Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On bad days, Gi-hun dreams about it.

Not all the time. Not like before. But when it happens, it’s bad. It digs into him, claws scraping over his skin, gripping his chest like it’s trying to rip something out, hooking into his organs and yanking until he wakes up gasping.

This part, when he wakes up, is always the hardest.

The quiet that engulfs him is a constant reminder that he’s out. He’s not there anymore. He’s free. This place is safe, he knows that, but the stillness still feels uncomfortable, like it doesn’t quite fit.

Like he doesn’t quite fit.

He isn’t supposed to be here.

He isn’t supposed to feel safe. 

Gi-hun knows he isn’t responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people.

He understands, with every part of him, that there is a massive organization behind all of this, larger than he could ever imagine. He knows that. He really does. But as he takes in his surroundings, the warm paint on the walls, the portrait of him and his daughter on the bedside table, the expansive city view outside his window, he can’t help but feel guilty.

Like it is his fault that those people died. Like it is his fault for not doing anything about it.

He isn’t supposed to feel safe.

This part, the one that comes after waking up, is the worst.

The guilt presses down on him like a stone sitting on his chest, choking off his breath, not giving him a chance to take in air, to breathe. He tries to push it off but he can’t. He can’t because he’s weak. He can’t because he’s not strong enough. Not smart enough. Not strategic enough. Too emotional.

He lacks all the qualities that a winner should have. He isn’t the perfect example of what a winner should be, because he isn’t. 

He isn’t. 

He isn’t supposed to feel safe. 

Not a winner.

Not safe. 

Gi-hun isn’t a winner. Because if he were, he would not be here, drowning in guilt as he remembers the look on Sang-woo’s face. 

"I wanna end this here," he remembers saying. His bare foot dragging through the wet sand, putting every ounce of effort into moving despite the pain that sears through his body. A small sacrifice, he remembers thinking, just so he could achieve what he meant to do. "The players can end the game when the majority agrees."

He remembers walking back to Sang-woo, heart heavy as he watches his childhood friend lying on the ground, bruises he helped cause painting his face. He remembers rain. Hard, pouring rain that tasted salty in his mouth. Rain that hurt when it fell on his fresh, open wounds. 

"No one’s calling us anymore," Sang-woo chokes.

"Let’s go," he remembers himself responding. "Let’s go together."

"Let’s go," he whispers quietly now, the words barely audible.

It is a futile attempt to mimic his voice from the past, his past decisions that never fail to remind him of what could have been. As if saying it aloud might rewrite what has already been written. As if he isn’t here now, in this room with walls painted in soft, warm peach. As if he isn’t lying in a bed far too comfortable than what he deserves.

If he had just reached out for Sang-woo's hand. But he did. He reached out, yet it still wasn’t enough. If only he'd tried harder. If only he'd reached farther.

“I’m sorry,” Sang-woo had whispered. And then-

And then it was too late. 

“Congratulations. It was quite the game.”

He shakes his head. No, no, no. Congratulatory messages are for those who won, for those who earned it. He is not a winner. How could he be? Not when the blood on his hands feels like it's still wet, staining everything he touches. Not when Sang-woo's face, weak and bruised, still flashes behind his closed eyes, haunting him with every breath he takes. The voices won’t stop, drilling into his skull with cruel persistence.

You’re alive. You survived. Player 456. Nobody bet on your survival. Not a single one. So why? Why you?

Safe. He isn't supposed to feel safe. Is he?

He shakes his head harder, as if that could silence them. The voices. But they’re right. 

He is alive. He survived. But he is not a winner. He never was. 

So he cries. He cries, and cries, and cries. Both hands pressed to his face as he curls up on the edge of the bed, trying to stifle his sobs enough to keep them from breaking through the walls. He buries his face in the pillow and screams. He screams, and screams, and screams.

Too emotional. Too weak. Not strong enough. Not smart enough. Not a winner.

Gi-hun isn’t supposed to feel safe. 

And maybe that’s because he never really has been. 

The realization hits him with a strong force he wasn’t expecting to take, as if he got tackled on the ground with no room to lift himself back up.

He’s spent all this time convincing himself that the warm walls and soft bed and the overlooking view of the city meant something. That they served as a barrier between him and the things he’d done, the things he’d seen, the truths he’d walked away from, the weight on his shoulders he’d gotten rid of. But the memories have never left. They linger like shadows in the corners of his mind, always watching, always waiting. 

As long as they’re there, he realizes, he’s never truly been safe. Not from them. Not from himself. 

Not safe. Not strong enough. Too emotional. Not a winner. 

Gi-hun wakes up with a start, the sun peeking through the curtains like an uninvited guest. The soft light serves as a gentle reminder that the darkness of the night before has passed, but the pounding in his head? That is here to stay.

He rubs his temple, wincing at the dull ache behind his eyes. Crying too much is dehydrating. It is a fact he knows well but chose to ignore last night. Instead of drinking water like a functional adult, he’d thrown himself into bed with the brilliant idea that future him would handle it.

Now, future him, current him, the hungover-on-tears mess him, wants to travel through time and smack past him on the head. Hard. Hard enough to have his eyes roll over to the farthest part of his head and back.

Really? No water? After bawling his eyes out like a broken faucet for hours on end? Did he honestly think that was the move? Genius-level thinking, truly. One of a kind idea that only happens once every two decades. 

Gi-hun groans, dragging himself out of bed reluctantly. “Guess it’s my turn to deal with it now,” he mutters, staggering toward the kitchen in search of a glass of water and maybe, just maybe, a shred of self-respect.

He is too grown for this. A grown man shouldn’t be sulking in the kitchen counter, dehydrated and miserable after crying himself to sleep. He should be taking care of himself. He should be drinking water (he just did), eating vegetables (he plans to at lunch), and paying bills on time (he is). He promised Ga-yeong he’d do better.

Oh, God. Ga-yeong.

His eyes snap open fully, and panic surges through him like a lightning bolt. He scrambles to grab his phone, fingers fumbling as he checks the time. 7:31 a.m. School starts at 8. 

“Oh no. Oh no no no-“ he stumbles out of the kitchen, almost dropping the glass he just used to drink water from, as he sprints toward her room. “Ga-yeong! You’re late! Oh God, I overslept! I didn’t make breakfast! Why didn’t you wake me up?!”

He slams her door open, heart racing, only to freeze mid-panic.

Ga-yeong stands there, dressed in her school uniform, calmly tying her hair into a ponytail in front of the mirror. Her backpack is already slung over one shoulder, and her lunchbox sits neatly on the desk. She turns to face him, eyebrow raised, and sighs in that long-suffering way only a thirteen-year-old can manage.

“Appa, I’ve been up for, like, an hour,” she says, unimpressed. “You were snoring so loud I could hear it from outside your room.”

Gi-hun blinks, still half out of breath. “But… school…”

“I’m ready,” she says simply, brushing past him with her usual calm. “Also, you should drink some water. You look like you’re dying.”

He watches as she walks to the front door to grab her shoes, completely unbothered, while he’s still standing in the middle of the room, looking like he’s been hit by a bus.

“I’m the parent,” he mutters weakly to himself, running a hand down his face. “I’m supposed to be the one responsible.”

Ga-yeong pokes her head back around the corner. “I’m gonna be late if you don’t hurry up, Appa.”

He groans, shaking his head as he shuffles toward the kitchen. It’s too early for this. And his head is still throbbing. He only had one glass full of water. He is no doctor, but he is sure he doesn't want to die from dehydration. He can't die now, not when Ga-yeong needs him. 

Gi-hun stumbles into the kitchen, still half-asleep, and grabs a glass of water. This is his second glass now. He’s doing well. This is progress. He gulps it down like his life depended on it, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, blinking at Ga-yeong as she puts on her shoes by the door.

“Did you eat?” he asks, trying to sound responsible despite his groggy voice.

“Yes, Appa. We had leftover kimbap from last night, remember?” she replies, without looking up. “There’s still some left in the fridge, actually. Want me to get them for you?”

“No, no, I’m good,” he says quickly, trying to salvage whatever scraps of dignity he has left. He grabs his keys from the counter and ushers her toward the door. “Let’s go before we’re late.”

Before you’re late, he corrects silently, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

The drive to school is quiet at first, the kind of silence that feels too loud when you’re with someone you know well. Gi-hun glances at his daughter in the passenger seat. She is scrolling on her phone, her expression unreadable, but her shoulders are relaxed.

“You know,” he starts, clearing his throat, “you could’ve woken me up.”

She looks up briefly. “And listen to you complain about being tired all morning? No thanks.”

He huffs, though he can’t help but chuckle a little. “I wouldn’t have complained.”

She gives him a look. “Appa.”

“Okay, maybe a little,” he admits with a grin, earning an eye roll from her.

The sight makes his chest ache in the best way. Mornings like this are ones that Gi-hun keeps close to his heart the most. They are a small reminder that, despite everything, he still gets to have these moments with her. Like a huge reward for the significant price he paid. 

As they pull up to the school gates, Ga-yeong unbuckles her seatbelt and grabs her backpack. She pauses for a second, looking at him with an expression that’s softer than usual. And if Gi-hun weren’t busy feeling guilty for not waking up early, he would have noticed a slight hesitation on her face as well.

“Don’t forget to eat something. And drink water, please,” she says, almost shyly. “You always forget when you’re.. stressed about something.”

Gi-hun blinks, surprised. “I won’t forget this time,” he promises. “Thanks, Ga-yeong-ah.”

“See you later, Appa,” she says, hopping out of the car before he can say anything else.

He watches as she disappears into the crowd of students, her ponytail swinging behind her. The sight fills him with an odd mix of pride and guilt. He sighs and leans back in his seat, resting his head against the steering wheel for a moment.

“I’m doing my best,” he murmurs to himself, as if saying it out loud will make it true. Then he sits up, starts the car, and drives off, the weight on his chest feeling just a little lighter.

Gi-hun tries to shake off the memory from last night as he takes in the busy streets of the city. The sun, though annoying in its brightness, is a reminder that the night is over. Its warmth against his skin and the familiar rhythm of the city remind him that life moves forward, even when the weight of the past tries to hold him back. It burns, but he'll take this type of burn over the burn that rips his skin apart.

He turns the corner and pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant, the sight of the familiar sign grounding him like an old friend.

Ga-yeong’s Kitchen.

The name had been a point of disagreement years ago when he first opened the place. Ga-yeong, barely seven at the time, had scrunched her nose and crossed her arms. “Why would you name it after me? That’s so embarrassing!” she’d huffed.

Now, though? Now she boasts about it to her friends, beaming whenever she mentions it. “My dad owns a restaurant named after me,” she’d say, and Gi-hun would catch the sparkle in her eyes, the quiet pride behind her words. That alone made all the late nights and early mornings worth it.  

The restaurant had been his dream once. A simple, homey place where people could gather and eat. But it had failed, back before everything went to hell. With the debt piling up, the strain of running a business felt heavier as the days went on. Eventually, he had to shut it down, pack up, and let go.

The game changed that.

As much as he’d hate to admit, the game gave him a chance to live better. To pick up the pieces he had left before, the dream he had long forgotten. When he got out, battered and broken but alive, the first thing he’d promised himself was that he would rebuild. Not just for himself, but for Ga-yeong. She deserved a life where her father wasn’t always falling short.

So he did. He started from scratch, pouring some of the winnings into the business and making it better this time. A little bigger, a little steadier, with lessons learned from failure keeping him grounded. It wasn’t a fancy place, but that wasn’t the point. It was warm, inviting. It is a place where people felt at ease.  

The chime above the door rings as Gi-hun steps inside, the familiar scents of simmering kimchi jjigae and freshly made banchan wrapping around him like a warm embrace. The kitchen hums with energy, his team already deep in their morning routine.

Jung-bae, his second-in-command and an old friend from way back, stands by the stove, expertly stirring a bubbling pot of soup. “Morning, boss,” Jung-bae says with a smirk, obviously teasing and tossing a glance over his shoulder. 

Across the kitchen, there Dae-ho is. Dae-ho is younger guy with a serious obsession with multitasking. He shifts seamlessly between his roles as cook and waiter, balancing both with ease. He doesn’t have to, Gi-hun has told him a couple of times that they had staff for that, but he insists. Says his charm would go to waste if he was stuck behind the kitchen doors all day. His face deserves to be seen, he negotiated. Gi-hun gave in eventually. Because of course he would. 

“Morning, hyung-nim. ” Dae-ho greets without looking up, his hands busy preparing the side dishes. When he looks up, he scrunches his nose as he takes in Gi-hun's appearance. “You look… well, like you didn’t sleep. Again.”

“I was up late crying,” he deadpans, though there’s a wry smile tugging at his lips as he shrugs off his jacket.  

Jung-bae perks up from where he’s standing. “Did you cry over the electricity bill or did Ga-yeong ask for help with her math homework again?”  

“Neither,” Gi-hun says, hanging up his coat in the office across the kitchen. “It was just a regular existential crisis. No big deal.”  

“Did you at least eat breakfast today, or are we skipping meals again?”

Gi-hun groans. “Why is everyone obsessed with my eating habits?”

“Because you forget to take care of yourself, and we care,” Dae-ho butts in. “Seriously, hyung-nim. You’re not going to win any ‘Responsible Adult of the Year’ awards at this rate.”

He waves him off, stepping back into the main dining area. “I had water this morning. Two whole glasses. Filled to the brim. And it was lukewarm too, not cold, never cold. That counts for something, right?”

Dae-ho gives him a flat look. “That's the bare minimum.”

Jung-bae smirks. “Well, while you were having your moment, we’ve already prepped for the lunch crowd. You’re welcome.”  

Despite the teasing, the warmth in his tone takes the sting out of his words. Gi-hun appreciates his team more than he lets on. They’re a small team, but they’ve become a second family over the years. A family that sometimes nags, but always has his back. 

This place isn’t just a restaurant. It’s home. It is a place where he gets to keep trying, keep building, for both himself and Ga-yeong.  

By the time the restaurant officially opens, the morning rush is already in full swing. Gi-hun stations himself in the kitchen, where he belongs, overseeing the preparation of dishes and jumping in to lend a hand when needed. He flips sizzling cuts of pork belly on the grill, adjusts the seasoning of a bubbling pot of soup, and plates dishes with practiced care. Occasionally, he steps out to greet customers or deliver a plate to a special table, but the kitchen is his specialty, the place that he finds the most comfortable. The rhythm of chopping, sizzling, and stirring keeps him grounded, giving him a reprieve from the weight of his thoughts.

At one point, a regular, a cheerful old man named Mr. Park, waves him over. “Gi-hun-ah, you’re looking tired. Business keeping you up at night?”

“Something like that,” Gi-hun says with a polite smile, though he can’t quite mask the weariness in his voice.

“A good business needs a good business owner. And a good business owner is one who knows their limits and takes care of themselves,” Mr. Park advises, patting his hand. “Take it from a grandpa like me, alright?”

The words hit deeper than they should, but Gi-hun just nods, offering a quiet, “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

The restaurant grows less busy as the lunch crowd quiets down, giving him a moment to breathe. He leans against the counter and wipes his hand on a clean towel. Letting out a deep sigh, he glances on the window.

“You alright?” Jung-bae asks, stepping up beside him.

“Yeah,” he replies after a pause. “Just… thinking.”

“About anything in particular?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing important.”

But it’s a lie. It’s always important.

The faces of people he’s lost, of Sang-woo, flash briefly in his mind, but he pushes them away. He has a restaurant to run, a daughter to raise, and a life he’s trying to piece back together.

“One day at a time,” he mutters under his breath, turning back toward the kitchen.

And for now, that’s enough.

The restaurant follows a strict schedule, and Gi-hun's team operates within its rhythm like clockwork. The lunch rush runs from 10 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., giving him just enough time to pick up Ga-yeong from school at 4:30 p.m., which lets him breathe a little easier amidst the chaos. 

After school, Ga-yeong would often stay at the restaurant with him, settling at one of the corner tables with her books and homework spread out in front of her. The quiet hum of the kitchen in the background wouldn’t bother her; it’s become a sort of comfort. She’d work diligently, occasionally glancing up at him as he moved between tasks, her presence steadying him even on the busiest days.

But sometimes, Ga-yeong would insist on going home. “I want to nap,” she’ll say, voice sleepier than usual, and Gi-hun couldn’t help but smile at the way she’d always try to act older than she is. 

But now, today, Gi-hun is standing at the school gate. He's ready to pick Ga-yeong up, just like any other day. His mind is still heavy with the weight of the morning, but the thought of seeing his daughter, of having a few minutes to be with her, without the constant rush of work, brings a small sense of relief. He wonders if Ga-yeong would want to go straight home today. 

He stops to catch his breath as he reaches the school gate, wiping a hand across his forehead, ridding the sweat that was building up there.

The school isn’t far from the restaurant. It is only a fifteen-minute walk, ten if he sprints, five if he drives.

He had debated taking the car, but the memory of Ga-yeong's voice, stern yet teasing, rang in his head: “You should at least walk 30 minutes a day, Appa.”

With that in mind, he decided to walk. He was already in hot waters for skipping breakfast this morning. He couldn’t risk her daughter adding to the list of failures his father has committed for the day.

He glances at his watch, checking the time. 3:52 p.m. Usually, he’d arrive just on time, sliding in just as the bell rang. But today is different. Today, he can’t afford to make any more mistakes. Not after this morning.

As he shifts on his feet, something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye.

Parked just a little down the street is a car he doesn’t recognize. It’s sleek and black, the kind of car that doesn’t exactly scream “I’m here to pick up my child,” and there’s a man sitting inside, his face obscured by the angle of the rearview mirror.

Gi-hun's shoulders tense. It’s his first time seeing that car, and after months of showing up at these gates, he knows what to expect: the white sedan with sticky fingerprints smudging the windows, the silver SUV with pink stuffed toys crammed on the dashboards, the blue pick-up truck with a fading unicorn sticker plastered on its rear.

But this car? And this man? They’re unfamiliar. They don’t belong here.

He tries to tell himself it’s nothing. Maybe it’s a new parent. Maybe it’s someone running late for their first pick-up.

But the longer he looks, the more his unease grows. The man isn’t scrolling through his phone like most people would. He’s just sitting there, still and quiet, like he’s watching something, or someone.

There’s an unspoken rule that every new face that arrives is expected to introduce themselves to the rest of the parents. It is not official school policy, of course, but it’s strictly emphasized and reinforced in their group chat. The group chat where every parent is added, before they get added into a separate chat categorized by their child’s grade. It is for the safety of their children, after all. It ensures that no unfamiliar, potentially unsafe individuals get close to their loved ones. 

Gi-hun racks his memory, trying to recall if a new parent had joined the chat recently. He’s certain there hasn’t been any notification or introduction. This man, sitting in that unfamiliar car, isn’t supposed to be here.

Gi-hun debates approaching him, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. On one hand, it could just be a harmless stranger, and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by confronting some poor dad just trying to figure out where his kid’s class is. But on the other hand, something about it feels off. The guy looks too still. Too deliberate. And the longer Gi-hun stares, the more that off feeling gnaws at him.

He glances back at the gates, scanning the crowd for Ga-yeong. Still no sign of her. It’s early. He still has time.

Time for what, exactly? Stick his nose where it does not belong? Potentially embarrass himself and the stranger? Get into a fight?

His jaw tightens. This isn’t his responsibility. It’s not like he’s the official school security or anything. He isn’t even a board member of the Parent-Teacher Committee, for fucks sake. But even now, years after the games, he hasn’t outgrown the urge to jump in and save the day. It’s an instinct he wishes he didn’t have. Still, the thought of doing makes him feel uneasy. 

“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “Why do I always do this to myself?”

With a resigned sigh, he adjusts his jacket and crosses the street toward the car, trying his best to look casual, like he’s just taking a stroll. But casual isn’t exactly Gi-hun's strong suit. His hands twitch, and he swears he trips over his own feet once.

As he gets a closer look, he takes in the sight of the man. The guy isn’t just sitting there, he’s sitting. Back straight, shoulders square, dressed in a black leather jacket that looks expensive enough to have its own security detail. Sunglasses hide his eyes, and his sharp jawline catches the sunlight like it’s posing for a magazine cover. Everything about him screams slick, deliberate, and, dare Gi-hun say it, dangerous.

The man doesn’t react at first, which somehow makes him even more intimidating. Up close, the man's leather jacket shines in a way that confirms Gi-hun's suspicions. This guy has money. Unsure, he clears his throat and knocks on the passenger-side window.

“Uh, hi,” Gi-hun says, voice tight. “You, uh, waiting for someone?”

The man turns his head slowly, lowering his sunglasses just enough to reveal a fraction of his eye. From this view, Gi-hun can't exactly paint the man's expression. Though from the faint raise of one eyebrow clearly says he's not impressed.

“Is there a reason you’re asking me that?” the man replies, his voice smooth but laced with quiet offense, as if Gi-hun's question had crossed an invisible line. His tone isn’t sharp, but the weight of his words feels dismissive, like he’s too polished to entertain something so invasive.

Like he's way above all of this. Above Gi-hun. Above anything else.

Gi-hun blinks, caught off guard. His brain scrambles for a response. “Uh… maybe? Yes? No?” He clears his throat awkwardly. “I mean, there’s just… a lot of kids around, you know? Safety first and all that.”

Memories of last night flash through him like a tidal wave. 

Safety. Safe.

He isn't supposed to feel safe.

The man raises an eyebrow, his posture still composed, as though he has nothing to prove. “And I look unsafe?” he asks, his voice calm but laced with quiet annoyance.

Gi-hun freezes, the question catching him off guard. “Uh, no, not unsafe exactly, just… Well. You know… unfamiliar,” he stammers, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous he must sound. He gestures vaguely toward the school gates. “It’s just, you know, the usual crowd’s pretty… well, usual. Usually... familiar?”

The man’s lips press into a thin line, his sunglasses still masking his eyes. “I didn’t realize familiarity was a requirement for being here,” he says, his words measured but carrying a hint of irritation, as though the question itself were beneath him.

Gi-hun shifts on his feet, feeling an odd mix of embarrassment and stubbornness. “Well, it’s not a rule or anything, but… it’s kind of an unspoken thing, you know? Parents around here tend to introduce themselves. For, uh, safety reasons. And you... Well, you haven't.”

He isn't supposed to feel safe. 

But he wishes the opposite for his daughter. He wants Ga-yeong to live the rest of her life not knowing what the word unsafe means. 

The man’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile but close. “I see,” he says, his tone perfectly neutral, though it’s clear he’s done with the conversation. “I'll take note of that.”

It’s not an invitation to continue, Gi-hun notes. It’s a dismissal, plain and simple. Gi-hun bites back the urge to say something else, his pride warring with his instinct to walk away. He manages a stiff nod instead. “Right. Okay. Well, just making sure everything’s fine.”

As he retreats to his usual spot by the gate, Gi-hun can’t resist glancing over his shoulder. The man hasn’t moved, still sitting there with an air of complete nonchalance, but Gi-hun can’t shake the unease curling in his gut.

“Why couldn’t he just say he’s waiting for someone?” Gi-hun mutters under his breath, his eyes darting toward the car again. It stays in his peripheral vision as the school bell rings, the sound pulling his attention back to the gates.

Students start streaming out, backpacks bouncing and chatter filling the air, but Gi-hun can’t relax. He scans the crowd for Ga-yeong, eyes scanning from face to face, but his attention is pulled back to the spot where the man’s car had been.

He squints, expecting to see it parked just as it was, but surprisingly, it’s not there anymore.

For a brief moment, he stands frozen, confusion knitting his brow. The spot is empty, the pavement as clean as it had been before.

Where did he go?

He glances around, but the car is nowhere in sight. Gi-hun furrows his brows, then forces himself to focus on finding his daughter. It's too much to think about, too strange. He's wasting his energy on something that might not even be important.

Ga-yeong appears a moment later, walking out of the school gate with her usual nonchalance. Her eyes meet his, and a smile spreads across her face.

“Appa!” she calls, waving at him as she crosses the pavement, oblivious to his still furrowed brow.

He takes a breath, shaking off the unease. For now, she’s safe. That's all that matters.

But as Ga-yeong comes to stand beside him, he can’t help but glance one last time over his shoulder. The spot where the car had been is still empty, and the strange feeling in his gut refuses to fade.

He will never feel safe, he realizes, his heart squeezing.

Not after everything, not after the things he’d done, the things he’d seen, the truths he’d walked away from, the weight on his shoulders he’d gotten rid of. He’ll never feel safe. But if there’s one thing he wants more than anything, it’s for Ga-yeong to feel that peace, that certainty. She deserves that. The blanket that hides and comforts her from the dark world he has seen.

He just hopes she never has to know what it’s like to lose that blanket, that protection.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun knows what betrayal is.

He knows how it sounds, how it tastes. He knows how it feels, like an itch buried deep in his skin, never going away no matter how hard he scratches. It creeps on his chest, like a bug finding its home in his heart. He knows the feeling too well, hates how it lingers, and despises the bitterness it leaves behind. 

Betrayal, it turns out, also comes in the form of Jung-bae’s relentless teasing and Dae-ho’s poorly contained laughter.

“Come on, Gi-hun,” Jung-bae says, his grin wide and bright enough to rival the sun. “Not every stranger is out to get you. You’ve been watching way too many dramas.”

“And let me guess,” Dae-ho chimes in, barely holding back his laugh. “Was he wearing sunglasses? Maybe a black coat? Did he have a briefcase too? Was he riding a limousine?”

Gi-hun scowls, his hands gripping the counter as he glares at them.

“He was suspicious! You didn’t see the way he just... sat there. All mysterious and serious… and… and… dangerous in his leather jacket. He didn’t even try to look friendly. Didn’t even bother to sound friendly.”

“Too many adjectives that end in -ous there,” Jung-bae points out. “What’s next? Gorgeous?”

"Jung-bae," Gi-hun huffs, running a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to pull on it. "This isn’t a joke! You didn’t see him. He looked like the kind of guy who walks away from explosions without flinching. The kind of guy who jumps out of moving vehicles effortlessly. The kind of guy who probably has a secret compartment in his car for... I don’t know, spy gadgets or... or... something even more weird!"

He senses Dae-ho about to chime in, probably ready with some teasing remark, but Gi-hun cuts him off before he can even get a word out.

"You think I’m overreacting, but I’m telling you, there was something about that guy!" He throws his hands up in frustration, his voice rising just a bit. 

He could feel all three of them staring at him, their eyes practically burning holes into his pride.

The betrayal hit him all over again. Not the dramatic, world-ending, gut-wrenching kind, but the annoying kind that makes him want to throw his hands up and yell, Seriously? Am I the only sane one here?

Okay, maybe he is overreacting. 

But that’s beside the point. The point is-

What was the point again?

“Appa,” Ga-yeong interrupts, her voice light but tinged with exasperation. She’s perched at one of the tables, her homework spread out in front of her. “He was probably just a dad. You don’t have to know every single parent at my school.”

“Exactly!” Dae-ho agrees, gesturing wildly. “You’ve been picking her up for a long time, sure, but that doesn’t mean you have full control and supervision over the school gate crowd. Maybe he’s new! Maybe he’s shy! Not everyone’s a supervillain, hyung-nim.”

Gi-hun presses his lips into a thin line, refusing to let the argument go just yet. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see the way he looked at me. Like... like he was sizing me up. Showing me who’s in charge. Which, by the way, is not him. Between the two of us, I’m the one in charge.”

He narrows his eyes at Dae-ho when he catches him holding back a laugh. The kid, who is not really a kid, has the nerve to turn around and pretend to pat away non-existent dirt on the already spotless table. 

“Or,” Jung-bae says, drawing out the word as he places a fresh plate of banchan on the counter, “maybe he was just wondering why you were not minding your own business.”

Ga-yeong snorts at that, and Gi-hun narrows his eyes at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” he mutters.

“I am,” she says, smiling innocently. “But I’m also not going to lie to you, Appa. You were probably just... overthinking it.”

Gi-hun sighs heavily, dragging a hand down his face. Betrayal really does taste bitter.

“Fine,” he says begrudgingly, turning his attention to the stove where a pot of seolleongtang is bubbling. “Maybe I was overthinking it. But if I’m right and something happens, don’t come crying to me.”

Dae-ho pats him on the shoulder with a grin. “Don’t worry, hyung-nim. If something happens, you’ll be the first person we cry to.”

Jung-bae snickers, and even Ga-yeong tries to hide her smile behind her homework. Gi-hun shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he stirs the pot. “Traitors. All of you.”

But even as they laugh at his expense, he can’t help but glance toward the restaurant’s front window, his mind drifting back to the man in the leather jacket.

It’s not that he has proof, not really, but something about the man, about the way he seemed so still yet so present, refuses to settle in his mind. It’s irrational, maybe even paranoid, but the instinct to keep alert and suspicious feels louder than his friends' reassurances ever could.

Still, what’s he going to do? Keep obsessing over it? The man’s probably harmless. Just another parent living his life. No big deal. Gi-hun forces a deep breath, brushing the thoughts aside. Whatever. It’s fine. It’s not like he’ll ever see the guy again.

And if he does? 

And if he does… well. That’s a problem for another day. 

The next day, Gi-hun sees him again.

Great.

The same car, parked in the same spot as yesterday. And, of course, the same sunglasses.

Gi-hun feels his eye twitch, an involuntary reaction to the man’s questionable choice of fashion. He tries to play it cool, tries to maintain the tiniest bit of maturity left in his body, but he rolls his eyes anyway.

This time the man isn’t wearing a leather jacket but a black turtleneck that somehow makes him look even more out of place. Gi-hun frowns, not quite peeking but definitely keeping an eye on him. It’s not every day someone so… noticeable shows up at a school gate without making an effort to blend in.

He looks down on his own clothes, and feels some sort of dissatisfaction at how underdressed he seems in comparison.

His jacket is comfortable, practical even, but it’s definitely more casual than he’d like. It’s a little too loose around the shoulders, a little too... everyday. And his shoes, while far from worn-out, are a far cry from the polished, expensive pair the man’s probably wearing. 

Gi-hun huffs, he hasn’t even seen this man’s shoes and he’s already assuming that it’s most likely something expensive. His shoes might be fine for running errands or walking through a park, but if he were to compare himself to the man, Gi-hun feels like he might as well be in his pajamas.

Then there’s the baseball cap. It wasn’t his first choice, but with his hair still flattened from the kitchen’s hairnet, it was his only option. He didn’t want to look unkempt. The cap, low on his forehead, does nothing to elevate the look, and honestly, it just makes him feel even more him. Which isn’t bad. He loves his casual look. Ga-yeong doesn't even mind. It’s just that his whole outfit feels like he isn’t putting any effort to look presentable. Meanwhile the man, so effortlessly sharp, just radiates something Gi-hun knows he doesn’t have.

Gi-hun doesn’t march right up to him this time. No, he’s learned his lesson. Instead, he crosses the street casually, or at least as casually as he can manage while keeping one eye locked on the guy. It’s not suspicious if he’s standing near a street food truck, right? He’s just curious, and honestly slightly hungry, which makes the food truck a perfect disguise for his plan. 

He walks up to the food truck, pretending to examine the menu like he’s debating between tteokbokki and odeng. He orders a hotteok instead, fumbling over his words due to the mission he’s put himself into. Whatever. It helps. Tteokbokki and odeng can be one and the same (those are two different dishes, his mind supplies, but he pushes the thought away). Besides, all he needs is to blend in as he leans against the stall, whatever he’s eating should not matter. 

From here, he has a clear view of the man. Same car. Same sunglasses. Same stoic demeanor. Same unsettling air of seriousness that makes Gi-hun's instincts buzz uncomfortably.

The man doesn’t look around, doesn’t tap on his phone, doesn’t even fidget. He just sits there, calm and composed, like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s perfected this thing called life, and this is not his first time experiencing it.

Gi-hun tears off another bite of his hotteok, chewing thoughtfully as he watches for any hint of movement. Nothing. Not even the slightest twitch. Maybe he is just a dad waiting for his kid. Maybe this whole thing is Gi-hun blowing things out of proportion. He’s mid-bite when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Pulling it out, he sees a text from Ga-yeong:

Appa, I have homeroom duties. I’ll be at least 15 mins late, sorry! :(

He sighs, wiping his fingers on a napkin before typing back.

No problem. I’m at the food truck. Take your time.

Tucking his phone away, Gi-hun glances back toward the car, expecting to see the man exactly where he left him.

But instead, he’s greeted by an empty driver’s seat. The car is still there, parked neatly in the same spot, but the man is gone.

His chest tightens as he looks around quickly, scanning the crowd of parents and kids. Nothing. No leather jacket. No black turtleneck. No sunglasses. No ominous presence. The edges of panic begin to creep in, tightening his stomach.

Then, a voice cuts through his thoughts, startling him so badly he nearly chokes on his food.

“Who hired you?”

Gi-hun jumps so hard he nearly drops his hotteok.

Whipping around, he finds himself face-to-face with the man, standing uncomfortably close. Those stupid sunglasses are still firmly in place, reflecting Gi-hun's startled expression.

“Holy-!” Gi-hun stumbles back, clutching his chest as if to stop his heart from leaping out. His hotteok almost jumps out of his grasp, but he manages to save it. Barely. “What the hell is your problem?!”

The man steps closer, and though his presence isn’t exactly threatening (if Gi-hun feels a little intimidated, nobody has to know), it’s enough to make him instinctively lean back.

For someone shorter than him by an inch or two, the guy carries himself like he’s towering over the world. It’s in the way he stands, spine straight, head high, shoulders square, as if he’s been through enough to know he doesn’t need height to be intimidating.

Up close, Gi-hun takes in the details he missed before. The guy’s hair is almost unnervingly perfect, sleek, and controlled, like it obeys a rulebook the rest of humanity wasn’t given. The sunglasses are still glued to his face, adding to the mystery. The black turtleneck clings to him in a way that Gi-hun begrudgingly notes looks unfairly flattering. And the shoes? Yeah, those are expensive. Just like Gi-hun figured.

Awesome. Mysterious and rich. Because that’s exactly what the world needs more of.

“Who hired you?” the man repeats,  his tone firmer now. There’s an edge to it, sharp enough to make Gi-hun's stomach flip, but it’s delivered with a calmness that’s almost worse.

It takes a second for the words to register, and when they do, Gi-hun stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“Hired me?” he stammers, the hotteok in his hand now slightly distorting from his grip. “What are you even—How could you even—Hired me? No! Who hired you?”

The man’s head tilts ever so slightly, like Gi-hun is a particularly confusing puzzle. Or maybe just a really bad joke. Gi-hun decides he prefers the former. He’d rather be a puzzle than a joke. Especially under this man’s almost judgemental gaze. 

“What are you doing here?” the man asks, his tone flat but carrying enough weight to make Gi-hun feel like he’s being interrogated.

“What am I doing here?” Gi-hun echoes, his voice rising in pitch. “I’m picking up my daughter! What are you doing here, lurking in your fancy car with your sunglasses and acting all…” He gestures vaguely at the man’s entire existence. “…suspicious!”

The man doesn’t react immediately, but there’s a brief pause, like he’s debating whether or not to dignify that with a response. 

“Suspicious. Right,” he says, calm but pointed. “I can say the same thing about you. I noticed you the moment you got here. Saw you walk across the street, pretend to enjoy your hotteok, and stare at my car like it did something terrible to you.”

Gi-hun, in all his flustered glory, latches onto the least important part of that statement. “I am enjoying my hotteok,” he says indignantly, taking a defensive bite to prove it.

The man doesn’t even blink, his calm demeanor unshaken. “Who sent you?” he asks again, his tone dipping into something more impatient, though it’s still measured.

Gi-hun lowers his hotteok, frowning as he processes the absurdity of the situation. “No one sent me. I told you, I’m just here to pick up my daughter!” He waves his free hand toward the school gates for emphasis. “Who even thinks like that?! Who sent you?”

The second the words leave his mouth, he cringes internally. Who even thinks like that? Well, he does. That’s why he’s been eyeing this guy like some kind of undercover agent, assuming he was some shady mastermind hatching a diabolical plan instead of, you know, just sitting in his car.

Great. Now he sounds like a hypocrite.

The man’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s a pause, long enough to make Gi-hun wonder if he struck a nerve.

“You think you’re the only parent allowed to pick up their child?” the man finally says, his voice low and deliberate.

“What I think is that you don’t understand how much trouble you’re in if you keep scaring off innocent parents,” Gi-hun snaps back, though the slight quiver in his voice betrays his brave facade. And then, when he realizes what the man had just said, “Wait… what did you just say?”

The man straightens slightly, observing Gi-hun with a calculating look on his face. As if he's trying to determine if Gi-hun is worth explaining this to. If Gi-hun is worth anything at all, actually.

“I’m here to pick up my kid. That’s what parents do at schools, isn’t it?”

Gi-hun blinks, trying to process the words. Then, a mental image of this man attending a parent-teacher conference, with this stoic demeanor and designer sunglasses flashes through his mind. If he wasn't in the situation he's currently in right now, he would have laughed at the thought.

“You?” Gi-hun blurts out before he can stop himself. “You’re a dad?”

The man raises an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Gi-hun hesitates, his eyes flicking over the man’s appearance. “I mean… yeah. You look more like you’re about to run some kind of underground operation than help a kid with their math homework.”

For the first time, the man’s lips twitch. “And you look like you’ve got nothing better to do than follow me around for two days,” he says. “Should we keep trading observations, or are you finally going to explain why you’ve been watching me?”

Gi-hun stammers, gripping his now-cold hotteok like it’s a lifeline. “I wasn’t— I didn’t follow you,” he says, the denial words coming out of his mouth in a rush. “I just… I thought you were suspicious.”

The man tilts his head slightly, like he’s genuinely curious. “How?”

“Well…” Gi-hun's eyes dart to the man’s sunglasses, then his shoes, then his car, then back to his face. He shifts awkwardly on his feet. “You’re… unfamiliar.”

The man’s head tilts the other way now, a slow, deliberate motion that makes Gi-hun feel like he’s being dissected under a microscope. Then, as if struck by a memory, the man straightens. “Unfamiliar,” he echoes. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

Gi-hun swallows, realizing too late that he’s just dug himself into the same hole as before.

The man’s tone stays calm, but there’s a faint edge of amusement as he continues. “That reason again? Seems like you’re just judgmental.” He says it like he’s pointing out the weather, not accusing Gi-hun of being a walking red flag.

“I— I’m not judgmental!” Gi-hun sputters, heat creeping up his neck. “You’re the one who— I mean, it’s not like I— Look, that’s not—”

The man doesn’t even wait for him to finish his jumbled non-argument. Instead, he takes a small step back, his head tilting in a way that feels oddly polite. “If unfamiliarity is your concern, should I introduce myself then?” His hand gestures briefly toward himself. “I’m Hwang In-ho.”

The way he says his name is so smooth, so self-assured, that it feels like it should come with a handshake and a business card. 

Gi-hun blinks at him, caught completely off guard. “Oh.” He pauses, his brain scrambling for a response. “I’m… Gi-hun. Seong Gi-hun.”

“There,” he says, his voice as calm as ever. “Now we’re not strangers anymore.”

Gi-hun stands there, shifts from one foot to the other, his mind running in circles. He’s just standing here like a fool while In-ho looks completely unbothered, sunglasses still in place, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

The silence stretches, and Gi-hun feels the weight of it pressing down on him.

Finally, he clears his throat, looking anywhere but directly at In-ho. “Uh… look,” he starts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I… I’m sorry.”

In-ho doesn’t respond right away, just tilts his head slightly like he’s waiting for Gi-hun to continue. Which, unfortunately, he has to now.

“I mean it,” Gi-hun presses, his voice softening. “I shouldn’t have… you know, assumed the worst about you. Judging you just because you were… well, unfamiliar. That wasn’t fair. And accusing you of being… suspicious? That was wrong.” He shifts uncomfortably, the apology feeling too heavy in the air. “So, yeah. Sorry.”

In-ho shrugs, like Gi-hun just apologized for bumping into him on the subway. “It’s fine,” he says simply. His tone is calm, but there’s something in his delivery that makes it clear he’s not holding it against him. “It happens. I was briefly suspicious of you too.”

Gi-hun blinks at him. That’s it? He was bracing for something… anything… that matched the intensity of the guilt he’d been wrestling with, but In-ho seems completely unfazed.

The silence settles again, though it’s not quite as heavy this time. They both linger by the food truck, neither of them attempting to fill in the silence. Gi-hun nibbles at what’s left of his hotteok, half-wondering if he should just leave and stop making things weird.

Then, In-ho steps toward the food truck, his movements smooth and deliberate. Gi-hun watches curiously as he leans slightly toward the vendor, pulling out his wallet. “One odeng please,” In-ho says, his voice as calm and measured as ever.

Gi-hun blinks in surprise, momentarily forgetting how to chew. He watches as the vendor hands In-ho a steaming skewer of fish cake, the stick inside a small paper cup filled with warm broth. In-ho takes it without hesitation, lifting the skewer to his mouth and biting into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You…” Gi-hun blurts out before he can stop himself. “You eat odeng?”

In-ho glances at him, raising an eyebrow above the edge of his sunglasses. “Should I not?”

“No, no, it’s just…” Gi-hun gestures vaguely at him, struggling to put the absurdity into words. “You just don’t… seem like the type. You know. With the sunglasses, and the fancy shoes, and the whole…” He trails off, motioning to In-ho's entire existence.

Gi-hun pauses, realizing he’s doing the judging thing again. “Sorry.”

In-ho chews thoughtfully, then swallows. “It’s fish cake,” he says simply, like that explains everything. 

Gi-hun opens his mouth, then closes it again. What is he even supposed to say to that?

“Right. Of course.”

They continue to stand there in silence. The warm scent of broth and fried batter drifts around them, and the occasional chatter of other parents fills the space. Gi-hun glances at his phone every so often, his thumb scrolling aimlessly until a notification pops up. It’s a text from Ga-yeong.

Appa, 5 more minutes pls. Someone wrote permanent marker on the board 😤

Gi-hun huffs a laugh, shaking his head. What kind of chaos were middle schoolers causing now? He types back a quick Okay, don’t get in trouble and pockets his phone, glancing briefly at In-ho.

The man is still standing there, paper cup now empty, held loosely in one hand. He hasn’t moved back to his car, which, frankly, Gi-hun finds a little strange. Not that he’s going to point it out, he’s already embarrassed himself enough for one day. But still, why linger here?

He’s just starting to wonder if In-ho is waiting for him to leave first, when the man shifts slightly and asks, “Does it take this long for the kids to come out?”

Gi-hun blinks, caught off guard by the question. “Uh… no? I mean, classes ended like, fifteen minutes ago.” He gestures toward the gates. “They should be out by now. Most of them, anyway.”

He trails off as he notices something odd. In-ho, who has been nothing but composed since the moment he stepped out of his car, suddenly looks… unsettled. His jaw is tighter, the hand holding the paper cup now clenched around it. And though the sunglasses still shield his eyes, Gi-hun swears there’s a shift in the man’s expression, a flicker of worry breaking through the calm exterior.

“Are you…” Gi-hun hesitates, unsure if he’s overstepping. “Uh, is everything okay?”

In-ho doesn’t answer immediately, but there’s tension in his posture now, like he’s bracing for bad news. “She should be out by now,” he says finally, his voice quieter than before.

It clicks then, that In-ho is talking about his kid. Gi-hun shifts awkwardly, unsure of what to say. It’s strange, seeing someone who seemed so immovable, so perfectly put together, suddenly look so… human.

“Maybe she’s just held up,” Gi-hun offers, his tone softer now. “Kids get distracted all the time. Or, you know, permanent marker incidents.” He waves vaguely at his phone, attempting a weak smile.

In-ho doesn’t respond, but his grip on the empty cup relaxes slightly.

Gi-hun shifts on his feet, glancing up every now and then as parents and kids stream past. It feels like forever before he finally spots Ga-yeong coming out of the school gates, her bag slung over one shoulder and her face brightening when she sees him.

“Appa!” she calls out, jogging over.

Gi-hun's chest instantly feels lighter. “Took you long enough. Permanent marker, huh?”

“It was everywhere,” she says dramatically, rolling her eyes. “You’d think we were prepping for an art exhibit.”

Before Gi-hun can respond, Ga-yeong glances curiously at In-ho, her gaze flicking to the sleek sunglasses and the calm, unreadable expression.

“Who’s that?” she whispers, tilting her head toward the man.

Gi-hun opens his mouth, intending to introduce her, when In-ho takes a small step back and bows slightly.

“Excuse me,” he says politely, his voice even and composed.

Without waiting for a response, In-ho turns, quickly typing on his phone.

Gi-hun watches him go, feeling a little caught off guard. Okay. Maybe next time, he thinks, blinking after the man’s retreating figure.

“Appa, is that him?” Ga-yeong asks, craning her neck to get a better look at In-ho who is now slowly walking away.

“Him who?” Gi-hun asks, scratching the back of his neck like it’ll help him escape this conversation.

“You know, the suspicious supervillain-looking guy you wouldn’t stop talking about yesterday,” she says, her tone teetering between accusation and amusement.

Gi-hun freezes, caught. “Yeah?” he finally says, his voice pitching upward at the end like even he’s unsure of his answer. “He’s not… He's just another dad, I think.”

”Another dad?” she repeats, her tone with a hint of amusement. “Not a bad guy, then?”

“Let’s go,” Gi-hun says quickly, steering her toward the crosswalk. As they walk, he catches a snippet of a voice behind him, low and sharp with a hint of urgency.

“—what do you mean her school is four blocks away?”

The words blur together, too faint for Gi-hun to fully make up what he said. He glances over his shoulder instinctively, watching as In-ho straightens, his phone pressed to his ear. For the first time, his composed exterior seems to falter, his brows furrowing ever so slightly.

Whatever that’s about, Gi-hun decides it’s none of his business. He tugs Ga-yeong gently along, filing the moment away in the back of his mind as they head toward the restaurant.

Gi-hun isn’t expecting anything.

But if he were (and he’s not saying he is) he might’ve thought he’d see the same sleek car in the same spot the next day. Maybe with that same man sitting inside, sunglasses on, radiating his usual mysterious, don’t-talk-to-me aura.

But there isn’t.

The spot is empty, just an expanse of gray asphalt staring back at him, unbothered and unremarkable.

Gi-hun's not sure what he’s feeling. Relief? Disappointment? A weird mix of both? He shrugs it off and tells himself to focus on what matters: get Ga-yeong to school, work, pick up Ga-yeong from school, work, rinse, repeat.

The second day? Same thing. No car. No man. No sunglasses.

By the third day, he’s almost annoyed.

Not because he misses seeing the guy (obviously not, he barely knows him) but because now he’s just confused.

Who leaves such a dramatic impression and then vanishes without a trace? What was all that ominous leather-jacket energy for if he’s not going to follow through? Gi-hun catches himself glancing toward the spot more often than he’d like to admit, his mind drifting against his will.

When the next week comes, Gi-hun resolves to stop looking.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he mutters to himself as he stares firmly at his phone, scrolling aimlessly. He’s not even aware he’s peeking out of the corner of his eye until Ga-yeong nudges him.

“Appa, are you looking for someone?”

“What? No,” he blurts, a little too quickly, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Just making sure no one... is illegally parked on the road or something.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, giving him a look, her eyebrows raised so high they practically touch her hairline.

He huffs and starts walking away from the school gates, determined to keep his focus where it belongs. Whatever. If Hwang In-ho doesn’t want to show up again, that’s fine.

Gi-hun has better things to do. Greater things to worry about. Like keeping Ga-yeong safe. So he tightens his grip on her hand.  

“Do we really have to hold hands?” Ga-yeong asks, her tone more playful than annoyed. She doesn’t pull her hand away, though, and he doesn’t let go.  

He just keeps walking, focusing on the one thing that makes surviving feel worth it.

Chapter Text

Some meals take a lot of work.

Gi-hun learned that from his mother. She used to say she’d loved cooking since the day she was born, and honestly, he believed it. Even up to her death, she always made sure there was a warm meal on the table for him and Ga-yeong. No matter how complicated the recipe was, she never complained.

He didn’t get it back then. He didn’t understand how someone could put so much care into something so ordinary. But after she died, he finally got it.

Now, he understands.

Doenjang jjigae isn’t complicated to make. However, it needs attention and care. 

Gi-hun watches as it boils in the pot. He takes a spoon of doenjang and mixes it with the broth. Then, he takes a handful of pork belly, slips it into the pot, and continues to stir. Slices of zucchini and onion follow, softening in the bubbling broth, their sweetness coaxed out by the heat. Then tofu (neatly cubed, Jung-bae is strict about these tofus’ cuts) sinks into the pot, absorbing the flavors around it. He tosses in a handful of enoki mushrooms and finishes it off with minced garlic.

When he’s done, he turns his focus on the cutting board.

The kimchi is old, just the way it should be. Ripe with a tinge of sourness, its crunch softened with age. His knife cuts through it cleanly, the kimchi’s juice spreading across the white plastic board.

The red stains are instant, seeping into the surface of the board like ink on paper. He knows from experience that no amount of scrubbing will get it out completely.

It doesn’t matter, he knows kimchi always leaves a mark, just like the meal it belongs to. In a few minutes, it will sit beside a steaming bowl of doenjang jjigae, the perfect sharp counterpoint to the stew’s deep, savory warmth.

From behind, Dae-ho’s voice pipes up. “You know, hyung-nim, you could use the wooden board for that.”

“And have it smell like kimchi for the rest of eternity?” Jung-bae scoffs from where he’s leaning against the counter, picking at a bowl of leftover rice. “You ever try cutting fruit on a board that’s been through too much garlic? Tastes like betrayal from a person you believed to be your friend.”

Gi-hun huffs, gathering the kimchi pile with his knife before scraping it into a small side dish bowl.

“It’s a cutting board. It’s supposed to get stained,” Gi-hun says.

Dae-ho hums, “And yet you’ll try to wash it off anyway.”

Gi-hun doesn’t attempt to think of a response. Instead, he turns his attention back to the stew, giving it a final stir before lowering the heat. The kitchen, for all its noise, feels steady. Predictable.

He finds comfort in that, at least.

Predictable is the closest thing he could get to safe.

If there was anywhere he felt most comfortable, it had to be here.

The kitchen made sense. It had rules, steps to follow, and a rhythm that stayed the same no matter what was happening outside its four walls. Ingredients behaved the way they were supposed to, the heat stayed where he put it, and the sharp edge of a knife only cut when he told it to.

Here, a knife was just a tool, something meant for creating, not destroying. It sliced vegetables, trimmed meat, and shaped ingredients into something nourishing. It had a purpose, one that didn’t involve pain.

There was a time, for a few months after the game, when he couldn’t even look at a knife without his stomach twisting. He’d reached for one once, fingers barely grazing the handle, before pulling back like it burned.

It wasn’t the blade itself, but what it meant. What it had done. The scars it had left behind. The hurt it had caused. The life it had taken.

Even now, he feels it. As he glances at the knife resting on the cutting board, he feels something heavy in his chest. But it’s faint now, weakened by time and distraction.

He picks it up first. He rinses the blade, watching the red-tinted liquid flow down the drain. He scrubs it carefully, taking his time to ensure that every bit is gone before finally setting it aside.

Only then does he turn his attention to the white cutting board. The stains have already seeped into the surface, stubborn as ever. He scrubs harder, adding more soap, but he knows from experience that it won’t completely disappear. 

Some things never wash away completely.

Gi-hun knows he has staff for this. It’s not his job, the cleaning. He has people who would do it without a second thought. 

Gi-hun lets them do their job, for the most part. He lets them wash the pots, the plates, the bowls, the utensils. He even lets them wash the other cutting boards. 

But with this cutting board, particularly, he prefers to clean it himself. Maybe it’s just a habit. Maybe it’s something else. Either way, he doesn’t let anyone else touch it.

“Gi-hun-ah, do you need some help with that?” Jung-bae asks, his voice softer than usual, filled with something close to understanding.

For a second, Gi-hun pauses. He feels his chest tighten, but this time, it does not hurt. It's warm and steady. It's comforting in a way that feels like a weight on his shoulder, a soft pat. He makes a small sound in response, something between a hum and a sigh, a silent way of saying I’m fine. He glances up, meeting Jung-bae's gaze, and follows it with a small smile that says really, I’m fine. Thank you, but I’m fine.

“I’m almost done anyway.”

Jung-bae doesn’t push, just watches as Gi-hun turns back to scrubbing the cutting board.

The red stains cling to the surface, refusing to come off no matter what. He knows how this goes. No matter how much he scrubs or how much soap he uses, there’s always going to be a trace left behind.

Dae-ho, who has been observing him, finally speaks up. “Hyung-nim, if you just accept that the board is ruined, you could buy a new one.”

Gi-hun exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s not ruined. It just needs more scrubbing.”

“Uh-huh. And next, you’ll say it adds character.”

Jung-bae, instead of joining in, lets out a small sigh as he rinses out a bowl. “If he wants to keep the board, let him keep the board,” he says, not unkindly. “It’s his kitchen.”

Dae-ho raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what you said when he kept that old pan with the broken handle.”

Jung-bae clears his throat, suddenly very focused on scrubbing the bowl in his hands. “That was different.”

Gi-hun ignores them, focusing on the soapy water swirling over the surface. It’s not about the board. Not really. But explaining that to Dae-ho would take more effort than it’s worth.

He takes a deep breath as he watches the soap mix in with the red juice in the sink. How, when combined, it turns the liquid into pink. And how, when everything is all down the drain, the only thing that's left is water. Clear, clean water. For a moment, he just watches it, letting himself believe that it means something.

Once the lunch rush dies down, the fast-paced energy in the kitchen slows down. It allows Gi-hun time and space to breathe.

During these slow hours, Gi-hun usually comes out of the kitchen to greet customers. It's become part of his routine to constantly show appreciation to people who appreciate him and his work. A grandmother at the corner table tells him the doenjang jjigae is even better than last time. A group of office workers nods in appreciation when he checks on their meal. These moments are small, but they settle something in his chest, something comforting and grounded. He built this. And somehow, against all odds, people keep coming back.

As he moves through the tables, a conversation catches his ear. It is not loud but just distinct enough to pull his attention.

“… funny thing happened last week.”

The voice belongs to a man who looks like he’s in his 30s, seated across from someone who looks slightly older. It's none of his business, but still. Some of the most interesting conversations happen in his restaurant. Plus, it's not his fault that the tray section is near their table. He's just stacking trays, not listening to his customers' stories. Of course not.

“What happened?” the older man asks, his tone mild but laced with curiosity.

The younger man exhales sharply, setting his chopsticks down. “My brother was supposed to pick up my niece, his daughter, but he waited at the wrong school.”

Gi-hun stills for half a second before forcing himself to keep moving. His fingers tighten slightly around the tray.

The older man chuckles, shaking his head. “He didn’t check beforehand?”

“That’s the thing,” the younger man continues, rubbing his temple. “He didn’t even realize he was at the wrong place. Just stood there waiting, convinced she was going to come out.”

“But I assume he realized his mistake?”

“Only on the second day. When he went there the first time, my niece went out earlier than expected. They met halfway when she called, and he thought he just missed her walking past him.”

There’s something oddly familiar about this story, but Gi-hun can’t quite place it — until suddenly, he does.

He remembers that day at the school gates. The moment In-ho’s usually unreadable face flickered with something close to concern. The way his posture had stiffened just ever so slightly, like something wasn’t right. And, more importantly, he remembers the phone call.

What do you mean her school is four blocks away?

At the time, Gi-hun had only caught fragments of it, half-tuned out as he focused on getting Ga-yeong home. He hadn’t thought much of it. But now, as he listens to this conversation, the pieces start clicking into place.

Still, he doesn’t know anything for sure. He doesn’t actually know who this guy is. He has no idea if he’s actually talking about that day. He doesn’t know if he’s just making connections where there are none.

And really, parents mix things up all the time. Kids transfer schools, parents get schedules wrong, and mistakes happen. It’s not like Hwang In-ho is the only person in the city who’s ever shown up at the wrong school.

Maybe he’s overthinking again. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.

Gi-hun exhales sharply and starts making his way back to the kitchen. The noise of the dining area fades behind him, replaced by the familiar sounds of bubbling broth, the scrape of ladles against pots, and the low murmur of Dae-ho and Jung-bae talking over prep.

Good. This is what he needs. Something to do. Something predictable.

He steps back into his station, tying his apron tighter as he scans the counters. There’s still banchan to portion, broth to prepare, and vegetables to chop. He grabs a bundle of green onions, laying them on the cutting board, his fingers adjusting their alignment with practiced ease. The blade of his knife meets the first stalk with a clean, crisp chop.

This is what makes sense. The kitchen has no room for distractions.

Chop.

That guy outside could have been talking about anyone.

Chop.

People mix up locations all the time.

Chop.

That man. That… Hwang In-ho isn’t special.

Chop.

He pushes the thoughts aside, focusing instead steady routine of cooking that he's memorized by now.

By the time the next order rings in, he’s convinced himself he doesn’t care.

Gi-hun does not care.

He doesn’t.

So, when he arrives at Ga-yeong's school again and sees the empty spot where the black car used to be, it doesn’t bother him.

It really doesn’t.

He just looks once. Maybe twice. And then he moves on.

It’s been a week since, and Gi-hun has been moving like clockwork. Wake up, drop Ga-yeong at school, go to work, pick Ga-yeong up, go back to work, and go home. The routine settles into place, predictable and familiar. No time to think too much, no space for unnecessary distractions.

And for the past few days, it's been easy to commit to that.

Until today. Until he sees a familiar face. 

The man from last week, the one who had been talking about his brother waiting at the wrong school.

He’s strolling toward the entrance, hands tucked into his pockets, moving with the kind of ease that reminds Gi-hun of something, of someone. But what catches his eye even more is the girl walking behind him. She's small, probably a bit younger than Ga-yeong. She sticks close, glancing around with the kind of quiet curiosity.

Gi-hun isn’t staring. He’s just… observing. Casually. Like a person with functioning eyes.

Near the entrance, one of the waiters greets them, holding a menu against their hip. “How many?”

“Table for three, please,” the man replies.

Three.

The number barely registers before Gi-hun's brain supplies the obvious. Ah, their other companion must be on the way. Someone running late, maybe parking the car somewhere, or… wait.

His thoughts hit a speed bump. His eyes flick from the man to the girl, something nagging at the back of his mind. He has no idea why it nags at him, but it does.

But whatever. He’s overthinking. Again.

Giving a final glance at the pair, Gi-hun lets out a deep breath and heads back inside the kitchen. He has greater things to worry about. Like running a whole restaurant.

When he arrives at his counter, he keeps himself busy, moving through each task with ease. He occasionally glances over at Jung-bae and Dae-ho, shaking his head as they bicker about whether or not Dae-ho's story about a haunted street vendor is real.

“I’m telling you,” Dae-ho insists, waving a spoon for emphasis, “the guy said the fishcakes moved on their own! Like something out of a horror movie!”

Jung-bae snorts. “Alright. I bet 10,000 won that you were drunk when this happened.”

“I wasn't drunk!” Dae-ho protests, his voice rising in indignation. “I mean, okay, it was late at night-”

“There we go,” Jung-bae cuts in. “Late at night. Another 10,000 won that it was your brain doing the moving on its own part.”

Gi-hun chuckles softly, shaking his head. As much as he likes to admit, these conversations are part of the kitchen's routine. Something that he's used to. Something safe.

Their laughter is interrupted when one of the waiters steps into the kitchen. “Gi-hun-ssi,” he calls, wiping his hands on a towel. “A customer asked me to send their compliments. Said the food was exactly what they needed.”

Gi-hun pauses, caught off guard for a second. Compliments shouldn’t hit this hard after all these years, but they do. Warmth spreads through his chest, pride blooming quietly inside him.

“Really?” he asks.

The waiter nods. “Yeah. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks,” Gi-hun replies, smiling softly. He sets his knife down and unties his apron. “I’ll go out and thank them myself.”

When he steps out of the kitchen, he was immediately welcomed with sounds of conversation.

His eyes scan the room as he follows the waiter's lead. They stop on a table in the corner, and he pauses. Three people sit there: the man in his 30s, the little girl he saw outside the restaurant not even an hour ago, and another man whose back is facing him.

His gaze moves to the third person, the one whose face is hidden from view. Something about the posture feels oddly familiar. The straight back. The stillness.

Gi-hun's steps slow as a strange tension builds inside him. He's starting to feel something heavy in his chest, though he can not pinpoint why.

“Hello,” he starts. The girl and the younger man glance up at him. “Thank you for enjoying…”

The man in the seat shifts, turning slightly toward him. Gi-hun catches sight of the side profile first. Then, he takes in the curve of the man's jaw and the line of his mouth. His brain pauses for a moment. There's something he's missing. What is it?

Then the man turns just enough for their eyes to meet. No sunglasses this time. Just clear, cold eyes that seem to cut right through him.

It’s him.

Hwang In-ho.

Gi-hun's words falter on his tongue. His polite smile freezes in place.

“...the food,” he finishes, the words trailing off awkwardly as his brain scrambles to catch up. 

This wasn’t how he imagined seeing In-ho again after he vanished from the school gates. Of all the scenarios that played in his head, running into him here, at his restaurant, wasn’t even on the list.

In-ho's face remains neutral, though something flickers behind his eyes. Gi-hun swallows hard and forces himself to keep standing upright. He can just hope and pray that he doesn't look as shocked as he feels. Because that would be embarrassing.

In-ho tilts his head slightly in a subtle bow. There’s a brief flicker of something in his expression. Surprise, probably. But it was gone before Gi-hun could analyze it further. Gi-hun mirrors the gesture, just enough to acknowledge the greeting.

“It’s been a while, Gi-hun-ssi,” In-ho says, his tone polite but warm enough to suggest that the surprise hadn’t been lost on him either.

“Yeah… Uh…” Don’t be weird. Be normal. “Welcome. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Gi-hun mentally slaps himself.

“At a restaurant?” In-ho replies with a hint of humor in his voice, one brow lifting slightly.

Gi-hun opens his mouth, then pauses, momentarily thrown. “No. I mean—well—” He gestures vaguely with one hand, like that might somehow explain the jumble in his head.

At the table, the man in his 30s and the girl exchange glances.

Gi-hun clears his throat. “Uh. Welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed the food.”

In-ho's lips twitch in a faint smile. “It was good. Thank you.”

Gi-hun nods again, offering a polite smile of his own. “Well, enjoy the rest of your meal.”

“We will,” In-ho replies with quiet ease.

Gi-hun steps back, nodding once more before making his way to the kitchen.

As he walks away, he can still feel eyes on him. He can still feel the little girl’s curious gaze and the man’s entertained smirk, but he pushes it aside. Just an ordinary day… with an unexpected guest.

Behind him, conversations murmur at the table, unheard by Gi-hun as he disappears behind the kitchen door.

“…month and you already got yourself a friend, hyung.” 

“Jun-ho.”

“What?”

“Appa, tell him I like his hair.”

“Yu-jin.”

“What…”

Gi-hun pushes the kitchen door open, the warm air and noise of the kitchen swallowing him as he berates himself silently.

Why am I like this?  

Seriously, he’s a grown man. Shouldn’t he have mastered the basics of social interaction by now? It wasn’t even that complicated of a conversation. A few polite greetings and thanks. That’s it. But no, he had to make it weird. Because of course, he did.

He exhales through his nose and tries to shake it off as he returns to his station. He focuses on chopping green onions, letting the steady rhythm of the knife clear his mind. Still, his thoughts circle back to the same thing.

In-ho. And not just In-ho. His brother and daughter. For the past two weeks, Gi-hun had been wondering where In-ho disappeared to, and now here he was, in his restaurant of all places. 

He sighs and finishes the prep. Maybe this could help settle the tension in his chest. He sighs as his hands start moving on autopilot. He sighs even more when it doesn’t help.

After a few more minutes, Gi-hun unties his apron and slips out through the kitchen’s back door. He lets out a deep sigh as he takes in the cool air.

It is nice, just for a moment, to enjoy the peace and quiet.

But the peace doesn’t last.

“So, Gi-hun-ssi, you work here?”

“Holy-” Gi-hun jumps, nearly tripping over his own feet. He spins around and sees In-ho standing a few feet away. His expression is calm and neutral. As if he didn't almost give Gi-hun a heart attack. “You need to stop doing that!” 

“Doing what?” In-ho tilts his head slightly, genuinely curious.

“Scaring people!”

In-ho gives him a look. Gi-hun can't tell if it's amusement or disappointment. “I didn't mean to scare you. You’re just easy to startle.”

“Easy to startle?” Gi-hun huffs, “No, you just… show up out of nowhere like some kind of… of—like a ghost.”

“Didn’t realize I had that effect,” In-ho replies smoothly.

Gi-hun notes the faint amusement in his tone. It's subtle but it's there. Not disappointment, then.

Gi-hun shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “Of all places…” He crosses his arms, but quickly uncrosses them, realizing how defensive it might look. “What brings you here?”

The moment the question slips out, he winces internally. It’s a restaurant. The man was literally just inside, eating. 

“Food?” In-ho replies, his lips quirking slightly. “Just finished, actually. It was great.”

“Oh… right,” Gi-hun stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances off to the side, wishing this conversation never started in the first place. “Uh… thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”

In-ho nods, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. It is not tense, but there is definitely an awkward air hanging between them. Gi-hun shifts on his feet, unsure of what to say next. He’s not exactly used to small talk with people like In-ho. The calm, composed types who seem to have every situation under control.

“You’ve got a nice place here,” In-ho says after a beat, gesturing subtly toward the building. “Family business?”

Gi-hun perks up slightly, more comfortable with the topic. “Yeah, kind of. I opened it years ago, but… things didn’t work out at first. Ended up starting from scratch a while back.” He shrugs. “But it’s doing well now.”

“Clearly,” In-ho comments, glancing toward the side of the building where faint chatter and the clinking of dishes filter through. “It’s got a good atmosphere. Feels… welcoming.”

The words catch Gi-hun off guard, warming him more than he expected. “Thanks. That means a lot,” he says sincerely. “I try to make it a place people want to come back to.”

In-ho tilts his head slightly. “Is that what you’re trying to do now? Making sure I come back?” he says with a teasing edge, though his expression stays perfectly neutral. It’s such a contrast that it throws Gi-hun off balance for a moment. 

Though they’ve only met three times, this being the third time, Gi-hun's already noticed that this is very much a Hwang In-ho thing — the ability to make jokes while looking completely serious.

Gi-hun sputters, “What—No, I-”

“I’m kidding,” In-ho interrupts.

Gi-hun huffs, “You could at least look like you’re joking. It’s confusing.”

In-ho's lips twitch slightly, but he says nothing more. Gi-hun exhales quietly, feeling himself relax for the first time since the conversation began.

“You were right that one time,” In-ho says casually. "When you were suspicious of me."

Gi-hun pauses, waiting for more. He already has a good idea where this is going, but he lets In-ho continue.

“I got my daughter’s school address wrong,” In-ho continues with a faint sigh. “So technically, I really wasn’t supposed to be there.”

Gi-hun hums, nodding slowly. He shouldn’t be surprised, not after overhearing that conversation between In-ho's brother and his superior a few days ago. Still, hearing it from In-ho himself feels different. More real.

“Yeah, I might’ve overheard something like that,” Gi-hun replies casually with a nod. “Something about you waiting at the wrong gate like an idiot.”

In-ho's brows furrow. “Where did you…” He pauses, realization settling in. “It was my brother, wasn’t it?”

“He was here a few days ago. He was talking about the situation. He was with some guy. Sounded like he found the whole situation pretty entertaining. Or exhausting.”

In-ho tilts his head slightly, “Did he actually call me an idiot?”

“Not directly,” Gi-hun says with a grin. “But he didn’t have to. The story kind of painted the picture.”

In-ho lets out a quiet breath of amusement, shaking his head. “I’ll have to talk to Jun-ho about that.”

“So, it's true, then?” Gi-hun leans against the doorframe, chuckling softly. “I thought you had it all figured out, and here you were, standing at the wrong school. You had me thinking you were planning something terrible that day.”

“To be fair, the sunglasses probably didn’t help my case,” In-ho replies, his tone light. 

“Nope, not at all,” Gi-hun says, shaking his head. “The whole ‘serious guy in all black with sunglasses’ thing didn’t exactly scream ‘friendly parent.’”

In-ho smirks faintly, a rare softness easing into his features. “I’m aware of that by now.”

They fall into a brief, comfortable silence. The tension from before is gone now, replaced by something lighter.

“Anyway,” Gi-hun finally says, waving a hand, “I guess you’re off the hook, In-ho-ssi. But I’ll probably still keep an eye out. You know, just in case.”

In-ho's expression remains calm, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes. “Fair enough,” he says. “But maybe next time, give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“We’ll see,” Gi-hun replies with a grin. “I’ll think about it.”

The air between them feels easy now, the awkwardness of their earlier encounters fading into something more familiar. Whatever this is, it feels… manageable. 

Like maybe the next time they meet, it won’t be weird at all.

The next time they meet, it is weird.

Not weird like a tense, uncomfortable silence or some overly dramatic confrontation kind of way, but weird in a confusing, what the hell is happening kind of way.

Gi-hun had just dropped Ga-yeong off at school, the usual blur of kids and parents still fresh in his mind. He pulls into the restaurant parking lot, thinking about the day ahead, ready to dive into prep. But as he parks, he notices someone standing near the front door.

He squints, figuring it’s an early customer. It wouldn’t be the first time someone showed up before opening hours. But then the figure shifts slightly, and Gi-hun immediately recognizes the straight posture and the familiar black jacket.

Is that…

It is.

It’s Hwang In-ho.

Gi-hun blinks a few times like that might somehow change the scene in front of him. But it doesn’t. There In-ho stands, calm as ever, hands tucked in his pockets, waiting like he belongs there.

“What…?” Gi-hun mutters under his breath, pulling into his usual spot.

He steps out of the car and starts walking toward the restaurant. In-ho notices him immediately, nodding slightly in greeting.

“Gi-hun-ssi,” In-ho says, bowing slightly, his voice smooth as always.

“Hello, In-ho-ssi,” Gi-hun replies slowly, his mind still trying to catch up. He does a quick bow, just subtle enough to count as a greeting. “Uh… what are you doing here?”

“I’m early,” In-ho says, like that explains everything.

“Early for… what?” Gi-hun asks, genuinely baffled.

In-ho tilts his head slightly, as if amused by Gi-hun's confusion. “Breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Gi-hun echoes, his eyebrows rising. “You came all the way here for breakfast?”

“I don’t know a lot of places,” In-ho replies with a straight face.

Trying to read his expressions, Gi-hun stares at him for a moment. In-ho's face remains unchanged.

“And Yu-jin—my daughter’s school is nearby. You should probably know.”

He glances at his phone. It’s only 8:32 a.m.

“Right…” Gi-hun pauses for a moment, then says, “You’re a bit early. We don’t open for another hour and a half.”

“I figured,” In-ho says casually. “I don’t mind waiting.”

For more than an hour?

Of course, he does not mind. Of course, this man would somehow manage to be both mysterious and incredibly inconvenient. 

“Well, you don’t have to wait out here,” Gi-hun finally says. “You can come inside while we set up. I mean, if you don’t mind seeing some chaos in the kitchen.”

“Chaos?” In-ho repeats, one brow arching.

“You’ll see,” Gi-hun replies with a faint grin, gesturing toward the door.

In-ho follows him inside, and as they step into the restaurant, the familiar clatter and chatter of early prep work fill the air. The comforting warmth of simmering broth and fresh ingredients greets them, and for a moment, Gi-hun forgets how strange it is to have In-ho here this early.

Dae-ho is about to greet Gi-hun when he spots In-ho stepping in behind him. His eyes widen in surprise.

“Oh!” he says, blinking. “A returning customer! Look, sir… I am sorry, but the restaurant doesn’t open for another hour and a half.”

“He’s with me,” Gi-hun explains, waving a hand.

Dae-ho freezes, processing this, then looks at Gi-hun like he’s just sprouted a second head. “With you?”

Before Gi-hun can respond, Jung-bae appears from the kitchen. He glances between the two of them, raising an eyebrow. “A friend?” he says, trying and failing to whisper. “Of Gi-hun? Our Gi-hun?”

“This must be like a joint dream. You know, a dream where we are both dreaming about the same thing at the same time?” Dae-ho whispers back.

“Did you just make that up?”

“Hyung-nim, trust me. How else would you explain this?”

Gi-hun glares at them both. Is it really a whisper if he can hear them?

Jung-bae and Dae-ho exchange knowing looks before straightening up, clearly enjoying themselves.

“Anyway,” Gi-hun sighs, shaking his head, “this is Hwang In-ho. In-ho-ssi, these two are Dae-ho and Jung-bae. They work here with me.”

In-ho inclines his head politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” Jung-bae says, though his curiosity is obvious as he observes In-ho. “So you’re the early bird today, huh?”

“Don’t worry,” Dae-ho adds with a grin. “We’ll get you fed. We take good care of our VIPs.”

Gi-hun pinches the bridge of his nose. “God, you’re both insufferable.” He glances at In-ho, ignoring the chuckles from his friends. “I’ll be right back. I can get started on something now if you’re hungry. No point in making you wait for hours.”

“It’s fine,” In-ho replies, his voice calm. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“Yeah, well, I mind,” Gi-hun says, waving him off. “Give me a few minutes, I’ll make something simple.”

Without giving In-ho much chance to argue, Gi-hun turns and heads back to the kitchen. He ties his apron around his waist, settling on something quick but satisfying.

Kimchi fried rice. 

He pulls a container of aged kimchi from the fridge. Its sharp, tangy scent hitting the air as soon as he sets it on the counter. Grabbing a knife, he places the kimchi on the cutting board. The same white board he has used more times than he can count.

He hesitates briefly, eyes lingering on the faint red stains that refuse to wash away completely. No amount of scrubbing ever gets them out.

With a small sigh, he steadies himself and begins chopping, the soft crunch of the kimchi filling the room. The juices spread across the board in familiar red streaks. It’s messy, sure, but it’s a mess he understands. A mess that feels manageable. Predictable. 

Predictable is the closest thing he could get to safe.

When the kimchi fried rice is ready, Gi-hun plates it neatly, adding a fried egg on top. 

Gi-hun dries his hands on a towel and takes a deep breath. When he heads out, he immediately spots In-ho sitting exactly where he left him. Dae-ho, of course, is there too, leaning in like he’s mid-conversation.

“…don’t seem like a supervillain to me. More like a movie star,” Dae-ho says, gesturing animatedly.

“A supervillain,” In-ho echoes, his voice calm but with a hint of curiosity.

“I mean, I kinda see it,” Dae-ho replies with a shrug. “But yeah, movie star fits better. Like one of those brooding types, you know?” He trails off when he notices Gi-hun approaching, eyes lighting up mischievously. “Your food’s here! Enjoy, In-ho-ssi. I’ll be in the kitchen if you want me to elaborate on the whole movie star thing.”

Dae-ho stands and wiggles his eyebrows at Gi-hun as he walks past. Gi-hun frowns, already dreading whatever nonsense Dae-ho has in mind. He only makes that face when he’s up to no good.

In-ho watches the exchange with mild amusement. “I see what you meant earlier about the chaos,” he says, glancing at the plate as Gi-hun sets it down.

“Sorry about that,” Gi-hun says with an apologetic gesture toward the kitchen. “And, uh… the food. I just realized I never asked what you wanted. Kind of made the decision on my own.”

In-ho raises an eyebrow slightly, his expression still unreadable. “Kimchi fried rice?”

“Yeah. It’s simple, but familiar. Comfort food, you know?” Gi-hun shifts awkwardly, wiping his hands on the towel again out of habit. “Hope it’s okay.”

In-ho glances at him, then at the chair across from him. The look is subtle but clear. Gi-hun gets the message and sits down, feeling a bit sheepish as he settles in.

In-ho stirs the rice with his spoon, letting the steam rise between them. He takes a small bite, tasting it slowly. For a moment, his expression reveals nothing, but then he nods, chewing thoughtfully.

“It’s good,” he says after swallowing.

Gi-hun watches him closely. “Just good?”

In-ho doesn’t answer right away, just keeps eating. He hums softly in appreciation, which, honestly, is more than enough for Gi-hun. 

“Where’s your plate?” In-ho asks after a moment, glancing around like he’s expecting Gi-hun to make a second plate magically appear in front of him.

“I had breakfast,” Gi-hun replies. “It’s still early for lunch.”

In-ho pauses mid-bite, his brow furrowing slightly. “Yeah… I’m sorry about that. I didn’t really think about it. I guess I didn’t consider that the restaurant might not open as early as school starts.”

Gi-hun waves it off quickly. “No, no. That’s not what I—” He stumbles over his words and sighs. “What I meant was—I… I don’t mind. It’s fine.”

In-ho studies him for a second, but thankfully doesn’t push the topic. Instead, he takes another bite, the faint tension easing from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” In-ho says simply. He seems more relaxed now, the earlier awkwardness fading away.

The warmth from the kitchen drifts into the dining area, mingling with the rich scent of kimchi and garlic. It is calm, peaceful in a way that settles something inside him. He glances toward the kitchen, half-expecting Dae-ho to burst in and make things weird again, but for once, there’s only quiet.

“Next time, I’ll ask what you want beforehand,” Gi-hun finally says, breaking the silence.

“Next time?” In-ho repeats, raising an eyebrow but not in a way that feels challenging.

Gi-hun shrugs with a small grin. “Yeah. If you come back.”

In-ho cocks a brow, a slow smile creeping onto his face. “Is this what you were referring to that night?”

Gi-hun blinks, confused. “What?”

“When you said you make sure it’s a place people would come back to,” In-ho replies smoothly. “Feels like you’re holding me hostage at this point.”

He says it with a completely straight face, which throws Gi-hun off even more.

“What do you—What are you talking—No! I did not…” Gi-hun splutters, words tripping over each other. He trails off when he notices the faint shift in In-ho's expression, just enough to give away his amusement.

“… it was a joke, wasn’t it,” Gi-hun mutters, realization dawning.

In-ho leans back slightly, looking far too pleased with himself. “Gi-hun-ssi, you really should learn how to read expressions better.”

“How can I when you say a joke with a straight face?” Gi-hun huffs, exasperated.

In-ho doesn’t reply, just shrugs and continues eating.

Gi-hun watches him for a moment, his mind drifting back to their first meeting at the school gate. He feels a twinge of guilt. He had judged In-ho too quickly, and assumed the worst just because the man looked serious and out of place. But now, sitting here, sharing quiet moments and half-teasing conversations, he realizes In-ho isn’t so bad.

When In-ho finishes his meal, he stands, smoothing his sleeves. Gi-hun rises with him, trailing behind as In-ho walks toward the counter, pulling out his wallet.

“You don’t have to do that,” Gi-hun says.

In-ho raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Pay,” Gi-hun clarifies. “It’s on me.”

A moment passes before realization flickers across In-ho's face. He frowns slightly and shakes his head. “No, I can’t accept that. Here.” He tries to hand Gi-hun some cash.

Gi-hun gestures toward the door, brushing off the offer. “The restaurant’s still closed, so technically you aren’t a customer.”

In-ho's eyes narrow slightly, his tone soft but insistent. “Gi-hun-ssi…”

“Save it,” Gi-hun interrupts, waving him off. “Just count it as an apology for last time.”

“I’m not sure how this is good for your business,” In-ho remarks, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s kimchi fried rice,” Gi-hun deadpans. “It’s fine.”

In-ho studies him for a moment, his gaze steady. Then, he gives a small nod. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Gi-hun replies casually.

“It was good,” In-ho adds, his tone sincere.

Gi-hun smiles, warmth blooming quietly in his chest. “Glad to hear that.”

In-ho adjusts his sleeves and glances toward the door. “I’ll get going now. See you around, Gi-hun-ssi.”

“Yeah. See you,” Gi-hun replies, watching as In-ho heads toward the exit.

The door barely closes behind him when Dae-ho bursts out of the kitchen, wearing that smug, mischievous grin that makes Gi-hun want to shove him back inside.

“Well, well,” Dae-ho drawls, leaning against the counter with a playful glint in his eye. “A returning customer, huh? And you let him eat for free? Should I be worried about this special treatment?”

“Dae-ho,” Gi-hun warns, already exasperated.

Dae-ho just wiggles his eyebrows, clearly enjoying himself. “I mean, I get it. Movie star vibes, mysterious aura, a little broody-”

“Dae-ho,” Gi-hun repeats, his voice firmer. “Do you not have anything to do?”

Dae-ho chuckles. “Fine, fine. But I’m keeping an eye on this whole situation, hyung-nim. My eyes are wide open.”

“Good for you,” Gi-hun mutters, shaking his head as he turns and walks back into the kitchen, ignoring the sound of Dae-ho's laughter behind him.

The warmth from earlier still lingers as he steps inside, grounding him in the familiar rhythm of the kitchen. Maybe today really wasn’t so bad after all.

“Gi-hun-ah,” Jung-bae starts. “What-”

Gi-hun raises his hand. “Do not start.”

“Okay, okay,” Jung-bae laughs, returning to his counter.

He glances toward the sink, suddenly remembering that he hasn’t washed it. The cutting board sits there, streaked with red stains that won’t ever fully wash out. He exhales quietly. Later. He’ll scrub it again later.

For now, he focuses on preparing the ingredients.

Later. 

He’ll do it later.

Even if he knows that no matter how much he scrubs or how much soap he uses, the red stains will always remain. He’ll still try, still fight against the stain, as if somehow, this time, it might come off.

Later. He’ll do it later.

For now, he has food to serve and a restaurant to run. And maybe, just maybe, a new face to see again soon.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun often thinks his life has no meaning.

After the games, he felt like he’d never be the same again. Like an empty shell, his entire being eaten alive by everything he witnessed and endured. The essence of living had been stripped away from him, leaving nothing but a deep ache and memories he wishes he never had.

But then, Ga-yeong. 

He remembers Ga-yeong, and suddenly, he feels whole again. Complete. Like a turtle under the safety and comfort of its shell. Grounded. Like a ship with a hook. As if him being a father to his daughter is the anchor that keeps him steady when he might otherwise drift away.

That’s not to say raising her is easy. Oh, no. Some days prove to be more difficult than others. During those days, she’d test every ounce of whatever patience he has left and poke at his nerves with a mastery that can only come from years of knowing exactly which spots would earn the best reaction.

Today is starting to look like one of those days.

He feels Ga-yeong's eyes on him. He doesn’t have to look to know she’s studying him, a look of curiosity and mischief probably present on her face. That look is never good. It always means trouble, or at least an exhausting conversation masked as curiosity.

He briefly considers ignoring her, thinking she might get bored and move on. But after five more minutes of silence, he realizes that won’t be the case. He sighs.

“Fine. Just go ahead and say it,” he says without looking up.

“Say what?” she replies, her voice way too innocent.

“You’ve been staring at me for fifteen minutes, Ga-yeong-ah. I know you want to say something. What is it?”

“What could you possibly mean?” she sighs dramatically.

“Sure.” Gi-hun raises an eyebrow. He does not believe it one bit. “Alright then. Fine-”

“Who’s the new friend?”

There it is. He exhales through his nose, already regretting engaging in this conversation.

“What new friend?”

“You know who I'm talking about,” she huffs. “A man close to your age. Looks like he came straight out of a movie. Good hair. Wears black. Come on, what's the point in denying it, really?”

He groans internally and turns back to the stove, pretending to check the heat. “He came to the restaurant twice. You’re making it sound like we’ve suddenly become best friends.”

“Twice,” she echoes dramatically, dragging the word. “And one of those times, you gave him a free meal. Everyone’s talking about your mysterious new friend now.”

“Dae-ho is a terrible influence to be around with,” he mutters.

She hums in amusement, resting her chin on her hands. “So, when’s he coming back?”

“Dae-ho? Hopefully never.”

“Not him! Him! The guy! Is it the same one I saw by the food truck? The supervillain?” 

“Your homework. Is it done?” he quips, attempting to change the subject.

“Almost.” Ga-yeong shrugs, a huge grin still on her face. “So… when is he coming back?”

Attempt to change the subject: failed.

“Why would I know that? And why does it matter?”

“Why does it matter?” she repeats, finding the question ridiculous. Before Gi-hun could say another word, she stands up exaggeratedly and raises her finger like she’s about to say something groundbreaking. “You never really had anyone else around but us. So, when someone new shows up, it matters.”

Gi-hun snorts. “It shouldn’t matter. He’s just a customer.”

“A customer,” Ga-yeong hums. “I heard you didn’t let him pay.”

Gi-hun groans. He doesn’t need to look at her to picture the wide shit-eating grin her daughter has on her face right now.

“I’ll be expecting Dae-ho's resignation by tomorrow morning,” he mutters.

“You never let anyone get a free meal. Your most loyal customers get, what, a 20% discount once a year? Uncle Jung-bae calls you a cheapskate all the time!”

“It’s called courtesy,” Gi-hun says, rubbing his temple with his clean hand. “And again, he’s just a customer.”

Ga-yeong hums, clearly unconvinced. She leans forward, her grin widening. “It might be good for you, Appa."

Gi-hun raises his eyebrows, "What might be good for me?"

"To get a new friend."

Gi-hun scoffs, shaking his head as he pretends to stirs the pot. “Like I said, he’s just a customer.”

“A customer that might become a regular,” Ga-yeong points out.

“Good for the business, then,” Gi-hun replies simply. “Means he likes the food.”

“Maybe he likes the chef,” she counters, obviously not giving up.

“Yah,” he warns, pointing the wooden spoon at her. “How far have you gone in your homework?”

She giggles, ignoring the question. “I’m serious! Name someone you’ve hung out with recently. Uncle Jung-bae and Uncle Dae-ho don’t count. They’re practically glued to you.”

“Why wouldn’t they be glued to me? I work with them.”

“Exactly. When was the last time you made a friend? A friend whose face I don’t see in the restaurant.” 

Gi-hun notices the lack of teasing in the question. How, ever since this conversation started, obvious Ga-yeong's curiosity is. 

He pauses, letting the question hang in the air. The question feels like an uninvited guest to his calm mind. Something that came unexpectedly. He didn’t want to wander into dangerous territory, especially not on a calm weekend like this. 

But the thought is already there, knocking on the locked door of his brain, begging to be let in. Waiting, no, poking for him to acknowledge it. 

When was the last time he made a friend outside of work?  

A friend.  

Arms around him, warm and shaky, assuring him everything would be okay.  

The sound of a gunshot echoing in his ears as he walks away. The ugly feeling of guilt and regret settling in his chest.

A voice, soft and weak, interrupting his impulsive plan. Don’t do it. This isn’t you. You’re a good person at heart. 

A white bedsheet, now stained red. A body that wasn’t supposed to go cold. A body that was once full of dreams.  

Rain and blood on his lips, salty and metallic.  

The sting of a wound that never quite healed.  

A knife in his palm. A knife in a friend’s neck.  

A friend.  

His throat tightens, the memories successfully breaking down the barrier he built in his mind. The walls. The locked door. The promise he made to himself that he would not let any uninvited guest visit him during the calmest days of the week.

He grips the edge of the counter, grounding himself in the here and now. He doesn’t need this right now. Not here. Not today. Not ever.

His jaw tightens. He gives the pot another stir, focusing on the smell of garlic and soybean paste. Something simple. Something grounding. Friends outside of work. Yeah. He remembers now why he stopped making those.

“See?” she says triumphantly. “It matters. He’s not just a customer. He’s someone new. And new is good.”

“New is hard,” Gi-hun mutters, stirring the pot a little more aggressively than necessary.

“Only because you make it that way,” she replies. “Seriously, Appa, you could use some socializing.”

“Socializing?” he repeats with a snort. “I get plenty of that with you, Jung-bae, and Dae-ho's nonsense.”

“Sure.” She stands up and stretches, still smirking. “Anyway, I’m just saying… You could use a change of pace. Who knows? Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

“I don’t know,” he mutters under his breath. 

With one last teasing smile, Ga-yeong heads off, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He stares at the steam rising from the pot, her words echoing quietly in his mind.

New isn’t bad. It’s just… unfamiliar. And unfamiliar is, well, unsafe.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when In-ho comes back. And, much to Gi-hun's dismay, it’s also the same day Ga-yeong decided to stay at the restaurant after school instead of going home.

She claimed she had homework that she’d accomplish faster here than at home, but Gi-hun knew better. He knew she liked hanging out with Dae-ho and Jung-bae, who were more like overgrown kids than role models. 

Worse, he knew exactly what would happen if she saw In-ho.

Teasing. Endless teasing.

He’s rolling up his sleeves when he spots a familiar figure through the window. Tall posture. Black jacket. Sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, even though there’s no sun out today. His heart sinks just a little.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

Before he can even retreat to the kitchen and hide from whatever mess that is about to happen, Dae-ho appears from the corner. 

“Is that him?” Dae-ho asks, his voice low but unmistakably amused. The knowing grin on his face is more than enough to guess what he’s probably thinking. He nudges Jung-bae with his elbow. “Our VIP is back.”

Jung-bae chuckles softly as he glances toward the window. “Someone’s early again.”

“Maybe he’s here to settle his debt for that free meal,” Dae-ho says, crossing his arms with a playful smirk. He faces Gi-hun. “Or maybe you’ve finally managed to make a new friend.”

Gi-hun groans. “I let him have one free meal. One.”

Jung-bae chuckles, shaking his head. “Come on, Gi-hun. You’re cheaper than a 50% holiday sale. You didn’t even give me a discount on my birthday.”

“Exactly!” Dae-ho nods. “And now this guy shows up twice, and suddenly, it’s all ‘Oh, the meal’s on me. Your wallet? Yeah, put that back. You won’t need it anyway. I got this,’ You can’t blame us for being curious.”

“It’s called hospitality,” Gi-hun scoffs, though the heat rising in his face says otherwise.

“Sure,” Jung-bae drawls. “Hospitality for one person. More like special treatment.”

“It’s normal treatment,” Gi-hun grumbles. He waves them off and starts toward the door. “Both of you need to stop talking before I fire you.”

The teasing fades behind him as Gi-hun steps outside, exhaling quietly into the cool afternoon air.

It's only then that he notices another figure standing beside In-ho. It’s his daughter (Yu-jin, he remembers him mentioning before), her posture polite but curious. His gaze softens slightly at the sight of her, and the tension from the teasing slips away.

“In-ho-ssi,” he greets, offering a nod before his gaze shifts to Yu-jin.

“I got the time wrong again, didn’t I?” In-ho asks, breaking the silence.

“Only by thirty minutes,” Gi-hun replies with a shrug. He gestures toward Yu-jin with a warm smile. “And this must be your daughter?”

In-ho nods. “Yu-jin, this is Seong Gi-hun. He runs the restaurant.”

“Nice to meet you,” Yu-jin gives him a polite bow.

“Nice to meet you too,” Gi-hun replies. “Come on in. We’re not open for dinner yet, but you can hang out inside. It’s warmer.”

In-ho shakes his head lightly. “It’s alright. We didn’t know you weren’t opening for another thirty minutes. We can walk around the area and come back.”

“And have her freezing out there?” Gi-hun crosses his arms. “Look, it’s warm inside.”

In-ho hesitates, glancing at Yu-jin. “I’m sure it is. But, you will be preparing. We don’t want to get in the way.”

“You won’t be getting in the way. It’s fine, just… Just come in,” Gi-hun insists, holding the door open a little wider. “Seriously, no big deal.”

In-ho sighs, relenting at last. “Alright. If you say so.”

“I say so,” Gi-hun replies with a grin.

“Thank you, ahjusshi,” Yu-jin says with a polite bow.

With a slight nod of thanks, In-ho follows him inside, Yu-jin trailing behind. Gi-hun braces himself for whatever teasing Dae-ho and Jung-bae might throw his way next. 

Unexpectedly (or maybe not so unexpectedly, depending on how you look at it), it isn’t Dae-ho or Jung-bae who makes a comment first. It’s Ga-yeong.

The moment Gi-hun guides In-ho and Yu-jin at a table, she’s right there. She looks at the three of them, eyes glistening with curiosity. Gi-hun catches the grin slowly forming in her mouth and sighs inwardly. Here it goes.

"Hi! You must be-"

"Hungry," Gi-hun cuts in quickly. "They must be hungry. Come on, Ga-yeong. Let’s get them food."

But of course, Ga-yeong isn’t deterred. She just crosses her arms and stays put. "Hi, I’m Ga-yeong. I’ve heard a lot of things about you," she says directly to In-ho, her smile widening with amusement.

Gi-hun groans quietly under his breath. “Ga-yeong,” he mutters, giving her a look that practically screams stop talking.

In-ho, to his credit, raises an eyebrow but stays composed. “Oh? A lot of things?”

“Yeah,” she continues cheerfully. “Mysterious guy with suspiciously good hair and movie star vibes—oh! And my dad let you eat for free. That almost never happens."

“Ga-yeong,” he warns. “What about your homework?”

"It’s done," she shrugs. Then, before Gi-hun can utter a response, she walks away. 

Gi-hun rubs his temple, sighing. He glances at In-ho, who's now watching him with barely-there amusement.

“She’s… curious,” Gi-hun offers weakly, avoiding eye contact.

In-ho chuckles softly. “I can tell.”

In an attempt to brush the awkwardness off, Gi-hun clears his throat and straightens up. “So. What can I get for you two?”

In-ho shakes his head lightly. "It’s fine. We can wait until the restaurant opens. No need to trouble yourself."

Gi-hun waves a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. There’s only a few minutes left before we officially open anyway. Doesn’t matter.”

Before In-ho can respond, Yu-jin pipes up shyly, “My dad said the kimchi fried rice was good. Maybe a dumpling too, please…”

“Kimchi rice and dumplings? Easy,” Gi-hun says, smiling softly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Thank you,” she replies, giving him a polite bow.

“No problem. It’ll be ready in no time,” Gi-hun assures her.

From the kitchen doorway, Ga-yeong's voice cuts in with perfect comedic timing. “Appa makes the best kimchi fried rice. Everyone talks about it.”

Before Yu-jin can muster a response to Ga-yeong's introduction, she hesitates, shyly glancing between her father and the older girl. Finally, she gives a small nod in acknowledgment, keeping quiet.

Ga-yeong grins. She starts walking closer again, away from the kitchen and back to the table. Gi-hun sighs. “How old are you? What grade are you in? Do you study nearby?”

“Um, yes… I study nearby. I’m 10. I’m in fifth grade,” Yu-jin replies softly after a moment. 

“Cool! I’m in seventh,” Ga-yeong says, her tone easy and welcoming. “If you’re ever bored and need someone to play with, let me know. I can show you around.”

Yu-jin glances at her father for reassurance before offering a small, grateful smile. “Okay… thank you.”

"See?" Ga-yeong throws a triumphant glance at her dad. “I’m just being an accommodating host, Appa. You don’t have to worry too much."

“Alright, host, lets leave our guests to eat.” He raises his eyebrows in warning.

“Okay, okay,” she chuckles. “I’m going.”

Gi-hun doesn’t leave right away. Ga-yeong stays put too, her attention fixed on Yu-jin as she tries to spark another conversation. For a second, Yu-jin hesitates. And then, after a beat, she laughs.

He glances at In-ho and catches the way his expression softens as he observes his daughter. There’s fondness in his gaze, subtle but unmistakable. Gi-hun wonders if he looks the same. He probably does.

His eyes linger on In-ho's face, noting the way the warmth in his expression smooths out the sharpness of his features. He looks different like this. Less guarded, more at ease. It suits him.

He must have been staring for a long time, long enough for In-ho to notice. Because when he looks up and catches him staring, he raises an eyebrow. His expression is unreadable as usual.

Gi-hun clears his throat, muttering under his breath something about the food and how he needs to go ahead and start preparing. He goes back to the kitchen before he gets a reply, before things get weird.

Back inside, he busies himself, gathering the ingredients for the rice and dumplings. His hands move on autopilot, his mind only focusing on the ingredients before him. And then, when he finishes, his mind drifts to the conversation he had with Ga-yeong.

When’s the last time you made a friend?

He had brushed it off then, but now he finds himself asking the same question.

As it turns out, Ga-yeong is more of a social butterfly than Gi-hun ever was. Maybe her whole lecture about making friends was less for him and more for herself, seeing how easily she’s befriended Yu-jin.

It’s the fourth time Yu-jin has come by the restaurant. While she had been reserved at first, she’s warmed up eventually. Now, the two girls have claimed their own table, chatting and laughing like old friends. They barely glance over at their fathers, leaving In-ho alone at his table.

“Sorry about Ga-yeong,” Gi-hun says as he sits across from In-ho. 

The restaurant isn’t busy tonight. It’s one of those slower evenings where he can actually sit and breathe for a moment.

In-ho waves him off. “It’s fine. Yu-jin's quite shy, even with children her age. It’s nice seeing her like this. I’m sure being around with just me and my brother gets boring.”

“Boring? You?” Gi-hun gasps dramatically. “You can’t seriously think you’re anything but entertaining. I mean, look at you! Totally not serious and super fun.”

In-ho gives him a deadpan look. “Totally,” he mutters.

“There! See? Your face might be void of any emotion right now, but I know you’re laughing. Internally,” Gi-hun teases.

In-ho shakes his head lightly. There’s a small smile there, but Gi-hun catches it.

The moment hangs comfortably between them, light and comfortable. In-ho's gaze shifts to the girls again. Yu-jin giggles at something Ga-yeong says, and his expression softens almost immediately.

“I owe one to your daughter. Yu-jin needed someone like her to be around,” In-ho says softly, and if Gi-hun wasn’t paying attention, he wouldn’t have heard it. “At least she is around with someone who isn’t so serious all the time.”

Gi-hun follows his gaze and nods. “Yeah, same for Ga-yeong. It’s rare to see her connect easily with someone. So, this is nice.” He pauses, then adds with a smirk, “Though when she gets comfortable with someone, it’s hard to control her.”

“I’ve noticed,” In-ho says with a quiet chuckle. 

“Don’t let her fool you,” Gi-hun warns. “She has great interrogation skills. Be aware, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” In-ho replies. He glances at the door briefly before turning back to Gi-hun. “At least she’s friendlier than you were. When you did the interrogating, you skipped to the confrontation part. There are steps to that, you know. Didn’t even bother collecting evidence.”

Gi-hun groans softly, running a hand over his face. “Are you really bringing that up?”

“Just saying,” In-ho shrugs, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “I wasn’t even doing anything, and you were ready to file a full report on me.”

“Okay, first of all, you were suspicious,” Gi-hun defends.

“You could have handled the situation properly. Should have started with the first step: asking,” In-ho counters, his tone teasing.

“I asked!” 

“Accused.”

Gi-hun sighs, “You’ll be holding this against me forever, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

Gi-hun chuckles softly, finally relaxing as the tension from that first encounter feels like a distant memory now.

“So… you mentioned your brother,” Gi-hun begins, steering the conversation elsewhere. “He can not be as serious as you, can he?”

In-ho huffs softly. “Jun-ho? He can be... complicated. He’s a bit livelier than I am. But sometimes, he likes to follow my lead. So he tends to copy the seriousness sometimes.”

“So one version of you isn’t enough,” Gi-hun says, leaning forward slightly. “You ever try, you know, not to be serious all the time?”

In-ho raises a brow. “Like you?”

“Exactly. Look at me. Happy, charming, incredibly relaxed,” Gi-hun jokes, spreading his arms theatrically.

“You forgot modest and non judgemental,” In-ho deadpans.

“Ah, you noticed.” Gi-hun taps the table with his finger. “You’ve got a sense of humor. You just hide it well.”

“Don’t let anyone else know,” In-ho replies, his lips twitching faintly.

“I’ll think about it,” Gi-hun says with a grin, leaning back in his chair.

They lapse into a comfortable silence. It’s peaceful in a way neither of them seems to mind.

“This is a nice place,” In-ho remarks, his tone sincere.

“It is.” Pride glimmers in Gi-hun's expression. “I’m sure I mentioned it before, but this… I had to start it over from scratch. It all worked out in the end, though. Thankfully.”

In-ho hums thoughtfully. “Starting over is never easy.”

“No,” Gi-hun agrees softly. He doesn’t elaborate, and In-ho doesn't say anything more.

“Appa, we’re done eating!” Ga-yeong's voice cuts through the moment, breaking the silence between them. They both turn to see her standing by their table with Yu-jin beside her. Yu-jin gives a small, polite bow.

“Already?” Gi-hun blinks, glancing at the clock. Time flew faster than he thought.

“Yup! Can we hang out outside for a bit? By the swings?” Ga-yeong asks.

Gi-hun briefly looks at In-ho and studies his expression. When he doesn’t make any signs of disagreement, he looks back at his daughter and nods. 

“Wear your jacket. It’s cold,” Gi-hun warns.

“We will!” she promises, tugging Yu-jin toward the door.

As the girls head outside, Gi-hun notices the small smile on In-ho's face as he watches his daughter go.

“Don’t worry, Ga-yeong will take care of her,” Gi-hun says softly.

“I don’t doubt it,” In-ho replies, his voice quiet.

They sit in peaceful silence for a moment before Gi-hun stands. “Want something sweet to finish off the night? It’s on the house.”

The words leave his mouth naturally, like something he says all the time. But as soon as they’re out, Dae-ho's teasing voice and Jung-bae's knowing smirk flash through his mind. For a brief second, he hesitates.

What is he doing, really?

But before he can take it back and  brush it off as a joke, In-ho lets out a quiet sound of amusement.

Gi-hun watches as he raises a brow, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Is this a special offer for suspiciously-looking customers?”

“Only for the ones who smile once in a while,” Gi-hun quips, already heading toward the kitchen.

In-ho chuckles softly under his breath, the sound light and easy. Gi-hun smiles to himself as he disappears behind the kitchen door, the warmth of the moment following him inside.

He considers the idea of a friend again.

“Yu-jin and I are kind of similar,” Ga-yeong blurts out one night. 

It was a Saturday evening, and Saturdays usually mean late night snacks in the living room while they watch a movie.

Ga-yeong always insists she’s too grown-up for them now, yet she’s the one who picks out what movie to watch every single time anyway. Because, despite her protests, it’s tradition. A weekly routine they can call theirs. Gi-hun doesn’t believe for a second that she’s outgrown it.

”Hm? Similar how?” He grabs a handful of popcorn, Ga-yeong throwing him an unimpressed look when he stuffs it all in his mouth.

She turns back to the screen, her voice quieter this time. “She lost her mom too.”

And, despite his mouth still full of popcorn, Gi-hun goes completely still. 

“But unlike me, she never met hers,” Ga-yeong continues. “She has pictures, though. Her mom was pretty.”

The words settle heavily between them, the light from the television flickering across Ga-yeong's face. Gi-hun slowly swallows his food, the sound of dialogue and sound effects from the screen ringing in his ear.

He hesitates to reply. In fact, he has no idea how or what to reply. 

Finally, he manages a soft, "Really?"

Ga-yeong nods, still looking at the screen. “Yeah. She showed me yesterday. Asked me if she looks like her.” She pauses. “I told her she does.”

Gi-hun exhales quietly, shifting on the couch. “That was nice of you.”

”Was just telling her the truth.” Ga-yeong leans back against the couch and grabs a pillow, hugging it tightly. “It’s different for her, though. I mean, I still remember my mom. I still remember what her voice sounded like. How she used to brush my hair. The usual smell of her clothes. But Yu-jin… she doesn’t have any of that. No memories to miss or look back on.”

Gi-hun feels his chest tighten. He doesn’t have to ask how they got onto this topic. He should have seen it coming the moment she said they were similar. 

He clears his throat. “Does she ever talk to you about it?”

Ga-yeong shrugs. “Briefly asks me what it’s like but… not too much. I think she doesn’t want to make her dad sad.”

Gi-hun feels a little useless. He’s at a loss for words, has no idea what the right thing to say here is. But before he can utter a response, Ga-yeong speaks again. 

“Yu-jin seems happy and content, though,” she says, turning her face to look at him directly. “Even if it’s just the two of them. She loves and cares about his dad a lot.”

Ga-yeong gives her a sweet smile, and something about the way she says it makes Gi-hun's throat feel tight. 

”…Yeah?”

”Yeah.” Ga-yeong's grin grows bigger this time, then reaches for the popcorn. “Her dad loves her just as much. I told her it’s enough.”

Gi-hun watches as she pops a handful of popcorn into her mouth in a similar manner he did a while ago. She turns back toward the screen so casually, as if she didn’t say something that Gi-hun would stay up late thinking about tonight. 

They stay like that for the rest of the night. With Ga-yeong making random comments about how ridiculously childish the movie is (Gi-hun doesn’t make a comment when he saw her wiping down a tear), and Gi-hun replaying the conversation in his head over and over again.

His daughter gained a new friend, and Gi-hun briefly wonders if he could say the same thing about himself, too. 

At some point, Gi-hun stops wondering. 

He doesn’t know exactly when and how it happens. All he knows is that the realization came unexpectedly on a random Friday night.

The restaurant is closed for the day. Before Jung-bae and Dae-ho leave, their eyes linger for a beat too long as if to observe him and In-ho. They don’t say anything, but the look on their faces is enough for Gi-hun to figure out what they’re thinking. Gi-hun pointedly ignores them.

In-ho hasn’t left yet. Their daughters are still hanging out by the swings, laughing at some funny story. Gi-hun and In-ho both sit at a table by the windows, where they could see them. It’s easy, watching them like this. Comfortable.

There’s a bottle of unopened soju between them. Neither of them makes a move to drink it.

“You’re lucky. Yu-jin is a good kid,” Gi-hun says after a while.

In-ho hums, tapping his glass with his finger. “You talk as if you aren’t lucky yourself.”

“No, I know I am. But I mean it. She has you. She’s lucky.”

In-ho doesn’t reply immediately. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I’m lucky to have her, yes. But the other way around, I’m not too sure.”

Gi-hun frowns. ”You’re a good dad.”

In-ho lets out a deep breath. ”I don’t think I can say that either.”

“Why not?” Gi-hun asks. “You’re here. You’re with her. You take care of her. You make sure she gets to school safely. Makes sure she gets home safely. That’s enough.”

In-ho doesn’t answer right away. His expression shifts, something unspoken passing over his face. Gi-hun doesn’t push. Instead, he grabs the soju bottle and pours until In-ho's glass is nearly full.

In-ho watches the liquid rise before picking it up and taking a drink. He sets the glass down with a quiet sigh.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m not giving her the life she deserves.”

Gi-hun watches him, feeling the weight of the words settle in his chest. In-ho is opening up. And strangely enough, it’s starting to sound like a topic that Gi-hun of all people could easily understand. “How so?”

“She deserves stability. And I can't offer her that. I mean, look at us, we just moved here.”

Gi-hun takes a slow sip of his drink, letting In-ho's words settle between them. 

“She has you. She has your brother,” he finally says. “That counts for something.”

In-ho lets out a humorless laugh. “She’s ten. She’s at the period of her life where she should be making solid friendships and feeling safe in a place she knows well. Instead, I keep dragging her from one place to another. Depriving her of something permanent. Secure.”

Gi-hun watches the man for a moment. Then, he glances out the window, where Ga-yeong and Yu-jin are. Yu-jin is laughing at something Ga-yeong said. “She doesn’t look miserable.”

In-ho follows his gaze, expression softening for a second before shaking his head. “She’s adaptable. She has to be. But I see it. I’m sure you do, too.”

“See what?”

“The way she hesitates before making friends. How she holds back.” He downs the soju in one go. “I don’t want her to get used to it. The feeling that she’s always one step away from leaving everything behind.”

“You’re trying,” Gi-hun says. “Not everyone tries.”

“Trying doesn’t fix everything.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Gi-hun agrees. “But it’s better than not doing anything. And doing nothing is worse. Leads you to places that leave you not feeling the same about anything anymore.”

In-ho holds his stare for a beat longer than he should. “You talk like you’ve been to hell and came back.”

“You have no idea. Plus, you won’t believe it,” Gi-hun lets out a dry laugh. “I’ve been somewhere worse than hell.”

In-ho's fingers tighten around his glass, his grip a little firm, enough for Gi-hun to notice. He stays silent for a while, his gaze lingering on the view outside the window. As if he’s thinking of the right words to say.

And then, after a moment, he speaks. His voice is softer, almost thoughtful. 

”Worse than hell,” he repeats. “Hm. We might be more similar than I thought. I might have been there, too.”

Gi-hun catches the way he says it. How uncasual it sounded. It doesn’t sound like something people who've had a rough week would say. There is a heavy weight in his tone, something that Gi-hun recognizes too well. 

He studies In-ho properly now, noting the slight tension in his shoulders and the way his fingers wrap tightly around his glass.

Maybe he’s been there, too. 

Not the same hell, of course not.

Not the kind of hell that involves masked men in pink uniforms, brightly colored hallways, and eerie, childlike music. There are different kinds of hell, different kinds of torture that leave people bruised and battered yet alive. 

"But you made it out," Gi-hun says. 

"I did," In-ho replies, soft and quiet.

"I made it out, too."

"I can see that."

Gi-hun doesn't push. Whatever it is that lingers between them, between this conversation, it's enough. Somewhere in the silence, there's an understanding. Quiet. Unspoken. But there.

Silence settles between them, deafening but not uncomfortable. Like a new type of sound he could get used to. Outside the restaurant, their daughters are still playing. They’re laughing over something Ga-yeong has on her phone. He briefly wonders if it’s another embarrassing photo of him. She loves taking those and showing it to her friends. 

“For them,” Gi-hun finally says. 

In-ho lifts his glass slightly. “Yeah,” he agrees. “For them.”

Gi-hun thinks back to his conversation with Ga-yeong, to the teasing, the nudging, the way she’d grinned at him like she knew something he didn’t.

Maybe she was right. Maybe he was making a new friend.

He stops wondering. Accepts it for what it is. No images appear. No memories try to break into his mind. No shadows creep in from the past.

Just this.

A friend.

Chapter Text

There's a shift.

Gi-hun can’t remember the last time he laughed like this. The kind of laugh that steals his breath from his lungs until his ribs ache. For so long, he’s kept himself contained, never letting go, never allowing himself to sink into the moment. Because somewhere deep inside, a voice tells him he shouldn’t. That he doesn’t deserve to.

To laugh.

To be free.

To forget, even for a moment, everything that brought him here. To this warm home, to walls painted soft peach, and to a normal life with his daughter.

So when a loud, unexpected laugh escapes his mouth, even Ga-yeong turns to look at him like he’s lost his mind.

It wasn’t planned, this whole thing. One night, after dinner at the restaurant, he’d asked for In-ho’s number. It was practical, he told himself. Something normal. Something reasonable. Parents do it all the time. They exchange numbers, introduce themselves, and stay in touch for emergencies. It’s for the safety of their children. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Yu-jin and Ga-yeong don’t even go to the same school," In-ho had pointed out, but he still took Gi-hun’s phone, typing in his number without hesitation.

Gi-hun, caught, had sputtered, "Yeah but, you know, it’s... Okay. I mean, it doesn’t even have to be about them! What if you wanted to order food in advance?"

In-ho had only smirked, handing the phone back.

And that was how it started.

At first, it was just check-ins about their daughters and occasional last-minute kimchi fried rice orders. But somewhere along the way, the messages stopped being just about the kids or the food.

Sometimes, it’s about the most random things. Something like:

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶️ (3:23 p.m.)

I can't dance.

Gi-hun stares at his screen. It’s 3 p.m. on a Saturday. It’s a Saturday and In-ho is texting him about his dancing skills, or lack thereof. Gi-hun shifts in his seat, carefully looking back on what he might have missed. Since when did they talk about dancing?

Gi-hun (3:30 p.m.)

Okay? Me neither. Thanks for sharing?

He frowns, wondering what this is about, when a series of messages pop up.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶️ (3:31 p.m.)

Yu-jin is forcing me to learn a dance. Says it’s on trend right now.

She’s going to post it on an app.

Where everyone can see.

I might need your assistance.

What is the best course of action for this?

For a moment, all he does is blink. Then, before he can stop it, the laugh bursts out of him.

Ga-yeong immediately side-eyes him. “Are you okay?”

He waves a hand, still trying to catch his breath. “No. Absolutely not.”

He types back, still grinning.

Gi-hun (3:36 p.m.)

Course of action? What’s this, a case study?

I’d pay good money to see you dance

Actually no 

That kind of entertainment should be free for the world

In-ho replies almost instantly.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶️ (3:36 p.m.)

The show is over before it even started.

Which, of course, only makes Gi-hun laugh harder.

Gi-hun (3:38 p.m.)

You’re quitting already?

Coward

This time, there’s a longer pause. He imagines In-ho scowling at his phone, debating whether or not this conversation is worth his energy. Then, finally, he replies.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶️ (3:54 p.m.)

I’d rather die than let you see any video recording of me.

Gi-hun snorts, shaking his head.

Gi-hun (3:55 p.m.)

Too late

I can already picture it

Nice moves you got there

Another pause.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶️ (4:10 p.m.)

Delete that image from your brain immediately.

Gi-hun (4:12 p.m.)

Can’t sorry

It’s burned into my memory forever

Across the room, Ga-yeong is still watching him, her suspicion growing.

"Okay, now I have to know. Who’s texting you?"

"Nobody," he says, way too fast. He pockets his phone before she can get any closer.

She narrows her eyes. "Wait… are you finally on those dating apps?"

Gi-hun makes a choking noise. "What? No!"

"Then why are you acting weird?"

"I’m not acting weird!"

"You’re literally acting so weird."

She reaches for his phone, and he yelps, darting it out of her reach. "Yah! Hands off!"

Ga-yeong cackles, clearly enjoying this way too much. She shakes her head, and Gi-hun is thankful that she’s giving up. When she plops back to her seat though, she gives Gi-hun another smirk. 

"Very suspicious," she sing-songs. 

Gi-hun exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. This kid.

His phone buzzes again.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶️ (4:26 p.m.)

I’m deleting your number.

He grins, flopping back against the chair.

Gi-hun (4:27 p.m.)

Sure. But first, send me a video of you dancing :D

This time, there’s no response, which only makes Gi-hun laugh harder, the sound slipping out before he can stop it. He shakes his head, setting his phone down, still grinning like an idiot.  

Somewhere along the way, texting In-ho stopped feeling like a polite obligation and started feeling like second nature. He doesn’t know exactly when it happened. When their conversations stopped revolving around their daughters and started stretching into something else. Something easy. But it did.  

And it’s nice.

Spending time with In-ho has become so natural that Gi-hun barely notices the change. Somewhere between the restaurant visits, the teasing exchanges, and the quiet moments where neither of them felt the need to fill the silence, In-ho became someone he communicated with constantly. And, as much as he would like to deny it in front of Jung-bae and Dae-ho, it’s the truth.

Of course, they notice. And they don’t let him live it down.

"You finally gonna admit that the movie star guy is someone that matters now?" Jung-bae asks one afternoon, casually leaning against the counter as he watches Gi-hun prepare ingredients for dinner.

Gi-hun scoffs, slicing carrots with a little too much force. "We’re not having this conversation again."

Jung-bae snorts. "So, what’s up? And don’t tell me he’s just a customer. Like, yeah, a customer that you let eat for free. A customer you served free dessert. And who keeps showing up. And who texts you. And who-"

"-is always here," Dae-ho cuts in, grinning. "Seriously, has he ever tried going to other restaurants? Does he know those exist or is ours the only one on his map?"

Gi-hun rolls his eyes. "Stop being mean to him. He’s nice."

Dae-ho raises an eyebrow. "Oh, he’s nice now?"

"He wasn’t ‘nice’ when you first met him, though," Jung-bae reminds him. There’s a smirk slowly forming on his mouth, and Gi-hun almost rolls his eyes again. 

"Well!" Gi-hun huffs, unsure what to say. "I never said anything that made it sound like I thought he wasn’t nice.”

Dae-ho bursts into laughter. "Oh, come on. We all remember. You were convinced he was a supervillain."

"I never said supervillain-"

"You might have not called him that directly," Jung-bae interrupts, "But you did describe him as the kind of guy who probably has hidden plotting devices in his car."

Gi-hun groans, rubbing a hand down his face. "Look-”

"Hyung-nim," Dae-ho coos. "It’s okay. If you admit you like having him around, we’ll stop teasing."

"That’s a lie," Jung-bae says, grinning.

"Yeah, it is," Dae-ho agrees without shame.

The teasing continues, and Gi-hun finds it more and more ridiculous with each passing minute. He should stop them, maybe even attempt to correct whatever assumptions they’re making, but he doesn’t. He can deny it all he wants, but both Jung-bae and Dae-ho see right through him. And the truth is, they aren’t wrong.

He doesn’t know when and how it happened. When his life rearranged itself to make room for In-ho. It wasn’t a conscious decision. It just happened.

Maybe that’s why when he spots In-ho walking down the same path he takes to pick up Ga-yeong from school, he doesn’t think twice before falling into step beside him.

"I had no idea you walked," Gi-hun says.

In-ho startles slightly, turning his head toward him. When he sees Gi-hun, he visibly relaxes and sighs, "What do you mean? You just assumed I teleported from one place to another without moving a muscle?"

"That’s not-" Gi-hun sputters, glaring at him. "What happened to the black, sleek car? The one that looked like it held every secret unknown to mankind?"

Slipping his hands into his pockets, In-ho shrugs, "Yu-jin wanted to ride the bus today. We rode it this morning, and we’re riding it again this afternoon."

Gi-hun processes that for a moment, then snorts. "You? On a bus?"

"What's wrong with riding a bus?"

"Nothing. But you on a bus is an entirely different thing. You look like the type to drive everywhere just to avoid public transportation."

In-ho huffs out something that sounds almost like a laugh. "I didn’t avoid public transportation. I was just-" He pauses, rolling his shoulders. "It wasn’t necessary before."

Before.

There’s something about the way he says it that makes Gi-hun pause.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? Before, In-ho was just some stranger at a food truck, a man with sharp eyes and a guarded presence. Someone who barely spoke unless necessary, someone who never seemed to linger. That was before.

Now, he’s here. Now he’s walking, when he never used to. Now he’s someone Gi-hun expects to see almost every day.

The thought settles in his chest, heavier than he expects. But instead of saying anything, he just grins and nudges In-ho’s arm. "So, how was it?"

In-ho glances at him. "How was what?"

"The bus. Was it life-changing? Eye-opening? Did it change your perception of the world? Did it give you time to reflect?"

In-ho scoffs, shaking his head. "Yu-jin talked through the entire ride. I didn’t have much time for self-reflection."

"She’s starting to become more like Ga-yeong," Gi-hun muses, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "And that’s dangerous. You and I are at risk."

"Of what?"

"Being bullied," Gi-hun says dramatically. "Do you know how powerful they’re becoming? If they ever decide to team up against us, we’re doomed."

In-ho hums, like he’s actually considering it. "That’s a fair concern."

"Exactly!"

They were silent for a moment. The silence is easy though, it’s not awkward. Just the quiet sound of their steps against the pavement, the low hum of the city around them. It feels normal.

"So, how come you're walking now? Did you get off at the wrong bus stop?" Gi-hun glances at him, grinning. "There's a stop right in front of Yu-jin’s school, you know."

In-ho exhales, adjusting the strap of his bag. "She says I need to walk at least thirty minutes a day. Told me she heard it from a wise friend."

Gi-hun lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Ga-yeong. See? It’s starting. We’re about to be overpowered."

In-ho gives him a look, unimpressed. "You act like this is some elaborate scheme."

"It is an elaborate scheme," Gi-hun insists, nudging him with his elbow. "First, it starts with innocent suggestions. Then, suddenly, we’re going on hikes every weekend, eating more vegetables, and listening to long speeches about hydration." He shudders dramatically. “Just so you wait, they’ll have us wearing friendship bracelets and forcing us to go on morning exercises before sunrise.”

In-ho snorts. "What do you mean us? That’s your problem."

"Oh, like Yu-jin won’t drag you into it too? Please," Gi-hun scoffs. "She already has you learning dances. You're in too deep, my friend."

Gi-hun a brief flicker of something in In-ho’s expression at that. It’s so quick that Gi-hun barely catches it, but it’s there. That shift from amusement to something quieter, something softer. Gi-hun pauses for a beat, completely unsure how to feel about it.

"Are you going to try to avoid it?" he asks instead, smirking.

In-ho raises an eyebrow. "Avoid what?"

"The inevitable," Gi-hun replies, gesturing vaguely. "You’re already listening to her, walking more, trying new things. Next thing you know, you’ll be smiling more, making friends-"

"I have friends," In-ho cuts in flatly.

Gi-hun raises an eyebrow. "Name one."

There’s a pause. A pause long enough to be very telling.

Then In-ho glances at him, expression unreadable. "You."

The response comes so easily that it throws Gi-hun off.

For a second, his grin falters. When he recovers, he lets out an awkward laugh. "Well. Yeah. I mean, of course. I just didn’t think you’d actually say it."

"You asked," In-ho points out.

"Yeah, but-" Gi-hun waves a hand. "I was expecting some deflection. Some mysterious answer. Maybe a Tsk and a Hmph and an immediate subject change. But no, you actually answered."

In-ho rolls his eyes, looking away. "Would you rather I take it back?"

Gi-hun grins. "Nope. Too late. You said it. I heard it. It’s permanent now."

He doesn’t know why this feels like a win, but it does.

And maybe it is.

Somewhere between the random texts exchanged throughout the day and the coincidental yet strangely frequent meetings on the way to pick up their daughters, Gi-hun notices a shift.

It isn’t anything big, nothing that should make him pause and think too much. But it’s there. A shift.

It’s in the way In-ho doesn’t look indifferent when they cross paths anymore. In how their conversations have lost the stiffness of unfamiliarity, slipping into something easier, something familiar. Like how In-ho doesn’t bring his car anymore.

At first, Gi-hun doesn’t question it. But after the third or fourth time of seeing him walking down the same street, he starts to wonder if it’s intentional.

"The bus stop in front of Yu-jin’s school still exists, right?" Gi-hun asks one afternoon, falling into step beside him.

In-ho barely glances at him. "Mm."

"But you’re walking."

"Looks like it," In-ho deadpans.

Gi-hun grins, nudging his shoulder slightly. "So, what, did Yu-jin throw away your car key or something?"

“She insists I do not exercise as often as I should. I can only bring our car at least twice a week now.”

Gi-hun snorts, shaking his head. "See what I mean? They’re teaming up on us."

It’s easy, this back and forth. A rhythm they’ve unknowingly settled into.

And maybe that’s why, when he spots In-ho sitting by the food truck near Ga-yeong’s school, he doesn’t find it surprising anymore.

It’s one of those days where they didn’t walk together. Gi-hun had assumed In-ho took his car today, that he wouldn’t run into him like usual. But, of course, he’s wrong.

In-ho sits at one of the attached seats, Yu-jin beside him with a plate of tteokbokki and odeng between them. The sight is strangely normal, a scene that fits better than it should.

Yu-jin notices him first, bright-eyed and unbothered by the smear of sauce at the corner of her lips. “Ahjusshi!” She waves enthusiastically.

Gi-hun raises a brow, gaze flickering to In-ho. "And here I thought you didn’t eat anywhere else other than my restaurant."

"She wanted tteokbokki," In-ho says simply, as if that’s all the explanation needed.

Gi-hun chuckles. "And you caved."

“She had a solid argument.”

"She said please, didn’t she?"

“Correct.”

Before he can say anything else, a familiar voice calls from behind.

“Appa!”

Ga-yeong rushes over, her school bag bouncing against her shoulder. But instead of heading straight for him, she beelines toward Yu-jin.

“Yu-jin-ah! You’re here?”

Yu-jin nods, licking the sauce off her thumb. “Dad owed me tteokbokki.”

Ga-yeong’s eyes flick to the food truck, then back to her father with a look so transparent he can already hear her next words before she even says them.

“No,” Gi-hun says flatly.

She gasps, throwing a hand over her mouth in pretend shock. “I haven’t even said anything yet!”

"You were gonna ask if you could eat too."

Her eyes dart to the food again, hesitation gone, and then, with absolutely no shame, she slides into the seat beside Yu-jin.

Gi-hun sighs in defeat and grabs a seat beside In-ho.

In-ho hums, taking a slow bite of his hotteok. "Who’s caving now?"

Muttering under his breath, Gi-hun orders his own, shooting a side glance at In-ho as he nudges his elbow slightly. "Don’t tell me this is gonna start being a thing."

"Upset your restaurant finally has some competition?"

And okay, maybe he walked right into that one.

They start eating like this, the four of them. And for a moment, Gi-hun realizes they’ve never all been together outside his restaurant before. The girls chatter excitedly about school, their voices overlapping in a lively mess of energy. 

And then it happens.

He shifts to grab a napkin, just as someone moves past him, squeezing into the small space to get their order. The jostle is enough to throw him off balance. It happens so fast he barely registers it.

A hand catches his waist. Firm, steady, and warm.

The touch is brief, no more than a second. But in that split second, Gi-hun feels the weight of it. The careful way In-ho's fingers curl around his waist, not too tight, just enough to keep him from stumbling.

“Careful,” In-ho mutters, before letting go.

And that’s it. That should be it. 

Except it isn’t.

Because even after it’s gone, even after the moment passes and the conversation picks up again, Gi-hun still feels the ghost of it. The weight of In-ho's hand. The warmth that lingers too long on his skin.

It is nothing. Just a reflex. Just a moment.

It’s not a big deal. He can be a grown man about this.

Across the table, Ga-yeong squints at him. “Appa, why do you look weird?”

“I don’t look weird.”

“You do,” she insists. Beside her, Yu-jin hums in agreement. 

Gi-hun groans, rubbing a hand over his face. "That’s a creative way to say I look particularly awful today."

In-ho, of course, is entirely unbothered. He finishes the last bite of his odeng with the same calm manner he does with everything else. Gi-hun watches him closely, searching for even the smallest hint of tension. Nothing. If anything, he looks even more at ease now. 

Meanwhile, Gi-hun is trying very hard not to lose his mind.

Because In-ho's hand was on his waist (not his arm, not even his wrist. His waist!).

It lasted barely a second. But that second stretched too long in his head, warping into something he can’t seem to shake. His waist still feels the weight of it, the lingering warmth where In-ho's fingers curled, firm and steady. It wasn’t a hard grip, not forceful in any way. Just enough pressure to keep him upright, to make sure he didn’t fall over from his seat.

And yet.

He scowls at In-ho, wishing that he could at least look like he’s affected. But In-ho doesn’t even glance his way. He wipes his fingers with a napkin and leans back slightly, completely indifferent.

Muttering under his breath, Gi-hun pokes at his food, trying to redirect his focus to anything else. He tells himself to listen to the sounds around him. But none of it works.

Because even with everything going on, there’s something different now.

It’s not obvious, not something drastic. Just something there. Like a barely-there pull at the edges of his thoughts, a weight pressing against his ribs. It lingers in the air between them, settled in the space that should feel normal but suddenly doesn’t.

He doesn’t know if it’s In-ho that’s different, or if it’s him.

But it’s definitely there. 

A shift. 

The afternoon continues like that, easy and comfortable. There’s something unexplainable sitting in Gi-hun's chest, but it’s not heavy enough to bother him. Not really.

Eventually, they part ways. In-ho offers them a ride, says he can drop them off at the restaurant, but Gi-hun refuses. He hasn’t completed the full thirty minutes yet. In-ho only laughs, nodding in understanding before heading off.

As he and Ga-yeong finally make their way home, Gi-hun reflects on the afternoon. The warmth of the food truck, the lingering spice of the tteokbokki, and the brief weight of In-ho's touch. It all stays with him, present in the back of his mind. It hasn’t left.

But he shakes it off, redirecting his focus to Ga-yeong, who has been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few minutes. Too quiet.

He glances at her. “What?”

Ga-yeong hums, “You tell me.”

“What does that mean? Are you thinking about something crazy again?”

“Nope,” Ga-yeong replies, rocking back on her heels as she walks beside him. 

“That was the least convincing ‘nope’ I’ve ever heard my entire life.”

She grins but doesn’t say anything. Not yet, anyway. He knows how this goes. Any time now, she’ll break. 

They walk in silence for a few more steps before she finally tilts her head and says, "You look happy these days, Appa."

Gi-hun nearly stumbles.

"What?" He laughs, half caught off guard, half trying to brush it off. "Where did that come from?"

"I dunno." She shrugs. "Just an observation."

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Because, honestly, he hadn’t even noticed the shift. Or if he did, he just brushed it off. 

Happy.

It’s not like he’s unhappy. He has Ga-yeong. He has the restaurant. His life is steady, structured, and far from what it used to be. But hearing it from his daughter feels entirely different.

Because now, he has to face it. He has to acknowledge the change, ask himself what brought it on, and decide whether or not he deserves it. If he looks hard enough, the answer is already there, easy to find. 

Even now, when he’s not trying, he knows. He knows exactly what he deserves. And more than that, he knows what he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just lets the word settle.

Then, ruffling Ga-yeong's hair, he grins. "Guess you’re just seeing things."

She groans, swatting his hand away. "Ugh! You always do that."

"What? Mess with your hair?"

"No, brush things off," she huffs, exasperated. But she’s smiling, and Gi-hun smiles back, a silent thank you that she won’t keep pushing.

And yet, even as he waves it off, the thought remains.

There’s a shift.

And he can’t tell for sure whether it’s a good one or not.

It’s one thing to notice a shift. Another thing to struggle to understand what it means. But when that shift becomes normal, you stop questioning it. You fall into it, letting yourself be grounded by it.

So when it breaks, it leaves you off balance.

Gi-hun doesn’t think much of it at first.

Not when he turns the familiar corner, hands stuffed in his pockets, and doesn’t see In-ho walking ahead. Not when he slows his steps just a little, as if giving him time to catch up. Not even when he reaches the school gates alone and picks up Ga-yeong without hearing another story of how terrible it is trying to keep up with all the trends Yu-jin is making him follow.

But as they head home, he starts to notice the absence.

Because he expects him. He didn't realize it until now, but he does. Even if they don’t always cross paths right away, even if In-ho doesn’t always walk with him, they usually run into each other at some point. At the very least, Gi-hun half-expects to see him near the food truck again, but he isn’t there.

Fine. Maybe he’s busy.

But when dinner comes, and Gi-hun glances toward the door of his restaurant out of habit, he finds himself expecting to see In-ho again. Walking in like he always does, sitting at their now self-assigned table, either with Yu-jin or alone.

But, again, he isn’t there.

Instead, there’s someone else.

A familiar face, but not the one he was looking for.

In-ho’s brother. Jun-ho.

He’s sitting at the table where In-ho and Yu-jin usually sit, his posture firm as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up as Gi-hun approaches, setting down a menu even though he probably already knows what he wants.

“Welcome,” Gi-hun says, offering a polite nod. “Good to see you again. Eating alone tonight?”

Jun-ho hums, glancing around as if to confirm it. “I guess I am.” He briefly looks at the menu, pretending to read it. “I’ll have what I ordered last time, please. Dumplings.”

“Dumplings. Got it,” Gi-hun replies, nodding before stepping away.

Gi-hun doesn’t know why, but he moves fast. Fast enough to be back at Jun-ho's table immediately, a plate of hot dumplings in his hand.

“Dumplings. Here you go.”

”Thank you,” Jun-ho says and Gi-hun nods in return.

He should leave. Walk away. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stays there.

“Are you okay?”

Gi-hun blinks. “What?”

Jun-ho picks up his chopsticks. “Are you okay?” he repeats. “You look like you wanna ask me something. Do you?”

“No?”

It wasn’t supposed to be a question. He was supposed to sound firm and sure. Not like this, not like he’s about to embarrass himself in front of Hwang In-ho’s younger brother.

“No? Then, do you usually look at people like that? Like you want to say something.”

Gi-hun huffs, crossing his arms. “I have nothing to say. Just here to serve customers.”

“Right.” 

Jun-ho reminds him so much of someone, the way he says things. How light his tone is, but a hint of amusement is still evident.

“Right,” he echoes, hoping to the heavens above that he doesn’t sound as stupid as he thinks.

“So, you’re not curious?”

“About what?”

Cocking his eyebrow, Jun-ho leans in and props his elbows on the table. “Alright, fine. I will tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

How long can he deny things before it starts to get really obvious? But maybe, if he tries hard enough, it will start to sound more convincing.

“You know, Yu-jin does not lie. When she first told me about it, I refused to believe it. But now, I do. She’s right. You are hilarious.”

“What are you-”

“Hm. Okay. Since you’re funny, and you make good dumplings, I will tell you.” Gi-hun watches as the younger man leans back and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Yu-jin skipped school today, if that’s what you wanted to ask.”

Gi-hun stills, his fingers tightening slightly against his arms.

Because, yeah. That was what he wanted to ask. He just didn’t expect Jun-ho to read right through him.

“Or did I get it wrong? Maybe it’s not Yu-jin you’re looking for?”

Gi-hun freezes for half a second. It’s barely noticeable, but Jun-ho catches it anyway.

He schools his expression into something neutral. “What?”

Jun-ho doesn’t give him an answer. He just chews, watching him with the same quiet scrutiny In-ho has when he’s trying to read someone. He now sees what In-ho meant when he said him and Jun-ho are similar in some ways.

Letting out a sigh of defeat, he finally asks, “Are they okay?”

Jun-ho gives him a look. “They are,” he answers. Gi-hun notices a slight hint of hesitation before the younger man finally adds, “Just… They’re dealing with some family matters.”

That gets Gi-hun’s attention. His brows draw together, but he keeps his expression even. “Nothing serious though, right?”

“No.” Jun-ho waves his hand. “It’s just one of those days, you know?”

Gi-hun doesn’t know. He might have spent a lot of time with In-ho, but there are still a lot of things he does not know about the guy. He could pry and ask what he means, but something about the way Jun-ho says it makes him hold back.

“Yeah. Well, okay. That’s good,” he says instead. “Tell them I said hi.”

Jun-ho nods. “Consider it done,” he says, taking a sip from his soda this time. “I’ll let them know.”

Gi-hun doesn’t miss the way he drags the word ‘them.’ Doesn’t miss the slight smirk forming on Jun-ho's face. But just like everything else, Gi-hun brushes it off. Because brushing things off is what he does best.

With a slight smile, he says, “Enjoy your dumplings,” 

“Will do. Thank you.”

That night, Gi-hun tells himself to stop thinking about it.

It’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t be. People get busy. People take days off. It’s not like he needs to see In-ho every day.

But when he finds himself in bed, clutching his phone so hard it might actually break, he knows it’ll be difficult not to think about it. He exhales, long and heavy, then drags a hand down his face before unlocking it.

Fine. Whatever. A text won’t hurt.

So, with all his might, he starts typing:

Draft (8:31 p.m.)

Hey! Didn’t see you today at the restaurant! Or at our usual path. What happened? Did you finally give up on walking? Or decided my restaurant wasn’t worth it?

He reads it over and immediately grimaces. It’s too stupid. He sounds like he’s trying too hard. It’s too obvious that he knows something, but can’t ask about it. He deletes it.

Draft (8:48 p.m.)

I just realized how noisy these past couple of days have been. Today was oddly quiet. Weirdly quiet. Absurdly quiet. And maybe it’s because you and Yu-jin weren’t there. 

He stares at the screen and blinks. Then, he nearly throws his phone across the room. What the hell is that? He deletes it before he can think about it too much.

Draft (8:52 p.m.)

Hello, Jun-ho visited the restaurant today. I didn’t expect to see him there. I mean yeah okay sure it’s not like he’s never been before but I didn’t think I’d see him without you. NOT that I was expecting YOU exactly but you do come by a lot so I guess I kind of assumed that maybe if he’s there then you’d be there too. and who knows maybe yujin would be there too because you know. her and gayeong are convinced they’re sisters separated at birth now so it’s like. her presence was expected too. and of course if yujin is there, then you’re there too but she wasn’t there and YOU weren’t there and…

He groans, pressing his fingers against his temple. This is ridiculous. He starts deleting it, thumb moving over the backspace.

And then his phone vibrates.

His breath catches. His screen lights up.

And then his message gets sent. But not all of it. Not most of it. Just-

Gi-hun (9:12 p.m.)

Hello, Jun-ho

Gi-hun freezes.

He stops breathing. Stops moving. Just stares at his phone, watching the screen like it might magically fix itself.

But no. It’s there. Sitting in In-ho’s messages, firm and irreversible.

“Shit.”

He throws his phone onto the bed and buries his face in his hands. Maybe if he ignores it, it’ll disappear. Maybe if he never looks at his phone again, In-ho will pretend he never saw it.

But then, not even two minutes later, his phone vibrates.

Without thinking twice, he jumps from where he’s sitting and grabs his phone. The moment it’s in his hand, he cradles it to his chest. Great. Real mature. He probably looks ridiculous right now.

He stays like that for a moment. With his phone in his hand and his sanity nowhere to be found. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t even know why it vibrated. It could be an ad. A spam message. A reminder that his bills are overdue. A notification that his favorite chef uploaded a new video.

With a sigh, he finally looks at his screen and unlocks it. He momentarily freezes when his suspicions are proven right. It is a text. Not an ad, not a spam message, not even a reminder.

It’s In-ho.

Summoning what little courage he has left, he checks the message.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (9:13 p.m.)

?

A question mark. Just a question mark. Not even a full word.

Scrambling, Gi-hun types a reply.

Gi-hun (9:20 p.m.)

Hello

He stares at his screen in horror. What was that? Of all the possible responses, of all the words in the entire world, hello was the best he could come up with?

It takes a minute before In-ho replies.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (9:21 p.m.)

You’re texting my brother now?

Gi-hun freezes. He what?

Immediately, he scrolls up to reread his message, and… oh. Oh. Yeah, okay. He gets it now. It does kind of look like he just casually greeted Jun-ho out of nowhere.

Gi-hun (9:22 p.m.)

I'M NOT

He waits. And waits. And as embarrassing as it is, the second his phone vibrates again, he unlocks it faster than he’d like to admit.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (9:34 p.m.)

Alright.

Gi-hun stares at his screen. Just when he’s about to type a reply, another message pops up.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (9:35 p.m.)

Did you want his number?

Gi-hun's eyes widen.

Gi-hun (9:35 p.m.)

What? No!

I mean, why would I need his number? It’s just

I was in the middle of typing my message to YOU

But my fingers slipped

And you know

It’s just. I was gonna tell you about your brother. He came to the restaurant this evening.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (9:35 p.m.)

Jun-ho was there?

Trust Hwang In-ho to stay calm and collected when Gi-hun is anything but. Gi-hun groans, palming his face. 

Gi-hun (9:36 p.m.)

Yeah! Ordered dumplings!

You were right about him being another version of you

He had this… certain air to him that just screamed “I’m Hwang In-ho’s brother!!”

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (9:37 p.m.)

?

Don’t get used to him being around. 

Yu-jin and I are coming back tomorrow. 

There’s a shift. 

Gi-hun (9:38 p.m.)

Ah, yes, finally 

Because the ONE day you weren’t in the restaurant significantly reduced our sales by 40%

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (9:40 p.m.)

Yeah

You’re welcome. Can’t wait to be back to save the business.

Gi-hun rolls his eyes, a smile slowly forming on his lips. It’s ridiculous. The whole thing is absurd. Out of the ordinary.

The night continues like that. With every message he reads, something inside him eases. Like a weight lifting, like exhaling a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

There’s a shift. 

He knows that by now.

It’s not just the fact that he’s gotten used to In-ho being around. It’s not even the fact that he wants him to be around.

It’s something else.

Something about In-ho himself. Something about him that feels comfortable and familiar, despite the fact that Gi-hun barely knows anything about him.

He tries to recall everything he does know.

In-ho is two years younger than him. He has a ten-year-old daughter. A brother. They all just recently moved to town.

Beyond that? Almost nothing.

He has no idea what In-ho does for a living. Only that he wears expensive clothes, the kind that looks and are expensive. He drives a car that makes it clear he’s not just some regular guy with a normal-paying job.

He likes kimchi fried rice. Sometimes orders kimchi jjigae. Dumplings when he’s feeling particularly hungry that day.

Gi-hun lets out a sigh. None of this means anything. The truth is, he doesn’t know In-ho at all.

There’s a shift. 

He feels it in his chest, an unease creeping in. He’s getting too curious, diving in too deep when he knows the safest he could be is to be on the surface. 

There’s a shift.

And for the first time since he started noticing it, Gi-hun finds it terrifying.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun is always quick to notice things.

It’s a habit he developed over the years. Something that settled into his bones, unshakable, no matter how much he wanted to pretend otherwise.

At first, it was just survival. He had to be observant when he was working in a factory that could let him go at any second. Had to pick up on which managers were in a bad mood, which co-workers were on edge, and which whispers were worth listening to. 

Then came the strike. Days of waiting, of standing in the cold, of watching faces turn from hopeful to exhausted to something close to defeated. He then learned how to tell when someone was about to give up. How to tell who would stay and who would walk away.

Then, losing his job. Then, his failed business. Then, the piling debt. 

Then, the games.

Somewhere along the way, Gi-hun lost that instinct. The ability to read people, to weigh risks, and to know when to trust and when to walk away. Maybe that’s why he let himself believe so easily. Why he saw the good in people when he should have been looking at them closer.

The games had a way of stripping people down, reshaping them into something unrecognizable. For a while, he thought he was immune to that. He thought he could hold onto himself, hold onto whatever was left of the man he used to be.

But the truth is, for a moment, he wasn’t any better.

Somewhere in between the games, he found himself trusting people. He let himself believe that they were different. That they weren’t just desperate, weren’t just trying to survive the same way he was. That they were good, that they were people he could depend on.

And then came Sang-woo. 

Gi-hun never predicted his next moves. Never thought he’d be capable of what he did. Gi-hun had known him for years, knew his mother, knew the pride that had always sat on his shoulders, the confidence in his voice when he spoke about the future. But when desperation took over, when the games bled them dry of their choices, Gi-hun watched him become someone else entirely.

And even then, he still believed, right until the end. He thought if he just talked to him, just got through to him, things wouldn’t have to end the way they did. But the most tragic part of it all wasn’t what Sang-woo had done to others.

It was what he had done to himself.

Because in the end, Gi-hun never saw it coming. Never saw it in Sang-woo’s eyes, never read it in his voice. He thought there would be one last move, one last desperate attempt to claw his way out.

But there wasn’t.

And even now, Gi-hun doesn’t regret believing in him. Because Sang-woo wasn’t just desperation and unexpected decisions. He was someone Gi-hun had known all his life. Someone who had carried too much for too long. 

He was the boy who once had dreams bigger than himself, who had clawed his way to success because failure had never been an option. He wanted to make his mother proud, wanted to prove that everything she had sacrificed for him was worth it. He never wanted to disappoint her. Never wanted to fail. 

And so, when Il-nam wasn’t who he thought he was, Gi-hun had to second guess himself. Had to sit with the realization that maybe he isn’t really good at reading people.

And maybe that’s why, by the time he made it out, he made sure to retrieve that part of himself. The part that knew how to observe, how to predict, and how to read people.

Because he refused to be caught off guard again. Refused to let himself trust so easily, to believe in people the way he once did. The games had stripped him of that. It had torn from him so thoroughly that he hadn’t even realized it was gone until it was too late.

He refused to be complacent again. Refused to lose people important to him because he let his guard down. Refused to fail to stop an important person, someone he deeply cared about, from doing something irreversible to himself once more.

So he took it back. Sharpened it. Made sure that from now on, he would see things for what they were. See people for what they are.

And it worked.

It’s in the way he tracks movements without meaning to. In how he can tell when someone is lying, even if they think they’re good at it. In how he notices the smallest changes, the things that most people would brush off. 

He notices when someone’s shoulders tense every time a certain topic comes up. He notices when their hand twitches, or when their eyes flicker just a little too quickly.

And now, it’s in the way he notices In-ho.

It’s stupid. 

It’s so stupid because In-ho has never given him any reason to think otherwise. He’s calm, composed, and way too good at looking like someone who has his life together. The kind of guy who never seems to be caught off guard.

But Gi-hun knows better. He’s lived long enough, seen enough, to know that no one is like that all the time.

So when something shifts, when In-ho’s mask cracks just a little, Gi-hun sees it immediately.

The first time it happens, Gi-hun thought he was just seeing things. Maybe he was just overthinking. The same way he always does, the same way he did when he first met In-ho.

Him and In-ho are walking their usual path. It’s the same way as always. They are talking about Yu-jin, as they usually did, the back and forth so comfortable it almost felt like second nature.

“This is, what, the fourth time this week? Seems like Yu-jin is more fond of the bus now than your car,” Gi-hun says, glancing over at In-ho.

“Yeah, she’s grown to like riding the bus,” In-ho answers without missing a beat, his voice calm and steady.

And then, almost as an afterthought, In-ho adds, “Good thing it’s not trains.”

Gi-hun blinks, his mind briefly catching up with the words. The slip was small, almost insignificant, but Gi-hun felt it. Felt the weight of it. There was something in the way In-ho said it. 

Steps faltering for a moment, Gi-hun watches him.  “What about trains?”

In-ho doesn’t look at him. His gaze stays straight ahead, his expression carefully neutral. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head, voice light. “Train stations are just… usually crowded.”

It’s a simple enough response. An obvious, logical statement. Most people wouldn’t think twice about it.

But Gi-hun isn’t like most people.

He studies In-ho, searching for something in his expression. His shoulders seem a little stiffer than before, and Gi-hun doesn’t miss the way his fingers flex at his sides as if he is resisting the urge to do something.

He wants to ask more, to say something else. Maybe something like, “I’m thankful Ga-yeong doesn’t like riding trains too, because then, I’ll have to face being at one of the places I’ve been trying to avoid these past few years or I’ll be fucked.”

But he doesn’t.

Because what use would there be? It’s not like In-ho would understand.

How would he explain that train stations make him feel like he’s about to see someone familiar there? A man in a suit and a briefcase in hand. A man who looks so normal and unsuspicious. A man who blends into the crowd too easily, like a normal office worker. A man whose presence lingers in the back of his mind even years later. 

It’s ridiculous. He knows that. And yet, every time he catches sight of a train platform in the distance, he expects to see him. Sitting on a bench, standing by the vending machines, watching. Waiting. Like he never left at all.

It’s stupid. Irrational. But the feeling stays.

So he keeps his mouth shut and forces a chuckle instead. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

And just like that, the conversation moves on.

Later, Gi-hun will find himself wishing he hadn’t let it go. That he’d asked, even just a little.

The next time Gi-hun notices something he can’t quite put a finger on, it’s at night.

The restaurant is quiet now. All the customers have gone home, even Jung-bae and Dae-ho.

Ga-yeong and Yu-jin are at the corner table, their heads pressed close together as they hunch over a phone screen, whispering about something in that exaggerated way kids do when they think they’re being sneaky. Gi-hun doesn’t question it.

Instead, he finds himself glancing at In-ho.

He is sitting across Gi-hun, his fingers absently skimming the rim of his glass. As always, his expression is unreadable, but his brows are drawn. It’s a rare sight to see, even for In-ho who is usually quiet all the time. He is too quiet.

Gi-hun briefly thinks the night will end just like this – neither of them saying a word, just quietly enjoying their drinks and waiting for their daughters to call it a day.

But then, In-ho suddenly speaks. “It was Yu-jin’s mom’s birthday.”

Gi-hun blinks. “What?”

“The other day. The day Yu-jin skipped school.”

“Oh.”

Gi-hun can’t think of anything more to add.

In-ho exhales. His gaze is distant, but his voice remains firm and steady. “Yu-jin always insists on celebrating her birthday wholeheartedly. She doesn’t want it to just be a simple dinner. It always has to be a whole-day affair.”

Gi-hun nods, processing. “Oh? That’s nice. And sweet.”

“It is,” In-ho agrees. Then, something in his expression shifts. His fingers still against his glass for just a fraction of a second. Then, almost too casually, he adds, “But she does it because she feels guilty sometimes.”

Gi-hun frowns. “Guilty? Why?”

There’s a pause.

“Her mom’s death falls on the same day she was born.” In-ho doesn’t look at him when he replies. “We don’t get to fully mourn her.”

There’s something about the way In-ho says it. Not with sadness exactly, but with something heavier. Something quieter. Something that sounds like acceptance but feels like resignation.

Gi-hun doesn’t brush it off this time. He doesn’t force a change of topic or pretend not to notice.

He just nods.

Not much. Not anything big. Just enough to let In-ho know that he hears him.

In an attempt to offer comfort, Gi-hun says, “At least she knows you were there. That you got to say goodbye to her mom, and hello to her.”

In-ho exhales slowly. Without looking up, he says, “But I wasn’t.”

Gi-hun finds himself lost for words again. The words stick to his tongue, heavy and uncertain.

In-ho takes a deep breath. His eyes remain fixed on the table, and on his fingers that are idly tracing the rim of his cup.

“I wasn’t there,” he repeats. “I was somewhere else. It was stupid. I left thinking I’d come back with hope… but.”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

For a moment, In-ho stays like that. Unmoving. Then, after a beat, he waves his hand. Gi-hun watches as his shoulders roll back. He watches as In-ho’s expression smoothes out, falling into something unreadable once again. 

“That’s why…” he starts, downing the glass in one go. “Yu-jin likes to make up for it. That’s why she celebrates the way she does.”

Gi-hun nods slowly. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches the way In-ho hides behind his drink, the way his fingers tighten around the glass an anchor.

He could let it go. Could let the conversation slip away, pretend he didn’t catch the way In-ho’s voice faltered, the way his mask cracked for just a second.

But Gi-hun notices things.

So, instead, he says, “Where did you go?”

In-ho hesitates, and Gi-hun finds himself regretting that he asked.

“Somewhere far.”

“How far?”

In-ho leans back, tilting his head slightly like he’s considering the question. Then, with a quiet scoff, he mutters, “Honestly? I have no idea. It was a gamble. A last move made out of desperation. A place that did not guarantee that I’d come back alive. It was… a stupid decision, honestly.”

Gi-hun stills. His throat feels tight.

Because he knows that feeling.

He knows what it’s like to leave, to step forward into something unknown. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, it’ll lead somewhere better. That maybe it will mean something. That maybe it will fix something.

Gi-hun also left. Hopeful. He left Ga-yeong and his mother behind. Just for a few days, he had promised. Just long enough to come back with money, with something – anything, really – that would make their lives better. Just long enough to fix things.

He gambled. He took the risk. And then he came back.

Alive, yes. But barely.

“But you’re alive,” Gi-hun points out.

“Hm,” Swirling his glass, he hums. “I guess.”

Gi-hun’s eyes remain fixed on him. The silence between them lingers. 

Then, before he can think too much of it, In-ho takes a slow sip, sets his glass down, and says, “Wasn’t easy, though.”

Gi-hun frowns slightly.  “What wasn’t?”

In-ho swirls his drink. His voice is even, but there’s something beneath it, something that makes Gi-hun’s stomach turn before he even knows why.

“To come back from that.”

Gi-hun stills.

“To be alive, I guess.” In-ho lets out a quiet chuckle, one that sounds forced. “After knowing that people–I mean, someone important to you–died in return.”

Gi-hun flinches.

He knows In-ho is talking about his wife. It’s obvious. That is what makes the most sense.

And yet. Gi-hun can’t help but notice the way he says it. The way his voice wavers slightly. It makes Gi-hun feel like there’s something more to it. 

Because he’s thought about that before, too.

He’s thought about how his own survival came at the cost of others. How he walked away, barely, with nothing but bloodstained hands and a pocket full of guilt.

And now, sitting here, listening to In-ho, something in his chest tightens.

Because it shouldn’t sound too familiar.

The way In-ho’s story unfolds, the way it seeps into the cracks of Gi-hun’s own, overlapping in ways that shouldn’t feel so personal. It shouldn’t feel like this. Like something Gi-hun understands far too well.

But it does.

And that bothers him.

Gi-hun notices things.

He knows how to read people. It’s a skill honed over years of hardship, of having to gauge a situation before it spirals, of having to recognize danger before it arrives. He prides himself on it. It’s what kept him alive.

So why, for the life of him, can’t he seem to put the pieces together?

Why can’t he make sense of this? Why, despite In-ho sitting right here, being so open, so vulnerable, does it still feel like Gi-hun can’t read him?

Gi-hun notices things. He does. 

But for some reason, for the second time, he finds himself brushing it off. Not asking further, not pushing more.

Instead, he says, “Yeah. I get that.”

Gi-hun also notices different things.

It’s not always just the things that make him uneasy. Not just the things that linger in his chest, leaving behind that unsettling weight. Sometimes, he notices the lighter things too. The little things.

Like when someone is looking at him for too long.

"Do I have something on my face?" he asks one afternoon.

They’re at the food truck in front of Ga-yeong’s school. It’s still early, too early, but they had decided to eat first before heading their separate ways. After all, there’s still more than thirty minutes before classes end.

In-ho barely reacts at first. He just blinks, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of tteokbokki. "Huh?"

Gi-hun narrows his eyes. "You were staring."

There’s a long pause.

"I was not," In-ho says flatly.

"You were," Gi-hun insists, pointing his chopsticks at him.

He doesn’t miss the way In-ho’s eyes flicker.

"Must’ve been your imagination," In-ho finally says, reaching for his drink.

Gi-hun watches him, waiting for something else, something more. But In-ho doesn’t elaborate. He just takes another bite of his food.

Gi-hun notices things.

They’re at his restaurant this time. It’s early in the morning, and they’ve just dropped their daughters off at school. Gi-hun prepares kimchi fried rice for In-ho, despite the man insisting he wasn’t hungry.

“Thank you,” In-ho says as Gi-hun sets the plate in front of him.

“Don’t mention it.”

Gi-hun doesn’t leave. Instead, he pulls out the chair across from In-ho and sits down.

He watches as In-ho picks up his spoon, taking a slow bite. He doesn’t comment, just waits.

In-ho exhales through his nose and reaches for his glass, taking a sip of water. For a brief second, his eyes stay locked on Gi-hun’s.

Then, his gaze shifts. It drops from Gi-hun’s eyes to his nose. Then lower. To his mouth. And lower still. To the bare stretch of his neck.

Something tightens in Gi-hun’s chest.

It’s nothing. Just a glance.

The silence stretches, thick, until In-ho finally sets his glass down, clearing his throat.

Gi-hun leans back. “Careful. Someone might think you’re staring.”

In-ho huffs, “I wasn't.”

“Right,” Gi-hun murmurs.

Gi-hun notices things.

So, it doesn’t come off as a surprise when he continues to notice.

A lot of things.

He notices it again when they were walking down their usual path. The path that they take when they pick their daughters up from school.

Gi-hun listens closely as In-ho tells him something. It’s nothing important, just idle conversation. Something about Yu-jin getting into painting, and how somewhere along the way, she wants to try painting something else. Like In-ho’s nails.

Then, unexpectedly, a bike comes speeding toward them.

Gi-hun barely has time to register the movement in his periphery before In-ho’s hand is on him, gripping his wrist and pulling him close. Too close. Until their chests are pressed together for a brief second.

By the time the bicycle passes, the moment is already over. In-ho steps back, letting go, his expression unreadable as he exhales.

“Watch out,” he says, voice calm like he didn’t just grab Gi-hun like that.

Gi-hun stares at him, his brain half a second behind. His skin still feels the ghost of In-ho’s touch, his heartbeat still erratic in his chest.

“He came out of nowhere!” he sputters, gesturing at the now-distant biker as if that explains everything. As if that explains anything at all.

In-ho doesn’t say anything. Gi-hun can’t tell if his heart is racing from the near collision or something else entirely.

Noticing things is second nature to Gi-hun. 

So, he also notices the way In-ho glances at him like he’s checking. Like he’s making sure.

He catches the way In-ho’s fingers twitch slightly before he tucks them back into his pockets, the way his jaw tightens, just for a second, before he exhales. 

“You okay?” In-ho asks after a beat, his voice even, but there’s something there. Something edged with concern.

Gi-hun scoffs, still a little breathless, still trying to ignore the way his pulse hasn’t quite settled yet. “Me? Of course, I’m okay. You’re the one who pulled me unexpectedly.”

In-ho gives him a look, unimpressed. “I stopped you from getting run over.”

“Alright, yeah, fair.” Gihun hums. “Maybe Dae-ho’s talk about you being a movie star is finally getting to you. Admit it, that was a pretty dramatic move.”

“Dramatic?”

“A little.” Gi-hun grins. “Didn’t know you cared so much about me.”

In-ho huffs, shaking his head, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t explain.

And that’s another thing Gi-hun notices.

Because In-ho could’ve just ignored him. Could’ve waved him off, made a joke, and moved on. But he didn’t. And now Gi-hun is left standing there, watching him, trying to piece it together.

Trying to figure out why, even after they keep walking, even after the moment should’ve passed, In-ho still looks unsettled.

Gi-hun notices things.

And lately, he’s starting to notice more.

He notices how In-ho’s gaze lingers on him longer than it used to. 

The way he wordlessly drops an extra piece of tteokbokki onto his plate the moment Gi-hun mutters that he should’ve bought more.

The way he always walks just a little closer when they’re in a crowd, as if making sure they don’t get separated. Even though there’s no reason to.

And the way he waits when they part ways at night, standing by his car as Gi-hun locks up the restaurant. As if making sure he gets home safely before finally driving off.

It’s not much. Not really. Not enough for Gi-hun to call him out on it. But it’s there. And it’s different.

Different from when they first met, when In-ho was all sharp edges and dry remarks. Back then, he wouldn’t have bothered with something as small as this. Wouldn’t have looked at In-ho like this, wouldn’t have paid enough attention to know that he prefers his egg kind of burnt on his kimchi fried rice.

And yet, now he does.

Gi-hun notices things.

And lately, all he seems to notice is In-ho.

Jung-bae notices things, too. That doesn’t surprise Gi-hun.

“What?” Gi-hun asks, barely glancing up as he catches Jung-bae stopping right beside him. 

“Nothing,” Jung-bae says.

Gi-hun exhales through his nose. “Spit it out.”

Jung-bae studies him for a moment before saying, “You probably think I’m here to mess with you, but I’m not.”

Something about his tone makes Gi-hun pause.

“Okay? Thanks?”

“Gi-hun-ah, it’s fine.” Jung-bae shrugs. “You know that, right?”

Gi-hun frowns. “Know what?”

Jung-bae gives him a look, as if the answer is obvious. “Hwang In-ho.”

Gi-hun pauses.

Not a big pause, not enough to make it obvious, but enough for Jung-bae to catch it anyway. Jung-bae, who also notices things.

Gi-hun exhales, going back to chopping green onions. “What about him?”

“You tell me.”

“I have nothing to tell you.”

“You do.”

“Nope.”

“Right.”

Gi-hun sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. “Jung-bae, if you’re not here to tease me or mess around… then what are you doing?”

Jung-bae watches him. “Observing.”

Gi-hun narrows his eyes. “Observing what?”

“You.”

“Creepy. Should I be worried?”

Jung-bae chuckles. “I’m just saying. You’ve been different lately. Not bad different. Just… different.”

Gi-hun snorts, reaching for another ingredient. “That’s so insightful. I feel so enlightened.”

Jung-bae ignores him. “You’re lighter, I think. Less…” He waves a hand vaguely. “...mopey.”

“I was never mopey.”

“Sure,” Jung-bae drawls. Leaning against the counter, his friend adds, “We should also talk about the way you look at him.”

Gi-hun stills for half a second before forcing himself to keep moving. “I look at a lot of people.”

“Yeah,” Jung-bae nods. “But not like that.”

Shoving the bowl aside, Gihun huffs. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re obvious.”

“I’m not obvious.”

Jung-bae raises an eyebrow. “You are to people who pay attention.”

Gi-hun scoffs. “You pay that much attention to me? I’m flattered.”

“No. I’m just noticing.”

“Congratulations,” Gi-hun deadpans.

Jung-bae grins. “Thanks.” Gi-hun thinks it will end like that, with his friend finally leaving him and his ingredients alone.

Peace at last. 

But then, Jung-bae stops and says, “There’s nothing wrong with it, Gi-hun-ah.”

Gi-hun stills, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter top. 

Jung-bae meets his gaze. “If it feels right, then maybe it is.”

Gi-hun exhales, looking away. 

If he spends the night thinking about Jung-bae’s words, then nobody has to know.

“Appa, what do you think about a sleepover?” Ga-yeong asks one Tuesday night, eyes bright with excitement.

“A sleepover,” Gi-hun echoes, the word feeling oddly foreign on his tongue.

“Yeah! With Yu-jin! And maybe her dad too?” She grins, all innocence, then adds, “You know, if you’d like.”

Gi-hun narrows his eyes. “If I’d like?”

Ga-yeong nods. “Yeah. I mean, it’d be weird if I just invited Yu-jin and not her dad, right? He’d think we’re purposely leaving him out!”

“Sleepovers between two friends don’t usually involve both parents,” he points out, crossing his arms.

She shrugs. “Sure they do. You guys can hang out while we do fun things. Watch a movie, eat snacks, braid each other’s hair-”

“I am not braiding In-ho’s hair,” Gi-hun interrupts, scowling.

Ga-yeong gasps, feigning disappointment. “Why not? You do my hair all the time!”

“Because you’re my daughter!”

“Okay, okay. No need to overreact. But still,” She waves a hand. “You could do it.”

“To In-ho? Are you–Ga-yeong. There’s no way I’m touching his hair.”

“Okay, but Appa…” She drags out the word, giving him that look. “It would be fun! You like spending time with Yu-jin’s dad, don’t you?”

Gi-hun stiffens. He hates how natural that question sounds coming from her. Like it’s something as simple as asking if he likes kimchi.

He clears his throat and says, “I guess? I mean.. yeah, he’s alright.”

Ga-yeong’s lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh. “Just alright?”

“I-”

She knows. He can see it in her face. And now she’s just toying with him.

Gi-hun sighs in defeat. “Fine. You can have your sleepover. Just you and Yu-jin.”

Ga-yeong beams. “Yay!” Then, after a beat, she adds, “So… should I go ahead and invite her dad, too?”

“No.”

“But-”

“No.”

She pouts. “Okay. But if he invites himself, that’s not on me.”

Gi-hun groans. He already knows this is not going to end well. 

That night, his phone buzzes with a message from In-ho.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (8:23 p.m.)

Yu-jin mentioned something about a sleepover. 

Did Ga-yeong tell you about this?

Gi-hun stares at his screen for what felt like eternity. How should he respond to this? 

Yes, Ga-yeong asked for my permission? Too formal. Yes, did you want to come along? Too suggestive. Yes, would you want to stay the night, too? He’d rather die.

Groaning, he types the safest possible reply.

Gi-hun (8:26 p.m.)

Yeah, she asked me about it.

There. Simple. Straight to the point. No unnecessary additions. Nothing that could be misinterpreted.

In-ho replies almost immediately.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (8:26 p.m.)

And you agreed?

Gi-hun pauses. Is there a right or wrong answer to this?

Gi-hun (8:29 p.m.)

Would you have said no?

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (8:31 p.m.)

No.

Gi-hun snorts, shaking his head. Of course. 

Gi-hun (8:32 p.m.)

Then what’s with the interrogation?

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (8:33 p.m.)

Just confirming.

Gi-hun raises a brow. Confirming what?

Before he can ask, another text pops up.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (8:34 p.m.)

Where am I supposed to sleep?

Gi-hun nearly drops his phone.

Gi-hun (8:35 p.m.)

What

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (8:35 p.m.)

I assume you’ll be preparing a guest room for me.

Gi-hun stares at the text, absolutely baffled.

Gi-hun (8:36 p.m.)

Are you inviting yourself over?

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (8:37 p.m.)

Ga-yeong extended the invitation. I’m merely respecting her wishes.

Gi-hun groans, tossing his phone onto the bed. He should’ve known. He rubs a hand over his face, picking his phone back up to type a response, but before he can, another message appears.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (8:38 p.m.)

Relax. I’m joking.

I have plans this weekend anyway. 

Couldn’t come even if I wanted to.

He shouldn’t read too much into that last part. He really, really shouldn’t. 

Gi-hun (8:39 p.m.)

Ah, too bad...

I was already preparing the floor I'd make you sleep on

There’s a pause before In-ho replies.

Yu-jin’s Dad 🕶 (8:41 p.m.)

You'd make me sleep on the floor?

Not even the couch?

Gi-hun (8:41 p.m.)

Hmmm

I'll think about it

😝

He immediately regrets sending the last one.

He sets his phone down, but his fingers linger over the screen. He tells himself that it’s for the best. That it’s good In-ho isn’t coming. The girls will have fun. That’s what matters.

And yet, some ridiculous part of him still feels disappointed.

Gi-hun notices a lot of things. 

He hates that he starts noticing whatever it is he’s feeling, too.

The weekend comes faster than Gi-hun would have liked. He’s spent the past few days overthinking. It’s his first time having a friend of Ga-yeong’s come over, and he’s not even sure if he should be nervous about that or about the fact that it’s Yu-jin. In-ho’s daughter.

What if she gets homesick? What if she doesn’t like the food he makes? What if she and Ga-yeong get into a fight and he has to referee a war between the two? What if their fight escalates and breaks their friendship once and for all? What if it causes a rift between him and In-ho, ruining everything they have? 

Okay. The last part was not necessary. What do they even have?

Gi-hun forces his mind to not think about it.

He manages, for the most part. 

So when In-ho and Yu-jin arrive on Saturday morning, he’s already prepared himself for anything.

The moment he opens the door, though, all his worries flush down the drain. Yu-jin bows briefly in acknowledgment. And before he knows it, she’s already inside, kicking off her shoes and calling out for Ga-yeong like she owns the place.  

When Ga-yeong steps out of her room, she grins. Without hesitation, she launches herself forward, and the two disappear into the living room in an instant, already deep in conversation about what movies to watch and what activities to do. Gi-hun briefly catches something about having his nails painted. Great.  

Shaking his head, he turns his attention back to In-ho. The man is wearing a black turtleneck, and Gi-hun fights the urge to comment on it. His mind flickers back to the second time he saw him outside Ga-yeong’s school.

Gi-hun gestures toward the kitchen. “You wanna come in? I was just about to make coffee.”

In-ho exhales, his gaze flickering past him again. He looks like he’s considering it. Really considering it. And for a second, Gi-hun thinks he’s actually going to say yes.

But then, In-ho shifts his weight slightly, his expression carefully neutral. “I have somewhere to be.”

Gi-hun nods, trying to act like that answer doesn’t disappoint him more than it should. “Right. That’s fair.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” In-ho says. “Same time.”

Gi-hun huffs a quiet laugh. “Like a scheduled delivery?”

In-ho snorts, shaking his head. He doesn’t respond to that, just steps back slightly, the hesitation in his posture still evident. And then finally, he starts walking away.

The day goes by normally. Gi-hun mentally slaps himself for even overthinking this. Why was he so worried?

The girls spend the afternoon watching a movie. It’s one of the movies Ga-yeong swears she hates. Too childish, she says. Gi-hun doesn’t comment about how she puts it on every two weeks. 

Gi-hun hears them giggling every now and then, curled up on the couch with blankets draped over their shoulders. It’s cute. It’s normal. He’s happy for Ga-yeong.

He keeps himself busy in the kitchen, preparing food for them. Makes sure they have enough snacks, cuts up fruit, even bakes cookies just because Ga-yeong had casually mentioned wanting some earlier. Everything about it feels easy. A routine he’s used to.

There’s no reason to expect anything else.

Until the night comes.

Until the clear sky turns dark. 

Until rain suddenly starts falling.

Hard.

It’s the kind of downpour that makes the world feel smaller. The kind that makes Gi-hun feel trapped. The kind that reminds him of something else. Of sandy ground, of rain seeping into open wounds, of the ache in his hand.

The girls are already asleep. They disappeared into Ga-yeong’s room after an evening of movies and snacks. Before heading off, Yu-jin had paused just long enough to thank him, mentioning how grateful she was that her first sleepover was at his house.

It’s a small thing, a passing comment that Gi-hun shouldn’t dwell on too much. But it stays in his chest anyway.

The rain starts pouring harder.

Trying to ignore the stubborn pounding of rain against the windows, Gi-hun sinks into the couch.

He is starting to block out the outside noise out when he hears the doorbell ring.

He jumps. Good thing his cup is half-empty, because otherwise its content would be all over the floor. Who would be visiting at this hour? In this weather?

Half-confused and half-alert, he pushes himself up and walks over to the intercom. Maybe someone pressed the wrong button? Surely, no one would be visiting him at this hour, right?

Shaking off the hundred worst-case scenarios creeping into his mind, he presses the button to check the camera.

What he sees on the screen makes him pause.

In-ho.

In-ho stands outside his apartment, rain soaking through his clothes.

Gi-hun leans in, stomach twisting. In-ho’s hair is soaked, droplets trailing down his face. His black jacket clings to him, heavy with rain. He looks cold. Drenched.

But more than that, he looks troubled.

He leans in, pressing the button. “In-ho?”

A beat of silence, just the sound of rain through the speaker. 

“Hey.” In-ho finally says, his voice a little forced. A little strained. “I just–I don’t… Is Yu-jin okay?”

Gi-hun blinks, his brows drawing together.

“Yes. Yeah, she is.” he says, softer now. “She’s fast asleep. What’s going on?”

A pause. 

In-ho exhales, his breath visible in the cold night air.

Gi-hun watches him closely. He feels his stomach twist again. Something’s wrong. He can see it in the way In-ho won’t quite meet the camera, and the way his jaw stays tight.

“In-ho,” Gi-hun presses. His voice is steadier this time. “What’s wrong?”

A pause, again.

“Can I come inside?”

It’s Gi-hun’s first time hearing In-ho talk like this. Like he’s broken.

“Of course,” Gi-hun’s heart pounds against his chest. “Of course, yeah, yeah. You can.”

The moment he lets go of the button, he walks toward the front door. He knows it would take at least five minutes for In-ho to wait for the elevator and reach his floor, but he waits anyway. He wants to be there the moment he gets to the door.

When a faint knock finally comes, he doesn’t hesitate to unlock the door, pulling it open.

And somehow, the reality of In-ho standing there soaked, exhausted, looking like he doesn’t know why he’s here either, is worse than seeing him on the screen.

“What happened?” 

In-ho shakes his head.  “I just…” He hesitates. “I had to check if Yu-jin was okay.”

The words hit heavier than they should. Gi-hun doesn’t question it, opening the door wider.

“Come inside,” he says. “You’re soaked.”

In-ho doesn’t move right away. Gi-hun waits. He doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything else. Just keeps the door open, gaze steady, concern heavy in his chest.

Then, finally, In-ho steps forward.

The moment he’s inside, Gi-hun closes the door immediately. The silence that welcomes them is familiar. Gi-hun doesn’t realize that he’s successfully blocked out the sound of rain against the windows, instead just focusing on the man in front of him. Because the rain doesn’t matter.

What matters right now is In-ho.

Gi-hun wants to step closer. Wants to do something stupid, like wipe the rain from his face. Or maybe something even more stupid, like pull him into a hug and tell him he’s okay.

But Gi-hun knows better. He knows better than to do something he might regret. He doesn’t want to overstep, doesn’t want to act on impulse.

So, he does the most logical thing he can.

He walks away, grabs a clean towel, and returns to In-ho.

“Here,” he says.

In-ho blinks, like he’s only now realizing how wet he is. When Gi-hun doesn’t pull his arm away, he finally takes the towel and drags it across his face. 

“It’s past midnight,” Gi-hun starts.

He doesn’t know how to proceed. He wants to give In-ho space, let him settle first. But he’s so, so confused. He wants to know. Wants to ask.

“If someone shows up at my doorstep, standing in the rain at the most unexpected hour,” Gi-hun says, crossing his arms, “I’d think I deserved at least a little explanation.”

He regrets it immediately when he sees In-ho freeze. His first instinct is to take it back, to brush it off.

But then, In-ho speaks.

“I had trouble sleeping,” he says. “And then I thought about Yu-jin. Wondered if she was okay. The next thing I know, I was here.”

Gi-hun studies him, quiet.

It’s a little strange. In-ho isn’t the type to be this openly unsettled. 

“You could’ve texted,” Gi-hun says, voice softer now. “Or called.”

“I know.”

Gi-hun tilts his head. “But you didn’t. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Gi-hun wants to ask more, to push further. But he knows better. So instead of doing that, he gestures towards the couch instead.  “You wanna sit?”

In-ho glances down at clothes, and Gi-hun catches on immediately. His clothes are wet from the rain. If he sits on the sofa, he would ruin it.

Understanding his hesitation, Gi-hun gestures to the dining area instead. He leads the way, In-ho following him. He pulls back a chair from the table, looking at In-ho. “Here. Sit.”

In-ho hesitates for a brief second, but then he does as he’s told, settling onto the chair. He presses the towel against his face once more, exhaling slowly.

“Do you drink tea? Or just water?” Gi-hun asks.

“You don’t have to-”

“I know,” Gi-hun calls over his shoulder. “Water or tea?”

In-ho doesn’t argue after that. “Tea is fine.”

Gi-hun walks to the kitchen. The apartment is still quiet. He focuses on preparing the tea, listening to the sound of the kettle, and ignoring the pounding of his chest. 

When he’s done, he looks back to where In-ho is sitting. His elbows are propped on the table, both hands on either sides of his head. 

Gi-hun doesn’t say anything. He just sets the cup down beside him and takes a seat.

“Drink,” he says simply.

In-ho exhales, rubbing his thumb along the rim of the cup before finally picking it up. He takes a small sip, then another.

Gi-hun notices things.

The way In-ho’s fingers tighten around the cup. The way he is sitting perfectly still. Not the same stillness he always used to have, this one is much more pronounced. Much more noticeable. 

The way he hasn’t looked at Gi-hun the moment he arrived.

And he notices — more than anything — that In-ho is here.

Not in his restaurant. Not in front of Ga-yeong’s school. Not on the usual path they walk on. But here. In his home.

“I have no idea why I’m here,” In-ho admits, voice quiet.

“I think you do,” Gi-hun replies.

Gi-hun sees it. The smallest flicker of something. A barely-there shift in In-ho’s expression before it disappears again. But Gi-hun catches it. Because he notices things.

In-ho exhales, shaking his head. His grip around the cup tightens. “I just-” He stops himself, brow furrowing. “I was already driving before I even thought about it.”

Gi-hun hums, watching him closely. It’s still there. The unsettling feeling. He wants to ask more, wants to understand, but he hesitates. If this was something In-ho wanted to talk about, he would. Gi-hun should be patient. He should let this happen naturally. That’s the least he can do.

“You want to see her?” Gi-hun asks. “She’s in Ga-yeong’s room. Sleeping.”

In-ho’s eyes flicker toward the hallway. Exhaling, he nods, “Would that be alright?”

Gi-hun purses his lips before he nods back, already standing up. “We should be quiet, though.”

He leads the way, with In-ho walking silently behind him. When they finally reach Ga-yeong’s room, he cracks open the door.

There, Yu-jin and Ga-yeong are curled up under the same blanket. Their limbs are tangled up in the way only children can sleep without any discomfort. 

In-ho exhales, his shoulders visibly relaxing. He takes a step back and nods at Gi-hun, a quiet gesture that he can close the door now. Gi-hun nods back, pulling the door close. 

Gi-hun notices things. 

And right now, he notices as something in In-ho shifts, the tension that had coiled so tightly finally loosening, just a little.

After a few moments, In-ho steps back, turning away first. Gi-hun follows the man as he walks back to the dining room, sitting on the chair without saying a word. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just watches as In-ho curl his fingers against the cup, downing the tea in one go. He looks less troubled now.

Gi-hun notices things.

Right now, he notices how In-ho is still wearing wet clothes. 

“Your clothes. You must be cold,” Gi-hun points out. “You should change. I can lend you something. They’re clean.”

In-ho blinks, finally glancing at him.

Gi-hun shrugs. “You’ll get sick if you stay in those.”

For a second, In-ho doesn’t move. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something between reluctance and consideration. But eventually, he exhales, setting the cup down. “Yeah. Okay.”

Gi-hun walks to his bedroom before In-ho can even take back his words. Without thinking too much of it, Gi-hun grabs a clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants. This would do, wouldn’t it? It’s not like In-ho is in the position to choose. Besides, Gi-hun didn’t have his type of clothing. The unnecessarily expensive type.

“Bathroom is on the third door to your right,” he says when he gets back, holding it out. 

Without saying a word, In-ho takes the clothes and disappears down the hall. 

Gi-hun slumps into the chair, his hand on his head. How did he get here? The past few minutes have been a blur, really. 

When In-ho returns, now dressed in Gi-hun’s clothes, something in Gi-hun’s chest twists. It’s a ridiculous thing to get caught up on, but he can’t help the thought from forming in his mind. The image of In-ho, stiff and perfectly composed In-ho, wearing something that is his messes with his brain. 

Okay, what the hell. Time and place, Gi-hun.

“My clothes,” In-ho starts. “I left them inside. I’ll take them when I leave, don’t worry.”

He has greater things to worry about. Like the stupid pounding in his chest.

Gi-hun nods dumbly, not understanding a word he just said. “Yeah, alright.”

That’s all. No more, no less.

Neither of them says anything after that. The rain outside has eased into a quiet rhythm against the windows, filling the silence between them. Gi-hun completely forgets about the rain and what it represents. He feels his throat tighten.

After a while, Gi-hun exhales and stands. “Gonna use the bathroom.”

In-ho hums in response, completely unaware of the storm of thoughts raging inside Gi-hun’s mind. Gi-hun huffs, slipping into the bathroom.

He thinks he’s safe from his thoughts until something catches his eye. He glances to the side and sees them. In-ho’s clothes, draped neatly over the drying rack. His black leather jacket, his shirt, his jeans.

For some reason, it unsettles him even more. This is the first time In-ho has left behind a trace of himself in Gi-hun’s space. It shouldn’t be a big deal, shouldn’t matter this much, but…

He drags a hand through his hair. Now is not the time to think about this. Not when the man showed up in the middle of the night, looking so lost, so detached. He can dwell on it later. Maybe when they’re both ready to talk about—about what, exactly?

Gi-hun sighs. Whatever. Later. He can think about this later. He fixes his hair one more time before turning away, reaching for the door. But just as he does, something catches his eye again. 

A flash of gold. 

It’s barely visible, peeking out of the pocket of In-ho’s jeans, but the second Gi-hun sees it, his breath catches.

Gi-hun’s stomach twists. He doesn’t even know why. He doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for it. Just stares.

Gi-hun notices things. 

Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t. Wishes he wasn’t so curious.

He wants to brush this off, the way he’s brushed off every other thing that didn’t quite make sense. But for some reason, he can’t. A part of him wants to turn away and pretend he never saw it. Because if he ignores it, maybe it won’t have to mean anything.

But it’s there. It’s right there, completely within his reach. Peeking out from the pocket of In-ho’s jeans, just enough to be seen. 

A gold card. 

Not exactly gold, actually. It’s more of a yellow-brown. The paper isn’t gloss, it has a rough texture, and Gi-hun doesn’t need to touch it to know that it would feel slightly coarse under his fingertips. 

It could be nothing.

Of course, it could be nothing. In fact, it must be nothing. But Gi-hun… Gi-hun notices things. He’s seen enough. He’s experienced enough. And the loud pounding in his ears tells him he shouldn’t let this go. 

He should see it. He needs to see for himself and confirm that it is indeed nothing.

His body moves before his mind can stop it.

Fingers trembling slightly, he slowly, carefully, pulls the card from In-ho’s pocket.

He immediately feels his heart drop to his stomach.

It’s paper. It’s just paper, but it’s heavier than he remembers. 

Or maybe it’s just him. Maybe it’s just the weight of everything crashing back down at once.

The piece of paper sits heavily in his hand. Everything about it makes his chest ache; the rough texture, the shapes, and the quiet promise of something irreversible.

Gi-hun swallows hard, his throat dry despite the lump forming there. For a moment, he just stands there, staring at the card in his hand. He doesn’t know if he wants to flip it over. He can’t. Because the second he does, it will confirm what he already knows. And he won’t be able to take it back.

His fingers tighten. His breath stutters.

And then, slowly and painfully, he turns the card over.

His stomach drops. And it’s not for the reasons he expected.

He thought it would be the same. The same card he held in his hands years ago. Three shapes on the front and a phone number on the back.

Except this one doesn’t have a number.

This one has a name instead.

A name he knows too well.

Hwang In-ho.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun isn’t dumb. 

He might have been reckless before. Before, when he used to be too impulsive and desperate. Before, when he used to chase things that were never meant to be his. Before, when he gambled away money he didn’t have and made decisions he couldn’t afford. Before, when he put his life on the line for something uncertain. 

But he isn’t stupid, not after everything.

Not now.

He stares at the card in his hand. 

People don’t just accidentally get involved in something like this. They don’t just stumble onto these cards. 

Gi-hun knows what type of people end up with one. He knows, because he had been one of them before. Desperate, life falling apart, and one foot in the grave with nowhere else to go. 

In-ho doesn’t seem like that at all. 

Gi-hun doesn’t hesitate. He tightens his grip on the card, hard enough to not let it slip away, but careful enough to not destroy it.

He puts the card back in his pocket, trying not to put any dent or crease on it.

His pulse continues to pound against his ears. He feels it in his chest, too, but his steps are steady as he pushes out of the bathroom. He moves quickly, steps even with a single destination in mind.

In-ho. In-ho, who is unbothered and unaware that Gi-hun found something that could change everything.

Gi-hun watches him closely.

It’s different now. The way he looks at In-ho, the way he weighs every movement, every shift in expression. He’s never been great at keeping his emotions off his face, but he tries now. He schools his features and keeps his voice steady as he speaks.

“I found something in your pocket.”

In-ho barely reacts. Just a slow blink, a slight movement of his fingers against his cup. 

“Yeah?”

Gi-hun hums, tilting his head. He makes a show of dragging the moment out, tapping his fingers absently against the table. “A card.”

He doesn’t miss it. The way In-ho’s grip on the cup tightens ever so slightly before he exhales, shaking his head.

“Some guy was handing them out,” he says smoothly. “Probably promoting a business or something.”

Bullshit.

Gi-hun doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just lets the words hang between them, like he’s weighing and wrapping them around in his head.

He leans forward. Not too much, just enough to take up space. Just enough to make it clear that he isn’t someone to be brushed off. Not threatening, but steady. 

“What kind of business hands out cards with people’s names on them?”

Silence.

Gi-hun doesn’t look away. He doesn’t blink. He just watches as In-ho exhales slowly, shifting in his seat, fingers flexing once against his cup before stilling completely.

Too careful. Too measured. Too controlled.

And that bothers Gi-hun even further. The control, the lack of any real surprise, and the neutral expression on his face. It’s the type of control that people have when they’re hiding something.

Because In-ho isn’t confused. He isn’t scrambling to explain himself. He isn’t acting like someone who just found out their name was on some random card.

No, he’s too calm. As if this doesn’t faze him at all.

As if he expected this.

Gi-hun swallows, his pulse pounding in his ears. His fingers twitch against his lap, itching to reach for the card again, to shove it in In-ho’s face and demand something real.

Because this isn’t real. This is bullshit. This is In-ho lying to his face.

“You’re saying,” Gi-hun starts slowly, voice careful, “that some random guy was handing these out?”

In-ho nods once. Simple.

“And that you just… what? Took it?”

A pause. “I was in a hurry.”

More bullshit.

Gi-hun’s throat tightens. He should have seen it before. He should have noticed the signs. He should have asked the second something didn’t add up. He should have… done more. 

How could he have been so blind? How had he brushed it all off as nothing?

He thought In-ho was just someone like him. Someone who had lost things. Someone who had been through hell and back.

But maybe he wasn’t.

What if he was on the other side?

The card in Gi-hun’s pocket feels heavier now. A weight pressing into him, reminding him, warning him.

Because he knows what this means.

He’s seen the symbols before. He’s held that card before. He’s followed its promise into something he’ll never crawl out of, no matter how much time passes.

And now, In-ho has one.

In-ho has one with his name printed on it.

Not a number. Not a faceless invitation. A name. His name.

And suddenly, it all clicks.

The unease, the distance, the way In-ho has always been just a little too put together, a little too controlled. The way he tells stories in parts and never as a whole.

Gi-hun’s hands curl into fists under the table. His pulse thrums against his skin, hot and fast, too loud and too much.

Because this isn’t just about some random card.

This is about who In-ho is.

This is about what he does.

This is about what he’s doing here.

Gi-hun exhales sharply, his voice quieter now, edged with something unsteady. “Why does this have your name on it, In-ho?”

In-ho’s expression doesn’t change, but Gi-hun catches it. A small twitch in his face. Then, a slow inhale. A shift of his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he says, too smooth, too even. “Maybe they got my information somehow.”

Liar.

Gi-hun forces out a sharp and humorless laugh. “Right. Sure.”

Grip tightening around his knee, he leans forward again.

“Why would someone have your information? Why would some shady business have your name?”

He watches, waiting for In-ho to say something back. To break, even just a little.

And then, finally, In-ho meets his gaze. Something shifts. A slight tension in his jaw. It’s brief, a small move that Gi-hun would have missed if he wasn’t paying attention. But Gi-hun’s eyes are on him, and the slight slip is enough.

Enough for Gi-hun to know that this isn’t a coincidence or bad luck.

In-ho is part of it.

He’s part of them.

And he’s here.

With him.

With his daughter.

Gi-hun’s breath stutters, his chest constricting like a ten-wheeler truck sitting on his ribs. His pulse pounds; hot, erratic, and deafening. It’s in his ears, in his throat, and in the pit of his stomach. 

He feels sick.

He doesn’t look away from In-ho, trying to remember their second meeting.

“Who sent you?”

At the time, it had confused him. Now, it makes his blood run cold.

Was it projection? Had In-ho been the one watching him this whole time? Had he been sent?

By them?

His fingers curl into fists under the table. His entire body is tensed. This isn’t paranoia. This isn’t some wild assumption. This is something real.

“You’ve been following me,” Gi-hun says. His voice comes out quieter than he expects, hoarse and edged with something close to disbelief.

In-ho’s brows draw together. “What?”

Gi-hun backs up before he realizes he’s doing it, his pulse hammering beneath his skin.

“They sent you here.” The words feel like lead on his tongue.

In-ho’s face flickers with something unreadable. His confusion is evident, but Gi-hun doesn’t trust it.

“What—what do you mean, Gi-hun?” His voice is steady, but there’s something beneath it now. “Who… who sent me here?”

Gi-hun swallows past the dryness in his throat. His mind races too fast, yanking together fragmented memories, words spoken in passing, things that didn’t seem to matter before but now fit too well. Too neatly.

“It was a gamble. A last move made out of desperation. A place that did not guarantee that I’d come back alive.”

“To be alive, I guess.”

“To come back from that.”

“After knowing that people—someone important to you—died in return.”

“Good thing it’s not trains.”

It had all been there. In-ho had said these things, let them slip so easily, and Gi-hun… Gi-hun had been too blind to question it.

Or had that been the point? Had In-ho wanted him to know? Had it been a warning? A test?

Gi-hun exhales shakily, his voice thin and uncertain. “Is this what you meant?” His breath is unsteady. “When you said it’s hard to come back alive from that? When you said people died because of you?”

Because–He can’t finish the thought. He doesn’t want to. Across from him, something changes. It’s small. A barely noticeable shift in his jaw.

But Gi-hun notices things.

And right now, he sees it. He sees the moment In-ho starts putting something together.

“Gi-hun.” His voice is quieter now, more deliberate. “The card. Where is it?”

Gi-hun stiffens.

In-ho’s eyes narrow, his expression sharpening. “What do you know?”

Gi-hun can’t do this.

He won’t.

He isn’t ready to process what’s happening. He isn’t ready to understand what this means, what In-ho means. He isn’t ready to understand what In-ho is asking him.

So Gi-hun does the most reasonable thing he can do at the moment. He pushes In-ho away.

“Leave.”

Don’t. 

“What?”

Who are you?

“Please leave.”

I don’t know you.

“Gi-hun-”

Do you know me?

“Yu-jin is safe. I’ll drop her off after breakfast tomorrow.”

Leave.

“Gi-hun-”

Leave.

“Leave, In-ho.”

His voice is louder now, more firm. His hands feel cold. He has no idea what he’s even doing anymore. Whether this is the right choice or not. Maybe it’s not. Maybe this is him making things worse. But… but he needs space. He needs this to stop.

“Just. Please… leave.”

Something in In-ho’s expression sharpens. 

The way he’s looking at Gi-hun is different now. Sharper. Like he’s piecing something together. Like he’s finally realizing something.

“Gi-hun,” In-ho says, his words slow and careful. “You know something.”

It is not a question.

Gi-hun’s chest tightens. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want this conversation, doesn’t want to hear what In-ho is trying to say.

Doesn’t want to see the way he’s looking at him.

“Leave.”

The air between them feels impossibly thick.

After a long, stretched moment, In-ho exhales.

Something in his posture shifts. Not resignation. Not defeat. Just… understanding.

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t press. But he watches Gi-hun intently. Like he’s trying to read his mind.

The rain continues to fall outside, the sound of raindrops against his windows filling the emptiness of the apartment. 

He hates the sound. Hates what it represents. Hates what it reminds him of. Hates how it feels. 

Gi-hun swallows. Before he can stop himself, he walks toward the door. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But his body moves before his mind catches up, his hand gripping the umbrella leaning against the wall. 

He doesn’t have to do this. 

He really doesn’t.

He shouldn’t care. Not now. Not after this.

But also.

Also.

It doesn’t look like it’s going to stop raining soon.

He exhales sharply through his nose, brows furrowed as he feels the irritation clawing at his skin. Wordlessly, he shoves the umbrella toward In-ho without looking him in the eye.

In-ho doesn’t reach for it immediately. Instead, his gaze remains on Gi-hun, searching, studying. Searching and studying for what, exactly? He doesn’t want to know.

Finally, after a beat, In-ho takes the umbrella. His fingers barely brush against Gi-hun’s as he does.

“Thank you,” he says, voice unreadable.

And then he turns. Walks toward the door.

Gi-hun swears he hears it. The softest breath. A quiet, almost imperceptible exhale. Like he just put something together that he wasn’t supposed to.

The door clicks shut behind him, and Gi-hun is left standing there. Alone.

With nothing but the sound of his own breathing, his own pounding heart, and the weight of something he isn’t ready to name.

He doesn’t remember how he got here. Everything from last night up to now is a blur. 

One moment, he was making breakfast. Then, he was asking Yu-jin if she had Jun-ho’s number. Then, he was dialing it himself, his voice steady despite the ache he feels in his head and chest. Then, he was asking for their address. 

And finally, he’s here.

Jun-ho meets him at the door, brows drawn in mild confusion. “Hyung left this morning. I thought he was coming to pick her up.”

Gi-hun swallows down the lump in his throat. “Must have been a miscommunication, then.”

Yu-jin thanks him again before he leaves, her voice bright and sincere, “Tell Unnie she should come over next time.”

He nods and smiles. He feels his chest tighten. 

Then, he walks away.

He doesn’t go to the restaurant the next day.

He doesn’t go the day after either.

Or the day after that.

Or the day after. 

Or after. 

Jung-bae and Dae-ho don’t ask. They don’t know exactly what happened, but they know enough. Know that Gi-hun isn’t the type to take time off work, not like this. Not unless something’s weighing him down so heavily he can’t even pretend to shake it off.

Still, he picks Ga-yeong up from school. That much hasn’t changed.

But the route has.

He takes the long way now. Avoids the familiar streets, the paths his feet have memorized over time. It’s instinct, at first. A subconscious choice. Then, it becomes deliberate. He won’t risk running into him. Won’t give himself the chance to be caught off guard.

On days he doesn’t feel like walking, he brings his car. Less chance of running into someone if he remains hidden inside a vehicle. Less chance of facing something he isn’t ready to deal with yet.

Ga-yeong has managed to keep her curiosity at bay for the past few days, but on the fifth day, she finally breaks.

"Did you guys fight?"

Gi-hun’s grip tightens around the steering wheel.

"Jung-bae? No!" he lets out a forced laugh. “This is a test for him. A test to see if he could manage the restaurant when I’m not there.” 

It’s a pathetic attempt, really. He knows it. And Ga-yeong does too.

"Not him," she says, voice quieter this time. "Yu-jin’s dad."

His fingers flex, gripping the wheel even tighter.

"What do you mean?" 

Ga-yeong doesn’t buy it. 

"Are you avoiding him? Did you two fight?"

Gi-hun exhales, pressing his lips together. He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady even as his mind sways under the weight of everything he hasn’t said.

Ga-yeong doesn’t push right away. 

Gi-hun thinks it’s over.

But then, she suddenly says, “Remember when you taught me how to ride a bike?” 

Gi-hun glances at her. "What?"

“Remember? I fell and hurt my knee. It was pretty bad. There were rocks and everything."

He does remember. He remembers how she hit the ground hard, how the skin on her knee split open, how she’d sucked in a sharp breath but hadn’t cried right away. How, instead, she had stubbornly refused to let him clean it.

"You didn’t want me to disinfect it," he says, the memory falling into place.

She nods. "I thought it would heal on its own. That maybe, if I left it all alone, it would be fine.” 

Gi-hun swallows. His fingers tighten around the wheel.

“But you told me, ‘If you avoid it now, it will hurt more later.’”

Gi-hun looks away and keeps his eyes focused on the road.

"And you were right," Ga-yeong continues. "You were right. It got infected, and the wound worsened, remember? And it stung. It stung more than it would have if I had just let you clean it from the start. If I had dealt with the initial pain right away, I wouldn’t have ended up in even greater pain."

He sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Avoiding things isn’t always the answer. That’s what you told me."

Gi-hun exhales slowly.

He remembers it vividly. He remembers her small hands holding onto the handlebars of the bike. He remembers her scraped knee and her refusal to let him go anywhere near the wound. He remembers her pretending she was fine, lips pressed together, and smiling through the pain.

He knew she was scared. Of the sting, of the pain, and of what it would feel like. She insisted that disinfecting it would make it hurt even more.

And he had told her: The first step of healing is tending to the wound. And most of the time, tending it hurts. But that’s what gets it to heal.

Now, all these years later, his own words come back to him. Only this time, they’re coming from her.

Pain doesn’t go away just because you ignore it.

Gi-hun swallows, his grip tightening on the wheel before loosening again.

Ga-yeong doesn’t push. She just lets the words hang in the air. Lets him sit with them, as if allowing him to decide what to do with them.

“You used to be so little. Where did you get all this wisdom from?” Gi-hun chuckles. 

“Who else? You.” Ga-yeong shrugs. “And plus, I’m in middle school now! Of course, I’m not little.”

Gi-hun shakes his head, a smile finally forming on his lips. It’s small, barely there, but real.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps driving, eyes fixed on the road ahead, letting the silence settle between them.

But he feels it. The ache in his chest. It feels stubborn and heavy. A quiet, persistent throb that refuses to be ignored.

Because Ga-yeong is right. And she doesn’t even know just how much.

Gi-hun paces his room, running through every possible scenario and every possible way this could go. His mind is restless as he weighs his options.

He has three in total.

The first goes like this: He shows up at In-ho’s door, shoves the card in his face, and demands an explanation. Maybe even throws a punch, pins him to the ground, and forces out an apology. An apology for what, exactly? He isn’t sure. For lying? For hiding this? For being part of the very thing that ruined everything? 

He shakes his head as he thinks about the second option. 

It goes like this: He shows up at In-ho’s door, keeps his voice even, and asks him to talk. They go somewhere quiet, somewhere without prying eyes. And once they’re alone, he swings. A hit to the face, a fist to the gut. He doesn’t give In-ho a chance to react, doesn’t let him defend himself. He hits him again. And again. And again. Maybe he keeps going until there’s blood, until there’s nothing but the weight of his own fists connecting with flesh. Maybe he keeps going until it’s no longer about hurting In-ho, but about something else entirely.  

Something deeper. Something heavier.  

Something meant for himself.

Okay. Maybe not that.

He forces himself to think about the last option. The one that makes him the most anxious. 

It’s simple; He shows up at In-ho’s door, hands him the card, and simply asks.

Gi-hun knows the last one sounds like the best choice. The most rational one. The one that won’t lead to bruised knuckles and regrets he can’t take back.

But could he do it? Could he stand there, look In-ho in the eye, and ask? Without his voice shaking with something raw and ugly?

Gi-hun exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair.

Could he do it?

No, he doesn’t know if he can. But he has to try.

Gi-hun immediately knows the day isn’t going to be easy when he sees how dark the sky is. It’s not raining. Not yet. But he knows the downpour will happen when he least expects it.

Still, he drives.

Never mind the steady pounding in his chest. Never mind the dull headache creeping in behind his eyes. Never mind the countless scenarios spinning in his head, all the different ways this could go wrong. What he might find out. What he might not be ready to hear.

He just hopes he gets out of it alive.

Not literally. He knows he will. That’s the problem.

Because even against his will, despite everything he knows, some stubborn part of him still believes that In-ho wouldn’t hurt him.

And maybe that’s the issue. Maybe he still hasn’t let go of that part of himself. The part that’s too trusting, too willing to leave his heart open for people. The part that insists on finding the good in everyone, on searching for light even in the darkest places.

The part that refuses to believe that some people are just lost. Gone. Past the point of saving.

When he arrives in front of In-ho’s place, his hands feel heavy as he raises them to knock on the door.

What greets him is a confused Jun-ho. “Gi-hun-ssi?”

“Your brother.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Where is he?”

Jun-ho crosses his arms, brows furrowed. “What is it to you?”

Gi-hun is caught off guard by the tone — sharp, guarded, heavier than he expected. Accusatory.

Jun-ho doesn’t say anything for a while. His eyes remain on him, like he’s assessing, studying every single part of Gi-hun’s face. The silence stretches, long enough that Gi-hun almost repeats himself.

And then, Jun-ho says something that knocks the air out of him.

“You know, my brother has changed.”

Gi-hun stares. “What?”

Jun-ho exhales, shaking his head slightly. “From before. I’ve known him my whole life. He used to be… different. Less reserved. Loud with his actions. He didn’t hesitate to show when he cared about something, about someone.”

Gi-hun listens.

“And then things happened,” Jun-ho murmurs. “Things that took things away from him. Even that version of him.”

Gi-hun’s chest tightens.

“And then we moved here. And for some reason, I saw the old version of him slipping back in. It was refreshing to witness. It felt like I reunited with someone I haven’t seen for a long time.”

Gi-hun frowns. What is Jun-ho trying to say? Where is this going, really?

“But these past few days...” Jun-ho exhales. “I don't know. In-ho hyung can be unpredictable. He can do things I least expect. And that… that terrifies me.”

Jun-ho looks back at him, expression serious now. “Because lately, I can feel him slipping back. Back into who he was before we moved here.”

Gi-hun’s pulse stutters.

Before.

Before he met him.

Before he knew him.

Before everything.

“Look,” Jun-ho continues. “I have no idea what it is about. I have no idea if it even has something to do with you. But… maybe you can talk to him?”

Well. Yeah. That’s why he’s here, anyway.

But something about the way Jun-ho says it makes Gi-hun feel… something unfamiliar. Something thick and twisting in his gut.

Like he doesn’t have the right to feel what he’s feeling.

Like he should feel guilty for doubting him.

Even when he knows he has every right to.

Does Jun-ho even know?

Does he know about the card? About what it means? What it represents?

Jun-ho’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Please talk to him.” His tone is softer now, almost pleading. “And if—if you decide you don’t want to have anything to do with him after that… I’ll understand. Just talk to him first.”

Jun-ho knows.

Gi-hun exhales sharply, chest tight.

“…Where is he?”

“He left an hour ago,” Jun-ho says. “He didn’t say where he was going, but-”

“I’m leaving,” Gi-hun interrupts. Then, before he leaves, he gives Jun-ho a look. He doesn’t say anything else.

He just looks at him.

Jun-ho visibly relaxes when he gets the message. 

Gi-hun will talk to his brother. To In-ho. 

All that’s left for him to do is to find him. 

He looks for In-ho everywhere.

He isn’t at the park near his house. He isn’t at any of the nearby restaurants. He isn’t sitting on any of the benches along the streets. Gi-hun scans every person he drives past, searching for that familiar stance, that familiar silhouette – but none of them are him.

He starts driving to places In-ho might go. Places that make sense.

But again, he’s not there.

Not in front of Yu-jin’s school. Not by the food truck near Ga-yeong’s. Not even along the familiar path they always walk.

Gi-hun grips the wheel tighter. He has no idea where In-ho could be. He’s checked every place he knows In-ho knows.

And then, it hits him.

There’s one place he hasn’t checked yet.

Without thinking twice, he turns the car and heads straight for the restaurant.

He gets there quickly. The moment he arrives, he parks and steps inside.

“Gi-hun?”

He turns his head at the sound of the voice.

“Jung-bae.” He attempts to not sound disappointed.

“Gi-hun-ah, how are you?”

“I’m… I’m fine. Did-”

“In-ho?”

Gi-hun’s head snaps up. “Did he come here?”

Jung-bae shakes his head. “No.”

Gi-hun exhales sharply, shoulders deflating. He nods. Of course. Why would In-ho come here, anyway?

He turns and heads for the door, giving Jung-bae one last pat on the shoulder. 

The moment he steps outside, he draws in a sharp breath. His feet carry him toward the swings. When he sits down, he rests his elbows on his knees. 

He puts both his hands on his head. Debating. Thinking.

Should he just leave?

He should.

He should, but he can’t.

He stays like that for a while, unmoving, with no real intention of getting up. And then, he feels it.

A drop.

A sudden wetness on his hand.

Then, a pour.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t make any attempt to get off the swing and find the nearest shelter. He doesn’t even think about getting back inside the restaurant. 

He presses both hands over his eyes, shielding them from the downpour. Hunches forward. Presses his elbows into his knees.

He stays like that.

So much for finding In-ho. So much for asking. So much for getting answers.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, rain soaking into his clothes, and into his hair.

But then, suddenly, it stops.

He stops feeling the rain on his clothes. On his hair.

But it’s odd. Because he can still hear it. The sound raindrops against the pavement. Against the rocks.

Confused, he slowly removes his hands from his eyes. 

The image that presents in front of him is enough to knock the breath from his lungs. 

There, In-ho stands, holding out the umbrella over him. All while he’s letting himself get rained on.

“Gi-hun.”

He wants to cry.  

“I found you,” In-ho whispers.  

He really, really wants to cry.  

But instead, he scoffs. “I guess you did.”  

“It’s raining,” In-ho points out.  

“It is.”  

“Why are you letting yourself get rained on?”  

“Why are you?” Gi-hun shoots back.  

In-ho doesn’t answer. He just keeps holding the umbrella over him, unbothered by the fact that he’s the one getting soaked now.

Gi-hun exhales sharply, tilting his head back, letting the rain slip past the edges of the umbrella and onto his skin.

His pulse still hasn’t settled. His thoughts still haven’t sorted themselves out. He spent the entire day preparing for something. For a fight. For a shout. For fist on In-ho's face.

For anything other than In-ho standing in front of him, holding out an umbrella and shielding him from the rain.

In-ho exhales. "Jun-ho told me you came."

“I hope he spared you the speech.”

In-ho ignores the way he scoffs. "I didn’t see you for the past six days."

Gi-hun clenches his jaw. "I made an effort to avoid you."

“Hm.” In-ho tilts his head slightly. "I figured that on the third day."

Gi-hun grits his teeth.

"What changed? Why did you choose to look for me today?"

Gi-hun’s head snaps up. His heart pounds against his ribs, something warm curling in his gut; anger, frustration, or something worse.

“You don’t get to be calm about this,” he spits, voice harsher than he intended.

He pushes himself up from the swing, eyes locked onto In-ho’s.

“I’ve been driving around all day, thinking about all the different ways this would go,” Gi-hun says, voice tight. “I thought…” His breath stutters. “I thought I’d want to hurt you.”

“You can.”

That’s the thing. Because he could. It would be easy, with In-ho standing close, unguarded. He could take a swing, feel his fist connect with skin, and watch In-ho stagger back.

But he doesn’t want to.

“The card,” he says instead. 

In-ho nods slowly, keeping his eyes on him. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t move.

It’s as if he already expected this. Expected this conversation.

The rain keeps falling, soaking into his hair, slipping down his face. And yet. Yet he holds the umbrella out for Gi-hun.

“I was a part of it.”

Gi-hun stills.

In-ho’s voice remains steady. “I was part of the game,” he repeats. “But I think you got the wrong idea.”

Gi-hun stays frozen, breath catching.

“I wasn’t on it.” In-ho’s voice is quiet now, deliberate. “I was in it.”

Gi-hun doesn’t move.

His mind blanks for a second, too many thoughts crashing into each other at once, a storm of unfinished questions and unspoken accusations. His fingers twitch at his sides. His breath comes out uneven.

In-ho watches him. Still holding the umbrella. Still getting drenched.

Gi-hun exhales sharply. He forces his voice to come out steady. “What do you mean?”

In-ho doesn’t look away. “Exactly what I said.”

Gi-hun shakes his head.

“No,” he says, the word escaping on an unsteady breath. “That doesn’t—That doesn’t make any sense. I was in it. I played. I saw the recruiter, the guards, the…” His chest tightens. He forces himself to push through it. “I saw what they did. I saw what happens to people who don't make it. I saw what happens to people that fail-”

He sucks in a sharp breath instead. Then, another.

In-ho doesn’t say anything for a long moment. 

Then, finally, it all starts to make sense.

"You..."

Finally, he starts piecing it together.

“You won.” 

He looks at In-ho properly now, trying to study every detail he had ignored before. The exhaustion evident in his features. The way he’s always tense. The way he always seem so guarded. 

The way he’s very similar to Gi-hun.

Gi-hun takes a shaky breath. He forces himself to speak. “You…” He whispers. “You were in the games.”

Gi-hun feels his stomach turn.

“You played. Like me.”

In-ho’s silence is the only answer he needs.

“I thought-” He stops, not knowing what to say.

I thought I would want to hurt you. 

I thought I would hate you. 

I thought you wouldn’t get it. 

I thought you would hate me. 

I thought I was alone.

“How?” He tries to say out loud. But it came out as something barely above a whisper. He feels his breath catch, like the rain is soaking into his lungs. “How did you end up there?”

In-ho exhales slowly. “The same way you did.”

Something inside Gi-hun cracks.

Because that’s the worst part. The part he wasn’t ready to consider.

That In-ho, like him, had been desperate. Had been backed into a corner. Had lost something. Lost everything. And had nothing left to turn to except the game.

He wants to cry. He blinks, looking away. 

“How?” He whispers. “How did you get out?”

It’s a pathetic attempt. A useless question Gi-hun already knows the answer to. 

“How do winners win in the game, Gi-hun?” 

“By being the last one standing.”

“And that is achieved, how?”

The words get stuck in Gi-hun’s throat.

He already knows where this is going. Knows what message In-ho is trying to put across. What he’s forcing him to acknowledge.

Gi-hun swallows. His fingers curl at his sides. His voice comes out quieter this time.

“You know how, In-ho.”

“I do.”

Silence.

The rain fills the space between them, steady and unrelenting.

“Did you know them? The last person you were with,” Gi-hun asks.

“I knew his name.” In-ho’s eyes don’t waver. “Ji-wan. Another player I met in the game.” He hesitates for a fraction of a second before adding, “He was a father too.”

Gi-hun doesn’t respond. He can’t. It’s too heavy, too much.

And then, In-ho asks, “How about you? Did you know the last person you were with?”

He swallows. Forces himself to push through the heaviness in his chest.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.

In-ho exhales, nodding once. 

“It must have been hard.”

Gi-hun’s jaw clenches. His pulse pounds against his skin. The ache in his chest deepens, raw and relentless.

“It was.”

In-ho watches him carefully but doesn’t ask more.

“If only we had control over things, it would have ended differently,” In-ho says.

That’s when Gi-hun finally feels it. A tear slipping from his eye. And then a second one.

And then suddenly, he’s sobbing uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry," he sobs.

“It wasn’t your fault,” In-ho replies. “Not when you got dragged into that place. Not when you continued playing. Not even when you ended up being the only one alive until the end.”

It sounds like a message not just to Gi-hun, but to himself as well.

“I’m sorry.” In-ho steps closer. “I’m sorry you’ve been through that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Gi-hun chokes out.

I'm sorry for doubting you.

I'm sorry for being alive.

I'm sorry, because despite it all, I am glad that I am.

He leans in, his head falling against In-ho’s chest.

Inho pulls him in, placing a firm hand on his back. Gi-hun grips his shirt, allowing himself to stay there. 

“I wasn’t supposed to win,” he gasps. “I shouldn’t be alive.”

Gi-hun feels In-ho's grip on him tighten. "You are," he says calmly. "You are alive."

He shakes his head against In-ho's chest. “I shouldn’t be.”

“You should.” In-ho’s hand moves in slow, grounding motions against his back. “You should, Gi-hun.”

Gi-hun chokes out a sob, something broken, something he can’t hold in any longer. His whole body shakes with it. 

“You survived,” In-ho murmurs. “You survived because you had to. Because you deserved to.”

“Some people deserved it more. I don’t think I do,” he laughs dryly.

“You do.” When In-ho pulls back slightly, he takes it as an opportunity to look at Gi-hun properly. “You deserved it, Gi-hun.”

In-ho looks at him intently. And Gi-hun lets him.

Lets himself be seen.

Gi-hun swallows, his breath still unsteady. He searches In-ho’s face, searching for something, anything to contradict it. But there’s nothing. Just quiet certainty.

Gi-hun pulls back, looking at In-ho now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

“It’s fine. I would have reacted the same way.”

“You deserve it too, you know,” Gi-hun says. 

“I don’t think I do,” In-ho replies.

Gi-hun shakes his head. “You do.”

In-ho doesn’t react, not immediately. Just watches him with an unreadable expression.

Then, finally, he breathes out. “Maybe.”

He’s just like Gi-hun. He says it like Gi-hun would. He says it like he does not believe it either.

Gi-hun looks at him. Looks at his face, of the rain dripping from his hair to his face. 

“You’re still here,” Gi-hun whispers.

In-ho huffs, the ghost of a laugh. “So are you.”

Gaze dropping to the umbrella still held over his head, Gi-hun shifts slightly. “You should use this,” he mutters.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re getting drenched.”

“And you were sitting in the rain.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

In-ho’s lips twitch, just slightly. 

Gi-hun looks at him, really looks at him. And for the first time in days, he doesn’t feel like running.

His fingers twitch at his sides. He exhales. “Let’s go inside my car.”

In-ho doesn’t argue. He just nods.

There’s still more Gi-hun wants to know. Still more he wants to ask. But it’s still raining. And for once, he doesn’t want to let it bother him anymore.

So he grabs the umbrella, pulls In-ho closer so he’s under it too, and walks toward his car.

Chapter Text

Hwang In-ho always knew what he was doing.

He knew what he was doing when he donated a kidney to Jun-ho. Knew he was an older brother. Knew about the responsibilities that came with it. Never mind if he hadn’t gone through a major surgery before. Just gave it. No hesitation, no questions asked. 

He knew what he was doing when he chose his career path. Knew which university to attend. Knew what to do after graduation. Knew when he put on the uniform, when he pinned his badge to his chest. An officer. A man who upheld the law, believed in justice, and thought that if he did everything right, life would give him something in return.

He knew what he was doing when he borrowed money to pay for his wife’s treatment. Knew the risks. Knew its consequences. Knew that if his superiors caught word of it, they might misinterpret it, and he’d lose his job in an instant.

He knew what he was doing when he stood in the train station, watching people as they walked by. Knew what he was doing when he let an odd man in a suit convince him to play a childish game. Knew what he was doing when he didn’t stop, when his confidence grew with every win and with every crisp, yellow bill pressed into his hand.

He knew what he was doing when he held onto that card, fingers tight around its edges. When he stared at the number printed on it. When he dialed. He knew. Knew it was a gamble. Knew it was reckless. Knew it wasn’t a real solution.

He knew what he was doing when he stepped into that place. When he watched people beg for mercy, for help. When he watched them die.

He knew what he was doing when he forced himself not to think, not to feel. When he focused on only one thing: money. When he convinced himself that if he just made it out alive, everything would be worth it.

He knew what he was doing when he stood in that field, a black suit too formal for a game of death clinging to his skin.

He knew what he was doing when he swung the knife. When he forced his grip steady. When he ignored the ugly feeling clawing at his chest and the voice in his head screaming at him to stop, to give up, to let it go. Knew when he pushed past the hesitation, past the horror, past the part of himself that wanted to walk away instead of survive.

He knew what he was doing when he killed. When he looked into the eyes of the last person who stood in his way and did what felt right.

He knew what he was doing when he walked away with the money.

He knew.

But then, when he arrived at the hospital, hands still shaking from everything – guilt, regret, anger, and resentment, they told him something that didn’t make any sense.

His wife was gone.

Just like that. No warning. No last words. No waiting for him to come home.

Suddenly, he didn’t know what he was doing anymore.

Didn’t know what to do with 45.6 billion won when the person he had wanted to save wasn’t there to be saved.

Didn’t know what to do with a daughter who had just entered the world as her mother was leaving it. Who didn’t know loss, didn’t know absence, didn’t know the weight of what had just happened.

Didn’t know what to do when he stood in the hospital hallway, the sound of crying – his daughter’s, his own – ringing in his ears. When the weight of it all pressed into his chest, his lungs, his ribs; crushing him, drowning him, making it impossible to move.

He had spent six days fighting to survive. Had played their game. Had won.

And for what? For nothing? At the cost of everything?

In-ho always knew what he was doing.

Until, suddenly, he didn’t.

But despite being lost, In-ho tried. 

He had to.

For his daughter. For his brother.

He was lost when he raised Yu-jin, fumbling through fatherhood with nothing but grief and desperation to guide him. 

He was lost when he realized that no matter how much he tried, he could never be what she truly needed. A mother’s care. A mother’s love. A presence he could never replace.

He was lost when he accepted Jun-ho’s mother’s help. When she looked at him, hugged him, and said, “If a mother’s love is what she lacks, let me give it to her.”

He was lost when he continued to live despite the weight pressing down on him. The guilt and anger sitting heavy in his chest, clawing to be let out.

He was lost when they started moving. Busan. Jeju. Gangneung. Mokpo. Chuncheon. City after city, never staying too long, never allowing himself to be found.

He was lost when the card arrived.

The same one he held years ago. The same symbols. The same silent invitation.

But this time, there was no number. This time, it had his name on it.

He was lost when he packed their things and moved again.

Lost when Jun-ho confronted him. When his brother asked why, why, why they were never allowed to stay. Why there was always another excuse to leave.

Lost when he broke down in front of Jun-ho. The one person he should have protected from all of this. The one person who should never have seen him like this. Weak. Unreliable. Broken.

Lost when Jun-ho understood.

Lost when he didn’t push him away like In-ho had expected.

Lost when he realized that, despite everything, Jun-ho was still standing by his side.

Lost when he met Gi-hun. Too caring. Too giving. Too much for his own good.

Lost when he was offered nothing but kindness, even when Gi-hun had every right and reason to be suspicious of him.

Lost when he found himself seeking him out, something he hadn’t done in years. Not since his wife.

Lost when he started considering it – coming clean, telling Gi-hun everything. The games. The lives lost. The weight pressing against his ribs every time he momentarily forgets.

Lost when he realized he was scared. Terrified. Absolutely wrecked at the thought that telling him might ruin everything. That one day, when he did, Gihun would leave.

Lost when he tried to make sense of it, tried to justify the ache in his chest, the way his pulse stuttered at the thought of losing someone he never had in the first place.

Lost when he found himself searching for the card, hands unsteady as he dug through his things. When he pulled out a small storage box from under his bed. When he found it. Held it. Turned it over between his fingers.

Lost when he contemplated, again, telling Gi-hun the truth.

Lost when he found himself gripping the wheel too tightly, rain hammering against the windshield as he drove through the night with only one destination in mind.

Lost when he realized he couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t risk it.

Couldn’t risk losing Gi-hun.

Lost when he suddenly started walking out of his car, through the downpour, up the path to Gi-hun’s door.

Lost when he realized he just needed to see him. Needed to confirm that he was still there.

Lost when Gi-hun found out anyway. When he looked him in the eye and asked about the card.

Lost when he saw something familiar and unspoken in Gi-hun’s gaze.

Lost when he disappeared all of a sudden. When he looked at every place where Gi-hun might be, only to come home every day defeated. 

Lost when he realized that Gi-hun, like him, might be lost, too.

And now.

Now, sitting in Gi-hun’s car, with the rain still drumming against the windshield and the weight of everything between them settling into the silence, In-ho wonders if he’s still lost.

Or if, for the first time in years, he’s finally been found.

“We’re not driving to the nearest cliff, are we?” he asks, voice light but laced with something quieter beneath it. 

Gi-hun glances at him. “Why would we go to a cliff?”

“So you can push me off.”

Gi-hun side-eyes him and scoffs. “Not when you’re drenched and freezing.”

“So I have to dry off first, and then you’ll push me off?”

“Good guess.”

In-ho purses his lips, trying to stop a smile from forming. 

He shivers. His hair is still wet from the rain, the water dripping onto his clothes and into the seat. In an attempt to warm himself, he mindlessly rubs his hands against his arms.

He’s too focused on trying to keep himself warm to notice the car slowing down, Gi-hun pulling up to the side of the road. He only realizes when Gi-hun shifts, reaching toward the backseat, blindly rummaging until he pulls out a hoodie.

Gi-hun shoves it toward him without looking. 

“Here.”

He blinks at it, then at Gi-hun. “You keep spare clothes in your car?”

“For emergencies,“ Gi-hun replies, nodding.

He frowns. “What kind of emergencies?”

“Oh, you know. The kind where I offer a ride to a guy drenched in rain on a random night?”

In-ho snorts, his gaze dropping to Gi-hun’s hoodie in his hands. He tosses it onto his lap and shifts slightly instead of putting it on.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

About the wet clothes seeping into the seat. 

About the card.

About everything.

Gi-hun hums. He doesn’t drive, just stays there, waiting. In-ho takes it as a sign to continue. 

“I could have told you about it sooner.”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Gi-hun replies. “You couldn’t possibly have told me sooner because you didn’t know who I was. Had no idea I would understand.”

In-ho watches as the rain continues to fall. He waits for Gi-hun to continue.

“I do not blame you. I know how it feels, you know. To hesitate and to be terrified that someone wouldn’t get it.”

Silence. The kind that isn’t uncomfortable, just thick with everything left unsaid.

Then, he continues, “It’s not like I told you anything, too. I should have told you as well. So… I’m sorry.”

In-ho waves his hand. “You shouldn’t apologize.”

Gi-hun nods and he nods back, a quiet acceptance of… whatever this is. Whatever happened last week. Whatever secrets they managed to keep. Whatever truths they’ve laid out. Whatever else they might say in the future.

Then, after a beat, In-ho adds, “You know what you should apologize for, though?”

Gi-hun glances at him. “What?”

“Sitting on the swing in the rain,” he replies.

A startled laugh escapes Gi-hun. In-ho can’t help but mirror him. “I could say the same about you.”

In-ho huffs. “And aside from that-”

Gi-hun raises his brow. “There’s more?”

“Aside from that,” he continues. “You handing me this when you’re also drenched,” he points at the hoodie in his hand. 

Gi-hun rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” In-ho counters. “You’re just as soaked as I am.”

“You were standing in the rain longer. You literally stood there, dramatically getting drenched like some tragic film protagonist.”

“I was holding an umbrella over your head. Prevented you from getting rained on even more,” In-ho says as a matter-of-factly. 

“I know, I was there.”

In-ho shakes his head, shoving the hoodie toward Gi-hun. “Take it.”

Gi-hun doesn’t budge. “No.”

“You’re shivering," In-ho points.

“So are you.”

“I’m used to it.”

Gi-hun scoffs. “What, the cold? You develop an immunity to rain after soaking in it two times in the past week?”

He gives him a look. “Just take the hoodie, Gi-hun.”

“I gave it to you.”

“You gave it? Well. Now, I’m giving it back.”

Gi-hun groans. “This how you normally react to gifts?”

"This is a gift?” 

“Yes. Out of the goodness of my heart.”

In-ho looks out of the window, biting his cheeks to keep himself from smiling. If Jun-ho was here, he’d never hear the end of it. Yu-jin would tease him to hell and back, too.

“Well,” In-ho clears his throat. “I’m gifting it back.”

They stare at each other for a while. There’s something about Gi-hun that makes it hard for In-ho to look away.

He’s realized a lot of things about himself over the past few months since moving here. First: he needs Gi-hun’s kimchi fried rice at least once a week. Second: he prefers walking over driving, especially when he’s in Gi-hun’s company. And third…

Third, he wants-

His thoughts scatter the moment Gi-hun exhales sharply and snatches the hoodie back. “Fine. Whatever.”

In-ho lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He covers it with a grin.

Gi-hun glares at him, then looks down at the hoodie in his hands. He watches as the man lifts his arms, like he’s about to toss it into the backseat.

In-ho frowns.

Gi-hun catches it. “What?”

In-ho blinks. “What do you mean, ‘what’?”

“You’re staring,” Gi-hun says flatly.

“You said you’d wear it.”

Gi-hun raises a brow. “Are you seriously expecting me to strip right here, right now?”

In-ho huffs. “You accepted it. You said ‘fine.’ So I assumed you’d put it on.”

“I am putting it on. After we get to where we’re going.”

“Why not now?”

In-ho should stop talking. He really, really should.

Gi-hun gestures vaguely at himself, then at the steering wheel, and finally at the road ahead. “Because!”

“Where are we going, anyway?” In-ho asks.

“I thought you knew? A cliff, remember? To push you off,” Gi-hun deadpans.

In-ho doesn’t miss a beat. “Let me have the hoodie, then.”

Gi-hun lets out a sharp laugh, and In-ho, helplessly, finds himself staring again.

“Oh, now you want it?”

“Well, yeah.” He glances out the window. “The trip from the cliff all the way down must be freezing.”

Gi-hun snorts. “Now you care about staying warm?”

“I like to be comfortable before my inevitable demise.”

The corners of Gi-hun’s mouth twitch. “Too bad. I’m keeping it now.”

In-ho shakes his head, biting back a smile. He’s realized a lot of things about himself since moving here. That he’s scared. That he’s tired. That he’s been trying, without knowing why, to reach for something just out of grasp.

But also. Maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to keep running anymore.

The silence between them shifts. It isn’t heavy. It isn’t weighed down by the things they haven’t said. It’s easy.

In-ho exhales, the warmth in his chest pressing up against his throat. He doesn’t push it away this time. Maybe later, he’ll let it out.

“You ready?” Gi-hun asks.

In-ho raises a brow. “For what? My tragic end?”

Gi-hun snorts, pulling the car into gear. “For the drive.”

“Don’t miss the turn to the cliff.”

Gi-hun lets out a laugh. It’s loud and free, and In-ho finds himself mirroring it, smiling until his cheeks ache.

He wonders, again, if he’s still lost.

Or maybe this ridiculous, quiet, aching, wonderful thing is what it feels like to be redirected. Nudged back toward somewhere softer.

Somewhere that doesn't feel as temporary as all the places he's been in before. Somewhere that feels permanent. 

In-ho is half-expecting Gi-hun to drive them somewhere secluded, drag him out of the car, shove him against the nearest surface, and punch him until something cracks. 

Not because he doesn’t trust Gi-hun. He does, more than he probably should. But because he thinks it would be justifiable. That even if it happens, he won’t stop him. Won’t hold it against him. Might even thank him for it.

So when Gi-hun pulls into the quiet lot by the river, gestures wordlessly for him to follow, walks with him to the convenience store, buys two packets of ramen and two bottles of soju, and then heads for one of the benches by the water-

In-ho’s brain short-circuits.

Because this is not what he expects.

No yelling. No accusations. No violence wrapped in grief and betrayal. Just disposable chopsticks, flimsy paper cups, and the soft rustle of wind. Just Gi-hun beside him, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the rain.

Gi-hun’s changed into his hoodie now, the fabric clinging slightly to his arms. The sky has cleared, no longer heavy with clouds, just wide, dark, and open above them.

The bottle of soju sits between them, half-empty and untouched for the past several minutes. The ramen has long gone cold, steam long faded into the night. 

Ttukseom Park is quiet at this hour. A few people scattered across picnic tables, some walking along the riverbank, distant and insignificant. It leaves just the two of them in their own space, their own silence.

Gi-hun exhales, tapping his fingers idly against the bench. “Did you ever think about telling me?”

In-ho doesn’t think twice when he answers, “Yes.”

Gi-hun huffs through his nose, something wry but subdued. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What made you hesitate?”

In-ho keeps his gaze on the bottle, fingers absently trailing over the rim of his paper cup.

“I was going to tell you that night.” The words come slower this time. “When I showed up at your door.” He exhales. “I left the house determined. By the time I got there… I wasn’t.”

Gi-hun hums. “Why?”

In-ho doesn’t answer right away. Because he knows why.

“I’ve lost enough people, I guess.”

Gi-hun scoffs, quiet but not cruel, more like something awkward slipping out before he can stop it. “What, were you scared of losing me, too?”

In-ho doesn’t answer.

Because, yeah.

Yeah, he was. He still is.

It’s a quiet, brutal kind of realization. 

Of course, he’s scared.

Scared of what happens next. Scared of what Gi-hun does with everything he now knows. Scared of what he himself might do if Gi-hun walks away. If he decides this is too much. If he decides In-ho isn’t worth keeping around.

Because isn’t that what happens?

People leave.

People disappear.

People die. And sometimes with no chance of saying goodbye.

And maybe, at first, he had convinced himself that Gi-hun wouldn’t matter. That he was just another variable in an already complicated equation. Someone temporary. Someone he can leave behind when things get too overwhelming again.

But now.

Now, the thought of losing him feels worse than anything else.

Worse than guilt. Worse than regret. Worse than the blood already staining his hands.

His fingers tighten slightly against the bench under him, pulse hammering against his ribs.

Because the truth of it is, he doesn’t know how to do this. Doesn’t know how to let someone in. Doesn’t know how to exist without the quiet, constant expectation of loss.

And yet, Gi-hun is still here. Still sitting beside him. Still looking at him. Still waiting for an answer he can’t give.

So In-ho doesn’t speak. Doesn’t confirm it, doesn’t deny it. He just lets the words settle. Let them breathe in the night air, heavy, and unmoving.

“I did horrible things,” he says finally. The confession doesn’t feel sharp. Doesn’t feel like something to argue against. Just a truth laid out between them. “In the game. I won’t make excuses for them. At the time, they seemed like the right option. I had a choice not to do them, but I did, anyway.”

He isn’t trying to justify it. Not to Gi-hun. Not to himself.

He knows what he did.

He knew even then, as he twisted the knife, turned his back, and accepted his win. He knew what it cost.  

His actions, his past, the choices he made – he carries them all. Knows them intimately. They’re not shadows he can outrun or voices he can block out. They’re a part of him now. He knows that.

Gi-hun doesn’t move, doesn’t break his gaze. “And now?”

Now? 

Now, the city still hums in the distance, indifferent to them both. Now, the river stretches on before them, vast and still. Now, In-ho sits beside the one person who has seen too much, who might still see too much, but hasn’t left.

“Now…” In-ho exhales. “I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, especially if it is the only thing I could do to save people I care about.”

The words feel heavy in his mouth. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He has done things. Unforgivable things. Things that carved themselves into every part of him, left stains he can’t scrub off no matter how much time passes. 

Things that live under his skin, that crawl back to him when the room is quiet, when the world stops spinning for just a second too long.

Things he can't run away from.

Because back then – before his problems, before the games, before the blood – he was someone else. He was just In-ho. A brother. A son. A husband. A man who believed in systems, in law, in fairness. A man who believed that justice was earned as long as rules were followed.

That version of him didn’t have blood on his hands. Didn’t look at a knife and think, this is survival. It's either kill or be killed.

But that’s not who he is anymore.

That’s not who he is anymore, and he’s long since accepted it. 

He knows what he’s capable of. He knows what desperation can turn him into. What it already has. He’s lived with that truth, sat with it, let it seep into every part of him until it stopped feeling foreign.

He doesn’t run from it now. But he doesn’t forgive it either.

Gi-hun is silent beside him, and In-ho thinks this is finally it. This is the moment. The part where Gi-hun finally shatters. Where whatever was keeping him steady breaks apart. 

He half-expects him to grab the bottle, smash it against the concrete, and drive the shards straight into In-ho’s chest. Not out of cruelty, but out of something righteous. Something deserved.

Because if Gi-hun hated him now, In-ho wouldn’t blame him.

If he walked away, said nothing, and disappeared into the night with only the river to bear witness, In-ho would let him go.

But instead, Gi-hun picks up the bottle, pours soju into his cup, and says something In-ho least expects.

“I’m proud of you,” Gi-hun whispers.

And just like that, In-ho feels something in his chest.

“I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for you,” Gi-hun says. “To climb up from that. After falling from such a high place. How hard it must have felt to start over again. With Yu-jin. With everyone else around you. With everything else sitting on your shoulders.”

In-ho doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t trust his voice not to shake. Instead, he downs the cup in one go, the soju burning hot down his throat.

Gi-hun doesn’t stop.

“You raised Yu-jin well, you know?” he says, quieter this time. “Despite everything.”

In-ho lowers his gaze. His fingers tighten slightly around the cup. He doesn’t know how to take this kind of praise. Doesn’t know how to hold something that soft without breaking it.

“I’m proud of you,” Gi-hun says again.

His words come out gentle. Certain. Like he means it. Like he’s been waiting to say it.

And for a moment, In-ho can’t breathe.

The words hang in the air, soft, like they're something too tender to touch.

“Don’t say things like that.”

Gi-hun doesn’t flinch. “Why not? I mean it.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“You do.”

“People died in exchange for the life that I have now,” In-ho says, his voice quiet, almost fragile. 

The night feels colder somehow, the breeze biting against his skin despite the warmth that the soju brings him.

“I live in a house paid for by blood,” he continues. “I raised my daughter with hands that-”

He stops, realizing Gi-hun must be feeling the same way.

Gi-hun must be feeling the same way. The same weight. The same guilt that clings no matter how many good things come after. He must look at his life and wonder if it’s something he was ever meant to have. If it’s something he deserves at all.

They’re so similar.

They’re so similar, that In-ho feels his heart crumple.

Different paths, different choices, but the same ruin left in their wake. The same ache that lives quietly beneath their skin. The same fear of reaching for something good, afraid they’ll stain it.

In-ho looks at Gi-hun again. Really looks.

He sees not just someone who understands him. But someone like him. Someone just as wrecked. Someone who badly wants to keep trying.

Gi-hun doesn’t speak right away. He doesn’t fill the silence with pity or denial. He just sits there, listening. 

“The regret and guilt stays,” Gi-hun finally says, his voice low. “I accepted that a long time ago. Doesn’t mean it gets easier. It just settles. Finds new ways to ache.”

He exhales, gaze fixed somewhere across the river, where the city lights blur and shimmer like they’re trembling too.

“But everything after that?” he continues. “That’s on you. You didn’t disappear. You didn’t give up. You raised your daughter even with all of that weighing you down. You kept going. That deserves praise.” A pause. “You deserve something.”

In-ho looks at him. “How about you? Do you believe that?”

Gi-hun hums. “I don’t. Not fully. But I’m trying to balance it. Regret and acceptance.” He exhales through his nose. “It doesn’t get easier, like I said. But… Ga-yeong exists. I am still his father. I don’t want to lose her because I lost myself.”

In-ho doesn’t reply. He just stares at the river before them, letting Gi-hun’s words settle into his chest.

“It’s terrifying how regret and pride can co-exist.” Gi-hun sighs, pouring soju into In-ho’s cup. “Like, yes, I regret the path I walked on to get here, but I also feel a sense of pride for getting this far. For giving Ga-yeong the life she deserved to have.”

Regret and pride co-existing.

That's a new way to put it, In-ho thinks.

Because yeah. He regrets it. Of course he does. The choices, the weight of them, the people he couldn’t save. The person he used to be before all of it.

But he also feels something else. Something steadier. Not peace exactly, but something close. A quiet contentment, maybe, at the thought that Yu-jin is safe. That Jun-ho is still here. 

Guilt is complicated.

It never leaves, but it makes room for other things. For survival. For hope. For the smallest flicker of joy in moments like this. Moments where the silence doesn’t hurt, and the person next to him isn’t judging, just listening.

Guilt, he’s realizing, doesn’t cancel out the bad and replaces it with the good. It simply teaches how to carry both, letting them exist in the same place, at the same time.

In-ho closes his eyes for a moment, letting the wind move past his face, letting the weight of the night press against his skin.

He always knew what he was doing.

Until suddenly, he didn’t.

Until everything collapsed; his plans, his purpose, the pieces of himself he thought were permanent.

Until he stumbled down from the top and landed so hard he didn’t know how to pick himself back up.

Until all he had left was a crumpled past and the ruins of the man he used to be.

Until guilt curled into his chest and stayed, whispering reminders of the people he couldn’t save, didn’t save, the choices he couldn’t take back.

Until-

“I am proud of you, too,” he finally says, meeting Gi-hun’s gaze.

Until Gi-hun.

There's something different in the air now. A quiet understanding. Something In-ho hasn’t been able to name for weeks.

But suddenly, with Gi-hun beside him, staring straight into his eyes with a look of longing and understanding (the same one he’s seen reflected in himself every time he’s dared to look in the mirror), In-ho finally understands what it means.

Gi-hun has found his way into his life. Slipped in when he wasn’t looking. Crawled his way through every crack, past the walls In-ho swore no one could ever get through.

In-ho always knew what he was doing. 

Until suddenly, he didn’t.

Until now.

Because now, everything feels easy, even with the silence filling the air. The moment stretches, and Gi-hun is still watching him like he sees everything In-ho has worked so hard to bury. Like he understands him, truly, fully, and accepts him for who he is.

Because now, In-ho's leaning in before he can think better of it. Before fear can lace its fingers through his ribs and yank him back. Before he convinces himself that this should be left untouched.

It’s slow and hesitant. Like testing the surface of ice he isn’t sure will hold. His heart is beating too hard, too loud. His breath trembles on the way out.

And still, Gi-hun doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Instead, he waits.

In-ho always knew what he was doing. 

He knows what he’s about to do now. 

So In-ho closes the last bit of distance and kisses him.

The contact is unsure at first, like he’s afraid to touch too much, to want too much. His lips brush against Gi-hun’s, uncertain and careful, but the moment he feels Gi-hun exhale, his heart caves in.

Gi-hun tilts forward, just a little. Just enough to meet him there.

It’s not a dramatic kiss. There’s no clash of teeth, no desperate grab for more. It’s quiet. It’s steady. It’s full of things neither of them have said out loud.

And for the first time in so long, In-ho lets himself feel. The ache. The hope. The terrifying relief of being seen and not pushed away.

Gi-hun’s hand brushes against his, tentative and grounding, and it undoes him completely.

In-ho had built his walls carefully and precisely. He had spent years learning how not to need, not to want.

But Gi-hun had slipped through anyway.

And now, here they are.

Mouths pressed together like a secret. Like a promise. And In-ho finally allows himself to believe that maybe, he doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

He leans in again, slower this time, but with no hesitation. Gi-hun meets him halfway, lips parting just enough to deepen the kiss, and In-ho swears the world quiets around them. It’s not frantic or wild. It’s intentional. Like memorizing something he never wants to forget.

Gi-hun’s mouth tastes faintly of soju. Bitter, warm, and familiar, and In-ho doesn’t mind. If anything, it grounds him. Reminds him this is real. That Gi-hun is here, kissing him back.

Somewhere nearby, footsteps echo on the pavement, someone walking their dog or heading home late, but In-ho doesn’t care. For once, he doesn’t brace for the eyes of the world. Doesn’t flinch away from the thought of being seen.

Gi-hun’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, and In-ho breathes out against his lips.

When they pull apart, it’s only by a breath. Their foreheads rest together, close enough to share the same air, the same quiet. Neither of them speaks. They don’t have to.  

In-ho always knew what he was doing.  

Until suddenly, he didn’t.  

But this? This, he knows.  

He knows what this means now. He knows what this will mean in the future.  

He knows, and yet, he doesn’t mind.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun has always felt like his life came without instructions.

No dotted lines to follow. No compass. No symbols to guide him toward the right path.

It always felt like he only had fragments of a map. Always felt like he only had scattered pieces of what once pointed somewhere. Pieces that, no matter how close they seemed to fitting, never quite felt whole.

And for the past few years, he’s been trying to fit them together. Trying to recreate the picture. Trying to figure out if the path he’s on is one that actually leads somewhere.

It hasn’t been easy. One bad decision bleeding into the next. Debt that kept growing. Love that slipped out of his hands before he ever had the chance to hold it properly.

He had gotten used to not knowing where he was going. Used to waking up and moving forward anyway, even when the ground felt like it might vanish beneath him.

He doesn’t know when that feeling started to fade.

The ground still feels uneven. But something’s different now. A path is there, ready for him to walk on.

Gi-hun doesn’t know what to do with this new feeling. He doesn’t even know if it has something to do with everything that’s happened over the past few days.

The rain. The way In-ho appeared at his doorstep. The card. The avoidance. The rain, again. The umbrella. The talk. The ramen and soju by the river. The...

He shouldn’t still be thinking about it. But every time he closes his eyes, it comes rushing back.

The press of In-ho’s mouth against his. The weight of his hand on his jaw, his neck, his waist. The way the world had gone quiet. Not just around them, but inside him too, like something he didn’t know was loud had finally gone still.

Gi-hun stands at the kitchen sink, trying to focus on anything but that. But it’s useless. 

It’s useless because every time he closes his eyes, the memory plays again. The kiss. The silence. The stillness. The way In-ho had looked at him right before. Like he was afraid and sure all at once.

Gi-hun rubs a hand over his face and sighs.

“Why do you look like that?”

Gi-hun nearly jumps when Jung-bae pokes his cheeks.

“What.”

Jung-bae chuckles, “No, really, you okay?”

“If you think I look awful, just say that.”

“You don’t look awful. Just…” Jung-bae waves a hand vaguely at his face. “You just look—you know. Like…”

“Like?”

“Like red.”

Gi-hun immediately turns away, rubbing his cheeks with both hands like he can scrub the warmth right off his skin.

“My face is not red.”

“It is.”

“It is not.”

“It is. Look at that, it’s changing! It’s deeper now. Burgundy, even. Very romantic.”

Gi-hun scoffs. “Here comes the color analysis expert.”

“Expert, you say?” Jung-bae chuckles. “Do you want to know what I think about this particular shade on your face, then? As an expert.”

Gi-hun narrows his eyes. “What.”

“It’s the kind of red that screams you just did something you didn’t expect you’d do,” Jung-bae says, nodding thoughtfully. “Like, maybe think about someone a little too much.”

Gi-hun turns his head toward his friend so fast he nearly snaps his neck.

“I am not thinking about anyone.”

“That’s exactly what people thinking about someone would say,” Jung-bae laughs. “You’re acting like this certain someone stole a kiss from you and you couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

This is Jung-bae talking. Which means jokes come out of him naturally. 

This was one of them. 

A harmless thing, probably meant to be tossed into the air and forgotten. But Gi-hun freezes.

Jung-bae notices immediately. His smile falters.

“Oh.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh,” Jung-bae says again, louder this time, with the full weight of dramatic realization settling in.

Gi-hun doesn’t look at him. He stares straight ahead, palms still pressed to his face. Maybe if he stays very still, the ground will open up and eat him whole. Maybe he’ll vanish into his own shame, never to be seen again.

In-ho kissed him.

And he kissed him back.

Oh, God.

“You did not,” Jung-bae breathes, grabbing the counter like he needs it for balance. “You kissed… wait, no, he kissed you?”

Gi-hun groans into his hands. “I’m not talking about this.”

“Oh my God! This is… This is amazing.”

“It’s not amazing,” Gi-hun mutters. “It’s… it’s complicated.”

Jung-bae is already pacing like he’s planning a wedding. “Wait, wait. Was it a good kiss? No, don’t answer that… actually, yes, answer that. Was it good?”

Gi-hun lowers his hands just enough to glare at him. “I hate you.”

“That means it was good.”

“Jung-bae.”

“Like, how good are we talking?” He raises an eyebrow. “Are we in a drama-worthy slow burn that finally explodes into fireworks situation, or more of a unsure, shaky hands, forehead touching, soft background music moment?”

Before Gi-hun can even roll his eyes, a new voice cuts in from behind.

“Hold on, who exploded like fireworks?”

Gi-hun wants to die.

Daeho is standing there with a plastic bag in one hand and the smuggest smile on his face, like he’s been eavesdropping for far longer than he should have.

“Don’t tell me I missed the dramatic reveal about the kiss of the century,” he says, casually strolling in and dropping the bag on the counter. “Please tell me it was In-ho-ssi. Please.”

Gi-hun’s soul briefly leaves his body. “Why are you here?”

“I work here?” Daeho says, opening the fridge like he owns it. “Also, I came early to check inventory, but now I see fate brought me at the perfect time.”

Jung-bae points at Gi-hun. “He’s been blushing for fifteen minutes straight.”

“I have not,” Gi-hun says, voice climbing an octave.

“You have,” Daeho says, grinning. “You’re giving major kissed-by-a-mysterious-person-at-midnight energy.”

“He knows who kissed him,” Jung-bae adds helpfully.

“Wait, does In-ho-ssi even qualify as mysterious anymore?” Daeho tilts his head. “He’s mysterious, right? At least he is for me. I don’t know about you, though. You probably already know too much about the guy. You’ve kissed him, after all-”

“I’m going to die,” Gi-hun mutters. “Right here. I’m going to fall over and die.”

“Can we come to the funeral?” Daeho asks. “Or is it invite-only for people who’ve kissed you?”

Gi-hun grabs a towel off the counter and flings it in Daeho’s direction. Daeho dodges, laughing.

“Careful,” he says. “You don’t want to hurt the person rooting for your love life.”

Jung-bae’s already nodding. “It’s true. We’re all you’ve got. So when’s the next kiss?”

“I’m never telling either of you anything again,” Gi-hun says, heading for the exit.

“Hyung-nim! You’re blushing again!” Daeho yells after him.

“You think they’ll kiss again this week?” Jung-bae asks.

Daeho shrugs. “With that blush? I give it two days. One and a half, even.”

Gi-hun storms out the back door of the restaurant, muttering under his breath as he paces. Back and forth. Once, twice. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he drops onto the swing.

This damn swing. 

The root of it all. If he hadn’t come out here like some tragic movie character, sitting in the rain, and letting himself be discovered by In-ho, he wouldn’t have... they wouldn’t have...

He drags a hand down his face. He feels hot. Burning hot. 

His skin is practically radiating heat. From his cheeks to his ears, then to his chest. God, if someone touched his face and then grabbed the handle of a boiling pot, they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.

He has so many things to worry about. So many things he still hasn’t figured out about his life, about himself, and to add this on top of it all? He feels like he’s going to explode.  

And the thing is, it doesn’t even feel wrong.  

That’s what frustrates him the most. The rightness of it. The easiness. The comfort.  

He’s always felt like his life came without instructions. No dotted lines to follow. No compass. No symbols to guide him toward the right path.  

So why does this thing with In-ho feel like exactly that? Like something clear. Like something steady. Like a map with writings that are finally starting to make sense.

He rubs his hand across his face again. How does he even go from here? Where do they even start? Or is there even a chance to begin at all? Was that just a one-time thing? What if it isn’t? What if it’s more?  

How is he supposed to handle that? How does he even begin to process it?  

How does he tell Ga-yeong?  

God. Ga-yeong. How would she even react?

He’s overthinking things again. He sighs. The most rational thing to do is to process it one step at a time.

He should start by thinking about what happened that night. Really thinking about it. 

This time, more thoroughly. Like the way he cooks. 

A meal isn't made in a snap of a finger. It goes through every step. Each ingredient is prepared, added in the correct order, and heat is adjusted with care. Nothing rushed, everything intentional.

Maybe that’s how he should approach this too.

So, he straightens his back, hands gripping both sides of the swing, and begins to recall what happened.

What happened was, in lack of better words, unexpected.

One moment, Gi-hun is standing there, heart hammering, the space between them charged with something he can’t name. And then, without a word, In-ho leans in.

Gi-hun freezes.

It’s not because of fear. Of course not. What he's feeling is more disbelief than anything. 

Disbelief that In-ho is kissing him. 

The same man who’s made him feel all sorts of emotions for the past week.

Confusion. Frustration. Anger. Warmth. Acceptance.

The same man who’s endured the same thing he has. Something so massive and so deeply scarring, that it left them both bruised and broken in ways they can barely put into words.

The same man who makes silence feel less like emptiness, and more like something full.

The same man who looks at him like he sees something worth staying for.

And now that same man is kissing him.

His pulse roars in his ears. He’s never been this aware of his own heartbeat. Never been this aware of someone else’s mouth on his.

This is wrong. I do not have time for this.

That thought flashes through him.

But it’s swallowed almost immediately by something else.

This is right. I can spend the rest of the night doing this.

His body answers before his mind can catch up. He leans in, barely, and lets his lips part just slightly. Their mouths move together, there's no urgency or hunger, just unsure but steady movement.

In-ho’s lips are warm. A little dry but soft. They fit against his like they’ve done this before, like the shape of this has always been known and just never spoken.

Gi-hun breathes in through his nose. Every part of him is on high alert. It is not from panic, of course it isn’t, but from the overwhelming sense that something is shifting.

His hand finds In-ho’s, fingers brushing before settling. In-ho’s grip is firm and grounding. Like he’s telling Gi-hun, without words, that it’s okay to be here.

They keep kissing. The kind of kiss that doesn’t demand anything but offers everything.

Gi-hun’s hands find In-ho’s chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes as he leans in, kissing back with everything he’s been too afraid to admit. 

The world feels so distant. There’s only the taste of soju between them, the feel of In-ho’s mouth, the pressure of his hand still firm at the back of Gi-hun’s neck. A hum builds in Gi-hun’s chest, quiet and involuntary, as their mouths move in sync.

Gi-hun thinks that’s it when they finally pull apart, lips flushed and breaths uneven. Their foreheads rest together for a beat, warm skin pressed close, breath mingling in the space between them. 

In-ho doesn’t say anything. Just stares at him, eyes dark and unreadable, fixed entirely on Gi-hun’s face.

And then he’s pulling him in again.

In-ho kisses him deeper. This time it's more certain. Like something has finally clicked into place and he has no intention of letting it go. His lips part wider, tongue brushing against Gi-hun’s, like he’s learning the shape of him and memorizing it.

And Gi-hun melts into it for a second. Maybe even longer. Long enough to forget where they are. 

Then he remembers.

He pulls back just barely, catching his breath. “In-ho,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, “we’re in public.”

In-ho stills. His lips hover close, breath still warm against Gi-hun’s, like he’s waiting for any excuse to close the gap again. His thumb brushes lightly against the skin just beneath Gi-hun’s ear, and neither of them moves away completely.

Their foreheads rest together again, but the air between them still feels charged. Like a promise waiting to be kept.

Gi-hun runs a hand through his hair and gives it a frustrated tug.

Well. There’s nobody to blame but himself. He leaned into the kiss, kissed him back with the same intensity. There’s no way to deny that.

He glances at his watch. He still has time before the restaurant opens. Time to sit with his feelings a little longer.

One ingredient at a time.

He closes his eyes and tries to recall what happened after that.

“Let me drive,” In-ho offers.  

Gi-hun doesn’t register the words immediately, his mind still hazy from the kiss.  

“What?”  

In-ho glances down at the keys in Gi-hun’s hand, then back at him. “You drove all the way here,” he says, voice calm. “And you look tired. So. Let me.”  

His eyes drop to In-ho’s mouth. And Gi-hun can’t help but observe the way he licks his lips after speaking. Or the way his throat bobs slightly when he swallows.

Gi-hun quickly looks away. “I’m fine.”

He’s not fine.

Not with the taste of In-ho still lingering on his lips. Not with the memory of the kiss playing on a loop in his head. Not with In-ho still within his reach.

In-ho doesn’t push, completely oblivious to the storm of thoughts running in Gi-hun’s head. He just holds out his hand, waiting.  

Gi-hun hesitates, then sighs, and drops the keys into In-ho’s palm.  

“Fine. But don’t mess with the seat. I turned on the heater,” he says, quieter now.  

In-ho’s lips twitch into the faintest smile. “No promises.”  

He watches In-ho circle to the driver’s side, walking so casually like he didn’t just kiss him senseless in public. Without thinking, Gi-hun slides into the passenger seat, shutting down the car door with a silent thud.

His mind is still caught up in the kiss.  

About In-ho’s mouth. About how certain it had felt. How soft, warm, and sure he’d been, even when Gi-hun wasn’t. He wants to ask. He wants to know what it meant. If it was a mistake. If it was a beginning. If In-ho felt it too.  

He’s so deep in his thoughts that he barely hears the next word.  

“Seatbelt.” 

The words don’t register. His eyes are focused straight ahead, but his thoughts are miles away.  

In-ho calls his name softly, but Gi-hun still doesn’t move. So In-ho leans in.  

He reaches across the space between them, fingers brushing over Gi-hun’s chest, then his side, searching for the seatbelt. The movement is smooth and practiced, making Gi-hun freeze.

In-ho’s face is close. Too close.

Gi-hun blinks. In-ho is only two inches away now, the warmth of his breath hitting his cheek, his lashes just visible in his periphery. Gi-hun swears he can hear both their heartbeats.

Then, softly, In-ho asks, “Can I?”

Gi-hun’s mind blanks. Can he what?

Put on my seatbelt for me?

Lean in?

...Kiss me again?

He doesn’t know what In-ho’s asking, not exactly. But he knows he doesn’t mind. Any of it.

So he nods, just once. “Yeah.”

His breath stutters.

And before he can even process what’s happening, In-ho tilts his head and kisses him again.

Gi-hun lets out a surprised sound, something caught between a gasp and a quiet whimper, but he doesn’t pull away.  

His hand clutches weakly at the edge of his seat as In-ho kisses him again, mouth opening slightly, tongue brushing against his just enough to make Gi-hun freeze. His eyes flutter shut. 

The kiss is slower than before, deeper. Not rushed, but not shy either. Gi-hun kisses back, and this time, he doesn’t think. 

He just lets himself feel it. The warmth, the weight, and the steady rhythm of In-ho’s lips on his.  

Gi-hun’s eyes open slowly when they part, still dazed.  

In-ho clicks the seatbelt into place with one hand. Then sits back in his seat like nothing happened.  

“Safety first,” he says, without looking.  

Gi-hun wants to scream.

He doesn’t, of course. It’s barely even nine in the morning. So instead, he remains seated on the swing. The metal creaks beneath him, the only sound in the stillness of the quiet hour.

He’d come out here to breathe. To think. But all he can do is replay the kiss. The first one. The second one. The way In-ho’s mouth on his felt like they were two puzzle pieces fitting together.

That’s what makes him want to scream. That fact it felt right. That his first thought wasn’t to stop it, but to pull In-ho even closer.

He groans, dragging his hands down his face.

He has no idea what any of it means and it’s driving him insane.

Because it wasn’t just the kiss. It was everything around it. The way In-ho looked at him like he was certain. The way he didn’t flinch after. The way it all felt so easy.

Gi-hun drops his hands into his lap and stares out at the empty lot behind the restaurant. 

He thinks of Ga-yeong.

He thinks about how hard he’s tried to keep his life simple for her sake. Easy and predictable. Because that’s the closest thing he could get to safe.

He thinks about how he’s convinced himself over and over that wanting something more would only complicate things. That he had already used up all his chances at happiness.

But maybe that’s not true.

Maybe this is what it feels like to want something for himself. Not instead of her, but alongside her.

Maybe he’s allowed.

He lets out a loud sigh.

Cooking.

Recipes.

Ingredients.

He just needs to do it step by step. The same way he builds a dish. With patience and care, one thing at a time.

The next step is to talk to In-ho.

Not to overthink it. Not to plan every word. Just talk and see where it leads. Even if he doesn’t have all the answers yet, he can start there.

The opportunity to talk comes that same night, when In-ho and Yu-jin arrive at the restaurant’s door.

“Ahjussi!” Yu-jin grins, bounding inside. “You were gone for a week!”

Gi-hun smiles. “I’ve been busy. But I’m back now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees In-ho shift slightly, clearly biting back a smile. Gi-hun raises his brow at him.

“Ga-yeong’s doing her homework,” he says, nodding toward the door beside the kitchen. “You can go in while we prep your food.”

Yu-jin beams and heads off without another word, already calling Ga-yeong’s name as she disappears behind the kitchen.

In-ho is still standing by the door, waiting for Gi-hun to finally acknowledge him.

“Hi,” he says.

Gi-hun clears his throat and grabs a menu, mostly to have something in his hands. “Hi,” he says. “I was going to text you and ask if we could meet up and talk.”

In-ho’s brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

In an attempt to play it off, Gi-hun shrugs, “Yeah. About what happened the other night.”

In-ho nods, smiling softly. But there’s something else in his expression, too. Something like worry. 

“After dinner, then?”

“After dinner,” Gi-hun echoes, steadying his voice. “What can I get you?”

“Manduguk.”

Gi-hun huffs a soft laugh. “You and dumplings.”

In-ho shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You make them better than anyone else.”

Gi-hun rolls his eyes despite the heat forming in his cheeks. “Compliments don’t guarantee an extra piece.”

"Too bad." 

When he serves the food, he doesn’t linger. Instead, he sets the bowl down in front of In-ho with a quiet “Enjoy,” and walks straight back to the kitchen to breathe.

He still has time. The restaurant won’t close for another hour and a half.

He tries to keep busy. Stirs the broth. Organizes the spice rack. Refolds napkins that were already perfectly folded. Anything to stop himself from glancing toward the front, from wondering how much dumpling soup is left in In-ho’s bowl, or whether he’s still wearing that annoyingly calm expression.

Spoiler: he is.

Gi-hun peeks once. Then again. Then immediately scolds himself and ducks behind the counter like he’s hiding from a high school crush.

Unfortunately, time moves faster than he would normally like.

One moment, he’s busy pacing around the kitchen. The next, the restaurant is quiet. Too quiet.

He steps out from the kitchen, and the only people left are the two girls outside by the swings, bundled up and laughing at something only they understand.

Inside, it’s just him and In-ho, sitting across from each other at the table near the window.

The empty bowl is pushed to the side. In-ho’s coat is folded neatly over the back of his chair. And his gaze is steady and patient but expectant.

Gi-hun swallows.

Here it is.

He waits for In-ho to say something first.

But he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, completely silent. Like he’s also waiting.

“You finished your manduguk,” Gi-hun says finally, nodding at the empty bowl.

“I did.”

“Was it good?”

“Always is.”

“Tired of the usual kimchi fried rice you always order?”

In-ho almost smiles. Almost. “Are we really here to talk about food?”

Gi-hun lets out an awkward laugh, rubbing his neck. “Okay then. Thanks for the permission to move on. Casual small talk is over.”

“Is it?” In-ho asks, amused.

Gi-hun gives him a look. “You know it is.”

In-ho nods.

"So," Gi-hun starts.

The man across him doesn't speak. Just waits for him to continue. Gi-hun takes a deep breath.

“I keep thinking about it,” Gi-hun says, his voice lower now. “What happened the other night. What it means.”

In-ho doesn’t interrupt. He just listens patiently. 

“At first, I thought maybe it was just the moment. You know? The rain, the soju, the weird silence that didn’t feel awkward. But it didn’t feel random. It didn’t feel like something we were just caught in.”

“No,” In-ho agrees. “It didn’t.”

“I keep replaying it,” Gi-hun continues. “The way it started. The way I didn’t want it to stop. And I keep trying to explain it away. To myself, mostly.”

He looks up, meeting In-ho’s gaze.

“And I wasn’t supposed to want that. Not after everything. Not when there’s still so much I don’t have figured out. Not when I’m still trying to feel like a person again. And especially not with someone who scares me a little.”

In-ho’s brow lifts slightly, but his voice stays calm. “I scare you?”

Gi-hun shrugs. “A little. Because you see things. You see me, even when I’m not saying anything. Because you know enough. You know things I've put so much effort to hide. And I think I got used to hiding.”

In-ho glances down at his hands. “I got used to hiding, too. Running away, even.” 

Gi-hun takes a deep breath before he asks, “So why’d you kiss me?”

“I thought the answer was already obvious. Because I wanted to.”

Gi-hun’s breath catches.

In-ho continues, “I can’t remember the last time I… wanted. And it scared me when I realized what I felt. Still does. But I still did it anyway.”

Gi-hun sits there, staring at the man across him. “I thought I couldn’t want something for myself, too,” he says. 

He sighs.

“Not when there’s Ga-yeong. Not when I’ve already lost so much. Wanting something that’s just for me, it felt selfish. But the other night...”

His voice trails off.

In-ho finishes it for him. “It felt right.”

Gi-hun lets out a slow breath. “It did.”

They sit in silence for a moment, but this one isn’t heavy. It holds everything they’re still learning how to say.

“I don’t have all the answers,” Gi-hun says. “I don’t even know what this is. Or what it could be. But I know I don’t want to walk away from it.”

In-ho leans forward slightly. “I don't, either.”

Gi-hun watches him for a moment. The weariness in his face. The steadiness in his gaze. The hint of softness in his expression, tucked just beneath the sharpness of his features.

“This doesn’t fix us,” Gi-hun says quietly.

“I know.”

“But maybe we don’t have to be fixed to want something good.”

In-ho’s voice is soft when he hums. “And maybe we don’t have to be alone along the way.”

Gi-hun exhales.

“Okay,” he says.

In-ho nods. “Okay.”

Gi-hun glances back at In-ho, and In-ho is already looking at him.

He doesn’t look away, and Gi-hun forgets to breathe for a second.

And then, because the tension is too much and his chest is too full, he blurts out, “There’s a table between us. And a glass window beside us. You can’t kiss me right now.”

In-ho barks out a laugh, sharp, real, and unexpected. It startles Gi-hun in the best way.

“Who said anything about kissing?” In-ho says, still smiling widely.

Gi-hun scoffs. “Really? Mr. I Can’t Remember the Last Time I Wanted?”

In-ho’s smile falters. “Okay. Too soon.”

It’s Gi-hun’s turn to laugh now. He presses a hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking. “Yeah. A little.”

Their eyes drift to the window. Both their daughters are still outside, with Ga-yeong pushing Yu-jin on the swings. Laughter filters faintly through the glass, soft and bright and distant.

Gi-hun watches them for a moment, then speaks quietly, almost to himself.

“Assuming this continues,” he says, “would it be okay for them?”

In-ho hums. “Define this.” 

He turns to him, and immediately sees the smirk tugging at the corner of the other man's mouth.

Gi-hun rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. “You know what I mean.”

In-ho finally looks at him. “I think they’re already okay.”

Gi-hun has always felt like his life came without instructions.

No dotted lines to follow. No compass. No symbols to guide him toward the right path.

But sitting here, across In-ho, watching their daughters laugh and enjoy each others’ company, he realizes something.

Maybe In-ho doesn’t have all the answers.

But he feels like a map. 

Not perfect. Not complete. But something definite. Something that points him forward.

Gi-hun and In-ho talk more one afternoon when they’re walking in their usual path on the way to their daughters’ schools. 

“You haven’t told me what the card meant,” Gi-hun says carefully. 

He wants to understand In-ho. And understanding him means confronting him about everything he wants to know. Even if the truth scares him a lot. 

“They wanted me there,” In-ho says after a while.

Gi-hun slows his steps. “You mean…?”

“Tried to recruit me,” In-ho replies, eyes fixed ahead. “Offered a position. A high one.”

Gi-hun swallows. There were a lot of theories forming in his head, but that wasn’t one of them. “And?”

“I ran away before I even got the chance to give them an answer.”

The air shifts, just slightly. Gi-hun’s chest loosens. “Why?”

In-ho glances at him. “Why they sent me the card, or why I ran?”

“Both.”

In-ho hums. “I ran because Yu-jin exists.”

“Of course.”

“Why they sent me the card, though… I have a guess. Maybe because they saw me struggling, even after winning. I couldn’t carry the weight of it. The guilt. The regret. The thought that I could’ve done more to save her.” His voice softens. “I was really down. I wasn’t the best father during Yu-jin’s early years. Spent more time drowning in my past decisions than valuing the present.”

He exhales, long and slow.

Gi-hun listens quietly, words caught somewhere behind his ribs.

“But when that card showed up, it felt like a reality check. They wanted me because they assumed I didn’t want the life I had. That I needed something else, something worse, to feel like I had a purpose.”

“But they were wrong,” Gi-hun says.

“They were very wrong.” In-ho nods. “Yu-jin… she’s helped more than she knows. She's one of the biggest reasons why I'm still here, and not there. And she doesn't even know it yet.”

It hits him, suddenly, how close In-ho must’ve come to disappearing. And how close he came to not being here, beside him, on this walk.

"Have you thought about fighting back?" Gi-hun asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

In-ho glances at him. "Hm?"

"The system. After finding the card and before you ran away."

A beat. Then, In-ho says, “I tried.”

Gi-hun’s steps slow. “Really?”

Because he’s thought about it, too.

Revenge lingered in his thoughts like a ghost.

For everyone he lost. For everyone he couldn’t save. For everyone who would still be lured into the games, unaware they were already living their last days. For everyone who would die.

“Wasn't successful, though,” In-ho says quietly.

Gi-hun doesn’t respond right away. He watches a leaf drift lazily to the ground ahead of them. “Did you get far?”

In-ho exhales through his nose. “Far enough to get discovered by Jun-ho.”

Gi-hun blinks. “Jun-ho... your brother?”

In-ho nods. “Shortly after I got the card with my name on it, I made a decision. A brief one. To find them. Not to say yes, but to fight, maybe. Even if I knew it was reckless.”

Gi-hun stays quiet, listening.

“I started packing. Kept my head down, acted like nothing was wrong. But one night, Jun-ho caught me trying to sneak out with a backpack the size of my torso.”

“And?”

“I denied everything. Told him he was imagining things. That I was just restless. Then I said we should move again. Pick a new city. Start over.”

Gi-hun glances at him. “But he didn’t believe you.”

“No,” In-ho says, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. “We had just moved at the time. He even confronted me about it. Asked why we never stayed in one place for long. I didn’t give him an answer, of course. Just kept him in the dark. Looking back, I can understand why he didn't buy my lie.”

"Did he find out about the games immediately after?"

“He did," In-ho chuckles. "Smart guy, that one. He found the card two days later. Hidden behind a book. It wasn’t pretty after that.”

He pauses.

“Imagine two grown men screaming at each other in the middle of a dark park at an ungodly hour,” he says. “That was us.”

Gi-hun winces. “I can imagine."

"I thought he would leave. Maybe even turn me in for being involved in something like that. But he didn't. He stayed."

Gi-hun studies In-ho's face. 

“He wanted to go. Said we couldn’t let them keep doing it. That we had to expose it. I told him to shut up. That we’d die trying. That we had people to live for.”

“But you wanted to do it,” Gi-hun says quietly.

“Alone,” In-ho points out. “I wanted to do it alone. Not with him. Not with his life on the line.”

Gi-hun glances at him. “How did he take that?”

In-ho exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, but without the humor. “Poorly. It was the first time I saw Jun-ho cry like that. Except maybe that one time I told him the news that I was going to give him one of my kidneys. He thought I was going to die if I lost one.”

Gi-hun’s expression softens.

“We came to an agreement eventually,” In-ho continues. “To run away. To escape from it all. To live small and quiet, and take care of what we have.”

He pauses.

“I know it’s selfish,” he shrugs, attemping to sound casual about it. “But I wanted to choose life. Even if it felt like I was turning my back on everything else.”

Gi-hun is quiet for a moment. Then, gently, “It’s not selfish.”

In-ho makes a non-committal sound, like he doesn’t fully believe that.

“Jun-ho hasn’t let it go, you know.”

Gi-hun glances over.

“What do you mean?”

In-ho huffs. “He tries to act like he has. But I know him. I see the tabs open on his laptop when he thinks I’m not looking. The way he saves articles and deletes them five minutes later. Like he’s still piecing something together.”

“Do you think he’s trying to find the place?”

In-ho nods once. “I think he’s waiting. Looking for something. Anything. A name, a clue, a trace.”

Gi-hun feels his heart pound faster. “And you’re okay with that?”

“No,” In-ho says honestly. “But I also know there’s no stopping him if he makes up his mind. All I can do is delay him. Keep him grounded for as long as I can.”

Gi-hun exhales. “That thing is way bigger than us.”

“It is.”

“It’s not selfish to want to distance yourself from that,” Gi-hun says, looking at him. “It’s survival.”

"Yeah."

“He should know that even if he doesn’t find the place, doesn’t solve anything... it’s not his fault.”

In-ho’s gaze flickers toward the ground. “Hm.”

They continue walking, their arms brushing against each other’s. Gi-hun wants to reach out, to maybe touch In-ho. To let him know he’s here.

But then, In-ho speaks, "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Did you try? To fight back."

Gi-hun sucks in a deep breath. "I did."

"Why?"

"Ga-yeong and her mom were going to move away. Somewhere far. I thought I didn't have any purpose anymore. So, I decided to try to chase things I shouldn't be chasing."

Gi-hun looks away.

"But then she died."

"Oh," In-ho replies. "I'm sorry."

"It was so unexpected,” Gi-hun says, his voice barely above a whisper. “One moment we were just talking over the phone, and she's telling me that she was packing bags and booking tickets. Telling me how they should have done it the moment we got divorced. And the next, I’m getting a phone call I’ll never forget.”

In-ho stays silent, giving him the space to speak.

“I didn’t even know how to feel. Part of me was still angry at her. And then suddenly, she was gone, and all that was left was guilt and regret. And Ga-yeong.” He pauses, breath shaky. “She needed someone. I didn’t know if I could be that person, but I was all she had left.”

In-ho’s steps slow, and so do Gi-hun’s.

“I thought about disappearing, too,” Gi-hun admits. “Thought about chasing the people behind the games. Thought maybe that was the only thing I was good for anymore. That maybe I could end something. Or go down trying.”

“What stopped you?” In-ho asks, voice gentler now.

Gi-hun looks ahead, his voice softer now. “Ga-yeong noticed. That I was not okay. She doesn’t know about the games. Or anything that happened. All she knew was that her mom was gone, and the only parent she had left was barely holding it together.”

In-ho stays quiet, eyes fixed ahead.

“It hurt seeing that,” Gi-hun continues. “But it hurt even more when she started trying to cheer me up. She’d fill a glass with lukewarm water and hand it to me like it was medicine. Wake me up early on weekends and tell me we should go for a walk. Suggest movies to watch even if she didn’t really want to watch them.”

He lets out a breath, shaky around the edges.

“She did all that while she was grieving too. A kid who just lost her mom. And now she was carrying the weight of making sure her dad didn’t disappear too.” He pauses. “What a thing to put on a kid.”

He feels In-ho move a bit closer and briefly stills when the man's arm wraps around his waist as they continue walking

“So I came to my senses,” Gi-hun says quietly. “I did everything I could to pick myself back up. Because Ga-yeong doesn’t deserve to be left behind. She deserves a parent."

In-ho’s gaze softens as he turns toward him. He doesn’t say anything right away, but his silence isn’t empty.

It’s full of understanding.

So full, in fact, that even without words, Gi-hun hears it clearly.

I’m glad you’re here.

I’m happy you made it out.

I’m grateful I did too.

They keep walking for a bit, neither of them speaking.

Gi-hun feels In-ho’s arm tighten around his waist, like he’s not already close enough.

And then, after a while, he tilts his head slightly and asks, “Is this place too public for a kiss?”

Gi-hun nearly chokes on air.

“In-ho!”

"What?"

"You can't just say things like that! A simple, 'I'm proud of you', would have sufficed!"

In-ho blinks, completely unfazed. “I already said that. Back by the river, remember?”

Gi-hun stares at him, flustered. “That doesn’t mean you get to jump straight to that.”

In-ho shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It was just a question.”

“A wildly inappropriate one!”

“Is it?” he muses. “We’re just two grown men, walking in public. Having a very normal conversation.”

Gi-hun sputters. “Normal?! You just asked if—Stop smiling!”

“There’s no one here.”

“There’s a bird two meters away, and I think even it is judging us!”

In-ho laughs then. A real one, low and warm and completely unfair. Gi-hun rolls his eyes in attempt to show annoyance, but the smile tugging at his lips says otherwise.

“I’m proud of you,” In-ho suddenly says. It catches Gi-hun off guard.

“Oh. Um. Well. I’m proud of you, too. But you already knew that.”

In-ho beams. Then, he lets go of Gi-hun’s waist. They keep walking, but In-ho’s gaze stays on him. He gives him an expectant look. 

Gi-hun frowns. “What?”

“I said I’m proud of you.”

“I know. I heard you the first time.”

“So.”

“So?”

And then Gi-hun realizes.

In-ho’s not just saying it to be nice. He’s not teasing. He’s waiting for something in return. 

Oh, God. He wants a kiss.

“In-ho!”

In-ho doesn’t deny it. He simply steps in close. Closer to him. 

Gi-hun means to protest, or at least pretend to, but his back hits the brick wall of the sidewalk, and then In-ho’s hand is on his waist again, warm through his shirt, grounding.

The kiss isn’t long. It’s just a brief brush of their lips. Soft, sure, and familiar.

Gi-hun’s breath stutters against it. His heart races like it wants to escape his chest. But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even think to.

When In-ho pulls back, his smile is unbearably smug. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Gi-hun glares at him, cheeks bright red. “I hate you.”

In-ho says, still far too close, “You just said you were proud of me.”

Gi-hun groans and covers his face with one hand. “We’re in public!”

“There’s no one around.”

“There was a bird earlier!”

“Well, now the bird has something to chirp about with its other bird friends.”

Gi-hun tries to shove him away, but he’s still smiling. “You got jokes, huh.”

And In-ho doesn’t stop smiling either. “Plenty of them.”

“I bet they’re all unfunny.”

In-ho raises his brows. “You haven’t even heard the one about your name.”

“What about my name?”

“About how your last name, Seong, literally means last name.”

Gi-hun purses his lips and gives In-ho a blank look. “Really.”

“Admit it. It’s funny.”

He scoffs, “Very.”

“I’m telling Ga-yeong that,” In-ho says. “So she’ll have an icebreaker when she’s meeting new people.”

“You’re setting my daughter up to be bullied?” Gi-hun deadpans.

In-ho bursts out laughing. Gi-hun shakes his head, chuckling too.

This is ridiculous. How did they go from such a serious conversation to this?

Gi-hun has always felt like his life came without instructions.

No dotted lines to follow. No compass. No symbols to guide him toward the right path.

But with In-ho, it feels different.

Like he’s a map Gi-hun didn’t know he’d been searching for.

One that walks beside him, not ahead. Quietly guiding him, not with directions, but with presence.

He hopes he can be a map to In-ho, too.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun enjoys cooking. Not just the act itself, but everything that leads up to it. The restocking of ingredients, the sound of knives against the countertop, the measured slicing of vegetables, and even the quiet prep that happens long before the restaurant doors open. 

Cooking gives him something to hold on to. A set of steps he can follow where the outcome, more or less, makes sense. He finds comfort in that – in having a sense of control and the way a recipe doesn’t change its mind halfway through.

He reaches into the lower cabinet and pulls out the white cutting board. He sets it down on the counter and pauses, fingers brushing over the faint red discoloration across the middle. It’s faded now, but still visible. A dull reminder of every batch of kimchi that’s ever bled across its surface.

He opens the fridge, pulls out the container of kimchi, and lifts a full head of cabbage out by hand. The familiar scent hits him immediately. He places it on the board, and as expected, the red liquid runs fast.

Gi-hun exhales slowly and reaches for the knife. The one he always uses for this part. And when he presses the blade down for the first slice, it glides through effortlessly, as if the cabbage had been waiting for it.

As the knife moves again, and again, he watches the stain deepen. 

The kitchen is quiet. It’s before opening hours, before the rush, before the noise of the day begins.

Behind him, a voice breaks the silence. “You do this yourself?”

It’s In-ho. They’d run into each other earlier that morning, just after he dropped Ga-yeong off. In-ho had been walking along their usual path, slowly, as if he had been expecting Gi-hun to run into him. Gi-hun had asked him if he wanted breakfast. He said yes, of course. Gi-hun didn’t miss the smirk on his face when he agreed. 

Gi-hun hums, not looking back. “Do what?”

“The cutting,” In-ho clarifies. “You always do it yourself?”

Gi-hun glances down at the board, at the red blooming against white. “Yeah.”

“It looks like it’s been through a lot.”

“The board?” he asks, even though he already knows. “It has,” he says eventually, letting the knife slide through another section of cabbage.

The stain spreads again, brighter now. More vivid.

They don’t talk for a while. In-ho just stays beside him, arms crossed, watching him cut through the cabbage. If Gi-hun weren’t so focused, he might’ve made a comment about the staring. But right now, he keeps his eyes on the board. 

“That’s not healthy,” In-ho says out of nowhere.

“Kimchi?” Gi-hun raises a brow, not looking up. “It’s literally a vegetable.”

“Not the kimchi.” In-ho gestures with his chin. “The board.”

Gi-hun looks at him this time. 

In-ho continues, “When a plastic board has too many deep cuts, it starts to harbor bacteria. You can’t clean it properly anymore. And if it’s old enough, it can shed plastic particles into the food. Microplastics. Not great for the system. Not great for you, either.”

Gi-hun doesn’t laugh. Or tries not to. He exhales through his nose, lips twitching. “What was your profession again?”

“I’m serious.”

“Health inspector, then. Got it.”

He runs the flat of the knife over the stained surface, watching the red smear across the white plastic. The color clings to the texture like it belongs there. Like it’s not going anywhere.

“I’ve had this board for a while now,” he says quietly. 

In-ho doesn’t respond. Instead, he just nods once, like he understands that the conversation has shifted.

Gi-hun keeps cutting. His hands don’t falter, but his chest tightens. 

He knows what In-ho meant. He hears what he's trying to tell him. About bacteria. About food safety.

But he hears something else, too.

Because it’s true. The board isn’t just stained, it’s worn. Etched with every careless slice, every rushed prep, every long night he tried to hold himself together through routine. The marks are permanent now. Even when he scrubs. Even when he tries.

And it’s one thing to accept that.

It’s another thing entirely to keep using it. To keep opening the same scars. To continue worsening the stain. Adding more. Hurting himself in small, quiet ways no one else can see.

“You think I should stop?” he asks suddenly.

In-ho, who had gone quiet again, blinks. “Hm?”

Gi-hun doesn’t look up from the board. “Using it.”

He doesn’t know why he asks. Doesn’t know why it comes out of his mouth at all, or why he’s asking In-ho of all people. Because he already knows the answer. He’s thought about it plenty of times.

He knows that he should let it go. Not because he’s trying to erase the past, or pretend the stains never happened, but because maybe it’s time to stop reopening them. Maybe it’s okay to want something cleaner. Something less painful.

Maybe he deserves a clean slate too.

“Only if you’re ready,” In-ho says.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be,” Gi-hun admits, because that feels like the truth. And it is. He doesn’t think he’ll ever wake up one day and feel completely ready.

Because no matter how well he understands himself, how clearly he knows that throwing it away wouldn’t mean erasing the past or forgetting everything that shaped him, it would still feel like betrayal.

Like abandoning the people he couldn’t save. The lives that were lost. The players who stood beside him when they were all fighting to survive. Sae-byeok, who reminded him so much of someone he wanted to protect, his daughter. Sang-woo, who had been there since the beginning, whose loss left a scar he still doesn’t know how to name. Everyone.

The guilt doesn’t fade just because time passes.

“But I’d like to try,” he whispers, the words barely audible.

In-ho hears him anyway.

“Then try,” he says simply. 

Gi-hun gives him a faint smile, eyes glancing back at the white cutting board stained red. His fingers graze over the surface, as if memorizing every single texture under his touch.

He studies the stains. Old ones. New ones. And the cuts left permanently by his knife. It will forever be there. He doesn't need to scrub it, because it won't completely go away.

Turning on the tap, he places the white cutting board under the water. He watches as the red liquid flows down the drain. The stains, however, stay there. As expected.

"I will."

He won't throw it away, not completely. That's not what trying looks like to him. Trying doesn’t mean pretending none of it happened. It doesn’t mean forgetting. It means continuing. It means choosing a different way forward, even if the weight still lingers.

To him, trying starts with rinsing the board with water, lathering soap over it, and scrubbing without using too much force. Not because he thinks it will come clean, but because it deserves care, too.

Trying is drying it off with a clean towel. Not obsessing over the stains that haven’t come off. It’s opening the cabinet and placing the board in the farthest part of it, not gone, just set aside.

Trying is this.

The small, careful act of choosing something else. Not letting the past dictate everything, even if it’s still there, quietly present in every mark left behind.

He exhales, looking back at In-ho who has been watching him the entire time. 

“That’s a good start.”

Gi-hun lets himself believe it. Not as a promise or a guarantee, but as something calmer. Like a beginning that doesn't need to be loud to mean something. A step taken not to forget the past, but to learn how to live with it. To move forward with the weight of it still in his hands, but not letting it drag him under. 

A beginning that makes space for new things, even while the old ones stay.

Trying also means finally facing the things he's always been afraid to confront.

Gi-hun sits in the passenger seat, looking out the window and observing the sky outside. The car still hasn’t moved. In-ho’s busy fiddling with something on the dashboard, adjusting buttons like it’s mission-critical, while Jun-ho is busy letting out increasingly dramatic sighs from the back seat.

“Why am I in the back seat?” Gi-hun hears Jun-ho complain from behind him.

“There’s no third seat in front, Jun-ho,” In-ho replies flatly, hands steady on the wheel.

“I offered to drive and you said no! You never turn down an offer to not drive.”

Gi-hun glances at In-ho from the passenger seat, already smiling.

“I’ve always enjoyed driving,” In-ho says simply.

“Bullshit,” Jun-ho snaps.

“Hey,” In-ho warns. “I am driving and that’s final.”

“But still!” Jun-ho presses on, undeterred. “Why am I in the back seat? Why does he get passenger seat privileges?” He gestures toward Gi-hun. “Why am I demoted?”

“Don’t you think demoted is a bit too much?” Gi-hun tries to sound neutral but does not bother to conceal the smile in his voice.

“I should’ve followed my instinct and just driven myself,” Jun-ho mutters.

“You should’ve,” In-ho agrees easily.

“Yes, I—wait. No. Why should I? I’m staying here!”

Gi-hun can’t help it. He lets out a soft laugh, turning to look out the window before Jun-ho sees the grin tugging at his mouth. This might be the most entertained he’s been all week.

The girls aren't with them. Ga-yeong and Yu-jin are under the watch of Jung-bae and Daeho, which isn’t exactly an ideal setup, given how those two can be a bit too lenient, but it works. Jung-bae already sent him two pictures this morning: one of the girls eating toast and eggs, and another of Daeho attempting to braid Ga-yeong’s hair while she looks vaguely traumatized.

They’ll be fine.

This is just a short trip. A day, maybe less. A quiet visit.

Gi-hun found out they moved not long after his games ended. Quietly, with no announcement whatsoever. They just packed up and left Seoul like the city had become something they couldn’t bear to live with anymore. And maybe it had.

They chose Millak-dong. A small neighborhood in Busan, somewhere in between the busier areas of Haeundae and Gwangalli. The place is quiet enough to go unnoticed, but still close enough to everything that it didn’t feel completely isolated. It made sense. The sea was close, the breeze was gentle, and the nights were calm enough to feel like healing.

Gi-hun has known the area for a while now. The general streets. The way the wind picks up near the waterfront. The slow rhythm of early morning walks along the park. He has never gone all the way. Never knocked on any doors or crossed that invisible line between knowing and intruding. He would not even know what to say if he did.

Still, he has kept track. In his own way. Just enough to know they are safe. Just enough to feel like he has not let go entirely.

Because letting go of them, of what they mean, of the guilt and the grief they carry with them, is something he still does not know how to do.

And maybe that’s selfish. Maybe it’s cowardice disguised as care. But it’s all he has left of them. 

Gi-hun swallows. He doesn’t want to think too hard about that now.

What matters is he’s going.

And for whatever reason, In-ho hadn’t needed a full explanation to agree. Just a time, a location, and a nod. That was enough. Jun-ho, of course, found out later and invited himself along with zero room for refusal.

So now they’re all here. Three grown men, packed into a car that hasn’t even pulled out of the lot yet.

Gi-hun exhales, eyes flicking from the sky to the road ahead.

They’ll drive. He’ll try.

And whatever happens after, he’ll take it one step at a time.

Gi-hun learns a lot about In-ho’s younger brother in the past hour they’ve been driving. One of those things is that Jun-ho doesn’t stop talking.

They’ve barely been on the highway for thirty minutes, and already Gi-hun has answered five questions, ignored three, and redirected two. In-ho is focused on the road, both hands on the wheel, while Gi-hun occasionally glances at the back to check if Jun-ho is still breathing there.

He is. Very much so. Perhaps too much.

“Are we staying long?” Jun-ho asks. “Like… hours long? Or are we just showing up, standing there dramatically, and leaving without saying anything?”

Gi-hun rubs his jaw, trying to formulate a calm answer. “We won’t be staying for too long. Just… maybe just as long as it takes.”

“Which means?”

“I’m not sure. Until it feels right, maybe.”

Resting an arm on the back of Gi-hun’s seat, Jun-ho leans forward slightly. “And what’s the plan when we get there? Are you knocking? Calling? Or just hoping they see you first?”

“I was thinking,” Gi-hun says, “I’d try to talk.”

“To the boy or the mother?”

“Both, if I can.”

Jun-ho hums and sits back. “You didn’t say that earlier.”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer, just gives him a non-committal grunt, and stares straight ahead.

Ten minutes later, after a long stretch of silence that Gi-hun briefly mistakes for peace, Jun-ho pipes up again. “And what exactly are you going to say?”

Gi-hun stares at the road. “That… I haven’t—I… don’t know. I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“You don’t know,” Jun-ho repeats.

“Yes.”

“We’re already driving, hours away from their place, and you’re telling you don’t know?”

Gi-hun shrugs. “I must admit that I’m a bit unprepared-”

“A bit?” Jun-ho exclaims.

From the driver’s seat, In-ho mutters, “Do you ever run out of questions?”

Jun-ho scoffs. “Not when I’m put in a situation like this!”

"You put yourself in this situation,” In-ho says as a matter-of-factly. Gi-hun tries his best not to laugh. His brother really did put himself into this situation. Quite literally, in fact. 

Gi-hun hears the younger man mutter something under his breath, and before he can even respond, In-ho shoots him a look that clearly says, Let him be. He’ll get tired of talking eventually.

Jun-ho doesn’t get tired.

“When we get to the first rest stop,” Jun-ho says, “are we just using the toilet or do I get to buy one of those twisted potato things?”

“This isn’t a road trip,” In-ho replies, not taking his eyes off the road.

“But we’re on a trip. On the road.”

Gi-hun bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Let him buy the potato.”

“See?” Jun-ho grins. “He gets it,” he casually says as if he hadn’t just called Gi-hun unprepared a while ago.

“Do they even know you’re coming?” Jun-ho asks.

Gi-hun exhales through his nose. “No. They don’t.”

Jun-ho leans his head against the window. “And then, what? Your plan is just to randomly show up there?”

“Yes. That’s it. I’m not expecting something so grand… like them being happy to see me.”

“Then what are you expecting?”

He doesn’t know. 

“I just want to try.”

Fifteen more minutes pass. In-ho switches lanes with the calm of someone who’s used to tuning Jun-ho out. Gi-hun closes his eyes briefly, trying to rest. But-

“So,” Jun-ho says, voice slightly softer, “do you think this is for them or for you?”

Gi-hun opens his eyes.

“There doesn’t seem to be a clear line between the two.”

In-ho finally speaks after a long pause. “You didn’t have to come, you know.”

Jun-ho scoffs. “Of course I did. Someone has to stop him from getting funny ideas. What would you do if he kidnaps you?”

Gi-hun snorts. “I’m right here.”

Jun-ho leans forward again, pointing. “Exactly. And plus, you’re about to go see people you’ve been ghosting for years.”

“I wasn’t ghosting them.”

“You were haunting them. Same thing.”

Gi-hun looks out the window, hiding his smile.

This trip isn’t going to be easy. But maybe, with these two, it won’t be impossible either.

They get there just before lunch.

The wind hits as soon as they step out of the car.

The breeze is colder than Gi-hun remembers. It is not unpleasant, but it's sharp enough to remind him he should’ve brought something thicker than the sweater he’s wearing. They’d parked near the beach, per his suggestion, since the house wasn’t far. A short walk, he’d said. Close enough to enjoy the air. At the time, he hadn’t factored in the cold.

He steps out and nearly vibrates on the spot, his whole body recoiling slightly as the chill cuts through the fabric. Before he can register it fully, In-ho’s voice cuts in.

“Do you need my jacket?”

Gi-hun blinks. He’s still busy tugging his sleeves down when he hears Jun-ho clear his throat behind them.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. “But thanks.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“I might need a jacket,” Jun-ho says suddenly.

“You’re already wearing three layers of clothing,” In-ho deadpans, already walking ahead.

Jun-ho gasps, scandalized. He turns toward Gi-hun. “Wow. Okay. I guess the rumors are true, then.”

He frowns, confused. “What rumors?”

“That he likes you.”

Gi-hun stumbles on the next step and nearly trips over his own foot. He coughs hard, choking on his own spit.

Jun-ho shrugs. “Heard it from Yu-jin.”

Gi-hun turns to stare at him, face red for a very different reason now. “How did—Why would she even-”

“We’ll have this conversation another time,” Jun-ho says, cutting him off with a calm wave of his hand. “But just so you know... I’m always watching.”

Gi-hun squints. “That’s weird.”

“It’s called caring,” Jun-ho says smoothly. Then his voice drops, just a little. “I don’t want to lose him again.”

Something shifts in Gi-hun’s chest. The annoyance fades. He glances at In-ho’s back, a few steps ahead, steady as ever. Then he nods, quiet. “I know.”

A silence settles between them, until the next gust of wind makes Gi-hun visibly flinch.

Jun-ho notices instantly.

“Hyung! He said he wants your jacket!”

Gi-hun’s head snaps toward him. “I did not say that! What-”

But it’s too late.

In-ho stops walking. Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket, turns around, and drapes it over Gi-hun’s shoulders. His hands linger a moment longer than necessary, adjusting the fit.

Gi-hun stands there, frozen, only managing to utter a soft “Thanks.”

Jun-ho gives him a look when In-ho walks ahead. “I’m texting Yu-jin about this.”

“Shut up.”

They finish their meal at a small local restaurant hidden between narrow streets and low buildings. The place has handwritten menus and tanks of fresh seafood by the door. It smells like the sea the moment they step in, sharp and briny, and Gi-hun’s mouth starts watering before he even sits down.

They order sannakji and ganjang gejang, because of course they do. When in Busan, you eat what the city is known for.

Throughout the meal, Gi-hun stays mostly quiet. He taps at the crab shell with his chopsticks, and gives a small nod whenever the waiter asks about more banchan, but his eyes rarely stray from the window.

When they step back outside, In-ho adjusts his sleeves and glances at him.

“Are you ready?”

Gi-hun takes a second before answering. Then he nods.

In-ho watches him for a beat longer, then says quietly, “You don’t have to rush anything. Take the time you need.”

Jun-ho looks at his brother, then at Gi-hun. “How do we go about this? Do you want us to leave you alone for a bit? Call us when you're done?”

Gi-hun offers a faint smile. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

When no one says anything else, he walks off.  

It’s not far. He remembers the last time he saw Sang-woo’s mother, walking slowly along the edge of the park with a plastic bag in her hand, the shape inside unmistakably that of fresh fish. It was brief. From a distance. She hadn’t seen him. 

Now, walking past that same park, he notices a figure sitting on a bench. A boy.  

He’s hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers brushing at the skin just below one of them. It looks like he might’ve fallen.  

Gi-hun slows.  

The boy looks about Ga-yeong’s age. Maybe a little older. He doesn't see his face right away. Just the shape of him and the tilt of his shoulders.  

Concern settles low in his gut. He walks over.  

“Hey,” Gi-hun says gently. “Are you…”  

But the words stop midair when the boy looks up, and it knocks the wind out of him. That face. He knows that face.

The boy blinks at him, then tilts his head, squinting slightly like he’s putting something together. His lips part, just a little.

“…okay?” Gi-hun finishes.

Because sitting in front of him – older now, taller, but unmistakably him – is Cheol. Sae-byeok’s brother.

“Ahjussi.”

Gi-hun stares. He hadn’t expected this. Not here. Not like this. For a moment, all he can do is take him in, the familiar features, the way he’s grown into himself.

But then he notices the scraped knee again, the way Cheol’s holding it, thumb brushing around the edge like it stings more than he’ll admit. The concern takes over before anything else can.

“You okay?” he asks, nodding toward the kid’s knee.

Cheol glances down, shrugs. “Tripped on the curb.”

Gi-hun crouches a little, not too close. “You should wash that. It could get infected.”

Cheol frowns at the scrape, still pressing the hem of his shirt against it. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Gi-hun says, already slipping out of his jacket – Inho’s jacket – and holding it out. “Here. Press this instead. Cleaner than your shirt.”

Cheol hesitates, then takes it with a quiet, “Thanks.”

There’s silence again, broken only by the gulls overhead and the occasional tire screech from the street behind them. Gi-hun watches him. He still the same nose, the same eyes. A little taller now. But still him. Still reminds him of her. Sae-byeok.

“You should go home,” Gi-hun says eventually. “Get that cleaned. I’ve seen what happens when you let that sit. My daughter scraped her knee once, and it puffed up like–anyway. Go wash it.”

"Are you coming with me?”

Gi-hun blinks. “What?”

“Grandma’s there,” Cheol says simply.

Gi-hun stays quiet for a while. His eyes drop to the boy’s knee again, red and raw with a scrape that’s already starting to look like it could get worse. He thinks of Ga-yeong, how one time a small wound on her leg got worse overnight because she didn’t let him clean it properly. That’s why he reacted so fast, why his first instinct was to say something. To help. To take Cheol home and get that cleaned up.

But that’s not why he’s here. He just got sidetracked. He had a bigger goal in mind.

He’d spent the entire drive trying to map it out in his head. Trying to figure out what he’d say if he ever saw Cheol again. Or Sang-woo’s mother. Or both. He was terrified the kid would hate him. Would scream at him and demand answers. Throw words he wouldn't know how to catch.

But Cheol didn’t do any of that. He looked up, recognized him, and simply said, “Ahjussi.”

And now, Gi-hun realizes something else.

Cheol’s not the one he’s truly afraid of seeing.

It’s her.

The woman who treated him like her own son. Who fed him. Who asked if he’d been eating well. Who looked him in the eyes with kindness even when he didn’t deserve it. The woman whose son-

He stops the thought before it finishes. 

“Grandma’s there,” Cheol says again, standing now, already brushing the dirt off his palms.

Gi-hun breathes in and out.

“Okay,” he says, quieter this time. “Let’s go.”

They don’t talk much as they walk. Cheol limps just slightly, but he doesn’t complain, he just walks ahead with the kind of stubbornness that reminds Gi-hun too much of someone else. Someone long gone but still painfully present in everything about this boy.

The neighborhood is quiet, and the sea breeze from earlier is still there, brushing past them in quiet, passing waves.

They reach the house a few minutes later.

It’s a hanok, modest and well-kept. The kind with a small stone path leading up to a low wooden gate, and a porch that wraps around the front. Gi-hun recognizes the layout. It’s like the ones he used to see in the older districts, houses where the doors creak when you open them and the wood feels like it remembers every person who’s walked through.

Cheol steps forward first and unlatches the gate, holding it open behind him. “Come in,” he says, like it’s nothing.

Gi-hun hesitates for a beat, standing just outside the threshold. The smell of the sea still lingers faintly in the air, mixed now with something warmer. Soybean paste, maybe. Grilled mackerel. He doesn’t know why it hits so hard.

Cheol glances back. “It’s okay.”

Gi-hun nods once, then follows him inside.

The courtyard is small, bordered with flowerpots, a few pairs of sandals by the door. Everything about it is lived-in. Real and familiar.

Cheol kicks his shoes off and calls out without looking back, “Halmeoni! We have a guest!”

Gi-hun flinches.

A guest.

The word sits wrong in his chest. Not because it’s untrue, but because it feels far too kind. Guest implies welcome. Guest implies permission.

If anything, he should be called an intruder. A man who left. A man who disappeared. Who ran from the aftermath and carved out his own quiet life while the rest of them were left to patch theirs together from what remained.

He remembers Sae-byeok. How she fought tooth and nail to keep her brother safe, to give him exactly this. A home. A school. A routine. A future.

And Sang-woo.

God, Sang-woo.

There’s a part of him that still doesn’t know what to do with that name. That history. That guilt.

Gi-hun stands at the edge of the gate, his chest tight with the persistent ache of not knowing whether he deserves to be here at all.

He hears movement from inside the house, and his heart leaps up so fast it aches.

“Cheol-ah! Are you home? Who are you with? Tell your friend to sit down while I prepare something to eat!”

Her voice.

He swallows and tries to blink away the sudden sting behind his eyes.

Because this is the woman who once looked at him and said she would take care of a kid he didn't know. Who asked no questions, only gave what she had. Who kept Cheol safe when Gi-hun didn’t know how.

And now she's telling the boy he left behind to offer him a seat.

Gi-hun presses a hand to his chest, steadying himself.

He steps inside. Because he came here for a reason. Because running would only make the ache worse. Because Sae-byeok had asked him to make sure Cheol would be okay. Because Sang-woo’s last words were a plea for Gi-hun to help his mother. This is part of that.

Gi-hun tries to steady himself as he lowers onto the wide wooden porch.

He has no idea what to say when she sees her again.

How is he supposed to greet the person he left behind?

The woman who once fed him like he was her own. Who always made him take leftovers home. Who smiled at him like she saw someone worth smiling at, even when he didn’t deserve it.

The woman whose son-

He cuts off the thought before his mind wanders to places he doesn’t want to revisit.

He rubs his palms against his jeans. He wonders if she’ll recognize him. If she’ll even want to. Or if she’ll just-

“Gi-hun?”

His head snaps up.

That voice. That voice that lives somewhere in the back of his memory, soft, familiar, and completely unchanged.

His eyes shift toward the sound.

“Gi-hun-ah, is that you?”

Before he can get a single word out, she's already right in front of him. 

Crossing the space between them. Closing the years he let pass without a word.

She wraps her arms around him in a hug so tight he could barely breathe.

“Oh, my child. Oh, child. Where have you been?”

Her voice cracks as she speaks, arms firm around him, hands warm as they rub slow, comforting circles across his back.

“Are you okay? Have you eaten?”

Gi-hun shatters.

Tears spill out, his body trembling in her embrace. He had prepared for everything else. Anger, pain, a scream, or even a door slammed in his face. Maybe a furious “Why?” Maybe silence. But not this. Not a hug. Not warmth.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes. 

She shakes her head and only holds him tighter, like she means to keep him there. Like she’s been waiting for this moment far longer than he has.

Gi-hun chokes on a breath. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

He repeats it over and over. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – until they barely feel like his anymore. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry – until it starts sounding foreign.

She doesn't tell him to stop. He melts when he feels her hands cup the back of his head gently, like she used to when he was younger. Back when they were just kids running around the neighborhood, playing games until the sun sets. Back when she welcomed him into her home without question, treating him like he belonged.

“I know,” she whispers back. “I know, Gi-hun-ah.”

They stay like that for a while, with Gi-hun whispering sorry again and again, and Sang-woo’s mother quietly wiping his tears each time they fall.

It’s been years since he’s felt this kind of motherly love. The kind that expects nothing in return. For a brief second, he remembers his own mother, the memory of her curling tightly in his chest.

It’s been years since he’s let himself be held like this. Since someone touched him without expectation, without explanation, just because they could. He doesn’t know what to do with the warmth of it. Doesn’t know what to do with the way it breaks him apart and holds him together in the same breath.

For a moment, it’s easy to believe that some things can be mended. That not all broken parts stay broken forever.

And just as the thought settles in his chest, a voice calls out from the gate.

“There are two odd men outside," Cheol says.

Gi-hun lifts his head, blinking away the tears. Sang-woo’s mother pauses beside him, and they both turn toward the sound.

Cheol stands there, his arms folded and one eyebrow slightly raised. “One of them keeps pacing like he’s practicing for a marathon.”

Gi-hun doesn’t need to ask who. It’s definitely In-ho.

Sang-woo’s mother gives his arm one last squeeze and nods toward the gate. “Go on. Bring them in before your friend starts walking back to Seoul.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but she seems to understand it right away. 

“Not a friend, then? Let them in. I’ll get you some fruit to eat.”

Gi-hun huffs out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Okay.”

He heads for the gate and finds exactly what he expects: In-ho pacing a precise five-step loop along the sidewalk, jaw tight, hands in his coat pockets. Jun-ho is leaning against the wall nearby, chewing gum like none of this is even remotely dramatic.

“Everything alright?” Jun-ho asks, straightening up when he sees him. “We thought maybe she chased you out with a broom.”

“She didn’t,” Gi-hun says.

In-ho stops pacing and turns toward him. 

Gi-hun nods once. “She’s... okay. She’s inside. She’s cutting fruit.”

Jun-ho perks up. “Fruit?”

"Pears, I think."

In-ho’s shoulders relax just a little. “We can come in?”

Gi-hun opens the gate wider. “I think you’d better. She’ll probably make you eat something whether you want to or not.”

In-ho gives him a look that says more than words would. Gratitude. Relief. Something else, maybe, but he doesn’t say it out loud. He just steps forward, Jun-ho trailing after him with a muttered, “Guess I’ll pretend to like pears.”

She prepares more than just fruits.

Gi-hun had forgotten how much care she pours into feeding people. He should’ve known she wouldn’t settle for a simple plate of sliced pears. Not when she had someone to fuss over again.

“I should visit Mom soon,” Jun-ho says, already eyeing the spread. “I miss her cooking.”

"You say that as if you don't compliment my meals all the time," In-ho mutters under his breath. 

"Your cooking only improved after you started hanging out with him," Jun-ho points at Gi-hun.

Sang-woo’s mother perks up. “You cook now, Gi-hun-ah?”

“I do,” he says, a little sheepish. “I have a restaurant. Again. Didn't fail this time around.”

Her face lights up. “A restaurant! That’s wonderful! I’m sure everything you make tastes delicious.”

Gi-hun scratches the back of his neck, suddenly flustered. “It’s nothing fancy. Just something cozy and simple.”

“Still, you should be proud,” she says warmly, placing a full bowl in front of him. “And make sure you eat. You’ve lost weight.”

“I eat-”

She waves him off like it’s nonsense. “None of that.” hen she turns to In-ho, eyes sharp with affection. “You. Make sure he eats.”

In-ho nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

Gi-hun gives him a look.

“I know you skip breakfast sometimes.”

“What?” He asks, caught off guard.

“Like today. You didn’t have anything but coffee until noon.”

Jun-ho, seated across the table, snorts. “Didn’t realize we had a food diary with us today.”

“I’m just observant,” In-ho says.

Gi-hun scoffs. “And obsessed, maybe.”

He hears Jun-ho trying to suppress a laugh.

The old lady smiles as she pours more soup into Gi-hun’s bowl. “I'm glad you have someone to look over you, Gi-hun-ah. Sang-woo always used to worry about you, you know. Despite being younger. Always made sure you ate properly before school.”

At that, In-ho’s chopsticks pause midair. Just for a second. Then he sets them down with a quiet click.

Gi-hun catches the motion and tries not to react. “He did,” he says softly, offering her a small smile. 

“And you,” she adds, her eyes crinkling with fondness, “you were popular back in the day. Especially in high school.”

Jun-ho raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

She nods. “Gi-hun had charisma. The kind everyone noticed. Remember that Valentine’s Day? You came home with an entire bag full of chocolates and flowers. I nearly asked if you’d been handing out money.”

Gi-hun groans and covers his face with his hand. “Please don’t bring that up.”

Across the table, In-ho makes a small sound and reaches for his water. The expression he’s wearing is a little different from what Gi-hun is used to, quieter and more focused, like he's trying not to show something he’s already given away.

Gi-hun peeks at him from behind his hand, amused.

Eyes flicking between the three of them, Jun-ho leans back in his chair. “Wow,” he mutters under his breath. “So many emotions in one meal.”

Sang-woo’s mom laughs gently. “Eat, all of you,” she says. “The food’s getting cold.”

After the meal, Cheol tugs at his sleeve and pulls him aside without a word. Gi-hun lets himself be dragged into the small hallway near the back door, confused but curious.

“Hold out your hands,” Cheol says, already reaching into his hoodie pocket.

Gi-hun does, palms open.

Cheol places something carefully in them. It’s a photograph that’s slightly bent at the corners. Gi-hun turns it over, and his breath catches.

It’s Cheol and Sae-byeok.

They’re both younger in the photo. Sae-byeok has his arms around Cheol, her smile soft and real.

“Found it in one of the old boxes,” Cheol says quietly. “Thought you deserved a copy too.”

Gi-hun smiles, eyes stinging as he nods. “Thank you.”

He doesn't dare take another look just yet. It's too much. Her face, her smile, the ghost of who she was before everything. The photo feels like a piece of her he can carry with him. Proof that she existed.

He slips the photo carefully into his jacket pocket. He’ll frame it when he gets home.

From deeper inside the house, a familiar, gentle voice rises. “Gi-hun-ah! Come help me in the kitchen for a second.”

He follows her in, eyebrows raised. “Need help with the dishes?”

“No, no,” she waves him off, gesturing to the cabinets. “You said you cook now, right?”

“I do.”

“Wait for me. I have something for you.”

Unsure and confused, Gi-hun blinks. He stands there awkwardly as he watches her rummage through the top shelf. A minute passes. 

And then, finally, “Found it!”

She turns around, holding something rectangular and wrapped in thin plastic.

Gi-hun's heart swells when he recognizes what it is. 

It's a cutting board. Brand new, clean, and smooth.

She offers it to him with both hands. “This one was a bit pricey, so I kept saving it, thinking I’d use it someday. But I figured it would be better in your hands. At least then, it won’t go to waste. Keep it in your restaurant.”

Gi-hun doesn’t reach for it right away. He just stares at it, the clean, untouched surface wrapped neatly in plastic. To anyone else, it’s just a cutting board. Just another kitchen tool. But to him, it means something else entirely. A gesture. A start.

He swallows before taking it gently, like it’s something fragile. “Thank you,” he says, voice thick.

“Use it well,” she says. “And don’t forget to eat.”

He smiles, heart full. “I won’t.”

“And since it’s from me, I’m expecting a discount when we come and visit.”

Gi-hun chuckles. "Your meals are on me, do not worry."

She gives him a soft look. He adjusts the cutting board in his arms, stepping back toward the porch steps when she calls out again.

“Gi-hun-ah,” she says, “Do not hesitate to visit us again. You can bring your not-friend if you’d like.”

Gi-hun turns back with a small, amused shake of his head. “His name is In-ho.”

“I know,” she says, smiling. “I interrogated him a while ago when you were distracted.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did,” she insists, tone far too casual for the claim. “He’s nice.” Gi-hun laughs softly. His heart feels strange and full. “Visit us again, yeah?”

He meets her eyes and nods, sincere. “Yeah. I will.”

“When you said he was your friend, I didn’t realize you meant childhood friend,” is the first thing In-ho says when they get back to the car.

“Is there a difference?” Gi-hun asks, glancing over while buckling his seatbelt.

In-ho shrugs, eyes fixed ahead as he starts the engine, saying nothing else.

“You okay?” Gi-hun tries, voice casual, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him.

“I’m fine,” In-ho replies too quickly.

“Are you sure-”

“So. Charisma, huh,” In-ho cuts in, tone carefully neutral as he shifts into reverse.

Gi-hun grins. “Ah, you caught that.”

“I was in the room. Hard not to.”

Jun-ho leans forward from the back seat, grinning like a devil. “Apparently, Gi-hun-ssi was a walking heartthrob. A real high school heartthrob.”

Gi-hun groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Please don’t use the word heartthrob.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was it too vintage for your legendary youth?” Jun-ho teases.

In-ho doesn’t say anything, but his grip on the wheel tightens, just enough for Gi-hun to notice.

Leaning a bit closer, Gihun asks with a smirk, “You jealous of high school me?”

The man beside him scoffs. “I’m not jealous of you,” he mutters, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Then what are you—Oh.” Gi-hun chuckles, putting it together. “So, what, you plan to go back in time? See peak-charisma Gi-hun in action? Compete with everyone else for my attention?”

In-ho exhales sharply, almost a scoff. Under his breath, he mutters, “Chocolates and flowers.”

Gi-hun laughs, full and loud, tipping his head back against the seat. “Relax, In-ho. I peaked in high school. Charisma’s gone now.”

“No it’s not,” In-ho says. Too fast. Again.

From the back seat, he hears Jun-ho say, “Okay. Maybe save the flirting for when I’m not in the car.”

Gi-hun barks out a laugh, loud and unfiltered. Beside him, In-ho says nothing, but his ears tint pink as he finally pulls the car onto the road.

He doesn't say it out loud, but Gi-hun is really glad that he didn't go on this visit alone.

They pull up at the parking lot of Gi-hun's place at around 11 in the evening. 

Gi-hun undoes his seatbelt slowly. He doesn’t move to get out right away. “Thanks for today,” he says, glancing at In-ho. “For coming with me. For… everything.”

In-ho nods. “Of course.”

When he steps out of the car, the cold wind brushes against his skin immediately. He leans in towards the window.

"Message you when I get inside," Gi-hun says with a smirk. "So you don't start pacing around again."

He turns slightly, ready to head off. But he stills when he hears the soft click of the door behind him.

“Hey,” In-ho says, voice quiet but clear.

He looks up, and In-ho is already there, closing the distance between them with quiet purpose. He’s close, close enough for Gi-hun to feel the warmth radiating off him despite the wind curling through the street.

In-ho reaches for him without hesitation, one hand steady at Gi-hun’s jaw as he leans in and presses their mouths together.

It isn’t soft, but it isn’t rushed either. It’s firm and certain. Like a full stop at the end of a long, complicated sentence. One hand finds Gi-hun’s waist, the other bracing against the car behind him, effectively pressing him there. The cool metal of the door bites through the back of Gi-hun’s shirt, but it barely registers.

His lips part instinctively, breath catching as In-ho deepens the kiss just enough to make his knees go loose for a moment. Gi-hun grips In-ho’s shirt for balance, for something to hold on to, because it feels like this is the only thing that matters right now. This moment. This kiss.

From inside the car, a loud, exaggerated groan cuts through the moment. 

“Are you done? I’m still here, you know!”

In-ho chuckles before he pulls away, the warmth of him lingering even after he steps back.

Gi-hun watches him fondly, the corners of his mouth still curled from the kiss. In-ho rounds the front of the car with that same maddeningly calm pace, like he didn’t just kiss the breath out of him against a parked vehicle.

The car pulls away a few seconds later, Jun-ho’s face vaguely visible through the back window. His forehead is pressed dramatically against the glass.

Gi-hun shakes his head, still smiling as he watches the taillights fade into the street ahead.

He stares at the new cutting board on the kitchen counter. It's the day after, and he’s arrived at the restaurant early for prep and inventory check.

It’s clean. Untouched. No marks, no grooves, no trace that a knife has ever touched it. A blank surface. A beginning, maybe. Not one that forgets the past, but one that allows for something new to grow beside it.

He runs his fingers along the edge, eyes soft. It feels strange. But not unwelcome.

He knows this doesn’t mean immediate healing. It doesn’t mean stains won’t show up again. They will. The board will get scratched, marked, maybe even discolored in time.

But that’s fine.

He’s not trying to keep it perfect. He’s not pretending nothing ever happened.

He just knows now that it’s okay to stop using the one that had too much. 

It’s okay to start over with something new, something that will carry its own marks eventually. He’s ready for that. Ready for whatever comes next.

The soft chime of his phone pulls him out of his thoughts.

Yu-jin's dad 🕶️ (8:12 a.m.):

Morning

Two servings of kimchi fried rice please

And dumplings

I’m already walking

Be there in 5

Gi-hun (8:13 a.m.):

That hungry?

Yu-jin's dad 🕶️ (8:15 a.m.):

The other serving is for you

I made a promise to make sure you eat

Gi-hun (8:16 a.m.):

Ah, yes

I see you're trying to make up for all the times you weren’t around during my high school years

Yu-jin's dad 🕶️ (8:16 a.m.):

Better late than never

Gi-hun huffs a quiet laugh as his fingers brush through the surface of the new board.

When he's finally ready, he takes a deep breath, picks up his knife, and gets to work.

Chapter Text

Gi-hun is smiling again. 

It catches him off guard sometimes, but the way it comes is easier now. It feels less like something he has to remember how to do, and more like something his body just knows again. The corners of his mouth lift without resistance or thought, like muscle memory easing back into place.

It’s still early, the restaurant is not even close to opening yet. Gi-hun had dropped Ga-yeong off at school earlier than usual, a special request she made last night with pleading eyes he couldn’t bring himself to refuse. Something about needing to arrive early because she has to prepare for a presentation. Gi-hun didn’t question her. He knows how competitive she can be at times. 

With nowhere else to be, he ended up here. His day doesn’t really have to start yet, not for another hour at least, but he finds himself leaning against the kitchen counter anyway, scrolling through his phone with a smile pulling at his lips.

On his screen, a message from In-ho glows back at him.

Yu-jin's dad 🕶️ (7:42 a.m.):

Food truck’s closed today

Thought I was just too early

But apparently it’s the old lady’s birthday

Inform Ga-yeong about this immediately

So she doesn't sulk later

Gi-hun snorts softly under his breath, already typing back.

Gi-hun (7:44 a.m.):

Have you told Yu-jin yet?

Yu-jin's dad 🕶️ (7:45 a.m.):

No.

Gi-hun (7:45 a.m.) 

Scared to be the bearer of bad news?

Yu-jin's dad 🕶️ (7:47 a.m.):

Of course not.

Gi-hun shakes his head. He's about to type out a response when he gets another message.

Yu-jin's dad 🕶️ (7:50 a.m.):

Can you tell her instead?

He lets out a loud laugh and clutches his stomach as the sound bounces off the kitchen walls. His head dips forward while he catches his breath. His eyes crinkle at the corners, smile not leaving his face.

“You want to talk about it?” comes Jung-bae’s voice.

Gi-hun locks his phone and places it down next to him. “Talk about what?”

“That smile,” Jung-bae says, already walking over. He sets a paper cup on the counter. “Coffee?”

Gi-hun raises an eyebrow. “You drank from this already.”

“So? Half a cup of coffee is still coffee."

Gi-hun picks it up anyway, sipping. It’s still warm.

“Is it serious?” Jung-bae asks after a while. 

Gi-hun exhales, eyes flicking to the floor for a second. “It is.”

Jung-bae hums. “You want to walk me through it?”

And he does. He doesn’t explain everything. There are things he still can’t say, even now, but he gives enough. About In-ho. About the complicated thing they’re building, however slowly, however unexpectedly.

He’s still talking when Jung-bae speaks again, “You were there for me when I almost lost everything.”

Gi-hun looks up.

“You remember? Back when I couldn’t make rent for the apartment. When we were behind on our electric bills. When my marriage was not doing great. When life was pulling me down.”

When Gi-hun doesn’t respond, Jung-bae continues.

“You helped me,” Jung-bae goes on. “You handed me that thick envelope like it was no big deal. Like you had it to spare. I didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t offer answers. But it saved my family. It gave us room to breathe and start all over again.”

He pauses. His voice dips a little lower.

“I still don’t know where that money came from. You were jobless. You were barely getting by. But somehow, you showed up with more than enough.”

Gi-hun’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl loosely around the cup.

"I’ll always remember that. Haven’t forgotten about it," Jung-bae says. "In fact, I don’t think I ever will. I'll be forever grateful to you, you know? I mean... you know it already."

Gi-hun doesn’t answer right away. He just offers his friend a faint, grateful smile. The kind that holds more weight than words ever could.

“So if this is something good... if this is something that feels like a reward after everything you’ve done — after all the ways you’ve helped — I’m happy for you. Genuinely.”

Gi-hun doesn’t know what to say. What could he possibly respond with, when all he wants to do is cry and thank Jung-bae over and over for staying by his side all this time? So instead, he just looks at him, stunned, then offers a quiet smile. 

“If you’re genuinely happy,” he says, almost too casually, “then promise you won’t tease me about it.”

Jung-bae scoffs immediately. “No way.”

Gi-hun lets out a loud laugh. Well, of course. He saw that answer from a mile away.

“Figured,” he says, still chuckling. “Didn’t hurt to try.”

“It did, actually,” Jung-bae says, completely straight-faced. “I felt secondhand embarrassment.”

Gi-hun lets out another laugh, tossing a towel in his direction. “Go mop something.”

“Not until I see that phone. I wanna know what kind of texts got you smiling like that.”

Gi-hun holds the phone close to his chest. “No, thank you.”

“Suspicious.”

“I’m suspicious for having an emotionally healthy boundary?”

"Woah, okay!" Jung-bae raises both hands in mock surrender. “Look at you, all grown up.”

“You’re an idiot,” Gi-hun mutters, but it’s full of fondness.

He shakes his head as Jung-bae walks off, finally turning his attention to the prep station. Gi-hun lingers for a moment, letting the silence stretch.

His expression softens as he thinks back on their conversation, on all the years Jung-bae stayed beside him, and he beside Jung-bae. Through failures, through quiet victories, and through everything in between.

He doesn’t say it out loud. But he’s grateful too. Always has been.

He pulls out his phone from his pocket. 

Gi-hun (8:19 a.m.):

I’ll tell Yu-jin about it

But I’m assigning you to be responsible for Ga-yeong

Yu-jin's dad 🕶️ (8:23 a.m.):

That’s fine. She likes me.

Gi-hun (8:23 a.m.):

Confident she likes you more than she likes her tteokbokki?

Yu-jin's dad 🕶️ (8:25 a.m.):

Well. 

Isn’t that too unfair of a comparison?

Gi-hun couldn’t stop the smile forming on his mouth once again.

It’s strange, he thinks.

How someone can go from being a stranger, cold and unreadable, to someone who lives in the softest parts of his day. How a person can shift from unfamiliar to something that feels almost inevitable.

He remembers how he used to look at In-ho. Not with fondness, not even with trust, but with distance. Like someone uncertain. Someone to brace against. Someone unfamiliar. A question he couldn’t answer.

It’s different now.

Now, he knows his laugh. Knows the timing of his texts, the way his sarcasm lands just a little dry, a little too pleased with itself. Knows that he walks quietly, but never without purpose. That he stays, even when he doesn’t say much.

Gi-hun has learned that In-ho doesn’t say I missed you or I was thinking about you. Instead, he sends photos of stray cats that stay near the restaurant’s back alley. This one has your glare, the caption once read, followed by a blurry zoom-in of a white and orange tabby with its ears tilted back. It’s never outright affection, but Gi-hun hears it loud and clear. He always does.

He knows what kind of day In-ho’s had just by the way he walks in. Calm and composed, hands tucked in his coat pockets? He’ll ask for kimchi fried rice. A scowl sitting just above his brow, like the world’s been too loud? He’ll want something warm and grounding. Mandu-guk, preferably, with the dumplings cut in half so he doesn’t burn his tongue.

If In-ho comes in distracted, mumbling about Yu-jin’s school schedule or the dilemma of learning new dance steps his daughter is making him do, Gi-hun starts boiling water before he even asks. Ginseng tea, no sugar. In-ho says sweetness ruins the taste, but he never finishes the cup without taking a candy from the counter jar. Gi-hun acts like he doesn’t notice, but he makes sure to refill the jar every week.

He knows the way In-ho hovers when he doesn’t want to say goodbye yet. The way he waits by the kitchen door instead of walking out. He knows he’s the type who’ll stand outside in the cold without a coat, just because Gi-hun said he’d be done in five.

Familiar, Gi-hun thinks again. 

In-ho is becoming exactly that.

The lunch crowd has cleared out, and it’s nearing 3 p.m. when Gi-hun finally exhales, rubbing the back of his neck as the last customer pays and heads out. In-ho is still inside, sitting at his usual table by the window.

Gi-hun looks up from where he's wiping down a table when the bell above the door jingles. "Sorry, we're closed until-"

“No, yes, I’m sorry. I think I left my umbrella here during lunch.”

Gi-hun straightens. “Oh yeah, hang on.”

He remembers Dae-ho mentioning something about a customer leaving their umbrella behind. So he disappears into the corner rack by the door, grabs the only umbrella there, and hands it over. 

“Thank you,” the man says. 

Gi-hun gives a small nod in acknowledgment, expecting him to leave right after. But he doesn’t. The man lingers a moment longer than expected, his eyes drifting from Gi-hun’s hands back up to his face.

“Compliments to the head of the kitchen, by the way,” he adds, smile curving wider now. “Food was great.”

Gi-hun blinks. “I’m the head of the kitchen.”

The man nods slowly, a smirk forming in his lips. “I know.”

From his place, Gi-hun doesn’t need to look to know In-ho’s watching. 

“I wouldn’t mind learning a few things. Especially if you’re the one teaching.”

Gi-hun blinks, caught off guard for half a second, then covers it with a polite smile. “Uh… right. Well. Glad you liked the food.”

“So, you do tutorials? Classes?” the man asks, giving him a once-over that lingers just a bit too long. 

“Uh, no.”

“Too bad.” The man nods toward the umbrella, probably sensing his dismissal. “Anyway. Got what I came for.”

Another soft “Thank you,” and Gi-hun just nods again, already stepping back. “Visit again sometime,” he says, out of habit more than anything.

And with that, the man is gone. When the door closes behind him, the silence that follows is immediate.

From his usual spot near the window, In-ho doesn’t even glance up. Just lifts his drink to his lips and says flatly, “Is this the part where I say I think he forgot his dignity too?”

Gi-hun turns to him, amused. “You saw that?”

“I didn’t need to see it. I could feel the ego from here.”

“He was being polite.” Gi-hun chuckles.

In-ho hums into his coffee, unimpressed. “Was he?”

There’s something about his tone. Dry and biting, but just controlled enough to sound casual. Gi-hun narrows his eyes, leaning against the counter as he watches him.

“He said ‘compliments to the head of the kitchen,’” Gi-hun says as he folds the small towel and sets it aside, still amused.

In-ho sets his drink down with quiet precision. “While staring directly at you.”

Gi-hun shrugs casually. “Because… he’s literally referring to me. That’s literally a common phrase.”

“He used it wrong.”

Gi-hun raises a brow. “Maybe he just liked the plating.”

There’s a pause. In-ho doesn’t look at him when he says, “Interesting plating choice. Eyes on the chef, not the food.”

Gi-hun shifts, watching him with the smallest grin tugging at his lips. “Would you rather he looked at you?”

“I’d rather he…” In-ho exhales through his nose. “Looked at the door and walked through it.”

Gi-hun gives him a look, attempting to hide his smile but failing miserably. “Yah, you’ve changed. What happened to the reserved In-ho I know?”

In-ho doesn’t look at him, but Gi-hun catches a slight movement at the corner of his mouth. Like an almost-smile. “He never left. Still here. Just occasionally annoyed.”

Gi-hun leans his weight on the counter, watching him with that look he always gives when he’s having a little too much fun at someone else’s expense. “Annoyed, huh?”

In-ho takes a slow sip of his drink. “Mildly.”

“Mildly,” Gi-hun echoes. “Your annoyance a while ago didn’t sound mild.”

“You’re the one who let him linger.”

Gi-hun blinks. “Linger?”

“He stood there for a full thirty seconds talking about your stew like it changed his life.”

Gi-hun snorts. “It was a good stew.”

“It wasn’t that good.”

Gi-hun fake gasps. “You said you liked my stew!”

“I do,” In-ho says without missing a beat. “But I didn’t try to… you know what. This is a non-issue. Let’s drop it.”

Gi-hun barks out a laugh, one hand coming up to press against his mouth. “Is this what jealousy looks like on you? It’s so… How do I say it? So… calm.”

“It’s not jealousy,” In-ho replies smoothly, returning to his drink like the matter’s already closed. “I'm just making an observation.”

“Right. An observation,” Gi-hun echoes, still grinning. He catches the quick glance In-ho throws at the door, even though the customer’s already gone. “If it helps,” Gi-hun says with a grin, “I’ll point at you the next time someone compliments the cooking.”

In-ho doesn’t even look up. “I don’t work here.”

“Better start applying, then.” That earns him a flicker of a smile, just the corner of In-ho’s mouth pulling up before he forces it away again. Gi-hun leans in, “You know there’s no competition, right?”

Gi-hun shakes his head when In-ho doesn’t respond.

“You’re the only one I let sit at that table during break,” Gi-hun adds, his tone softer.

In-ho finally lifts his eyes. “I didn’t ask for special treatment.”

Gi-hun shrugs. “You didn’t have to.”

Gi-hun watches as In-ho looks away again, and this time, he catches the slight curve at the corner of his mouth.

It’s a random Saturday morning when they pay a visit to Ga-yeong’s mother.

The room is quiet. There’s polished tile under their shoes, rows of small compartments lining the walls, each with a photo and a nameplate, and a few flowers that are starting to wilt. The air feels clean and still, and the silence isn’t awkward. It just naturally fills the space like it belongs there.

They stand side by side. Gi-hun keeps his hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket, while Ga-yeong stands just a little ahead of him, her eyes fixed on a small photo behind the glass. The image is slightly faded, but Eun-ji’s smile remains just as warm as he remembers. It must have been taken by her mother, or maybe even Ga-yeong.

Ga-yeong doesn’t say anything at first. She just stands there quietly. She’s not holding anything. No flowers, no gifts, just herself. 

She hadn’t made a big deal of it. During breakfast, with her chopsticks still halfway to her mouth, Ga-yeong had looked up from her gimbap and asked, “Can we go see Eomma today?” like she was just asking to stop by the store. 

And Gi-hun had nodded, just as casually, though something inside him had already started to twist.

He had driven without needing directions. The place is already burned into his memory. The parking lot, the tiled halls, and even the slightly too-cold elevator. He remembers holding Ga-yeong’s hand here once, shortly after the funeral. She hadn’t really understood much back then. Now, she walks a few steps ahead, hands in her jacket pockets, taller than before, calmer, and somehow more put-together than he ever was at her age.

Gi-hun glances at her, then at the photo, and lets out a slow breath.

He doesn’t visit often. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because guilt is a strange thing. And Eun-ji, for all that had passed between them, was still someone he once loved. Someone he hurt. Someone he let down more times than he can count. The kind of letdown that doesn’t always look dramatic, but cuts deep in its quietness.

After he got laid off from his job, it had been like watching his life collapse in slow motion. He didn’t even make it to the hospital when Ga-yeong was born. Eun-ji had called, but by the time he picked up, she was already exhausted, her voice clipped and distant. He had missed it. Missed her. And though he wanted to believe he could still fix things, the truth was, he hadn’t bounced back. He gambled. He chased things that were out of reach. He broke every promise that mattered. 

And then the divorce came, not with screaming, but with silence. A slow conversation that he had already seen coming from miles away. She had cried quietly the night he moved out, and he hadn’t known whether he should apologize or pretend to not notice.

And then she died.

He only found out because the hospital called two days after he stepped out of that hellish game, dazed and filthy and barely breathing. She had been admitted during his absence. Something about her heart. Something he hadn’t known because she hadn’t told him.

It wasn’t until he gathered her things, when he came back to her apartment to take Ga-yeong home with him, that he realized the weight of it all. What he saw was everything that reminded him of the reason why he joined the games in the first place. The two large suitcases pressed into the corner of her room, and plane tickets sitting on the bedside table. He stood there for a long while, taking it in, not sure what to feel.

And then he found the letter. Tucked between her bed sheets. A simple note, no real explanation. Just her handwriting, uneven at the edges. She had known about her illness for a while. Knew that it would eventually catch up. And she never told him. Not because she didn’t trust him, but because she didn’t think he could be the kind of father Ga-yeong needed. Not in the state he was in.

She was right, he thinks now, not with bitterness but with a dull sort of understanding. Back then, he was in no position to raise a child. He could barely hold himself together, let alone hold up someone else. But still, the knowledge that she had chosen not to reach out — that she had decided to face all of that alone — hurts him in ways he cannot explain.

Gi-hun blinks, swallows, then lets out another breath. He reaches up and adjusts the small flower tucked behind the frame of Eun-ji’s photo. It’s a simple thing. He doesn’t even know who left it there last. Maybe her mother. Maybe a close friend he never got to meet. But he does it anyway, just to feel like he’s done something.

“She still looks the same,” Ga-yeong says softly beside him, voice breaking through the quiet.

He looks at her. She doesn’t take her eyes off the photo. He only manages to nod in agreement.

“I still remember her,” Ga-yeong says quietly. “But sometimes, I get scared that I’ll slowly forget.”

Gi-hun looks at her, heart aching. He doesn’t interrupt.

“It’s still clear. The memories I have of her,” she continues. “I still remember how her hands felt. Still distinctly remember her scent. But… her voice… that’s the one thing I’m starting to forget.”

Gi-hun swallows hard and nods. “That’s okay,” he says softly.

“I know.” She shrugs.

She doesn’t say anything after that. Gi-hun had expected her to protest. To say that she should always remember her mother’s voice, no matter how much time passes. But instead, she just shrugs.

Just when he thinks Ga-yeong wouldn’t speak for another five minutes, she suddenly asks, “You think she’d be proud of you?”

Gi-hun freezes. “I don’t know,” he says at last, voice low. “Maybe. I hope so.” Sighing, he adds, “But I think she’d be proud of you. No question about it.”

Ga-yeong smiles a little at that. It’s soft, a bit sad, but it stays on her face.

They fall quiet again. No need for big words or explanations. Just the silence, and the comfort of standing there together.

Ga-yeong speaks again after a while. 

“Hey, Eomma,” she says.

Gi-hun turns to her, surprised by the suddenness of it. But more by her voice, warm and steady despite the glassiness in her eyes. She smiles, still looking at the picture.

"I want you to meet Appa. Again.”

His brows draw together in quiet confusion, heart catching in his throat. But before he can ask, Ga-yeong continues.

“You might be confused, thinking he’s someone else. He’s still Appa, but he’s a bit different from when you last saw him,” she says. “Happier. Full. Not perfect, or so he claims, but... he's trying. Always trying.”

Gi-hun’s breath hitches. He wants to say something, to laugh it off maybe, or ask what she means, but all he can do is watch her. Watch her speak with this quiet, certain kind of grace, reintroducing him like this. Like she’s proud to.

“He makes me breakfast every day,” she goes on, almost like she’s listing his qualifications. “He picks me up from school. He remembers which days I’m assigned to clean the room after class. He asks if I’ve eaten. He nags, sometimes. But he’s here. He’s present.”

Gi-hun looks away for a moment, blinking hard, jaw tight.

“He laughs a lot now,” Ga-yeong says, then pauses, as if sifting through all the moments in her head. “Sometimes at his phone. Sometimes with me. And there’s this guy who makes him laugh, too. I think you’d like him.”

Gi-hun glances at her then, but her eyes remain forward, steady on the photograph in front of them.

“He's nice,” she continues. “He was so quiet at first. Kind of serious. But he never looked at Appa like he was broken.”

That does something to Gi-hun. He looks away again, throat tight.

“And he has a daughter too,” Ga-yeong adds, her voice lighter now. “Yu-jin. She’s younger than me.”

Gi-hun looks at his daughter again. Of course, she’d mention Yu-jin.

“I always wanted to be an older sister. Remember? When I begged that one time?” she asks with a chuckle. “Well. I am now. Or at least that's how I feel.”

She smiles, and Gi-hun swallows hard.

“I started noticing it not long after he came around more often. The change in him,” she says. “Appa started sleeping better. He stopped talking to himself in the kitchen when he thought I wasn’t listening. He started humming when he cooked. And he’s gentler now. Not in a soft way, but in a way that feels like he’s not trying to carry everything alone anymore.”

Shoulders trembling from how hard he’s keeping it together, Gi-hun lets out a broken laugh.

“He’s not the same Appa from before,” she says softly. “But I think... I like this version of him better.”

Gi-hun lowers his head, blinking quickly.

“I hope you’re proud of him,” Ga-yeong finishes, voice quiet but firm now. “Because I am.”

He exhales.

“I’m okay. Don’t worry about me anymore. I’m in good hands. We’re okay.”

Gi-hun can’t hold back the tears this time. They fall without a sound, tracing down his cheeks as he exhales, shaky and full. He doesn’t wipe them right away.

Because she’s right.

She’s in good hands.

They stay like that a moment longer. Father and daughter standing together, introducing a new chapter to the past that never really let go. A quiet kind of healing, spoken into the stillness. 

He’s in good hands, too.

The sun’s already low by the time they’re back in the car. Ga-yeong sits in the passenger seat, nibbling on a hotteok they bought earlier, the plastic wrapper rustling in her lap. Gi-hun sneaks a few glances at her, feeling a little more at ease just seeing her there. It’s been a long day, but a it's a good one.

"So we're just going to grab your things at home and then we'll go straight to In-ho's place?"

Ga-yeong nods, still chewing. “Mm-hmm. I packed most of it last night. Just need to grab my charger.”

He hums in approval, easing the car to a stop at a red light. “Yu-jin still wants you to sleep over?”

“She reminded me this morning,” Ga-yeong says, licking a bit of red bean from her thumb. “We’re making tteokbokki, and she says she found a horror movie that’s not even scary. So I won’t scream this time.”

Gi-hun glances over, raising a brow. “You screamed last time?”

She scoffs. “No.”

He snorts. “Sure.”

“You should come too,” she says casually. 

Gi-hun huffs a soft laugh. “Ga-yeong-ah, I’ve told you this before. Sleepovers don’t usually involve two parents.”

“Even Uncle Jun-ho will be there,” she points out.

“That’s because he lives there.”

“So? You’ll be lonely.”

“I won’t be lonely.”

“You say that, but then you stay up watching those loud variety shows and laugh by yourself in the living room.”

"They're funny," he says, trying to defend himself.

She shoots him a look like she’s not convinced.

"You’re not even gonna be gone a whole day," he adds, grinning. "I’ll survive."

She leans back in her seat, crossing her arms, looking pleased with herself. “Good. Because I already told Yu-jin I was coming.”

Gi-hun lets out a laugh. “Of course you did.”

The apartment feels different when Gi-hun steps inside. 

Quiet. It’s too quiet. 

Ga-yeong hasn’t even been gone for an hour, but her absence is already so evident. There are no footsteps trailing behind him, no voice from the other side of the room asking what he’s preparing for dinner, there aren’t even any loud sounds from the television.

It’s just him. Alone.

He shakes his head in an attempt to shake away the thought. 

Come on, Gi-hun. It’s not a big deal.

Ga-yeong is safe at In-ho’s place, of course she is. And she’s likely already enjoying the tteokbokki she mentioned they were going to eat. He should be grateful for the temporary peace and quiet.

But still. The apartment feels bigger tonight. Lonelier.

He slumps onto the couch without a second thought, hand automatically reaching for his phone in his pocket. There aren’t any notifications. He’s not even the type to scroll aimlessly through apps. But still… his thumb hovers over In-ho’s contact before he catches himself.

Letting out a loud sigh, he sets the phone face down on the coffee table with a soft thud.

Get a grip, Gi-hun.

His mind drifts before he can stop it. To earlier, when he dropped Ga-yeong off at In-ho’s.

“You sure you don’t want to stay over too?” In-ho had asked, his hand opening the door wide enough for Gi-hun to come in if he wanted to. 

Gi-hun had smiled, brushing it off with a casual, "Another time. I’ll let you guys have your sleepover."

In-ho hadn’t pushed. Of course he didn’t. That’s just how In-ho is. He just nodded once before letting the door swing almost shut behind him.

Now, sitting in his cold living room, Gi-hun feels the weight of that moment settle like a stone in his gut.

Another time, he had said.

Like he could afford to keep putting off the things he wanted. Like another time was always guaranteed.

Gi-hun leans back against the couch, forcing his mind to not overthink the words he had already said or the decisions he already made. Instead, he focuses on the sound of rain against the window. 

It reminds him of that night. The night In-ho had shown up, drenched and desperate, rain soaking him through like he had nothing left to lose. The night he had found the card tucked into In-ho’s pants. A beginning he hadn’t even realized was happening yet.

He closes his eyes for a moment and lets the memory wash over him. How small In-ho had looked standing there. How heavy the air had felt between them. 

He lets his mind wander, drifting somewhere between the past and the present — between the first time he laid eyes on the man and now. Between all the spaces he traveled to get In-ho from unfamiliar to familiar. 

He tries to take it all in, to get lost in it, until the sharp sound of the intercom interrupts his thoughts.

For a second, he thinks he imagined it. But when his eyes land on the panel, he sees the screen glowing steadily on the wall.

Gi-hun pushes himself off the couch and walks over to it. He presses the small button, bringing the camera to life.

It’s raining harder now. He hears it over the microphone. The steady fall of the water blurring the streetlights behind. But standing in front of the camera, dry and composed, is In-ho. He’s holding a black umbrella neatly above his head, rain pooling harmlessly off the edges. Unlike last time, he’s dry.

Gi-hun swallows, leaning closer to the mic.

“In-ho,” he says, voice softer than he means it to be. “Hey. Everything alright?”

There was a brief pause, and for a second, the only noise Gi-hun hears is the sound of rain.

Finally, In-ho speaks, "Yes. Aren’t you going to invite me in?"

Gi-hun stares at the screen, still stuck on the fact that In-ho is actually here. Outside his apartment. Once it clicks, he hits the button right away.

He rushes to the door, heart pounding way too hard. It’s only a matter of minutes — maybe seconds — before In-ho will be standing right in front of him.

Sure enough, a knock comes quicker than he’s ready for. Gi-hun’s heart is still hammering when he pulls the door open.

In-ho is there, umbrella folded neatly in one hand.

"Hi."

"Hi," Gi-hun says, his voice a little rough. "You didn’t have to..." He trails off, not even sure how to continue.

Didn’t have to come? Didn’t have to be here? Didn’t have to show up like this?

“I wanted to,” In-ho replies with a small smirk, already slipping out of his coat.

Gi-hun watches as he hangs it neatly on the rack by the door. He almost makes a comment about it – something dumb, probably – but bites it back and says instead, “You want tea?”

“Tea,” In-ho repeats, and there’s the smallest smile tugging at his lips. Gi-hun rolls his eyes so hard he almost sprains something. “Sure.”

Gi-hun makes a sound before rushing to the kitchen. His hands move on their own, setting the kettle to boil and searching for a mug to use. His hands hover over a few mugs in the cabinet, overthinking which one to give him.

Why is this a decision suddenly? Just pick one. It’s just a mug. It’s just In-ho.

They’ve shared meals before. Shared silences. Shared spaces neither of them were brave enough to name. He shouldn’t feel like this. He’s a grown man. He can handle boiling water and feelings at the same time. Probably.

When the tea is ready, he turns around, nearly jumping when he sees In-ho already there. 

"Thanks," In-ho says as he takes the cup from him.

Gi-hun shifts on his feet, fingers tapping once against his own mug. His whole body feels too aware, tuned to the small sounds: the rain against the windows and the sound that comes from In-ho’s mouth as he sips on the hot tea.

Gi-hun risks a glance at him. In-ho’s still watching, and the way he looks at him makes his breath catch a little. Not because he’s nervous, but because he knows this look now. Knows what it means.

He tells himself there’s no reason for his heart to be racing like this. It’s just In-ho. Just In-ho.

"What is it?" Gi-hun asks before he can stop himself.

"What?" In-ho says, straightening up a little.

"You really want me to believe you came here at eleven at night just for tea?" Gi-hun asks.

In-ho sets his cup down carefully, like he’s settling something he’s already made up his mind about. Then he steps closer, not hurried, but not hesitant either.

“No,” In-ho says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I didn’t.”

Gi-hun lets out a deep breath.

“I came for this.”

In-ho moves before Gi-hun can catch up, crossing the space between them and kissing him with a different kind of urgency, slower, heavier, like something’s pressing against his chest and finally breaking loose.

It’s not rushed or unsure. It’s steady and full of something Gi-hun can feel but doesn’t have a name for. One of In-ho’s hands finds its way to Gi-hun’s neck, thumb brushing along his jaw, gently tilting his head just enough to pull him deeper into it.

Gi-hun freezes for half a second, caught off guard by the intensity and the heat of it. But then he melts into it, eyes slipping shut, letting the mug slip from his fingers and land safely on the counter behind him.

The rain pounds harder against the windows, a noise that used to bother him on nights he feels lile the world is caving in. It’s there now too, steady and loud, but it barely affects him. Not when In-ho is right here. Not when every part of him is tuned to the feel of In-ho’s mouth against his.

In-ho kisses him like he’s trying to catch up. As if he’s trying to make up for all the times they had to stop at just this, never letting it go further. When they finally break apart, In-ho’s hand stays at the back of Gi-hun’s neck, steady and firm and sure. So, so sure.

"I came for you," he says, voice rough and certain, the words brushing warm against Gi-hun’s lips.

Gi-hun lets out a broken laugh, something shaky and raw in his chest. He doesn’t even think this time when he tugs In-ho closer and kisses him again, harder, his hands curling into the fabric of his shirt like he needs something to hold onto.

In-ho meets him without any hint of hesitation, answering the kiss with just as much force, like he’s just as starved for it. A rough, broken sound slips out of him, swallowed between their mouths, and Gi-hun feels it like a spark under his skin. It hits him low and hot, leaving him wanting more.

When In-ho’s hands land at his waist, fingers curling in tight, Gi-hun sways into him, chest brushing against chest, breathing a little too hard at how good it feels to be touched like this.

He doesn’t even realize they are moving at first. It starts clumsy, a bump of knees and a half-laughed breath against In-ho’s lips. Then In-ho’s hands shift, guiding him back, walking him across the room with small, careful steps.

Gi-hun lets himself be led, not thinking about anything except the way In-ho feels against him. His back hits the doorframe of his bedroom, a soft bump that knocks a breath out of him. 

"This okay?" In-ho asks.

"Yeah," Gi-hun whispers, nodding his head.

Gi-hun finds himself backing toward the bed, heart hammering so hard he swears In-ho must feel it too. His knees hit the edge of the mattress and he sinks down onto it without breaking eye contact.

In-ho stands over him for a beat, just long enough for Gi-hun to wonder if he is going to change his mind. But then he climbs over the bed with quiet ease, reaching out for Gi-hun’s hand and lacing their fingers together. 

Gi-hun shudders.

“You’re sure?” In-ho asks, his voice rough but his hand steady around Gi-hun’s. 

Gi-hun pulls him down instead of answering, kissing him hard enough to leave no room for doubt. They fall onto the bed together, mouths moving with a quiet urgency, wanting more but still holding onto the moment. Their shirts come off in messy, rushed movements until it’s just skin against skin, heat pressed between them.

Their chests press together, heat sinking into every point where they touch. Gi-hun runs his hands down In-ho’s sides while In-ho’s fingers skim over his ribs, slowing when they reach the scar just below his left one. His touch lingers there for a beat before trailing down the curve of Gi-hun’s waist.

When In-ho kisses him again, it is slower and deeper. Like he is drinking him in.

“In-ho,” he breathes.

Gi-hun feels him everywhere. Feels his mouth on his jaw and down his neck. Feels his hand drift lower, down to his stomach, his fingers hesitating like he’s asking if it’s okay. Feels himself nod unconsciously. Feels the heat of In-ho’s mouth, the surety of his hands, and the weight of all the things In-ho is not saying but is pouring into every touch, every breath, every look.

It is slow. It is careful. It is overwhelming in the best way possible.

In-ho moves lower, his mouth dragging down his chest with unhurried care, and it feels like every inch he touches leaves something behind. Not just heat, but something deeper. Like a mark no one else could see but Gi-hun could feel, sinking into his skin.

In-ho kisses along the curve of his hip, his stomach, pausing just above the place where Gi-hun needs him most. Gi-hun’s breath catches when In-ho’s fingers brush the button of his jeans, patient but sure. He nods without thinking and lifts his hips when In-ho starts to pull them down.

The denim slides down his legs in one smooth motion, along with the thin layer of his boxers, leaving him bare and aching under In-ho’s gaze.

Gi-hun feels his face burn from how exposed he feels, but he doesn’t try to hide away. This is In-ho. He trusts him. In-ho slides his hands up from Gi-hun’s ankles, along his legs, until he’s kneeling between his thighs. His palms settle there, thumbs brushing soft patterns into his skin.

Gi-hun swallows hard, chest rising and falling too fast, and lets his head tip back against the pillow.

When he dares to glance down, he finds In-ho watching him. He’s not just looking, but memorizing. Like he is trying to carve every inch of him into memory.

Gi-hun’s heart trips over itself, a wreck of nerves and want.

So when In-ho lets out a low, "You're beautiful," Gi-hun almost feels his heart explode.

The next thing he feels is In-ho leaning forward, lips brushing just the inside of his thigh. A kiss, and then another, and another. A slow path upward that makes Gi-hun’s whole body tremble in anticipation.

He fists the sheets tighter, biting down a gasp when In-ho’s mouth hovers over his cock.

Gi-hun feels the soft puff of breath against him first, a warning, a promise. He jerks slightly when In-ho’s hand wraps around him, the touch steady but light. A broken sound slips from his throat, hips stuttering up into the hold.

In-ho keeps one hand around him, steadying him, while the other braces against his hip. He leans in and drags his tongue slowly from the base up to the tip.

Gi-hun sucks in a sharp breath, his hips jerking again before he can stop himself. The heat of it is immediate and mind-melting. His head drops back against the pillow with a strangled noise.

In-ho doesn’t rush. He works him in carefully, inch by inch, the drag of his mouth torturously slow, the soft flicks of his tongue making Gi-hun’s entire body tense.

He withdraws almost fully, lips barely clinging to the head, then sinks back down again, a little deeper this time.

Gi-hun can hardly breathe. His other hand clutches at the sheets, helpless against the slow, methodical pull of In-ho’s mouth.

“In-ho,” he chokes out, voice shaking.

In-ho tightens his grip on Gi-hun’s hips, anchoring him as he picks up a slow rhythm. Bobbing his head and dragging his mouth down and back up, lips flushed and slick. His tongue traces lazy patterns against the underside, catching every sensitive spot with precision.

Gi-hun’s legs fall wider apart without him even realizing it, the tension in his body coiling tighter with every slow glide of In-ho’s mouth. His thighs tremble under the strain, and still, In-ho takes his time, worshiping him with the kind of patience that borders on cruelty.

When In-ho reaches for his hand — the one fisted in the sheets — Gi-hun lets him take it, lets him guide it gently to the back of his head. An invitation.

He curls his fingers into the soft strands, threading through them carefully, tugging just enough to feel the answering hum that vibrates against his cock.

It nearly unravels him. It is nothing like the hurried, clumsy intimacy Gi-hun remembers from years ago. Nothing like the way he used to touch and be touched. It is worship. It is slow destruction, crafted by a mouth that treats him like he is something precious and breakable.

And deep down, somewhere past the pleasure and the trembling limbs, is the sharp, aching realization that it has been so long. Too long since someone touched him like this. Since someone wanted him like this. Since someone treated his body like it mattered.

In-ho pulls back before he can fall apart, leaving Gi-hun gasping, aching, desperate for more.

Gi-hun barely notices In-ho reaching for his jeans on the floor, fingers fumbling a little before pulling out a small packet of lube from his pocket. He shakes it once, before tearing it open like it’s nothing.

Despite all types of emotions swimming around Gi-hun’s head, he laughs. "Wow," he says. "You really came prepared."

“I came hopeful.”

Gi-hun cannot find it in himself to tease further. Not when he feels like his entire body is vibrating with anticipation.

He watches, helpless, as In-ho slicks his fingers generously. The knot in Gi-hun’s chest tightens even more as he watches. When the man shifts closer, hand resting lightly on his thigh, Gi-hun finds himself opening his legs without hesitation.

The first touch sends a jolt through him, his body shuddering hard. Slick fingers move carefully, tracing slow circles that coax him to ease up. Gi-hun exhales, long and shaky, doing his best to release the tightness in his shoulders and thighs.

"Still okay?" 

He finds himself nodding immediately. "Yes. Yeah. Yes."

When the first finger presses in, the stretch is foreign and shocking. He grips the sheets tighter, swallowing back a sound, but In-ho’s free hand rubs slow, soothing circles against his hip.

“You’re okay,” In-ho murmurs, voice barely more than a whisper.

Gi-hun nods blindly, teeth digging into his lower lip.

The finger moves, slow and shallow, giving Gi-hun time to adjust.

He stays still, breath caught, hands tightening slightly at his sides. Each slow push settles deeper, steady and patient. The feeling is overwhelming. Maybe even terrifying. But it’s not bad. It’s not something he wants to pull away from.

In-ho does not rush him. His hand stays steady, thumb brushing lightly over Gi-hun’s hip. “You okay?” In-ho asks, voice low and careful.

Gi-hun nods, breath catching. After a few moments, when the burn fades into something almost bearable, he whispers, “More.”

Only then does In-ho move again, slow and patient, until he eases a second finger in. Gi-hun gasps, hips jerking at the stretch. But In-ho stays steady, and the ache slowly gives way to something he can breathe through.

In-ho’s fingers work him open, careful and sure, patient enough to make Gi-hun’s whole body tense with need. And Gi-hun, for all the tremors wracking his body, lets him. Lets him touch all the places no one else has ever touched.

The breath in his lungs comes in shallow pulls. His heart is racing. Every nerve in his body feels exposed, sensitive to every slow press, every stroke of fingers that know exactly how to pull sounds out of him he did not know he could make.

At one point, In-ho curls his fingers just right and Gi-hun cries out, a broken moan ripping from his throat before he can stop it.

“There,” In-ho murmurs, mouth tugging into a small, breathless smile.

Gi-hun tries to breathe, but it is no use. His body shakes with how good it feels, how easily In-ho finds that spot inside him again and again, every slow push making heat coil tighter in his gut.

In-ho moves his fingers carefully, pressing in deep, dragging back, making Gi-hun’s hips shift and chase the feeling without even thinking. His head tips back against the bed, a shaky sound slipping out, half a moan, half a plea.

When In-ho finally pulls his fingers out, Gi-hun whines, the loss sudden and sharp, his body clenching down helplessly around nothing. He blinks up at him, about to ask why he’s being deprived of something he’s just starting to enjoy, when In-ho reaches for the lube again.

Gi-hun stills as he watches In-ho spreading the lube over himself with slow, careful movements. It feels unbearably intimate. Feels like something Gi-hun shouldn’t be seeing but can’t bring himself to look away from.

When In-ho leans over him again, Gi-hun’s whole body tightens with anticipation. One of In-ho’s hands steadies his hip, and the other lines himself up. Gi-hun feels the heat of him before anything else, feels his own body coil tight in response.

In-ho pauses, eyes searching his face like he needs to be sure.

“Gi-hun,” he starts, voice low and rough. "This still okay?"

Gi-hun nods without thinking. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Please.” 

He feels the first press of In-ho’s cock, slow and careful against him. The stretch is sharp, almost too much at first, and Gi-hun gasps, hands flying up to grab In-ho’s shoulders. His nails bite into skin without meaning to, his body struggling to catch up to what his heart already knows he wants.

In-ho stills immediately, his hand grounding Gi-hun, steadying him through it. Gi-hun pants against his shoulder, fighting to breathe through the burn, focusing on the warmth of In-ho’s hand, the solid weight of him so close.

Little by little, the sting eases, sinking into something deeper, something he can take. When he relaxes, In-ho moves again, pushing in further, slow and careful, until Gi-hun feels full in a way he has never known before. It is too much and still somehow not enough.

In-ho presses their foreheads together, breathing just as hard, anchoring him with his weight and his touch.

“You’re doing good,” In-ho whispers against his skin, voice low and rough.

Gi-hun breathes out, holding onto him tighter. His heart won’t slow down. He just wants to stay close, to let it happen, to give in completely.

In-ho starts to move, slow and careful at first, pulling back just a little before pushing in again.

Gi-hun feels every inch of it, feels the stretch, the weight, the way it drags a low sound from his chest. In-ho’s breath catches against his skin, continuing to move slow and steady. He moves like he is caught between wanting to lose himself and refusing to hurt him, holding back even when Gi-hun can feel the tension pulling through every line of his body.

“Please,” Gi-hun breathes, voice wrecked, almost broken with need.

In-ho stills, pulling back just enough to look at him, forehead pressed close, eyes searching.

“Faster,” Gi-hun whispers, desperate now, hips pushing up into him, chasing the feeling he needs so badly.

In-ho curses under his breath, then does exactly as told. He moves faster now, deeper, each thrust more certain. Gi-hun gasps, head tipping back as his body moves on instinct, chasing every thrust. When he feels In-ho thrusts into him again, harder now, Gi-hun moans, the sound raw and unfiltered.

His hands scramble at In-ho’s back, pulling and needing him closer. When In-ho leans in, he whispers,  “You’re beautiful.”

Gi-hun whimpers, chasing every thrust, his body aching for it. The pleasure is not something he ever expected, and every movement, every word, every grunt that comes out of In-ho’s mouth only pulls him closer to the edge.

“You’re beautiful,” In-ho says again, almost like he can’t stop himself.

Gi-hun feels himself shatter a little at the way In-ho says it, as if he wants him to hear it. Another wave of pleasure surges through him, the words sinking deeper than anything else, grounding him even as the pleasure threatens to tear him apart.

“You’re beautiful,” In-ho says again, his voice low and almost cracking. He says it as if he can’t say anything else. As if it’s the only truth that matters.

Gi-hun doesn’t even realize he’s whimpering until In-ho shifts. He makes another sound when the man pulls one hand between them, wrapping his fingers around his cock. The hold is clumsy at first, too much and not enough all at once, but it only takes a few strokes before his body arches up, chasing the friction like he’s starved for it.

“That’s it,” In-ho breathes, voice wrecked and shaking, his hand working him in time with every push of his hips. “You’re beautiful. You’re perfect.”

Gi-hun cries out, his head tipping back, every part of him tuned to the feel of In-ho above him, inside him, wrapped around him.

Gi-hun comes with a soft, breathless sound, spilling into In-ho’s hand, his body trembling under the weight of it all. Somewhere in the haze of it all, he hears In-ho moan, feels the way his hips jerk one last time before he pushes in deep and stays there, breathing hard against Gi-hun’s neck.

Instead of moving away from each other, they just stay there. The only thing Gi-hun hears and feels is the sound of their breathing and the feel of In-ho’s steady heartbeat against his chest.

It’s strange how easy and natural and right it feels.

Familiar, he thinks. Not just in the way In-ho touches him, but in all the ways he fits into the spaces Gi-hun never thought anyone could reach.

In-ho is familiar.

“You should’ve told me this was your plan all along,” Gi-hun says. “I wouldn’t have wasted my time picking out the best mug for your tea.”

In-ho barks out a laugh, the sound rumbling from his chest, and Gi-hun feels it through his own. “Your fault for offering tea when it’s almost midnight.”

“I was trying to be nice.”

“And in denial.”

“What, should I have just assumed you wanted me pinned to the bed the moment you rang the bell?”

In-ho shifts where he’s lying on top of him, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at him properly. “Like this?”

Gi-hun tries to shove him off but doesn’t put any real effort into it. “Get off me.”

Instead of moving away, In-ho shifts even closer, burying his face in the curve of Gi-hun’s neck. “Five more minutes.”

Gi-hun doesn’t protest. He just sighs and adjusts their position a little, settling them more comfortably.

He finally names what's been growing between them all along; something familiar, something steady, and something that feels a lot like home.

He could get used to this. To how familiar it feels.

He could get used to how familiar In-ho feels.

Familiar.

And familiar, for a very long time, is the closest thing he has had to safe.

Chapter Text

On some days, Gi-hun still dreams about it. 

Not all the time. Not like before. But when it happens, it’s bad. 

Its impact never fades. Its teeth and claws sink deeper each time, clinging to his skin like it belongs there, refusing to let go no matter how hard he pushes back. He fights his way out the way he always does, over and over, until his eyes snap open. Until he’s left with nothing but dread, sweat, and the lingering weight of regret.

This part, when he wakes up, is always the hardest.

It always goes the same way, Gi-hun has it memorized by now. He wakes up, tries to shake it off, and forces himself to start the day, carrying the weight of it all like he always does. 

He’s about to push himself off the bed when an unfamiliar weight curled around his chest stops him. For a split second, the panic from his dream lingers. His first thought is that he's finally lost it. That somehow, the nightmare followed him out of sleep and is now holding him down with invisible hands.

Wow, alright then. The past doesn’t just haunt him anymore. It hugs now.

Then he feels it. Warm breath, soft against the space between his jaw and shoulder. His body tenses, caught between bolting upright and sinking deeper into the mattress. 

It takes a moment before the thought even forms: this can’t be a dream. Nightmares don’t breathe. They don’t smell like expensive perfume and clean sheets. They don’t wrap around you gently like they’re trying to keep you together.

His hand moves on instinct, brushing against the arm across his chest. His fingers then find a wrist, which he immediately curls around on without thinking. He tries to take it all in, eyes fixed on the ceiling, piecing things together as slowly and carefully as possible. 

He tries to focus on the warmth behind him, the steady rhythm of someone else’s breathing, and the way his name sounds when it’s spoken with a voice barely greater than a whisper.

“Gi-hun?”

The voice is quiet, still laced with sleep. He feels the shift before he sees it, In-ho lifting his head from the crook of his neck, voice rasping as he tries again.

“Gi-hun. You… you okay?”

Gi-hun exhales. His eyes flutter closed, letting the tension go. He doesn’t need to ground himself. He doesn’t need to claw his way out of a dream. He’s here. 

And he’s not alone.

He feels another shift. This time, the movement is bigger and more certain. In-ho lifts his weight off him, propping himself up on one elbow while the other hand rests against the side of his head for balance. Even with his eyes still closed, Gi-hun can feel the way the other man is watching him.

“Do you…” In-ho’s voice is hesitant, followed by a quiet breath. “Do you need me to leave?”

Gi-hun’s eyes fly open so fast it feels like his eyeballs nearly did a full rotation.

“What?”

When he finally looks at him, his eyes soften right away. And if his vision weren’t so blurry – from the dream, from the way he woke up – Gi-hun might have noticed the slight frown tugging at the corners of the other man’s mouth.

In-ho gulps. “Do you need me to leave?”

Gi-hun shifts too, lifting himself up until he’s propped on one elbow, eyes now level with In-ho’s. “What do you mean?”

"I mean, you... well…” he waves his hand, gesturing at Gi-hun's face. "You don’t look happy to see me here." 

What.

“What do you–No, that’s not…”  Gi-hun groans. “I’m not not happy to see you. It’s just–I just woke up weird. I mean, not weird. Okay, a little weird. But not because of you. I just—god.”

Dropping his hands, he lets out a strangled noise and attempts to breathe through the mess of it. When he finally glances at In-ho again, the look on the other man’s face makes his stomach twist.

“No. Hey–No. In-ho, don’t look at me like that,” Gi-hun says quickly, sitting up straighter. 

In-ho blinks, startled.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want you to leave,” Gi-hun finally says. “I just had a dream. A bad one. One of those dreams. One that feels real, because it was. And for a second, I really thought I was still there.”

He swallows hard.

“But it wasn’t about you. It’s never about you.” He looks at him. “I don’t regret anything. Not a single thing.”

Gi-hun glances at In-ho again and finds the nervousness gone. It is now replaced with something that looks a lot like understanding.

“Do you want to talk about it?” In-ho asks.

Gi-hun lets out a small breath. “It’s hard.”

“Then we don’t have to.”

“But with you, it’s not.”

In-ho tilts his head. “Hm?”

“Not hard,” Gi-hun says, voice softer now. “I mean… with you, it’s easier. Since you understand what it’s like.”

“Gi-hun,” In-ho says softly.

“I know it’s not… I know it’s way out of my control. That I’m — we — were just victims of the crimes that that organization pulls off every year. But those were real people, In-ho. Just like us. And it just…” He shakes his head, voice thinning. “They’re gone. Meanwhile I’m still here. Alive. It’s unfair.”

“It is,” the other man agrees. “It’s been a while for me, since my games. And it doesn’t get any easier, does it? I always try to think about what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t chosen this path afterwards. What it would’ve been like if I had just… taken the card. Walked away. Not to fight against them, but fight alongside them. If it would have been easier to live with regret and guilt if my mind and soul were preoccupied by something else.”

Gi-hun looks at him. “Would you have done it?”

In-ho shakes his head. “If Yu-jin didn’t exist, I would have.” He sighs, the sound thin, thoughtful. “Point is… we didn’t come out of it the same. Of course we didn’t. We weren’t meant to.”

Gi-hun watches him.

“But we made it out. And every choice after that, good or bad, brought us here. Right now. And I think… I think that has to count for something,” In-ho says, his eyes steady on Gi-hun’s. “Yeah, regret sticks. Guilt lingers. But that shouldn't stop us from wanting to breathe. Or laugh. Or eat breakfast. Or… just exist.”

He pauses for a second.

“You once told me something. That night by the river.” In-ho’s voice is quieter now. “You said regret and pride can exist at the same time. That it’s okay to break and mourn what happened, and still be proud of what you’ve done with the pieces.”

Gi-hun doesn’t say anything. He just looks at him, eyes wide, caught somewhere between memory and the present. He remembers saying it, but he never thought it would be something In-ho would hold onto.

“It’s not selfish to survive,” In-ho finishes. “You didn’t do anything wrong by making it through.” He looks at Gi-hun intently before saying, “I’m proud of us.”

Gi-hun swallows.

“We can sit with this regret and pride together,” In-ho says, looking right into Gi-hun’s eyes. “If you’ll allow me.”

That finally gets him to smile. Gi-hun lets out a breathy laugh, his lips twitching up into something softer. “If I’ll allow you? I think we made it past that stage. You’re literally on my bed right now, and last night, I let you-”

Before he can finish, In-ho abruptly pushes himself up the bed, ears turning a very visible shade of red.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he blurts out.

Gi-hun grins. “Yah, don’t go blushing on me right now.”

Gi-hun laughs even harder when In-ho nearly trips trying to pull his pants on, one leg at a time, like he’s trying to escape the room and his own emotions all at once.

“In-ho-”

“Eggs? Coffee? You want them scrambled?”

Gi-hun leans back against the headboard, grinning. “In-ho.”

“Not scrambled then. Sunny side up? Omelette?”

“In-ho.” His tone softens, and when In-ho finally looks at him, his cheeks are flushed, his shirt halfway on and completely wrinkled.

Gi-hun meets his gaze. “I’m proud of us, too. And yes, we can sit with this regret and pride together.”

In-ho freezes for a moment, mouth parting slightly, but he turns away again, clearly too flustered to handle any more sincerity.

“I still want to know what you want for breakfast,” he mutters.

Gi-hun raises a brow, smirking. “What, not even a kiss? What happened to all that energy and passion from last night-”

He doesn’t get to finish.

In-ho is already turning around, striding back to the bed with a look Gi-hun barely registers before he’s being pushed gently onto his back. His palms hit the mattress, breath caught in his throat, and then In-ho is there. The other man is leaning over him, eyes dark and focused, one hand braced beside his head.

The kiss comes fast, but it isn’t rough. It’s so full of want that Gi-hun lets out a soft, startled sound against his lips. He sinks into it, not pulling away, his hands finding the front of In-ho’s shirt. In-ho kisses him like he means it. Like he’s making up for the distance of a few seconds.

By the time In-ho pulls back, Gi-hun is breathless. His eyes flutter open, and In-ho’s face is still close, his lips parted. His cheeks are still flushed, but this time, for a different reason.

In-ho swallows, voice a little hoarse. “So. Breakfast.”

“Are you offering or asking?”

“I mean, I was going to explore your kitchen, but if you insist on cooking…”

Gi-hun laughs. “Just say you want me to cook for you.”

In-ho grins back at him. “I want my eggs scrambled.”

He takes a deep breath before finally pushing himself up the bed.

Regret and pride co-existing.

He can live with that. One morning at a time.

This time, with In-ho by his side.

That same morning, Gi-hun gets a text from Ga-yeong asking if she can stay at Yu-jin’s place until the afternoon. He laughs, shaking his head, but replies with a simple Sure. Have fun.

“You sure you’re not going home yet?” he asks In-ho, who is leaning against him.

In-ho shrugs. “You’d miss me.”

Gi-hun snorts. “I’m going to work. I’d be busy.”

“I’d miss you,” In-ho says, without missing a beat.

Gi-hun rolls his eyes, but his smile only grows bigger. “Fine, you can come. Only if you promise not to glare at customers trying to make friendly conversation.”

He doesn’t miss the way In-ho shifts slightly.

“Can’t promise you that.”

Gi-hun just laughs, already resigned. “At least try not to look like you’re planning their deaths.”

“I'll try,” In-ho mutters into his mug.

Gi-hun shakes his head, still grinning.

They get to the restaurant just a few minutes before opening. Jung-bae and Dae-ho greet them with knowing smiles, but one pointed look from Gi-hun is enough to keep their mouths shut for now. He knows it won’t last. The teasing will come eventually, probably in waves. But for the moment, at least, he gets a small window of peace.

Almost.

In-ho follows him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with that usual calm, unreadable stare. Gi-hun doesn’t mind, too focused on setting up. He pulls out the cutting board, turns on the faucet, and lets the water run over it. His fingers move on instinct, checking for any stains, even if he already knows there won’t be any.

“That’s a new one,” In-ho says quietly behind him.

“Mm?”

“The board. It’s not the same one from last time.”

“Oh, yeah. Sang-woo’s mother gave it to me when we visited. You mustn’t have seen it. I kept it inside my bag right away.”

In-ho makes a soft sound of agreement, his gaze still fixed on Gi-hun’s hands as he rinses the board under the stream of water. After drying the board with a towel, Gi-hun sets it down on the counter. He pulls out the kimchi from its container and starts chopping.

“The stains don’t cling as much as they used to with the old board. Probably because this one’s still new and has barely any scratches,” Gi-hun says absently, eyes on his work.

In-ho leans in slightly, inspecting the surface. “You’re right.”

“It isn’t that difficult to clean off the marks after every use.”

In-ho does not respond right away. He just stands there, watching him. His eyes are not just on the cutting board, but on Gi-hun’s face, his hands, the quiet way he moves through the routine.

Gi-hun can feel the weight of it, the unspoken thought hovering between them. He wants to say something. Wants to give it shape. But before he can, In-ho speaks the words himself.

“What if it gets worn and stained again?”

Gi-hun pauses, the knife still in his hand. He looks down at the board, where juice from the kimchi has just started to seep along the edges of the cut.

It is a fair question. One that hangs heavier than it seems. Heavier than just plastic and color and surface.

Because that is what happens, isn’t it? Things get used. They get scratched, marked, and stained by what they carry. It builds slowly, over time, until one day you realize the damage never really leaves. Even when you clean it. Even when you try.

But this one, this board, is still new. Not untouched, but not ruined yet. It is holding up. And maybe it is not about keeping it pristine forever. Maybe it is just about caring enough to wash it. To keep using it. 

“Then I’ll just get a new one again,” Gi-hun says, not looking up.

He lifts the knife again, the rhythm returning.

He watches the way the kimchi folds under the blade, the way the juice clings to the edges and threatens to sink into the surface. The board holds steady beneath it all. For now.

But he knows how it goes. Over time, the stains get harder to scrub out. The grooves get deeper. The smell starts to linger no matter how much soap he uses. There comes a point when it is not about fixing anymore. It becomes about holding on for the sake of it, even when it is already worn through.

“We’ll just get a new one again,” In-ho echoes. 

Gi-hun smiles at him, nodding.

And maybe that is what this is about too. Knowing when to care for something, and knowing when to let it go. Not everything needs to be saved. Not everything can be. Some things are meant to last, and some things just teach you how to start again.

He glances at the board one more time before returning to his task.

The trick, he thinks, is learning the difference. And not blaming himself when something seeps in too deep.

He doesn’t remember how it started. One moment, he was saying goodbye to the last customer, half-heartedly swatting at Jung-bae and Dae-ho as they wiggled their eyebrows at him in that annoyingly knowing way. The next, he was here.

Here, meaning perched on top of the desk in the small office of his restaurant, caged in between In-ho’s arms as the other man kisses him.

In-ho kisses him slowly and with purpose, each press of his lips a little firmer than the last, like he’s trying to map out the shape of him by feel alone. There’s nothing rushed about it. Just warmth, pressure, and a quiet kind of intensity that makes Gi-hun’s breath catch.

He tilts his head instinctively, and In-ho follows, deepening the kiss with a soft inhale. When Gi-hun parts his lips, In-ho moves in, his tongue sliding in slow, steady strokes, brushing against his in a way that makes Gi-hun shiver. There’s no struggle for control. No push or pull, just pure rhythm. Like they’re in sync without needing to think about it.

Gi-hun’s fingers curl in the collar of In-ho’s jacket. His legs part a little more, drawing In-ho closer until there’s barely any space left between them. In-ho’s hands settle at his waist now, thumbs brushing over the fabric like he’s memorizing even that.

The kiss deepens again. More tongue, more breath, more of everything. And still, it stays soft. As if neither of them wants to break this delicate, quiet closeness blooming in a back room with dim lighting and a still-warm air from the kitchen outside.

“You kiss like you're trying to prove a point,” he murmurs.

In-ho huffs a quiet laugh. “Maybe I am.”

Gi-hun leans forward, brushing their noses together. “Whatever it is, I’m convinced.”

In-ho doesn’t say anything to that. He just looks at him, eyes half-lidded. His breath still shallow, mouth slightly parted like he wants to go in for more. Gi-hun feels the subtle shift in the space between them. The way In-ho’s fingers curl just a little tighter at his waist. The way Gi-hun’s own hands have yet to let go of his jacket.

He leans forward again, brushing his mouth against In-ho’s. The kiss is gentler this time, like a question. In-ho answers with a kiss that sinks deeper and slower. Gi-hun feels his own pulse quicken, heat rising with every careful pass of lips. When he pulls back again, it’s only to trail soft kisses along In-ho’s jaw, then lower, to the edge of his throat. He feels In-ho exhale, body shifting forward, like he’s letting himself melt into it.

Gi-hun murmurs against his neck, “Let me?”

In-ho nods once. Gi-hun slips down from the desk, slow and steady, his gaze still fixed on In-ho. He sinks to his knees, hands trailing along In-ho’s thighs, dragging warmth with them. He feels the way the muscles twitch under his touch, the way In-ho holds still like the moment might collapse if he moves too fast.

He settles in close, palms resting lightly above In-ho’s knee. His mouth is still warm from kissing, breath soft as it spreads across the front of In-ho’s jeans. He doesn’t rush. Just stays there for a moment, close enough to feel the heat, close enough for In-ho to let out a low, uneven sound that curls straight through him.

In-ho meets his gaze for a second before looking away, like the weight of being seen like this is almost too much. Gi-hun doesn’t push. Instead, he undoes the button and zipper with steady fingers, then leans in to press his mouth over the fabric first. A gentle pressure. A tease. Just enough to make In-ho’s hips twitch beneath him.

He pulls the fabric down carefully. His hand wraps around the base, thumb stroking lightly, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of him.

He kisses the tip first. Then his mouth opens, tongue warm and slow as he licks along the underside, then takes him in. In-ho’s breath stutters. His hand grips the edge of the desk.

Gi-hun keeps his pace steady, almost too steady, like he could do this for as long as it takes. His mouth stays soft around him, tongue moving in slow, careful patterns. Every shift and every flick draws out the sounds that In-ho tries to keep in.

When he pulls back for air, he wraps his hand around him again, slow and firm, giving him no time to recover before taking him back into his mouth. Deeper this time. He hears the way In-ho’s breath catches, and feels the slight jerk of his hips before he forces himself still.

Gi-hun doesn’t let up. He just keeps going, working him open with his mouth and tongue. He lets In-ho tremble beneath his hands, lets him fall apart in silence. The way his body tenses tells him everything he needs to know.

He feels the shift when it builds. Feels it in the way In-ho’s thighs tighten, the way his breath catches, the low groan that slips out when he tries to hold it back.

Gi-hun stays with him through it, mouth full, hands steady. When In-ho comes, it’s with a quiet gasp, his whole body curling forward, one hand reaching instinctively for Gi-hun’s hair. Gi-hun swallows, then finally pulls back. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and rests his cheek against In-ho’s hip, still holding him as he catches his breath.

“You okay?” Gi-hun murmurs, lips brushing against In-ho’s skin.

In-ho lets out a shaky breath, half a laugh. “Am I okay? Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

Gi-hun looks up, grinning. “Well… are you?”

In-ho doesn’t answer. He just reaches down and grabs him, pulling him up from the floor without warning. Gi-hun barely finds his footing before In-ho is kissing him again, nothing soft about it this time.

It’s hungry, all mouth and heat, and pressure. His hands fly to In-ho’s shoulders, then slide up into his hair, gripping tight as their mouths move together, fast and messy.

In-ho crowds him against the desk, hips pressing close. His tongue slips in deep, licking into Gi-hun’s mouth like he’s chasing something, like he wants to taste everything. Gi-hun moans into it, tilts his head, and opens up more.

Gi-hun thinks—yeah. He’s okay. They're okay.

Gi-hun should have known better than to drink water when Dae-ho’s around. Every time, it’s a gamble. A test of survival. One second he’s hydrating, the next he’s choking and questioning every life choice that brought him here.

“Please don’t tell me you had sex in the office,” Dae-ho says casually as if it’s a normal thing to ask someone at eight in the morning.

Gi-hun coughs so hard he nearly drops the glass.

“What?”

“Sex. Office,” He points in the direction where the office is. “Same office with thin walls and a door with a lock that does not work.”

Gi-hun considers dying. Briefly. Just keeling over and letting the floor take him. What a tragic but merciful end. Beats enduring this.

“What are you talking about?” he forces out a laugh. “You okay? You’re talking crazy this early.”

Dae-ho raises an eyebrow. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m hydrating.”

“You’re guilty.”

“I’m going to do prep.”

Dae-ho latches onto the words like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all his life.

“What kind of prep?” he asks, voice low, clearly not aiming for innocent. The grin on his face says it all. “Prep prep? Or like... prep?”

Gi-hun whips around, scandalized. “Oh my god. Are you serious right now?”

Dae-ho just leans against the counter, utterly unbothered. “So, did you or did you not? Because I’m pretty sure I heard something last night.”

“You were still here?”

Dae-ho grins, way too pleased with himself. “Aha!”

“Leave me alone.”

“Not until you admit it. So, did you, or did you not? Because I heard someone terrifyingly sounding like In-ho-ssi, and just thought I’d let you know. Especially if it’s not you with him.”

Gi-hun knows it’s bait. Knows it from the smug look on Dae-ho’s face, the way he’s barely containing his laughter.

He clings onto it like a fish, still.

“Jesus. Yes, it was me with him. Happy now?”

Dae-ho grins even wider. “Wow, never thought I’d see the day you ruin the pureness and sanctity of this restaurant.”

“Pureness and sanctity—there’s nothing pure about what I’m about to do to you,” Gi-hun snaps, grabbing the wet towel from the counter and smacking it straight onto Dae-ho’s arm.

Dae-ho yelps but bursts out laughing anyway, "Okay, okay, I’m sorry!”

Gi-hun rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too, towel still in hand.

“I’m happy for you, hyung-nim, really,” Dae-ho says, breathless and grinning.

Gi-hun makes a sound that lands somewhere between a scoff and a reluctant “Thanks.”

“But can I suggest changing the walls into something more soundproof—OW! STOP!” he shrieks, as Gi-hun goes in for another slap, this time with deadly towel accuracy.

“Get out of my kitchen,” Gi-hun mutters, trying not to laugh.

“And go where? To the office? No, thank you,” Dae-ho says, backing away with his hands up like he’s warding off a crime scene.

Gi-hun throws the towel at his head. “Out. Now.”

“I’m just saying, I value my hearing,” Dae-ho calls over his shoulder as he makes his exit. “And my innocence!”

He shakes his head, finally turning back to the sink. The kitchen feels warm again. Not from the heat, but from the noise, the movement, the dumb banter that fills the quiet spaces in his day. It’s loud, but not in a way that grates. It’s the kind of loud that settles into him easily. 

It’s all so predictable.

He hears it before he even finishes rinsing the bowl in his hands, Dae-ho’s voice carrying from just outside the kitchen.

“They definitely did something in the office. I heard things.”

“God,” Jung-bae groans, clearly horrified. “I work here.”

Gi-hun closes his eyes, exhales through his nose, and laughs quietly to himself. Of course he’d tell Jung-bae. Of course they’d be loud about it. He doesn’t even need to step out to picture the scene. Dae-ho gesturing wildly, Jung-bae half-shoving him away, the two of them filling the space with noise like it’s second nature.

His heart warms.

It’s all so predictable.

He lives for it. This chaos with a heart. This life that, against all odds, keeps making room for him.

It hasn’t even been a full day since Gi-hun picked up Ga-yeong from her latest sleepover when she starts again.

“So…”

“So… what? I don’t like this tone,” Gi-hun says, narrowing his eyes as he glances at her.

Ga-yeong clasps her hands together dramatically, eyes facing forward like she’s practicing restraint. “I’m just saying… I had fun. Yu-jin had fun. It was nice.”

Gi-hun raises a brow. “Uh-huh.”

“And,” she continues, drawing it out, “we were thinking… maybe we could do it again this weekend?”

Gi-hun shoots her a look. “Ga-yeong.”

“This time, with you and…”

“Me and what?” he asks, though he already sees it. That little shine in her eyes, the barely-contained grin. “In-ho?”

“Yes.”

“No, that’s-”

“He already agreed though,” she cuts in quickly, smiling like she’s already won.

Gi-hun blinks. “He what?”

Without a word, Ga-yeong unlocks her phone and hands it over to him. What welcomes his sight is a familiar messaging app, already opened to a thread titled In-ho Ahjussi 🤩👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻.

Gi-hun stares at the contact name, “What is that emoji combination?”

“You don’t like it?” she says, way too innocent.

He scrolls up and reads.

Ga-yeong (3:00 p.m.):

ahjussi!!!! 😄

In-ho Ahjussi 🤩👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 (3:02 p.m.):

Ga-yeong, hello. Is there anything you need? Did you leave something behind?

Gi-hun shakes his head, already sighing, but he keeps reading.

Ga-yeong (3:03 p.m.):

so here’s the plan

you and yu-jin are coming over this weekend with food

and blankets

and with movie recommendations that can last for two nights

He looks at her, then back at the screen.

“In-ho said yes to this?”

“Keep scrolling,” she says, smug.

And god help him, he does.

In-ho Ahjussi 🤩👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 (3:04 p.m.):

That sounds like a very full weekend.

Ga-yeong (3:05 p.m.):

yu-jin helped with the planning

In-ho Ahjussi 🤩👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 (3:05 p.m.):

Does your dad know about this?

Ga-yeong (3:05 p.m.):

he will

In-ho Ahjussi 🤩👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 (3:06 p.m.):

So, he doesn’t.

Ga-yeong (3:06 p.m.):

please?

it would be a great surprise

imagine if we already had a good weekend planned out for us

he’d love it

In-ho Ahjussi🤩👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 (3:07 p.m.):

Really?

Ga-yeong (3:07 p.m.):

yeah!! he wanted you to join the first sleepover. when yu-jin came over

Gi-hun lowers the phone, narrowing his eyes at her. “Why did you lie.”

She blinks up at him with the most unconvincing innocence. “It wasn’t a lie. It was emotional interpretation. We all interpret things differently. That was mine.”

He turns back to the screen.

In-ho Ahjussi 🤩👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 (3:08 p.m.):

He wanted me there?

Ga-yeong (3:08 p.m.):

oh he did!

and the second time, at your place? he wanted to stay

Gi-hun groans. “Ga-yeong!”

In-ho Ahjussi 🤩👨🏻‍❤️‍💋‍👨🏻 (3:09 p.m.):

Oh.

Well, then.

This weekend it is.

Gi-hun wants to die. Or at least ground his daughter for advanced emotional manipulation. But she’s already smiling like she just fixed everyone’s lives in one chat.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters.

“I get it from you,” she chirps, proud.

He glares at her, but it’s half-hearted at best. “That’s not a compliment.”

“Point is, it gets the job done,” she says, completely unbothered, like she didn’t just manipulate two grown men into a sleepover.

“And the job being… lying?” he asks, already bracing for the answer.

“Well, yes.” Ga-yeong chuckles, not even pretending to feel bad about it. “If that’s what gets us to hang out together finally.”

Gi-hun groans, dragging a hand down his face. “We hang out all the time! At the restaurant, by the food truck in front of your school, we eat a lot together!”

“Not enough. I want to see you braiding each other’s hair.”

“Not happening.”

“Happening.” She smirks, absolutely relentless. “So, what food are we preparing?”

Gi-hun gives her a long, dramatic look. The kind that says I can’t believe I’m indulging this. Then he fake glares, points a finger at her like he’s about to scold her, and caves entirely.

“Dumplings. And fried rice. And maybe kimchi jjigae.”

"Yay!" his daugher exclaims, already bouncing on her feet. "I'm telling Yu-jin!"

Gi-hun just smiles, shaking his head. 

The sleepover starts on a Friday night. And for some reason, it’s not just the four of them, as Gi-hun had originally expected.

Jung-bae is here. Dae-ho is here. And somehow, even Jun-ho is here.

Apparently, it was decided that since In-ho technically hosted the last one, though in reality, Jun-ho ended up looking after Ga-yeong and Yu-jin the whole time while In-ho slipped out to Gi-hun’s place for... other reasons. It was only fair that this time, it be held at Gi-hun’s.

Which, fine. Sure. He can handle that. What he hadn’t expected was dinner turning into something that resembled a small community gathering.

Turns out, Ga-yeong had invited Jung-bae and Dae-ho over, completely unbothered, as if they were just extended family (they are). Yu-jin, not wanting to be outdone, invited Jun-ho, who, unlike the other two, showed up with a tray of neatly packed side dishes and a polite smile.

Gi-hun stands in the kitchen doorway, taking in the chaos of his living room.

Jung-bae and Dae-ho are already mid-argument over whether jjajangmyeon or tteokbokki reigns supreme in the world of comfort food. The girls are camped on the floor, surrounded by a sea of snacks, juice boxes, and sticker book negotiations that feel dangerously close to breaking into full-on diplomacy. In-ho is lounging on the couch, trying and failing not to smile as he watches it all unfold. And Jun-ho, true to form, is tidying things that don’t actually need tidying, stacking bowls with the efficiency of someone trying to find order in chaos.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Dae-ho pauses, noticing the unfamiliar face.

“Oh. Uh. Hi. I’m Dae-ho.” He straightens a little, voice suddenly less loud, almost polite. “I work with Gi-hun hyung. Kitchen stuff. I think I saw you at the restaurant before, but… we never really met.”

Jun-ho blinks at him, then offers a small, polite smile. “Jun-ho. In-ho’s younger brother. Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Dae-ho says. His voice is quiet. No teasing, no volume, just… oddly polite.

They fall into a pause, the kind that stretches a little too long, filled only by the awkward air between two people who clearly operate on completely different frequencies.

Dae-ho shifts his weight, then blurts out, “My name means big tiger,” like his mouth got ahead of his brain. “Just, you know. In case that comes up.”

Jun-ho tilts his head, blinks once, then nods. “Oh. Good to know?”

“Yeah,” Dae-ho says quickly. “It usually doesn’t come up.”

“Right.” Jun-ho nods slowly. “Well, my name means handsome and bright.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then, from across the room, In-ho lets out a laugh. Gi-hun, still standing near the kitchen doorway, snorts into his drink.

Dae-ho blinks. “That’s... yeah. That’s accurate, actually.”

They both stand there for a second, nodding way too much.

Gi-hun watches from the kitchen, biting back a laugh. He’s pretty sure he’s just witnessed the most awkward, wholesome exchange of the night.

“Alright, Big Tiger and Handsome Bright Face, come help me set the table.”

In-ho’s already beside him, sleeves rolled up, setting down bowls with that quiet efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times. He doesn’t say anything, just takes the chopsticks from Gi-hun’s hand and starts placing them beside each setting, occasionally brushing his shoulder against Gi-hun’s like it’s accidental. It’s not.

“Do we have enough rice?” Gi-hun mutters, checking the rice cooker.

“Enough for an army,” In-ho replies without looking up.

Dae-ho and Jun-ho start helping without needing to be asked. Jun-ho moving with quiet focus, and Dae-ho, despite all the noise he makes on a regular basis, handling the side dishes like a pro. Which makes sense, Gi-hun thinks. The guy does work in a restaurant. 

Ga-yeong and Yu-jin set up the drinks at the table, already arguing over who gets the last grape soda like it's a matter of national importance. Ga-yeong gives it up eventually, saying she’s older and that’s what older sisters do. Gi-hun’s heart melts at his daughter’s words.

Eventually, everyone gathers around the table.

Gi-hun looks around at the chaos. In-ho beside him, the kids across from each other, Dae-ho talking too loud, Jun-ho pretending he’s not amused, Jung-bae already starting to eat. And somehow, it all fits.

Jung-bae pauses mid-bite, glancing around like he’s just now taking it in. “The family’s growing.”

Gi-hun narrows his eyes. “Don’t start.”

Jung-bae smirks. “I’m just saying. Does this mean I get to annoy In-ho-ssi now? Make up a nickname for him? Like, as a brother-in-law figure or something?”

In-ho doesn’t even look up from his bowl. “Try it and I’ll throw you out the window.”

Jung-bae grins wider. “That’s a yes.”

Across the table, Dae-ho raises his glass. “We should do this often!” he says, loud and cheerful, as always. Then his eyes flick over to the man sitting directly across from him – Jun-ho, quietly focused on his rice – and his voice drops just slightly, almost sheepish. “I mean… these dinners could be a regular thing.”

Gi-hun tries to hide his amusement behind a sip of water, but the grin pulling at his lips is hard to fight off. He glances to his side, and sure enough In-ho’s already looking at him, chopsticks paused mid-air, expression unreadable except for that one raised eyebrow that clearly says, Are you seeing this?

Gi-hun doesn't answer. He just snorts into his cup, shoulders shaking slightly. Because yes. He’s absolutely seeing it.

From the other end of the table, Ga-yeong perks up. “I agree. We should do this more often.”

Yu-jin nods quickly beside her, mouth full of rice. “Every weekend, maybe! It’s fun when everyone’s here.”

“Also,” Ga-yeong adds, turning her attention toward Dae-ho, “your hair is so long now. It’s perfect for braiding.”

Yu-jin lights up. “Oh my gosh, yes! Like a whole waterfall braid or something. Can we try later?”

Dae-ho, mid-bite, freezes with chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “Wait—what?”

Gi-hun chuckles quietly, eyes crinkling as he watches the girls gang up on him. These girls.

Dae-ho sputters, “You can’t just—braid someone without warning!”

“Why not?” Ga-yeong says sweetly. “It’s what family does.”

Gi-hun doesn’t expect it. Not the words, not the timing, not the way they land so softly it takes a second for the weight of them to fully sink in.

He freezes, chopsticks still in hand, the laughter caught somewhere in his chest. And then it hits him, all at once. How easy it is for her to say it. How natural it sounds coming from her. Like it’s not a fragile idea or something earned through years of fixing and fumbling, but just a fact. Something simple and real.

He swallows, eyes flicking to the people around the table. In-ho beside him. Jun-ho trying not to laugh at Dae-ho’s face. Jung-bae still chewing, somehow completely unfazed. The girls, shoulder to shoulder, already scheming.

It shouldn’t work. None of it should. But it does. It does. His heart pulls tight in the way it only does when something is too good, too much, too everything.

Family.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

The rest of dinner flows in easy waves. Chopsticks clinking, bowls passing hands, overlapping conversations bouncing across the table like it’s always been this way. No one rushes to leave. There’s laughter, second helpings, playful jabs, and even a few quiet moments in between where the room feels full in a way Gi-hun doesn’t take for granted.

The food gradually disappears, and the room begins to quiet. Conversations fade into softer tones as the energy winds down. One by one, everyone begins to gather their things, pulling on jackets and stepping into their shoes.

Jung-bae is the first out the door, giving Gi-hun a casual salute on his way out. “Tell In-ho I’ll be back with a nickname. Something reserved for very close friends like us,” he says as he walks out.

Dae-ho follows, dramatically groaning about how full he is, but still manages to sneak one more dumpling before heading to the door. “Thanks for the trauma and the dumpling,” he calls out. “Ten out of ten.”

Jun-ho lingers the longest, thanking Gi-hun for dinner with a polite nod, his hands full of cleaned containers and folded napkins that no one asked him to take care of. He waves at the girls and ruffles Yu-jin’s hair before heading out after the others.

And just like that, it’s quiet again.

The only ones left are Gi-hun, In-ho, and the two girls who are both cross-legged on the floor, deep into whatever it is they’ve decided is more important than bedtime. When he glances at In-ho, a smile starts to pull at his mouth.

“What,” he says, tone light, teasing. “You tired already? We haven’t even reached the movie marathon part of the sleepover yet.”

Gi-hun makes his way over to the couch, where In-ho is already sitting, legs stretched out, arms loosely crossed. He lowers himself into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale.

In-ho glances over at him, dry. “Ga-yeong wasn’t lying when she said you wanted this, huh?”

“She was lying! It was her plan all along to get us here!” Gi-hun sputters, turning toward the girls. “Ga-yeong, tell him you were lying.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Ga-yeong says, not even looking up. “Appa practically begged me to make tonight happen.”

“Ga-yeong.”

“Don’t worry,” Yu-jin pipes up helpfully, “Appa also wanted this.”

In-ho snaps his head toward her, looking mildly scandalized. “Yu-jin.”

The girls burst into laughter, completely unfazed, while Gi-hun sinks lower into the couch, one arm thrown dramatically over his face. In-ho just shakes his head, lips twitching, eyes warm.

Eventually, the chaos fades into bickering about what to watch. Something funny but not too childish, not too long, and absolutely no jump scares, according to Ga-yeong. After a back-and-forth that could rival a courtroom debate, they settle on an animated film that Ga-yeong insists, very firmly, she won’t cry about.

Yu-jin gives her a look. “You cried last time, Unnie.”

“That was allergies.”

Ga-yeong climbs onto the couch first, claiming the middle with the confidence of someone who knows her presence is non-negotiable. Yu-jin follows, curling beside her, feet tucked under a blanket. Gi-hun ends up on one end of the couch, In-ho on the other. The girls between them. Two warm, chatty little walls. 

Gi-hun rests his head back, the soft hum of the television filling the room. The weight of Ga-yeong's head leans against his side, familiar and grounding. He glances across and catches In-ho’s gaze briefly, before the other man turns his attention to the screen.

“Appa,” Ga-yeong whispers, just loud enough for him to hear. “You were wrong about sleepovers not involving both parents.”

He glances down at her. She’s not even looking at him, just focused on the screen, her voice soft but certain.

“Look at us,” she says. “It’s fun, isn’t it?”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at her for a moment, at the way she’s nestled in so comfortably.

He remembers the beginning. Not of tonight, but of everything. When rest felt impossible. When safety was a word he didn’t believe applied to people like him. When he thought maybe peace was just for other people.

But now. Now there’s popcorn on the floor, laughter on the couch, and a movie playing too loud. A warmth that lingers without asking permission.

Now there’s this.

And it feels safe.

Safety is a feeling Gi-hun always thought he didn’t deserve. 

Not after all the things he’s done, or failed to do. Not after everything he walked away from. Not after all the lives he couldn’t save, or the hurt he caused to the people who mattered. 

Safety never felt like an option. It felt more like a reward, something reserved for better people. Something he was supposed to earn. And even if he did manage to work hard enough, even if he clawed his way toward some version of redemption, he was convinced he still wouldn’t deserve it.

It’s always felt like that. Like he was chasing something he’d never let himself have. Fighting toward a goal he couldn’t admit he wanted. A reward he wouldn’t even accept if it were handed to him outright.

Until now.

Gi-hun doesn’t know when the shift happened. Or if there even was a shift in the first place. Maybe he’s been working toward it all along, and the only thing that’s changed is the way he sees it now. Maybe the reward isn’t distant. Maybe it’s here. Has been here. Within his reach. And all this time, he’s just been too scared to reach out and take it.

But now, it’s different.

Had it been any other day, at any other point in his life, he would’ve pushed away the weight clinging to his side. He would’ve pulled free from the arm draped around his waist and the quiet breath against the back of his neck. He would’ve let the guilt win, let it fill his lungs, bury him in shame, and convince him he didn’t get to have this. Didn’t get to be held. Didn’t get to feel safe.

But it’s not any other day. It’s now. And Gi-hun, finally, after all this time, chooses not to run from it.

So, he stays.

He lets himself feel the warmth of the body pressed against his. The rise and fall of In-ho’s chest at his back. The firm hold of In-ho’s arm still curled around him, anchoring him there. He takes in the steady breathing and the weight of In-ho beside him.

He shifts slightly, and that’s when he feels it. Even through the layers of fabric, there’s a persistent, unmistakable pressure against his hip. It takes a beat or two for his brain to catch up and register what it is. And when he realizes, he exhales slowly, an amused smile tugging at his lips. Of course.

He tries to stay still, keeping his breathing steady. It’s fine. Normal. He can be mature about this.

…Or so he tells himself, right up until In-ho shifts in his sleep, and the pressure intensifies. His hardness presses even firmer against Gi-hun’s hip, and this time, it’s impossible to ignore.

Gi-hun stares harder at the wall, as if sheer focus might erase the awareness crawling up his spine.

It doesn’t.

He swallows, and resists the urge to shift, afraid that even the slightest movement might make things worse. Or better. He’s not sure which would be more dangerous.

Behind him, In-ho lets out a soft sound in his sleep, something low and barely formed. Then he moves, just a subtle roll of his hips, but enough for Gi-hun to feel it. The slow, unconscious way In-ho ruts forward, grinding himself lazily against Gi-hun’s hip in his sleep like he’s chasing something in a dream.

Gi-hun freezes.

The pressure is firmer now, the movement slow but intentional in its own unintentional way. In-ho shifts again, another small roll of his hips, his arm tightening around Gi-hun’s waist like he’s holding onto a pillow, not a person actively losing his mind in real time.

Gi-hun closes his eyes, jaw clenched.

This is fine. Completely fine. Just casual accidental rutting. Nothing to see here. He’s just lying here. Next to In-ho. Who is very much asleep. Very much pressed up against him. Very much-

He exhales again, shakier this time, then mutters under his breath, “Jesus Christ.”

Because at this rate, he might actually die.

In-ho shifts again, a little harder this time, the curve of his cock pressing fully into Gi-hun’s hip. It drags a low, involuntary sound from Gi-hun’s throat, a noise he immediately bites down on, too late.

That must be what does it.

Behind him, In-ho stills. His breath hitches just slightly, the way it does when sleep starts to slip. Gi-hun stays frozen, wide-eyed, heart pounding. He can feel it, the moment awareness begins to crawl its way back into In-ho’s body.

Then In-ho hums, and doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his fingers flex at Gi-hun’s waist. His hips move again, slower this time, like he's testing the rhythm he'd already started. There's no urgency in it, no shame, just that same quiet, half-asleep confidence. 

Gi-hun’s breath stutters.

He doesn’t dare look back, not yet. But he feels the shift in the air, the way In-ho presses a little closer, the way his voice scrapes low and amused against the shell of his ear.

“…You’re awake.”

Gi-hun swallows. “You’re-”

“Mm.” In-ho doesn’t even try to deny it.

Gi-hun doesn’t move or attempt to push him away. He should. He really should. But he doesn’t. Because the truth is, he doesn’t mind.

In-ho is warm against his side, all slow breath and steady weight, and now that he’s fully awake, he’s not stopping. His hips roll again, just enough to make Gi-hun suck in a breath.

“It’s barely seven in the morning,” Gi-hun says, voice tight.

“And?” In-ho replies, low and shameless, mouth brushing against the edge of Gi-hun’s ear.

“You’re hard.”

“You noticed.”

Gi-hun closes his eyes, willing his mind to focus on anything else, but then he feels it. In-ho’s hand, slipping under his shirt, warm and steady as it spreads across his stomach.

In-ho leans in, nuzzles the side of his neck, and murmurs, “I could stop. If you want me to.”

Gi-hun doesn’t answer right away. He just lets out a slow exhale, his fingers curling lightly into the sheet. In-ho’s still grinding against him, slower now, like he’s waiting for permission he knows he’s already been given.

Finally, Gi-hun says, quietly, “Didn’t say I wanted you to stop.”

In-ho smiles against his skin. “Didn’t think so.”

His hand leaves Gi-hun’s stomach and drifts lower, slipping beneath the waistband of his shorts with practiced ease. When his fingers wrap around him, he finds him already thick, already wet at the tip.

Gi-hun sucks in a breath, his hips twitching forward as In-ho begins to stroke him. The movement is smooth and steady, made easier by the slickness gathered there. In-ho doesn’t rush. His grip is sure, each motion measured. Like he wants to feel every twitch, every breath pulled too fast from Gi-hun’s lungs.

Gi-hun grits his teeth, eyes still shut, his fingers curling tighter into the sheets. In-ho’s thumb brushes over the head, spreading the wetness there, and Gi-hun lets out a quiet sound he doesn’t bother trying to hold in.

“Still doing okay?” In-ho murmurs near his ear, voice low and maddeningly calm.

Gi-hun lets out a rough breath. “You think?”

In-ho hums softly, clearly pleased. His strokes stay steady, each one dragging a little more breath from Gi-hun’s chest. 

Gi-hun barely has time to register In-ho’s movements before he feels his waistband being tugged down. In-ho pulls his shorts past his hips, over his thighs, until they’re bunched at his knees. There’s a brief pause, the air cooler against now-exposed skin, and then the warmth of In-ho’s hand returns, this time with no barriers in the way.

Gi-hun presses his face into the pillow, equal parts flustered and wired with anticipation. He can feel In-ho watching him, even without turning around.

“You got lube in here?”

Gi-hun tenses. “...Yes.”

“Yeah?” In-ho’s voice tilts up, teasing now. “Where?”

“Bedside drawer,” Gi-hun mutters, muffled by the pillow.

In-ho grins.

Gi-hun groans, half-muffled by the pillow, already preparing himself for the teasing that’s bound to come. But In-ho is quick, he’s already leaning over, opening the drawer without saying a word. He finds the lube easily, without even fumbling, as if he expected it to be exactly where it is.

“Prepared,” he murmurs, just under his breath, and Gi-hun wants to hit him. But also maybe not.

Gi-hun hears the soft click, followed by the faint sound of lube being squeezed out. The room stays quiet otherwise, thick with the weight of everything unspoken. He stays still, breathing slow and uneven, face still pressed to the pillow.

Then he feels it. In-ho’s hand, slick now, warm and steady as it returns to him. His fingers spread over Gi-hun’s ass, one hand grounding him, the other moving with intention.

A moment later, a finger presses against him. Gi-hun exhales, hips twitching slightly as In-ho eases it in. The glide is smooth, the stretch familiar, and In-ho doesn’t push too far, too fast. Just enough to make Gi-hun breathe harder, his body adjusting around the intrusion.

"Still okay?" In-ho murmurs, voice low, thumb brushing lightly along Gi-hun’s hip.

Gi-hun nods into the pillow. “Yeah. Keep going.”

In-ho doesn't add more right away. He keeps going with just one finger, moving with care, letting Gi-hun get used to the stretch. His free hand stays firm at Gi-hun’s waist, grounding him, keeping him still as he works the finger in deeper, curling it ever so slightly. 

Gi-hun shifts, exhales shakily, and presses his face further into the pillow. In-ho leans in a little more, steady as ever.

“More,” Gi-hun whispers, voice low and wrecked.

In-ho hums softly, pleased, and obliges. A second finger joins the first, scissoring gently as he works him open. The glide is easy now, his movements firmer, each stroke coaxing more heat from Gi-hun’s skin. He curls his fingers just slightly, searching. 

And when he finds it, Gi-hun lets out a sound he doesn’t even try to hide, quiet and broken, hips jolting in response.

In-ho smiles, slow and wicked, and does it again. Fingers curling just right, pressing into that spot with unfailing precision. Gi-hun gasps as his body tenses and arches into the touch, his grip on the sheets tightening with each slow drag of In-ho’s hand.

He feels himself trembling now. Soft noises spill out from his lips without shame, his body rocking back into every movement like he needs more of it. Like he can’t get enough.

In-ho keeps the pace steady, fingers moving with purpose, drawing out every sound, every little twitch. Gi-hun’s voice cracks on the next moan.

“More-” he breathes out. “More, please—put it in.”

In-ho stills. His breath catches, a smile curling against Gi-hun’s skin. Then he pulls his fingers out, and reaches for the lube again.

Gi-hun’s whole body clenches around the absence when In-ho pulls his fingers out. He almost whines. Maybe he does. He can’t tell anymore. Everything’s warm, loose, trembling. His legs feel boneless, barely held open, the sheets damp under his knees.

He hears the soft, familiar sound of the lube again. Then feels it, In-ho’s hand sliding over his hip, the brush of knuckles down the dip of his lower back. He shivers.

“You okay?” In-ho asks quietly, voice close, a little shaky.

Gi-hun nods into the pillow, breath fogging up the fabric. “Yeah.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m okay.”

He feels In-ho’s cock drag between his cheeks once, slow and testing. Gi-hun presses back, almost instinctively. “Please,” he breathes out, barely above a whisper. “You can—just do it.”

He doesn't need to say more. In-ho shifts closer, holds Gi-hun steady with one hand, and begins to push in.

Gi-hun bites down on a moan, the burn mixing with the unbearable heat of being filled, claimed, and completely surrounded. In-ho doesn’t rush, he moves inch by inch, pausing when Gi-hun tenses, brushing a soothing thumb along his waist until his muscles give.

When he’s finally fully seated, Gi-hun exhales shakily. His fingers clutch the sheets. His whole body is humming, filled to the brim.

In-ho bends forward, chest pressed lightly against Gi-hun’s back. His lips press between Gi-hun’s shoulder blades. A kiss. Just one. But Gi-hun feels it all the way to his ribs.

“You feel…” In-ho murmurs, the words trailing off like he’s too overwhelmed to finish.

Gi-hun closes his eyes. “I know. You can move,” he whispers, voice frayed with want. “Please, move.”

In-ho does. Carefully, gently, rocking into him with slow, deep strokes.

And Gi-hun breaks apart, inch by inch, every breath a soft, shaky plea for more.

Every thrust lands deeper and more insistent now. The sound of their bodies moving together fills the room. Gi-hun can’t stop shaking. His arms are limp, muscles fluttering, but his hips keep rising to meet each push like his body can’t stand to be empty even for a second.

In-ho’s breathing roughens. Every exhale brushes the back of Gi-hun’s neck, hot and uneven. He’s muttering something under his breath, low and shaky, words Gi-hun can’t quite catch over the thundering in his own ears.

He’s so close he can’t think. His cock drags against the sheets with each movement, leaking, untouched, and it’s maddening. He whimpers, not even caring how it sounds, just desperate now.

And In-ho hears it.

In-ho’s hand finds its way between them, wrapping around Gi-hun’s cock with ease. He strokes him in sync with every thrust, and the effect is immediate. Gi-hun shudders beneath him, his whole body tightening like it’s been hit with a jolt.

“Fuck—In-ho-”

In-ho kisses his shoulder again. “Together.”

Gi-hun nods helplessly. Every stroke of In-ho’s hand, every thrust of his hips, pushes him higher, closer-

Gi-hun comes with a cry, body wracked by it, thighs trembling, spilling hot into In-ho’s hand. His muscles clench hard around In-ho, and that’s all it takes.

In-ho groans into his skin, hips jerking one last time before he comes too, deep inside him, his rhythm faltering as his whole body stutters.

For a moment, everything goes still. In-ho doesn’t move. He stays pressed close, forehead resting between Gi-hun’s shoulder blades, chest rising and falling against his back as they both try to catch their breath.

Gi-hun’s limbs feel useless. His thighs twitch with every exhale, slick and flushed and trembling, still spread open with In-ho resting inside.

There’s a damp warmth between them, a mess neither of them bothers to think about yet. All Gi-hun can feel is In-ho’s weight. The press of his body, solid and real. The lingering trace of his breath against his neck. The quiet way his fingers keep moving, stroking his side, brushing over his hip like he’s still grounding them both.

Then In-ho shifts, just slightly, and pulls out with a slow, careful drag that has Gi-hun flinching. He feels his breath hitch at the sudden emptiness, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Hey,” In-ho murmurs, voice raw, barely audible.

Gi-hun makes a low sound in response. He doesn’t open his eyes.

Then In-ho moves again, just enough to press a kiss to the back of his neck, and says, “Good morning.”

Gi-hun snorts, breath puffing out against the pillow. He finally turns his head, just a little, enough to glance at In-ho over his shoulder. His hair’s a mess, sticking to his temple, and his eyes are still glazed with sleep and everything else they just did, but he’s smiling.

“Should’ve started with that,” he mutters.

In-ho smiles and reaches out to brush a thumb over Gi-hun’s cheek. Gi-hun leans into it before shifting slowly, carefully turning onto his side to face him. His legs are shaky, muscles sore in places he hasn’t even registered yet, but he moves anyway. Because he wants to see him. 

Without thinking twice, Gi-hun kisses him.

This kiss is slow and unhurried. In-ho hums quietly into it, fingers curling at Gi-hun’s waist. He kisses back like it’s instinct.

Gi-hun pulls away only slightly, just enough to rest their foreheads together again. His thumb traces along In-ho’s collarbone, slow and aimless.

“Now that’s a good morning."

In-ho kisses him once more.

“What are we having for breakfast?” In-ho asks when he pulls back.

Gi-hun freezes for half a second, then starts to laugh.

Like, really laugh. Body-shaking, pillow-muffling laughter that catches him completely off guard. He buries his face into In-ho’s shoulder to muffle the sound.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “Be honest. Did this happen just because you wanted breakfast?”

In-ho lifts his head, and looks at him with a perfectly straight face. “Ah,” he says solemnly, “can’t believe you found out. I thought I was being subtle.”

Gi-hun shoves at his shoulder, laughing even harder. “Wow” he says, voice high with disbelief.

“I was hungry,” In-ho says with a shrug. “You were warm. It all just made sense.”

Gi-hun groans, rolling onto his back dramatically. “I’m going to start charging you per night.”

“You say that,” In-ho replies, flopping half on top of him again, arm slung across his chest, “but you’ll still make me kimchi fried rice.”

Gi-hun sighs in mock defeat, hand resting over In-ho’s. “Unfortunately, that’s true.”

"With egg?"

"Don't push it."

But he's already smiling again.

He turns his head. In-ho’s curled up beside him, hair still a mess, lips slightly parted. He looks completely at peace, completely here. With him.

And Gi-hun feels it, all at once.

He’s safe.

Not cautiously, not with doubt, not like he’s testing the word out for size. But fully. Quietly. With his whole body. The tension he’s always carried, that invisible grip around his ribs, it's gone. And he isn’t bracing for it to come back.

He isn’t waiting for the moment to end. He isn’t questioning whether he deserves it.

He’s just here. With In-ho. With warmth. With stillness. With this.

It’s a rainy evening when Gi-hun finally accepts it. That this feeling, this peace, this thing that’s been slowly building inside him, belongs to him now. Not just a borrowed moment, nor something fleeting. Not even something he’ll have to give back once he wakes up.

But his.

The restaurant’s already closed. The lights inside are dimmed, the clatter and noise of the day long gone. The employees have all gone home, voices fading into the night, laughter tucked away into the rain.

Gi-hun stays.

He chooses to sit outside, on the swing. On his lap rests the cutting board — that cutting board — the one Sang-woo’s mother gave him. It’s balanced across his thighs like something precious, because it is. He runs his fingers along the surface, tracing the faint scratches that have already made themselves at home. They’re shallow, but present. The first signs of wear. The first signs of use.

He doesn’t notice the rain at first. He’s too focused. It's only when a single drop lands square in the center of the board that he blinks, startled from his thoughts.

Another follows. Then another.

A moment later, it’s falling steadily.

Gi-hun doesn’t move or attempt to run for shelter. Instead, he watches a drop slide across the board and reaches out to drag it with his thumb, as if to guide it.

And then, he hears footsteps. He doesn’t look up right away, but he already knows who it's from.

Out of the corner of his eye, a figure comes into view, and then In-ho is there, settling onto the swing beside him. He doesn't seem to mind the rain, judging from the lack of umbrella in his hand.

“Gi-hun,” he says.

“Hey,” Gi-hun replies, glancing over with a small smile. “Remember the last time we were in this exact scenario?”

“Hm.”

“A lot has changed since then.”

“Everything,” In-ho says. “For the better.”

Gi-hun nods. “For the better,” he echoes.

The rain continues to fall, soaking into the dirt.

Gi-hun feels In-ho’s gaze shift. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s fixed on the board sitting on his lap.

He runs a thumb over the surface, over the shallow scratches and the faint stains that have settled into the grooves. They won’t come out now, not completely. They’ve claimed the board as theirs.

Gi-hun reaches into his pocket.

“I kept this,” he says, fingers curling around it. “I hesitated. I didn't know if it should stay with me. Part of me wanted to burn it. Pretend it never existed.”

He pulls the card out and holds it between them. The corners are soft now, the paper slightly warped from weeks of being forgotten and remembered again.

“But that would feel unfair to you, wouldn’t it?” he adds, turning to In-ho. “I chose what to do with my board. I think you deserve to choose what to do with this.”

He extends the card.

In-ho doesn’t speak. He just looks at it. At Gi-hun. At the small, weathered card held out between them. Then, without a word, he reaches for it and takes it.

Gi-hun watches as In-ho turns it over once, then again. The corners are already soft from being carried too long. Then quietly, without hesitation, In-ho lets it fall.

It lands in the mud with a faint, wet sound.

Rain gathers around it, soaking into the paper instantly. The sharp edges of the printed symbol - circle, triangle, square - begin to blur. Black ink seeps into the grain, softening the clean lines until they are no longer distinct. The corners curl upward. The card doesn’t dissolve, not completely. It just slumps inward, no longer crisp or whole.

It’s still there. But now it’s just paper drenched in rainwater and mud.

Not an invitation. Not a threat. Not a heavyweight pulling In-ho down.

Gi-hun watches the ink bleed outward. Watches the card lose its shape. Watches it fade into something harmless. The symbol still exists, faint and broken, softened by water, but it no longer means what it used to.

And maybe that’s enough. Some things won’t disappear, not entirely, but they can lose their edge. They can lose the power they once held.

That card, like the past, might always be there, worn at the edges. But it’s quiet now. It's no longer demanding to be followed. No longer threatening anything. Just something left behind in the rain.

“No more running,” he hears In-ho say beside him, voice soft beneath the sound of rain.

Gi-hun turns his head slightly. “No more running,” he echoes.

In-ho shifts just enough for their shoulders to touch. “I feel safe with you,” he says.

The words land gently, but they stay. Gi-hun doesn’t respond right away, not because he doesn’t want to, but because something in his chest pulls tight. Like it’s trying to make space for something that’s never had room before.

Of all the things In-ho could have said, of all the things Gi-hun thought he wanted to hear, that is what settles deepest.

“I feel safe when I’m with you, too,” he says quietly, eyes still on the rain.

The words are honest and simple, but they feel like a door opening.

When he turns his head, In-ho is already looking at him, not with surprise, but with something softer. And when Gi-hun leans in, he leans toward him like he already expected it.

Their lips meet in the middle, somewhere between rain and silence, between the ache of what was and the quiet hope of what is. It’s a gentle, unhurried kiss. Just the warmth of skin and breath and understanding.

When they part, Gi-hun lowers his eyes to the board in his lap again, running his fingers over the faint stains that have set in. They aren't too noticeable. Not yet. But he knows that somewhere in the future, the more he uses it, the more the stains will deepen. The marks will settle. The red will cling.

And that’s okay.

That’s the nature of cutting boards. They hold onto things. Even when you scrub them clean, even when you do everything right, some stains just stay. You learn to work around them. You learn to live with them. You keep cutting, keep cooking, keep going.

On some days, Gi-hun will still dream about it. The games. The fear. The weight of the choices he made.

Not every night. Not like before. But when it happens, he hopes it won’t be too bad.

And if it is, he hopes, more than anything, that when he wakes, he’ll still find this. He’ll still find In-ho.

The red stains on the cutting board used to remind him of failure. Of blood. Of everything he didn’t save and couldn’t fix.

Now, it feels like something else entirely. It’s proof of use. Of effort. Of having done something. Of living.

The stains will grow. They’ll spread.

But so will he.

With Ga-yeong, who still teases him relentlessly about everything, but reaches for his hand when the world feels too loud.

With In-ho, whose silence has become a place he can rest in, whose presence feels more like a promise than a question.

With Yu-jin, who fills the room with color and laughter, and says ‘Thank you’ every time he gives her dumplings.

And with everyone else who stayed.

He’ll grow with them. Not perfectly, not even cleanly, but steadily. Like a board stained red that still holds its shape, even after everything it’s carried.

✰