Chapter Text
It's almost closing time.
It was nearing 10:00 PM, the hour when the city of Seoul usually began to tuck itself in, but for Sunoo, the clock was just a reminder of how much of his own life he had traded for fiction. Sunoo’s career wasn’t built on luck, it was built on a forensic understanding of the human heart. He was an architect of longing, a man who knew exactly which adjectives would make a reader’s breath hitch and precisely where to place a comma to simulate a heartbeat. He had spent the last three years turning his internal world into paperbacks that sat on bedside tables across the country. But tonight, the blueprints were failing him.
He gripped his third (yes, third) cup of coffee, the ceramic gone lukewarm against his palms. He had sought out this specific corner cafe—a place with just enough anonymity and the perfect decibel of white noise—to escape the suffocating silence of his apartment. At home, the empty rooms only echoed his own lack of inspiration. Here, amidst the clinking of porcelain and the low hum of strangers' lives, he hoped to steal a spark of reality for his characters.
His weary eyes scanned the laptop screen. The cursor flickered mockingly, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to laugh as he reread the same paragraph for the hundredth time. Over and over and over again.
“He looked at her as if she were the only star left in a dying galaxy,” he typed. He immediately deleted it. Too cliché. “Their hands brushed, and the world narrowed down to the friction of skin against skin,” he tried again. Delete.
Something just wasn’t clicking. He was halfway through his latest novel—another romantic fairytale pulled entirely from the depths of his imagination. It had everything: a tight storyline, vibrant characters that felt almost sentient, and a looming plot twist that should have left him reeling. His publicist called it his "magnum opus," and Sunoo had agreed. Of course he did. Professionalism demanded he believe in the lie.
Until now. Now, the story just bored him.
He was approaching the climax—the moment where the protagonist receives a grand confession amidst metaphorical fireworks—and yet, Sunoo felt nothing. He was a mechanic staring at a perfectly assembled engine that simply wouldn't start. Maybe it was the fatigue of writing five consecutive romance novels, or perhaps he’d spent too much time living in a fictional world that he’d forgotten how to breathe in the real one. Whatever the cause, the prose felt bland. The fireworks were damp; the confetti was lead.
He was disconnected from his own heart. It wasn't that he didn’t understand love—Sunoo could write about love in ways most people couldn't even perceive—but he was tired of translating it for an audience when he couldn't even find it in himself.
This story just wouldn't stick.
He was a mess. Cooped up in this cafe booth for five hours, he felt the walls closing in. He knew he needed to go home and rest. Maybe light a cigarette or two. He glanced at the word count: 114,748. It was pure word vomit at this point—a monument to his own stubbornness. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back against the soft cushions, pulling his white fluffy beanie down over his face to create a makeshift sanctuary. He let the ambient bustle of the cafe drift into a dull hum, letting his mind go dark. Just for a moment, he wanted to be someone who didn't have to observe, didn't have to describe, didn't have to feel for a living.
He didn't mind the low chatter of the couple nearby or the relentless mechanical clicking of keyboards from the college students in the corner. He wasn't the only one chasing a deadline in this city of sleepless souls. What he did mind was the barista’s voice cutting through his trance like a serrated blade, calling a name that Sunoo had spent six years trying to delete from his own manuscript.
"Cafe latte for Sunghoon!"
Sunoo ripped off his beanie and sat up so fast he felt his spine crack in agonizing protest. Everything stilled, his blood ran cold. He doesn’t know why the world seems to halt to a stop, he doesn’t know why the universe hates him so much, and he doesn’t know why on earth is this happening to him right now. Sunoo doesn’t know anything. He doesn't know why the gods chose this specific Tuesday to ruin him, but there he was: his ex, walking toward the counter. Like a dead man rising from its grave. A grave Sunoo dug far deep into this earth in hopes that it would bury everything along with him–perhaps it wasn’t deep enough.
Sunghoon took the drink with a polite nod. A cafe latte.
Six years ago, it was never a cafe latte. It was always an iced americano. To go.
Sunoo watched, paralyzed, as Sunghoon pulled out a chair just a few feet away. He looked exactly the same, yet entirely foreign. His hair was longer now, his eyes framed by thin-rimmed glasses. Clad in a dark coat with a silver watch peeking from the sleeve, he was the perfect picture of stability and success. But the moles were still there. The pale skin. The way his brow furrowed ever so slightly when he sipped his drink. He looked like a faded photograph that came to life. Plucked right out from the photo album stowed away in his closet at his childhood home. Then, as Sunghoon raised the cup for a third time, Sunoo saw it. A wedding band.
The realization hit him like a collapsing dam bursting through its walls. Memories and sharp imagery flooded his senses, drowning his composure. He actually forgot how to breathe for a split second. Then, as quickly as the memories surfaced, he shoved them right back into the dark. Not now. With trembling hands, he began to pack. He wound his charging cord quickly with frantic, clumsy movements and shoved it into his bag. Please, not now. He kept his face angled away, eyes fixed on the exit—the doorway to freedom. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until a voice called out from behind him.
"Sunoo-ssi! You forgot your beanie!"
Oh, for the love of God.
He considered sprinting for the door, abandoning the hat and his dignity altogether. But he wasn't twenty-two anymore; he wasn't that heartbroken college kid. He was an adult for crying out loud. He forced himself to turn around, plastering a polite, brittle smile on his face as Aeri, the barista, held out the white knit cap.
Sunghoon didn’t look up immediately. He was busy adjusting the sleeve of his dark coat, his movements precise and practiced, like a man who had spent years learning how to take up space in rooms that didn’t belong to him. Don’t look this way, Sunoo pleaded silently, his fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans. Disappear back into the draft where I put you. But the universe, as Sunoo had often written in his more melodramatic chapters, was a cruel editor.
"Ah—silly me. Thank you, Aeri. I—"
"Sunoo?"
The voice came from his right. Low, familiar, and devastating. Sunoo wanted the ground to miraculously split open and swallow him whole. The collision of their gazes felt less like a romantic "spark" and more like a high-speed car crash in slow motion. There was no swelling music, only the low, rhythmic thrum of the refrigerator unit and the distant sound of a car horn outside. Sunghoon’s eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter. For a split second, the "stable businessman" mask slipped, and Sunoo saw the boy from six years ago—the one who used to look at him with a terrifying amount of clarity.
Chapter One: The Inciting Incident, Sunoo’s brain whispered, a defense mechanism against the sheer, agonizing reality of the moment. The protagonist meets the ghost of his past. Note the dilation of the pupils. Note the way the air in the room suddenly feels too thin to support human life.
"Is it... Oh my god, it really is you." Sunghoon was standing now, his expression shifting from confusion to startled recognition. The recognition in his gaze was absolute. It wasn't a "Do I know you?" look, it was a "It’s you. It’s always been you" look. Then came that melancholic sparkle in his eyes—the one Sunoo knew he was likely mirroring. A lump formed in his throat, hard as a stone.
"It’s been... a while. I never thought I’d see you again," Sunghoon said, more to himself than to Sunoo. He shook his head in disbelief, his eyes searching Sunoo’s face as if checking for a ghost. "Here, of all places."
Sunoo forgot how to blink. He felt exposed, stripped bare by a single look. He was just standing there with his messy hair, and a half-finished story about a love he clearly didn't understand anymore. He was a fraud, and Sunghoon’s eyes—dark, intelligent, and achingly familiar—seemed to read every single word of his failure.
"Well, if you'll excuse me—" Aeri muttered, sensing the sudden, heavy tension. She pivoted and made a tactical retreat to clear other tables, leaving them in the one place Sunoo dreaded most, the present. Sunoo cleared his throat, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Sunghoon. Hi. Yeah... it’s been a while. Six years, to be exact."
Why the fuck did I just say that?
Sunghoon let out a breathless, hollow laugh. "Yeah. Six years." He said it like it had been a long six years for him, too. He said it like he couldn't believe it. Like his life had also been on a strange sort of pause.
"I didn't expect to see you here. Last time I saw you was when... you were leaving for Australia." Sunoo said. He didn't need to "refresh" his memory. The story of them was etched into his marrow, he knew every scar and wrinkle of their history. He remembers it all too well.
"Australia." Sunghoon looked down at his feet, shifting his weight. When he looked back up, the guardedness had softened into something achingly nostalgic. "I was there for two years to finish my studies. Then Los Angeles."
"And now? You’re back in Seoul?" Sunoo asked, arching a brow—a look that clearly triggered a memory for Sunghoon, because it made him smile properly for the first time. It really has been a while.
"I guess," Sunghoon said, his voice quiet, "there’s nothing like home." They shared a laugh then—brief, disbelieving, and heavy with everything they hadn't said.
The silence that followed stretched between them, thick and heavy in the air, until Sunghoon gestured toward the booth Sunoo had just vacated. "Do you have a few minutes? Or are you... in a rush to be somewhere?" Sunghoon’s voice was tentative, a stark contrast to the polished, expensive armor of his coat.
Don't do it, Sunoo’s mind hissed. This is how Chapter 12 ends—with a mistake. But his legs were already moving, betraying his better judgment. "The deadline isn't going anywhere," he muttered, sliding back into the seat.
For a moment, they just sat there. The mechanical hum of the espresso machine felt deafening. Sunoo stared at Sunghoon’s glasses, wondering when the man he used to know had started needing a prescription to see the world.
"So," Sunoo started, cleared his throat, and tried again. "How was it? Australia, I mean. Aside from the studies."
Sunghoon leaned back, a small, weary smile tugging at his lips. "Hot. A lot different from Seoul. I spent most of my time in the library, honestly. Then LA happened, and that was... faster. Louder. I think I spent three years just trying to find a decent bowl of kimchi jjigae."
Sunoo let out a dry, unintended huff of a laugh. "You always were picky. I remember you nearly had a meltdown because a place in Myeongdong put too much sugar in their broth." He doesn't know why he even felt the need to say that, but he did.
"I’ve mellowed out," Sunghoon insisted, though he looked anything but relaxed. He tapped the side of his cup, thinking. "And you? I see the laptop. Still writing until your eyes turn red?"
"It’s a living," Sunoo replied, shifting his gaze to the window as an excuse to look at anything else but the man before him. He plays with his fingers on the table and Sunghoon notices. He stops his movements entirely. "I’ve published four novels. Working on the fifth. It’s... a lot of sitting in cafes and pretending I know what I’m doing."
"I’ve seen them," Sunghoon said softly. "The displays. You're doing well, Sunoo. I always knew you would."
"Yeah, well. Life happens." Sunoo’s eyes finally dropped to Sunghoon’s hand, which was also resting on the table. The gold band gleamed, a bright, metallic barrier between their past and the present. "You're married."
The transition was sharp, cutting through the polite veneer they’d just built. Sunghoon’s hand flinched like he had been caught, his fingers curling instinctively before he forced them to go still.
"I... yes. Her name is Wonyoung. We met during my first year in LA." He looked out the window, his reflection ghosting against the dark glass. "It was the sensible thing to do. My father’s health was failing, the company was transitioning, and... I was tired of being adrift, Sunoo. I wanted something that made sense. Something stable."
Stable, Sunoo thought, a sharp pain blooming in his chest. I was a hurricane, wasn't I? I was the reckless dream you had to wake up from to become the man in the silver watch. "Stable," he repeated out loud, the word tasting like copper. "So you traded the Americanos for lattes and found a 'sensible' life.”
"It’s not as cold as it sounds," Sunghoon said, though his eyes betrayed him. He looked down at the ring, his thumb catching on the edge of the metal as if he wanted to pry it off right there. "But 'stable' doesn't always mean 'permanent.' That’s why I’m back. There are... things to settle. Legalities. Family matters.”
He didn't say the word divorce. He couldn't. The ink wasn't dry on the filings, and the non-disclosure clauses regarding his family’s assets felt like a gag in his throat. He wanted to tell Sunoo that he was back in Seoul because the "stability" had become a cage. He wanted to say he had spent every night of the last six months dreaming of this exact street corner. But he couldn't. Not yet. To tell Sunoo now would be to invite a mess he wasn't legally allowed to share—and a hope he wasn't sure he deserved to rekindle.
"So, is she here?" Sunoo asked, clutching his beanie as if it were a lifebuoy. "In Seoul?"
"No," Sunghoon said, and the finality in his voice was the first honest thing he’d said all night. "She’s in California. I’m here alone."
He looked up then, meeting Sunoo’s gaze with a sudden, piercing intensity. "I saw your name on a bookstore display in the airport when I landed. The Fragrance of August. I bought it. I read the whole thing on the flight over."
Sunoo felt his heart skip a beat, a traitorous rhythm. "That was my third book. It’s... mostly fiction."
"Is it?" Sunghoon leaned in, the scent of his latte—sweet and creamy—drifting toward Sunoo. "The way the main character describes the sound of someone’s laugh? Like a winter morning breaking over the ice? I recognized that description, Sunoo. I remember who used to tell me that."
Sunoo pulled back, his breath hitching. The abrupt mention of their past felt like incoming lava, disastrous and unstoppable. "That was a long time ago, Sunghoon. I write romance because it pays the bills, not because I’m sentimental."
"And yet, you’re still sitting in the same cafe we used to frequent before it was renovated," Sunghoon countered softly. The shot went straight to Sunoo’s dying heart. "Still downing coffee cups like shots of vodka. Still staying up until 10:00 PM because that’s when your brain finally starts to work."
Sunghoon reached across the table, his hand stopping just inches from Sunoo’s sleeve. A move that was too often used in the past that 6 years later it still doesn't come as a shock to either of them. The wedding band caught the light, a bright, golden warning.
"I’m back in Seoul for a long time, Sunoo. Maybe for good."
Sunoo looked at the hand, then at the man who looked like stability but smelled like a haunting storm. For good? That sounded like a promise threatening to break at any given moment. Sounded a lot like it came from a corner in his old dorm room, a gasoline coated whisper that could potentially burn down the apartment he resides in now. "I have to go," Sunoo whispered, sliding out of the booth before he could lose the last of his nerve. "I really have to go."
As he pushed through the glass doors into the night, Sunoo didn't look back. If he had, he would have seen Sunghoon take off his glasses, rub his tired eyes, and finally—finally—take another sip of the latte he clearly didn't even like.
Sunoo doesn’t just walk out of the cafe, he bolts right out of there and escapes it. The cold Seoul air hits his lungs like a bucket of ice water, but it’s not enough to numb the buzzing under his skin. By the time he reaches his apartment, the silence of the hallway feels suffocating. He doesn't even take off his coat. He kicks off his shoes, leaves them scattered by the door, and practically lunges for his desk.
Where the fuck are his cigarettes?
The laptop screen is still awake, the cursor blinking in the exact same spot—daring him.
Fireworks and confetti. "Bullshit," Sunoo whispers, his voice cracking in the empty room. The silence that follows feels like misery engulfing him in an embrace. An unwanted visit from his old friend.
He highlights the entire "confession" scene—three thousand words of wonderfully polished, beautifully perfected, fake romance—and hits backspace.
The white void of the blank page stares at him. For a moment, he just sits there, his hands hovering over the keys, trembling. He thinks of the wedding band. He thinks of the cafe latte. He thinks of the way Sunghoon said "home" like it was a place he was visiting, not a place he belonged in.
Then, he starts to type. He isn't "word vomiting" anymore. He’s bleeding.
The climax isn't a celebration. It’s a goddamn funeral.
We are taught that love is a crescendo, a series of bright lights and swelling violins that lead to a definitive "yes." But nobody tells you about the love that stays in your throat. The love that ages into a ghost and follows you into a coffee shop six years later just to watch you order a different drink.
He wore a gold band on his finger like a shackle made of stability. It wasn't a sign of a beginning; it was the final period at the end of a sentence I hadn't finished reading. Seeing him wasn't a 'meant-to-be' moment. It was a reminder that the universe doesn't care about your plot arcs. It doesn't care if your heart is still stuck wandering in Australia while your body is sitting in Seoul.
I spent five books writing about fireworks. But real love? Real love is the silence after the explosion. It’s the smell of sulfur and the dark sky, and the realization that you’re standing all alone in the middle of a crowd, holding a white beanie that suddenly feels like a shroud.
Sunoo stops, his chest heaving. By the time he gains his bearings, it's too late. He's too far gone. The word count is low, but the weight is immense. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against the cool edge of the desk.
He realizes, with a bitter sort of irony, that his publicist was right. This is going to be his best book. Not because it’s beautiful, and not because it’s magical.
But because for the first time in six years, he isn’t writing a fantasy. He’s writing his truth.
And somewhere in Seoul, Sunghoon is preparing for his.
-
The silence in the office was thick, broken only by the rhythmic skritch-scratch of Jungwon’s fountain pen and the crisp, heavy snap of paper being turned.
Sunoo sat in the velvet armchair across from him, his pulse a low, dull throb in his ears. He watched Jungwon’s eyes dart across the pages. Jungwon didn’t just read, he dissected. He thumbed the edges of the manuscript, his fingers lingering on the passages where Sunoo’s prose turned from romantic silk into jagged glass. Sunoo saw him pause at the "Cafe Latte" scene, his grip on the paper tightening just enough to leave a faint crinkle.
“Well…” Jungwon leaned back in his leather office chair, the springs creaking in the quiet room. He stared down at the fresh stack of paper like it was a crime scene he wasn't quite ready to process. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth,” Sunoo answered, his voice steadier than he felt as he levels him with a gaze that felt more like a shield than a challenge. He sat across from Jungwon, legs crossed, trying to look like an author receiving a standard critique and not a man whose entire internal world had been dismantled forty-eight hours ago. “Don't sugarcoat it just because we share a Netflix password.”
Jungwon, his literary agent and the person who had seen him through every rejection letter and celebratory bottle of soju, didn't answer immediately. He adjusted his glasses, the sunlight from the office window catching the sharp line of his jaw. Sunoo could practically see the gears turning—the professional calculating the marketability versus the best friend calculating the therapy bill.
“For starters, it's evocative. It’s... violent, Sunoo. Not in the physical sense, but emotionally.” Jungwon stood up, smoothing the wrinkles of his crisp button-up and sliding his favorite fountain pen into his pocket. “As your agent, I think it’s a masterpiece. It’ll take your readers for a ride because it’s so vastly different from the 'fairytales' you usually give them. This isn't a confession, it’s an autopsy.”
He rounded the desk, his footsteps muffled by the expensive rug. “However,” He stopped right in front of Sunoo, the professional mask finally cracking. He reached out and booped Sunoo’s nose with a playful, familiar softness. “As your best friend, I have approximately five thousand questions.”
Sunoo scrunched his nose, batting Jungwon’s hand away with a practiced eye-roll. “Do I need to answer them? Can’t we just focus on the 'masterpiece' part?”
“Absolutely not!” Jungwon gasped, leaning his hip against the desk parallel to Sunoo. He dramatically clutches at his heart as if Sunoo had physically wounded him.“You went from writing about 'heavensent love' to pulling a complete 180. Your protagonist meets his ex and the tone shifts from a romance novel to a psychological thriller at this point. It’s visceral. It’s angry. It’s… suspiciously specific, Sunoo.”
Sunoo bit the inside of his cheek. He looked at a stray thread on his sleeve, flicking it away to buy three seconds of silence. A nervous habit that Jungwon caught immediately.
“What’s going on?” Jungwon asked, his voice now a quiet, steady anchor. He wasn’t moving. He never did. He was the one person who could read Sunoo's subtext better than his publicist.
“I may have unceremoniously run into my ex at the cafe the other day,” Sunoo admitted, the words feeling heavy as lead on his tongue.
“You what?” Jungwon’s eyes nearly tripled in size. “The college boyfriend? The one who... the only one?”
“Yes. Who else?”
“Wait—did you guys talk? Did you arrange this? Are you getting back together?”
“Wha—No! No, oh my god, no!” Sunoo’s voice spiked an octave. “He’s married, Jungwon. He was wearing a wedding band like a bright neon sign.”
He was sitting there with a wedding band and a cafe latte like he was auditioning for a life I don't recognize.
Jungwon’s jaw dropped. He quickly sat down in the chair parallel to Sunoo, his nosy-best-friend radar pinging at maximum volume. “Tell me everything. Every little detail. Don't leave out a single comma.”
“You’re overbearingly nosey, has anyone told you that?”
“I make a living out of scrutinizing other people's lives for profit. It’s my job description,” Jungwon countered with a cheeky grin. “You’re a writer, I’m a vulture. We’re a perfect match. Now, spit it out.”
Sunoo sighed, the tension leaving his shoulders in one long, shaky breath. He spilled. He talked about the renovated cafe, the "stable" dark coat, the wedding band, and the way the air felt too thin to breathe. He described the "Cafe Latte" like it was a betrayal in liquid form. He spoke until his throat felt dry, the storyteller in him taking over until the memories felt as tangible as the manuscript on the desk.
“Oh my god,” Jungwon whispered when Sunoo finally finished. He had his hands over his mouth, looking like he’d just watched a plot twist in a high-budget drama. He looked genuinely shaken, but then, a slow, predatory smile began to spread across his face. Then, he started to laugh. “Oh my god!”
Sunoo’s face flushed. “Why the hell are you laughing? You think this is funny? My life is falling apart, I’m currently writing a funeral for my own heart, and you’re finding it amusing?” Sunoo sulked, pouting and crossing his arms over his chest like the overgrown petulant child that he is.
“I’m laughing,” Jungwon said in between breaths, clutching at his stomach, “because you’re oblivious as hell. You’re a brilliant writer, Sunoo, but you’re a terrible protagonist.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means that you’re still sickly, downright in love with the man,” Jungwon said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Six years, Sunoo. Six years have passed and you’re sitting here as you give me a 10 minute monologue describing his 'moles' and his 'furrowed brow' like you’re writing a goddamn love letter. Your manuscript isn't dark because you've moved on—it’s dark because you’re salty.”
“I am not salty! I am... processing!”
“You’re a salt mine, babe. It’s written all over your face, and frankly, it’s all over your story. No wonder the fireworks turned into a funeral.”
Sunoo playfully shoved him, the familiar banter acting as a balm for the raw nerves. But Jungwon’s next question brought the chill back. He glanced at the door, then back to Sunoo.
“Does Heeseung know about this?”
Sunoo’s smile didn’t just fade, it vanished. He subconsciously began rubbing at his arms, a nervous tic he only had when things got complicated.
Heeseung. His publicist. His friend with benefits. The man who was currently the "sensible" choice in Sunoo’s life. Heeseung was the person who knew how Sunoo liked his steak and exactly where to touch him to make him forget his writer's block for an hour, but he was also someone Sunoo kept at an arm's length. Heeseung was the person he went to when he didn't want to feel anything too deeply. Heeseung was everything Sunghoon wasn't. He was present. He was easy. He was a man of schedules and press releases and low-stakes intimacy that didn't leave Sunoo gasping for air. Their situationship was built on a foundation of "no questions asked," a perfect arrangement for a man who didn't want to admit his heart was still stuck in a coffee shop six years ago.
“No,” Sunoo said, his voice flat. “And he doesn’t need to.”
Jungwon watched him, his sharp eyes lingering on the way Sunoo was clutching his own arms. He didn't push the Heeseung topic—not yet—but he knew that the "stability" Heeseung provided was about to be tested by the ghost of a man with a cafe latte.
“So,” Jungwon said, standing back up and tapping the manuscript with a manicured finger. “What’s the plan? Are we going to stick to the 'funeral' ending?”
Sunoo looked at the stack of papers. He thought about Sunghoon’s wedding ring, and the way he’d looked at Sunoo like he was a long forgotten book collecting dust on a shelf. He thought about Heeseung waiting for him at his apartment with a glass of wine and a conversation that wouldn't hurt.
He took a deep breath. For the first time in six years, he wasn't trying to write a fairytale.
“The plan stays as is,” Sunoo said, his eyes hardening with a new kind of resolve. “I’m going to write one hell of a story.”
And from there, he decided, there was no going back. It was all said and done. The only thing left to do was finish this book, nurse his poor heart, and forget the ghost ever spoke. Sunoo didn't have the time to entertain hauntings. He had spent his career mastering the art of the pivot—he wasn't hesitant to scrap this plot twist, too.
He was the writer. He was the one who decided which characters deserved a happily ever after and which ones belonged in the shredder. This was just a bump in the road—a momentary swerve—and he would straighten the wheel.
However, the universe must really despise him.
The invitation had arrived on heavy, cream-colored cardstock, the kind of paper that felt like a threat. Jungwon had dropped it on Sunoo’s desk three days prior with a grimace that sat somewhere between apology and ambition.
“It’s the Park Holdings Literary Gala, Sunoo,” Jungwon had explained, leaning against the doorframe of his office. “Ostentatious? Yes. A massive tax write-off disguised as a scholarship fund for ‘underprivileged talent’? Absolutely. But they’re the primary sponsors for your next international tour. If you don't show up, the publicist—and the bank account—will have a heart attack. Just wear the velvet suit, smile at the donors, and pretend you don’t want to set the building on fire.”
Now, standing in the center of the Grand Ballroom, Sunoo felt exactly like the "underprivileged talent" the donors were currently feasting upon. The air was thick with the scent of expensive lilies and the metallic tang of chilled champagne. Beside him, Heeseung was a masterclass in professional grace. As Sunoo’s publicist, Heeseung was his shield, his hand resting light but firm on the small of Sunoo’s back, guiding him through the sea of socialites like a shepherd.
"Easy, Sunoo," Heeseung murmured, leaning in close enough for Sunoo to catch the scent of his expensive cologne. "You’re gripping that champagne glass like you’re trying to strangle it. Smile. The donors are watching."
"I hate these things," Sunoo whispered back, flashing a brittle, camera-ready smile at a passing editor.
"I know. But you’re the star tonight. Just hold on for a little while." Heeseung’s voice was a warm anchor, but before Sunoo could respond, the crowd parted. The evening’s primary benefactor was being introduced.
"And here," the gala host announced, a stodgy looking man whose name he can't quite recall, "is the man responsible for tonight’s literary scholarship fund, representing Park Holdings... Mr. Park Sunghoon."
The air left Sunoo’s lungs. Sunghoon looked devastating in a classic black tuxedo, dazzling smile on display as he captivated the room. He was the center of gravity, shaking hands with board members, the silver watch on his wrist catching the light. Beside him, Heeseung’s hand on Sunoo’s back twitched—just once.
Heeseung was a publicist, he was paid to notice shifts in the atmosphere. He looked at Sunghoon, then down at the sudden paleness of Sunoo’s face. He didn't ask "Who is he?" or "Are you okay?" He simply stepped a fraction closer, his body becoming a shield.
"Sunoo," Sunghoon said, finally reaching them. His voice was different here—deeper, wrapped in the steel of corporate authority. But when his eyes met Sunoo’s, that "stability" flickered. His gaze dropped briefly to Heeseung’s hand, still resting on Sunoo’s waist.
Sunoo’s pathetic little heart thumps in his chest.
"Mr. Park," Heeseung greeted, his voice perfectly neutral, professionally polite. "A wonderful event. I don't believe you've met our guest of honor, Sunoo."
"We've met," Sunghoon said, his eyes never leaving Sunoo’s. "Briefly. A long time ago."
"Small world," Heeseung replied smoothly. He didn't push. He didn't cause a scene. He simply stood there, the "safe" choice, watching the ghost of Sunoo's past threaten to burn the ballroom down.
The event proceeded with the agonizing slow-motion of a fever dream. A little mingling here, some shaking of hands there. By the time Sunoo downed his fourth glass of luxurious champagne, he was certain his social battery had been depleted to its breaking point. He was an extrovert at heart, but a man whose soul is wandering elsewhere can only perform for so long before his body begins to cry for the silence of slumber.
The last of his persona evaporated as he stood in the back of the room, watching Sunghoon take the podium. Sunghoon spoke with a practiced eloquence about "keeping literature alive" and the "importance of supporting talent."
Keeping? Supporting? Oh please. Sunoo thought, the champagne making his cynicism feel sharper, more on edge. Those are exactly the things you were bad at.
Hearing the man who had abandoned him speak about "nurturing potential" felt like a cruel joke. It made Sunoo feel like a prop in a very expensive theater, dressed in velvet and gold thread just to prove that the "sponsor" had good taste.
“Three more editors, Sunoo,” Heeseung whispered, his lips nearly brushing Sunoo’s ear. “Then we can hit the bar.”
Sunoo nodded, his smile feeling like a mask that was starting to crack. He spent the next few minutes nodding at women in silk and men in stiff collars, listening to them praise his "lyrical sensitivity" while their eyes scanned the room for more important people. It was a performance. He was a product.
Exhausted, Sunoo finally managed to slip away toward the mobile bar at the far end of the hall. He found a younger man already there, staring into a glass of whiskey with a look of profound boredom. It was Niki, a poet whose recent collection had set the literary world on fire with its sharp, coarse edges.
“Sunoo-ssi,” Niki greeted, his voice low and raspy. Evidently used through the night as he's done his fair share of social climbing as well. “I see you’ve survived the first wave of vultures.”
“Barely,” Sunoo sighed, leaning against the marble counter. “I feel like I’m being dismantled and sold for parts.”
Niki let out a dark, dry laugh. “That’s because we are. Look at this place. It’s just a feasting opportunity for publishers to capitalize on underpaid talent. They want the tragedy, Sunoo. They want us to bleed on the page so they can sell it for thirty thousand won.”
Niki swirled his drink, his eyes dark. “We’re just puppets. We dress our own trauma in beautiful words until it doesn't even belong to us anymore. It’s all just... a costume.”
A puppet, Sunoo thought, the word echoing in his mind. He looked down at his own manicured hands. Niki was right. He spent his days editing his own heartbreak until it was "marketable," turning the ghosts of his past into characters that strangers could fall in love with. He was a man who lived in a house built from his own scars.
Sunoo can only let the words linger in the air, too tired to respond. It rings too much truth, no matter how hard he denies it.
“I should go,” Niki said, setting his glass down with a sharp clack. “I have a reading in ten minutes. Try not to let them eat you alive, Sunoo.”
Niki disappeared back into the gold-and-glitter crowd, leaving Sunoo in a hollow silence. The weight of the evening finally felt too heavy. He needed air—real air, not the recycled, perfume-choked oxygen of the ballroom. He saw Heeseung across the room, busy charming a board member, and decided to make a break for it.
He slipped through a side exit marked as Staff Only, the sudden silence of the corridor hitting him like a physical relief. He found his way to a narrow, stone-paved alleyway. It was cold, but Sunoo could care less. The sky was an angry, bruised purple, and the first heavy drops of rain began to slam against the pavement.
The rain didn't just fall; it reclaimed the city, drowning the muffled classical music from the ballroom until the only world that existed was this narrow, shadow-drenched alleyway.
Sunoo ducked under the rusted metal awning, the hem of his velvet jacket darkening as it soaked up the spray. His hands were trembling—from the cold, he told himself, or perhaps the sheer exhaustion of being "Sunoo, the Author" for four hours straight. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and fumbled with his silver lighter.
Flick. Flick. The damp wind snuffed the flame before it could even catch.
“The wind is too strong for that.”
The voice didn't come from a memory. It came from the shadows across the alley. Sunoo froze, the lighter still clicked open. Sunghoon stepped into the dim, amber light of a flickering streetlamp. He had ditched his tuxedo jacket; his white dress shirt was partially unbuttoned, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the strong, familiar lines of his forearms. In his hand was a single, sweating paper cup.
“Iced Americano?” Sunoo asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“They didn't have any in there,” Sunghoon said, gesturing back toward the gilded ballroom. “Too ‘common’ for a gala. I had to bribe a valet to run to the convenience store.”
Sunghoon crossed the narrow path, his polished shoes splashing through a puddle as he stepped under the awning. He didn't stop until he was inches from Sunoo, reclaiming a space that had been vacant for six years. He reached out, his hand steady as he took the lighter from Sunoo’s numb fingers. He shielded the flame with his palm—a wall against the storm—the gold wedding band glinting like a jagged piece of glass in the orange glow.
Flick. The cigarette caught. Sunoo took a long hit, the smoke burning his lungs.
For a moment, they just stood there. The silence was a third person in the room, heavy and suffocating.
"It was a successful evening," Sunghoon said, his voice dropping into a polite, corporate register. The 'Sponsor' mask was back on. "The board was very impressed with your speech. They believe your brand has... significant growth potential in the international market."
Sunoo let out a plume of smoke, looking at the harsh droplets of rain instead of the man. "Is that what I am now? A brand with growth potential?"
"In that room? Yes," Sunghoon replied. He took a slow sip of his coffee. "But as a reader... I found the latest manuscript intriguing. The shift in tone is bold. It's less 'fairytale' and more 'reckoning.' Is that the direction the new series is taking?"
Is he really doing this? Sunoo thought, his jaw tightening. Small talk? After six years of silence and a thirty-second eye contact that nearly killed me? "It's a direction," Sunoo said flatly. "My publicist thinks it’s edgy. My agent thinks it’s a masterpiece. I just think it’s the only way I know how to speak anymore."
"You were always better at writing than speaking," Sunghoon noted. There was a faint, dangerous trace of a smile on his lips—the one Sunoo used to trace with his thumb.
"And you were always better at disappearing than staying," Sunoo shot back.
The air between them fractured. The professional veneer didn't just crack, it dissolved into ashes like the ones falling in between his fingers. Sunghoon leaned his shoulder against the damp brick wall, his eyes fixed on the smoke curling from Sunoo's cigarette.
I should leave, Sunoo’s mind screamed. I should walk back into the ballroom and find Heeseung. But his feet were rooted. Being near Sunghoon felt like touching a scar he’d forgotten he had—it didn't hurt exactly, but the skin was tight, pulling at him, reminding him that the wound was still there beneath the surface. He felt a terrifying surge of confusion. Was this hatred? Or was this the devastating realization that even after six years of "moving on," he was still just waiting for the other shoe to drop?
"Your publicist," Sunghoon said, his voice losing its corporate edge. "Heeseung. He seems... very attentive. He understands your needs."
"Heeseung is a good man," Sunoo replied. "He knows how to handle the press. He knows how to handle me."
"Is that what you need, Sunoo? Someone to ‘handle’ you?" Sunghoon stepped closer. The heat radiating off him was a direct assault on the cold wind that blew at their skin. "I read your books. All of them. You write like you’re searching for a ghost. Is he the one who helps you find it?"
Sunoo let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "He helps me forget the ghost exists. That’s enough." He gestured toward the cup in Sunghoon’s hand. "The latte at the cafe that night... that was a lie, wasn't it? Just like this 'stable benefactor' act?"
Sunghoon’s thumb traced the rim of his cup. Tell him, his mind urged. Tell him you’re in the middle of a legal war. Tell him the ring is a piece of lead you can't melt yet. But he looked at Sunoo—so beautiful, so sharp, so guarded—and he felt the weight of his own failures.
"The latte was for her. A habit," Sunghoon admitted, his voice cracking. "I spent three years ordering what someone else wanted because it was easier than admitting I was empty. I forgot how to order for myself until I saw you."
"And what about her, Sunghoon?" Sunoo’s heart was hammering so hard he was sure Sunghoon could see it through the velvet. "Does she know you’re standing in an alleyway with a 'puppet' like me? Does she know you’re still helplessly chasing the Americano flavor from your twenties?"
"She knows that I'm here for work," Sunghoon said, the lie tasting like iron. He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from the sleeve of Sunoo’s jacket. "Sunoo, the marriage—there are technicalities. It’s not what it looks like. I didn't come back to Seoul for the gala."
"Then why did you come back?" Sunoo whispered.
The silence that followed was the longest one of Sunoo’s life. He could see the struggle in Sunghoon’s eyes—the war between the "Mr. Park" who had to maintain a reputation for his divorce settlement and the Sunghoon who wanted to grab Sunoo and never let go.
"I didn't choose to leave you," Sunghoon whispered, so quietly it was almost lost to the roar of the downpour. There’s a veil of surrender swimming in his eyes. "I chose to survive. My father’s debt... the company... I was a puppet, too, Sunoo."
Sunoo felt the scar rip wide open, a sharp, cold sting. The blood that followed was warm, fresh. Staining his conscious mind without fail. He was a puppet. The bitterness he’d nurtured for six years suddenly felt shaky, threatened by a terrifying surge of empathy. He wanted to scream at him for being a coward, but he also wanted to reach out and pull him out of the rain.
"You're still a puppet," Sunoo said, his voice trembling. The glossiness in his eyes was very telling, and yet he can’t find it himself to put up an act anymore. "You're still wearing the ring."
Sunghoon looked down at his hand, then back at Sunoo. "I'm trying to cut the strings. But they’re wrapped around everything I own."
Then, the side door creaked open like a gateway to heaven, spilling a bar of warm, yellow light across the wet pavement. Heeseung stood there, holding a large black umbrella. His eyes swept over the two men—the proximity, the smoke, the raw, vibrating tension—and his expression didn't change by a single degree. He smiled.
"Sunoo," Heeseung said, his voice a calm, steady anchor in the chaos. "The car is here. We should go before the roads flood."
Sunoo looked at Sunghoon, who looked like he’d been struck. Then he looked at Heeseung, who offered him a dry, safe path that didn't involve reopening old wounds.
"Goodnight, Mr. Park," Sunoo said, his voice regaining its sharp, professional edge.
He stepped under Heeseung’s umbrella, allowing the older man to lead him away. As the car pulled away from the curb, Sunoo watched Sunghoon through the rain-streaked window—a solitary, dark figure standing under a rusted awning, holding a cup of cold coffee he finally wanted, but with no one left to share it with.
Inside the car, the silence was different. Heeseung didn't ask what they talked about. He just reached over and took Sunoo’s cold, trembling hand in his own.
"You're freezing." Heeseung said softly.
"I'm fine." Sunoo lied, leaning his head against the glass. But as he watched the lights of Seoul blur into streaks of neon, he realized he wasn't "salty" anymore. He was something much worse.
He was terrified.