,” he replies simply. “Since you don’t want to cuddle while we sleep, I suppose this will do.”

Not knowing what to say, Hanbin just blinks and lets out a laugh. Hao’s tone is as soft as ever, and he still can’t tell if he’s joking or serious. Hao continues what he’s doing, unfazed, checking the charger plug, placing his phone on the nightstand. Hanbin leans back slightly on the bed, his gaze fixed on the shirt, which is indeed his. It’s a little too big, and seeing the sleeves brushing against his arms gives him a feeling he can’t quite put his finger on.

“Are you still on about that?” Hanbin asks with a snort.

“Maybe I’ll get it someday,” Hao shrugs.

“You’re so funny,” is all Hanbin can say to him.

“You’re so boring,” he slumps down on the bed, stretching his arms. Hanbin lets out a short, resigned laugh. He picks up the pillow next to him and gently tosses it. Hao catches it effortlessly, smiling contentedly.

The room becomes silent after that, only the air whispers and the faint sound of traffic outside. Hanbin sinks a little deeper into the bed, feeling the tiredness creep into his shoulders. Though he doesn’t say it, the earlier comment still lingers in his mind, igniting a sweet, unsettling feeling.

Every time Hao makes comments like that Hanbin doesn’t know how to interpret them. He knows that in front of his parents they have to act—even if they haven’t done anything particularly remarkable—and Hao always has something to say, a way of charming his parents, and in the process, him. It doesn’t help that Hao has this natural talent and is so beautiful. Maybe his drunken self saw something in Hao that his sober self wants to see from another perspective, another reality, where he’s truly allowed to.

-

The restaurant’s warm lights spill onto the sidewalk like a breath of fresh air in the cool night air. Hanbin’s parents walk in front, he and Hao behind, side by side. From inside the restaurant comes a steady murmur of clinking glasses, soft laughter, and the muffled sound of silverware on plates.

“Mom, Dad!” Ahreum runs to hug them when she sees them. She hugs Hanbin and then looks at Hao with a wide smile. “I can finally put a face to your name, since Hanbin refused to talk to me about you.”

“I didn’t refuse it, I told you we’d talk in person,” Hanbin murmurs, but Ahreum ignores him, focused on Hao.

“On the other hand, Hanbin told me a lot about you,” Hao says, returning Ahreum’s smile. “Our house may be big, but he can’t hide from me.”

“Finally, someone who puts you in your place,” Ahreum scoffs. “I hope Hanbin said nice things about me.”

“Depends on the day,” Hao replies, and everyone laughs, even Hanbin.

The restaurant’s interior is even more inviting, with lights reflecting off the windows and faintest perceptible background music. There are more people than Hanbin expected, but the table is perfectly situated in a corner, creating a cozy little haven for conversation.

“And you?” Ahreum gently kicks him under the table. “I hope being with Hao has made you work less.”

He can’t even escape from his sister when it comes to work.

“It’s not so bad anymore,” Hao answers for him. “Although let’s just say I sometimes have to remind him that eating three times a day isn’t optional.”

“Yep, that sounds totally like Hanbin,” she replies, laughing.

“I’m glad to see you’re getting along so well,” Hanbin says with weak sarcasm.

“I’m just trying to connect with my brother-in-law,” Ahreum looks at him with a mischievous smile, and Hao smiles back, taking a sip of water, perfectly comfortable under the scrutiny.

As expected, Ahreum is enchanted by Hao. She tells him about her university days; he tells her about his work and the city, even making a couple of comments that make her laugh. His mother observes their interaction with a satisfied smile, while his father quietly studies the menu. Hanbin is also focused on the menu.

“What would you like to order?” Hanbin asks, leaning slightly toward Hao. He does the same, moving closer so he can read over the menu, and their shoulders brush.

It’s a light, insignificant touch to anyone watching from the outside. Hao is warm, even fully clothed, and Hanbin can smell his cologne, something sweet, like coconut. It’s an intoxicating warmth and scent, making Hanbin want to get closer, to bury his face in the space between Hao’s shoulder and neck. Then he remembers that it’s something they don’t do, not even as part of their act.

“I don’t know,” Hao replies, without moving away. “Everything looks good. What are you going to order?”

Now, he’s becoming more aware of the proximity between them. “Maybe the salmon,” he says finally, trying to sound casual. “They always prepare it well here.”

“Then I’ll order the same,” Hao nods, leaning in a little closer. Their sides are pressed together. “If it tastes bad it’ll be your fault.”

Nevertheless, Hanbin smiles. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Hao lets out a low laugh, so close that Hanbin feels the vibration of his voice. And although he hides it well, his pulse doesn’t slow. He shouldn’t like something so simple that much—the brush of a shoulder and the gentle tone of a voice. Not at a family dinner. Not in the middle of their shared lie. So, he forces himself back to the menu, to maintain his composure, to remember that they aren’t alone. Though, for a moment, everything else fades away.

Dinner passes comfortably. The conversation doesn’t stop even with the food, especially Ahreum and Hao talking and even laughing together at Hanbin’s expense. Far from bothering him, he feels a weight lifted from his shoulders—seeing his sister comfortable with Hao gives him a breather he didn’t know he needed. His parents also seem relaxed, enjoying the atmosphere. Hanbin couldn’t ask for more.

The night doesn’t drag on any longer, they leave shortly after eating and paying. In the car on the way back to the hotel, his parents sit in the back seat with Ahreum, while she tells them about the plans for the commencement and her department’s graduation on Monday, and Hao sits next to him in the passenger seat.

The city lights flicker through the windshield, reflecting off the glass, and without thinking twice, Hanbin places his hand on the center console. He says nothing, simply leaves it there, open, a silent invitation. Just a second is enough, Hao’s fingers sliding between his. He thinks of nothing, concentrating on driving, Ahreum’s voice filling the air. He ignores the soothing sensation of Hao’s hand against his, and the strange lump forming in his throat.

They arrive at the hotel. His parents say a warm “good night” and get out of the car, followed by Ahreum to say a proper goodbye. Hao also moves to get out of the car, but instead leans toward Hanbin and kisses him on the cheek.

“See you later,” Hao smiles at him before getting out the car, leaving Hanbin there, his heart pounding in his chest.

Ahreum immediately takes the copilot’s seat, distracting Hanbin from the torrent of thoughts that were about to form in his head.

“I thought you were going to spend more time kissing,” Ahreum jokes, putting on the seatbelt.

Hanbin clears his throat. “Don’t start.”

“Come on, don’t deny it,” Ahreum laughs softly, looking out the window, the reflection of the hotel lights passing over her face.

“I don’t have to tell you anything, dummy.”

The engine purrs as they drive through the streets of Berkeley. The ensuing silence isn’t awkward, Ahreum doesn’t even bother turning on the radio, and that allows his thoughts to creep in quickly. The kiss… it was a light touch, so gentle he’s afraid he imagined it, but the sensation of Hao’s plumped lips against his cheek is very real. He didn’t even have to do it, his parents and Ahreum had already gotten out of the car.

“Turn this way,” Ahreum pulls him from his reverie. “There’s a park with a very pretty fountain.”

The path narrows, lined with trees illuminated by streetlights. The park is almost empty, distant laughter can be heard, and the sound of the fountain’s water breaks the stillness of the night. Ahreum and Hanbin sit on a bench, side by side, watching the reflection in the rippling water. For a while, neither speaks. Hanbin takes deep breaths, trying to gather his thoughts, while his sister plays with the sleeves of her jacket.

The silence doesn’t last long, Ahreum finally breaking it.

“I didn’t expect it,” she says bluntly, “you to get married. And even less that you didn’t tell anyone.”

Hanbin nods slowly, without taking his eyes off the fountain. “I understand,” he replies. “It was something we decided together. And… we had our reasons for doing it that way.”

The reasons were that they didn’t know each other, that they got married drunk, like the protagonists of a bad novel. And now they’re trapped in this lie that Hanbin is beginning to regret, because he’s afraid of getting so involved that he won’t be able to distinguish what’s real from what’s fake. He wonders what would have happened if he had told his parents the truth.

Ahreum glances at him sideways. “I’m just saying it’s not like you to do things in secret,” she says, almost smiling. “Not with your loud way to love.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. He doesn’t know if it’s a compliment or an accusation, but it sounds all too true. He’s always been the type to show his feelings, to feel deeply. He remembers the first time he liked a boy, he didn’t wait a day to tell Ahreum, and his parents knew immediately when they started dating.

This is a marriage. In his family’s eyes it’s unusual, something that would make Hanbin explode if he tried to hide it. Yet here he is, trying to protect the lie he and Hao were forced to live.

“Hao had a personal situation,” Hanbin says, recalling his words to his parents. “That meant I had to keep silent in front of everyone. And it’s something I respected because it’s not just about me anymore, it’s about both of us.”

Ahreum remains silent, observing him attentively.

“The truth is, our relationship isn’t like anything you could have imagined, and our marriage was barely planned,” he’s unable to even look his sister in the face. “But we just want to be happy. It’s easy with Hao, like it’s never been with anyone else.”

Perhaps he’s lying to her now, but Hanbin hopes that someday his words will come true. For the moment, he desperately clings to the hope that Ahreum will believe him.

“It’s okay, Hanbin,” she has a lighter tone. “All we want is for you to be happy, you know that, right?”

“I know,” Hanbin looks at her, feeling more relieved.

“This is getting too sentimental,” Ahreum says. “Tell me more about Hao or give me some gossip from your work.”

“You know all the gossip from my work,” Hanbin rolls his eyes.

“Then tell me more about Hao,” she replies immediately, turning to face him on the bench, resting an elbow on the back. “I don’t know, tell me something I didn’t notice at dinner. Is he always this charming?”

“He’s always charming, he just lowers the volume a bit because he doesn’t have to impress my family every day,” Ahreum chuckles. “He’s quieter, more reserved. He likes silence, but there’s always music playing, and he’s one of those people who, with the smallest things, transforms lonely spaces into places full of life.”

This time Hanbin doesn’t have to lie.

"And he has such a dry sense of humor that sometimes I don’t know if he’s insulting me or flirting with me."

Ahreum laughs again, amused. “That definitely sounds like your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is,” Hanbin feigns indignation.

“It’s Hao.”

He doesn’t answer, because he can’t deny it. Instead, he shrugs and looks away, trying to hide the smile that threatens to spread across his face.

They talk a while longer, unhurried, with the fountain as their only witness. The conversation jumps from one topic to another. The last time Hanbin saw Ahreum was a little over a month ago, before his trip to Vegas. Hanbin missed being with his little sister so much—even though they were close enough to see each other more often, they were both too busy with their own lives. And he’ll miss her when they return to Los Angeles, as if they’d never been together.

When Ahreum yawns and rubs her eyes, he takes it as a sign that it’s time to go back.

“Let’s take you home,” Hanbin stands up.

The return ride is peaceful, with the radio playing softly and the night air drifting in through the half-open window. Hanbin knows the way to Ahreum’s apartment, so it’s easy to arrive there.

“See you tomorrow,” Hanbin says as he arrives in front of the apartment complex.

“I want a huge bouquet of flowers tomorrow,” Ahreum says, earning a laugh from Hanbin, before leaving.

Hanbin waits a few seconds, waiting for Ahreum to enter the building. When he’s sure his sister is in, he doesn’t start the engine; he just stares straight in front on him. He feels a mixture of peace and weariness, the kind that comes after long days, but also a pang of anxiety. Finally, he drives back to the hotel. Opening the door to the room, he sees Hao lying on his side of the bed, his hair a little disheveled and the blankets covering his legs. On the screen, a movie is playing, with white subtitles that flicker lowly.

“You arrived,” Hao says, without looking away for long.

“Yes,” Hanbin replies, carefully closing the door. He places his things on the nightstand. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“I couldn’t,” he shrugs, patting the bed beside him. “Come here, the movie’s good.”

Hanbin sits on the edge of the bed, still wearing his jacket, and watches him for a few seconds. “For you all movies are good.”

“I just know how to appreciate things.” Hanbin simply smiles.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he stands up. “Then I’ll join you.”

The water falling on his face helps clear his head a little. The day was stressful, hopefully it will all be over tomorrow, and they’ll have to stop pretending and just start living like two people who share a house and are slowly approaching the definition of friends. And when all this is over, they’ll laugh and get on with their lives.

The movie is still playing on the television, and judging by what’s happening, it might be nearing its end. He doesn’t understand much of what’s going on, just a few scattered phrases and some mild music announcing the closing credits, but it doesn’t really matter. The credits roll, and Hao holds the remote control between his fingers, not pressing any buttons yet.

“It wasn’t bad,” Hao says, his voice kind of lazy.

“The movie?” Hanbin looks at him.

Hao shrugs. “The day.”

Hanbin takes a second to answer. “Yes… it was a good day.”

“Your family is nice, Hanbin. It’s easy to understand why you are the way you are.”

“The way I am?” Hanbin observes him, feeling those words leave a small lump in his throat.

“Yes, you’re kind and you care about people,” Hao smiles slightly. “Although you should stop working so much.”

Hao moves a little under the covers, turning his head toward Hanbin. He senses a serious atmosphere growing, a hint of concern flickering in Hao’s eyes. Hanbin almost wishes Hao would drop the subject and they could both go to sleep. But he doesn’t stop there.

“You work a lot,” there’s something different in his voice, though it’s not a reproach. “I can see it because I live with you, but for your family to mention it means it’s been going on for a long time, right?”

“I…” Hanbin stops, because no answer seems enough. He feels he could say something defensive, a lighthearted joke, anything to change the subject, but Hao doesn’t sound like he wants to argue. His tone is too honest. “Yes.”

“I don’t want to intrude too much,” Hao continues, “but rest is good too. And even if you’re alone, you shouldn’t spend all your time working.”

There’s something about his words that weighs on him. Not because he’s angry, but because he didn’t expect it.

“I know,” Hanbin finally says, slowly, almost in a whisper. “It’s just… sometimes it’s easier this way.”

“Your mother told me how worried she is about you,” Hao’s voice is subdued. “She doesn’t want work to consume you, or for you to be unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy,” Hanbin feels the need to defend himself against that. Hao’s expression doesn’t change.

“I’m not saying you are,” Hao says gently. “But sometimes people get so used to surviving that they forget how to live.”

The words hit him slowly, like a tide that takes its time to arrive, but when it does, it sweeps everything in its path. Hanbin doesn’t respond, he has to look away from Hao’s gaze, focusing instead on staring at the ceiling and thinking about what Hao just said.

He doesn’t feel unhappy, he tells himself. He has a good job, something stable, and he likes what he does, at least most days. He has friends who appreciate him, a routine that works, and a peaceful life, a life many would fight to have, to be in his shoes. But he also knows it’s not the life he imagined for himself. It’s an existence shaped more by necessity than desire, not by what he wanted, but because he had no other choice.

After a while, Hanbin sighs and turns to Hao.

“You know,” he begins shyly. “When I was younger, I wanted to be a dancer. Maybe not a professional one,” Hanbin clarifies, “but to teach others. My true passion has always been teaching. I don’t know, I had this idea that I could help others find something beautiful, something that would make them feel alive.”

More than anyone, he knows that Hao understands what he means. He doesn’t know why Hao is a teacher, or how he came to music, but from the stories he tells him, he can tell that it’s something he loves and enjoys teaching others to love it too.

“I was a really good dancer,” he says with a dry and humorless laugh. “Before I could even think about that, I had to take a different path. I dropped out of the university in Seoul and applied for a scholarship, anything that’d take me far away. And that’s how I ended up in Los Angeles.”

Hao looks at him, his eyes gentle, without interrupting, just looking at him, and that’s enough for Hanbin to feel a strange kind of relief. Enough for Hanbin to want to keep pouring out his heart.

“The rest, well, you know how it goes. I studied something different, found a job, a new life, and I guess I learned to love it too.”

He doesn’t tell him more, even though there’s so much to say. The reason he came here is much deeper, and it’s part of his parents’ concern. He wouldn’t know how to tell Hao that he needs to feel useful and busy so he doesn’t fall into a spiral, so he doesn’t feel like he’s losing control of his life, so he doesn’t regret being where he is now.

“Thank you for telling me this,” Hao says. His voice sounds so sincere that Hanbin feels seen, not for what he pretends to be, but for what he truly is.

-

The graduation lasts two hours. Hanbin hopes it was memorable for Ahreum, because he can’t remember much about his own.

They wait for Ahreum with flowers—the enormous bouquet she’d requested, but which Hanbin would have bought anyway, even if she hadn’t asked—and gifts. Ahreum spots them in the crowd and her face lights up immediately. She runs toward them, her gown billowing, and Hanbin manages to hand her the flowers before she throws herself at him in a hug.

“Congratulations,” Hanbin said, hugging her tighter for a few more seconds. He hadn’t realized when his sister had grown so much.

Hao approaches with a smile, offers her the small gift box, and congratulates her, earning a smile from her as well, and she hugs him. For a moment, seeing his sister embrace Hao, Hanbin feels a burning warmth bubbling inside him, his family already loving Hao. It should frighten him, but instead, it brings him relief.

Ahreum refuses to leave without a photo. Or ten. First with her parents, then with Hanbin, then with everyone together. Hao tries to slip away discreetly, not wanting to interrupt the family moment, but Ahreum stops him by grabbing his sleeve.

“Where are you going?” Ahreum asks.

“You’re part of the family, sweetheart,” Sunhee says, with a smile that won’t take no for an answer.

Hao has no chance to say anything, being pulled to the center and positioned between Hanbin and his mother. Ahreum is speaking to the person taking the picture, his parents are talking amongst themselves, and Hanbin glances at Hao, noticing a stray strand of hair. Without thinking, he reaches out and smooths it back, their eyes meeting. Hao’s smile is small but genuine, and for a moment Hanbin forgets where they are and who they’re with, focusing instead on Hao’s pretty face and the moles scattered across it.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Ahreum calls them, breaking the moment. “The camera’s here.”

Hanbin looks away, feeling his cheeks warm, and Hao simply laughs, looking at the camera. After the short, impromptu photoshoot, they decide to go for lunch. They end up at a nearby restaurant with wooden booths and tables and large windows letting in the afternoon light. Hanbin sits next to Hao and across from his parents, the enormous bouquet of flowers taking up its own space in a corner, while Ahreum announces she’ll order dessert before even deciding on the main dish.

“I want the lemon cake,” she announces, without looking up from the menu. “And the cheesecake. Maybe both.”

“Shouldn’t you choose food first?” Hanbin asks, earning a squint from Ahreum.

“I’m pretty sure I can do whatever I want,” Ahreum retorts. Hanbin rolls his eyes and Hao chuckles. “This was our regular spot after finals. My friends and I used to come here to celebrate surviving the semester.”

“We trust you with the food,” Hyunwoo says. “Recommendations?”

Ahreum takes her job seriously, talking about the dishes she’s already tried and recommending the ones she liked. They trust her judgment, calling the waiter to order, and saying nothing when Ahreum orders her desserts first. While they wait for their food, there’s not a moment of silence, Ahreum taking advantage of the time to tell anecdotes from her university days, which her parents and Hanbin may have heard a thousand times, but which Hao doesn’t know.

“I had an elective cooking class, I thought it would be useful,” Ahreum says. “It was all fun until we almost set a pan on fire heating up some oil.”

“Ahreum is the only one in the family with bad cooking skills,” Hanbin interjects, leaning towards Hao. “I’d say she’s worse than you.”

“You must be pretty bad, then,” Hao chuckles. Ahreum looks at him with an amused grin.

“But I learned some basics, so it wasn’t so bad,” Ahreum shrugs.

The stories continue, even after the food arrives, Ahreum recounting her sleepless nights, her friends, the teachers who became the group’s memes. Hanbin glances at Hao as he stares intently at Ahreum. The light streaming through the window falls on his face, outlining the curve of his jaw, the faint reflection in his dark eyes. Hanbin realizes he’s been staring at him for several seconds without blinking and forces himself to look away, though the impulse comes too late.

“I tried taking music lessons once,” Ahreum says, after taking a bite of her food. “I didn’t last even a month, it was too much. I didn’t understand how they could coordinate their hands, rhythm, reading notes, it all seemed like a different language.”

“By the way, Hao,” Sunhee says. “How was your experience with the violin?”

“I learned a year before entering university,” he says. “University was more complicated than I expected, but also more interesting.”

Hanbin is surprised. He hasn’t had the chance to hear Hao play the violin yet—the string adjustments don’t count—but even that sounds good. Knowing that he placed first on his entrance exam, was always at the top of his class, and graduated with honors means he’s truly a genius.

“Hao was the best in his province. He graduated with one of the highest GPA in his entire university,” Hanbin says proudly, as if Hao’s achievement were also his own.

“That’s wonderful, dear,” she smiles. Hao smiles back, shyly.

“I guess I was just really hard on myself,” he says. Ah, modesty. “And since it was more about learning how to teach music, and that’s something I’ve always been passionate about, my motivation to be the best was even bigger.”

“Do you teach adults or children? I don’t think we ever asked that,” Hyunwoo asks.

“Both, although mainly with children. In the mornings twice a week I see a group of teens and in the afternoons the children, every day. The tutoring sessions are more flexible so I can work with anyone.”

“You must have a lot of patience,” Ahreum remarks. “Teaching adults is complicated enough, I don’t even want to imagine teaching children.”

“It can be very frustrating, yes,” Hao replies. “But being a teacher isn’t just about teaching, I also learn a lot from them. Children are very intelligent.”

“That sounds adorable,” Ahreum rests her chin on her hand. “I would’ve been a terrible student. I probably would’ve made you lose your patience in the first class.”

Everyone laughs. Hanbin barely participates, busy with watching Hao again, enjoying the soft tone in his voice when he talks about something he’s passionate about that Hanbin is starting to like so much. There’s something warm about the way he expresses himself, and Hanbin wants to hear him talk forever.

Then he excuses himself to go to the restroom, leaving the bustle of the conversation behind. The restroom is at the end of the hall, quiet and with that cheap soap smell that always seems the same in every restaurant. He wets his hands more than necessary, trying to clear his head, his mind flooded with Hao, Hao, and Hao. He doesn’t want to shake the vivid feeling that lingered after staring at Hao for too long, he just wants… to remind himself that none of this is real.

And it bothers him to do so, seeing Ahreum talking again, with a new dessert on the table, about how she ended up joining the climbing team and winning medals. Hao listens with a genuine smile, his eyes shining with that mixture of surprise and pride, truly interested and happy for her. He looks so natural there with his parents and sister, fitting perfectly into the dynamic. It makes something uncomfortably stir in his body, thinking that fate is cruel.

♣

Saying goodbye to his family makes him a little sad. It doesn’t matter that he’s an independent adult with his own bills and a husband, he’ll always feel sad saying goodbye to his parents. His mother looks him in the eyes, with that gaze that tries to soften any distance, but doesn’t quite succeed.

“Take good care of him,” she says, looking at Hao. “And take care of yourself too. I love you, okay?” Hanbin’s eyes begin to burn.

Saying goodbye to Ahreum is different. It’s slightly less easy, he hugs her longer than he’d planned, feeling in the gesture something akin to a closure he doesn’t want to accept yet. She promises to visit him soon, though they both know that, with graduation over, she’ll likely return to Seoul to stay with their parents.

The flight back to Los Angeles feels longer than it actually is, though Hanbin hardly manages to close his eyes. Hao is asleep beside him, leaning against his shoulder, headphones on and a relaxed expression on his face. Outside, the sky is a mix of blue and clouds broken by the altitude, and Hanbin watches it for a while, feeling a pang of anticipatory homesickness. Although Los Angeles has been his home for years, the thought of returning without his family leaves him feeling a little empty.

They are both tired on the way home, Hao blinking heavily. When they arrive, Hanbin turns on the lights, and although the place is big, everything feels a little smaller, emptier after the days spent with his parents.

Hao follows him to his room, carrying his suitcase, and stops at the door. It takes his brain a second longer than usual to process it, but they seem to notice it at the same time—they no longer need to sleep together. The plan, after all, is over. With no one to see them and judge their relationship, they can return to normal, they can forget that they are husbands and see it simply as housemates.

“I’m sorry,” Hao apologizes with a short chuckle, looking down, “I think I got used to it too quickly.”

The phrase echoes in Hanbin’s mind. He wants to say something, anything that doesn’t sound so obvious that he, too, has grown accustomed to it, that, in fact, he enjoys sharing a bed with Hao more than he should, waking up to find him half asleep, or hearing his footsteps in the room at the end of the day. But after a weekend of lies, he doesn’t want to lie about this.

“You can stay,” he says, setting his suitcase aside, and adds, trying to sound casual: “if you want.”

Hao looks up, surprised, searching for a joke hidden in his voice. But there isn’t. Hanbin holds his gaze—it’s an invitation, please accept it.

“Only if you don’t mind,” Hao replies after a moment.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Hanbin gently shook his head. “Maybe tonight will be the night we cuddle.”

The words come out lightly, an attempt to keep the joke alive between them. He doesn’t want it to be, but that’s up to him; the ball’s in his court. And then Hao laughs, a light laugh, a little hoarse with tiredness, and something settles inside him. He likes that sound more than he should.

He doesn’t get a response, and Hanbin just watches him rummage through his clothes for something to sleep in and pulls out his towel. He’s clearly exhausted, his movements are slow and distracted, as if he might fall asleep standing up at any moment. There’s something endearing about it, the way he drops things without thinking, the absentminded way he moves.

“You could just go to sleep,” Hanbin crosses his arms, his voice filled with a tenderness he tries to hide.

“And that you look at me with a horrified expression for getting into your bed in street clothes? No, thank you.”

“I don’t care if it’s you.”

It feels how the air shifts, not dramatically, but something’s different. Maybe it’s Hao’s expression, which Hanbin doesn’t know how to interpret. The truth is, Hanbin doesn’t know how to interpret Hao most of the time. His playful demeanor softens, almost fades—it’s not surprise, it’s not annoyance, he just doesn’t know what it is. There’s something invisible straining between them, a thin, fragile thread that neither dares to pull.

“I’m going to take a shower anyway,” Hao says, and the tension dissolves as easily as it formed. “I feel dirty.”

“Just be careful not to fall asleep in the shower,” Hanbin tries to joke. Hao rolls his eyes, walks past him with a half-smile, and then goes into the bathroom.

Water begins to run behind the door, a constant murmur filling the space. Hanbin stands still, staring at a fixed point in front of him, and wonders what it’d be like to get used to this—to Hao’s voice before bed, to the scent of his shampoo seeping through the sheets, to the absurd idea of sharing the same space without it seeming like a mistake.

Dawn breaks faster than usual, or so it felt to Hanbin, who angrily turned off the alarm. The weekend is over, and they get ready for work. Hanbin drops Hao off at the academy and drives to his office, his mind already immersed in the pile of pending tasks. He wants to think it will be an easy, uneventful day, but as soon as he crosses the hallway, he sees Matthew and Gyuvin standing in front of his office’s door, and that shatters all that hope.

“This can’t be good,” Hanbin muttered to himself. “What are you doing here?” He asked, opening the door to let them in.

“You got married and didn’t tell anyone?” Matthew asks, closing the door behind him.

Hanbin blinks, puzzled, then immediately glances at Gyuvin, who shrugs, eyes wide. It takes him by surprise, because as far as he knows, only Gyuvin has that information—whether it’s a false marriage or not—and he wonders how on earth Matthew found out.

“I saw the photos your sister posted on Instagram for her graduation.” There’s his answer.

“Why do you follow my sister on Instagram?”

“I don’t follow her,” Matthew replies, “my sister follows her.”

That only confuses him more. As far as he can remember, Matthew’s sister lives in Canada. He has no idea how she could’ve met Ahreum, and he doesn’t know if he wants to know, so he doesn’t ask any more questions.

“And don’t try to deny it, you have a ring,” Matthew points to his finger.

Ah, right. He looks down and there it is, the ring, gleaming discreetly. He’d gotten so used to its weight that he didn’t even notice it anymore. A small detail, but enough to expose him, he can’t lie even if he wants to. But is it really a lie if it was something unplanned with someone he didn’t know? Gyuvin looks at him without saying anything, and Hanbin looks away, returning to Matthew.

“What difference does it make if I give you my answer? Because it seems like you already have it,” Hanbin asks, almost tired. The day has just begun and Hanbin is already feeling exhausted.

Matthew smiles, pleased to have cornered him. “Nothing, we were just worried you’d die alone with your documents,” he says. “But now we know you do have a life outside of work.”

“Save your condolences for later,” Hanbin snorts humorlessly. “And who’s we? That sounds like a lot of people.”

“Dude, practically the whole company knows,” Matthew shrugs. “Even the other departments are happy for you.”

A pang of disbelief pierces him. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or sink to the floor. “Tell me again, why is this important?”

“You aren’t aware of your work habits? You used to be one of the first to arrive and one of the last to leave. Now you’re arriving and leaving at a normal person’s hour, sometimes you don’t even have lunch here, and I know you’re not staying in your office because people have seen you leaving.”

Hanbin listens with a frown, each word sinking like an annoying drop into his patience. So even my schedules are a topic of conversation now, he thinks, but then he remembers they’ve always been a topic of conversation, which is why they’re talking about it now. And it can’t really surprise him, not when he’s always known that what keeps this company going is coffee and gossip.

“Now everyone wants to meet your mysterious husband,” Gyuvin adds, with a forced smile.

He struggles to suppress the urge to drop his head against the desk. He feels the weight of that sentence settle in the air, the pressure of a truth he can’t explain without opening a box he’d rather keep closed.

“It’s mysterious for a reason,” Hanbin replies, returning Gyuvin’s tense smile with an even more tense one.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Matthew sulks. “You have to bring him to my birthday party.”

“Birthday party? What are you, ten years old?” Matthew punches him in the arm. Hanbin screams, clutching the painful spot. “What’s wrong with you?”

“As I was saying, your husband is cordially invited to my birthday celebration. You don’t have to bring presents, meeting him will be enough,” Matthew says solemnly. Hanbin wants to hit him back, twice as hard.

“That’s not happening,” Hanbin denies. Hao has already had enough with his family, he can’t do this to him with his weird friends.

So, uh.

“They know at the company that we’re married,” Hanbin tells Hao.

The words hang suspended in the air, weighing more than a simple sentence should. On the other side of the sofa, Hao looks up. He’s reclining with a cup of tea in his hands, the steam rising slowly and enveloping him in a sweet aroma, freshly showered, his hair still damp and loose. And Hanbin wants to sink down with him there, lean on his shoulder, maybe even hold him while they watch a movie. Or do other things.

You’re getting off topic, Hanbin…

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” Hanbin runs a hand over the back of his neck to avoid his look. “Someone saw Ahreum’s post, and… well, I guess everyone knows now. Besides, we’re still wearing the rings.”

“That makes sense,” Hao nods, as if it were no big deal. He looks at the ring on his finger for a moment. “It was a matter of time.”

The breath that follows escapes him unbidden, and Hanbin sinks a little further back on the sofa. “Matthew wants us to go to his birthday party together.”

“Birthday party?” Hao raises an eyebrow, amused.

“Exactly what I said. But yes, he may have insisted a little, he even told me I didn’t have to bring any present.”

For a second, Hanbin expects an immediate refusal, a “don’t even think about it” or something close to it. But Hao laughs, that soft laugh that spreads through his chest and makes him a little uneasy, because it sounds too natural, too comfortable.

“Why not?” Hao places the cup on the table. “It could be funny.”

“Funny?” Hanbin looks at him. The word repeats in his mind as if he had never before associated it with his own life.

“Yes,” Hao shrugs. “Or are you telling me this because you don’t want me to go?”

“No, no!” He rushes to say, his hands rising in an awkward gesture. “I just, you know, I don’t want to force you into anything.”

“Okay,” Hao says with a gentle smile. “I have no problem going.”

Deep down, there was a mix of relief and nervousness. Hanbin hadn’t expected Hao to actually accept. After everything involved in meeting his family, feigning naturalness, enduring questions and stares… it’s logical that he wants to avoid another public exposure. Although Matthew is curious, he’s not like those who insist when they’re told no and the answer is serious. It’s not an obligation, but Hao accepts anyway, relaxed as if going to pretend to get married in front of strangers were the most natural thing in the world.

-

The backyard is illuminated with warm garlands and paper lanterns that sway gently in the breeze. Matthew’s yard isn’t big, but it has a welcoming charm—chairs scattered around, cool grass underfoot, and the lights of near houses peeking through the branches. The music plays softly, a faint background mingling with the murmur of conversations and the clinking of glasses.

“I told you there was no need to bring anything,” Matthew says as soon as he sees them appear, approaching with a smile.

“You knew I was going to bring something anyway,” Hanbin hands Matthew the package with a ribbon. “Happy birthday.”

Matthew feigns exaggerated emotion, placing a hand on his chest. “I knew you had a heart.”

“Yes, yes,” Hanbin rolls his eyes, but with a smile. “This is Hao, my husband.”

“Finally! The legendary mystery husband,” Matthew says excitedly, extending his hand. “We were all surprised when we found out.”

Yes, I was surprised too, a lot, Hanbin thinks.

Hao laughs, a little surprised by the energy emanating from Matthew, but accepts the hand graciously. “Even Hanbin was surprised.”

Ha.

“Oh, you’re funny, I like you,” they both laugh.

Gyuvin interrupts them with a gesture, holding two glasses. “Welcome to the madness.”

“Ah. This is Gyuvin.”

“What a lively presentation!” Gyuvin exclaims with feigned cheerfulness. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Hao.”

Hanbin just hopes it won’t be awkward between them, with another person knowing that their relationship doesn’t really exist.

“Likewise,” Hao smiles, accepting the glass he is offered.

They soon join the small gathering. Hanbin presents Hao, as if he were a trophy, and he can’t tell if Hao is acting or genuinely enjoying the interactions. Hao converses easily, and it seems as if he’s known everyone for years. His voice is calm, but his laughter shines through the other sounds, light and infectious.

He quickly becomes friends with Taerae, Hao charmed by his interest in music. Taerae tells him about how he learned to play the guitar and how he used to sing every Sunday at church when he was younger. They sometimes include Hanbin in the conversation, but he’s more focused on gazing at Hao, his arm stretched out on the back of his chair, enjoying his weight against his body and his cute fingers on his thigh.

“I’ll steal Hao for a moment,” Matthew appears, with a mischievous grin. “We’re going to tell embarrassing stories about you.”

“The friends I have,” Hanbin says deadpan, seeing Gyuvin and Gunwook standing there waiting for them. Taerae laughs beside him.

“We could tell them in front of you, but you’d probably try to hit me if I said anything too much, so no,” Matthew shrugs, Hao already on his feet.

“It’s alright, I’ll defend your honor if necessary,” Hao says with a giggle and blows him a kiss before leaving with Matthew.

Without Hao present between them, Hanbin focuses on a new conversation with Taerae. Taerae is easy to talk to, of all his friends, he’s the one who teases him the least, and they often talk about things that make more… sense. No offense, eh. Every now and then, Hanbin glances at Hao, unable to help but notice how effortlessly Hao fits in, how Matthew is telling him something, how Gunwook and Gyuvin interrupt, probably giving their own versions, and how Hao laughs, leaning confidently toward them.

They make eye contact for a moment, Hao’s pretty smile warming something inside him.

“You can’t stop staring at him for a second, huh?” Taerae nudges him.

“I’m not staring,” Hanbin says, unable to completely wipe the smile off his face.

“Sure, and my name isn’t Kim Taerae,” he says, amused.

Great, now Taerae is teasing him too.

“It seems like you can’t pretend you aren’t in love with him even if you were paid.”

Hanbin chokes on his drink. “What—?”

It catches him completely off guard, seriously. They have to pretend, and they have to do it well, but he wasn’t expecting this kind of comment. He can’t pretend he isn’t in love with Hao even if he was paid? What the hell does that mean?

“Relax. It was a joke,” Taerae pats him on the back, smiling. “Kinda.”

Hao approaches at that moment, a glass in his hand, completely oblivious to the mess Taerae left in his mind. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” Hanbin nods, still recovering.

“Matthew made this drink,” Hao shows him the glass. “It tastes great, wanna try it?”

Hanbin accepts, trying to ignore Taerae’s curious gaze. Hao smiles, unsuspecting, and stays by his side. And although there is laughter, music, and voices around them, Hanbin feels the world shrink a little, just the two of them and that instant when sharing a glass seems more intimate than it should be.

“I should go get a drink too,” Taerae leaves without waiting for an answer.

The party continues at the relaxed rhythm of a leisurely night, the lights reflecting off half-empty glasses, and the air smelling of food, alcoholic drinks, sweets, and almost summer. Hao seems to be quite the attraction, the chair next to him constantly being filled and occupied by new people, all wanting a piece of Hanbin’s marvelous husband. And Hao seems to take it all easy, talking, laughing easily, listening attentively. Hanbin feels a strange mixture of relief and something harder to name.

As the night pass, the music had lowered, and most of Matthew’s guests had dispersed to different corners of the yard. Some are chatting near the sliding door, others laughing around the table where the food had been. Hanbin and Hao remain at one corner, sitting on a couch where they barely fit together, where the hanging lights are less intense and the air is a little cooler. For the first time that night, no one seem to be paying any attention to them.

“Aren’t you tired?” Hanbin leans slightly toward Hao, his arm resting on the back of the seat. He can tell Hao’s social battery is already empty.

“A bit, yeah,” Hao looks at him, his eyes calm and his posture relaxed. “And I think I drank more than I planned.”

“That happens when Matthew starts serving,” Hanbin says with amusement. Even so, his tone is low, not wanting to break the calm between them.

“I thought you were going to say it was my fault for not knowing how to say no,” Hao says, leaning closer to him until they are completely pressed together.

“Well, that too,” Hanbin tilts his head, with a mild mocking expression. “At least you’re not the one who has to drive back home.”

“Thank God,” Hao laughs, and rests his head on Hanbin’s shoulder. Hanbin pulls him closer, as if they weren’t close enough already.

They stay like that, with the distant sounds of the party in the background. Hanbin thinks about how comfortable he is there, how good the silence feels when shared with Hao. He’d like to stay like this, without interruptions, without thinking about what comes next. Preferably at home, where it’s just the two of them.

“You look different when you’re with your friends,” Hao breaks the silence, but keeps his voice low.

“Different how?”

“Lighter and more comfortable, maybe. You laugh more,” Hao smiles, almost imperceptibly. “I like seeing you like this.”

The comment throws his thoughts into disarray, leaving him in that ambiguous space between what he should say and what he truly wants. He glances down at the glass he’s holding. “I feel the same way about you.”

Hao blinks, surprised. His smile widens slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” he says sincerely. “I like seeing you enjoying the moment.”

Those words are perhaps the most they can confess for the moment, without having to open the box of feelings that is filling up faster than they imagine.

Someone calls them from across the yard—Matthew, laughing at something—and the small space they’d built up breaks down for a moment. But the distance between them doesn’t change, and when Hao looks back, they’re still leaning toward each other, as if no interruption could ever truly separate them. Eventually, they do, standing up to say goodbye and go home.

“Are you leaving already?” Matthew asks when he sees them.

“Yes, it’s getting a bit late,” Hanbin says. “And Hao is tired.”

“Hey, don’t rat me out,” Hao gently nudges him with his shoulder, a small pout adorning his face. “I had a great time, Matthew, thanks for the invitation.”

“Thanks for coming,” Matthew smiles. “It was great meeting you.”

As they say their goodbyes to the others, Hanbin keeps his hand on Hao’s waist until they enter the house. Only there they truly separate, Hao excusing himself to go to the bathroom and Hanbin heading to the kitchen. Hanbin is pouring himself a glass of water when he sees Gyuvin enter, leaning against the counter with his hands in his pockets.

“You both did well there.”

The tone carries a hint of irony, and Hanbin doesn’t need to look to know it’s accompanied by that expression of his, somewhere between amused and accusatory. Even so, he merely raises an eyebrow while still holding the glass. “What?”

“Acting like you’re in love,” Gyuvin leans his elbow on the counter and stares at him cheekily. “I mean, if I didn’t know, I’d believe your love story.”

“Well, that’s the point, no? To make it look real,” Hanbin murmurs, still not looking at him.

“Sure, sure,” Gyuvin nods. “Just be careful. I’m worried you won’t know when to stop acting.”

The words pierce him more than he cares to admit. Hanbin sets the glass down on the counter, watching a drop slide down and wet his fingers. He doesn’t answer because, genuinely, he doesn’t know what to say. The silence between them is heavy, laden with things Gyuvin seems to sense but Hanbin doesn’t want to confront. Just then, he hears Hao’s footsteps approaching from the hallway, and that’s enough for Gyuvin to straighten his back and change the subject.

“Well,” he smiles lighter, “tell your husband it was a pleasure seeing him tonight.”

He seems to be debating whether to say something more, but he remains silent. Hanbin takes this as an opportunity to say goodbye and leave the kitchen. When he finds Hao at the door, Hanbin has already regained his composure, but he still feels the echo of Gyuvin’s words reverberating in his head, and something inside him wants to start questioning where, exactly, the acting ends.

They don’t make much noise as they enter the house. The echo of the night still accompanies them, a trail of other people’s laughter and distant lights that dissolve as they go up the stairs. They both get ready for bed, brushing their teeth side by side in front of the sink and moving with a familiarity that no longer seems borrowed.

When they get into bed, the lights are off and the distant murmur of the city, not enough loud to filter through the window. Hao settles on his side, his back to Hanbin. Hanbin hesitates for a few seconds, looking at the curve of his shoulder, the hair brushing against the pillow, but doesn’t think about it too much this time. He moves closer and carefully extends an arm, feeling Hao’s warmth beneath his fingers, the gentle movement of his breath. Hao tenses for a moment, but relaxes, sinking a little deeper into his chest.

They say nothing.

Hanbin closes his eyes and lets the tiredness wash over him, feeling that, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t have to fill the silence with thoughts. Hao is there, breathing calmly, and that’s enough to make everything feel a little easier, a little more real.

♦

There are changes Hanbin doesn’t fully notice. Mornings no longer feel so heavy—sometimes he stays in bed a little longer, listening to whatever crazy dream Hao had, until he lets go and gets up to open the curtains, letting the natural light in. Before, he kept them closed out of habit, to save time, to avoid distractions.

This causes him to arrive later to work—actually, it causes him to arrive at a more reasonable and normal hour, according to Matthew… and Gyuvin… and Gunwook… and half the office—and his mind is filled with constant thoughts of wanting to get home to be with Hao. He leaves work earlier more regularly, but not alarmingly so, Hanbin still forgets that he doesn’t have to work 10 or 11 hours a day and that rest is important. So sometimes Hao texts him asking him to pick him up from the academy.

He’s already known there, the receptionist has stopped looking at him suspiciously and now offers him fewer tense smiles. He knows some of the teachers, even the principal. The first time she saw him, she was delighted. “Is that your husband? He’s so attractive!” It gave him a bit of a boost.

There’s always coffee waiting for him in the morning and tea in the evening, that makes both day and night better.

They gradually begin to gravitate more towards each other. At first, Hao still complains about the cold temperature, that even though Hanbin has turned up the heat, his hands still feel freezing and his feet numb. But it’s just a cheap excuse, a way to justify getting close, even though he doesn’t need to. Hanbin never hesitates to hug him—on the sofa, in the kitchen, in bed.

The next few times, Hao doesn’t have to say anything. Hanbin simply pulls him closer, and Hao snuggles closer. This is also how his hoodies begin to disappear. Hao uses them without asking, and Hanbin says nothing, even leaving some folded near the sofa or in the bedroom for him to find. And at some point, it ceases to be a conscious gesture. Hanbin no longer thinks about whether Hao is cold or not, or whether he should offer him something. He does it without thinking—an arm around his shoulders, a shared blanket, a hoodie left in his reach.

And with that, his T-shirts disappear too, Hao using them to sleep in. Hanbin won’t admit it out loud, but even though he misses seeing him in his cute pajamas, he prefers seeing him in his own clothes. A feeling of possessiveness washes over him each time.

Emoji clips are still being used, so that’s a win.

Hanbin begins to notice how much living together has transformed him. He allows himself to rest and laugh more, even asking Hao how to care of the plants when he can’t. He’s surprised by how much he’s changed without intending to, by how natural it feels to share space with someone. Hao, without realizing it, becomes the mirror that makes him rethink what he wants, the silent presence that reminds him that perhaps his life could be different, more his own, more alive.

The night is quiet, both of them getting ready for bed after a long day.

“Don’t regret what you do,” Hao murmurs, looking at the tattoo on Hanbin’s arm. “What does it mean?”

“It was kind of a reminder not to regret anything,” Hanbin says. “I got it done before I started university, and well.”

“What do you regret?”

There’s a long moment of silence before he answers, Hanbin trying to organize the memories that are starting to return. “Of having stopped dancing at all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hao asks as Hanbin climbs onto the bed. He settles down on his side, facing Hao, who looks at him with curious eyes.

“I had an accident,” he confesses in a low voice, a thread of sincerity that seems to escape him unfiltered. “I fractured my knee. I did a lot of physiotherapy, and when I was walking properly again, I just… left.”

Hanbin closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the words weigh more heavily on him than they should. Hao listens silently, resting his head on the pillow, his eyes fixed on him.

“They told me I wouldn’t be able to dance like before,” he finally explains. “Not that I couldn’t do it again, but that it wouldn’t be the same. That maybe I could have it as a hobby, but not as a job.”

The words come out slowly, one after another, and as they do, he feels that each one leaves a small mark in the air.

“I guess that’s what hurt me the most,” Hanbin continues. “To think that I could keep dancing, but not the way I wanted. So I stop completely. It seemed easier to leave it behind than to do it halfway.”

Hao nods, still saying nothing. He’s clearly processing what he’s hearing, and Hanbin is silently grateful that he’s not trying to comfort him with empty words.

“After that, I focused on university. And when I got a job… well, it was easier not to think. Spending hours in the office, having my head full of something else. It works, I think.”

His eyes finally meet Hao’s, who continues to gaze at him with a mixture of curiosity, tenderness, and restrained sadness that sometimes touches him in a way he doesn’t know how to protect. He isn’t used to being looked at like this, with genuine attention, without judgment.

“It doesn’t seem to be working quite right,” Hao says softly, with a small smile.

Hanbin lets out a short, humorless laugh. “No, I guess not. Sometimes, no matter how busy I am, I think about it.”

“I understand things didn’t turn out as you expected…” Hao’s voice is gentle, “that circumstances didn’t allow you to live that part of your life the way you wanted. But sometimes it hurts more to let go of something we can still have, even if it’s just a part,” he pauses. “And living with that regret weighs more heavily than trying again.”

“I—” Yes, Hanbin regrets having stop dancing, but he doesn’t know… “Thank you,” he whispers. It’s the most he can say at the moment.

-

The sound of typing stops abruptly, a familiar voice breaking the concentration he had maintained for hours. Hanbin’s eyes lift from the screen, still caught between emails and charts, not quite understanding what he has just heard.

“What?” He asks, looking with furrowed brows, his mind still anchored in work.

At the door, Gyuvin leans against the frame with an amused smile. “Your husband is here,” he repeats, more slowly this time.

Disbelief crosses his face as he blinks. “What are you saying?”

But the answer comes immediately. Hao appears behind Gyuvin’s shoulder, serene as ever, carrying a paper bag. The white light from the office reflects in his eyes, his hair is slightly disheveled, and for some reason, it makes Hanbin’s heart flutter a little in his chest.

“Hello,” Hao says casually. Gyuvin stifles a laugh, visibly enjoying the scene. He looks at one and then the other, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“I’m going to leave you with… your husband,” Gyuvin murmurs before slowly closing the door, prolonging the gesture just to annoy him.

Once the door is closed, Hao walks over to the desk and places the bag on it. “What are you doing here?”

It’s not that he doesn’t want Hao here or that his presence isn’t welcome, it’s just that it takes him by surprise. Usually, it’s Hanbin who goes to Hao’s workplace.

“I brought you food,” Hao replies, gesturing calmly toward the bag. “Matthew texted me that you had back-to-back meetings and skipped lunch.”

The mention of Matthew makes Hanbin grimace. He feels a mixture of surprise and resignation. “Why do you have Matthew’s number?”

“We exchanged them,” Hao smiled. “Just in case.”

Hanbin watches him, trying to decide whether he should feel betrayed or grateful.

“I can’t believe Matthew conspired with you,” he finishes, and although he tries to sound annoyed, his voice comes out softer.

“It just gave me a real reason to come,” Hao shrugs. “I wanted to see you.”

That last sentence sends a small shock through him. He feels like a teenager in a romantic drama! A warm wave rushes through his chest, quick and unexpected. His body doesn’t know what to do with the feeling of hearing something like that in the middle of a Monday, in his office, his heart pounding harder than it should. Hao has no idea of the effect he has on Hanbin.

“Come on, eat,” Hao said, not expecting a response. Hanbin didn’t think he could say anything concrete to him at that moment anyway, his thoughts swirling around the way Hao said it—no drama, no ulterior motives, just a simple truth.

Hanbin takes the first bite when Hao checks the time on his watch and stand up.

“I can’t stay long,” he smooths down his shirt. “I have to get back to work.”

“Did you come all this way just for this?” Hanbin asks, incredulous.

“I just wanted to make sure you ate something,” Hao replies. Then he pulls out his phone and types something quickly. Hanbin’s phone vibrates a moment later. “I sent you an address. Stop by when you get out, yeah? I’ll be waiting.”

“What’s that?”

“A surprise. It’s nothing unusual,” Hao doesn’t offer more explanation, which of course makes him suspicious.

“Okay,” he doesn’t insist any further, and he also stands up, accompanying Hao to the door.

“See you later,” Hao murmurs, leaning slightly toward him. The kiss on his cheek comes so quickly he doesn’t have the opportunity to react, a light, warm touch that leaves a trail of electricity in the air.

Then he turns and leaves the office with the same calm he entered. Hanbin stands still, watching the door close in front of him. Only when he sits back down does he realize that his hand is still on his cheek, as if trying to grasp the essence of the moment before it fades away.

The moment is shattered when the door bursts open. Gyuvin enters, his enormous bambi eyes and an expression Hanbin knows all too well. He doesn’t need to say a word to know exactly what he’s thinking.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he warns, pointing at him with the chopsticks before he even opens his mouth.

Gyuvin raises his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Even so, he advances without permission and sits down in front of him, crossing his legs. Hanbin tries to ignore him and continues eating, though the taste of the food becomes flat with the persistent gaze he feels upon him. Each bite becomes heavier, slower.

“Are you going to keep staring at me?” Hanbin asks, without looking up.

Gyuvin shrugs. He waits a moment longer, and just as he stands up to leave, he drops the line with all the intention in the world: “You seem to be taking acting a little too seriously.”

The door closes behind him, and Hanbin stands motionless, chopsticks suspended in mid-air. He doesn’t know whether to be annoyed, laugh, or simply pretend he didn’t understand the comment.

By late afternoon, he forgets the day’s accumulated fatigue as he drives to the address Hao texted him, his shoulders pounding. He doesn’t know exactly where he’s going, but he trusts Hao. The road leads him to a modern complex with expansive glass windows, from there, he can see the minimalist architecture and the signs that say California Institute of the Arts. Hao is waiting for him at the entrance, a broad smile on his face.

“You’re just in time,” he reaches out to take his hand. Hao leads him down a hallway decorated with photographs of students expressing art with their bodies.

“What is this place?” Hanbin asks. It’s a silly question, because Hanbin knows where he is, he just doesn’t know why.

“Dance school,” Hao explains briefly, without giving further details.

They walk through the faculty building, its wooden doors open to reveal spacious rooms with full-length mirrors, ballet barres, and polished dance floors. The faint sound of music drifts from one of the rooms, a teacher directing a small group practicing a choreography. Hanbin silently observes the hallways, thinking that if his life had been different, he probably would have been part of something like this or teaching others. Soon they reach the main theater, where the sound of music filters in even before they step through the doors.

The stage glows under a white light that circles above the floor, bathing the dancers in an almost ethereal radiance. In the background, a group of people converses in hushed tones, some tapping their fingers to the beat, others nodding with almost ritualistic precision. The murmur of their comments mingles with the sound of shoes on the wooden floor.

“They’re Choreography students,” Hao whispers, leading him to one of the back seats in the theater. “They’re working on their master’s thesis project.”

Their hands remain clasped as they sit. The dancers move silently for a few seconds before the music begins again. A piano opens the way with a melody that glides between soft and taut notes, and then everything springs into motion. It is contemporary dance—a back-and-forth between control and collapse, a conversation between body and space.

The movements flow and break, like waves crashing against each other, outstretched arms that seem to touch the air, torsos that twist at impossible angles, breaths that merge with the rhythm. Hanbin feels something stir within him. He feels the tension in his muscles, the control, the surrender, and he remembers what it was like to have his body as a tool, as a form of expression. An ancient sensation, one he thought dormant, begins to awaken within him, vibrating to the rhythm of the piano that fills the theater.

Hao glances at him, watching his reaction, saying nothing more. He simply squeezes his hand, and that’s enough for Hanbin. His gaze remains fixed on the stage, the music enveloping him, clinging to that warm pressure between his fingers.

The music stops, a brief round of applause erupts from the dancers. The murmur of the theater shifts—some sit on the floor stretching, others talk near the stage, low voices, laughter, the sound of water bottles opening. Hanbin continues staring straight ahead, still processing what he just saw, until Hao stands up and waves to someone approaching.

“Hanbin, this is Kuanjui,” Hao presents him with a smile. The boy has a bandana tied back his hair, his breathing is still a little rapid, but his expression is open and friendly. “He’s one of my closest friends.”

“So this is the husband,” Kuanjui says with amusement, and Hanbin wonders if he knows the truth. “HaoHao talks about you a lot.”

“Really?” Hanbin asks.

“Yes,” Kuanjui replies with a giggle. Hao coughs before Kuanjui can say anything else. “Thank you for coming. We don’t usually have audience, but Hao insisted. Using his alumni privileges.”

Hanbin glances quickly at Hao, who simply smiles, without offering explanation. “It was incredible.”

“How kind of you,” Kuanjui smiles. “We still have many things to perfect and many more to build.”

Kuanjui explains vague details of the project, and Hanbin listens to everything with amazement and curiosity, making comments based on what he knows.

“Do you like dancing, Hanbin?” Kuanjui tilts his head, curious.

“I used to dance,” Hanbin admits shyly. “Mostly hip hop, waacking, and tutting.”

“Waacking and tutting? I’d love to see that,” Kuanjui is slightly surprised and interested. “There are open classes on weekends, if you ever feel like giving it a try.”

Before Hanbin can say anything, someone calls Kuanjui from the stage, and he waves goodbye.

“Waacking and tutting?” Hao repeats, also surprised. “That’s impressive, I don’t think I’m capable of coordinating my arms and legs like that.”

“I don’t think I’m capable of doing it either.”

“I bet you can,” Hao says. “You just need to trust in yourself again.”

The echo of the music and the dancers’ movements on stage lingered in Hanbin’s mind, maybe as a reminder of something his body already knew. Hao’s gaze shine with an intensity he’s never seen before, and Hanbin feels not pressured, but invited. He starts to understand that perhaps it’s not about returning to the past, but about allowing something in him to begin anew.

-

It’s not something Hanbin had thought about clearly before, but now it’s hard to ignore. Hao keeps him grounded most of the time and motivates him to change aspects of his life that might not be so good. Hanbin finds it amazing how Hao manages his time, busy all week at the academy, not only with classes but also with his students’ rehearsals and his own with the orchestra, yet he always finds time for everything else.

Especially for Hanbin.

The afternoon begins to cool, the golden light that enters through the living room window paints the walls, the house absorbing every drop of natural light it can before night falls completely.

“We should go out for dinner,” Hao says, appearing in the doorway with a smile. “I found a restaurant a few blocks from here.”

He’d spent most of the day checking emails and putting off things he didn’t want to do, and the idea of going out didn’t seem particularly appealing, he’d rather order takeout. But… it’s Hao. He knows why he does it, and Hanbin likes Hao more than work. A lot more. And he has to keep learning from Hao, stop working so much, dedicate his time to other productive things—or unproductive things, it doesn’t matter—and rest.

“Now?”

“Yes, before it gets completely dark,” with that, he disappears up the stairs.

It brings a smile to Hanbin’s face. He sets his laptop aside and follows Hao to the room. They change into street but comfortable clothes and leave, walking together along quiet streets, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the distant murmur of traffic. Hao’s hand finds him, their fingers intertwining. Hanbin can feel the pressure of his ring against his hand, a lump forming in his throat.

The restaurant is small, with worn wooden tables and strings of lights hanging over the terrace. From outside, it can be heard music, some jazz mixed with the sound of conversations.

The music shifts to something classical, the violins highlighting. “Will I ever hear you play the violin?”

It’s almost comical to think that they’ve been living together for two months and Hanbin hasn’t heard Hao once. When he said the walls were thick, he wasn’t lying, not a sound escapes the room when he locks himself in to practice. The most Hanbin has managed to hear are the brief chords of tuning, and a few notes that fade away before a coherent melody can form.

Hao’s fingers move absentmindedly along the rim of his water glass, and for a moment, Hanbin wonders if the question bothered him, if it touched a personal nerve.

“Soon.” Hao smiles shyly at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re waiting for the concert.”

“Maybe,” Hao lets out a low, brief laugh that seems to blend with the background music. “I just didn’t think you’d be interested.”

Hanbin blinks. “Why I wouldn’t be interested?”

“I don’t know,” Hao shrugs slightly, glancing out the window where the orange light of the setting sun reflects off the window. “Not everyone wants to listen to classical music. It can be boring for someone who doesn’t play.”

Hanbin observes him silently, noticing Hao’s subtle attempt to downplay the matter. He finds it curious how, despite his apparent confidence in almost everything else, he becomes so reserved when it comes to his music.

“I don’t think anything you do could ever seem boring to me.”

The sincerity in his tone surprises Hao. Their eyes meet, and for a second the noise of the place and the murmur of the violins disappear. “That sounds like a dangerous statement,” Hao jokes, though the smile that accompanies his words holds more than mere amusement.

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, baby,” Hao smiles. “I’ll surprise you one of these days.”

The food arrives, preventing the silence from becoming awkward. A silence that doesn’t last long, as they chat about everything and nothing between bites. There’s something about the way Hao tilts his head when he listens, or how he smiles with his eyes before his mouth, completely oblivious to the impact his gestures have on Hanbin.

Sometimes he forgets that it’s all a lie, that the us they so naturally project is nothing more than a temporary construction, a makeshift solution to a mistake they made. Hanbin isn’t sure when they stopped acting, it became more than just pretending in front of people. They started being that way in private, where no one else sees them, where no one else knows the true reason for their relationship, where they owe no one explanations but themselves.

He often finds himself imagining what it would be like if there were no expiration date, if this domestic life they share didn’t have a clock ticking down. Hanbin is allowing himself to wish, and that scares him, because he doesn’t know if he should. He’s spent much of his life avoiding what he can’t control, and Hao is just that: contained chaos, a luminous pause in the midst of a routine he’d learned to accept as enough.

As Hao speaks enthusiastically about the rehearsals, Hanbin listens and, for a moment, feels detached from everything around them. There are no lies, no accidental marriages, no divorce plans. Only that voice in front of him, that face that has become so familiar he can’t remember the last time he thought of his home without including him.

“Let’s walk,” Hao says softly, when there are no more dishes on the table and the bill has been paid.

They walk aimlessly. The sky is tinged with that blue that survives before nightfall, and the streetlights come on one by one. They reach a park, find an empty bench, and sit down, silently watching some people strolling peacefully, others jogging with headphones on, or walking their dogs. They stay there with their shoulders touching, in a thickening silence, filled with things neither of them dares to name.

The lump in his throat doesn’t dissipate at the end of the night.

♥

Going for night walks become part of their routine, something that happens without needing to be planned. They walk leisurely, talking about small things, the fresh air clearing their minds. Hanbin already likes this feeling of being outside of time, feeling all the noise of the world bounce off the bubble they created just for the two of them.

One of those nights, as they are walking down a street, a big dog approaches them, its light fur brimming with energy. Hao immediately crouches down, laughing as the animal rests on his legs seeking attention. Hanbin can only watch, observing how effortless everything seems when Hao smiles, his gestures softening, his laughter filling the air. The dog’s owner appears shortly after, apologizes, and takes the dog away. Hao stands there, his eyes still sparkling, watching them disappear into the distance.

The sky turns orange, the air is still warm from the day, and the shadows of the trees stretch across the pavement.

“Kuanjui sent me a video today,” Hao says. “They’re working on the main part of the project.”

“Can I ask what it’s about?” Hanbin asks. “Kuanjui only gave me vague details about the choreography, but I have no idea what it’s about.”

“It’s about the movements the body repeats unconsciously. The routines, the gestures, born from time, memory, or tiredness, but which become part of our identity. They try to make the invisible visible, to break those movements, the body tries to remember what it was like to move freely.”

Hanbin listens with genuine interest. “That sounds very poetic.”

“It does,” Hao smiles. “But even though the body moves freely most of the time, those gestures never fade away. Being free doesn’t always mean forgetting, and the body doesn’t know how to let go.”

The phrase repeats in his mind like a mantra: the body doesn’t know how to let go, doesn’t know how to let go, doesn’t know how to let go. His probably doesn’t either. Hanbin feels a familiar twinge in his knee, or perhaps it’s just in his memory. He looks at the sky, which is taking on that lavender hue that heralds night, and wonders when he stopped moving because he wanted to and started moving only to stay up.

Something inside him begins to stir, a nostalgia that isn’t sadness, but desire. It ignites him in a way he’d forgotten. And that spark, that gentle tug in his chest, makes him think that maybe he could return. Not in the same way as before, not with the ambition he once had, but from a more sincere place, more his own. Not for anyone else, only for himself, to feel his body remembering what he once knew, what still lives there, waiting.

-

It doesn’t come with words, Hanbin doesn’t need to speak, because Hao understands.

The building looks different at that hour, empty and silent, the light of the setting sun filtering through the windows. They walk down a hallway to one of the dance studios that Kuanjui arranged for them, Hanbin feeling a wave of vertigo hit him with every step he takes.

“Are you really going to dance or did you just come to support me?” Hanbin asks, setting his backpack aside, as Hao connects his phone to the sound system.

“We’ll see about that later,” Hao shrugs, keeping it ambiguous. Ah, so that’s how it’ll be.

They begin to stretch, the sound of their joints giving way and their breaths filling the room. The wooden floor is warm beneath their feet, and the reflection in the mirror shows them an image that feels both foreign and familiar to Hanbin. The music starts, and Hao sits on the floor, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at him in the mirror.

Hao gives him the thumbs up, and with that, he starts.

The beginning is slow, testing his weight, the extension of his arms, the limited rotation of his knee. At first, he feels clumsy, his movements heavy, his legs stiff, his body hesitant. Hao says nothing, doesn’t rush him, only encourages him with his gaze. And little by little, Hanbin begins to loosen up—it’s not a technical dance or choreography, it’s free movement, a conversation with his body.

The tension he carries inside dissolves, layer by layer, until only the sound of the music and the echo of his footsteps remain. He doesn’t think about his knee, or what might have been, or the lost years. He simply moves, allowing himself to inhabit that space he thought was forever closed.

Hao claps, unable to suppress the smile that lights up his face. The sound echoes off the walls of the empty studio, filling the space that the music once occupied.

“Wow,” he finally says, still with his hands clasped together. “It’s incredible that you can dance like this after an injury and so long without doing it.”

Hanbin, his chest still rising and falling from the effort, lets his arms fall to his sides. “It was a clumsy improvisation,” he lets out a nervous laugh.

“If that was clumsy, I don’t want to imagine you at your best,” Hao said, getting up from the ground and walking toward him with a genuinely impressed expression. “It doesn’t seem like you’ve ever stopped.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Hanbin looks away, feeling the heat rise up his neck to his ears.

“I’m not exaggerating,” Hao insists, his voice lower now. He finishes moving closer, gently touching Hanbin’s cheeks and resting their foreheads together. “You’re very good.”

The contact doesn’t last long, but Hanbin still doesn’t know what to do with it, with those words, or with that gaze that pierces him so easily. He remains still, breathing deeply, trying to cool the blush he can no longer hide. His ears are still red, and Hao laughs softly, not mockingly, just pleased to see him like this.

Without saying anything else, Hao turns around, looks for something on his phone, and a new song fills the room.

“You’ll show me your dance?” Hanbin asks, perking up.

“Yes,” Hao says, walking to the center while stretching his arms. “But don’t get your hopes up too high.”

The words caught in his throat as Hao begins to move. He hasn’t imagined Hao can move like this, each movement fluid yet with a power palpable in every turn, every extension. It’s not a technical dance, not like his own, but there is something about Hao’s naturalness that Hanbin finds… hypnotic. Hanbin forgets to breathe, watching him, fascinated.

“Since when do you dance like that?” Hanbin asks when Hao stops.

“Sometimes I used to dance with Kuanjui, before I graduated,” Hao replies, smiling a little shyly and with his cheeks flushed.

The next song begins without either of them planning it, and only a shared glance in front of the mirror, a kind of unspoken understanding, compels them to move. Hanbin takes the first step, setting the rhythm with a smooth transition, and Hao follows naturally.

They follow choreographies, laughing when they mess up a step, and between songs they dare to improvise. Hanbin is a little surprised by their synchronicity, so natural, almost perfect, as if they’d been doing this before all the time. He concentrates on his steps, but keeps glancing at Hao in the mirror, smiling with his messy hair, unaware that he’s the reason Hanbin feels lighter than he has in a long time. There’s no fear in his knee, no painful memories, no pressure.

The sound of sneakers scraping on the floor, mingling with the music, fills the room until the last song ends, being replaced by their heavy breathing.

With his chest rising and falling, and a broad smile spreading across his face, Hanbin collapses to the ground, stretching out his arms and legs, feeling his heartbeat throughout his body. He closes his eyes, thinking of the absolute freedom he had forgotten how to feel.

He then feels a shadow between the light from the ceiling and his face. He opens his eyes, confused, and finds Hao leaning over him. Hao’s hands are on either side of his head, pressed firmly against the floor, and their faces are so close that Hanbin can see his own reflection in his pupils. Hanbin could move, but he doesn’t. Hao could back away, but he doesn’t either. Hanbin can’t remember the last time someone looked at him like this, with such a clear mixture of tenderness and affection.

Is it too fast?

Is it enough time?

“How do you feel?” Hao asks, his voice almost a whisper, mingling with the warm air they both share. Hanbin looks at him, still breathing heavily.

“Free.”

Neither of them moves. It’s as if the whole world has stopped at that moment, between the echo of the last beat and the expectant silence. Hao quick glances down at Hanbin’s lips, and takes that small gesture as an answer.

Hanbin sits up abruptly, making Hao step back, surprised. But before he can fully recover, Hanbin grasps the back of his neck and pulls him closer without hesitation. Their lips meet for a brief moment, just long enough for Hao to pull away if he so chooses. But Hao cradles his face, his fingers tangling in Hanbin’s sweaty hair, deepening the kiss and dispelling the lingering anxiety within him. The kiss hits him like an electric shock, a current that courses through every fiber of his being.

The tension that had been building for weeks explodes in a single second, intensely. Hanbin feels the pulse in his fingertips, the dizziness in his chest, and their breath merging into a single rhythm. His entire world shrinks to the precise pressure of his lips, to the warm, moist touch that erases any coherent thought.

Hao’s fingers brush against the skin behind his ear, a slight caress, but enough to make him forget how to breathe. There’s something urgent, almost desperate, in the way they reach for each other, and at the same time, something profoundly gentle. For the first time, everything feels undeniably real. It’s not part of the role they’re playing, nor an accident of living together—it’s something that exists only between them, raw, vulnerable, and absolutely true.

His hand remains on the back of Hao’s neck, the other on his knee, trying to find his balance, trying to sort out what they just did.

“Is this fine?” Hanbin whispers. Hao runs his thumb under Hanbin’s eye, peering at him from beneath his eyelashes.

“I was expecting it.”

Hanbin hadn’t fully understood it before, but Hao did, because somehow, he had learned to read him better than Hanbin himself. He knew Hanbin needed time to process his feelings, to acknowledge them and allow himself to love without fear, to make changes within himself.

Now he understands, or at least he’s starting to. He doesn’t know why it took him so long. Maybe because he’d spent too much time trying to control everything, to name everything, to measure what could hurt before it even happened. But with Hao, none of that matters. With Hao, everything is so easy—having him at home, sharing silences without feeling awkward, in the kitchen in the mornings, his hair tousled, a cup in his hands, walking together through quiet streets, talking about work, laughing with him, holding him while they sleep, feeling his presence fill the spaces that once seemed empty.

This ease gives him a feeling of whirl, a fear that everything could overflow at any moment, because from the beginning they are meant to be ephemeral. But alongside that feeling there is another, deeper, gentler one: relief. A warm relief that settles in his chest and tells him that, for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t need to run from what he feels.

“I didn’t want to…” Hanbin pauses, searching for the best way to express himself, “to get ahead of myself, maybe I was imagining it, or confusing what is real with what is fake.”

That line between what was genuine and what they had to pretend in public began to blur a long time ago. Gyuvin warned him, worried that he wouldn’t realize when to stop acting. But Hanbin doesn’t want to have to act with Hao. He wants to have this with him, even though everything happened backward.

“You weren’t imagining anything. If I didn’t like you I wouldn’t act like this around you when no one’s watching,” Hao says gently. “I don’t have to pretend with you, Hanbin, and there are many things I’ve stopped pretending about in front of others, too.”

“I was also scared that I was getting involved too quickly,” Hanbin confesses. “I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to feel this way.”

“Now that you’re sure,” Hao says, hushed voice, “what do you want?”

“You,” Hanbin replies without much thinking, no need to, so simple and honest.

“I’m here, you have me,” Hao’s smile is confident, and in that gesture Hanbin finds something close to peace.

Upon arriving home, the day’s tiredness sets in. Shoes are left abandoned by the door, jackets draped over the sofa, and only the domestic peace remains, a refuge they have both come to recognize. There is no urgency, only the need to be close, to be in each other’s arms.

♠

The receptionist at the academy isn’t the same as usual. This one is younger, with her hair pulled back in a high ponytail and an energy level that’s a little too high for the time of day.

“Hello, how can I help you?” She asks, smiling professionally.

“I’m looking for Hao,” Hanbin replies.

“Do you have an appointment with him?” She glances at the computer, waiting for confirmation and a name to search for it.

“No. I’m his husband.”

The reaction is immediate, she straightens up slightly, quickly apologizes, clearly recognizing the detail she almost overlooked. “Oh, yes! Right, I’m sorry,” Hanbin notices the blush creeping across her cheeks, embarrassed. “He’s using a different room, 208. It’s the last room in building 2.”

Hanbin thanks her and heads that way, feeling a mixture of vertigo, pride and a spark of something warm—saying the word husband out loud this time feels different, beginning to have a more real meaning.

From outside, he hears a hushed conversation, accompanied by a tapping on a table. Hao is sitting on it, sheet music scattered around and his laptop open. Beside him, leaning back in a chair with his legs crossed, is a man with neatly combed jet-black hair and a sparkling earring. Hanbin recognizes him as Ricky, from the few photos Hao once showed him. The two are so engrossed in their conversation that it takes them a second to notice Hanbin.

Hao looks up first, and his face lights up. “You’re here.”

Ricky turns his head, looks him up and down, his smile widening. Hanbin feels too exposed under Ricky’s scrutinizing look.

“Hello,” Hanbin greets, stepping a little further in. “Sorry if I interrupted.”

“Nah,” Ricky dismisses it. “We were just having a productive conversation.”

“You were just determined to criticize every arrangement I make,” Hao retorts.

“I don’t know, some notes sound like the violin is stressed,” Ricky protests, pointing at the violin.

“Stressed?” Hao frowns. “An instrument can’t be stressed.”

“Well, you seem stressed enough for both,” Ricky shrugs.

Hanbin blinks, not understanding anything. “Arrangement?”

“I’m adjusting a piece for my students,” Hao explains. “And Ricky isn’t contributing anything.”

“Hey!” Ricky makes an offended sound. “I’m contributing you with my wonderful company while you suffer.”

Hao gently shakes his head and stands up. “I have better company now, so you can leave.”

“You’re disrespecting our friendship. But I was leaving anyway,” Ricky also stands up, brushing nonexistent dust off his pants. This make him look more prominent, and Hanbin feels slightly intimidated. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

There have been so many introductions in such a short time, and Hanbin feels this one is the most important. He’s not sure if Ricky knows the turn his relationship with Hao has taken, but for now, in his mind, Ricky only knows him as the guy who got married drunk with his best friend.

Hanbin nods. “Likewise.”

“I hope we meet again sometime soon,” Ricky smiles and walks toward the door, waving goodbye. “See you.”

The door closes, and the echo of Ricky’s footsteps fades down the hallway. Part of Hanbin wishes for a different first impression, wishes he’d arrived at this meeting as someone Hao consciously chose, not the result of a night that went wrong and then turning into… this.

It’s something that matters now, but it’s not the same. Hanbin wants the people who are important to Hao to see how important Hao is to him, not because he had to pretend to be that way due to an initial mistake they made, but as someone who wants to and will try his hardest to be worthy of the place he ended up standing in.

“Hi,” Hao moves closer, until he’s completely in Hanbin’s space. Hanbin’s hands automatically travel to Hao’s waist.

“Hi,” Hanbin gives him a little smile and leans in to kiss Hao’s lips.

“What are you thinking?”

“I just… don’t regret being here now. Although I wish things had been different,” Hanbin admits. “That this meeting had been different, that Ricky had seen me the way I truly want to be seen.”

Hao tilts his head, his hands rising to rest on Hanbin’s forearms. “Are you worried about what he thinks?”

“Not exactly,” Hanbin answers, though his voice betrays him a little. “You’re important to Ricky, and you’re important to me. I want him to be able to see that, not that I’m doing all this because we’re trapped in a story we have to maintain, but because I want to change the reality of that story. And that I’m like this with you because I feel it.”

“The beginning doesn’t define anything, Hanbin,” Hao says, almost in a whisper. “You’re important to me too, and Ricky saw that. He might not know it yet, but Ricky knows me better than anyone. What you have with me is obvious, you don’t even need to be there because I’m too obvious when I like someone and they like me back.”

“I’m a fool, because it took me a while to see it,” his fingers gently tighten around Hao’s waist. Hao rolls his eyes with a chuckle.

“A bit, yeah,” he says. “But I’m glad we’re on the same page now.”

“We are,” Hanbin rests his forehead against Hao’s. “But what I want most is for you to see what I’m trying to be. What I want to be for you.”

“You don’t have to try too hard,” Hao brushes his nose against his, then leans in for a quick kiss. “You already gave me the right impression.”

“Tell me about what you’re doing,” Hanbin asks, without completely letting go of Hao. It doesn’t seem to bother him, because he moves even with Hanbin’s hands on his body.

“I have a class that’s in their first year and they won’t participate in the concert,” Hao explains. “So I have these classes in addition to rehearsals. I was seeing if I could try something new with them, something simpler, but still beautiful. If I don’t finish this piece today, I’ll probably give up and try something else.”

Hanbin nods, even though he doesn’t understand half of it, he hardly can tell what’s up and what’s down on the sheet music. But it doesn’t matter. He enjoys listening to Hao when he gets lost in his own world, when his voice becomes more animated and his hands move in time with his explanations. Hao’s passion for what he does inspires him, absorbing every word even though he can’t follow the content. He looks so cute like that, Hanbin can’t help but smile.

“Would you like to listen?” Hao asks. Hanbin straightens up without realizing it.

“Do you want me to listen to it?”

“Of course, why not?” Hao smiles at him. It’s only then that Hanbin lets him go, Hao approaching the table.

Hao arranges the sheets on a music stand and rests the instrument on his shoulder. Hanbin understands that Ricky was joking once Hao takes a deep breath and lowers the bow onto the strings. Because Hao doesn’t play the violin. Hao is the violin.

Every movement is precise, his body accompanying the melody with familiarity, making it seem as if the music first forms in him and then travels to the instrument. Hanbin had never seen this version of Hao, not like this, not so complete. He doesn’t move, his eyes fixed on Hao’s movements, on the composed concentration in his face, on the way everything seems to flow effortlessly.

It’s wonderful. And it hits him in the chest, leaving him breathless.

As he listens to Hao play, Hanbin doesn’t understand how someone can make a violin sound like that, how Hao plays it so easily as if it were just like breathing.

“What do you think?” Hao asks as he finishes, timidly lowering the bow.

“That was beautiful,” Hanbin answers. It’s all his brain can process, he knows there are other, more fitting words to describe it, but he’s so impressed he can’t think of anything else.

“There are still many adjustments to be made,” Hao twirls the bow between his fingers. “And several details that I’m not entirely happy with. But…” He looks up, a warm gleam igniting in his eyes, “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I don’t know anything about instruments, and I’m not saying that just because it’s you. It was incredible.”

“You’re boosting my ego,” Hao laughs, his cheeks slightly pink.

“I’m just telling the truth.”

“Well… maybe I needed it. Sometimes, when I’m working on something for a long time, I stop hearing it clearly.”

“Then let’s go home,” Hanbin says. “I know you want to finish this today, but how about a good rest and we can continue tomorrow?”

Hao says nothing, remaining still for a second, but his expression softens, looking at him with bright eyes and a small smile. Hanbin knows what he said, after all, he has learned a lot from Hao, it’s alright if one day it’s him who has to put a stop to their work.

“Let’s go home,” he says then, in a soft voice.

Hanbin helps Hao gather his things and they tidy up the room. The tranquility of the academy at that hour envelops them as they leave the building and head for the main exit.

“Hey, is the receptionist new?”

“Oh,” Hao nods, adjusting the strap of his bag. “She’s a substitute. Lauren is sick.”

“Ah,” Hanbin says, recalling the girl’s overly nervous energy. “No wonder she seemed lost.”

The afternoon is almost over, the sun already set. The air is fresh as they leave the academy, the distant echo of music from the hallways still ringing in their ears. The engine starts and the car moves, Hanbin glancing at Hao, who is reclining peacefully in his seat as they merge into the light afternoon traffic. The drive is short, they speak little, but the silence is comfortable, filled with that familiarity that has become a part of them.

They enter the house, and as soon as they close the door behind them, a feeling of home washes over them both. They take off their shoes in the entryway, Hao places his violin case on the sofa, and Hanbin drops his keys in the bowl by the door. The accumulated fatigue of the day is palpable, but so is the quiet anticipation of being in a space where they don’t have to think too much.

“Are you hungry?” Hanbin asks, turning to him.

“A little,” Hao replies. “Shall we order anything?”

“I was thinking about cooking something.”

“That sounds great,” Hao gets a little more animated. “A bath first?”

They both take off their clothes and take turns using the shower. Hanbin goes out first, and while Hao is in the bathroom, he starts preparing dinner. From the refrigerator, Hanbin takes out potatoes and vegetables and washes them while humming a song he doesn’t recognize, but that Hao had been singing for days.

Hanbin cuts the potatoes and heats a frying pan. He doesn’t plan to make anything too elaborate, but he wants Hao to like it, to feel the love he puts into it, even if it’s simple. Hanbin lets the potatoes brown in the pan, turning them occasionally until they’re crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, the kitchen smelling of butter, garlic, and thyme. In a small bowl, he quickly mixes the cream sauce: a touch of yogurt, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and a drizzle of olive oil.

A short time later Hao enters the kitchen, his hair fluffy and wearing one of his cute pajamas, and sits on one of the stools, resting his chin on his hand as he looks at him.

“Do you need help?” Hao asks, but Hanbin knows it’s more politeness than genuine desire to help. They both know how clumsy Hao is in the kitchen and how bad his cooking skills are.

“I’m almost done,” Hanbin tells, searching the cabinets for dishes and turning off the stove. “You can get something to drink.”

Hao opens the refrigerator, evaluating the options. Hanbin finds it endearing, watching him with a finger in his chin, lips pressed together, and brows furrowed in concentration. There’s literally only water and orange juice in there. He chuckles and serves the potatoes, stirring the sauce once more before pouring it over them, and then pours the rest into a container.

“It smells really good,” Hao says, serving two glasses of juice.

“I hope it tastes that way,” Hanbin hands him a fork.

“Come on, you’re good at this,” Hao smiles, and intertwines their ankles together. “Thanks for the food.”

Dinner unfolds a flow of conversation, gentle laughter, and glances accompanied by soft smiles. This domesticity continues after the meal, moving in effortless synchronicity, Hao washing the dishes while Hanbin wipes the counter and arranges the chairs. Hanbin joins Hao at the sink, shoulder to shoulder, their hands occasionally brushing. Hao hums the same tune, passing the plates to Hanbin.

And Hanbin thinks that if someone saw them like this, they wouldn’t hesitate to believe they’d been living together for years. Hanbin wants this to be something that lasts many many years.

“Do you want to watch something?” Hanbin asks. He knows that even though Hao is done for the day, he doesn’t like to go to bed so early.

“Oh, yes, sure.”

Hanbin scrolls through the TV’s home screen looking for something they can watch. Hao settles on the sofa, crossing his legs and pulling the blanket over himself, his brow furrowed as he scans each option.

“Can we watch a really bad movie?” Hao suggests, tilting his head.

“Your standards are confusing,” Hanbin mutters, but looks through the lower-rated movies.

“I don’t have standards for movies,” Hao chuckles softly. “I have standards for other things.”

Hanbin tries not to read too much into that comment.

After a while, he finds an old Sci-Fi movie with poor special effects. Hao seems pleased with his choice. The movie started not too long ago when Hao snuggles closer to Hanbin, sharing the blanket only a little—it’s Hao who’s always cold, not him— and eventually ends up resting his knee against Hanbin’s leg.

“Are you comfortable?” Hanbin asks.

“Mm. I could be more comfortable.” Hao looks at him for a second… He doesn’t need more than that, putting his arm around Hao’s waist to wrap it and pull him closer, Hao ending up practically on top of him.

“Like this?” Hanbin asks, his voice hushed. Hao nods before resting his head on his shoulder.

“Better.”

“Are you cold?” Hanbin speaks again, receiving only a hum from Hao. He’s about to say something else when Hao interrupts him.

“You’re talking too much, I’m trying to watch the movie,” Hao jokes, but Hanbin frowns and, without thinking much, gives him a little pinch on the side.

“Hey!” Hao laughs in surprise and catches his hand before he can pull it away. “What was that?”

“For complaining,” Hanbin tries to sound serious, though a smile escapes him. “And the movie is really bad.”

“I know, and I want to see it,” but how is Hanbin supposed to watch a movie when he has Hao this close?

Hao doesn’t let go of his hand. Instead, he places it on top of the blanket and intertwines their fingers together.

That light and warm pressure makes Hanbin miss half of the next scene. He feels the soft brush of metal against metal, their rings meeting. It’s a small but poignant reminder. Real. It feels too real. Hao rests his head on his shoulder again, and Hanbin is experiencing too many emotions at once, with Hao’s comforting weight beside him, their hands clasped together, their rings pressing against each other.

The movie continues for at least another five minutes, Hao makes a comment that Hanbin can’t understand because his face is buried in the space between his shoulder and neck, and… he gets a kiss there. Then another, and another.

“I thought you wanted to see the movie,” Hanbin whispers.

“I don’t want to,” Hao leaves another kiss and lifting his head. Hanbin can see the gleam in his eyes, and he doesn’t need anything more than that.

The distance between them closes instantly, what is displayed on the screen is completely forgotten. The first kiss is slow, warm, almost a test, making sure they can continue exploring further and further, to quell the burning desire that is rapidly growing between them.

The second kiss is more intense. Hanbin takes him by the waist, gently pulling him closer, and Hao shifts so he’s sitting on his lap, his hands sliding down Hanbin’s neck, his fingers catching his hair, feeling Hanbin’s quickened pulse. Hanbin brushes his tongue against Hao’s lower lip, making him gasp as their tongues meet, wet and warm.

The background noise quickly fades away, Hanbin focused solely on the taste of Hao’s mouth, the touch of his breath, the slight tremor they share. His hands move deliberately slowly along Hao’s waist and back, feeling the shape of his body through his clothes, until his fingers tingle with the warmth of his skin. This elicits a moan from Hao, echoing against his mouth, and he arches slightly, drawing their bodies closer together, the friction of their crotches sending a spark of electricity through Hanbin’s insides.

Hao sighs between kisses, and Hanbin takes that breath as if it were the oxygen he needs to live. And he needs more, more, more.

The sweet sounds coming from Hao and his weight on top of him make Hanbin gets harder in his pants, and he can feel that Hao is just as hard as he is. Hanbin wants to make Hao feel good, to make him moan in a different way. Hanbin slips his hands from under Hao’s shirt and places them on his ass, squeezing it, making Hao pulls away from the kiss with a combination of a gasp and a moan, a string of saliva hanging between their lips until it snaps.

“Hanbin,” Hao squeezes the back of his neck tightly.

Hanbin reaches a hand to the bulge in Hao’s pants. “Is this okay?”

“Please,” Hao begs, his voice coming out in a broken whimper.

Green light. It’s easy from here. Hanbin gently lifts Hao so he can pull down his pants and underwear, freeing his flushed and already dripping dick. Hanbin’s mouth waters.

“How gorgeous.”

“Don’t be silly, you can hardly see me,” Hao says, his breath catching in his throat as Hanbin grabs his dick without warning. He grips Hanbin’s shoulders tightly.

“It doesn’t matter, you’re always beautiful.”

The movements are slow at first, almost experimental, using pre-seminal fluid and his saliva to smooth the glide. It doesn’t take long for him to increase the pace, reveling in Hao’s moans growing louder, much louder than the voices in the movie still playing on the television, and Hanbin wants to etch the sounds into his mind to hear them all the time.

A quick thought flashes through Hanbin’s mind, if they did something like this, or even more, on their wedding night. Maybe it’s a repeat, maybe it’s the first time—Hanbin wouldn’t know. But now he knows he wants this, and he wants to remember it.

“More,” Hao’s whimper pulls him from his mind, and Hanbin tightens his thumb on the tip before sliding his hand faster. Hao moans, his hips bucking and his back arching at the wave of pleasure, so sensitive to every movement and strokes.

Hao comes all over his hand, breathless and clinging desperately to Hanbin. He collapses onto Hanbin’s shoulder, breathing heavily, his now limp dick nestled between their abdomens, lying in his cum spilled in Hanbin’s shirt. Hanbin wipes his hand on the blanket—washing it will be a problem for the Hanbin of the future—and caresses Hao’s back.

“Good?” Hanbin asks in Hao’s hair.

“Very good,” Hao exhales. He steps back to place his hand on Hanbin’s bulge.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Hao interrupts. Hanbin closes his mouth and focuses on watching as Hao frees his dick and then gets off his lap. He’s about to ask what he’ll do when Hao kneels in front of him.

Oh.

The view in front him takes his breath away, Hao between his legs, his face close to his dick, peering at him from beneath his eyelashes. Hao’s gaze shifts to his dick, he licks his lips and grabs it, throbbing against his hand. Hanbin gasps, Hao jerking him before bringing his mouth to the tip, and before he can react, he takes Hanbin completely. The heat of Hao’s mouth on his dick is so overwhelmingly pleasurable, as it moves up and down in perfect rhythm, as his tongue traces its entire length.

Hanbin doesn’t know what to do with his hands, awkwardly leaving them at his side, and Hao doesn’t seem amused.

“You can grab my hair,” Hao encourages, lifting his head. It’s still too close to his dick, and Hanbin is having trouble registering the words. “You can pull it, I don’t mind.”

Hao will be the cause of his death, he swears.

Even more clumsily, Hanbin reaches for Hao’s hair, instantly pulling at it so that Hao sinks back down. Hao does something with his tongue that erases all his coherent thoughts, all he can do is moan, throwing his head back on the sofa and tugging at Hao’s hair. It’s too much. Too good.

“You’re amazing, so good for me,” Hanbin murmurs, followed by a moan. “You’re doing it so well.”

Another wave of pleasure hits him, Hao moaning around him, and Hanbin feels it electric in his dick and throughout his body. Hanbin wishes the lights were on, so he could see Hao’s beautiful lips taking his dick, to watch the way he plunges in completely and sucks him in a steady rhythm, how he uses his hands when he can’t cover it completely. That thought alone is enough to make him come.

“Hao, baby,” Hanbin exhales. “Wait, I’m close—”

His hips sway, tightening his grip on Hao’s hair, trying to pull him away, but that doesn’t stop Hao, who continues sucking, and Hanbin comes in his mouth. Hao diligently swallows it, licking to collect what trickles down his lips. Hanbin stares at him, wide-eyed, his mouth open.

Hao steps back a little later, looking Hanbin in the eyes as he cleans the cum from his swollen lips with his tongue.

“You’re going to kill me,” Hanbin laughs huskily, helping Hao to his feet and pressing their lips in a kiss. He tastes his own salty flavor on Hao’s tongue, and it should be disgusting to him—he’s never done anything like this with anyone before—but it feels so good.

With Hao, everything feels so good.

♣

Hanbin arrives at work on autopilot, politely greeting everyone on his way to his office. He feels like everything is passing him by—he sits down at his desk, computer in front, opens a document, types two lines, deletes them, tries to type again, and deletes it again. He sighs. It’s not that he doesn’t want to work, it’s just that his mind isn’t cooperating.

Every time he tries to concentrate, his mind inevitably returns to Hao. To the way he laughs, the way his hand fits effortlessly in his, the way he looks at him after they kiss.

The everyday became something more, hugging Hao stopped being part of the acting and became part of their routine, walking together at night became something they look forward to, kissing Hao stopped feeling like a possible mistake and began to feel inevitable. And now Hanbin is here, staring at a blank screen, the clock showing twenty-one minutes since he arrived. Hanbin runs a hand over his face and leans back in the chair, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, trying to ground himself. But even in the darkness behind his eyelids, he sees Hao.

Hanbin is deeply fucked.

And he doesn’t know what to do about it. Hanbin wonders if he has the right to confront this truth, despite everything they’ve been through in recent weeks, when there’s still a deadline marked on the calendar. A date that was supposed to be an exit, but now feels like a countdown to life taking away something he always wanted, even if he hadn’t realized it. Because sometimes life is unfair, and all good things must come to an end.

Hanbin opens his eyes, sits up, and tries to get back to work. The cursor blinks insistently on the screen, marking the rhythm of his own anxiety.

What is he going to do when the month is over?

At lunchtime, Hanbin finds Gyuvin. He doesn’t even give him time to protest, he grabs his arm and pushes him to the end of the hallway, to an empty corner where nobody usually goes.

“What did I do now?” Gyuvin asks, his eyes wide.

“I need you to come to my house after work,” Hanbin says in an almost urgent voice. Gyuvin looks at him suspiciously.

“Why do I feel like this is going to ruin my night?” He murmurs.

“It’s important,” Hanbin insists.

“It’s about Hao, isn’t it?” Gyuvin asks, receiving no answer, but Hanbin’s silence is enough. “He won’t be there?”

“No,” Hanbin immediately denies. “He’s going out after work with Ricky and Kuanjui.”

Gyuvin looks at him with a frown, his expression turning inquisitive, almost accusatory. “Now you know his friends?”

“He knows mine,” Hanbin crosses his arms, irritated by the implication.

Gyuvin watches him for a few more seconds, assessing the huge emotional mess Hanbin has gotten himself into. Finally, he sighs. “Fine. I’ll go.”

The long, tiring day finally ends. They enter the house, and Gyuvin heads straight to the kitchen, complaining the whole way that he’s hungry. He doesn’t need to ask permission, so he opens the refrigerator, takes out cream cheese and strawberry jam, grabs the bread from the counter, and starts making himself a sandwich, without looking back to see if Hanbin will say anything. Hanbin simply leans against the doorframe, watching him silently, with no intention of stopping him.

When he’s over, they both leave the kitchen. Gyuvin takes a couple of steps into the living room and lets his eyes wander around the space—the plants by the windows, the books stacked in a corner, the order that isn’t what he’s used to seeing from Hanbin.

“It’s different,” Gyuvin says, and Hanbin knows he’s not referring to the infrastructure or the furniture, but to the atmosphere. “Hao’s presence here is too noticeable.”

“I let him do whatever he wanted,” Hanbin shrugs. “So he could feel at home and not in an unfamiliar place.”

“The place also feels more like yours,” Gyuvin looks at him. But Hanbin looks away, lowering his gaze, unsure what to do with that comment that touches a vulnerable spot.

Knowing he won’t get a response, Gyuvin sits down on the sofa, sandwich in hand, still examining the room. Hanbin follows him, not expecting that the simple act of sitting down would so abruptly remind him of what happened last night. A heat rises in his face without warning, fleeting but undeniable. He clears his throat, tries to compose himself, and focuses his attention on Gyuvin, on the conversation they’ve been putting off.

“So?” Gyuvin asks, taking another bite.

“I like Hao.”

“And my name is Gyuvin.”

Hanbin blinks, confused. “What?”

“I thought we were stating the obvious,” Gyuvin replies, his mouth still half full but with a smile and a sharp look. Hanbin sighs, resigned.

“This is serious,” though the joke softens the tense edge of the conversation. Gyuvin wipes the corner of his mouth with his napkin and leans back, crossing one leg over the other.

“I know,” Gyuvin says. “I saw it coming. And I warned you, too.”

“I know,” Hanbin repeats, and Gyuvin looks at him more closely now, the humor gone. “We, uh… we kissed.”

Gyuvin doesn’t seem surprised, he just raises his eyebrows. But Hanbin continues before he can make any comment, telling him the events—omitting many details, because Gyuvin doesn’t want to know anything about it—and the words come out too quickly, afraid to back down if he falls silent for a second.

“Hao has you wrapped around his finger, huh?” Gyuvin snorts. “Everyone’s enchanted about your relationship, you know that, right?” He continues. “And it’s not just because your routine or the way you act has changed. It’s because you look in love.”

In love.

The word hangs between them, and Hanbin feels the air grow heavier. It’s not awkward… more like someone has finally turned on the light in a room where he’s been feeling his way along the walls for weeks.

Once again, his mind fills with Hao, from the moment it all began, how easy it was to be with him at first, how natural every little interaction became, how without realizing it he started to observe him more than usual—his gestures when talking about something he liked, his smile and his laugh, the soft tone he used when they were tired but still wanted to talk a little before going to sleep. Everything is like that now, better, because he’s aware of it.

And now, with Gyuvin so casually telling him that he looks in love, that everyone notices it, Hanbin feels a pang in his stomach. Because yes, he knows. He knew it before saying it out loud, even before admitting it to himself. Every time Hao looks at him with those bright eyes that seem to understand him all too well, every time he allows his body to relax when Hao is near because he doesn’t need to feign strength or composure, every time he hears him call his name with that warm, sweet familiarity.

There’s a part of him that feels incredibly alive. A part that held its breath for so long and can finally exhale, because thinking of Hao is like coming home. But the fear… he feels it. Fear that this will change too quickly, that Hao doesn’t really feel the same way, that he’s reading signs that aren’t there.

“I might sound like a fool, but I’m scared,” Hanbin confesses, rubbing his knee. “What if Hao is doing all this because he has no other choice? Because he’s trapped living with me, because he can’t afford to be with anyone else?” He swallows hard. “What if he’s just making the most of his time here? Like, he’s physically attracted to me, yeah, but… what then?”

The last word hangs in the air like a silent threat.

“What if he just leaves after the time is up?” Hanbin finishes, hardly audible.

“Oh, shit,” Gyuvin murmurs, looking at him for a few seconds that feel like a long time, his expression serious and thoughtful. “I don’t want to say something just for the sake of saying it, but I don’t think that’s the case.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m not,” Gyuvin admits. “You need to talk with him about it. Time is running out, you have to ask him.”

Hanbin opens his mouth to say something, but closes it. He knows he has to talk with Hao, but he doesn’t want things to go wrong, he doesn’t want to ruin what they have.

“However, what I can be sure of is that his actions have given you the answer long ago.”

Fear clings to Hanbin, so stubborn, refusing to let go, clouding his judgment, preventing him from understanding that Hao made his decision with him, and it wasn’t a bad thing. That Hao isn’t with him out of obligation, nor because it’s the only option available. Hao chose him and continues to choose him every day, even without saying a word.

“What if I’m wrong?”

“Then you’ll know. But running away from the conversation isn’t going to change anything. Hao isn’t stupid, and neither are you. He’s been looking for you, he’s been getting close to you, touching you, looking at you like you’re…” Gyuvin rolls his eyes, “whatever you are to him. He’s not acting like someone trapped, but like someone who wants to be where he is.”

A mixture of hope and terror rises in his throat. Perhaps he’s not so wrong to feel that Hao might want more than just a temporary fix.

The fear doesn’t disappear, but the discomfort in his stomach lessens when Hao arrives home and gives him a long kiss, and then starts to tell him how his day went.

In the days that followed, unease settles over Hanbin like a persistent shadow. No matter how hard he tries to ignore it, it always returns—in the silence of the car on the way to work, in the breaks between meetings, in the brief moments before sleep. It is a persistent, almost absurd thought that clings to his chest with no intention of letting go.

Hanbin knows he’s being irrational, but it’s not enough to loosen the knot in his stomach. You have no reason to feel this way, Hao hasn’t given you any reason. Hao hasn’t done anything to suggest otherwise. He knows it. He reminds himself of it again and again.

But insecurity is a betrayal feeling, it seeps in through the smallest cracks and spreads unbidden. No matter how hard Hanbin tries to be logical, his mind conjures up scenarios where Hao wakes up one day and realizes he just got carried away, that he mistook comfort for affection, that he doesn’t want anything real. Scenarios where Hanbin is a kind, correctable mistake, a fleeting impulse.

And every time Hao smiles at him, every time he runs his hand down his back as he walks behind him in the kitchen, every time he leans in without asking to give him a soft kiss… that knot loosens a little, only to tighten again afterward. Because Hanbin feels it more strongly than ever—he wants him. He loves him. Wanting and loving make everything hurt more, especially the fear.

His behavior toward Hao doesn’t change, he doesn’t want to worry him, doesn’t want him to notice anything, but internally he carries an invisible weight. Although he knows, rationally, that Hao hasn’t shown him anything to back up his fears… the feeling remains.

Hanbin receives a message mid-afternoon, just as he’s reviewing a report. It’s a quick notification on his phone, with Hao’s name displayed.

Rui is asking if you want to come to his dance class on Saturday.

He smiles, he doesn’t need to think about it much. Hanbin sends him a reply accepting, receiving a group of emojis and then a voice note.

“I’m telling you straight… because I know you’re misinterpreting my emojis. He was very happy with your response. And so was I.”

Hanbin’s face softens, and he can perfectly imagine Hao’s expression—that mixture of restrained enthusiasm, the easy sparkle in his eyes that only appears when something truly excites him. It’s the same expression he sees after work.

“So we’re going on Saturday,” Hao says.

“Yes,” Hanbin replies, taking off his jacket, enjoying Hao’s reaction more than anything else. Hao’s eyes shine brighter. It’s so obvious that Hanbin can’t ignore it, nor does he want to.

“Perfect,” Hao says, a little too quickly. “Kuanjui is excited. I am too.”

“I noticed,” Hanbin smiles, watching Hao blush slightly. He can’t help but think that it’s all worth it just to see that expression.

And something in Hanbin’s chest, that tense space, that fear he’s been dragging around for days, fades a little.

“I texted you because I couldn’t get home without telling you,” Hao continued. “Although I didn’t expect an immediate response.”

Hanbin nods, feigning normalcy. Hao knows Hanbin doesn’t use his phone at work, at least not for anything other than work. What Hao doesn’t know is that this is true except when it comes to him. He doesn’t know that, of all his contacts, Hao is the only one allowed to bypass the “do not disturb”. Even when Hanbin tries to keep his distance, his phone is always ready to receive him. But Hanbin doesn’t say anything.

“I was just looking at my phone at that moment,” Hanbin replies, with a smile he hopes is convincing.

Hao smiles, that small but luminous smile that always has that effect on him. “It’s going to be fun.”

And as he watches him walk away, Hanbin feels his chest ignite, softly but inevitably, as if his body were reacting before his head.

It’s Hao, he thinks. It’s Hao, and it’s always Hao.

-

Hanbin already recognizes the hallways of CalArts—the brightly colored murals, the open doors to dance studios where voices, taps, laughter, and that vibrant atmosphere always fill the air, which he personally finds a bit overwhelming. Today is no different. There are a lot of people, groups coming and going with backpacks slung over their shoulders, sneakers in hand, water and coffee. For a second, he feels his pulse quicken. Then Hao lightly touches his hand with his fingers, a minimal gesture, but enough to calm him.

“Not everyone here is from the university,” Hao explains, guiding him through the crowd with a gentleness that makes Hanbin forget his anxiety. “Kuanjui’s classes attract a lot of people from outside. This is probably one of the last ones before graduation.”

When they enter, the first thing he sees is Kuanjui crouched down, checking something on the sound system, while Ricky chats animatedly with a red-haired boy. They introduce him as Wumuti, and then come other greetings—people Hao has met at different stages of his artistic life, unable to remember all the names. There are so many faces, so many voices, and the energy in the place is a whirlwind, but Hanbin maintains a polite smile.

“These classes are not for beginners,” Hao says. “Rui doesn’t have the word ‘easy’ in his vocabulary.”

It was a warning.

Kuanjui claps to get the group’s attention and everyone disperses around the room, Hao and Hanbin looking for a space at the back.

“Let’s start with the warm-up,” Kuanjui announces from the front.

The music starts, and Hanbin follows Kuanjui’s rhythm, fluid and precise. His arms respond, his legs maintain their balance without complaint, and his torso coordinates. Quickly, the warm-up becomes faster, somehow more complex, and that’s enough to leave Hanbin breathing more heavily than usual, his hair slightly damp, and his muscles looser, but aching.

If this is just the warm-up, Hanbin doesn’t want to imagine how intense the classes really are. But he’s here now, his chance to escape has passed.

“Five minutes,” Kuanjui says, walking over to the table where his laptop is.

The room fills with heavy breathing, soft laughter, and the clinking of water bottles opening, some sit on the floor and continue stretching their legs and arms.

As soon as Kuanjui switches to the next song and the music starts playing over the speakers, everyone’s attention is drawn to him, standing in front of them all, and their eyes meet for a second, an expression too innocent to be real. Hanbin tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. He fears what’s coming.

And then he starts. It’s manageable until Kuanjui’s arms begin tracing crisp lines in the air, perfect angles that match the rhythm of the song—a flick of the wrist, a tap of the elbow, a controlled whip of the arm, the waacking blending into a geometric pattern of tutting. Each transition is clean and fluid, the experience can be seemed, it even looks effortless when he does it.

He did it on purpose, Hanbin thinks. He turns to Hao, who just shrugs, his eyes twinkling with a quiet laugh.

Hanbin observes each movement as if it were an invitation. Hanbin knows exactly what Kuanjui is doing, and this choreography, this blend of styles that he misses so much, is a direct challenge.

Hao glances at him, resting an elbow on his knee. “I think he’s provoking you.”

“I’ll pretend to be surprised,” Hanbin snorts a barely audible laugh.

Kuanjui finishes the demonstration, letting the music play for a couple more seconds before stopping it. “Fine!” He returns. “Let’s get this started.”

He begins teaching the choreography step by step. Hanbin watches carefully before imitating him.

“We mark from the right arm,” Kuanjui indicates. “One, two… angle… low… and hit.”

Hanbin repeats the movements, following the count, but his body protests at first. It’s like asking a machine to start up after being turned off for years—clumsiness in his wrists, a lag in his elbows, an automatic hesitation before each quick change of direction. He makes a mistake once. He makes a mistake twice. The third time, Kuanjui corrects his shoulder posture without saying a word, simply guiding his arm with two fingers.

With a deep breath, he blocks out all the noise in the room and focuses. He begins to feel the rhythm hammering where he needs it. The movements begin to flow, not with the precision of years past, but with an ease that surprises even Kuanjui, who glances at him as if to say, “Ah, there you are.” Hanbin doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he looks at Hao, his broad smile and lively eyes.

Every time Hanbin gets a clean angle, Hao smiles, as if it were his own achievement. Every time Hanbin gets frustrated, Hao straightens up a little, attentive. And when Hanbin lets go, when he stops thinking and just moves… Hao’s eyes sparkle.

The entire room shrinks to the music, his arms, and Hao proudly by his side. That quiet pride ignites him completely, because deep down, Hanbin wants to do well. For himself. For Hao.

When Kuanjui plays the song again from the beginning and shouts “Now all together!” Hanbin no longer hesitates.

After perfecting their technique as much as possible in the short time, Kuanjui separates them into small groups. The room fills with heavy breathing and the constant tapping of sneakers on the floor. Everyone is performing exceptionally well, and Hanbin feels the pressure as his turn approaches. He feels a slight tug in his chest when Kuanjui calls them, but as soon as the music starts, his body goes on automatic mode. He positions himself to Hao’s left, and they both line up, facing the mirrors.

“You’re going to do well,” Hao looks at him through the mirrors. “You’re one of the best here at this.”

The first movement coordinates them. Hanbin fixes his gaze on their shared reflection, he and Hao moving in unison. Everything fits together perfectly, his body responds on its own, imitating Hao’s, Hao’s imitating his. And out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hao’s quick glances in the mirror, discreet yet so present they feel like a metronome.

Applause erupts. Hanbin isn’t sure if he’s imagining it, but it’s the loudest applause, seemingly louder than the music. Kuanjui looks pleased.

“I didn’t know you could dance like that,” Ricky says as they approach. “Are you a professional dancer undercover?”

Before Hanbin can answer, Wumuti speaks up. “No, seriously. Kuanjui’s classes aren’t exactly easy. We all know that tutting and waacking aren’t something someone without experience can do, at least not this smoothly.”

“He was the one who stood out the most, right?” Hao asks, a big smile adorning his face.

“That’s because you’re in love and only have eyes for Hanbin,” Ricky rolls his eyes. “But yeah, Hanbin stood out a lot.”

Hanbin’s cheeks burn, and the heat travels to his ears. He wants to say it’s not a big deal, that he just followed the music or it was pure luck, but nothing comes out. He puts a hand to the back of his neck, not knowing where to look.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

Everyone disperses, resting a bit before gathering their things and leaving. Hao approaches and hands Hanbin the bottle of water. Hanbin accepts it with a small thank you and sits on the floor, leaning his back against the cold wall. Now that the adrenaline has subsided, he begins to feel the burning in his arms, the tension in his shoulders, and that twinge in his knee that he’d tried to ignore throughout the class.

He discreetly massages his leg, but it doesn’t work, Hao squats in front of him almost instantly.

“It hurts,” he says, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. It’s a statement, he doesn’t need to ask. Hanbin considers denying it, but Hao already has his answer regardless of his.

“A little,” Hanbin concedes, in a low voice.

“You didn’t have to try so hard. You still did amazing.” His fingers brush against Hanbin’s knee for a second. “Come on, I’ll give you a massage at home.”

They say goodbye to the boys, Kuanjui stopping them for one more second.

“Thank you for coming,” Kuanjui says sincerely. “You did very well. Hao was absolutely right when he told me about you.”

“I’m always right,” Hao rolls his eyes, and hooks his hand on Hanbin’s arm. Hanbin thanks him with a shy smile.

The walk home is comfortable, with Hao humming the song playing on the radio. As soon as they arrive, Hao leads him to the bedroom, they shower, put on their pajamas, and settle in the bed. The shower water sooths Hanbin’s tired muscles a little, but it doesn’t erase the feeling of being alive, light, and happy.

Hao emerges from the bathroom, his hair still damp, dressed in one of Hanbin’s T-shirts and shorts so shorts they’re not even noticeable. Hanbin’s eyes drift to Hao’s legs, to his strong, milky thighs, and he imagines countless things he could do with them. But Hao snaps him out of his thoughts when he sits down on the bed beside him, pomade in one hand and a towel in the other. He gives him a small smile that makes Hanbin’s stomach flutter.

“Stretch out your leg,” Hao asks after placing the towel on the bed.

Gently, he applies the pomade in slow movements and begins to massage, first exploring the joint, then applying a little more pressure with his thumbs. Hao continues unhurriedly, with a concentration that makes everyone else feel like they’re focused on his hands, placing his thumbs at the base of the kneecap and moving them upward several times, circling it completely, then using his index fingers, pushing in and out. He alternates massaging the kneecap and the surrounding muscles with his fists.

“I’m worried,” Hao speaks suddenly, without looking up. “I’ve noticed you’ve been out of place these past few days.”

Ah, of course Hao had noticed. How on earth did he think he could hide it? Hao, who always hears more than what people say. Hanbin feels ashamed for having taken Hao for granted, he forgot that Hao is more perceptive than he lets know, and seems quite astute. He feels like saying that he didn’t mean to worry him, that he’s just dealing with something internal, that it has nothing to do with him… but it does. And there’s a 98% chance that Hao knows it.

“I thought I was hiding it well,” Hanbin lets out a dry, almost defeated laugh.

Hao looks up this time, his eyes dark and direct. “Will I know what’s going on?”

“Can we talk about it tomorrow?” Hao doesn’t insist, doesn’t ask why, just nods.

And he focuses again on his knee, ignoring how the conversation had opened a void between them, a silence filled with unanswered questions. His hands return to work with the same precision and care as before, pressing, releasing, distributing the warmth of the pomade. The pain in his knee begins to dissipate, easing. But in his chest…

Another pain arises in his chest, alongside every thought he doesn’t dare to admit. An anticipation that shrinks him from within, tense and nervous.

When he finishes, Hao wipes his hands with the towel and gives him one last brief caress on the leg. Hao turns off the lights of the room and lies down on the bed, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. The room is illuminated only by the light from the lamp on the nightstand, and the silence is heavier than usual. The usual closeness is no longer enough to soothe him, the space between them seems too vast, even when their shoulders are touching.

Hao looks at him for a couple of seconds, as if he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He just takes a deep breath, turns off the last trace of light, and closes his eyes.

Waking up brings a strangely light feeling, Hanbin feels his body release some of the accumulated tension. He stretches, and his muscles respond supplely, almost without discomfort, and he barely registers any pain in his knee. The massage really helped a lot. A minute later, he realizes the bed beside him is empty, the sheet still in his shape, disheveled and still warm. Hao couldn’t have left that long ago.

Hanbin slowly straightens up, running a hand over his face to clear his head. The bathroom door is open and the lights are off, there’s no sound or movement.

Before he can get out of bed, soft footsteps approach from the hallway. Hao appears in the doorway with two mugs in his hands, his hair that’s seen better days, his face still sleepy, his shirt wrinkled and askew. Even so, Hanbin finds him the prettiest man he’s ever seen.

“I made tea,” Hao murmurs, handing him a cup and placing another on his nightstand. Then he lies back down on the bed, burying his face in the pillow.

“Why did you get up so early?” Hanbin asks, taking a sip. Hao says something, but it’s muffled by the pillow. “I can’t hear you, baby.”

“I couldn’t sleep anymore,” Hao turns his head, his eyes squinting. “How are you feeling?”

“Just the usual soreness after dancing. I missed it a little,” Hanbin chuckles. “My knee’s fine, you did wonders with that massage. Where did you learn to do that?”

Hao shrugs. “Dark days in college.”

There is a silence as Hanbin sips his tea and Hao watches him, his cheek resting on the pillow, his arms tucked under it as if he wanted to make himself smaller. It’s not a posture he often adopts, much less when Hanbin is in front of him. His eyes, however, are what strikes him most—open, attentive… hurt.

“I did something wrong?” Hao asks in a low voice. “And don’t try to tell me you’re not like this because of me.”

The phrase hits him with the weight of a truth he didn’t want him to notice. Hanbin feels an instant knot in his stomach, seeing the worry and something akin to sadness in Hao’s expression. Hanbin sets the half-empty cup on the nightstand and moves a little closer, without touching him, and notices that Hao is breathing differently, restrained, as if he’s preparing for a response as painful as a physical blow.

Then he understands how attentive Hao has been to every change, how he has sensed the distance even though Hanbin has done everything possible to hide it. And it hurts. It hurts that Hao believes, even for a moment, that he might have done something wrong.

The words don’t come immediately. Hanbin feels them get stuck between his throat and chest as he looks at that face which, even in his vulnerability, remains the place where he feels the most peace. That’s how contradictory he feels. It takes him a moment to speak, not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he doesn’t know how to say it. He takes a deep breath, his hands clasped on his knees, not yet daring to touch Hao.

When he finally opens his mouth, his voice trembles slightly. He tells him everything—the doubts, the fear that is both absurd and real, the insecurity that has gnawed at him from the inside through no fault of Hao’s. The questions that keep him awake at night: what will happen when the month ends, if they will stay together, if Hao will leave because he is free to do so, if these kisses and this life together have been something Hao enjoyed only because he had no other choice… or because he truly loves him.

Each word makes him feel more vulnerable, more ridiculous, but he still lets them out because Hao deserves honesty.

Hao sits up in bed, a new gleam in his eyes, one he’s never seen before, one he doesn’t know the meaning of, and it frightens him. “Did I make you feel this way?”

“No. You didn’t,” Hanbin denies. His voice is firm for the first time since he started speaking. “And that’s why I feel worse, because of how stupid I am sometimes, how easily I let my own insecurities get the better of me. You didn’t do anything wrong, Hao. Nothing.”

“But you’re like this because of me,” Hao replies.

“But not because you gave me reasons, but because I’d never had anything like this, anything that mattered so much to me. I thought… I thought maybe I was fooling myself,” he says. “And this has nothing to do with you, but it has everything to do with me.”

Hanbin is almost expecting Hao to mock him, to tell him yes, that he’s an idiot. But Hao does nothing of the sort. He leans in a little closer, resting his forehead against Hanbin’s.

“Sorry,” Hao whispers.

“Hao, no,” Hanbin exhales. “I just told you it’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Even so…” Hao steps back, so Hanbin can look him in the eyes.

“No,” Hanbin says firmly. A softness settles in Hao’s expression, and Hanbin thinks he can breathe easier.

“You know what?” Hao speaks. “I’m not one of those who believe in fate. But… I don’t know. I feel like, somehow, our paths were going to cross anyway.”

“Yeah?” Hanbin murmurs.

“Yeah. Maybe it would’ve been at another time, in another city,” Hao says it as an absolute and inevitable truth, “but it would’ve happened. Sooner or later, I was going to find you.”

“Hao,” such an overwhelming feeling, in a good way, floods every part of Hanbin’s body.

“I don’t want this to end,” Hao whispers. “I want to be with you.”

That is the answer he needed to calm his insecure heart.

Words cannot express what Hanbin feels, his eyes burn with pent-up emotion, with relief. He can only answer by kissing him, floating in the softness of his lips, with a gentleness that tries to say everything he cannot put into words—that he understands him, that he feels him, that he loves him, that he also believes that what they have is inevitable, in any reality.

The weight lifts from Hanbin’s shoulders with each kiss, gently laying Hao back down on the pillow, body to body. Call him cheesy, or that he’s fallen too far and deep, but this kiss feels unlike any of their previous ones. If the happy endings of movies and books were an action, it would be this kiss, brimming with love, desire, and something close to tenderness. And there’s nothing Hanbin wants to feel more than this.

The daylight filtering through the curtains makes it even better. Hanbin pulls back slightly to see Hao like this, his expression so open, his lips parted and slightly swollen, his hair scattered across the pillow. Hanbin cups his jaw in both hands, gently caresses his cheekbone, and leans in again to kiss him.

They kiss, they kiss, and they kiss. Hao gasps against his mouth, clutching his shoulder to keep him close, as if he’s afraid Hanbin might disappear. Hanbin is exactly where he wants to be. And he tries to show it, nibbling Hao’s lower lip, licking his mouth, holding him with care, almost reverently, as if he holds the world in his hands—because for Hanbin, he does.

Hanbin brings his mouth to Hao’s jawline, leaving a trail of soft kisses that grow a little hungrier as he reaches his neck, inhaling Hao’s scent, the shower gel they share mingled with his natural aroma. He travels to the collarbone, revealed when he pulls aside Hao’s shirt. He grazes that perfect, untouched skin with his lips, more teeth than mouth, licking the exact spot where his teeth left a faint mark.

“Good?” Hanbin asks between kisses. Hao moans beneath him, his hips twisting against Hanbin’s, fully igniting the spark, the fire beginning to spread rapidly.

“Yes,” Hao gasps. “Keep going, please, don’t stop.”

The heat completely fills the room, Hanbin’s hands are all over Hao, and he doesn’t hesitate to rip off his shirt and pants, his mouth open for kisses all over the exposed skin. His touches are a combination of delicate and rough, Hanbin feeling an eager desperation to know Hao’s body and admire it, to make him feel good.

“You have too many clothes on,” Hao complains, trying to pull Hanbin’s shirt off. He helps him and takes it off himself, getting rid of his pants as well.

Hanbin takes his role very seriously, removing the last of their clothes, their naked bodies meeting for the first time. He takes his time, wanting to savor each of Hao’s reactions, the burning desire to discover and experience all of this for the first time with him filling him completely. When he looks to Hao’s eyes, his pupils dilate with excitement. It’s enough to make him lose control and fall into the abyss of passion, resulting in paradise, the most wonderful of all.

They should all be envious, all the artists, all the musicians, Hao sprawled on the bed, his legs intertwined, while Hanbin makes music with his body, resulting in a melodic symphony of moans. A concert just for him, just for the two of them.

It sounds amazing, and it looks even better, the way Hao does it and holds on, his body sliding up and down with each thrust, his head thrown back on the pillow, squinting at Hanbin because he doesn’t want to miss this either, his wet lips parted, his neck and chest flushed pink with exertion, sweat trickling down them. Hao is beautiful, utterly beautiful.

“You’re doing so good,” Hanbin gasps, against the mole below Hao’s ear. “So good for me.”

“Hanbin,” Hao moans, his voice breaking. “Please,” he sounds torn, pleading and begging, so needy.

“I got you, my love,” Hanbin says, digging his fingers into Hao’s hip, his other hand gripping his thigh. That elicits small sounds from Hao, and Hanbin squeezes harder.

And Hao glancing at him from under his eyelashes is the last thing Hanbin needs to falter, his hips stuttering. Hanbin covers Hao’s mouth with his own, swallowing his increasingly uncontrollable moans, and brings a hand to his neglected dick. Hao doesn’t need much to come, and neither does Hanbin, following him soon after.

It’s hard for him to leave Hao, wanting to stay there until they are one forever. Hanbin forces himself to get out of bed to find something to clean them with, but not before admiring the sight of Hao—his limbs loose and relaxed, the morning sun’s rays shining against his sweaty skin.

Hanbin carefully cleans the mess of semen from Hao’s abdomen, a small smile playing on his lips as he watches Hao’s eyes close, enjoying the attention. Hanbin leans down, placing a kiss on the corner of Hao’s lips. Hao turns his head and returns a lingering kiss, Hanbin noticing his smile as they part.

A smile more radiant and blinding than the sun, and Hanbin can’t stop looking at it, even if his eyes hurt, even if he wants. That pain is totally worth it.

♦

The days continue to pass, the clock not stopping for a second. Hanbin is finishing reviewing some documents when Gyuvin enters the office. The phone in his hand, his expression serious, almost tense. He sees the name on the screen: Jiwoong. Hanbin feels a slight internal pull, but he takes the phone and answers. Gyuvin doesn’t leave, he stays there, standing awkwardly, watching him with something that looks like concern.

“Hanbin” Jiwoong greets, direct as always. “I wanted to let you know that we’re nearing the end of the deadline. The three months are almost up.”

Hanbin straightens his back. “Yes?”

“Yes. The evidence of shared cohabitation we have so far is sufficient. We can begin the divorce process whenever you say. Legally, we are in a very good position.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gyuvin cross his arms, without taking his eyes off him.

“I understand,” Hanbin replies, keeping his voice neutral.

“No rush,” Jiwoong adds, “but I need to know which direction you want to go in. When you decide, we’ll proceed with everything.”

“I know. Thanks for letting me know.”

They exchange a few more comments, and Hanbin hangs up. Immediately, Gyuvin raises his eyebrows.

“Well,” Gyuvin says. “What are you going to do, then?”

“We’re not going to annul the marriage,” Hanbin states. Gyuvin blinks once, there’s no surprise, no questioning, and then he nods, as if he’d been prepared to hear that from the start.

“I assume you talked with Hao.”

The mere mention of Hao makes his cheeks and ears flush a deeper red, like a teenager experiencing love for the first time. Hanbin doesn’t look away, but he feels a part of himself exposed, vulnerable and real. He’s immediately reminded of their conversation days ago, of the fear he’d carried for so long, of how Hao had given him all the answers he needed.

“Yes. I know this all started backwards, in the least conventional way possible, but we want this,” he admits, and feels good about putting it into words, “It might be very fast, we’re just really getting started and a lot of things can happen along the way, but it doesn’t hurt to try. And we’re going to do everything we can to make this work.”

The conviction slowly settles in his chest, firm. This time he has the full power to choose what he wants in this situation.

There’s not much need for conversation with Hao, both have made their decisions, are sticking to them, and know what they have to do next. Hanbin feels lighter, lighter than he has in years. It doesn’t mean the future is settled, but it does mean they’re walking toward it together.

They contact Jiwoong, this time both of them together. Hanbin explains that they won’t be filing for divorce, that they won’t be starting any proceedings. Jiwoong doesn’t seem surprised; perhaps he had suspected as much, or perhaps he understands better than anyone that personal plans have a habit of changing without warning. And Hanbin feels compelled to apologize nonetheless—even though the process never technically began, even though no documents have been filed and no actual legal steps have been taken, he regrets having taken up Jiwoong’s time.

Jiwoong, however, responds as if it were no big deal. Nevertheless, he’s grateful for every piece of advice, every call, every moment Jiwoong provided clear information amidst the emotional turmoil he was experiencing.

“Hanbin, don’t worry, I was just doing my job,” Jiwoong is calm as ever. “And at the end of the day, you’re my friend, this wasn’t a bother at all for me.”

“Thank you for everything,” Hanbin repeats, earning a giggle from Jiwoong.

“Yes, sir,” Jiwoong laughs. “I’m glad you were able to work all this out on your own.”

Hanbin ponders those words. He knows Jiwoong never truly knew the truth, that Hao was nothing more than a stranger, not a friend or a something else he married to in a drunken stupor. That’s where his desperation stemmed from, the idea of being legally bound to someone whose name he’d never even heard, whose face he’d never seen—at least not consciously. He was so certain that once the three months were up, the divorce proceedings would begin immediately.

But he hadn’t counted on Hao being such a wonderful person, bringing back his desire to live. To live without having to spend most of his day working, keeping his mind occupied to avoid going into a dwell on how different his life is from what he’d imagined, disappointed with the universe and with himself. To live remembering that rest is always necessary, and that he has to be grateful for what he still has.

He hadn’t expected to fall in love so quickly, but here he is, without a trace of regret. And he knows that, even though they’re officially married, they still have a long way to go. Hanbin won’t stop until he’s earned the right to be called Hao’s husband, this time for real.

When the call ends, Hanbin puts the phone down and takes a deep breath. It’s not a feeling of having closed a chapter, but of having finally chosen how he wants to live it.

♥

The stress is palpable.

Hao is in a bad mood—well, not exactly. The pressure of the final rehearsals before the end-of-year concert has him tense, his edges sharp, always thinking about what he has to figure out next. Mornings are getting faster, schedules tighter, and nights are not enough for rest.

It’s noticeable in the silences, in the increasingly pronounced frown, and in the way his shoulders stiffen even when he’s at home. Part of Hanbin wants to fix everything—erase the stress, make the days longer so Hao has more time, or lighten Hao’s load so he can breathe. The reality, he knows, is less simple. Even so, Hanbin tries to help, looking for any way, big or small, to make the hours less burdensome for Hao.

The door opens with a soft click and Hao enters, awkwardly removing his shoes. The first thing he notices is how tired he is, his slumped shoulders, the violin case slipping slightly due to his weak grip, his hair disheveled from hours of rehearsal, his eyes half-dull.

“I could pick you up from the academy, you know?” Hanbin says, helping Hao with the case.

“I know, but the rehearsal extended and we didn’t have a set time to finish, and I didn’t want to bother you about it,” Hao explains, dragging his feet toward Hanbin as if walking were a chore. Hanbin closes the distance himself, pressing their lips in a kiss.

“You know that’s no problem for me,” Hanbin whispers, his forehead resting against Hao’s. “Right now, I just want to help make your days easier.”

“You’re so cute,” Hao gives him another kiss. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

Hanbin guides Hao to the room, holding him by the waist as they go up the stairs. Hao’s body yields completely, docile. Hao is usually easy to handle most of the time, he actually likes having things done for him, but not always. This docility is unusual for him, his steps are slow, almost clumsy. Hanbin adjusts his grip, firm but careful, fearing that Hao might crumble if he lets go.

The dim light of the bedroom greets them, and Hanbin helps Hao sit on the edge of the bed before going to the bathroom, turning on the shower and letting the water run until steam begins to fog the mirror. He adjusts the temperature a little hotter than usual, just the way he knows Hao prefers it when he’s tired. Hao is slowly taking off his shirt, there’s nothing rushed about him, just pure exhaustion.

“The water’s ready,” Hanbin says. Hao nods without looking up much, his fingers working on the button of his pants.

For a second, Hanbin hesitates to help him take off the rest of his clothes, because he looks so endearing struggling with them. But then Hao sets the pants aside, leans closer, and touches Hanbin’s wrist with his fingertips.

“Aren’t you coming?” Hao tilts his head. Hanbin leans in to kiss Hao, slowly, but not long enough for Hao to fall asleep there, their lips pressed together.

Hanbin leads him to the shower, Hao sighing as he feels the water cascading over his skin, relaxing the tension in his muscles. Hanbin doesn’t bother him, but takes the shower gel, using a generous amount to lather Hao, running his hands over Hao’s chest, shoulders, and back, pressing his fingertips more firmly into his back, trying to loosen the knots that are bothering him. This elicits soft moans from Hao, and Hanbin has to focus on something else to avoid thinking anything malicious at that moment.

“Are you hungry?” Hanbin asks in a low voice, finishing soaping Hao up.

“My head hurts,” Hao murmurs, his eyes closed, letting Hanbin’s touch soothe him. If he was tired before, now he’s almost fainting. Hanbin hurries over, not wasting any more time so that Hao can rest in bed.

“You need to eat something before you take a pill,” Hanbin tells him, rinsing the soap off his body.

“I ate something before I got here,” Hao holds Hanbin’s hand as he helps him out of the shower, being wrapped in a towel.

Hao shivers slightly as they entered the room, and Hanbin hurries to dry him off completely. He helps him put on his underwear, Hao placing a hand on his shoulder for balance, and Hao’s arms rises without protest so Hanbin can slip the shirt over his head. As the garment falls, too long, to mid-thigh, Hanbin feels something warm inside his chest.

“I’ll be right back,” Hanbin says, nudging Hao’s hip with his knuckles before leaving.

In the kitchen, he fills a glass of water, looks for Tylenol in the drawer where they keep the medications, and, before going back inside, turns up the heat a little. When he returns to the bedroom, the scene stops him—Hao slumped against the pillows, half-sliding down, the oversized shirt bunched up against his torso. His eyes are half-closed, as if fighting to stay awake, his breathing slow and deep.

The glass is left on the nightstand and Hanbin sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand through Hao’s still slightly damp hair.

“Hao…” he murmurs softly. “Baby, can you sit down for a bit?”

“Thank you,” Hao sits up straight enough and takes the pill immediately. He places the empty glass back on the nightstand, while Hanbin turns off the lights and gets into bed.

Not a second passes before Hao snuggles up to Hanbin, burying his face in Hanbin’s neck and wrapping an arm around his waist. Hanbin reaches for the lamp to turn off the light, pulling him closer and hugging him back. He tries not to dwell on how much he wishes he could alleviate more than just Hao’s physical exhaustion, how much he truly wants to hold him. Hao falls asleep easily in his arms, Hanbin places a kiss on his forehead, and though the worry lingers deep inside, he focuses on what matters most in that moment: Hao’s warm weight against his side.

And he falls asleep like that.

-

If the stress of the week was bad, the stress of that day is worse.

The day of the concert arrives with a mixture of nerves, expectations, and anxiety. From the moment they wake up, the house feels different, Hao doesn’t speak while they eat breakfast, and Hanbin can feel him vibrating in his seat, like a soft echo of the effort of the past few weeks.

Hanbin drives him to the academy early, much earlier than usual, but doesn’t object. He wants to be there, even if it’s just to see him walk through the doors with his violin case slung over his shoulder. During the ride, Hao is more talkative, telling him about schedules, positions, potential mistakes and solutions, and although Hanbin has heard him talk about the same things in recent weeks, he listens attentively as if it were the first time.

“Breathe,” Hanbin says at a traffic light, without taking his eyes off the road.

“I’m breathing.”

“Not enough,” Hao lets out a short, nasal laugh.

They arrive at the academy, and there is movement everywhere—students carrying instruments, teachers talking hurriedly among themselves, more people coming and going.

“See you later,” Hao adjusts the straps of the case.

“Don’t forget to take breaks to rest and eat something,” Hanbin says. Hao nods with a smile and leans in to kiss his cheek.

Hanbin watches him leave and disappear into the bustle of the academy. Hao walks quickly, purposefully, and Hanbin stands there for a few more seconds, watching him vanish between the entrance doors, feeling an absurd and enormous pride burst in his chest.

It’s not a workday for Hanbin—small accomplishments—so he has the opportunity to go home and do nothing. Hao even told him to rest until it was time to return to the academy for the concert. And yet, instead of turning to the highway that would take him back home, Hanbin takes the exit toward the airport, traffic is light at that hour. Hanbin parks, enters the building, and blends into the crowd of people with suitcases and welcome signs.

The automatic door opens, letting the first people out, and among them, a familiar figure with her hair tied back, a backpack carried in one shoulder, looking around for his older brother. Ahreum finds Hanbin in an instant and walks faster toward him, hugging him tightly when he reaches his side. Hanbin wraps her up too, feeling like he hasn’t seen her in years, even though only three months have passed.

“Ready?”

“Yeah!” Ahreum hasn’t stopped talking since getting into the car, her energy far too vibrant for someone who’d just spent many hours on a plane. “I’m so excited to see Hao.”

Ahreum says she’s been thinking about this trip for weeks, that she’s checked the concert schedule so many times she could recite it by heart. She’s excited to hear him play live for the first time, but also nervous about surprising him, because Hao has no idea Ahreum is even there.

“He must be working very hard, no?” Ahreum says, this time more softly. Hanbin briefly looks away from the road, just long enough to see her leaning back in the seat, her hands clasped in her lap, looking worried. Ahreum’s affection for Hao warms his heart.

“Too much,” Hanbin replies.

It’s not easy planning and organizing an entire piece for a group of children, with daily rehearsals almost all day long, Hao patiently guiding them, repeating passages, teaching them to breathe, to count, to feel the music. On top of that, he has to balance his own rehearsals with the orchestra, Hao being first violin. There were long nights when Hao arrived silently, his muscles tense and his eyes tired, his fingers stiff from all the effort.

And yet, Hao never loses that sweetness, that quiet discipline that always leaves Hanbin breathless.

“But I’m taking good care of him,” he smiles.

“You better,” there’s a playful curve in Ahreum’s mouth. It’s as if she, too, can see how much Hanbin has tried to be there for Hao.

Call him a lovesick fool or whatever, but Hanbin feels that even the exhaustion is worth it. Taking care of Hao isn’t an obligation for him, but a privilege. And one he’s grateful to have every night when he sees him working so hard for what he loves.

The drive back seems short, and they finally arrive and enter the house, the familiarity of the place enveloping them both. Hanbin places Ahreum’s backpack on the sofa and leads her to the kitchen to prepare her something simple to eat. He watches her as she devours each bite as if she hasn’t eaten in weeks. Hanbin finds it amusing to see her like this, visibly tired, but more focused on her food.

The guest room is ready for Ahreum, who heads there immediately after finishing her meal. Hanbin yells at her to shower before she touches the bed—because he knows she’ll fall asleep right away—as she goes upstairs.

The rest of the day passes unhurriedly. Hanbin checks work messages without much attention, makes tea, tidies up the living room a bit. Every now and then he peeks in to see if Ahreum is still asleep, and each time he finds her deep asleep, clutching a pillow as if it were the best place in the world to recover. And the whole house seems to be resting with her.

The shadows of evening begin to creep through the windows, and Ahreum emerges from the room, still drowsy. Hanbin smiles at the sight of her, her hair messy and the marks of the sheet on her cheeks.

Hanbin’s phone starts vibrating as he finishes adjusting his shirt in front of the mirror. For a moment, he thinks it’s Ahreum asking where she left her things, too lazy or busy to walk through a door, but the name flashing on the screen is Hao’s. They’ve only exchanged a few messages all day, Hanbin knowing how focused Hao needs to be. Swipe to answer and the voice on the other end comes through, enveloped in background noise—footsteps, small voices, instruments being tested.

“Hi,” Hao greets, less chaos can be heard around him.

“Hello, my love,” Hanbin smiles.

“We probably won’t be able to see each other before the concert,” Hao says, and Hanbin can detect the hint of apology. He knows he must be pouting and feels an urgent desire to wipe it away with a kiss.

“I understand,” he replies, sitting on the edge of the bed as he senses Ahreum moving through the hallway looking for something.

“I ate, okay? And I drank water.” Hao says it quickly. “I don’t want you to worry about it.”

The smile that forms on Hanbin’s face is impossible to suppress. Hao always knows what to say to calm him down, even when he’s the one in the middle of the storm.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “I trust you. How are the children?”

“Getting ready,” laughter and voices can be heard in the background. “Everything’s going well. It’s just… a lot of movement.”

“Everything’s going to be amazing. You know that, right?” Hanbin says with complete certainty. “I know it will too.”

There’s a brief pause, a warm silence, full of things that don’t need to be said. “Thank you,” Hao whispers. “See you here, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“I’m eager to see you,” Hao confesses, and Hanbin can imagine the smile that accompanies those words.

“I am eager to see you,” Hanbin corrects. It makes Hao laugh softly.

“See you soon, Bin.”

The call ends, but the echo of Hao’s voice lingers a while longer. And as he puts the phone in his pocket, Hanbin feels his heart beat a little faster, not from nerves or real anxiety, but from the excitement of seeing Hao in his element.

The academy’s theater is packed, buzzing with energy. Families are gathered, parents settling into their seats, preparing their phones to record everything, children swinging their legs from their seats, and teachers crossing the aisle to finalize last-minute details. The air smells of printed programs and the mingled perfumes that swirl in the enclosed space.

Hanbin guides Ahreum to their section with a firm hand on her shoulder, while she observes every corner with attentive eyes.

“Hey,” Ricky greets them when they are close enough, giving them room to pass between the row of seats.

“Is she your sister?” Kuanjui asks curiously. Ahreum smiles politely, waving.

“Yes,” Hanbin introduces them one by one.

They settle in and the theater lights begin to dim, conversations dwindle to murmurs, laughter transforms into anticipation. The general murmur fades into silence just before the music begins. The presenter emerges from behind the curtains, announces the opening of the End-of-Year Concert, and a wave of applause sweeps through the place. The curtains slowly open, revealing the illuminated stage, and a group of young children, no older than seven, appear first, along with their teacher.

The performances unfold one after another, each distinct, each receiving its own warm applause. The presenter introduces the next act—a piece prepared under Hao’s guidance, with his children-almost-teenagers—and Hanbin feels a different energy coursing through the theater. The curtains opens, and there they are, seated in their respective order and perfect posture, Hao already standing beside them.

Hanbin’s breath catches in his throat.

No matter how many times he’d seen it, thought it, or said it, Hao is the most beautiful man. His hair is perfectly styled, his black suit is sleek and tailored to his body, fitting his shoulders and waist with almost offensive precision, the stage light falling gracefully on him.

He’s not playing yet, he’s just there, guiding the children, bending down to fix a crooked music stand, offering them a smile that Hanbin recognizes even from a distance.

And it’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, that someone just standing on a stage can dazzle an entire theater.

Hao takes his place again, violin in hand. The first note sounds, and they gradually find their rhythm. What begins as a tentative attempt transforms into a clear and emotional piece. Hao is there, accompanying with his violin, guiding with a gentle lean of his body, attentive to every nuance, every breath. And they follow him, it’s clear from afar that they trust him. The sound becomes more confident, more vibrant, and Hanbin feels a shiver run down his spine watching them.

“That was very nice,” Ahreum applauds.

“The kids are good, but the way they played is the result of a good teacher.”

After that, Hanbin’s mind wanders. It’s not that he doesn’t pay attention to the performances, he watches them, listens to them, even applauds at the appropriate moments. But Hanbin remains behind, captivated by the image of Hao under the lights, by his focused expression as he played, by his elegant posture, by the gentle way he guided his students to shine.

How pretty, incredibly beautiful, he looked up there.

The end of the concert is approaching faster than anyone would like, but Hanbin is only thinking about the academy orchestra’s moment and can’t wait to see Hao play. This time, not as Hao the teacher, but as Hao the musician.

The aura shifts, as if the stage lights recognize Hao and adjust their intensity just for him. Hao settles the violin under his jaw, his movements precise, his posture straight and elegant. The entire orchestra tunes around Hao, following him. Hanbin understands that Hao is the point around which everything revolves. He stands out from the crowd and shines with a distinct light.

The conductor raises his baton and then they begin.

If Hao was already impressive with the kids, here he is simply breathtaking. Hao’s fingers find each note with an almost impossible smoothness, as if he weren’t pressing strings but touching the air itself. The music flows from him, and every tiny gesture—a slight lift of his chin, a tilt of his torso, a subtle tension in his wrist—shapes the melody. Hao plays as if carefully confessing something, and even though he is surrounded by other musicians, even though the entire orchestra fills the theater, it seems as if all the sound originates from him alone.

Ahreum leans forward slightly, murmuring a “wow…” so soft that gets lost in the music. As the bow moves back and forth, as the music soars, Hanbin feels he’s witnessing something different and beautiful from Hao, in his purest, brightest, most authentic form. And he feels the warm, rushing thump of his heart in his throat.

Hanbin applauds louder than anyone else when they finish.

The lights come back on, signaling the end of the concert. The parents rise almost simultaneously, hurrying to their children, voices mingling in congratulations. They walk backstage, dodging children running to their families, teachers trying to maintain some semblance of order. Hao is there talking to someone, his violin case open on a table, the instrument inside. He’s making sure all his students are with their families when his eyes fall on Ahreum.

Surprise lights up his face, breaking into a wide smile. “Ahreum?” Hao manages to say before she closes the distance in a second and hugs him.

“Surprise,” she laughs. Hao holds her tightly, lowering his head slightly to laugh against her hair.

“I can’t believe you’re here… when did you arrive?” And Ahreum speaks quickly, excitedly, happily, telling him that Hanbin planned it, that she wanted to see him, that the concert was incredible.

Around him, his friends congratulate him, parents express their gratitude, and some teachers pass by to pat him on the shoulder. Ahreum steps aside so he can respond to all the kind words, and Hanbin remains a little further back, watching him with a smile.

Little by little, the crowd disperses. Fewer voices remain, less noise, fewer people putting down their instruments. Until, finally, it’s just the two of them, in a slightly more secluded spot. There are no words at first, Hanbin simply hugs him as if he’d been holding back all night, a firm, warm embrace that envelops Hao from his shoulders to his spine. Hao exhales against his neck, almost trembling with the mixture of exhaustion and relief.

Hanbin leans his head slightly toward him, just enough for his voice to reach his ear, intimate and low. “You were marvelous,” he whispers. “You have no idea how talented you are. I’m so, so proud of you.”

Hao closes his eyes, tightening his embrace. Then he pulls back just enough to look at him. And kisses him.

A short kiss at first, almost gentle. Then another, more decisive. He doesn’t seem to care at all that there are still people crossing the hallway. In that moment, the whole world is ignored.

“Thank you for being here,” Hao whispers against his lips.

Hanbin wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world, the chance to enjoy what Hao does, learning to love it with more and more intention, with more and more meaning.

If Hanbin were to look back, he wouldn’t believe how it all turned out. A cruel twist of fate, an absurd sequence of impulsive, alcohol-fueled decisions and blunders of the heart that ultimately led them right to where they needed to be.

They went from pretending to maintain a lie they’d unknowingly fallen into, improvising an act as a couple, their hands intertwined out of obligation… until it ceased to be. How little by little they continued behaving that way even when they were alone, where no one else was around to see them. The heavy burdens neither dared to share found safe haven in the other—whispered confessions, hidden tears, unexpected laughter.

Love didn’t arrive like a lightning bolt or a dramatic scene. It came in small gestures, in shared nights of exhaustion, in the warm tea they prepared for each other, in the silent presence that became indispensable. Hanbin understood that he could no longer imagine a life without Hao.

There was no divorce process to start, no papers to sign, just a house where the lights turn on for two, rings that stopped being a lie and became a promise, a love that no one planned, but that found them anyway.

Fate brought them together drunk, living together forced them to stay, but it was them who decided, sober and aware, never to separate.