Archive of Our Own

“So, hyung, how about that trip to Bali?” 

Seonghwa hums noncommittally, the sound barely audible as he stirs absently at his iced lemonade. Condensation gathers along the tall glass, rivulets of water trailing lazily down its sides before pooling against the table in the heavy afternoon heat. 

Across from him, Wooyoung barrels on with his impromptu elevator pitch, entirely undeterred. “Think about it, hyung—the sun, the waves, and more importantly, the shirtless men,” he waggles his brows, voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. 

“Won’t Sannie have your head for that?” Yeosang replies lightly, lifting an unimpressed brow. 

“Bah! He’d be right there ogling with me on that beach towel if he could pull himself away from work,” Wooyoung flicks a dismissive hand, then leans forward, zeroing in on the statuesque man across the table who has yet to utter a single word. “What’cha say, hyung?”

Seonghwa gives his drink another idle stir, watching the ice shift and clink against the glass. The movement is small, but enough for light to glint off the metal circling his finger—silver-encrusted diamond flashing iridescent and ephemeral, before it slips out of sight again. 

When the man finally speaks, his tone is casual, almost airy. 

“I’m a married man, Young-ah.”

Wooyoung pulls a face.

“You say that, hyung, but it sure doesn’t seem like it. I mean, c’mon, when was the last time he even came home before—ouch, Sangie!” 

Yeosang shoots him a sharp look,fingers already pressing—just enough—into the meat of Wooyoung’s thigh, a silent promise of an encore if he doesn’t rein it in. “That’s uncalled for, Wooyoung.” 

Seonghwa lets out a soft chuckle, reaching around the table to rest a hand against Yeosang’s knee. 

“Thanks, Sang-ah.” He pats the man’s leg once. Then, again, just a little firmer. “But Youngie’s not wrong.”

“Hyung—”

“I’m fine, Yeosang-ah,” Seonghwa cuts in, just as easily as before.

He smiles when he speaks. 

He always does.

“It’s an open secret at this point—”

Yeosang doesn’t look convinced. If anything, his expression tightens like he has more to say, but as his lips part—

Ring~ ring ring~

Seonghwa pauses, hand already moving towards his bag. When he pulls his phone out, the caller ID makes his brows draw together, ever so slightly. 

There’s no reason for him to be calling Seonghwa at this hour. 

Still, he answers.

“Hello, Minjae-ah?”

…

Seonghwa rushes through the doors, boots clacking sharply against polished tile. The overhead lights are glaringly bright as they bleach the hallway into something sterile and lifeless, shadows pooling faintly along edges of white. Seonghwa scrunches his nose as the smell of antiseptic hits him almost at once, sharp and clinical as it clings thickly to the back of his throat.

He spots Minjae almost immediately. The younger man is slumped against the wall, head bowed, shoulders caved inward as if trying to make himself smaller. Seonghwa makes a beeline for him.

Minjae peels his gaze from the floor at the sound of approaching footsteps, but before he can get a single word out, Seonghwa is there—

“How is he?” 

“I’m so sorry Seonghwa-nim, I—shit—” Minjae chokes, the words tumbling and tripping over themselves as he scrubs harshly at his face. His voice is thin and thready, wobbling with an undercurrent of panic that wrecks silently through his frame.

Seonghwa’s chest clenches at the plaintive misery that wrings at the younger man’s features.

“Minjae.”

Seonghwa says calmly, but in a tone that brooks no room for argument.

Minjae straightens immediately, though another sniffle escapes him anyway.

“How are you?” Seonghwa asks.

“I’m okay, Seonghwa-nim,” Minjae warbles. “I—I wasn’t in the car.”

Seonghwa falters.

Oh?

That—that was not what he’d been expecting

“What do you mean, ‘you weren’t in the car’?” Seonghwa repeats, brows furrowing. “It’s working hours right now.”

Minjae shakes his head, mouth twisting unsurely. “He said he needed to get something quickly, so he took the car and left.”

The explanation doesn’t sit quite right, but Seonghwa tucks the thought away for later. Instead, he makes a sharp turn towards the VIP wing. As he stalks down the corridor, Minjae hastens to keep up.

“He’s alive then?” Seonghwa inquires coolly, not breaking pace.

Minjae flinches at the question. “Well, yes, but—”

“Figures,” Seonghwa mutters half-heartedly, mostly to himself, but the sound carries just enough. Behind him, Minjae falls quiet.

His husband has always been like that—strong, unyielding, nigh-impossible to take down by any oridiary means.

He was like…a cockroach.

They round the corner, the VIP suite coming into view.

“Seonghwa-nim, I really need to tell you—” 

“I’ll just take a quick look and be off, Minjae-ah.” Minjae flounders at the interruption, hands reaching out helplessly in a futile attempt to stop Seonghwa from opening the door. Seonghwa smiles tightly, pale and thin and tense. 

“Husband duties and all.”

Seonghwa slides the door open. 

Kim Hongjoong is already sitting up in his bed, blankets tucked in neatly at his sides. A monitor beeps softly beside him. At the sound of the door, he lifts his head. 

Seonghwa stops, then swallows.

It’s only a few steps into the room, before he would reach the edge of the bed.

And yet, the distance between them, barely a few meters wide, stretches vast and daunting like a yawning chasm, like something utterly impossible to cross.

For a moment, Hongjoong just… looks at him.

Confusion clouds his features momentarily, as he takes in the sight of his new visitor. They stare at each other in silence, before Seonghwa decides to be the brave one.

(And also because he’s the one who was not currently warded and in a hospital gown.)

“How are you doing, Hongjoong-ssi?” Seonghwa asks quietly, though he does not take a step forward from where he’s bound to the doorway. Beside him, Minjae fidgets.

Hongjoong doesn’t answer.

Instead, his gaze drifts, slowly, deliberately, as he takes Seonghwa in from head to toe, before finally settling somewhere near Seonghwa’s middle. 

He doesn’t speak, not for a long moment.

He keeps looking. 

Just looking.

The seconds tick by, stretching into minutes.

Seonghwa shifts, folding his arms in front of his chest, suddenly self-conscious.

“W-what? If this is some weird—”

Then, abruptly, without any warning or preamble, Kim Hongjoong breaks into the widest grin Seonghwa’s ever seen—blinding and bright and impossibly full of teeth.

It transforms his entire face, softens the shape, harsh contours that Seonghwa has grown used to, and melts it into something open and unguarded.

It also feels wrong.

(It’s an expression that he’s never seen—never once imagined he would ever see—cross Kim Hongjoong’s face before—

—and the realisation slices, sudden and sharp and searingly hot, deep across Park Seonghwa’s chest.)

Before he can dwell on it further, movement in the room catches his attention, as Kim Hongjoong lifts both arms towards him. Then, inexplicably, his fists open and close, fingers curling around the empty air around them.

Seonghwa blinks.

Kim Hongjoong is—

Kim fucking Hongjoong is making fucking grabby hands at Park Seonghwa.

Then, with an unwavering grin and unfaltering hands, Hongjoong calls out—

“Husband!” 

Hongjoong tilts his head when Seonghwa doesn’t immediately respond, the faintest ghost of a pout pulling at his lips. “You’re my husband, right?”

Seonghwa blinks, again. Then, slowly, he turns to Minjae.

“…What the fuck.”

Minjae winces.

“I tried to warn you, Seonghwa-nim.”

…

Seonghwa is a rational adult.

A rational adult who handles problems with grace, composure and impeccable decorum.

Which is exactly why he is currently holed up in his house, curtains drawn tight, phone face-up on the table, because there is no universe in which his rational mind was capable of processing what happened in that hospital room.

Retrograde amnesia, Minjae had explained carefully, having stopped by Seonghwa’s home to fill him in after he had fled left the hospital that day.

Seonghwa lets out a mirthless chuckle at the reminder of the conversation.

His phone buzzes.

It’s blown up nonstop since he left the hospital. Evidently, Hongjoong had gotten his sticky little paws on a brand new phone after his previous one got completely destroyed in the car accident. It’s likely also why Seonghwa had gotten away with the lack of texts between the two of them in their conversation window, the blanks conveniently explained away by a loss of data. 

His phone buzzes again. Seonghwa turns his head to it slowly, his gaze settling on the lit screen before he finally reaches for it.

The screen lights up, and he is once again greeted with their conversation window.

Their conversation window which was now utterly and completely filled.

Kim Hongjoong (Husband)

04-03-2026, 21:12

Jagiya!
This is your number, right?

04-03-2026, 21:14

Seonghwa? 

04-03-2026, 21:35

:( 

04-03-2026, 22:16

Why aren’t you replying? :(

04-03-2026, 22:25

What do I call you normally? 

04-03-2026, 22:42

Yeobo?

04-03-2026, 23:16

Hwa?

04-03-2026, 23:32

Star?
…Star?
I think that suits you.

04-03-2026, 23:48

I’m sorry, jagiya :( 

04-03-2026, 02:14

I’ll try to remember.
I’m sorry.

Seonghwa stops scrolling. He could—should—reply, but nothing in particular comes to mind as his fingers continue to hover over the keyboard.

He continues scrolling.

The messages blur together.

Apologies. Questions. Careful, fumbling attempts at familiarity that don’t belong to the man Seonghwa knows. 

Seonghwa stops scrolling again, and sets his phone down. 

(He would turn it off, but the previous time when he switched his phone off after receiving the 117th text in less than 36 hours before he switched his phone off, Minjae had showed up on his doorstep not thirty minutes after he went radio silent on the world, spurred on by Hongjoong’s panic when his messages went unanswered, unread.

Seonghwa had told Minjae to relay to Hongjoong that he was busy preparing Hongjoong’s discharge, that he would come when the time came. The excuse had been good enough for Hongjoong apparently.

More than just good enough, if Minjae’s words were to be believed.)

Unfortunately, because Seonghwa was a rational adult, it meant that he was fully aware of the fact that he couldn’t hide forever. 

Seonghwa slumps forward in the driver’s seat, slamming his forehead against the steering wheel. The ensuing honk that cuts through the still morning air earns him a dirty look from an ahjussi passing by, but Seonghwa could hardly care less now. 

(Exactly who made it a rule that next of kin had to be present to discharge a patient? 

Because Seonghwa was currently itching to have a… word with them.)

Hongjoong is already seated at the edge of the bed when Seonghwa knocks on the door, his items packed and set neatly on the space beside him like he’d been ready to leave for a while. The moment their eyes meet, Hongjoong’s face nearly lights up the whole room with the radiance of his smile.

It’s—

Too much. Too wide, too warm, too open in a way Seonghwa has never once associated with Kim Hongjoong

It’s almost painful to look at. 

For a fleeting, disorienting moment, the image in front of him shifts into something softer, something absurd—fluffy, floppy ears, an eager, overenthusiastic wag thumping happily against the floor.

Seonghwa tears his gaze away, eyes dropping to the ground. It doesn’t seem to deter Hongjoong at all. If anything, it only seems to spur him on.

“Jagiya,” the man chirps brightly, slipping off the bed in one smooth motion. He crosses the room in a few quick, eager steps, reaching out to settle a hand on Seonghwa’s arm.

Seonghwa jolts at the light touch, eyes snapping back up to meet Hongjoong’s. 

Hongjoong tilts his head, fluffy, light brown hair falling into his eyes, wide and searching in a way that feels far too earnest. At his side, Seonghwa’s fingers twitch in an involuntary motion. 

“Shall we go home, jagiya?”

Home.

Seonghwa swallows past the lump in his throat. For a moment, he isn’t sure what kind of answer is expected of him—what kind of response Hongjoong may be looking for.

So, he settles for the simplest one.

He nods.

“Let’s go home.”

…

The ride home is quiet, the low hum of the engine filling the empty space. Seonghwa keeps both hands fixed on the steering wheel, knuckles paling with the force of his grip.

He keeps his gaze resolutely on the road ahead of him, but no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, he can’t shake the weight of Hongjoong’s stare, heated and unwavering, resting against the side of his face.

He does not look.

“How long is this going to last, uisa-nim?” Seonghwa asks, his voice sounding steadier than he felt, though the tremble of his lip does not go unnoticed by the doctor across from him. Dr. Lee has been employed as their family doctor for a while now, and Seonghwa was not afraid to strip bare his vulnerability in front of the man. 

“It’s hard to say,” Dr. Lee admits after a pause, hands folded neatly in his lap. “We’re already past the critical stage, which is a good sign, but cases like this… they’re unpredictable. It could be days, or weeks—months, even, if we’re looking at the worst case scenario.” 

“I see.”

Seonghwa’s own voice sounded distant to him, like someone else entirely was speaking in his stead.

Dr. Lee rests a calloused hand over his. “It will be alright, Seonghwa-ssi,” the man says kindly, the corners of his eyes creasing with a reassuring smile. “Hongjoong-ssi is a strong man. He will recover.”

Recover.

That singular word lingers far longer than the rest.

“There are things, of course, that you can do to help.” Dr. Lee continues. Seonghwa listens.

Seonghwa remembers.

‘Don’t agitate him’ had been the first on the list, and the one that stayed with Seonghwa the most clearly.

It is also the only reason why Seonghwa is here now, seated behind the wheel, driving Hongjoong home instead, and not already absconded into some tropical island in the middle of butt fuck nowhere and waiting for this to all blow over. 

Unfortunately, Seonghwa was very much stuck here because when Hongjoong had woken up following the accident to a flustered Minjae at his bedside, the younger man had unfortunately filled in the blanks far too quickly, unintentionally divulging to a confused Hongjoong that he had, in fact, a husband who was “very much on the way to the hospital right now”, not knowing that his boss pretty much recalled nada from the past eight years.

They had gotten married young—Seonghwa fresh out of his masters, Hongjoong already deeply entrenched within his family’s company since the last year of university. It’d been a fast yet obnoxiously grandiose affair, neither side actually caring much for the whole spectacle yet still unable to let go of the need to posture in front of family friends and business acquaintances.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa had just gone along with the flow, silent participants to one of the most important milestones of their lives. They stood side by side, played their roles, spoke the words expected of them, and signed their names where they were told.

It had never really mattered that Seonghwa had always dreamed of a fairytale wedding—one filled with sweetness and song and happily-ever-afters.

(It rarely mattered what Seonghwa wanted, anyway.)

Hongjoong had been polite in the aftermath—respectful, kind, unfailingly courteous. 

Park Seonghwa thought he would—could—love Hongjoong once, before.

But then the man had slipped from Seonghwa’s life as seamlessly as he had entered it, unseeing of and untouched by Seonghwa’s efforts to bridge the bottomless gap between them. 

So, Seonghwa learned to stop trying, after a while.

So while they shared a home, they didn’t quite anything else. Their lives ran parallel, never quite intersecting. It was like a roommate situation, except Seonghwa didn’t need to pay rent and he barely had to see his roommate.

He supposed his “rent” came in the form of fancy dinners every couple months, and the occasional gala event that dotted his schedules.

The pair never moved past the strangers phase—or perhaps, it was something worse, because it was something even more yet at the same time less. 

Strangers weren’t usually bound to each other by promises that were meant to span a lifetime. 

To Park Seonghwa, Kim Hongjoong became something else entirely—a walking, breathing, living manifestation of the death of a childhood dream, of the extinguishing of a fruitless hope he had dared to carry within him until it was time to set it aside for something more acceptable, more practicable.

And yet, for all of that, Seonghwa had never found it in himself to hate the man.

How could he, when he likely reminded the same to the other?

Seonghwa’s fingers thrum rhythmically against the leather of the steering wheel. The rest of the ride passes in silence, until they eventually roll up to a stop in the driveway of their house.

The front door closes behind them with a soft, muted click. 

Hongjoong enters first, eyes darting inquisitively around as he soaks in the sight. His eyes are blown wide in muted, awed curiosity.

Seonghwa doesn’t follow right away.

He lingers by the entryway, keys still clasped tightly in his hand, the faint bite of metal grounding him as he watches Hongjoong move further inside. There is a careful slowness to his movements, as his gaze drifts over everything—the couch, the table, the shelves—taking in each detail with quiet, searching curiosity. His fingers trail along surfaces as he passes, brushing against them lightly, as though touch might compensate for what memory cannot provide.

A soft exhale escapes the man’s lips.

“…I’m home.”

The words are spoken gently, almost reverently. Hongjoong glances back at him, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. Seonghwa responds with a stiff nod, watching as the man continues the slow exploration of his own house.

He eventually stops at the bookshelf, tilting his head as he studies the book-laden shelves. Then, suddenly, he turns to Seonghwa.

“Do we not have photos?”

Seonghwa stills.

“…Photos?”

“Of us,” Hongjoong clarifies, like it’s obvious. “I want to see.”

There is a brief pause before Seonghwa shakes his head. “We’re not the photo taking type.”

Hongjoong hums softly, turning back to the shelf. His fingers graze along the ridged spines of the books. “That’s odd,” he remarks quietly. “I’m big on pictures.”

It’s a light, casual remark, but it strikes at something deep within Seonghwa, stirring something that’s long laid dormant and not entirely pleasant.

A response rises instinctively to his lips, sharp-edged and immediate—but then it hovers.

 Dr. Lee’s words suddenly drift to the forefront of his mind.

“Don’t agitate him.”  

It takes everything within him to bite back the words. Instead, he exhales slowly.

“…Wait here.”

He disappears down the hallway before Hongjoong can respond. 

It takes him longer than he’d expected, his unfamiliarity with the method in which his husband organises his study (that is to say, not at all) hindering his search.

But eventually, he finds it. Seonghwa stares down at the photo, the frame resting heavier in his hands than it looked.

In it, two people stand side by side, perfectly dressed and poised as shutters flashed in their faces.

The Park Seonghwa in the photo looks younger than he remembered feeling.

The Kim Hongjoong in the photo does, too.

Seonghwa presses his lips together, before he heads back to the living room, photo frame pressed gingerly against his chest.

Hongjoong brightens immediately when he sees him.

“You found one?”

Seonghwa extends the frame without a word.

Hongjoong accepts it carefully, fingers wrapping around it delicately like it’s something precious. He studies it, for a long, long time.

“…We don’t look happy,” he says eventually.

Seonghwa lets out a quiet breath. 

“We were nervous,” Seonghwa shrugs loosely, trying for nonchalance. “It was the wedding, after all.”

Hongjoong muses his words over, tilting his head slightly before humming in agreement.

“That makes sense.”

His gaze softens as it lingers on the image, his voice dropping into something thoughtful, almost wistful.

“I must’ve been really happy.”

There’s not a single ounce of doubt in his voice. Seonghwa’s throat tightens.

“…Yeah.”

The lie slips out with remarkable ease.

Hongjoong’s smile widens, satisfied. He brushes lightly at the surface of the photo before placing it carefully onto the shelf, adjusting it until it’s just right.

Seonghwa watches it all quietly, bitterness lingering at the tip of his tongue. 

“Don’t agitate him.”

…

Against all odds, they settle into something vaguely resembling of a routine. 

Seonghwa hadn’t taken too well to it all initially, not with the way things had started that very first night, when Hongjoong had asked, so casually, if they were going to bed. 

Together.

“So which side of the bed do you normally take?” 

Hongjoong asks from behind him in an easy, conversational tone, as though he were simply commenting on the weather rather than asking a question that had Seonghwa’s hand faltering mid-motion. The brush slips against the side of the saucepan he’d spent the last ten minutes attacking, falling into the sink with a dull clatter. 

Slowly, he turns off the faucet and turns to face the man seated at the dining table, who has one leg tucked behind the other. Hongjoong’s watching him with an expression so open, so guileless, that it feels almost intentional. 

“‘Which side’,” Seonghwa repeats flatly, in less of a question, and more of a statement. Hongjoong nods enthusiastically, bright and eager, brown hair bouncing with the motion until he pauses, taking in Seonghwa’s expression with a tilt of his head.

“Do we not sleep in the same bed?” Hongjoong asks, a faint crease forming between his brows. “Even though we’re married?”

“We—” Seonghwa starts, only to stop. The words catch somewhere in his throat, snagged on something equally as intangible and formless—a piece of warning, veiled vaguely as an instruction that’s haunted him since he stepped foot out of that hospital resurfaces with unwelcome clarity.

Seonghwa exhales slowly, his gaze dropping for a brief moment before returning to the expectant look on Hongjoong’s face.

“We do,” he settles on at last. “I usually take the right.” 

(It’s the side that Kim Hongjoong usually prefers, the side that’s farther from the windows, facing away from the early morning light.

Seonghwa has never claimed to not be petty.) 

“Okay!” Hongjoong cheers, pushing himself away from the table. “I’ll get ready for bed quickly, so you can take your turn soon.”

He disappears down the hallway with his bag, leaving Seonghwa alone at the sink where he resumes rinsing the bowls with perhaps more focus than called for. Dinner had been simple—bulgogi and rice, paired with the assortment of banchan they always had stocked in the fridge—Seonghwa not having had the energy to muster up anything fancier. 

It’s probably why he does not notice Hongjoong lingering right at the edge of the hallway, not until Seonghwa’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest when arms slip around his waist, the sudden contact drawing a sharp breath from his chest as warmth presses close along the length of his back. A cheek squishes itself against his shoulder.

“Thank you for dinner, jagiya,” Hongjoong murmurs, his voice soft and low as warmth tickles the shell of Seonghwa’s ear.

Then, just as abruptly, Hongjoong steps away, making his way to their room.

Seonghwa remains where he is, hands braced against the sink, long after the water has been turned off, long after the last of the dishes have been set aside to dry, long after the porch lights flicker on outside.

By the time he makes his way to the master bedroom, Hongjoong is already asleep, the blankets pulled tightly up to his chin. His chest rises, and falls, in a steady rhythm.

Seonghwa studies him under the dim light that spills from the crack in the bathroom door—the man looks…angelic, almost, the sharp contours of his features softened in sleep.

It’s a far cry from the quiet, serious man Seonghwa has only ever known.

For a moment, Seonghwa simply stands there and watches. 

Then he turns away. He’s quiet as he gets ready for bed.

It is only when he slips under the covers that the wrongness of it all finally hits him in full force. 

The sheets smell wrong.

They are not infused with the lavender and bergamot he tends to gravitate towards, but something deeper, warmer—sandalwood, amber, and something distinctly him.

And yet, at the same time, he has to admit that the sandalwood and amber that surrounds him is…alright. 

Seonghwa blinks up at the ceiling. 

Beside him, Hongjoong shifts, then inches just a tad closer to the right. Seonghwa doesn’t move.

And if their feet brush against each other under the covers, Seonghwa doesn’t say a word about it in the morning.

There are still things that catch Seonghwa off guard, sometimes.

Hongjoong gets cleared to return to work sooner than either of them expected. 

The decision certainly came as a shock to Seonghwa—because how exactly could a man who had no concrete memory of the past decade be trusted to run a multi-million (or was it billion? Seonghwa never bothered to ask) dollar business is beyond him—but Hongjoong appeared no more thrilled by the development, given the way he had spent the whole ride home with his arms crossed in front of his chest, pouting petulantly out of the window at the scenery blurring past.

Or given the way Seonghwa had overheard fragments of arguments that in the days that followed, muffled voices drifting from the garden, Hongjoong’s rising in rare frustration as he dukes it out with his vice president (Jeong Yunho, bless that man). 

Or given the way Minjae had to forcibly drag the man out of their home the first day he was due to back in office, while Seonghwa scurried away to avoid the second-hand embarrassment of witnessing the man being manhandled into one of his many luxury cars.

(And also because Hongjoong had kept calling out for Seonghwa in protest, soft drawn-out calls of his name, edged with something dangerously close to pleading, like they would convince Seonghwa to support him in his crusade to stay home.

Maybe they nearly did. Seonghwa admits nothing.)   

Hongjoong eventually accepts his fate, and starts going to work by his own accord. On the first morning he drives himself to work, he stands at the door, silently. He’s quiet for just long enough that it prompts Seonghwa to look up from where he’d been working on a new Lego set.

He raises a brow.

“Are you missing something, Hongjoong—” Seonghwa bites his lip. “Yeah?”

The correction comes a beat too late. The honorific had been the hardest habit to kick.

Instead of words, Hongjoong simply looks at him.

And god, if it isn’t a look—wounded, expectant, exactly like a kicked puppy that Seonghwa finds himself rising from the table before he realises what he’s doing.

“Why? Are you not feeling well?” he asks, concern spilling out as Seonghwa approaches the front door. “Do you need to go back to the hospital?”

Hongjoong blinks, before shaking his head, caught between amusement and just a pinch of guilt at the fretful expression on Seonghwa’s face.

“I’m fine.” he assures Seonghwa, though a faint pout tugs at his lip when confusion flits over Seonghwa’s face. “Are you forgetting something?”

“…Me?” Seonghwa echoes, uncertain.

He watches, as though in a trance, as Hongjoong lifts a finger to tap twice at his mouth.

Or more specifically, his lips.

Oh.

Oh.

Heat rushes to Seonghwa’s cheeks, his face blooming the same shade of cherry blossom as the fluffy sweater he’s wearing.

“I—uh—oh, we—“ Seonghwa stutters, as warmth creeps up the sides of his neck and sears the tips of his ears.

Now, it’s Hongjoong’s turn to look confused.

“Do we not do this?”

And a lot of other things, Seonghwa can’t help but think bitterly, but he simply shakes his head. “I suppose it just never happened.”

The expression on Hongjoong’s face falters, just a little. Despite himself, something in Seonghwa’s chest constricts at the disappointment on Hongjoong’s face.

The next thing Hongjoong says catches him completely off-guard.

“Why?” Hongjoong demands. Seonghwa blinks at him, slowly.

“‘Why?’”

“Did I say something?” Hongjoong presses, agitation creeping into his voice. “Did I say I didn’t like it? Because that doesn’t sound right—you know, I’m starting to realise past me is wrong about a lot of things, you should definitely not trust me—”

The man in front of him launches into an animated spiel, hands flailing around wildly in the air.

Amusement bubbles in Seonghwa’s chest as he takes in the sight, tugging at the corners of his mouth unwittingly.

“—stupid, stupid man! He—” Hongjoong’s tirade meets a sudden death when he catches sight of the look on Seonghwa’s face. And all at once, his gaze softens.

“You’re so pretty when you smile.”

“Ah—” Seonghwa’s breath catches, the smile slipping off his face as easily as it came. His balance falters just enough from  where he’d be leaning against the doorframe that Hongjoong reaches out to catch him steady without thinking.

For a couple beats, the man regards him with a solemn look. Then Hongjoong laughs softly, almost to himself. His fingers brush Seonghwa’s hair out of his eyes with absent familiarity. 

“What am I saying?” he chuckles lightly. A dopey, affectionate grin spreads across his face.

“Of course my husband is the prettiest.”

Seonghwa pulls himself away gently, covering his face with one hand. Like this, it was hard to tell where his skin ended and his sweater began.

“So, uh,” Hongjoong pipes up, the pout clearly audible even with how Seonghwa’s vision was obscured. 

“What about that kiss?” 

Seonghwa lowers his hand.

“…Fine.”

Hongjoong doesn’t move, only blinks up at Seonghwa in quiet wonder like he hadn’t expected Seonghwa to agree. Seonghwa steps closer, then stops, close enough now to see every tiny detail—the way Hongjoong’s lashes catch the light, the faint crease between his brows where surprise lingers.

Seonghwa hesitates, then reaches out with one hand. His fingers brush lightly against the man’s sleeve. 

He exhales, then leans in.

The kiss is brief—barely more than a press, his lips brushing against Hongjoong’s in something that feels almost accidental.

It’s soft, fleeting.

It lasts less than a second. It also tastes faintly of strawberry pancakes and oat milk lattes.

Seonghwa pulls back immediately.

He doesn’t quite meet Hongjoong’s eyes when he speaks.

“Have a good day, Hongjoong-ah.”

There’s a small, soft inhale. A warm hand cups the side of his cheek, thumb brushing gingerly against the high curve of his cheekbone.

“I will, jagiya.”

Seonghwa is left at the door, alone. 

The taste of strawberries linger on his tongue, long after Hongjoong leaves.

Somehow, one day turns into two days, which turns into nights and chaste pecks shared over late night movies and toothpaste-dotted sinks. 

There are other things, too, that Seonghwa begins to grow used to.

The first time Hongjoong came home early from work, Seonghwa thought a burglar had broken in.

He’s in the midst of getting ready to head out for dinner when the sound of the front door unlocking echoes faintly throughout the house, the sound reaching where he is in the master bedroom. Seonghwa freezes at the noise, his eyes darting to the clock.

6:03 p.m.

It’s far too early for him to be home.

“…Star?”

The voice carries easily upstairs and to the bedroom, followed by approaching footsteps. Hongjoong appears at the doorway shortly after, slightly dishevelled but with a bright smile on his face.

“Oh—you’re home.”

Seonghwa exhales, tension draining from his shoulders.

“So are you.” The words slip out before Seonghwa can stop himself.

Hongjoong hums, loosening his tie as he steps into the room. “I finished my work,” he explains, like it was any other usual occurrence. “I wanted to come home earlier.” 

The words settle in the quiet between them. Seonghwa doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

“You don’t have to,” he says.

Hongjoong glances at him, hands pausing where he’s unbuttoning his shirt. Politely, Seonghwa averts his eyes.

“I don’t?”

Seonghwa swallows. “You’re busy.”

“That’s true,” Hongjoong acknowledges lightly, resuming his movements. “I just wanted to come back to you.” 

Something in Seonghwa’s chest tightens.

Hongjoong pulls a shirt over his head, before padding over to where Seonghwa is seated in front of the vanity. He rests a hand over Seonghwa’s, which has since stilled atop his favourite highlighter compact.

“Come,” the man says. “I’ll make dinner.”

Before Seonghwa can respond, Hongjoong moves past him and out of the room, already heading downstairs to the kitchen. Seonghwa remains seated in front of the vanity for a while longer, before he remembers one very important, very critical detail.

He hurries out of the door, and down the stairs, but it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

Hongjoong stands in front of the counter, hands frozen over a bowl of marinated pork. One hand is clutched around a shaker of salt that looks suspiciously empty, and is also missing a cap.

Inside the bowl, metal glints ominously.

Hongjoong offers him a sheepish smile.

“How does ramyeon sound?” 

A heavy sigh fills the air. Hongjoong winces at the noise. Seonghwa takes a seat at the counter.

“Ramyeon is perfectly fine.”

As Hongjoong bustles around the kitchen, Seonghwa sends Wooyoung a text.

my baby kitten🖤

24-03-2026, 18:16

sorry woo-ah
rain check on dinner

WHY??? ARE YOU OKAY HYUNGIE

i’m fine!! something came up

WHAT
YOU NEVER HAVE PLANS

…he came home

????
we’re talking about the same person here right
‘never home before 10pm???’ he

yes
he’s
hm

???? HE’S????

he’s cooking dinner

??????
????????????
AREYOU IN THE FUCKING TWILIGHT ZONE
SAY SIKE

hm
<image attached> 
he
sorry woo-ah brb i need to help him before he drops an egg on my floor

“Here, let me—” Seonghwa moves past the other man, fingers brushing as he tries to take the egg the man’s holding. 

But Hongjoong refuses to let go. Instead, he places the egg back into its carton, hands reaching out to grab at Seonghwa’s shoulder as he pushes the man back to the stool at the counter.

“Sit down, Seonghwa,” he insists. “Let me do this for you.”

It takes a while, but Hongjoong eventually manages to put a bowl in front of him. There’s a faint hint of pride in the man’s eyes as he presents the noodles with a flourish.

“Eat well, jagiya.”

If Seonghwa’s stomach flutters while he blows on the noodles, well—

It must simply be out of nervousness that he might be due his first bout of food poisoning in his entire life.

(He’s had many meals with Hongjoong since then.)

(He’s had more meals with Hongjoong in the last two weeks than the last eight years combined.)

If he wanted, he could almost pretend that their life has always been one of domestic bliss.

Easy. Romantic. Real.

But this is only temporary, Seonghwa reminds himself, just long enough to keep the illusion alive for the other man.

(Just for Kim Hongjoong…right?)

Everything falls apart the day Hongjoong goes missing.

…

“I’m home. Hongjoong-ah?”

Seonghwa calls out quietly as he toes off his shoes at the entrance, closing the door gently behind him. It’s been a while since he last allowed himself the indulgence of a weekend out, but Wooyoung had been relentless, armed with promises of good food, and even better gossip, and Seonghwa, as with all things related to Wooyoung, had eventually relented.

The café had been bright and bustling, buzzing with the clatter of cutlery and the hum of overlapping conversations. For a couple hours, he had let himself bask in it, carried along by easy banter and lavender-laced lattes.

Hongjoong had all but pushed him out the door that morning, insisting that he go, smiling as he told Seonghwa not to worry about rushing back.

Now, as Seonghwa steps back into the quiet of their home, it is with the lingering scent of coffee and syrup clinging to the collar of his coat and the echo of Wooyoung’s laughter still ringing in his ears.

It had been a good morning.

It had been—

Quiet.

Only silence greets him.

Ordinarily, it would not have struck him as strange. For years, this had been his norm—returning to an empty house, to carefully arranged stillness and rooms untouched by anyone but himself. 

Except the past few weeks have been nothing but. 

Hongjoong has been nothing if not attentive—almost excessively so—texting, calling, checking in all the time. Despite Seonghwa’s repeated insistence that it was unnecessary, Hongjoong had remained steadfastly diligent in the habit.

(Not that Seonghwa truly minded.

There is a quiet comfort, after all, in knowing where someone is, that they are safe and sound.)

Seonghwa pauses just inside the doorway, fingers still curled loosely around his keys as his gaze drifts from the living room, to the kitchen, then to the hallway beyond.

“Hongjoong?”

His voice carries easily through the house.

There’s still no response, nor does Seonghwa hear movement, like footsteps from the kitchen, or music from the study, or more frequently, Hongjoong’s voice carrying through the house with an easy jagiya, welcome back. 

Brows furrowing, Seonghwa slips off his coat, drops off his keys and sets his bag aside as he moves further in.

The kitchen is empty. So is the study. The bedroom, too, but the bed is neatly made, untouched since the morning.

The air is unnervingly still.

Something in his chest tightens, just slightly.

Perhaps Hongjoong had stepped out. Errands, perhaps, or a walk, or something equally mundane. It is, after all, the weekend.

Normal people leave their home. Normal people have lives outside of it.

Normal people also didn’t usually report their location to their spouses like clockwork.

Seonghwa reaches for his phone. The call goes through.

Ring~

Ring~

Ring—

No one picks up. A second call, then a third. There is no response each time. 

Seonghwa sucks in a breath sharply.

Husband💍

16-05-2026, 14:24

hey
where are you?
did you go out?

His fingers hover for a moment before he adds—

Husband💍

16-05-2026, 14:26

just text me back when you can, please. i’m worried

Hongjoong has always been quick to respond, even in the middle of meetings, even when he should not be.

Minutes tick by. The messages remain unread.

Seonghwa lingers on their conversation window, staring at the screen as though willing it to change, willing those small grey ticks to shift, to move, to become something else. . 

The silence presses in around him, the empty space around him a pressing reminder of—

No, Seonghwa shakes his head, as if he could dislodge the thought before it could take root, before it could consume him. His grip tightens around his phone, gaze flicking once more toward the front door.

Then, he moves.

The keys scrape loudly against the shelf as he snatches them up, nearly knocking over the little rabbit figurine perched at the edge of the shelf. The drive to the office blurs into a haze of red lights and passing cars, the steady hum of the engine drowned out by the rapid thrum of his pulse.

By the time he arrives at the building, his fingers are trembling.

The receptionist on weekend duty looks up, startled, as Seonghwa approaches the desk.

“M-Mr. Park?” she stammers, before quickly resuming her composure to dip into a respectful bow. “How may I help you?”

An abrupt thought crosses Seonghwa’s mind, but the pressing matter takes precedence.

“Did Hongjoong—I mean, President Kim—come by today?” 

The receptionist (Lee Yoomi, based on her nametag) frowns, before glancing down at her monitor as she types something in, fingers flying across the keyboard. After a while, she shakes her head.

“Apologies, Mr. Park. There’s no record of him coming in.”

Seonghwa’s heart sinks. 

Okay, that’s one option out of the way. But—then, where could he—think, Park Seonghwa, think—

“I could take you up to check, just in case?” Yoomi offers. 

Seonghwa blinks at her, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “You would?” Yoomi nods, stark relief clearing her clouded expression. “That—that would be really helpful, yes, please. Thank you.”

Yoomi nods, darting away briefly to speak with the security guard on shift. Left at the counter, Seonghwa twists his fingers in repetitive, rhythmic motions. 

“Please follow me, Mr. Park,” Yoomi says, when she returns.

The ride up in the elevator is quiet. 

Hongjoong’s office is predictably empty. Seonghwa’s gaze sweeps numbly across the room, before it lands on something unexpected that’s propped gingerly on the shelf behind the desk. He crosses the room in almost single-minded focus, reaching for the framed photograph.

“This photo…”

It’s from their wedding, but of a different shot from the formal one displayed at home. It’s a candid that had not made the final cut for the photobook, a moment that had slipped between curated smiles and rehearsed poses.

In it, Hongjoong’s turned slightly toward him, mouth caught halfway through what Seonghwa thinks looked suspiciously like the beginning of a smile.

In it, Hongjoong looks—the look in Hongjoong’s eyes—it’s almost…fond.

Seonghwa had seen this particular shot only once, buried in a sea of many others, then never again.

“Ah!” Yoomi’s face brightens instantly. “This photo has been around for a long, long time —most of the company would’ve likely seen it by now.”

“Most of the company has dropped by this office?” Seonghwa may not run a multi-billion dollar business, but that did not seem appropriate to him.

Yoomi’s cheeks redden, shaking her head vigorously. “No, no! I mean—it’s right behind President Kim’s chair, so anytime there’s a town hall and President Kim joins virtually, we can see it in the background.”

“...I see.”

Well, that surely answered the question Seonghwa had earlier.

“It seems President Kim isn’t in after all. Thanks for your help anyway, Yoomi-ssi,” Seonghwa musters up a polite smile, though he’s sure it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“No, Mr. Park,” Yoomi’s hands flail in front of her, “the pleasure’s all mine.” 

The ride down in the elevator is quiet, the pair parting once they reach the lobby. He makes it home on auto-pilot, he barely remembers unlocking the door. His phone is already in his hand again when he steps inside.

Minjae answers on the second ring.

“Seonghwa-nim?”

“Is he with you?”

The question comes out harsher than intended, urgency bleeding through despite his efforts to keep it contained.

There is a pause, before Seonghwa hears some muffled rustling.

“…No,” Minjae says carefully. “President Kim isn’t scheduled for anything today.”

Seonghwa sinks onto the couch, fingers tightening around the phone.

“He’s not home,” he says. “He’s not answering his phone.”

“I’ll start checking,” Minjae replies immediately. “President Kim might just be—”

“I’ve tried the office, Minjae-ah,” Seonghwa grits out, more evenly than he feels.

On the other end, Minjae inhales sharply, audible even through the tinny speakers.

“I understand. I’ll contact security, see if we can track his last known location. Seonghwa-nim, please don’t worry yet—”

The front door opens. The sound is soft, barely a click. 

It cuts through everything.

Seonghwa freezes.

Minjae is still speaking on the other end, something about updates, about calling back once they have more information, but Seonghwa barely registers it.

Because there, standing in the doorway, slightly winded, hair tousled by the breeze is Kim Hongjoong himself.

Kim Hongjoong, who’s holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand, and an oat milk latte in the other. 

For a second, Seonghwa can only stare. Then, the phone slips from Seonghwa’s hand onto the couch with a dull thud.

“Jagiya—”

Hongjoong doesn’t get to finish. 

Seonghwa crosses the distance between them before Hongjoong can even set his things down, hands gripping at the other man’s sleeves, his shoulders, the solid line of his waist—anywhere, everywhere—like he needs to confirm, physically, that he is real.

“You—where—why weren’t you answering—” The words tumble out, broken and breathless.

Hongjoong blinks, startled, but the confusion melts quickly into something understanding and gentle.

“I just stepped out—I must’ve forgotten my phone,” he says. He lifts the flowers slightly as if in explanation. “I wanted to surprise you. And I got your usual—you like oat milk, right?”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer.

Instead, his grip tightens, fingers curling into the fabric of Hongjoong’s shirt as he leans in without thinking, pressing close in a way he never has before. He drops his head against the crook of the man’s shoulder, warmth spreading against his skin.

Amber and sandalwood wrap around Seonghwa gingerly, familiar and grounding. Seonghwa squeezes his eyes shut, blinking away the sting that threatens to spill out.

Under him, Hongjoong stills.

Then, his arms come up, careful as they close around Seonghwa in a tender embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, one hand settling at the back of Seonghwa’s head. “I didn’t think—”

The apology dissolves under the shuddering breath that escapes from Seonghwa’s lips, one that wracks through his entire frame.

When Seonghwa finally pulls back, it is only just enough to look at Hongjoong, to take in his face, his expression, the slight crease of concern between his brows.

“…Tell me next time,” Seonghwa says, the words quiet, but no less firm.

Hongjoong nods easily.

“Okay.”

A small smile returns, sheepish in the chaos. He nudges the flowers toward Seonghwa again. 

“These are for you.”

Seonghwa takes them after a moment, gaze lingering on the soft blue and white petals. It’s a pretty thing. 

“…Thank you.”

Hongjoong beams proudly at him, and despite everything, despite the pulse racing under his skin, Seonghwa can’t help the tiny, tentative smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth.

…

The rest of the day passes in a haze.

By the time night settles in, Seonghwa finds himself out on the balcony, curled beneath a thick quilt. The city stretches out endlessly in the distant horizon, lights scattered like stars as he stares blankly up at the sky.

“Penny for your thoughts?” A voice, low and gentle, cuts through the stillness. Seonghwa turns, watching as Hongjoong nudges the balcony door open with his shoulder, careful not to spill the two mugs he’s carrying. 

“Here,” Hongjoong says, offering one out. “I may not be the best cook, but I’ve been told I make a decent hot chocolate.”

“Thanks.” Seonghwa takes a sip, and pauses. “This is good.”

“What did I say—”

“—How are you so bad at cooking?”

“Hey!” Hongjoong gasps, affronted. He settles into the couch beside Seonghwa, letting out a soft “oof” as the cushion gives way under him. Seonghwa chuckles softly at the sight, the sound dissipating into the night.

“So,” Hongjoong continues, turning slightly toward him, “what are you thinking so hard about?”

Seonghwa shakes his head faintly. “It’s nothing.”

Hongjoong lets out a soft hum. His next words take Seonghwa by surprise. 

“You know, you look at me funny, sometimes.”

Seonghwa glances at him. “How so?”

Hongjoong leans back into the couch, studying him with an expression that hovers somewhere between curiosity and quiet amusement.

“Like we’re strangers,” he says. “Usually after I do something for you—especially after I do something for you.”

“…Hm.”

Hongjoong studies him for a moment longer before asking, softer this time—

“Did I not treat you well?”

Seonghwa’s reply is slightly delayed this time.

“A little,” would be an understatement, Seonghwa finishes in the confines of his mind, the thought curling inward where it cannot escape.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology comes easily. It’s sincere, earnest—

And it fucking hurts because Seonghwa knows this Hongjoong—this version of him—means it.

But this Hongjoong is not the one who should be apologizing.

A lump forms in Seonghwa’s throat, something tight and uncomfortable settling in his chest. He doesn’t respond to the apology, not immediately. 

“The way you’re treating me now…” he begins, choosing his words slowly, carefully. “You don’t even remember being married. What makes you think this is how you would treat your husband?”

Hongjoong shrugs. The motion is loose, but a sheen of pink dusts the highs of his cheeks, visible even under the dim lights above their heads.

“They say only girls dream about marriage,” he says, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “I always thought that was kind of bullshit. Why wouldn’t a guy dream about it too? You know, ‘to have and to hold, to love and to cherish’ and all that—it’s romantic. I always thought it’d be nice, to love someone like that.”

Hongjoong looks down into his mug, fingers drumming absently at the ceramic.

“When Minjae told me I was married, I kept thinking: what kind of husband was I?” He peers up at Seonghwa through his bangs. “I always thought marriage should be like this,” he continues quietly, “Taking care of someone. Loving them properly.”

The words are light, casual, easy.

They land heavy all the same.

“We didn’t marry out of love, Hongjoong-ah.”

Maybe it is guilt, or maybe it is just a matter of reciprocity given how honest and vulnerable Hongjoong is being right now, but the confession slips out before Seonghwa could stop himself.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I ruined everything—

“I figured,” Hongjoong says lightly. 

Seonghwa stiffens.

For a brief, terrifying moment, his mind jumps ahead—had he remembered? Had this all been—

“…How?” 

Hongjoong lets out a quiet huff.

“I’m not stupid, jagiya,” he says. “The lack of photos was kind of a giveaway.”

Seonghwa puffs out his cheeks, turning away. “I thought I got away with it.”

“…You also called me Hongjoong-ssi that day in the hospital,” Hongjoong adds mildly. “As to the photos…”

An arm slips around him, firm and steady. Warmth seeps through the thin cotton of Seonghwa pajamas, through the thick knit of the quilt as Hongjoong pulls him closer, closing the space between them like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I let you get away with it,” Hongjoong murmurs against his hair. “But that just made me think…”

He pauses.

“…I need to work even harder to make up for it then.”

Seonghwa goes very still.

“…Thank you.”

Hongjoong doesn’t say more, instead leaning in to press a soft, fleeting kiss to the crown of Seonghwa’s head.

“Come to bed with me?”

“In a bit,” Seonghwa replies.

“Okay.” Hongjoong smiles.

Then, almost absent-mindedly, his fingers slip into the crevices between Seonghwa’s, filling the space easily, fitting there with easy familiarity. 

He lifts their joined hands, pressing a gentle kiss against the place where they are intertwined.

Seonghwa watches as the man stands, gathering the empty mugs as he heads inside.

The balcony door slides shut behind him with a soft click.

The chill is already beginning to creep back in. Seonghwa turns back to stare out into the night, where the lights blur together, indistinct and amorphous.

Fuck, what was he supposed to do?

…

“Wooyoung-ah, what am I supposed to do?”

The question leaves Seonghwa in a faint whisper, as though it's already worn thin, having been turned over again and again in his mind. There’s no sharp panic, no frantic edge to it—just something tired, something heavy, like a fatigue that has settled deep into his bones which he can’t seem to shake.

On the other end of the line, Wooyoung doesn’t respond immediately. Even through the speakers, Seonghwa can hear the faint shift of fabric, and the soft exhale that follows.

“…That bad?”

There’s no teasing in his voice, none of the usual lightness that comes so easily to him. Only concern, stripped down and sincere, is left.

Seonghwa lets out a breath that almost resembles a laugh, though it carries no real humour. It escapes him loosely, dissolving into the stillness of the room.

“I think I’ve gone past ‘bad’ a while ago,” he admits, voice low.

He sinks further into the couch as he speaks, the cushions dipping beneath his weight. His gaze drifts, absently, across the familiar outlines of the living room—the low coffee table, the neatly arranged shelves, the soft glow of the lamp tucked into the corner.

Everything looks exactly as it always has.

And yet, none of it feels quite the same.

Wooyoung hums softly, and it’s a thoughtful, contemplative sound.

“And he still doesn’t remember?” Wooyoung asks eventually, in a measured tone.

Seonghwa swallows.

“…No.”

“Not even a little?”

The question lingers just long enough for Seonghwa to consider it—not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because some part of him wishes, desperately, that it were different. 

He shakes his head before remembering Wooyoung can’t see him do so over the phone.

“Nothing,” he says instead, the word landing with a dull finality.

Another pause follows.

“…Huh.”

Seonghwa presses his lips together.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he says, the confession slips past his lips more easily than he expects, as though it has been waiting just beneath the surface for the slightest opening. His fingers tighten slightly around his phone, knuckles brushing faintly against the edge of the case. “Every time he looks at me like that—like I’m—”

He falters.

Wanted, the word hovers, at the very tip of his tongue. Chosen.

Loved.

He says none of them. Instead, he exhales, the sound weak and uneven.

“I keep thinking about what happens when he remembers.”

Because he will. They both know he will.

The inevitability of it sits between them, heavy and unavoidable.

Wooyoung doesn’t rush to fill the silence. When he does, his voice is steadier than Seonghwa expects.

“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t.”

Seonghwa blinks, the words catching him off guard.

“…What?”

“Don’t think about it.”

“That’s not how that works,” Seonghwa mutters, a quiet edge of frustration slipping through as he drags a hand through his hair.

“I know,” Wooyoung replies easily. “But you’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The one where you run ten steps ahead of yourself,” Wooyoung says, “and ruin whatever’s in front of you before it even has the chance to happen.”

The words aren’t accusatory, but that doesn’t mind they don’t sting. Seonghwa’s gaze drops to the floor.

“I’m being realistic,” he insists, though his words lack conviction.

“No,” Wooyoung counters gently, “you’re being scared. You did the same thing all those years ago, and that’s what landed you into this situation now.

"You're doing it again, now.” 

Seonghwa doesn’t respond. For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then, Wooyoung pipes up again. 

“Hyung…” Wooyoung says, softer now, the earlier firmness easing into something more understanding, like Seonghwa was a frightened animal he was trying not to spook further. “You said it yourself. This version of him—he’s trying, right?”

Seonghwa’s throat tightens around the quiet agreement that follows.

“…Yeah.”

“And before this?” Wooyoung asks. “He didn’t.”

It isn’t really a question.

Seonghwa lets his head fall back against the couch, eyes slipping shut as the truth of it presses in.

“…No,” he admits, the word barely above a breath.

He can feel it now, more clearly than before—the contrast between what was, and what is. The absence that had defined so much of his marriage, now replaced with something that feels almost unbearably present.

Wooyoung shifts again, and the rustle that comes through the speaker is oddly grounding.

“That thing you told me earlier,” the younger man says after a moment. “About him dreaming about marriage.”

Seonghwa stills.

The memory rises unbidden, vivid and warm in a way that makes something in his chest ache—the quiet night air suffused with notes of cocoa, the low murmur of Hongjoong’s voice, the way the words had been spoken so casually, so easily.

“…Yeah,” Seonghwa murmurs.

Wooyoung exhales slowly.

“That got to me,” he admits. “More than I expected.”

Seonghwa frowns faintly, though there’s no real confusion behind it.

“…Yeah?”

“That’s…that’s not something you just make up out of nowhere,” Wooyoung says slowly, and the pitying note in his voice is unmistakable. “If he really used to think like that—if he actually believed in all that ‘cherish and love’ stuff—”

He trails off, as though searching for the right words.

“…Something must’ve happened, right?” Wooyoung continues, more muted now. “For him to end up like…that.”

Like a man who comes home past midnight, and barely looks at the person waiting for him.

Like someone who once carried all these grand dreams, and somehow lost them along the way.

Like the man—the stranger—Seonghwa married.

Seonghwa’s grip on his phone loosens, his fingers unfurling as something unfamiliar begins to take shape in his chest.

He had never questioned it before.

Never thought to look beyond what had been given to him—what had been withheld.

“…Maybe,” he says, though the word feels so tiny for something that suddenly seems so much larger.

Wooyoung hums.

“I still think he’s an idiot,” he adds, because of course he does. “But…maybe a slightly tragic one.”

A quiet breath escapes Seonghwa, something softer this time, almost fond despite everything. The sound fades quickly, but it lingers just enough.

“And this version of him,” Wooyoung continues, “he sounds like he’s trying to be the person he thinks he’s supposed to be. He doesn’t even know what he’s making up for.

“He just knows he should.”

The words snake their way into a spot under Seonghwa’s ribs, threading itself into everything Seonghwa has been trying not to examine too closely.

Warm.

Unsettling.

Dangerous.

“I don’t know what to do,” Seonghwa says, in a faint echo of the question that kicked off this whole conversation, though this time the words come quieter this time, less frantic.

Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s surprisingly simple.

And unsurprisingly familiar. 

“Then don’t do anything for now.”

Seonghwa frowns. “…That’s your solution? Because that’s a terrible one.”

“It is,” Wooyoung agrees cheerfully. “But it’s all I’ve got.”

Despite himself, Seonghwa lets out a startled huff of laughter. Wooyoung chuckles, on the other end.

“You don’t need to figure out everything right now—what happens when he remembers, what happens down the road,” Wooyoung says. “That’s not today’s problem.”

“And what is?”

There’s a small pause.

“…Whether you’re going to let yourself have this while it lasts.”

The words settle heavily between them.

Seonghwa goes still.

Because that is the question, isn’t it?

Not what comes after.

Not what it means.

Just this.

This moment.

This version of him.

This version of them.

His gaze drifts, almost unconsciously, toward the hallway, toward the quiet presence that has, over the past few weeks, filled the empty spaces of this house with something he had long since stopped expecting.

Something warm, tender—and also something temporary.

“…It’s not real,” Seonghwa argues, though the certainty in his voice has begun to waver.

“I know,” Wooyoung replies. “But it feels real to you.”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer.

Wooyoung sighs, resigned. “Hyung…you’ve spent years getting nothing. If you want to take a little now, I don’t think that makes you silly.”

He pause, for a split-second.

“Just don’t lie to yourself about what it is.”

The line falls quiet after that. Seonghwa stares up at the ceiling, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat loud in his ears.

He knows what this is. 

Something borrowed. Something fleeting.

Something that was never meant to be his—and yet has somehow found its way into his hands.

“…Okay,” he says finally.

Wooyoung hums. “Okay?”

“…Okay.”

He doesn’t explain further. Wooyoung seems to understand anyway.

“Alright,” he says, a hint of his usual lightness returning. “Then stop spiralling and go be disgustingly in love or whatever it is you guys do.”

Seonghwa sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re not—”

“Sure,” Wooyoung cuts in. “Keep telling yourself that.”

A small pause follows, then, more gently—

“…Take care of yourself, hyung.”

“You too.”

The call ends.

Silence settles once more, but this time it no longer feels suffocating. Seonghwa remains where he is for a long moment, unmoving, the weight of everything pressing against him—not crushing, but undeniable, because—

It is what it is.

When Hongjoong regains his memories, so be it.

When this ends, it ends.

He understands that now—no, accepts that now.

But until then—

Park Seonghwa thinks he will—can—love Kim Hongjoong, once again.

Even if it means playing the fool.

Even if it means breaking his own heart for it.

And, for the first time since all of this began, Seonghwa allows himself to want anyway.

…

The restaurant Hongjoong had reserved for them is nice.

It’s one that has been on Seonghwa’s wishlist for a while, but required its diners to plan weeks in advance, even if you possessed the influence and sway in just the right places to speed up the process.

The evening had been, by every measurable standard, perfect.

The dishes arrive in small works of art: prawns sautéed in garlic and chili oil that leaves a slow warmth at the back of the throat, plated with a precision that feels almost excessive, but Seonghwa highly appreciated nonetheless; the steak, medium rare, which Hongjoong insisted on cutting up for Seonghwa as though it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to do; a bottle of Pinot noir appears between them, chosen by Hongjoong with the ease of someone who pretends he hasn’t been watching Seonghwa’s preferences closely. 

The evening had been perfect.

When dessert comes, Hongjoong leans back slightly in his seat, eyes scanning the menu with disproportionate concentration. The low light catches the line of his profile, highlighting the contours of his face in just the right places.

It’s a damn good profile, which is why Seonghwa nearly misses what Hongjoong says next.

“Do you have any dairy-free options?” the man finally asks, lifting his head. His gaze lands on Seonghwa over the top of the menu, fond and indulging. 

“My husband’s allergic to dairy.”

Seonghwa startles, fingers tightening around where they curl around the stem of his wine glass. 

Understanding flits over the waiter’s face. “Of course, sir,” he says smoothly, gesturing one gloved hand at a particular line on the menu. “May I recommend the oat cheesecake? It’s vegan-friendly as well.” 

Hongjoong turns immediately.

“What do you think, Hwa?”

Seonghwa sets his glass down with careful precision. He gives a small, polite smile.

“That sounds wonderful.”

The waiter nods, taking the order, and steps away. The faint sound of their departure fades into the quiet corners of the restaurant, leaving only the two of them and the soft hum of ambient music. His eyes drop to the red liquid sloshing delicately in the glass. 

Seonghwa does not look at Hongjoong when he speaks again. 

“…How did you know?”

“Hmm?” Hongjoong hums, distracted for half a second. 

“My diet,” Seonghwa clarifies, tone even, almost light. “The dairy.”

There’s a beat of silence. In the private corner where they have been seated, the lighting seems to settle differently across the table, shadows deepening in ways that feel suddenly more enclosed than intimate. 

Hongjoong blinks once, then twice, something flickering across his face. “Oh,” he says, a little too quickly. “You mentioned it, didn’t you?”

Seonghwa doesn’t respond immediately. Hongjoong shifts in his seat, the movement subtle but restless, fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. 

“That pasta restaurant,” Hongjoong offers after a while. “I nearly ordered you a carbonara.”

Seonghwa tilts his head slightly, as though rifling through his memory.

“…Right,” he says at last. Then, he smiles at Hongjoong. “That must’ve been when.”

It’s almost imperceptible, but Hongjoong’s shoulders loosen, just slightly, the tension bleeding out of them at Seonghwa’s answer.

It’s almost imperceptible, but Seonghwa notices.

It’s almost imperceptible, but Seonghwa is watching.

The cheesecakes arrive soon after, delicately plated like every course that had come before it. Seonghwa thanks the waiter softly. Across from him, Hongjoong brightens, the heaviness that had hung momentarily in the air gone as though it had never existed at all.

“Try it,” he urges. “Tell me if it’s good.”

Seonghwa picks up his fork. He takes a bite.

“Mm,” he hums, nodding faintly. “It’s good.”

Hongjoong beams, before digging into his own slice.

And Seonghwa watches it all.

…

The drive home is quieter than usual.

It’s not entirely silent, not when Hongjoong hums under his breath, something soft and absent-minded, half-formed melodies that never quite resolve into anything recognisable. The radio plays low between them, a steady current of sound filling the gaps of silence. The city passes them by in streaks of gold and shadow, reflected in the windshield in soft, shifting patterns. 

Seonghwa watches it all without really seeing any of it. 

People remember things in strange ways, he thinks. Muscle memory, instinct, fragments that linger even when everything else is gone.

That’s what this is.

It has to be.

And yet—

“…Did you enjoy dinner?”

Hongjoong’s voice slips easily through the quiet, one hand leaving the steering wheel. It comes to rest on Seonghwa’s thigh, warm and grounding as Hongjoong’s rubs circles into his skin.

Seonghwa doesn’t flinch at the touch now, which would have been foreign and strange just a couple months ago. Now, he only shifts slightly in his seat, adjusting to the weight of the touch rather than resisting it. 

Seonghwa keeps his gaze fixed on the passing city lights.

“It was good.”

“I’m glad,” Hongjoong smiles. Seonghwa hears it, rather than see it, with the way his head is turned away. “We should do it again.”

We should do it again.

Seonghwa hums in response. The road curves gently ahead, headlights stretching long over asphalt, swallowing distance whole. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually, voice barely the ghost of a whisper. The quiet lingers in the space around them.

 “We should.”

…

The question bursts forth before he makes it past the doorway.

Between the two of them, Hongjoong slips inside the house first, shrugging off his coat and setting it aside without much thought.

“I’ll get changed,” he says lightly, already halfway down the hall. 

Seonghwa doesn’t respond. He closes the door behind them, slower than necessary.

His hand lingers on the handle. 

Then—

“…Hongjoong.”

It’s the first time Seonghwa has said his name like that.

Hongjoong pauses midstep, then turns. “Yeah?”

Seonghwa doesn’t move from where he stands. There’s barely a few steps between them, before he would reach Hongjoong. 

And yet, for the first time since that afternoon in the hospital, the distance between them, barely a few meters wide, has never stretched wider.

“When did you remember?”

Hongjoong blinks, then cracks into a smile—bright, confident, easy.

Seonghwa does not look at his mouth. He looks at his eyes instead.

The corners of his eyes are creased. 

He’s scared.

“Remember what?” Hongjoong chuckles, already beginning to cross back to where Seonghwa is standing with a few long, unhurried strides. 

He stops only when Seonghwa takes a step back. His back ends up meeting the door. Hongjoong’s gaze flickers—just for a fraction of a second—before he smooths it over again. 

“Is this about the dairy?” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I told you, you must’ve mentioned it—”

“I wouldn’t have,” Seonghwa cuts in, voice far steadier than he feels. 

Hongjoong stills. Seonghwa doesn’t. 

“I’m not allergic,” he continues, voice even, almost detached. “I never have been.” 

Hongjoong’s hand drops slowly to his side. His fingers curl faintly against his slacks, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. 

“…Oh.” 

It’s quiet now—too quiet.

Seonghwa tilts his head just slightly, watching the other man now with a clarity that hadn’t been there before. 

“My family didn’t like it when I had dairy,” he says after a moment, almost conversational, like the fact wasn’t about to be the light to a fuse. “Said it made me gain weight. Said it wasn’t… suitable.” 

His lips press together briefly.

“They stopped me from having it.”

Hongjoong’s breath catches, barely audible. 

“Ja—Seonghwa, I—”

“I don’t blame you for not knowing,” Seonghwa presses on, as though he doesn’t hear Hongjoong, his voice rising steadily with each passing word. “We barely ate together before this, after all.”

A small, sharp laugh escapes him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says quickly, shaking his head once. “None of this—this doesn’t matter—

“When did you remember?”

Hongjoong opens his mouth, then closes it, before opening it again. The answer Seonghwa gets is surprisingly direct.

“5th May.”

Seonghwa blinks. The date lands somewhere strange in the memories Seonghwa has.

5th May had been over a month ago. 

“You brought me flowers for the first time that day,” Seonghwa says numbly. He lets out a short breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through, hollow and disbelieving. 

Hongjoong winces, like the reminder physically pained him.

“I remembered then,” he says, still, “that you favoured lilies.”

“Why—”

Something, ugly and utterly furious, in Seonghwa snaps. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Seonghwa asks, but the question sounds more like a demand. “Or were you just going to continue lying to me, because what? Park Seonghwa is nothing more than a silly little—”

Hongjoong’s eyes flash at the accusation, frustration nipping at his words when he snaps back.

“It’s not like I wanted you to find out this way—you were always ordering those oat milk lattes—”

“I happen to like oat milk, Kim Hongjoong-ssi,” Seonghwa hisses, and something flickers across Hongjoong’s face at the words, something that Seonghwa doesn’t allow himself to dwell too long on, not when he’s spitting poison and spewing vitriol. “Not everyone who drinks oat milk is allergic to—to cow juice!”

Hongjoong bristles, lips parting with a scathing response of his own.

But Seonghwa doesn’t hear it, doesn’t hear anything, because as quickly as it came, the fight leaves Seonghwa. Something in his chest twists—sharp, sudden, unavoidable.

What was he even doing?

“What are we even doing?” Seonghwa murmurs, more to himself than anything else. 

The question cuts cleanly through whatever Hongjoong had been saying, though. Hongjoong flinches.  

“Seonghwa—” 

Seonghwa exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“This—” he gestures vaguely between them, at the house, at everything, “this isn’t real.”

“It’s just—what?” His laugh comes again, thinner this time. “A version of you—of us—that’s pretending to not remember what we actually were—are?” 

Hongjoong’s jaw tightens.

“I’m still me,” he says, low, almost defensive.

“Are you?” 

The question lands, clean and incisive, and something in Hongjoong’s expression fractures, because—

Because Seonghwa doesn’t say it like he’s trying to be cruel. 

He says it like he genuinely doesn’t know. 

Seonghwa looks at him for one long moment. His body turns, hand curling around the door handle it hasn’t left once throughout this whole conversation.

“I can’t do this right now,” he says quietly. 

“Seonghwa—”

Hongjoong’s voice follows him, sharp, urgent, something almost desperate tearing and unravelling at the broken edges. 

Seonghwa leaves. 

…

Seonghwa doesn’t know how long he sits in the cold, only that the night air does little to clear his head.

The city had blurred past him in streaks of light and shadow as he drove on and on without a clear destination in mind, red bleeding into gold and white, the hum of the engine a dull constant beneath the noise in his mind. 

At some point, he stops. 

At some point, he starts again. 

Time stretches, distorts, loses meaning somewhere between one traffic light and the next. 

Now, he sits on a bench he doesn’t remember walking to. He’d ended up in the park somehow, a surprisingly short distance away from their house considering how long Seonghwa thought he’d been driving for. 

The irony is not lost on him. 

Seonghwa exhales slowly, his breath emerging in a cloud of misty white before it fades into the cold. 

Now, only one thought echoes in his mind, sobering and cruel in its finality. 

He stares upward, blank and unseeing. The sky is there, technically, but it is veiled in haze, scattered with the faint, indisinct silhouettes of stars. They do nothing to settle the tremor that lingers on his skin, under the wool of his coat.

Time is up. 

Seonghwa could’ve tried many things, but he never could’ve outrun time.

He’s been living on borrowed time for so long, he hadn’t realised how quickly it could run out.

And it was time, wasn’t it? Time to return to their separate lives, intertwined yet somehow never quite touching—one of lavender and bergamot; the other of sandalwood and amber. 

Seonghwa lived like that once, before.

He’ll just have to learn to live like that, again.

But until then, Seonghwa will sit here for one moment more, in the dark, in the cold, in the foolishness that would be his own undoing.

And even then, Seonghwa will confess—it had been fun playing the fool while it lasted.

…

When he finally returns to the house, it is well past midnight.

The streets outside have thinned out into near-emptiness by the time Seonghwa turns into their driveway. His headlights cut briefly across the gate, across the familiar facade of the house, before everything settles back into darkness when he turns off the headlights.

For a moment, he just sits there—hands still on the wheel, shoulders slightly tense, breath measured, though not quite steady. 

Then, Seonghwa exhales and cuts the engine. 

The inside of the house is dark from what he can see in the driveway, which Seonghwa is not surprised to see. 

That’s what he expects.

That’s what makes sense.

That’s what this has always been.

He stands at the door for a long moment, keys hanging loosely from his fingers, his reflection, pale and slightly drawn, staring back at him in the faint sheen of the polished surface. 

He exhales, steadying himself, before unlocking the door.

The familiar click echoes louder than it should. He steps inside.

“…I’m home.”

The words leave him automatically, a habit formed over the past few weeks—one he hadn’t even realised he’d picked up until now.

Seonghwa swallows, something in his chest tightening despite himself. He slips off his shoes, sets his keys aside, moves further into the house— 

He stops.

Because the standing lamp in the living room is on.

Warm light spills out from it in a soft amber pool, illuminating the couch, the coffee table, the familiar outlines of their living space in a way that had not been visible from outside. It paints everything in gentler tones, blurring edges, casting shadows against honey beige walls. 

And there—

Kim Hongjoong is slumped against the side of the couch.

His posture is loose, exhausted in a way that suggests he had fallen asleep sitting upright and simply failed to make it further. One arm rests awkwardly against his lap, the other draped over the cushion. His head is tilted slightly to the side, brows drawn together even in rest, as though something continues to trouble him beneath the surface of slumber. 

For a moment, Seonghwa just stares. Because this…this isn’t part of the script.

Kim Hongjoong stirs, lashes fluttering slightly as he slowly blinks away. His gaze, unfocussed and heady with sleep, drifts aimlessly across the living room until it latches onto Seonghwa’s figure amidst the shadows, unmoving and uncertain. 

The man jolts upright from the couch, nearly toppling forward in the process. He catches himself on the edge of the couch with a sharp intake of breath, disoriented movement turning into something almost clumsy in its urgency. 

“I’m sorry.”

The words come immediately, no nervous hesitation, no stammering excuse, no rambling preamble.

Seonghwa doesn’t move. He watches him instead.

“Why?” he asks.

The question is absent the anger, the confusion, the fear that had coursed through his veins and bled into his words just hours ago. If anything, it is quieter than anything he has said all night, stripped down, worn thin. 

Hongjoong exhales, raking fingers roughly through his hair with an unsteady hand.

“I’m sorry, for—” he starts, then stops, like he’s trying to choose the right place to begin and still not be able to land on when. “For pretending I still didn’t have my memories. For dragging it out. For lying.” 

Seonghwa shakes his head.

“I—We already know that,” he says softly. There’s no bite to his voice, but Hongjoong flinches the same. “I mean, why did you continue to pretend? For fun? Or out of pity?”

Seonghwa presses, voice tightening despite himself, despite the confusion, the humiliation, the exhaustion. “What was the point?” 

The other man’s gaze drops to stare at something on the floor, an invisible stain that Seonghwa can’t see. Then he looks up, gaze sharpening with determination. 

“I needed to know,” Hongjoong says, quieter now. Seonghwa falters, just for a moment. 

“…Know what?” 

Hongjoong hesitates.

And for the first time since Seonghwa walked in, he looks uncertain.

“I needed to know why—” Hongjoong begins, then stops again, as if the words themselves were refusing to be put together. His brows draw together, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Hongjoong forces the words out, anyway. 

“—Why him?”

Seonghwa frowns. None of this was making sense.

“…What?” 

“Why you looked at him like that.”

Hongjoong steps forward slightly before stopping himself, as if afraid that even coming closer might tip them towards something irreversible. His gaze stays locked on Seonghwa, raw in its intensity. 

“Why you—why you loved him like that—what it is about him that makes him worth your love. He didn’t—” Hongjoong stops himself, jaw tightening. “I didn’t—I couldn’t get a single glance from you before. 

Something in Seonghwa’s chest stutters. “Hongjoong—”

“And then suddenly—” Hongjoong laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it, “suddenly I lose everything, and you look at me like I matter.” 

Seonghwa stares at him.

Because that—

that’s not—

“Did you even try?”

The words leave him before Seonghwa could stop them. Hongjoong goes quiet, and under the amber light, the expression on his face—so lost, so naive, so young—slices cleanly through whatever restraint Seonghwa has left.

“At the start,” Seonghwa continues, voice fracturing the same way his heart is where it laid beneath his ribs, as something long-buried begins to break free from where it’s been held back for far too long, “did you try?”

Memories surface—unbidden, unwelcome. 

Dinners planned. Messages sent. All met with the same quiet silence. 

“I asked for your time,” Seonghwa says. “I made time. I showed up. I waited—”

He cuts himself off, breath unsteady now.

“I’m not blameless for what came after,” he admits, “but I tried.”

His throat tightens.

“Did you?”

Hongjoong looks at him like he’s been struck.

“I—” he starts, then falters, something cracking open in his expression. “I thought—”

“That I didn’t care?” Seonghwa finishes for him.

Silence answers him. 

And that is answer enough. 

Seonghwa lets out a quiet breath, something in him deflating all at once.

“…Right.”

For a long moment, neither of them says a word. Then, they both spoke at once.

“Kim Hongjoong-ssi—”

“I will now.”

Seonghwa looks up, startled, to meet Hongjoong’s eyes. The other man’s gaze doesn’t waver, even when he continues. 

“I’ll try now.”

It’s simple—almost too simple.

Seonghwa should have said many things.

Seonghwa wanted to say many things.

Instead, all he says is—

“…Okay.” 

The answer surprises both of them, but Seonghwa doesn’t—won’t—take it back. 

Not when he has already crossed the line, not when he’s sick and tired of getting ahead of himself and messing things up.

Not when he’s already let himself want something he thought wouldn’t come without cost.

Not when he has a real chance of actually having what he wants.

Hongjoong lets out a small breath, something like disbelief slipping through the relief on his face. 

“Oh—” he blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Hongjoong repeats, still slightly dazed, and the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth twitches slightly at that, despite himself. 

The moment lingers, fragile and uncertain and new. 

Then, suddenly—

Hongjoong’s expression shifts.

“Wait—” he says suddenly, almost to himself. “I—”

He turns on his heel, belting up the stairs two, three at a time, pausing briefly midway only to lean back over the railing. 

“Uhm, don’t leave.”

“Please?” Hongjoong pleads, almost as an afterthought, before disappearing up the stairs again without waiting for Seonghwa’s answer. Seonghwa stands still in the living room, listening to the sound of hurried movement upstairs, drawers opening, something being searched for in a rush that makes no attempt at subtlety. 

Hongjoong comes back down minutes later, fumbling briefly with a small bag Seonghwa hadn’t seen before.

“I got you something.” Hongjoong says when he comes to a halt in front of Seonghwa, almost sheepish in the way he holds it out.

“For our anniversary,” he continues matter-of-factly, like that was meant to explain everything. “I had it made months ago, and was on my way to pick it up when, you know—” he gestures vaguely, like the reason for the delay was something that could be so easily swept under the rag. “I forgot about it, with everything that was happening.” 

Seonghwa takes the box slowly. It’s scratched in a few spots, and the ribbon is slightly crooked, like it had been retied with untrained hands.

It’s cute, he decides, in its own way. 

He opens the box, and cannot hold back the gasp that escapes his parted lips. Across him, Hongjoong smiles, small but smug in its victory. 

Inside, a necklace rests against soft velvet, the diamonds that encrust its length fracturing the warmth of the living room lamp into something almost luminous, flames of icy fire dancing within itself. It’s simple in structure, elegant in design, and clearly chosen with care and consideration for its intended recipient. 

For a moment, Seonghwa just… looks at it. Then, wordlessly, he turns his back to Hongjoong, lifting the box above and over his shoulder.

The message is clear. Or at least, Seonghwa thought it was, because there’s a pause where no one does anything. 

Then—

“Oh–oh!”

There’s some muffled rustling as Hongjoong scrambles forward. He’s careful, almost reverent as he lifts the necklace from the box. His fingers brush lightly against the back of Seonghwa’s neck as he fastens it, the touch warm, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. 

When he’s done, his hands don’t fall away right away. 

Seonghwa turns back around. 

“Does it look good?” Seonghwa asks, gently resting a hand against the necklace. 

Hongjoong swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. His gaze doesn’t leave Seonghwa’s face when he replies. “Of course, Seonghwa-ssi—”

Seonghwa shuts him up with a singular withering look. Hongjoong winces immediately.

“I mean—” he corrects himself quickly, ears flushing slightly, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

“…Jagiya.”

Seonghwa huffs, the sound caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

His hand moves before he thinks better of it, moving from his neck to settle against Hongjoong’s cheek. Seonghwa’s thumb brushes lightly over the high of his cheekbone.

Hongjoong’s eyes widen, freezing under the motion. Seonghwa’s mouth curves slightly. 

“Thank you, yeobo.”