Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Sydney airport hummed with life, a constant, restless energy pulsing through its terminals. The overlapping murmur of voices mixed with the tinny drone of flight announcements overhead, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the air. Sunlight poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking golden light across the polished floors, glinting off the edges of rolling suitcases and the hurried steps of travelers weaving through the crowd. The scent of fresh coffee and warm pastries lingered in the air, mingling with the sterile coolness of recycled air conditioning.

Chan shifted his grip on his carry-on, fingers tightening around the handle as he took it all in. He stood next to his fiancée, Mi Sun, her presence beside him warm, solid, reliable. She was chatting animatedly with her parents, who fussed over her as though she were leaving forever instead of just for a few months. Her mother smoothed down the sleeve of her jacket with teary-eyed precision, while her father dabbed at his eyes discreetly with a tissue, despite trying to maintain an air of composure. They were doting, affectionate, overflowing with emotion in a way that felt almost foreign to Chan.

His own parents, by contrast, stood at a slight distance, speaking quietly to one another in the calm, measured way they always did. When they finally turned toward him, his father gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, his mother a tight, formal smile. They were here, they had come to see him off, but it wasn’t the same as before—nothing like the first time he left for Korea.

Back then, over a decade ago, they had sent him off with warmth, with pride, with an unspoken sense of certainty that he was heading toward something great. That certainty had shattered somewhere along the way. Chan had stayed in Korea long past what anyone expected—building a life, finding friends, falling in love. And then, at twenty-eight, something had changed. The cracks had started to show, and eventually, those cracks split wide open, sending him tumbling back home.

His parents never asked for details when he returned, hollow-eyed and silent. They had only needed enough to piece together that heartbreak had been part of it. That had been enough for them to deem it a "phase." And Chan—raw and drained, barely holding himself together—had let them believe it. He tried to believe it himself.

So when they suggested Mi Sun—a friend’s daughter, kind, smart, the perfect fit for a fresh start—Chan had done the only thing he knew how to do. He had said yes. Yes to dinner. Yes to casual dates. Yes to the slow, measured, predictable steps toward something stable, something safe. And, eventually, yes to a proposal.

She had never been his choice—not at first—but she was easy to be around. She made life feel lighter, uncomplicated. And he liked her. He really did. He wanted that to be enough.

But even now, standing here with her, waiting for their flight back to Korea—the place he had fled, the place where something in him had broken—Chan felt it in his chest. That restless, gnawing feeling. The same one that had been there ever since he’d agreed to this trip, ever since Mi Sun had smiled so brightly and said, Wouldn’t it be perfect to get married in Korea?

It should feel like moving forward.

Instead, it felt like a slow-motion step toward something inevitable.

Hannah, his younger sister, seemed to sense it. She had been watching him from the side, arms crossed, a knowing glint in her eyes. With a smirk, she stepped closer, nudging him lightly with her elbow.

“Man, it feels like you're off to summer camp or something,” she teased, her voice lilting with amusement. “Sure you don’t need me to pack you a lunch? Maybe a note that says, I miss you already?” She tugged at his jacket sleeve like she had when she was little. “You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin.”

“Shut up,” Chan muttered, but there was a small smile at the edge of his lips. He was grateful for the distraction. Hannah was seven years younger, fresh out of college, full of life and energy, and even now, she could read him like a book.

“Don’t worry,” she added, her voice dropping as their parents turned their attention back to Mi Sun’s family. “You’ll be fine. Korea isn’t going to bite.” She tilted her head, watching him carefully. “And you’ve got Mi Sun with you, so no excuses for moping around like last time, alright?”

Chan glanced at Mi Sun, who was still deep in conversation, her dark hair falling neatly around her shoulders as she laughed at something her mother said. She looked happy, so full of life about this trip. He wished he could match her enthusiasm. He wished the weight in his chest didn’t feel so crushing.

But he forced a smile and nodded. “Right. No moping.”

“Well, I’ll miss you,” Hannah said, pulling him into a quick hug. “Just don’t be too serious, alright? And call me. No excuses.”

“I will,” Chan replied, ruffling her hair like he used to when they were kids. “Be good.”

“Me? Never.” She shot him one last grin before stepping back to stand with their parents.

His father gave him another brisk nod. “Take care of everything over there, son. We’ll see you soon.”

His mother gave him a brief hug, the kind that barely lingered. “Have a safe flight, Christopher.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Chan replied. Christopher. It was habit by now, the way she insisted on using his full name, but it felt sharper today, like a dull ache in his chest.

Mi Sun’s parents embraced her once more, her mother dabbing at her eyes as they wished her well. Then, Mi Sun turned to Chan, beaming, her eyes shining with excitement. She radiated warmth, always had, and Chan couldn’t deny how much he appreciated that about her. She had never pushed him for more than he could give, had never demanded anything from him that he hadn’t been willing to offer. She made things easy, and in return, he tried to be the person she needed.

He liked her. He really did.

But when he thought about love—when he thought about forever—the words never seemed to fit quite right. Like a song just a little out of tune.

“Ready?” she asked cheerfully, her voice cutting through his thoughts like a ray of sunshine.

Chan blinked, pushing everything else down, like he always did. He smiled.

“Yeah,” he replied, softening under her bright gaze. “Let’s go.”

As they began to walk toward security, leaving their families behind, Chan let out a slow breath. He glanced one last time at his parents—his father’s firm stance, his mother’s unreadable expression, Hannah waving like a lunatic to make him laugh. It worked.

He was grateful for the time he’d spent back in Australia with them, especially Hannah. The years had been... healing, in their way. And now, with Mi Sun beside him, it was time to go back to Korea.

It should feel like moving forward.

Instead, it felt like a door creaking open to something he thought had been shut for good.

As they walked toward security, Chan tried to refocus on why they were going back to Korea—not just for the wedding, but for work. The airport still pulsed around them, the cool sterility of the terminal contrasting with the warm glow of the sun dipping lower beyond the massive glass windows. Outside, planes taxied across the tarmac in slow, deliberate movements, their hulking bodies reflecting streaks of amber light. The sharp, synthetic scent of industrial cleaner clung to the air, mixing with traces of burnt espresso from the café near the gate.

Chan adjusted the strap of his bag, exhaling slowly. He had spent years telling himself this was the right decision—trading uncertainty for stability, dreams for reliability. After coming back to Australia, he had let his music fade into the background, quieting the restless part of himself that once chased something bigger. A corporate job had been the logical choice—an assistant position for an executive at a medical device company. It wasn’t exciting, it wasn’t creative, but it was steady. It allowed him to be near his family again, to rebuild. To prove—to them, to himself—that he could be someone reliable.

There had been a certain satisfaction in it, at first. A different kind of fulfillment. Instead of late-night studio sessions, there were spreadsheets and schedules. Instead of uncertainty, there was structure. And when his skills in Korean caught the attention of his company, they had offered him an assignment abroad.

She had never been to Korea before, despite growing up in a Korean family. Her parents had encouraged her to fully embrace Australian culture, and over time, their own traditions had quietly faded into the background. She hadn’t spoken much Korean growing up, never needed to, and it wasn’t until this trip that she had even downloaded an app to start learning. What little she did know came from childhood visits with relatives and the occasional family gathering where older relatives had spoken Korean around her, but never to her.

To Mi Sun, this was an opportunity—not just to visit Korea for the first time but to connect with a heritage that had always felt just slightly out of reach. The more she talked about it, the more the idea of having their wedding in Korea seemed perfect to her—a way to finally step into the culture she had been separated from for so long.

And just like that, a temporary work assignment turned into something bigger. A move. A wedding. A new chapter.

Chan had gone along with it, letting himself be pulled into the current of Mi Sun’s plans, convincing himself that this time would be different. He wasn’t going back to the life he had left behind. He had a new purpose, a new path.

Felix had gotten caught up in the assignment as well. He worked in HR for the same company and, after some shuffling, had been added to the project. He wouldn’t be arriving until the following week, but knowing that Felix would be in Korea too was a relief. Felix was a piece of home—a friend from Australia who knew the version of Chan that existed now, not the one he had buried.

This time, things would be simple. Work, Mi Sun, Felix. That was the plan. No slipping into old habits. No late nights chasing a dream that no longer fit. No wandering too close to the past.

Chan told himself that over and over again.

And yet, as they passed through security and approached the gate, something unsettled sat heavy in his chest.

Beside him, Mi Sun was scrolling through her phone, likely looking up wedding venues, maybe restaurants she wanted to try, or neighborhoods she wanted to explore. She was always like that—thoughtful, eager to experience everything fully. She was excited. Happy.

Chan wanted to match that energy, but no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t settle right in him.

Mi Sun must have noticed something in his expression because she locked her phone and slipped it into her bag, then reached for his hand. Her fingers laced through his, warm and familiar, and she gave him a gentle squeeze.

“Chris,” she murmured, her voice soft, concerned. “Are you really okay?”

Her dark eyes searched his face, open and sincere. She always knew when something was off, even when he thought he was hiding it well. She was gentle like that—never demanding, never pushing, just present, always meeting him where he was.

And Chan liked that about her. He liked her.

He just didn’t know how to fall into it easily.

He swallowed, pushing the knot of unease as far down as it would go. “I’m fine,” he said, forcing a small smile. “Really. Just… thinking about the move and everything. It’s a lot.”

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. “You know you don’t have to keep everything to yourself, right? I’m here. We’re in this together.”

Her kindness made his chest tighten, but he kept his expression steady, his smile in place. He knew she meant every word. Mi Sun was here, committed, fully present in this life they were building. And he was the one trying to convince himself that was enough.

So he squeezed her hand back, feeling both gratitude and guilt swirl in his gut. He wanted to be the version of himself that she saw—the one who had moved on, who was ready for this new chapter.

“I know,” he said quietly, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “Thanks, Mi Sun. I’ll be fine. We’re going to be fine.”

She smiled up at him, warm and steady. “We are. I’m really excited for this, Chris. For us.”

He nodded, holding her gaze for a moment longer before turning back to the gate. The heavy feeling in his chest hadn’t disappeared, but he shoved it aside.

Mi Sun deserved that much.

As they waited to board the plane, he repeated it in his head like a mantra.

We’re going to be fine.

If he told himself enough times, maybe—just maybe—it would become true

Chapter Text

Two weeks into their new life in Korea, and Chan felt like he was operating on caffeine fumes and sheer willpower. Jet lag had burrowed into his bones, making every morning feel like a battle against gravity. The time difference wasn’t even that bad, but somehow, it was enough to leave him feeling perpetually out of sync, like his body hadn’t quite figured out what country it was in.

On the other hand, Mi Sun had the luxury of working remotely as a graphic designer, her days filled with the sporadic bursts of creativity that came whenever she felt inspired. She could work odd hours and savor the quiet of their new apartment, which was still a haphazard jumble of unpacked boxes and half-assembled furniture. It felt like a war zone of IKEA assembly and bubble wrap, but Chan loved it. He just wished he didn’t have to go to the office while Mi Sun basked in the chaotic comfort of their home.

By now, his days had settled into a rhythm—if one could call it that. Wake up at an ungodly hour, drag himself into a suit that always felt a little too stiff, commute to the office, sit through meetings, answer emails, coordinate schedules, go home. Rinse and repeat. He had never thought of himself as a salaryman, but here he was, thirty years old, sore in places he never used to be, rubbing his temples over spreadsheets, and sighing into his morning coffee like a proper office worker.

It wasn’t bad, exactly. There was comfort in routine, in the predictability of it all. A kind of numb satisfaction in knowing what each day would bring. After everything—after the chaos of his twenties, after the music, after Korea the first time—he’d thought this was what he wanted. A stable job. A quiet life. A warm apartment to come home to.

By Friday night, Chan was so exhausted that all he wanted was a night in—sweatpants, a takeout menu, and a movie marathon. He envisioned sinking into the couch with a steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae and a couple of glasses of wine. Maybe they could cuddle up and finally enjoy their new home, which still felt more like a storage unit than a cozy haven.

Except, of course, Mi Sun had other ideas.

“We have to go out for dinner tonight!” she announced the second he stepped into the apartment, practically bouncing on her heels.

Chan barely had time to drop his bag before she was in front of him, eyes bright, hands clasped together like she was about to deliver the best news in the world.

He sighed. Here we go.

“Babe,” he groaned, already feeling the argument slipping through his fingers, “we have food here. We always have food here.”

“Ramen isn’t food,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “We’ve been living on instant noodles and convenience store kimbap for two weeks. That’s not sustainable, Chan.”

“I think it’s very sustainable,” he muttered, toeing off his shoes. “Quick. Easy. Minimal effort.”

“But we’re in Korea!” Mi Sun threw her arms up, exasperated. “This is the food capital of the world, and we haven’t had a real meal yet!”

“We have had plenty of real meals,” Chan argued weakly.

Mi Sun scoffed. “Yeah, ones we made while sitting on the floor at two in the morning because we still don’t have a dining table.”

Chan paused. Okay. Fair point.

“Besides,” she continued, undeterred, “I found this amazing Korean barbecue place, and I’ve been reading about it all day, and we have to go.”

Chan exhaled through his nose, bracing himself against the siren song of her enthusiasm. He knew where this was going. She was already bouncing a little, already smiling too wide, and he could feel his resolve slipping before he had even really put up a fight.

“I’m just saying,” he tried one last time, voice weary, “the couch is right there. I just got home. I am thirty years old, Mi Sun. I have aches now.”

She gasped dramatically. “You’re making it sound like you’re on your deathbed.”

“I am on my deathbed. My back is killing me.”

“And you know what fixes that? Meat.”

Chan narrowed his eyes. “That’s not—”

“Meat, Chan,” she insisted, stepping forward and grabbing his hands. “Delicious, grilled, marinated meat. And side dishes. And cold beer. Imagine it. You don’t even have to cook! You just sit there, and they bring you all the food. Doesn’t that sound so much better than leftover instant noodles?”

It did. But that was beside the point.

He sighed heavily, like he was truly putting up a fight, but the truth was, he had already lost.

Because Mi Sun was always excited. About food. About moving. About planning their wedding. About every new thing Korea had to offer. And Chan—tired, practical, ever in search of peace—had never been the type to match her energy. But sometimes, it was nice to just let himself be swept up in it.

So, he dropped his head in mock defeat. “Fine,” he relented, a slow, tired smile breaking through. “But only if you promise to eat your weight in meat.”

Her eyes lit up. “Deal.”

And just like that, he was already stepping into the bedroom to change, because as much as he had wanted to stay home, he had never really stood a chance.

By the time they were dressed and in a taxi, Mi Sun was buzzing, practically vibrating with excitement as she read off her phone. “Okay, so apparently this place is, like, the spot for traditional Korean barbecue. I looked up all the best cuts to order, so we don’t accidentally offend anyone. And I learned how to ask for extra banchan without sounding like a total tourist.” She cleared her throat, then tested out her Korean slowly, syllable by painstaking syllable. “Jeogiyo... banchan... deo... juseyo...”

Chan suppressed a laugh, rubbing at his temples. “That’s not bad.”

Mi Sun beamed. “Right?! I’ve been practicing all day.”

He decided against telling her that she had the pronunciation of a confused toddler.

Instead, he hummed in acknowledgment, barely listening as she continued listing facts about the restaurant. His thoughts kept drifting back to their couch, to sweatpants and a hot meal, to the sheer luxury of not having to be in pants that fit just a little too snug after weeks of odd-hour snacking and takeout.

But Mi Sun was excited. She was always excited.

And so here they were.

When they arrived, she straightened her shoulders and marched up to the host with all the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business feeling confident. “Annyeonghaseyo!” she greeted, bright and determined. “Yeyak... isseoyo!”

Chan winced immediately.

The host, a middle-aged man with a polite but deeply tired expression, stared at her like he was trying to decipher a foreign language—which, to be fair, he kind of was.

“I—uh—” Mi Sun cleared her throat, then pulled up the reservation confirmation on her phone, grinning proudly as she handed it over.

The host blinked, exhaled very slowly, and then nodded. “Right this way,” he said in perfect, unbothered English.

Mi Sun wilted a little.

Chan bit his lip to keep from laughing as he nudged her forward.

“I swear, it’s like I’m trying to learn a whole new language every time I open my mouth,” she muttered under her breath, cheeks flushing pink.

“You are trying to learn a whole new language,” he pointed out, amused.

She nudged him in the ribs. “Shut up.”

Still grinning, Chan followed her inside.

They were led through the restaurant, past crowded tables and sizzling grills, until they reached a set of sliding doors. The host pulled them open, revealing a dimly lit private room.

Chan stepped inside—and immediately had a full-body seizure.

His heart stopped. Then started again at triple speed. Then stopped again.

He was definitely dying. He had never died before, but this had to be what it felt like.

Because inside, gathered around a long table, was an entire crowd of people. Familiar faces. Too familiar. His past, his old life, his secrets, all of it.

Every single mistake he had tried to leave behind, sitting there in a neat little package, dressed up and smiling at him.

The banner on the wall caught his eye like a beacon of doom, confirming his worst nightmare. Congratulations on Your Engagement!

Chan swore he felt the fabric of reality tear apart at the seams.

“Surprise!” the entire room erupted in unison, voices bright and cheerful.

He was going to throw up.

“What the—” he wheezed, stumbling to a halt. He could hear his own pulse thudding violently in his ears.

His brain, overworked and under-caffeinated, refused to process.

And then, like the universe had decided to personally kick him in the ribs, his gaze landed on Felix, standing at the front of the group, grinning like he had been waiting all day for this.

“Surprised, mate?” Felix called, lifting a drink in his direction.

Chan couldn’t breathe.

But it wasn’t just Felix. His eyes darted around the room, face after face, ghosts of a life he had long since buried. College friends, old drinking buddies, people who had seen him blackout drunk, people who had been on stage with him, people who had spent years watching him chase his music career with reckless, starry-eyed ambition.

This was everybody.

The weight of it all crashed over him like a ten-foot wave.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, his entire existence crumbling.

Beside him, Mi Sun beamed, completely oblivious to the absolute horror clawing its way up his throat. She was practically glowing with excitement, squeezing his arm like she had just delivered the best gift in the world.

“I know how much your time in Korea meant to you!” she said, her voice giddy with pride. “And you never really made new friends in Australia, and you always talked about all these people you used to know, so I went full detective and invited everyone I could find!”

Chan turned to her in pure disbelief.

She what?

He could not breathe. Could not think. Could not comprehend the scale of the disaster unfolding before him.

“You—” His voice broke. “You what?”

Mi Sun clasped her hands together, still glowing. “I invited all your old friends!”

The weight of her words crashed into him like a freight train.

He was having a heart attack. He was. He could feel it in his bones. His lungs. His soul.

His fiancée—his very sweet, very well-meaning, very dangerously uninformed fiancée—had just unknowingly assembled a room full of the exact people he had spent years keeping from her.

People who knew things.

People who remembered him not as a clean-cut salaryman with a steady job and a stable relationship, but as a chaotic, desperate, twenty-something-year-old who had spent his entire youth drinking, singing, fighting for scraps of recognition in the underground music scene.

People who had known him when he was in love.

People who had known exactly who he had been in love with.

Chan could barely keep his soul inside his body.

“Felix just flew in today!” Mi Sun continued, oblivious, gesturing toward Felix like this was a completely normal and rational situation.

Felix gave him an exaggerated wave, his grin way too smug.

“Isn’t this amazing?” Mi Sun practically squealed. “Everyone’s so happy to see you!”

Chan’s entire world cracked.

“Yeah,” he croaked out, barely managing to make a sound. “Amazing.”

His vision blurred. His thoughts raced.

What was he going to say to them?

How was he supposed to face them knowing the way he had left?

This wasn’t a reunion. This was a reckoning.

His stomach twisted as he forced himself to smile—for Mi Sun, for the sake of keeping his secrets buried.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” he said, his voice shaking despite himself.

Mi Sun smiled so wide it hurt. “Of course I did! You mean so much to me, and I know you miss them.”

Chan’s heart twisted violently in his chest.

He had missed them. He had. But not like this.

Not all at once.

Not in a way that could tear his entire life apart in real time.

Chan's thoughts were still racing when Felix stepped forward, breaking through the haze of his anxiety. Chan had spoken to him on the phone earlier that day, checking in to make sure he’d landed safely, but he hadn’t expected to see him so soon.

“Chan!” Felix exclaimed, his voice a burst of warmth that cut through the chatter of the room. “Mate, it’s so good to see you!” He wrapped Chan in a bear hug that felt like a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts.

Chan squeezed him back, grateful for the familiar embrace. “You made it!” he said, trying to muster genuine excitement as he pulled away.

“Yeah, I did!” Felix’s smile was infectious, brightening the atmosphere around them. “Mi Sun kept this all under wraps like a true secret agent. I didn’t think I’d get to see you until next week!”

“I guess she’s full of surprises,” Chan replied, glancing over at Mi Sun, who was chatting animatedly with some of the other guests.

Felix must have sensed the shift in Chan’s demeanor because he leaned in closer, lowering his voice slightly. “You alright, mate? You look a bit overwhelmed.”

The deep timbre of Felix's Australian accent wrapped around Chan like a comforting blanket, a sound he hadn’t realized he missed until now. It felt grounding amidst the murmuring in Korean that surrounded them—a language he had been wrapped in for so long but felt alien after years away.

“Just… a lot happening at once,” Chan admitted, trying to keep his expression light. “I didn’t expect to be ambushed by all my friends tonight.”

“Ambushed is the right word,” Felix chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “But it’s good, isn’t it? Everyone missed you. You need this, mate. It’s a homecoming party!”

Chan nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, I guess it is.” But the reality of that sentiment twisted in his gut. It felt more like a reckoning than a celebration.

Felix studied him for a moment, then grinned wider. “Come on, let’s grab a drink! You need to loosen up a bit. I promise, it’s all just good vibes tonight.”

“Right, good vibes,” Chan echoed, trying to convince himself. He followed Felix to the bar area, feeling like he was stepping into a whirlwind of memories. The laughter, the familiar faces—it was both exhilarating and terrifying.

Chan felt the tension in his chest ease slightly as Felix handed him a drink, a cold beer that fizzed cheerily in his hand. “Here you go, mate! Let’s get this party started!” Felix said, his positivity radiating like sunlight.

“Thanks,” Chan replied, trying to muster a smile. He took a sip, letting the bubbles tickle his nose, but the momentary comfort was overshadowed by the reality of the crowd around him. Felix and Mi Sun were buzzing with excitement, oblivious to the whirlwind of anxiety swirling in Chan’s mind.

“Come on! Let’s mingle!” Felix urged, nudging Chan forward into the throng of people. Chan allowed himself to be pushed along, knowing that avoiding everyone would only draw attention.

They approached a group of old college friends who welcomed Chan with cheerful greetings and warm hugs. “Chan! Long time no see! How’ve you been?” one of them exclaimed, clapping him on the back.

“Yeah, it’s been a while!” Chan said, forcing his voice to sound more enthusiastic than he felt. “Just been… busy with work and stuff.”

“Right, we heard you’re not doing music anymore. It’s such a shame!” another friend chimed in, her eyes sparkling with nostalgia. “You were so talented! Remember how close 3RACHA was to taking off? It felt like you guys were on the brink of something big!”

Chan’s heart sank a little at the reminder. “Uh, yeah, we had some good times,” he replied, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. He felt his heart race as they began to reminisce about the good old days, stories of late-night practices, and the countless hours spent writing music. He was able to fake it, smile and laugh, but in the back of his mind, the reality of his past was gnawing at him.

“Have you seen Han around? I think I spotted him earlier,” one of his college friends mentioned, looking around. “Haven’t seen Changbin though. Where’s that guy?”

At the mention of Han’s name, Chan’s gaze instinctively began scanning the room. He spotted a familiar figure at the other end, a short, small frame nursing a glass. Chan’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized Han, looking somewhere between casual and comfortable, but the way he held his shoulder suggested he wanted to escape the crowd.

“Yeah, I see him!” Chan chimed in, attempting to sound nonchalant. But as his eyes continued to wander, they landed on a figure standing next to Han. His breath caught in his throat, and he nearly choked on his drink.

Chan’s stomach plummeted straight into hell.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

The tall, lean figure had chiseled bone structure and jet black hair that hung just too long in every direction, enough to fall into his eyes and dust the back of his neck. Chan had memorized every curve of that body over the seven years they had been together. The memories flooded back, and he felt the weight of nostalgia crashing over him like a wave.

It was Jeongin.

As if sensing Chan's gaze even before he turned his head, Jeongin looked back, taking a moment to assess Chan from head to toe. His mischievous smile grew across his lips, like a fox that had finally cornered its prey—

He had been waiting for this.

He looked infuriatingly unchanged, still so effortlessly himself. A sleek, tailored suit hugged his frame, impossibly sharp yet worn with the kind of casual confidence that made it feel more like an extension of him rather than something he had to put on. He had always dressed like this—like he came from money that had never existed, like he was a main character in some high-end fashion editorial, like he was born to be looked at. The subtle gleam of a designer bag slung over his shoulder only added to the effect, polished yet nonchalant, intimidating and gorgeous all wrapped into one sharp human being.

Chan, who had spent the last two weeks trying to shrink into the most unobtrusive, boring version of himself, felt like he had just been thrown under a spotlight.

“Oh no,” he muttered under his breath, realizing that he had just been caught staring at his ex-boyfriend.

“Chan? You okay?” Felix asked, glancing at him with a puzzled expression.

“Yeah! Totally fine!” Chan replied too quickly, his voice rising an octave as he tried to act normal. He raised the drink to his lips, but it nearly spilled as he tried to take a sip while keeping his eyes glued to Jeongin.

“Do you need a breath of fresh air or something?” Felix asked, misreading Chan’s sudden tension.

“Uh, no! Just… uh… enjoying the party!” Chan said, but his eyes betrayed him as they flickered back to Jeongin, who was now whispering something to Han, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Right. Because it totally looks like you’re enjoying it,” Felix remarked, chuckling at Chan’s flustered expression.

Chan felt like he was spiraling, laughter bubbling up as he tried to play it cool. “I just—” But as Jeongin leaned in closer to Han, a teasing smile still on his lips, Chan’s brain short-circuited. “I think I need to—”

Chan barely had time to finish his thought before Jeongin started walking toward him, his confident stride echoing in Chan’s mind like a drumbeat. Each step felt like a countdown, the space between them closing faster than Chan could process. The way Jeongin moved was almost predatory, and that Cheshire smile spread across his lips, teasing and knowing.

“Oh no, he’s coming this way,” Chan whispered to himself, fingers tightening around his drink like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

Jeongin walked like he had all the time in the world, like he knew exactly what he was doing. That signature, lazy, I’m up to no good swagger. The kind of confidence that said, I’ve already won, and I’m just here to watch you suffer.

And that smile.

That Cheshire-cat, fox-in-the-henhouse, devil-at-the-door smile.

Chan was going to die. This was it. This was the end.

Meanwhile, Mi Sun and Felix were still blissfully oblivious, chatting about the restaurant décor like there wasn’t a walking disaster from Chan’s past currently prowling toward him with bad intentions and great bone structure.

Felix elbowed him. “Mate, you seriously good? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

A ghost would have been kinder.

Chan was still too busy having a stroke to answer.

Because Jeongin was almost here.

Because this was the first time they had stood face to face in years.

Because Jeongin knew things. Dangerous, messy, incriminating things.

Because Jeongin was about to open his mouth, and if history had taught Chan anything, it was that Jeongin never opened his mouth unless it was to say something deeply unholy.

Chan had approximately one second left to live.

And then—

“Jagiyaaaa,” Jeongin crooned, dragging the word out like honey, smooth and dangerous and utterly devastating. “Long time no see.”

Chan choked on his beer.

He coughed so violently that Felix had to thump him on the back.

Mi Sun, ever helpful, gasped. “Oh my god, is he choking?!”

“I—” Chan wheezed, waving them both off. “I’m fine.”

He was not fine.

Jeongin looked deeply amused.

Chan felt like a deer caught in headlights, his thoughts spiraling rapidly as he stumbled through a response.

“Um, this is—” He gestured wildly, barely forming words. “This is Felix.”

Felix, ever the Australian golden retriever of a man, grinned and stuck out a hand. “G’day, mate!”

Chan watched in horror as Jeongin actually shook it.

“Felix is my friend,” Chan blurted, talking way too fast as he tried to contain the damage. “My coworker from Australia. He—uh, he works in HR.”

Jeongin tilted his head, expression pure entertainment. “Oh, HR, huh?”

Why did that sound sarcastic?

“And this is Mi Sun,” Chan continued, forcing the words out like they physically pained him. “My… fiancée.”

It was like saying it aloud in Jeongin’s presence made it real in a way it hadn’t been before. The word landed like bricksin his mouth. It hurt to say.

Jeongin’s lips curled slowly. His eyes flickered with undeniable amusement, the way a cat might look at a mouse beforedeciding whether or not to play with it first.

“Fiancée, huh?” Jeongin repeated, drawing the word out, savoring it like it was a joke that only he was in on. “Wow. Congrats, Chan. That’s a… big step.”

Chan wanted to dissolve into atoms.

Mi Sun, ever the bright-eyed optimist, clasped her hands together. “Oh! You must be one of Chan’s old friends!”

Chan physically winced.

Mi Sun stepped forward, glowing with enthusiasm, completely unaware that she had just stepped onto the world’s most dangerous landmine.

“안녕하세요! Jeongin, 만나서 반갑습니다!” (Hello! Jeongin, nice to meet you!) she greeted in painstakingly slow Korean, each syllable carefully placed, her accent clunky but determined.

Chan resisted the deep urge to whimper.

Please don’t, he begged in his head.

Jeongin’s eyes lit up like he had just been handed a personal challenge.

“Oh, 정말요?” (Oh, really?) he said smoothly, the Busan dialect slipping in effortlessly, silky and sharp, his words falling into familiar rhythms that made Chan’s stomach twist.

Mi Sun blinked, confused but still smiling. “네?” (Yes?)

And that was all Jeongin needed.

His gaze flickered, assessing, and then his lips curled—not in the polite, friendly way most people might when meeting their ex’s unsuspecting fiancée, but in the way someone about to cause problems on purpose might.

Chan felt a full-body shiver rattle through him.

Jeongin turned deliberately back to Mi Sun, his expression warm, almost kind, as if he were being helpful.

“그렇게 고마워요! 그런데 왜 이렇게 어색해요?” (Oh, thank you so much! But wow… why is this so awkward?)

It took exactly one second for Chan to realize what just happened.

Jeongin’s tone was breezy, conversational, innocent enough that anyone listening might assume he was just being polite. But Chan knew better.

Jeongin had heard Mi Sun’s Korean. Clocked it immediately. And now, he was deliberately choosing to speak just fast enough, with just enough of his thick Busan accent, that she wouldn’t stand a chance of keeping up.

And now, he was taking full advantage of it.

This wasn’t just a jab.

This was a chess move.

A smug, calculated move, designed to say whatever the hell he wanted while looking like he was being cordial and charming.

And the worst part?

Chan could already feel Felix and Mi Sun stiffening beside him. 

Something was off. They knew it. 

They weren’t saying it, but Chan could feel it—in the slight shift in their body language, in the way Mi Sun’s smile faltered just a fraction, in the way Felix’s cheerful expression dimmed slightly as his gaze flicked between the two of them.

It was just subtle enough that it sent Chan’s stomach into freefall.

They could tell there was something here.

They just didn’t know what.

And Jeongin?

Jeongin was loving it.

The glint in his eye was dangerous, mischievous, too damn pleased with himself.

He’s enjoying this, Chan realized, horrified. This is fun for him.

This was a game.

Chan, desperately, in English asked “What are you doing here?”

Jeongin blinked at him. Tilted his head. Then, in perfect, unbothered English, said—

“I was invited.”

Chan’s vision whited out.

Mi Sun gasped, clapping her hands together. “Oh my god, did I invite you?!”

Jeongin turned to her with a smile so sweet it could’ve been lethal.

“You did.”

Mi Sun beamed.

Felix, however, was still watching.

Chan could feel it—Felix’s gaze flicking between him and Jeongin, calculating, like he was piecing something together in real time.

Chan’s fight-or-flight response activated.

Do not piece anything together, Felix. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT—

"That’s amazing!" Mi Sun was still gushing. "I must’ve found you through one of Chan’s old contacts!"

Chan could feel the exact moment Jeongin decided to make it worse.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his attention back to Chan, his face a masterclass in faux innocence.

“Must’ve.”

Chan wanted to punch a hole through the floor and drop straight into the earth’s core.

And then—

Felix shifted.

It was small—just a subtle tilt of his head, a slow exhale through his nose, like he was considering something.

Like he was reading the air, feeling the weirdness, but then—

Chan saw the exact moment he convinced himself it wasn’t weird at all.

Felix nodded to himself, like he’d just figured it out.

“Oh,” he said, his grin returning. “Wow, yeah! You guys probably haven’t seen each other in forever. Bet you have a ton to catch up on.”

Chan’s entire body seized.

Felix, no.

Mi Sun lit up, clearly thrilled by this explanation. “Right? It must be so surreal seeing each other again after all this time!”

Felix, I am BEGGING you.

Felix, now fully committed to his new theory, nodded again, like this was all perfectly reasonable. “Yeah, man, it’s gotta be a bit of a shock, huh?”

Mi Sun sighed happily, looking between them like this was the beginning of a beautiful reunion. “Chris, this is so great for you.” She turned to Felix, grinning. “We should let them catch up properly.”

Felix snapped his fingers. “Yes! Perfect idea. We’ll give you two some space.”

Chan felt his soul attempting to leave his body.

“Wait—”

Mi Sun smiled reassuringly, clearly mistaking his internal devastation for social anxiety. “You’ll be fine!”

Felix clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Enjoy, mate.”

NO.

NO, NO, NO.

And then—

Felix and Mi Sun walked away.

Left him.

Alone.

With Jeongin.

Chan did not move.

Did not breathe.

He simply stood there, staring at the last thread of his sanity disappearing into the crowd, watching the only two people who could have possibly saved him leave him in the hands of his worst nightmare.

A long, horrifying beat of silence passed.

Then—

Jeongin took a slow sip of his drink.

Exhaled.

And, with obnoxious delight, said—

“Guess it’s just us now,” Jeongin said, his voice low and teasing, dripping with amusement. “So… how’s life been treating you, Jagi? Or can I even call you that anymore?”

Chan’s entire body locked up.

That word. That word. The one that should’ve been left in the past, buried under years of repressed emotions and bad decisions.

His eye twitched.

“That was mean,” Chan said stiffly, his voice two octaves lower in warning. “No.”

Jeongin, thrilled by the reaction, leaned in just slightly, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

“So anyway, Jagi,” he drawled, deliberately repeating it, his voice so sweetly obnoxious that Chan’s entire bloodstream converted into stress hormones. “How’s life been treating you?”

Chan saw red.

He didn’t think. He reacted.

His hand shot out, gripping Jeongin’s arm a little too hard, his fingers digging in just enough to make Jeongin raise a brow in amusement.

Without missing a beat, Chan’s head snapped around, scanning the room like a man actively concealing a crime, eyes landing on Mi Sun and Felix, thankfully distracted and oblivious.

And then, because nothing in his life could ever be easy, he dragged Jeongin—this smirking, smug, absolute menace—into the back corner behind the food table, where it was slightly more secluded.

Jeongin let it happen.

Didn’t resist. Didn’t complain. Just grinned the whole way like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“I’m right where you left me, Jagi,” he purred, the words dripping in honeyed venom, laced with something far deadlier beneath. Sweet on the surface, but sharp enough to cut deep, to twist the knife in a wound neither of them ever really let heal.

Chan felt the impact like a punch to the ribs, like the floor had been yanked out from under him. His stomach twisted violently, a raw, ugly ache blooming in his chest before he could shove it down. There it was. The truth buried beneath all of Jeongin’s sharp smiles and playful digs—the crack in the mask, the part neither of them acknowledged.

And yet, Jeongin had said it so lightly, so effortlessly, like it didn’t cost him anything at all.

Chan’s jaw clenched so tight it ached, a futile attempt to keep himself together, to not show just how deep those words had landed. He would not give Jeongin the satisfaction.

But God, did it sting.

He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard he nearly gave himself a migraine. “Why did you come here?” he ground out, voice filled with exhausted rage.

Jeongin sighed dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest in mock exasperation.

“Oh, you know,” he mused, voice far too casual. “Just checking in on my favorite ex. Making sure you’re still alive. Seeing how you’re doing with your…” He waved a vague hand toward the crowd, his lips curving into something sharp. “…new, exciting life choices.”

Chan sucked in a breath through his nose, willing himself not to react, not to give Jeongin the satisfaction. But the words, the tone—it was all so infuriatingly Jeongin. Infuriatingly personal.

“You can’t just pop up like this,” he whispered harshly, shooting another quick, frantic glance at Mi Sun and Felix, as if willing them to sense his distress and save him.

They did not.

Jeongin, still dangerously entertained, leaned back against the table. “Oh, come on,” he said, all feigned innocence. “It just looks like two old friends catching up. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

Chan’s left eye twitched again.

“Old friends?!” he hissed, shoving a furious whisper through clenched teeth. “You just roasted my fiancée’s Korean to her face!”

Jeongin waved a hand dismissively, looking utterly unbothered. “I was being helpful,” he said smoothly. “If she wants to live in Korea, she should probably get used to not sounding like she just learned how to order water yesterday.”

Chan felt actual steam threaten to come out of his ears.

“You can’t be here, Jeongin.” He pointed a warning finger at him, trying to summon any semblance of authority. “This isn’t the place for your—whatever this is.”

Jeongin leaned in slightly, his fox-like smirk creeping back into place.

“What?” he purred, eyes glinting with mischief. “Can’t a guy catch up with an old flame? Or are you worried your sweet, unsuspecting fiancée might hear a few…intimate details about your past?”

He wiggled his eyebrows.

Chan’s stomach fully evacuated his body.

His face flushed deep red, panic flaring so violently he nearly blacked out.

“It’s not about that,” he shot back, barely managing to keep his voice steady. “You don’t get to just—just waltz in here and start stirring the pot like it’s a game!”

“Stirring the pot?” Jeongin gasped, putting a hand over his heart like Chan had just wounded him. “I would never! I’m just adding a little flavor.”

Chan was going to jail tonight.

“Right, because this is just what I needed tonight,” he muttered, crossing his arms so he didn’t actually strangle Jeongin in front of witnesses.

Jeongin grinned, leaning in just a little closer.

“What’s the matter, Jagi?” he murmured, voice warm and dangerously smooth. “Afraid you’ll miss me too much?”

Chan rolled his eyes so hard his skull ached, but he couldn’t ignore the way something stupidly, stupidly familiarcurled in his chest at the way Jeongin said it like that.

His one weakness.

“I hate you,” Chan grumbled.

But it came out weak.

Barely convincing.

Jeongin’s grin widened. “Sure you do.”

And then—

Before Chan could will himself into an early grave, Jeongin’s eyes flicked back toward the room.

To Mi Sun.

Who, bless her sweet, kind, blissfully ignorant soul, just so happened to look over at that exact moment.

Jeongin’s smirk deepened.

And then, the worst thing happened.

Jeongin turned back to Chan and, in that same sickly sweet, I’m up to no good tone, said—

“You should smile.”

Chan blinked. “What?”

Jeongin took a slow sip of his drink, exhaled, then added, way too smoothly—

“Wouldn’t want them to think you’re having a bad time.”

And then.

Oh.

Oh, and then—

Chan watched in abject horror as Jeongin gave Mi Sun a small, exaggerated smile and a tiny, deeply mocking wave.

Mi Sun, bless her heart, smiled and waved back.

Completely clueless.

Completely oblivious to the fact that her entire engagement was currently being threatened by the devil himself, standing right next to her fiancé, smirking like he was already two steps ahead in whatever game he was playing.

Chan wanted to throw up.

Instead, he forced his most unnatural, deranged, I am definitely fine and not plotting a crime smile.

And Jeongin, fully enjoying himself, murmured—

“Good boy.”

Chan fully died.

Jeongin’s eyes darted back to him, clearly satisfied with the torment he’d stirred.

"You know," he started, his voice low and teasing, "I’m a little surprised she’s so… open. Not many people would be cool with their fiancé’s ex just hanging around, wouldn’t you think?”

Chan’s entire body tensed.

His face tightened at the jab, but he should’ve known better than to think that was the end of it.

“Jeongin—” he warned, his tone low, strained, but the other man was already going in for the kill.

“I mean,” Jeongin continued, that infuriating grin curling at the edges, “Does she know what you like?”

Chan’s stomach dropped through the floor.

His pulse stuttered—then shot straight into his throat.

“What are you talking about?” he muttered, trying and failing spectacularly to keep his voice steady. He could already feel the sweat forming at the base of his neck, panic clawing up his spine.

Jeongin tilted his head, his smirk widening, his eyes glinting with something sharp and wicked.

“Oh, come on, Jagi,” he murmured, voice dropping to something softer, smoother—but no less lethal.

Chan stopped breathing.

Because that tone—that specific, low, knowing tone—was dangerous.

It was the voice of someone about to ruin his entire life for their own personal entertainment.

“I know all your dirty little secrets,” Jeongin continued, his words like a knife wrapped in silk.

Chan’s throat went dry.

No. No, no, no—

Jeongin took one leisurely step closer, lowering his voice until only Chan could hear him, letting each word stretch out, precise and taunting.

“You tell her about how you used to beg for oppa? How you’d practically scream for it?”

Chan’s soul catapulted straight out of his body.

The way Jeongin dragged out the word—slow, deliberate, each syllable coated in venomous amusement—was an execution.

It wasn’t even a jab.

It was a public assassination.

Pure homicide.

Without thinking—without even considering the full scope of his idiocy—Chan lunged forward, slamming a shakinghand over Jeongin’s mouth so fast it made Jeongin’s eyes widen slightly in surprise.

Chan’s heartbeat was a bomb detonating in his ears.

He didn’t care how insane he looked—he didn’t care that it was possibly the most suspicious move he could have made—he just needed Jeongin to shut the hell up.

Immediately.

Jeongin’s laughter rumbled against his palm.

Not muffled frustration.

Not surprise.

Laughter.

Because of course.

Of course, this was fun for him.

Chan, sweating bullets, glancing around like a guilty man on trial, whispered harshly, “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Jeongin’s eyes danced with amusement.

Chan’s fingers twitched when he felt the smug curve of Jeongin’s smirk beneath his hand.

This was not going well.

This was not going well at all.

Jeongin’s gaze flickered downward, pointedly.

Chan suddenly became aware of how close they were.

How Jeongin hadn’t struggled.

How he was just standing there, letting Chan grip his face like some unhinged lunatic, clearly relishing the way Chan was falling apart in real-time.

Very, very slowly, Jeongin lifted his hand and pried Chan’s fingers off his mouth, one by one.

The whole time, he kept that infuriating eye contact.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was lower, softer, something almost… amusedly intimate.

“Oh,” Jeongin murmured, smug as hell. “I struck a nerve, didn’t I?”

Chan’s breathing hitched.

His hands balled into fists.

Jeongin leaned in, voice a silky purr, just enough to make Chan’s stomach twist.

“You’re still the same, aren’t you, Jagi?” he murmured, so close, too close. “Still love to be controlled—just in a different way now, huh?”

Chan jerked back like he’d been burned, his entire existence short-circuiting.

“Jeongin, stop,” he ground out, voice shaky with rage.

But Jeongin just grinned wider, tilting his head.

“Relax,” he said, mockingly soft. “I’m just having a little fun.”

Chan felt his entire life flash before his eyes.

He could not—would not—allow Jeongin to win.

Chan’s fists clenched at his sides, his body trembling with barely suppressed rage. “This isn’t a game, Jeongin,” he bit out, his voice low and dangerous. “You can’t just—” He swallowed, forcing his voice steady. “She doesn’t—” He stopped himself, but Jeongin was already watching him too closely.

The smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with something razor-sharp.

“She doesn’t what, Jagi?” Jeongin drawled, deliberately dragging out the nickname this time.

Chan’s breath hitched.

He had no way out of this.

He could lie, he could evade, but Jeongin was too good at this game.

So, before he could think better of it—before he could stop himself—the truth came tumbling out, raw and desperate.

"She doesn’t know anything."

The words hung between them, sinking deep.

For the first time that night, Jeongin stilled.

His expression didn’t flicker at first. Not right away.

Then, after a second—a beat too long—something shifted.

His smirk didn’t waver, not completely, but his eyes changed.

The amusement in them cooled.

And that was so much worse.

Chan could see the realization clicking into place, the pieces rearranging far too quickly.

Mi Sun doesn’t know.

She doesn’t just not know what we were—

She doesn’t know who I am.

She has no idea.

Chan felt the full weight of it land between them like a gavel hitting wood.

And Jeongin—always so quick, so sharp, so insufferably intuitive—looked almost impressed with what he’d just uncovered.

Almost amused.

His lips parted, like he was about to say something, some devastating little observation—

And that’s when Chan panicked.

"It was just a phase."

He didn’t even think.

Didn’t even let Jeongin speak.

Just threw the words between them like a wall, like a weapon, like something to keep Jeongin from seeing any further into him.

The moment the words left his mouth, Chan knew.

He saw it happen.

The exact second Jeongin’s expression changed.

It was fast—just a flicker, a subtle shift—but it was there.

Something hurt flashed through his eyes.

Something real.

But then—

Then it was gone.

Buried.

Replaced with an unreadable mask.

Jeongin blinked once, as if processing. Then he let out a light laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“A phase,” he echoed, voice lighter, but… off.

Chan hated the way his stomach twisted.

Jeongin shrugged, brushing something invisible off his sleeve, the usual smirk back in place—just emptier.

“Right,” he said smoothly. “Just a phase. Sure.”

The sharpness of those two words sliced through Chan’s ribs like a blade.

He wanted to take them back.

Wanted to fix whatever just cracked between them.

But what was there to fix?

He’d made his choice.

So he said nothing.

Did nothing.

And Jeongin?

Jeongin studied him for half a second longer—then rolled his shoulders, forcing an easy grin.

“Well, good luck with that,” he said breezily, voice flippant, dismissive—but something about it felt wrong.

Chan’s chest ached.

And then—

Jeongin turned toward where Felix and Mi Sun were still chatting, plastering a smile onto his face.

“I should probably head back before I cause any more trouble,” he said lightly, but the sarcasm laced between the words was unmistakable. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect night, right?”

Chan’s stomach tightened.

Before he could say anything—before he could stop him—

Jeongin flashed a grin, lifted a hand in a casual wave, and murmured—

“See you around, Jagi.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked away. For the first time all night, Jeongin had left without looking back.

Chan stood there, staring at the space where Jeongin had been like an idiot who had just gotten steamrolled by fate itself.

His heart was still racing, his palms still clammy, his entire body still locked in a fight-or-flight response that refused to let go.

It was fine.

It was fine.

This was fine.

Except it wasn’t.

Because Jeongin was here.

Because Jeongin knew.

Because Jeongin had looked at him like he had never seen him before, like Chan had become some stranger, some mystery that needed solving, and that was so much worse than the teasing, the flirting, the taunts.

That was dangerous.

That meant Jeongin was going to dig.

And if Jeongin dug, if he pushed, if he really wanted to make a mess of things—

Chan was completely screwed.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and turned back toward the party.

Mi Sun was still talking to Felix, completely oblivious to the emotional train wreck that had just transpired ten feet away.

Chan didn’t know if he was relieved or horrified by that fact.

He forced himself forward, past the food table, past where Jeongin had disappeared into the crowd, past the pit of panic in his stomach that still hadn’t settled.

He slid back into place beside Mi Sun, slipping an arm loosely around her waist as naturally as he could manage.

Her face lit up instantly, bright and sweet and warm—because of course it did.

Because Mi Sun was good.

Because Mi Sun loved him.

Because Mi Sun had no idea who had just been standing across from her, smirking like the devil with a secret.

“You okay?” she asked, tilting her head toward him.

Chan swallowed thickly. Lied through his teeth.

“Yeah. Just catching up.”

Mi Sun’s smile widened, her shoulder lightly bumping against his in an absent gesture of affection, as if this were any other conversation.

Felix, standing beside them, nudged him with his elbow. “You guys have a lot of history, huh?”

Chan’s stomach plummeted.

Felix hadn’t meant anything by it. He was just talking.

But Chan felt the words sink their claws into him.

He forced a swallow, throat dry. “Yeah,” he said, voice tight. “Something like that.”

Mi Sun, still beaming, nodded along. “You must’ve been really close, then,” she mused, glancing between them. “I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You don’t really talk much about your life in Korea.”

Felix grinned, clapping him on the back. “Bet it feels good to be back.”

Chan nodded. Didn’t say a word.

Mi Sun laced her fingers through his, squeezing gently. “I’m so happy you’re getting to see everyone again,” she said, her voice full of quiet warmth, pure sincerity radiating from every inch of her.

Chan exhaled slowly, glancing across the room—scanning for any sign of Jeongin, for any sign of that familiar foxlike smirk lurking in the shadows.

He found nothing.

And somehow, that was worse.

Chan forced himself to smile.

To push everything down.

To lock every emotion away so tight it would take a crowbar to pry it loose.

He squeezed Mi Sun’s hand back, pulled her a little closer, and ignored the way his chest still felt tight.

“Yeah,” he said, voice softer than he intended. “Me too.”

And then—because he had no other choice—he picked up his drink and let the party carry on.

Chapter Text

Jeongin strutted out of the restaurant like a man who had just won the lottery, head high, hands stuffed into his pockets, the picture of smug satisfaction.

It was a total act.

Han knew it.

Jeongin knew it.

But neither of them were saying it.

Yet.

They stepped onto the street, the cool night air rushing to greet them as the restaurant doors swung shut behind them. A heavy silence lingered for all of three seconds before Han let out the world’s most exasperated sigh and promptly smacked the back of Jeongin’s head.

“You idiot.”

Jeongin yelped, ducking away, his hands flying up in defense. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”

Han shot him a glare that could kill a lesser man. “For whatever that was back there!” He flailed an arm dramatically in the direction of the restaurant. “You hijacked an engagement party like some kind of maniac, spent the entire time tormenting your ex, and now you’re walking around like you just pulled off a master heist when, in reality, you got absolutely wrecked.”

Jeongin scoffed. “Wrecked?” He smoothed a hand over his hair, feigning offense. “Excuse you, I left that party with my dignity intact.”

Han leveled him with a stare so flat it could iron a shirt.

Jeongin held it for a grand total of two seconds before looking away. “Mostly intact.”

Han groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, whatever. What did he say to you?”

Jeongin’s smirk flickered for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. “Who?”

Han actually looked to the sky, as if begging the heavens for patience. “Don’t play dumb, you little jjanggu. Chan.”

Jeongin clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders with an exaggerated air of indifference. “Oh, you know. Just the usual. He panicked, nearly had an aneurysm, said some things, got all flustered—it was very amusing.”

Han eyed him like a man who had heard this brand of bullshit one too many times. “Uh-huh. And which of those things made you look like you wanted to stab a fork into the nearest table?”

Jeongin’s jaw tightened just a little. Not enough for most people to notice. But Han wasn’t most people.

Jeongin turned away, pretending to admire the neon signs blinking above them. “It’s not important.”

Han let out a slow, knowing hum. “Right. So definitely something very important, then.”

Jeongin groaned. “Jisung.”

“Jeongin.”

“I said it’s not important.”

“And I said you’re full of ttusek.”

Jeongin whirled back to face him, dramatically throwing his arms out. “Why do you care so much?”

Han threw his own arms out to match. “Because I had to stand there and watch while you played emotional chicken with your ex and lost!”

Jeongin sputtered. “I did not lose!”

“Oh really?” Han deadpanned. “So, the part where you stormed out of there looking like you just got punched in the heart? That was just...what? Performance art?”

Jeongin’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “It was tactical retreat.”

“It was mortifying is what it was,” Han shot back. “You went in there to make him miserable, and somehow, you walked out looking like you just had an existential crisis in real time.”

Jeongin clicked his tongue. “That’s an exaggeration.”

Han gave him a once-over. “You look like you need a drink and a hug.”

Jeongin let out a scandalized gasp. “How dare you.”

Han sighed. “You know, for someone who insisted on doing this, you sure seemed to be in a hurry to leave.”

Jeongin turned his nose up. “Because my work there was done.”

Han snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s why.”

Jeongin ignored him. “Besides, it’s not my fault Chan can’t handle a little pressure.”

Han shot him a look. “Jeongin, you detonated a nuclear bomb on that man’s entire existence.”

Jeongin grinned. “Yeah, wasn’t it beautiful?”

Han sighed. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me for it.”

“Debatable.”

Jeongin looped an arm around Han’s shoulder, leaning in dramatically. “Come on, admit it. You love being my trusty sidekick.”

Han shoved him off with an irritated huff. “Sidekick? Bitch, I was the only reason you made it out of there with your spine still intact.”

Jeongin grinned. “And that’s why you’re my favorite.”

Han groaned, rubbing at his temples. “I should’ve let Minho take you out back and throw you into the Han River.”

“Minho wouldn’t do that.”

“He would if I paid him.”

Jeongin snorted. “Yeah, sure—if he actually took your calls.”

Han froze mid-step, squinting at him. “Excuse me?”

Jeongin grinned wider, wiggling his eyebrows. “Just saying, I feel like I have better odds of getting him to commit to something.”

Han glared. “I will drown you myself.”

At that, Jeongin immediately clutched Han’s arm, draping himself over him like a Victorian widow in distress. “Hyung,” he whined dramatically, batting his lashes. “You would betray me like this? After everything we’ve been through? After all the love we’ve shared?”

Han made a disgusted noise and shoved him off. “Stop making it weird!”

Jeongin stumbled, clutching his heart like he’d been personally wounded. “Wow. That was so cold. No wonder Minho won’t text you back.”

Han kicked at him, exasperated. “I will throw you in this river.”

Jeongin barely dodged, snickering. “...I knew I should’ve brought Hyunjin instead.”

Han scoffed. “Oh, sure, like Hyunjin would’ve stopped you from making an absolute fool of yourself.”

Jeongin smirked. “No, but at least he would’ve filmed it.”

Han groaned so loudly a passing couple actually turned to look.

Jeongin snickered, bumping their shoulders together. “Come on, lighten up. Tonight was a success.”

Han shot him a look. “Was it?”

“Yes.” Jeongin’s smile faltered for a split second before he plastered it right back on. “And if Chan wants to go back to playing Mr. Perfectly Normal, that’s his problem.”

Han hummed. “Right. And that’s why you’re totally fine right now.”

“I am fine.”

“You’re very fine.”

Jeongin rolled his eyes. “Screw you.”

Han grinned, throwing an arm around Jeongin’s shoulders. “Nah, you love me.”

Jeongin huffed, but didn’t move away.

For a few moments, they walked in easy silence, the streetlights washing them in gold, the distant sounds of traffic filling the space between them. Then—

“You know,” Han said, his voice quieter now. Steadier. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”

Jeongin’s steps faltered, just slightly.

He inhaled sharply, masking it with a scoff. “Doing what?”

Han didn’t let him dodge it. “Acting like you don’t care.”

The words landed with a weight Jeongin wasn’t prepared for.

For a moment, just a moment, his mask slipped. The playful glint in his eye dimmed, the ever-present smirk faded, and something else surfaced—something raw, something too exposed under the neon glow of the city.

Then—just as quickly—he smothered it.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head like Han had just said something ridiculous. “You think too much,” he muttered, quickening his pace as they neared his moped, the little blue thing parked haphazardly between two nicer-looking scooters.

Han, undeterred, watched him for a beat longer. Then, with a dramatic groan, he stretched his arms over his head. “You know what I don’t think about?”

Jeongin unlocked the seat compartment, pulling out a spare helmet. “What’s that?”

“How I always end up on the back of this death trap.”

Jeongin smirked, tossing the helmet at him. “Because you love me, remember?”

Han barely caught it, frowning at it like it had personally offended him. “I love a lot of things, and yet I wouldn’t trust any of them to operate a moving vehicle.”

Jeongin climbed onto the moped, kicking up the stand. “Then you can walk.”

Han scowled at him. “You would leave me stranded in the middle of Seoul.”

“Would and will,” Jeongin chirped.

Han grumbled something unintelligible but begrudgingly climbed on behind him, tightening the helmet strap with a scowl. “This better not be one of those nights you try to outrun traffic lights.”

Jeongin revved the engine, grinning. “Hold on tight, hyung.”

Han groaned. “I hate you.”

Jeongin cackled as they sped off into the night, the wind whipping around them, the city stretching out before them like a movie set.

And maybe, just maybe, Jeongin let himself enjoy it.

The apartment was dark when Jeongin stepped inside, save for the dim glow from the kitchen where Minho stood, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea, looking every bit like he had been waiting for him.

Jeongin shut the door behind him with a quiet click, slipping off his shoes and tossing his keys into the dish on the entryway table. He barely had time to breathe before Minho’s voice cut through the quiet.

“How was it?”

Jeongin hesitated.

Minho didn’t move, didn’t even look up from his tea, just waited. He always did that—left space for Jeongin to lie if he wanted to, but not enough space for him to believe he’d get away with it.

So Jeongin did what he did best. He put on a smirk, shrugged off his suit jacket, and threw himself dramatically onto the couch. “A smashing success, obviously.”

Minho let out a sharp exhale through his nose. “Jeongin.”

Jeongin flopped onto his back, one arm draped over his forehead. “The scandal. The intrigue. The undeniable sexual tension.” He sighed dreamily. “If it were a drama, we’d already be renewed for season two.”

Minho finally looked at him. Flat. Unamused. Unmoved. “Uh-huh. And that’s why you look like someone just hit you with a truck.”

Jeongin groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Why do people keep saying that?”

Minho arched a brow. “Because it’s true.”

Jeongin exhaled hard, sitting up abruptly and running a hand through his hair, making it messier than it already was.

Minho watched, patient as ever.

Jeongin should’ve known better than to try to bullshit his way through this. Minho saw through him like glass.

Finally, he let his head fall back against the couch and muttered, “He said it was a phase.”

Silence.

Minho didn’t react at first, but Jeongin knew him too well. He saw it—the way his grip tightened around his mug, the way his jaw flexed just slightly before he exhaled, long and slow through his nose.

Then, like he was making sure he’d heard correctly, he repeated, “A phase.”

Jeongin let out a humorless laugh. “I know, right? Seven years. A whole ass apartment. That stupid little rice cooker we argued about for months.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Just a phase.”

Minho set his mug down on the counter a little too hard.

Jeongin sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Go ahead. Say it.”

Minho crossed his arms. “Say what?”

“That you told me so.”

Minho scoffed. “I don’t need to say it. We both know I told you so.”

Jeongin let out a weak laugh.

Minho’s voice softened, but the irritation was still there. “Why did you do this to yourself?”

Jeongin hesitated, then shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Felt like the right thing to do at the time.”

Minho let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “The right thing? For who?”

Jeongin exhaled hard, dropping his head into his hands. “For me, okay?” His voice was quieter now, fraying at the edges. “I just—I needed to see him.” He swallowed. “I needed to know.”

Minho watched him, his frustration still palpable, but something softer creeping in now.

A beat of silence stretched between them before Minho sighed and muttered, “You’re a dumbass.”

Jeongin huffed out a laugh.

Minho ran a hand through his hair. “I knew this was a bad idea. I told you this was a bad idea. But nooo, Jeongin never listens to reason.”

Jeongin smirked weakly. “If I did, I wouldn’t be me.”

Minho rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

A comfortable silence settled over them, the weight of the evening sinking in. Jeongin let his eyes flutter shut, exhaustion creeping up on him. But before he could drift, Minho spoke again.

“Jisung needs to stop enabling your dumb plans.”

Jeongin cracked an eye open. “You’re just mad I didn’t ask you to come with me.”

Minho scoffed. “Please. You know if I had been there, I would’ve physically dragged you out before you could embarrass yourself.”

Jeongin snorted. “Exactly. That’s why I didn’t invite you.”

Minho shot him a glare, but Jeongin just grinned.

Minho sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Han always gets caught up in your nonsense. You’re lucky he has a soft spot for you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeongin waved a hand. “Like you don’t.”

Minho scowled. “Mine is significantly less soft.”

Jeongin smirked. “I dunno. You let me live here for free.”

Minho deadpanned. “You pay rent.”

Jeongin grinned wider. “Not always on time.”

Minho grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and hurled it at his face.

Jeongin cackled, catching it before it could do any real damage.

A comfortable silence settled over them, the weight of the evening finally sinking in. Jeongin let his eyes flutter shut, exhaustion creeping up on him.

For a fleeting moment, he considered just passing out right here, sprawled dramatically across the couch like the tragic protagonist of some melodrama. But then—

“You need to let this go.”

Jeongin’s eyes snapped open.

Minho was still leaning against the counter, arms crossed, the ever-present look of judgment set firmly in place.

Jeongin groaned. “Oh, not you too.”

Minho arched a brow. “What do you mean, ‘not you too’? I’ve always been telling you to let this go.”

Jeongin scoffed, sitting up with a scowl. “Let him live his big fat lie in peace, is that it? Great advice. Really top-tier wisdom there, Minho.”

Minho tilted his head back like he was asking the ceiling for patience. “Oh, no. No, no, no, I know that tone—Jeongin, do not make this your problem.”

Jeongin crossed his arms, all righteous indignation. “It is my problem.”

Minho pointed at him. “No, it’s not.”

Jeongin pointed back. “Yes, it is.”

Minho gestured wildly. “Why?!”

Jeongin shot to his feet, his sheer sense of injustice giving him energy despite his exhaustion. “Because he’s lying to himself! He’s pretending like none of it meant anything. Like I didn’t mean anything.” His voice wavered, but he covered it quickly, shaking his head. “And I can’t just—let that happen.”

Minho stared at him, deadpan. “You can. And you should.”

Jeongin scoffed. “You don’t get it.”

Minho let out a long, slow sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, I do get it. I get it perfectly. You’re about to go full ‘I’m going to fix him’ mode, which is both stupid and dangerous, because A) You can’t, and B) It’s not your job.”

Jeongin clenched his jaw. “I’m not trying to fix him.”

Minho stared at him.

Jeongin hesitated. “...Okay, maybe a little.”

Minho threw his hands up. “See?! This is exactly why you’re a dumbass.”

Jeongin groaned, rubbing at his face. “I just—” He dropped his hands, frustration flickering into something vulnerable. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

Minho sighed, hands on his hips like a disappointed parent. “Jeongin. He is engaged.”

“Yeah. To a woman.”

Minho gave him a long, exhausted look. “Do not do what I think you’re about to do.”

Jeongin’s eyes gleamed, dangerous. “What do you think I’m about to do?”

Minho pointed aggressively. “Stay. Out. Of. It.”

Jeongin smirked. “I can’t make any promises.”

Minho exhaled sharply. “This is a terrible idea.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it is!” Minho practically shouted, arms flailing like an overworked kindergarten teacher. “You think if you just shake him hard enough, he’s going to wake up and realize he’s making a mistake?”

Jeongin tilted his head. “It worked in the movies.”

Minho gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “This is not a movie, Jeongin.”

Jeongin grinned, plopping back onto the couch. “Not with that attitude.”

Minho groaned into his hands. “I swear to god, if you turn this into some half-baked scheme—”

Jeongin gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like Minho had just deeply insulted him. “A scheme? Minho, please.”

Minho didn’t blink. “You’re literally scheming right now.”

Jeongin shrugged. “Strategizing.”

Minho gave him a look so dry it could turn the Sahara into a rainforest. “I should’ve put you up for adoption.”

Jeongin snickered, throwing his legs up onto the couch. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

Minho shook his head, like he was truly reconsidering his life choices. “Go to bed before you come up with more ways to ruin your own life.”

Jeongin stretched dramatically. “Fine.”

He pushed off the couch, heading toward his room, but paused in the doorway.

Minho didn’t look up, but he was listening.

Jeongin shifted, his voice quieter. “Thanks.”

Minho finally glanced at him, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, simply, “Don’t make me say I told you so again.”

Jeongin huffed a laugh. “No promises.”

And with that, he disappeared into his room.

Jeongin shut the door behind him, sealing himself in the quiet of his bedroom. For a moment, he just stood there, the low hum of the city filtering in through the window, the distant honk of a car, the murmur of late-night passersby. The buzz of Seoul, alive and unbothered.

Unlike him.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the night, but it clung to him, heavy and suffocating.

With a sigh, he peeled off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the chair in the corner, where it landed in a heap of expensive, wrinkled clothes he had been meaning to put away for days. It joined the rest of his chaos—the half-zipped designer bag still lying on the floor where he’d dropped it last week, the recycling bin overflowing with energy drink cans, the collection of water glasses sitting on every available surface like some kind of pathetic art installation. And, for some godforsaken reason, a wig hanging from the ceiling light.

He didn’t remember putting it there. He didn’t even know which performance it was from. But it swayed mockingly as he walked past, a reminder of his own disorder.

Three years, and he still hadn’t gotten any better at keeping his space together.

He used to try. In the beginning. In the first few weeks after Chan left, when the silence of their apartment had been unbearable, Jeongin had kept himself busy cleaning. He’d picked up his clothes, folded things properly, put dishes back where they belonged. But no matter how much he tried, it never looked right. Never felt right.

Because he wasn’t the one who was supposed to do it.

It had always been Chan.

Chan, who would sigh dramatically but never actually complain, picking up Jeongin’s hurricane aftermath with the patience of a saint. Chan, who would grumble about the way Jeongin stacked dishes in the cabinets like a raccoon on meth but never let him fix it because he’d rather do it himself. Chan, who would click his tongue every time Jeongin left shoes in the middle of the room but still wordlessly move them back to the entry where they belonged, like it was second nature.

Chan, who had never once asked Jeongin to change.

Who had lived with the chaos, grown around it, fit himself into it so naturally that Jeongin had never once considered what it would feel like if he wasn’t there to balance it out.

Now, there was no one to follow behind him, no one to fold his sweaters into neat little squares, no one to clear out the cans piling up in his room before they reached critical mass.

Just him. And his mess.

He sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing at his face, exhaustion finally sinking in. His hair, once perfectly styled for the party, was a wreck now, sticking up in uneven tufts from where he had run his hands through it too many times. He didn’t care.

None of it mattered now.

His fingers drifted over his phone on the nightstand, but he didn’t pick it up. Instead, he leaned back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. The wig above him swayed slightly from the motion, like it, too, was mocking him.

A phase.

The words still clung to him like smoke, acrid and bitter.

Like seven years of learning each other’s habits and pet peeves, of quiet mornings and late-night whispers, of fighting and making up and coming home to each other—like all of it could just be dismissed that easily.

Jeongin scoffed.

Seven years of falling asleep to Chan’s steady breathing beside him. Seven years of knowing exactly how he liked his coffee—iced, even in the winter, with just a little too much sugar. Seven years of waking up tangled together, of seeing Chan’s face first thing in the morning, half-asleep and soft in the early light, murmuring something about five more minutes.

And yet, Chan had walked away. Left him with an apartment he could barely afford, bills that suddenly doubled overnight, and an empty bed that felt too big without him in it.

Jeongin had cried once. That first night.

He had come home expecting Chan to be there, to be waiting, ready to fight or talk or something. But the apartment had been silent. No note. No message. Just... nothing.

It was the first time he had ever truly felt alone.

He had cried then, like an idiot, curled up on the couch with his arms wrapped around the pillow that still smelled like Chan. But that was three years ago. He had already done his crying. Had already survived the worst of it.

So why did it still ache?

Why, after all this time, could Chan still get under his skin so easily?

Jeongin let out a breath, slow and measured, before his expression sharpened again. No. He wasn’t going to let this get to him. Not now. Not again.

"A phase," he muttered under his breath, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.

Yeah. Right.

Jeongin sat up, running his hands down his face, pressing his palms into his eyes like he could rub out the ache buried deep in his chest. He didn’t know what he wanted. Didn’t know if he wanted Chan to suffer the way he had, to feel the kind of heartache that sank its claws into you and never let go, or if he just wanted Chan to acknowledge it. To acknowledge him.

Because that was the part that ate at him the most—the way Chan had stood there, stiff and smiling, his arm looped around some woman like she was his anchor to a whole new life where Jeongin had never existed.

Like he could just decide he was someone else. 

Jeongin inhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists. The Chan he saw at the party, with his carefully curated politeness and his goddamn fiancée by his side, was a stranger. That wasn’t the man Jeongin had loved. That wasn’t the Chan who used to cling to him in bed when he was cold, who used to tap out rhythms against Jeongin’s wrist absentmindedly while they sat on the couch, who used to look at him like he was something irreplaceable.

That Chan was still in there somewhere.

And Jeongin was going to bring him back.

His phone sat on the nightstand, its screen black and waiting. His fingers hovered over it for a moment before he grabbed it, gripping it a little too tightly.

He didn’t have a plan.

Not yet.

But he wasn’t going to sit still and let Chan rewrite history.

Let him pretend that what they had wasn’t real.

If Chan wanted to play pretend, Jeongin would remind him exactly what he was trying to forget.

He smirked to himself, sharp and reckless, something electric buzzing under his skin.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Jeongin tapped his phone screen, watching it light up with the last message that had started it all. The invitation.

He had been backstage before a show, smoothing concealer beneath his eyes with a practiced hand, when his phone buzzed on the cluttered makeup counter. He barely glanced at it, expecting some last-minute update about the lineup or maybe a cat meme from Hyunjin—something inconsequential. 

Then the notification flashed across the screen. And his makeup brush slipped from his fingers.

It clattered onto the counter with a dull thunk, rolling into a pile of setting powders and half-empty lip gloss tubes.

For a split second, he just stared at his phone.

Then—he scrambled.

Absolute chaos. Hands flailing, nearly knocking over a loose can of hairspray, smacking a palette off the edge of the counter in the process. He grabbed his phone like it might run away, unlocking it with the frantic speed of a man disarming a bomb.

His stomach dropped.

Mi Sun: Surprise! 💍🥰 We’re throwing an engagement party for Christopher!
Would love to see you there!! Can’t wait to catch up!
Hope you can make it!! ❤️

His vision blurred at the edges. A sharp twist in his gut. The old wound pressing hard against his ribs. Chan was engaged. Engaged.

The hurt came first—unexpected, unwanted. A weight in his chest, an ache in his hands as they clenched around the phone. But just as quickly as the hurt flared, it was eclipsed by something else.

Confusion.

Why?
Why him?
Why the hell would he, of all people, be invited to Chan’s engagement party?

“What the hell was that?” came Lee Know’s voice from across the room, suspicious in the way only Lee Know could be.

Jeongin clenched his phone in one hand, snatching the brush with the other. “Nothing.”

Lee Know narrowed his eyes. “That wasn’t a ‘nothing’ drop. That was a gasp and drop. Which means—”

His own phone vibrated.

Lee Know pulled it out, thumb swiping up the screen. His eyes flicked over the message.

And then—his entire demeanor shifted.

The amusement vanished. The teasing glint in his eyes snapped out like a light. His posture stiffened, his expression going unreadable.

A slow inhale. Even. Controlled.

Then, without a word, he locked his phone, slid it back into his bag, and turned to Jeongin with an air of finality.

“Delete it.”

Jeongin blinked. “Huh?”

Lee Know gave him a look. The kind that could shut down an entire room with nothing but sheer judgment. “You heard me. Delete it.”

Jeongin squinted at him, tilting his head. “Why?”

“Because it’s a terrible idea,” Lee Know snapped, standing up and turning to fully face him, arms crossing over his chest. “Don’t be stupid, Jeongin. Just ignore it.”

Jeongin huffed. “I can’t ignore it.”

“Yes, you can.” Lee Know’s voice was tight with barely restrained patience. “You tap that little ‘delete’ button, and—poof! It’s gone. Problem solved.”

“But—”

“No.”

Jeongin crossed his arms, phone still clutched in one hand. “How do you even know what I’m looking at?”

Lee Know blinked, unimpressed. “Because I got the same text.”

Jeongin’s stomach flipped.

Lee Know tapped his fingers against his arm, his patience wearing thinner by the second. “Delete it.”

“No.”

“Jeongin.”

“Nope.”

Lee Know’s nostrils flared. “For the love of—do not engage.”

Jeongin scoffed, flopping dramatically into his chair. “But why did she invite me? Why did she invite you? What the hell is that about?”

“I do not care,” Lee Know deadpanned. “I am not entertaining this.”

Jeongin twirled his brush between his fingers. “You’re no fun.”

“I am plenty fun,” Lee Know shot back. “I just don’t derive my fun from emotionally waterboarding myself.”

Jeongin huffed. “You’re being dramatic.”

Lee Know’s brows lifted. “Oh, I’m being dramatic? I’m the dramatic one?”

Jeongin gave him his best innocent look. “Yes.”

Lee Know pointed a warning finger at him. “Listen to me, brat. The man hurt you. He is not worth it. I am not going to stand by and watch you set yourself on fire for a guy who threw you away.”

Jeongin pursed his lips, staring stubbornly at his reflection in the vanity mirror.

Lee Know sighed, softening just a fraction. “It’s not just about you, either,” he muttered, voice lower now. “It’s stupid and mean to crash someone’s engagement party just because you’re mad.”

Jeongin arched a brow at him in the mirror, a slow, smug smirk creeping up his lips. “Who said anything about being mad?”

Lee Know groaned. “Nope. Nope. Not doing this. I already know that look, and I refuse to be involved.” He snatched up his lipstick and turned back to his own mirror, dabbing it on with extra aggression. “Find some other idiot to go with you.”

So he did.

Because when Mom says no, you ask Dad.

Which is how Jeongin found himself sprawled across Han’s couch later that night, phone dangling lazily between his fingers as he prepared his second attempt at persuasion.

Except—

Han didn’t immediately say no.

Because Han had already received the text.

And Han had already said no—just, to himself, in the privacy of his own home, where he had dramatically thrown his phone across the room upon reading the words engagement party for Christopher.

Now, faced with Jeongin, he was reliving the horror in real time.

Han went through at least seven emotions in five seconds.

1. Confusion. (Did he hear that right?)
2. Disbelief. (No, really, did he hear that right??)
3. Horror. (Oh god, he did hear that right.)
4. Concern. (For both himself and humanity.)
5. Resignation. (Because this was Jeongin.)
6. Internal crisis. (Because this was Chan.)
7. Absolute defeat.

“What the actual fuck,” Han muttered, staring at his own phone like it had personally offended him.

“Right?” Jeongin said, flipping onto his back like a teenage girl on a landline.

“No, like… seriously. What. The. Fuck.” Han threw his phone onto the coffee table like it carried a contagious disease. “First of all, I would rather eat my own foot than go to that. Second of all, why me?”

Jeongin rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin up with his hands. “He invited all of us.”

Han pointed an accusing finger. “But why?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Han threw his hands up, then immediately dragged them down his face. “This is so stupid.”

“That’s what Lee Know said.”

“And he was right!” Han flailed an arm dramatically. “You cannot seriously be thinking about going to this.”

Jeongin didn’t respond. Just stared at him, expression blank.

Han’s eyes narrowed. “Oh my god, of course you’re going.”

Jeongin preened. “Obviously. And you’re coming with me.”

Han physically recoiled like Jeongin had just coughed directly into his mouth. “Excuse me?! Absolutely not.”

Jeongin rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. I need backup.”

“No, you want an audience,” Han corrected.

Jeongin only grinned wider.

Han groaned, tilting his head back like he was begging the ceiling for strength. “Why am I even entertaining this?”

Jeongin shrugged, smug. “Because deep down, you know I’m right.”

Han slowly leveled him with a look. “You are never right.”

Jeongin tsked, wagging a finger. “Not true. Sometimes I’m right.”

Han let out the world’s longest sigh, sinking further into the couch. “You do realize this is a bad idea?”

Jeongin shrugged. “You do realize I’m going no matter what?”

Han’s mouth snapped shut.

Because he did realize.

He knew Jeongin was going to do this. Hell or high water, good decision or not, Jeongin was going to walk into that engagement party like he owned the place.

And suddenly, Han was stuck at a crossroads.

Because on one hand, he had zero interest in ever seeing Chan’s face again. The man had left 3RACHA high and dry just as they were starting to gain traction, and Han had been forced to pick up the pieces alongside Changbin. If it had been up to him, Chan would’ve remained nothing more than a forgotten contact in his phone.

But on the other hand…

He’d seen what happened when Chan left.

He had watched Jeongin spiral.

He had heard the cracks in his voice, the way he said he was fine, the way he wasn’t.

And now, he was watching Jeongin dive headfirst into this train wreck, fully knowing it was going to end in disaster.

Han groaned so loudly it was almost a scream. “Oh my god, I’m an enabler.”

Jeongin beamed.

Han pointed a dramatic finger. “If I go, it is not because I support this in any way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“If I go, it is only to make sure you don’t do something so stupid that I have to commit actual violence to bail you out.”

“Of course.”

Han exhaled sharply, staring at him. “You are such a menace.”

Jeongin patted his knee. “And you love me for it.”

Han groaned, rubbing his temples. “I swear, I have never met anyone who thrives off chaos like you do.”

Jeongin gasped, offended. “Excuse me, have you met Hyunjin?”

“Okay, fine, second place.”

“Rude, but accepted.”

Han sighed again, sinking into the couch like it had just personally betrayed him. “Fine. I’ll go. But if we get kicked out, I am leaving you there.”

Jeongin threw an arm around him. “You are the best.”

Han shoved him off. “Oh, I know. And I will remind you of that every single time I complain about this for the rest of my life.”

Jeongin cackled.

Because as much as Han fought it, he was in.

And if Jeongin was going to burn this place to the ground, at least he’d have someone to hold the lighter fluid.

And that had been the final push. The reason he had dragged Han along despite Minho’s very valid protests. Because he had to know.

And now? Now, he did.

Chan hadn’t invited him. Hadn’t even known the party was happening.

That fact alone should’ve been enough to send Jeongin straight to bed, to let the whole thing rest, to let Chan live in whatever picture-perfect lie he had built for himself.

But Jeongin had never been very good at leaving things alone.

No matter how much he scrubbed it from his life, Chan was still carrying Jeongin around like a ghost.

So maybe it was time Jeongin stopped haunting him quietly.

A smirk curled at his lips as he opened up the message thread.

He hovered over the keyboard for a moment before typing, fingers flying with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Jeongin: Mi Sun! I just wanted to say thank you again for inviting me tonight! It was such a wonderful surprise, and I can’t tell you how much it meant to reconnect with Chan after all these years! It really brought back so many memories... I can’t wait to see more of you both now that he’s back in Korea! Let’s plan something soon? 😊💖

He hit send with a flourish, tossing his phone onto the bed and grinning up at the ceiling like a cat who had just knocked something expensive off a shelf.

Mi Sun had unknowingly opened a door.

And Jeongin?

Jeongin was about to be the best friend Chan had ever had.

Chapter Text

Chan had never needed to adjust to working nights.

He had spent years staying up until dawn, holed up in his bedroom with his laptop and MIDI keyboard, tweaking beats, layering sounds, chasing down ideas before they could slip away. Sleep had never come easy when there was work to be done, and for Chan, there was always work to be done. If it wasn’t for his rap trio, 3RACHA, then it was for his classes. And when school finally ended—when there were no more assignments, no more lectures, no more structure—he had thrown himself into production even harder, desperate to fill the gap.

Because if he stopped—if he let himself breathe—then he might have to face the fact that he had no idea what came next.

But passion didn’t pay rent.

It had been Han who tipped him off about the club gig.

“I’d take it myself,” Han had admitted, stretched out on Chan’s couch like he had all the time in the world, one arm lazily draped over his eyes. “But I’ve still got a year left, and Bin’s got another semester. You’re the only one of us who’s actually done with school and, you know—about to be homeless.”

Chan had sighed, setting his laptop aside to rub at his temples. “I’m not about to be homeless.”

“You’re about to be broke as hell,” Han corrected without missing a beat. “So, you’re welcome for saving your ass.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Graduating had felt like a finish line right up until he had crossed it, only to realize there was nothing waiting on the other side. No job offers. No prospects. Just a degree that wasn’t worth half as much as experience, and the slow, creeping dread that he had spent years chasing something that might never pay off.

The club job wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t a big production house, wasn’t a name that would impress anyone. But it was an in.

A real job.

It was sound engineering, working with actual equipment, live music. And most importantly—it was a paycheck.

So Chan had jumped at it, eager, determined, willing to do whatever it took to prove himself.

He threw himself into the work the way he always did—headfirst, like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.

When other techs wound cables carelessly, looping them tight around their forearms, Chan took his time, carefully following the over-under method to protect the internal wiring. When the DJ packed up for the night, Chan was already there, making sure every XLR was wrapped, every mic was stored properly, every fader on the board was returned to zero. He studied the soundboard, learning its quirks, memorizing its settings.

Every night, he watched, he listened, he learned.

Because this was his chance—his real, first chance—to be in the industry. It wasn’t producing his own music, not yet, but it was closer than working at a café, closer than sitting in his bedroom praying for something to happen.

He was willing to do whatever it took.

But Thursday night felt… different.

Chan had built a routine around this job. Even in the chaos of live sound, he had found structure—something reliable in the way the nights flowed. Soundcheck, house mix, DJ set, teardown. Same process, different night.

There was comfort in that rhythm, in the predictability of it all. He knew when to expect the rush of customers, when to fade in the bass to set the mood, when the DJ would take over and he could sit back and monitor levels. It wasn’t the most creative job, but it had a rhythm, a logic that made sense.

But tonight, something was off.

It started with the chatter.

Chan wasn’t one to eavesdrop—at least, not intentionally—but when he overheard a couple of the barbacks talking in hushed, excited voices near the service door, his ears perked up.

“The girls are already getting ready in the back,” one of them said, leaning against the counter.

Chan frowned. That wasn’t the way they usually talked about the DJs. Most of the regulars were guys, and even when they did have a woman on the lineup, nobody ever called them the girls.

Maybe it was a guest set. Maybe one of the managers had booked a group of female DJs for the night. That wasn’t unheard of.

But then there were the other things.

The energy felt different.

The staff—normally busy and half-checked-out before the night picked up—were watching the floor, whispering to each other, shooting glances toward the green room. The servers, who usually cared about nothing but their tips, kept pausing between tables, sharing smirks, murmurs, inside jokes. The bouncer, a massive guy who rarely said a word, was actually laughing at something someone had said.

Like they all knew something he didn’t.

Chan didn’t like that.

Then there was the tracklist.

He had been in the booth, scanning through the loaded set for the night, when something made him pause.

Instead of the usual mix of house, techno, and bass-heavy club bangers, the list read like a pop diva’s greatest hits playlist.

Beyoncé. Ariana. A sultry Rihanna number right in the middle. BoA. Lee Hyori. Jessie J. Sunmi. Taeyeon. Even a full-on Girls’ Generation anthem tucked in there for good measure.

Chan tilted his head.

That… didn’t seem right.

Normally, DJs ran their own sets, bringing in their USBs or laptops, curating the night’s vibe themselves. The house system only carried preroll—background music to play before the real set started. But this? This looked like it was the set.

A performance.

But of what?

He flicked his gaze toward the barbacks again. They were still gossiping. One of the bartenders leaned in, shaking her head with a knowing grin, whispering something to another server before they both laughed.

Chan clenched his jaw. He wasn’t an outsider at this job, not anymore—but tonight, he felt like one. Like everyone else knew the punchline to a joke he hadn’t even heard.

He shook his head, brushing it off. Maybe it was some themed night. Maybe management was experimenting with something new.

Whatever. It wasn’t his business.

He went back to work, adjusting levels, running through his mental checklist. But the longer the night stretched on, the more cracks started to form in the predictable structure he had built around this job.

Chan barely had a moment to dwell on the unusual setlist before his manager’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Lina’s hosting tonight,” the man said, nudging Chan’s arm as he passed by. “She’ll need help with her mic pack. Make sure it’s set up right.”

Chan blinked.

Lina?

That was a new name. He didn’t recall working with a Lina before, but then again, the club had rotating acts all the time. Still—shouldn’t he have heard about it before now?

He made a mental note to double-check the pack’s frequencies to avoid interference and nodded. “Got it.”

His manager was already walking off, shouting something at the bar staff, leaving Chan to find his own way backstage.

He made his way down the dimly lit hallway leading to the green room, mentally running through the steps.

Stay professional. Stay sharp.

It was straightforward—clip the pack to a belt or waistband, secure the wire, tape the mic if necessary, do a quick sound check. Easy. Simple. Nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times before.

Chan had been mid-stride, fully in work mode, mind occupied with mic packs and frequency levels, when he turned a corner and—

Walked straight into temptation itself.

It was less of a collision and more of a slow-motion car crash—one where he was the only victim.

Chan stumbled back, grasping at air, and when he looked up—

Everything in his brain went completely blank.

He wasn’t even sure why at first.

It wasn’t like he’d never seen a beautiful woman before. He wasn’t some awkward teenager, gawking at his first crush. He was a grown man, for god’s sake. A professional. He had a job to do.

But—
Tall.

Too tall.

Long, sleek black hair streaked with platinum blonde, cascading over one shoulder like a luxury ad come to life. A body made of endless, elegant lines, draped in a miniskirt that should have been illegal, exposing mile-long legs down to dagger-sharp platform boots.

And the way she held herself—poised, assured, every motion precise yet languid, like she had all the time in the world to devastate anyone in her path.

Chan locked up, eyes flicking over her, taking in the fox-like eyes, the winged liner so sharp it could cut, and that painted smile.

A slow, devilish thing, curling at the edges, dripping with pure, unfiltered mischief—like she already knew every thought currently rattling around in his empty, malfunctioning brain.

Something flipped dangerously in his stomach.

“Oh?” Her voice was warm, rich with amusement. Low, smooth, dangerous. “A new one.”

Chan forgot how to breathe.

Words?
Gone.
Brain?
Fried.

“I—I, uh—”
Nope. Not a sentence. Nothing.

Her smirk deepened, and she tilted her head, her sharp eyes flicking down, tracing him deliberately, slowly, before flicking back up.

“Let me guess,” she mused, her voice dropping just a touch lower. “You’re the new little sound guy.”

Chan stiffened, something instinctive kicking in at the word little.

“I’m not little,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

Why did he say that?

The woman’s lips parted into a slow, wicked grin.

“Oh?”

Her gaze dipped.

Chan felt it—physically felt it—as her eyes traveled down his chest, over his sternum, lingering just long enough to suggest, to make it clear she was imagining.

Then—back up.

With a smirk that said she absolutely knew what she was suggesting.

Chan’s breath hitched.

Heat crawled up his neck, spreading like wildfire, and suddenly, he needed to leave.

He took a step back.

And nearly tripped over his own feet.

She laughed.

Not just a little chuckle. A full, amused, entertained laugh.

Chan wanted to walk into traffic.

“You are adorable,” she mused, watching him struggle for his life with nothing but pure, entertained hunger in her gaze.

Chan’s brain, which had been on life support, fully short-circuited.

She leaned in, just slightly, enough to tilt her chin up, enough to force his gaze down—enough to make him hyper-aware of just how close they were.

“Shy little thing.” Her lips curled at the edges. “Bet you’re fun to break.”

Oh, god.

Chan choked on air.

Panic.

Immediate, full-blown panic.

Was he breathing? Was his heart still working? Was this a medical emergency?

This woman—this demon of a woman—was watching him unravel, watching the way his ears burned, the way he struggled to form a coherent thought, and she was loving it.

She wasn’t just flirting. She was toying with him.

And he was losing spectacularly.

His brain screamed at him to say something, do something, escape immediately—but he couldn’t. His feet weren’t working, and she was still watching him, her gaze sweeping over him like she was enjoying a meal.

Then, as if she had fully milked the moment for all it was worth, she let out a soft hum—and before Chan could react, she reached out, mussing her fingers into his hair.

Chan stiffened, horrified.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was casual, almost absentminded, her fingers scrubbing at his scalp, mussing up all the careful styling he had done earlier like it was a joke to her. Like he was some puffy-haired puppy she was entertaining herself with.

By the time he fully processed the insult to his dignity, her fingers were already slipping away, leaving behind a mess of tousled waves where his perfectly styled hair had once been.

Chan just stared at her, stunned, indignant, completely lost for words.

She grinned.

“See you around, handsome,” she murmured.

And just like that, she turned, heels clicking against the floor, miniskirt swishing with a finality that felt like an insult.

Chan stood there, fried.

Hair ruined.
Brain ruined.
Life? Probably ruined.

What was that?

Shaking himself out of whatever spell that had been, he continued toward the green room, mic pack in hand, ready to do his job. Only, as soon as he stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.

Loud voices filled the room—deep, playful, filled with banter.

Lashes, wigs, rhinestones, gowns spread out over every surface. A queen with fiery red curls adjusted her corset, while another dramatically complained about her tucking tape. Someone else was blending out their contour like their life depended on it.

It was a controlled chaos unlike anything Chan had ever seen before.

“Unnie, if you come near me with that crusty-ass eyeliner, I will end you.”

“Oh my god, shut up. You still contour like you’re trying to erase half your face.”

“Some of us don’t have the luxury of being born with a nose, Kim Bora.”

A ripple of laughter.

It was banter, sharp but practiced.

It was their way of speaking—a rhythm, a battle, a game.

And Chan was not built for it.

His fingers tightened around the mic pack, suddenly hyperaware of how stiff he looked, how uncomfortable.

And then—

One of them turned to him.

A queen with short black hair and dark, painted lips lifted their chin, eyes gleaming.

“And who’s this little lost lamb?”

Chan swallowed, suddenly very sure he was about to be devoured.

“I—”
His voice cracked.

Oh god. Oh god.

“He’s new,” someone cooed from across the room.

“Oh, we can tell.”

There was no malice in it, but to Chan, it felt like the floor had opened up beneath him.

Another one chimed in, crossing their arms. “What’s the matter, baby? Never seen a woman with shoulders before?”

A snicker.

“Leave him alone, y’all are gonna make him cry.”

Chan felt like crying.

This was not the job he had signed up for.

His manager had failed him.

Han had betrayed him.

This was not a DJ gig.

This was initiation.

And he was prey.

Finally, he fully processed what was happening.

The setlist.
The “girls” getting ready.
The tall, gorgeous woman he had just run into in the hallway.

Oh.

Oh.

Chan’s stomach plummeted as it fully dawned on him what had just happened.

The woman he had just run into? The stunning, flirty, statuesque goddess?

Not a woman.

His brain stalled.

His entire career path was flashing before his eyes.

He forced himself to move forward, gripping the mic pack like a weapon.

“Um,” he started, voice embarrassingly weak. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Are you... Lina?”

The room went silent.

Lina, who had been adjusting a bracelet on her wrist, slowly turned to look at him, arching a single, perfectly sculpted brow.

She was poised, regal, untouchable. Seated in front of a vanity, adjusting the final touches of her makeup with the precision of a queen who had never known anything but excellence.

The light, flowing pink hanbok draped around her, its soft fabric shimmering under the bulbs like a portrait from a bygone era. The look was traditional in silhouette but luxurious in execution, the delicate embroidery so intricate it looked like it had been stitched by hand.

She didn’t demand attention—she simply held it.

Every movement was graceful, deliberate, certain.

And now she was looking at him.

Chan’s stomach dropped.

The way she stared at him made him feel like he had just made a horrible mistake.

For a second, she said nothing. Just watched him, unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she rested her elbow on the vanity and leaned her cheek into her hand.

“Am I Lina?” she repeated, voice dripping with something Chan didn’t know how to place.

It sounded like a trap.

The other queens snickered.

Chan wanted to sink into the floor.

He had walked into this job thinking he’d be mixing DJs and packing up mics.

No one had mentioned drag queens.
No one had mentioned whatever this was.

Why had no one told him this was that kind of club?!

Why hadn’t his manager warned him?!
Why hadn’t Han told him?!

Han was supposed to be his best friend. His trusted friend.

And instead, he had thrown him into the deep end of a sequined, high-heeled abyss with no warning, no life vest, no nothing.

His hands twitched at his sides.
“I—I just meant—uh, I was told to bring you this.”

He lifted the mic pack slightly, as if offering a pathetic little sacrifice to a queen who was about to have his head.

Lina exhaled dramatically through her nose.
“Finally,” she muttered, sitting up straighter, holding out her arms as if she were granting him an audience.

Chan nodded stiffly, stepping forward, feeling like a man walking to the gallows.

Lina smelled like peonies and something expensive. Like she belonged somewhere much fancier than a nightclub green room.

Somewhere with marble floors and champagne fountains, where people spoke in low, reverent tones and dared not look her directly in the eye.

This was not where she belonged.
But she sat there anyway, completely at ease.

She had power, and she knew it.

And Chan?
Chan was about to short-circuit.

“Relax, baby, we don’t bite.”

“That’s a lie,” someone muttered.

Lina flicked her wrist. “Most of us don’t bite.”

Chan did not relax.

Instead, he focused way too hard on securing the mic pack, convinced that if he just did his job quickly, he could leave this room and pretend none of this ever happened.

His fingers fumbled slightly as he clipped the pack to the back of her waistband, trying so hard not to let his hands shake.

This was routine.

He had done this a hundred times before.

But somehow, doing it for someone as effortlessly composed as Lina felt like balancing on the edge of a cliff with no parachute.

What if he messed up?
What if she noticed?

What if she was already noticing?

“What’s your name, new guy?”

Chan nearly dropped the battery pack.

“I—uh, Chan.”

Lina hummed, soft and knowing. “Cute.”

Someone snorted.

Chan absolutely did not choke on his own spit.

His ears were burning.

His entire nervous system was on high alert.

Abort mission.
ABORT MISSION.

He secured the wire and all but jumped back, eager to be done with this interaction before he could embarrass himself further.

“Should be good to go.”

Lina examined herself in the mirror, checking the wire’s placement.

Then, with a satisfied nod, she flicked her wrist.

“Excellent. You may go.”

Chan barely resisted the urge to salute.

Instead, he turned on his heel and power-walked out of the green room like a man escaping a burning building.

Behind him, he heard a chorus of soft laughter.

At his expense.

Chan was going to throw up.

Or pass out.
Or walk straight into the Han River and never come back.

He wasn’t sure which, but all three were currently on the table.

He speed-walked down the hall like his life depended on it, a little sweaty, a lot dizzy, and very much questioning every decision that had led him here.

This job—this job—was supposed to be a start. A real, professional gig. Something to put on his resume, something to prove that he belonged in this industry.

Not… this.

His brain was still short-circuiting. The smirk. The fox-like eyes. The way she had mussed up his hair like he was some kind of lap dog. The entire room of elegant, dangerous creatures sensing his fear and closing in for the kill.

He needed to find his manager. Right now.

Chan stormed through the dimly lit hallway, ignoring the looks from staff members he passed, ignoring the faint hum of bass from the main room, ignoring the fact that he had just been lightly bullied by an entire room of drag queens and survived.

This wasn’t what he signed up for.

He felt like a man who had accidentally walked into the wrong building on his first day of work, only to realize too late that he was already on payroll and there was no escape.

His manager was near the bar, chatting casually with one of the bouncers, completely unaware that Chan’s entire worldview had just been ripped apart at the seams.

Chan rushed forward, practically skidding to a stop.

“Hyung,” he gasped, gripping the bar like a lifeline. “You didn’t tell me this was that kind of club.”

His manager blinked. “What kind of club?”

Chan gestured—wildly—toward the back rooms. “The kind with—” he lowered his voice like he was afraid God might hear him, “drag queens.”

His manager stared.

“Oh. You mean Thursdays?”

Thursdays?!

“What?” Chan squeaked.

His manager, unbothered, simply shrugged.

“It’s just once a week,” he said, waving a hand. “Brings in the foreigners. Bachelorette parties love it. We make a killing on Thursdays.”

Chan stared.

That was…
That was not the response he was expecting.

“That’s it?” he demanded.

“That’s it,” his manager confirmed. “They put on a good show, we get a packed house, and you still do the same job you do every other night. What’s the problem?”

Chan opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.

That was it? That was the explanation?

Chan blinked rapidly, brain fighting for its life.

“But—but you didn’t tell me.”

His manager sighed, finally setting his drink down. “I didn’t think I needed to. You’re a sound guy, not a performer. It’s the same job as every other night, Chan.”

Chan struggled for words.
Was it? Was it really?

Because he had just been flirted into an early grave by the scariest woman—man—person—he had ever met, and had nearly gotten roasted alive in a room full of queens who had smelled his fear like a pack of wolves.

He swallowed.
“I just… I wasn’t expecting it.”

His manager clapped him on the back, grinning.
“Well, now you know.”

Chan nearly collapsed on the spot.

Was he quitting? Was this it? Was this where his career ended?

But beneath all the panic, all the nerves, all the emotions he was currently incapable of processing… was the truth.

He wanted this job.
He needed this job.

He had worked so hard just to get this far. He couldn’t walk away. Not yet.

Chan exhaled shakily, rubbing at his face.

“O-okay,” he muttered, voice weak. “I’ll—I’ll do it. Just for tonight.”

His manager barely looked up from his beer.
“Yeah, buddy. That’s how shifts work.”

Chan suffered.

He nodded, slow, reluctant, forcing himself to accept his fate.

Fine.
Fine.

He’d run the sound.
He’d test the waters.
He’d get through the night.

And he’d try—desperately, painfully—not to think about it.

He returned to the booth like a man trudging toward his execution.

The club was filling up fast, the usual mix of people filing in—some regulars, some first-timers, and, as his manager had so helpfully mentioned, an influx of foreigners and bachelorette parties, their laughter already spilling across the bar like bubbles from an overflowing champagne glass.

It was louder than usual. Livelier.

There was an energy in the air, something buzzing just beneath the surface. He’d worked enough nights here to recognize when the crowd was excited, when they were anticipating something. It unsettled him.

Chan clutched the soundboard like it was his last tether to sanity, scanning the setup with laser focus. Levels looked good. Wireless frequencies were clear. Background music was still rolling. He could handle this.

Just run the sound.

Nothing else.

But then—

The house lights dimmed.

A sleek R&B instrumental hummed to life, warm and sultry, threading through the club like a pulse. A voice crackled through the speakers—low, smooth, effortlessly poised—drawing every eye toward the stage.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and beautiful creatures of the night… welcome.”

Chan stiffened. That voice.

He looked up—just in time to see Lina step onto the stage.

Even after their brief interaction in the green room, even knowing she was the host, something about seeing her in full regalia commanding the space made his breath catch.

The soft pink hanbok moved like water as she walked, flowing effortlessly around her, somehow both traditional and entirely modern. The sleeves draped elegantly past her wrists, her movements precise, poised, every step intentional.

She gestured to the crowd with a single, delicate hand, yet there was nothing delicate about her presence.

Regal. Untouchable.

The murmur of the crowd settled into an anticipatory hush.

Then, with the ease of someone born to the spotlight, Lina lifted her chin, let her painted lips curl, and purred into the mic—

“Are you ready to sin?”

The crowd erupted.

Chan physically recoiled from the soundboard.

What the fuck?

Lina smiled, smug, drinking in the cheers. “That’s what I like to hear.”

She shifted, turning slightly to let the spotlight kiss her cheekbones, radiant under the glow. “For those of you who don’t know me,” she continued, “I am your hostess, your goddess, and your one and only chance at salvation. My name is Lina.”

More cheers. Whistles. Claps.

A group of women in the front row—clearly a bachelorette party—screamed so loud Chan was sure they had just dislocated something.

Lina smirked.

Chan stared, horrified, as she brought a hand to her chest and sighed. “You know, I was debating staying home tonight,” she mused, her tone light, conspiratorial. “But then I thought—” She gestured vaguely toward the crowd. “What would they do without me?”

The audience lost it.

Chan felt his soul leave his body.

What was happening?

How was this happening?

How had this become his life?

Lina was flourishing in the attention, soaking it in like a queen surveying her kingdom. Her words were precise, calculated—every pause, every shift in tone landing exactly as she wanted.

She had the crowd wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger.

Then, Lina lifted her arms in a grand gesture. “But you didn’t come here to listen to me run my mouth—”

A pause.

A wicked, expectant smirk.

“You came here for the show.”

The club exploded in cheers.

Lina let the applause wash over her like a queen soaking in the adoration of her subjects, lifting a hand to settle them down with ease. The control she had over the crowd was immediate, effortless. Chan barely had time to adjust the levels before she was speaking again.

"Now, my darlings, for some of you, this may be your first time at one of our little soirées," she purred, her voice warm and indulgent, like she was letting them in on a secret. "And what a special night it is to lose your innocence. Consider yourselves blessed."

Laughter rippled through the audience, scattered whistles and calls floating up from the more enthusiastic guests.

"But before we get into the real magic of the evening," Lina continued, pacing leisurely across the stage, "a few important notes. First and foremost—consent is key. Look, touch, admire, but only if invited, and never without permission. No one wants to see grabby hands, unless you’re handing over a lovely tip."

Another round of laughter, a few guests waving bills in the air in anticipation.

"And speaking of tips," Lina went on, eyes gleaming under the stage lights, "we have some absolutely stunning performers for you tonight, and they love to be shown a little extra appreciation." She lifted a perfectly arched brow. "We are, after all, in a capitalist hellscape."

Chan nearly choked behind the soundboard.

Lina let the laughter swell before raising a hand, a flick of her wrist bringing the room back under her control. "You may tip your queens directly—on stage or in hand—but if you’re too shy, our lovely bartenders will be more than happy to collect your offerings on their behalf." She smirked, draping herself against the mic stand. "But remember, my loves—big bills make for bigger performances."

The crowd cheered, already reaching for their wallets.

"Now," Lina sighed, like she was settling into something luxurious, "tonight we have a stunning lineup for you. But first, allow me to introduce someone very special."

She turned, casting a playful glance toward the curtains.

"She’s young, she’s gorgeous, and she’s going to outlive us all." A dramatic pause, her smirk growing sharper. "My daughter—your very own baby-faced killer—I.N."

The club erupted, the cheers reaching a fever pitch as the first chords of the song swelled under Chan’s fingers.

He barely processed the name, too focused on the levels, too caught up in the smooth transition from Lina’s voice into the thumping bass of the track.

And then he looked up.

And nearly lost his grip on reality.

There—emerging from the side of the stage, bathed in lights, stepping onto the platform like they owned the entire goddamn world—was her.

That same stunning woman.

Man.

Person.

The one who had stolen the air from his lungs in the hallway.

Chan's fingers hovered over the board, frozen.

I.N.—or whoever the hell they were—sauntered onto the stage, every movement deliberate, effortless, smooth as silk. The sleek black hair. The fox-like smirk. The long, dangerous legs that somehow looked even longer under the stage lights.

Chan felt his mouth go dry.

And now, I.N was stepping forward, slow, deliberate, oozing confidence, dragging a hand down his own thigh as if daring every person in the room to look.

The music swelled.

The spotlight caught on rhinestones.

The air in the club shifted, crackling with something electric.

And Chan—who had spent the entire night telling himself not to think about it—

Did nothing but think about it.

He was so fucked.

The bass pulsed low through the floor, reverberating up into Chan’s chest, steady but intoxicating. The track was sharp, slinking around the edges of the club like a whisper, curling into something rich, sultry—dangerous.

And then, I.N. moved.

Chan had seen performers before. He’d mixed sets for DJs, handled live mics for singers, even worked with dancers back in school. But this was different. This was something else entirely.

I.N. didn’t just dance.

She glided. She prowled.

Every motion deliberate, unhurried, like she had all the time in the world and knew exactly how to use it. She rolled one shoulder back, slow, controlled, her fingers following the curve of her waist before trailing lower, dragging a shiver of anticipation through the crowd.

Chan felt himself leaning forward slightly before catching himself.

He yanked his hands back from the soundboard, setting them firmly in his lap, forcing his fingers to stay still.

He wasn’t looking at him like that.

He blinked, forcing his eyes to refocus on the mix, on the equalizers, on anything but the way I.N.’s hips swayed in perfect time with the music.

And yet.

His gaze dragged back.

He couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t just the way I.N. moved—fluid, effortless, sensual in a way that seemed second nature—it was the way she carried herself. The sheer, unwavering confidence radiating from her, like she knew every single person in the room was watching, and she enjoyed it.

Chan swallowed, the heat in his cheeks creeping lower, settling into something he definitely wasn’t going to acknowledge.

I.N. spun on the beat, sharp and graceful, the rhinestones on her dress catching the stage lights, sending flickers of brilliance across the club. And then she bent forward, hands bracing against her thighs, arching just enough that—

Chan’s stomach flipped.

Jesus Christ.

He gripped the armrest of his chair with both hands.

But the moment I.N.’s body straightened, she was moving again—this time toward the edge of the stage.

The crowd was already buzzing, arms raised, fingers curling, bills waving like moths drawn to a flame. And I.N. fed on it. She took her time slinking toward them, the sultry bass of the song mirroring the way she dragged her fingertips over her own body, rolling her hips like a slow exhale.

A man near the front extended a trembling hand, a crisp bill pinched between his fingers.

I.N. smirked.

Chan could feel it from where he sat.

With a teasing, deliberate pause, I.N. reached out—trailing one long, manicured finger down the man’s wrist before plucking the bill from his grasp with her teeth. She let it linger between her lips for just a second, just long enough for the crowd to feel it, before tucking it neatly into her stocking with a wink.

Chan’s fingers clenched around his chair.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but it wasn’t not something.

More hands reached out, more bills fluttering toward the stage, and I.N. took her time collecting them. She strutted along the edge, graceful and controlled, effortlessly weaving between coy and commanding. A woman shrieked as I.N. took a bill straight from her cleavage, flashing her a devastatingly sweet smile as if she hadn’t just ruined her in front of her friends. A man nearly melted into his seat when I.N. leaned down, taking a tip right from his palm and brushing their fingers together just a second longer than necessary.

She was playing with them. And they loved it.

The crowd pulsed with delight, voices rising over the music, drowning in adoration.

He wasn’t even sure what he was looking at anymore—if it was admiration, curiosity, or the kind of fascination that came with watching something so unexpected, so utterly foreign to him.

Chan resisted the urge to bang his head against the soundboard.

I.N. prowled back to center stage, the final chorus thrumming through the club, thick with heat and anticipation. Her hips rolled in perfect time with the music, each movement deliberate, teasing, dripping with purpose. The final beat hit, and with it, she sank low—dangerously low—spreading her thighs into a slow, controlled squat, back arching just slightly as she tossed her hair over her shoulder.

And then—she looked.

Right over her shoulder. Right into the crowd.

Right at Chan.

That same fox-like smirk curled on her lips, wicked and knowing, a silent I see you wrapped in rhinestones and bad intentions.

The club erupted.

Screams, applause, the sound of hands slapping against tables and feet stomping against the floor. Money rained onto the stage like confetti, bills fluttering at her feet, and still—I.N. held her pose, reveling in the chaos she had created.

Chan yanked his gaze away, heat crawling up his neck, hands moving to the soundboard on autopilot. He didn’t see that. He didn’t feel that. He was working. He was focused. He was adjusting the mix and monitoring levels and making sure the night ran smoothly, because that was his job.

Not… whatever that had been.

Not the heat curling in his stomach. Not the dryness in his mouth. Not the fact that when he blinked, he could still see her, burned into the backs of his eyelids.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

He took a deep, shaky breath, steadied his hands, and forced himself to move on.

Chan barely made it through the night.

Even as the performances continued, one dazzling act after another, nothing quite struck him the way I.N. had. Nothing sent that same electric jolt through his system, left him feeling so completely out of his depth. He spent the rest of his shift hiding behind the soundboard, doing his job, keeping his eyes firmly on his levels and not on the stage.

By the time the club shut down, the final patrons filtering out into the night, Chan felt like he had aged ten years. The queens had long since disappeared from the stage, their performances wrapped up, their rhinestones and lashes packed away. And for the first time all night, Chan could breathe.

It was past 2 AM when he crouched near the stage, peeling up strips of gaff tape, the scent of spilled drinks and sweat thick in the air. The adrenaline of the night had drained from his system, leaving him bone-tired, his body aching in that familiar, satisfying way that came from a long shift.

This, at least, was something he knew. Wrapping cables, tearing down equipment, cleaning up after a show. This was work. This was simple. No confusion, no sharp smirks, no—

A group of voices drifted past, footsteps clicking against the floor.

Chan knew who it was. He didn’t need to look up. Didn’t need to confirm. His fingers curled around the tape tighter, his pulse kicking up slightly as he kept his gaze firmly on the ground.

If he ignored them, maybe they’d ignore him, and maybe—just maybe—he could move on from tonight like none of it ever happened.

But the universe was not on his side.

A voice rang out, right over his shoulder, too close.

“Well, look at you, all hardworking and sweaty.”

Chan froze.

His stomach dropped.

Slowly, hesitantly, against his better judgment, he turned his head.

And there he was.

Gone were the dagger heels and the rhinestones. Gone was the miniskirt, the long, sleek black hair. In their place stood a young man, dressed simply in joggers and a loose hoodie, his short black hair freshly washed and fluffy against his forehead. His face was clean as the morning, not a hint of makeup left behind—yet Chan could never mistake those fox-like eyes, that devil’s grin.

Chan’s throat went dry.

“Oh, don’t look so scared, handsome,” I.N. teased, hands stuffed into his pockets as he rocked back slightly on his heels. “You survived, didn’t you?”

Chan scrambled for words, for something, anything to say. But before he could come up with a single coherent thought, another voice called from the group.

“Jeongin, leave the poor man alone, you yahan nyeon.”

Chan’s wide eyes flickered past Jeongin—only to land on someone dangerously familiar.

Lina.

Or rather, not Lina.

Instead, an elegant man, with sharp features and softer edges, dressed in slacks and a crisp shirt, his makeup wiped clean, but still effortlessly poised. The resemblance was uncanny, and now, seeing them together—Jeongin, grinning like a menace, and Lina, exasperated but unbothered—it finally clicked.

Chan wasn’t sure why the realization made his stomach twist.

Jeongin didn’t seem fazed at all. If anything, his smirk only deepened as he took a step backward, voice light as he bid, “Sweet dreams, sound guy.”

Chan blinked.

And then—they were gone.

The club was silent.

Chan sat there, kneeling on the stage, gaff tape still clutched in his fingers, thoroughly ruined.

What the fuck had he just gotten himself into?

Chapter Text

The morning crept in slow and quiet, the pale light filtering through the curtains casting soft shadows against the bedroom walls. Chan stirred awake, blinking sluggishly against the haze of sleep, his body protesting the movement before he had even fully registered it. His joints ached—not sharply, not in any way that should concern him—but with that dull, lingering stiffness that had become more familiar over the years.

Not old. Just… getting older.

Mi Sun was still asleep beside him, curled up beneath the covers, her dark hair fanned out across the pillow. Her breathing was steady, peaceful, undisturbed by his stirring.

For a moment, he just watched her.

There was comfort in it, in the way she looked so at ease, in the warmth of her presence beside him. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair back from her face, fingers light against her temple. She didn’t stir. His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He liked her. He really did.

Chan let his fingers drift away, exhaling softly before pushing himself up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His muscles groaned in protest as he sat there for a moment, rubbing at his face, waiting for the stiffness in his limbs to settle. It didn’t. But he wasn’t expecting it to.

He stood, stretching briefly, his back giving a quiet pop as he rolled his shoulders. Then, without a sound, he padded over to the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

The mirror greeted him with soft, unflattering honesty. His hair, now cropped short and neatly styled most days, stuck up at odd angles from sleep. Dark circles had settled under his eyes, remnants of jet lag refusing to let go, making his already sharp features look just a little more tired. A sigh left him as he turned on the faucet, splashing cool water over his face before lathering up his cleanser.

Routines.

They had always grounded him.

He moved through them like muscle memory. Wash face. Pat dry. Style hair with a light touch of pomade, smoothing it into something presentable. He reached for his toothbrush next, brushing in slow, even strokes as he scanned his reflection again, noting the little details—the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the way exhaustion sat behind them, the way his body still hadn’t fully adjusted to the time change.

He rinsed, wiped his face with a towel, and reached for the suit he had set out the night before. Pressed, clean, prepared. Everything in its place.

It was second nature now. The neat fold of his tie, the smooth tug of fabric over his shoulders as he shrugged on his jacket. Chan had always been meticulous. Order gave him something to hold onto, something to control. It wasn’t that he obsessed over it—he just liked things to be as they should be.

But something about this morning felt… flat.

Not wrong. Not bad. Just…

Routine.

Chan adjusted his cuffs, glancing back toward the bedroom as he picked up his work bag from its designated spot by the dresser. Mi Sun was still sleeping, tucked away in soft sheets, lost in whatever peaceful dream she had drifted into. He could have woken her, pressed a kiss to her forehead, told her he was leaving. She would have smiled at him, sleepily mumbled something about being safe, and then rolled back into the warmth of the bed.

He didn’t.

Instead, he just watched her for a moment longer, waiting—maybe for something to stir in his chest, something that would make him feel the way people were supposed to feel when they looked at the person they were going to marry.

It was warm. It was familiar. It was comforting.

But it didn’t make him breathless.

And maybe that was okay. Maybe breathless was for other people, for other lives.

Chan exhaled, adjusted the strap of his bag, and slipped out the door, ready—if nothing else—to start the day.

The early morning air in Seoul carried a crisp chill, a whisper of winter still clinging to the edges of spring. Chan adjusted the strap of his bag, stepping onto the sidewalk as the city stretched awake around him. The steady rhythm of traffic hummed through the streets, the scent of brewing coffee mingling with exhaust fumes, the sharp click of heels and hurried footsteps filling the space between murmured conversations.

This was good.

This was stability.

The train station was already crowded by the time he descended the steps, swiping his transit card with the same absent-minded ease as every other commuter packed into the station. A sea of dark coats and bowed heads, shoulders brushing in quiet acceptance of their shared space. It was all routine, all expected.

He boarded the train. Found his usual spot near the door. The doors slid shut with a chime, and the train lurched forward, pulling him along with it.

It was the same every day. The same muffled coughs, the same distant chime of notifications, the same fluorescent lights casting everyone in the same tired shade of pale. The same tired bodies in pressed suits and neat skirts, swaying with the motion of the train, eyes glued to their phones or closed in restless half-sleep. The same robotic voice announcing the next station.

Chan adjusted his grip on the overhead rail, his fingers curling tight.

It wasn’t exciting. But it didn’t have to be.

He was lucky. He had a good job, a stable income. He was getting married. His life made sense.

He repeated it in his head like a mantra, the thought lingering as the train pulled into his stop.

The medical device company he worked for occupied a sleek, modern high-rise, all tinted glass and clean, minimalist lines. The office was still, polished and sterile in the way corporate buildings always were—too clean, too bright, too hollow. The kind of place that looked impressive in job interviews but, in reality, felt like walking through a set piece.

Chan entered the lobby, nodding at the receptionist as he passed through security, his ID badge cool against his chest. He rode the elevator up twenty-two floors and stepped out into the muted hum of keyboards clicking and muffled phone calls. The quiet din of a workday beginning.

At his desk, he opened his inbox.

Emails. So many emails.

He forwarded. He filed. He responded.

At 9:15 AM, he made Director Choi’s coffee—black, exactly 75% full, just how he liked it. He carried it into the office, set it down without a word.

Choi grunted in response, squinting at his laptop.

“Something wrong?”

“This damn file won’t open.”

Chan exhaled through his nose. “Which file?”

“The PDF from the research team.”

Chan reached over, clicked ‘download,’ waited two seconds, and opened the file.

“Oh,” Choi said, blinking. “Well. Good.”

Chan forced a smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He returned to his desk. Took a deep breath.

This was fine.

It was stable.

At 10:30 AM, his phone rang.

“Chan, schedule a meeting with So-and-So.”

Click.

Chan stared at the receiver.

With… who? For what? When? How was he supposed to contact them?

He sighed, rubbing at his temple. He could figure it out. Probably.

At 12:15 PM, he ate lunch at his desk. Convenience store kimbap, lukewarm canned coffee. He scrolled through emails between bites. His colleagues did the same. Conversations, if they happened at all, were short, murmured pleasantries before falling back into silence.

At 1:00 PM, he printed out thirty copies of a presentation.

At 1:05 PM, Director Choi told him they didn’t need them.

At 2:00 PM, he spent fifteen minutes troubleshooting why the office printer was refusing to connect to Wi-Fi.

At 2:15 PM, he realized someone had unplugged it to charge their phone.

At 3:00 PM, he answered a phone call from another department.

“Sorry, I think you’re looking for accounting.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

Click.

At 4:30 PM, he answered an email that he had already answered twice before.

At 5:00 PM, he watched the clock tick down.

The low hum of the office tapered off as people packed up, murmured goodbyes, pulled on their coats. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly in the silence, flickering just once before steadying.

Chan sat back in his chair, stretching out his stiff shoulders.

The day had passed in a haze of tasks—emails and copies and coffee, meetings that made no sense, requests that lacked any detail, problems that had solutions so simple it was almost offensive how often they occurred.

But that was fine.

It was a job.

A steady, stable, responsible job.

Chan exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

This was good. This was what he had wanted.

The apartment was warm when Chan stepped inside, the scent of chamomile tea and faint traces of paper lingering in the air. He barely had the energy to toe off his shoes, his body dragging with the weight of the day, but before he could even exhale, Mi Sun’s voice filled the space.

“Chris, you’re home!”

Chan glanced up, still shrugging off his coat, just in time to see her setting down her glass mid-sip, her excitement too immediate to even finish drinking. She had been working—he could tell by the way her hair was loosely clipped up, a few strands falling free, and the slight smudge of graphite near her wrist from sketching.

She gestured toward her laptop, where a bright, detailed sign design filled the screen. “Come look at this! I just finished it, and I think it turned out so well.”

Chan dragged his feet toward her, slinging his bag onto the counter. He could feel exhaustion pressing into his skull, a dull weight behind his eyes, but Mi Sun’s excitement was palpable. He didn’t want to dim it.

“What is it?” he asked, peering at the screen.

“A new interpretive sign for a park back home. It’s part of a revitalization project, and I got to work on explaining the native plants and root systems.” She turned the laptop slightly, pointing at a particularly detailed diagram. “See? It shows how the root structures work beneath the soil, so visitors can understand the ecological impact of the local flora. And look at the layout—I was worried it’d be too dense, but I think the spacing works, don’t you?”

Chan blinked at the sign.

It was… nice. Informative. Professionally done.

But his brain was fried, and no matter how much he wanted to, he just wasn’t in the position to absorb information about Australian root systems right now.

Instead, he gestured vaguely. “The colors are really nice.”

Mi Sun hesitated. Just for a second.

It was subtle—the slightest flicker in her expression, like she had expected something more, something deeper. But she masked it quickly, covering it with an easy smile as she turned back to the screen.

“Oh—yeah! I worked hard on the palette. The blues help balance out the warmth of the earthy tones, and it makes the whole thing feel natural but still engaging.”

Chan nodded, trying to match her enthusiasm.

“That makes sense.”

She hummed, scrolling through the design, still buzzing with the energy of finishing a project she was proud of. “I think the client’s really going to like it. I mean, I hope they do. It’s always a bit of a gamble with these things, but I feel good about it.”

Chan reached for his bag, feeling the exhaustion settle deeper into his bones. “I’m sure they’ll love it.”

Mi Sun smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She went on, telling him about her day—about a funny email thread between her coworkers, about the café she found near their office, about the little moments that made up her world.

Chan listened. He always did.

Because she deserved that much.

For a moment, Chan let himself sink into the comfort of routine. The soft hum of Mi Sun’s voice, the warmth of the apartment, the rhythmic nodding along to her stories—it was predictable, steady. Safe.

He let his exhaustion lull him into a false sense of security.

And then—

“Oh, by the way,” Mi Sun said, almost offhandedly, setting down her laptop and stretching her arms above her head. “I heard from your friend Jeongin today.”

Chan’s soul left his body.

His entire nervous system short-circuited, his vision whited out, and for one long, horrific second, he forgot how to breathe.

Mi Sun may as well have lobbed a grenade into the apartment and walked away whistling.

“What?!” Chan squawked, voice cracking so violently it reversed puberty. He sounded like a middle schooler getting caught looking at something he shouldn’t.

Mi Sun, completely unaware of the sheer catastrophe unfolding inside of him, smiled as she scrolled through her phone. “Yeah! He messaged me earlier. He’s so sweet—said it was great catching up at the party, and that he’s really happy to see you again.”

Chan’s vision blurred.

No. No, no, no, no, no—

What the hell was Jeongin playing at?!

There was no reality in which Jeongin should have been texting Mi Sun. Not casually. Not sweetly. Not at all.
Where was the malice? The veiled threats? The gleeful plans of destruction?!

Mi Sun was still talking, completely oblivious to the sheer existential terror writhing inside Chan’s body.

“I just think it’s so nice, you know? You didn’t really have many friends back in Australia, so it’s great you have such a close one here.”

Ouch.

Chan physically recoiled, like she’d just punched him in the throat.

“I had friends,” he croaked, voice so weak and pathetic it was a confession rather than a defense.

Mi Sun hummed—and not in an agreeable way.

In a patronizing, knowing, ‘sure you did, honey’ way.

Chan felt violently insulted.

Sure, okay, maybe his social circle in Australia had been a bit lacking. Maybe Felix had been his only real friend, and maybe—maybe—his weekends had mostly consisted of working late, cleaning his apartment, and pretending he wasn’t miserable.

But ouch.

Mi Sun, fully unaware that she had just accidentally annihilated his entire self-worth, kept going, bright as ever. “But still! I was kind of worried about how we’d fill in the wedding party, and I thought Felix would be your only groomsman, but now I’m so glad you have more people here. You should invite Jeongin!”

“No.”

It shot out so fast, so loud, so panic-stricken, that Mi Sun actually flinched.

She turned, blinking at him, confused. “What? Why not?”

Chan froze.
Shit.

Now he had to justify that reaction. Why, why, why did he say it like that?! He should’ve played it cool! But now she was suspicious, and she was staring at him, and she wanted answers—

He scrambled. Floundered. Drowned in the waves of his own stupidity.

“I just—I mean, I don’t even know if he’d want to—”

Mi Sun frowned, tilting her head. “Why wouldn’t he? He clearly cares about you a lot.”

Panic. Full-blown panic.

Chan had faced many challenges in life—graduating university, moving to a foreign country, adjusting to a corporate job—but nothing compared to the sheer terror of being trapped in this conversation.

“Uh—well—you know, he’s busy,” Chan blurted, grasping at straws. “Like, really busy. Work and stuff.”

Mi Sun’s brows lifted. “What does he do for work?”

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Chan’s entire body went rigid, the question hitting him square in the chest like a bullet. He should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve prepared for it. But his brain was still half-melted from the sheer ordeal of today, and now, standing here, trapped, with Mi Sun’s kind, expectant eyes on him—

He could not, under any circumstances, let her know.

It wasn’t just about Jeongin. It was about the entire minefield of truth lurking behind that name. Because if Mi Sun knew what Jeongin did for work then she’d start asking questions. And if she started asking questions, then she might start wondering how exactly Chan knew him.

And that? That would be the beginning of the end.

She didn’t know about his past. Didn’t know about any of it. She knew the polished, structured version of him. The man who had come back to Australia, put on a suit, and built a respectable life. She knew Chris Bang, the corporate professional, the future husband. Not the man who used to spend his nights tangled in music and laughter and him—not the man who once belonged to a world drenched in glitter and sweat and heat and heartache.

She had no idea. And Chan had spent years making sure it stayed that way.

So he could not—would not—let her get even a whiff of the truth.

“Uh,” Chan started, stalling, scrambling, his brain working overtime to construct a lie that wouldn’t crumble the second she poked at it. “He—uh—he does a lot of things.”

Mi Sun tilted her head. “Like what?”

Abort. Abort. Abort.

Chan nodded. Too fast. “You know. Freelance things. Independent work. Creative stuff.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Creative like… design? Photography?”

“Sure.”

“…Sure?”

Chan forced a laugh, dry as sandpaper. “Yeah, you know. He’s just—really busy. A lot going on.”

Mi Sun frowned, her face caught somewhere between confusion and suspicion. She could smell the bullshit.

“What kind of creative work?” she pressed. “Is he a—”

Chan panicked.

“Look, he probably doesn’t have time for—uh—groomsman duties,” he blurted, steamrolling right over her words and waving his hand in vague, vague dismissal. “So, yeah, it’s probably better if I don’t even ask.”

Mi Sun stared at him, her lips pressing together, eyes narrowing just slightly—like she knew, she knew, he was keeping something from her, but didn’t have enough proof to call him out on it.

Chan held his breath.

A beat.

Then—Mi Sun sighed, shaking her head with a small, exasperated smile. “I still think you should ask.”

Chan nearly collapsed in relief. Crisis temporarily avoided.

“He literally said he was happy to reconnect with you. I doubt he’d say no.”

Fucking hell.

Chan physically flinched, barely suppressing a full-body jerk as Mi Sun’s voice cut through his premature celebration like a knife.

It was too fast, too precise, like she had just let him think he was safe so she could strike again.

Chan ran a hand down his face. “It’s just—I don’t want to burden him, you know?”

“Burden him?” She squinted. “Chris, are you okay? You’re acting weird.”

No. No, he was not okay.

The walls were closing in. His carefully constructed house of cards—the one that had kept this part of his life neatly tucked away—was shaking, the foundation crumbling beneath Mi Sun’s relentless curiosity.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t even prying.

She was just… being her usual, caring self.

Which somehow made it even worse.

“I just think it’d be nice,” she continued, soft but insistent, the way she always was when she thought she was doing something good for him.

Chan could feel the sweat gathering at his collar.

“You said you were excited to see him again, right?”

No. He had not said that.

“And you two were obviously close.”

No, they were not.

“He’d probably be honored to be in the wedding.”

Absolutely not.

“I think you should ask him.”

Chan felt like he was being strangled. “I—”

Mi Sun waited. Expectant. Patient. Sweet.

Chan deflated.

He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t take any more questions, couldn’t risk Mi Sun poking at the flimsy reality he’d built until the truth spilled out and ruined everything.

So he surrendered.

“Fine,” he croaked. “I’ll ask.”

Mi Sun beamed, triumphant.

“Great! I knew you’d come around.”

Chan nodded stiffly, feeling like he had just signed his own death warrant.

Because there was absolutely no way Jeongin would just let this slide.

No way in hell.

And when the house of cards inevitably collapsed—

Jeongin was going to be the big bad wolf blowing it down.

Chan had made many mistakes in his life.

Plenty of them.

He had worn mismatched socks to an important job interview once. He had once sent a text meant for Felix to his mother (do NOT ask what it said). He had gotten the date wrong on his own college entrance exam and nearly had a heart attack at the testing center.

But somehow—somehow—nothing, not a single one of those blunders, even began to compare to this.

Somehow, between the moment Mi Sun had sweetly suggested he invite Jeongin to be his groomsman and the present moment—Chan had blacked out.

Not literally, of course. He remembered everything. Every excruciating, painful second of getting backed into a corner, flailing like a sitcom character, and eventually crumbling under the sheer force of Mi Sun’s optimism. He remembered her beaming triumph, the way she had patted his arm like he was a good boy making such a mature decision. He remembered how he had stared at her in quiet horror, wondering if there was still time to fake his own death.

There wasn’t.

And now, here he was.

Sitting in a small café, dreading his existence, waiting for Jeongin.

Chan sat frozen in his chair, fingers curled around a coffee cup that had long since gone cold, staring into the middle distance like a man questioning every choice that had led him here. He gazed, unblinking, at the little chalkboard menu hanging behind the counter, the hand-drawn swirls of today’s specials blurring together in his deep and overwhelming despair. The scent of roasted beans and vanilla filled the air, an otherwise cozy, welcoming environment—if not for the sheer catastrophe that had led him here.

Mi Sun, meanwhile, was positively glowing.

She was thrilled about this. Happy. Excited that Chan was “reconnecting with an old friend.” Sipping her tea, completely unaware of the existential crisis eating him alive.

Chan took a slow, deep breath. How? How had he let this happen? One moment, he’d been dodging questions like an Olympic athlete, and the next—

Boom.

Mi Sun had beaten him into submission with nothing but kindness, persistence, and the cruel weapon of her unwavering faith in him.

And now, here they were. Waiting for Jeongin.

His doomed fate had been sealed.

Mi Sun hummed as she took another sip, setting her cup down with a soft clink. “I think this is going to be really nice,” she mused. “I mean, you guys are obviously close, so I’m sure he’ll be honored.”

Chan, who had spent the entire night trying to come up with an escape plan, barely suppressed the strangled noise crawling up his throat.

Close.

Right. So close. If by close she meant mortal enemies engaged in an unspoken, high-stakes game of social chicken where the loser would be humiliated beyond repair.

She had no idea.

No idea how close they had really been.

Closer than Chan had ever been with another person. Emotionally. Physically. Desperately.

So close that at one point, his entire world had revolved around Jeongin.

So close that Jeongin had touched him in ways no one else ever had—in ways no one else had ever dared to.

So close that Chan had memorized the heat of Jeongin’s body pressed against his, the teasing drag of his lips at the shell of his ear, the sharp sting of nails down his back, the wicked, knowing smirk that always came right before Chan lost himself completely.

So close that Jeongin had ruined him—slowly, deliberately, like he enjoyed watching Chan come undone beneath him. Like he had made it his personal mission to pull apart every last restraint Chan had tried so hard to keep in place.

So close that Chan still woke up sometimes feeling phantom hands on his skin, a memory of pleasure so visceral that it left him gasping, trembling, staring at the ceiling like some pathetic ghost of the man he used to be.

So close that even now, years later, oceans of silence between them, Chan could still remember the way Jeongin’s mouth had felt against his throat, the way he had whispered mine like it was a promise, like it was the only truth that mattered.

And now?

Now, that same Jeongin—the one who had once dragged his fingers down Chan’s chest, who had kissed him breathless, sinful, unrelenting—was the one person on earth he was actively trying to avoid.

Now, Jeongin wasn’t just an ex. He was a goddamn threat.

A landmine, waiting to detonate.

A walking, talking, smirking time bomb with the power to rip apart every delicate thread of stability Chan had spent years stitching back together.

Now, the only thing standing between Chan and complete, irreparable ruin was how long Jeongin would be willing to play along before blowing the whole thing to hell.

Mi Sun smiled at him. “Aren’t you excited?”

Chan nearly choked on air.

Excited.

Yeah. Sure. That’s the word.

If by excited she meant deeply horrified and already mentally composing his resignation letter so he could flee the country before Jeongin even arrived.

Mi Sun had no clue.

No clue that the person she was so excited for Chan to reconnect with wasn’t just some old friend.

He had been everything.

Chan opened his mouth to reply—to say literally anything—when a shadow fell over their table. A familiar presence, unmistakable even before Chan looked up. His entire body locked up.

No.

No, not yet.

Not now, not so soon—he hadn’t even finished drafting his exit strategy!

Slowly, with the hesitation of a man about to meet his doom, he looked up.

And there he was.

Jeongin.

The world went silent.

The café disappeared.

Chan’s entire life flashed before his eyes—like the gods had taken pity on him and were allowing him one last look at everything he had worked so hard to build before Jeongin reduced it to ashes.

There he stood.

And, of course—he looked like that.

Jeongin wasn’t just dressed well. He was immaculate. A walking, smirking advertisement for effortless wealth and power, like some kind of gay chaebol heir who had never known a day of struggle in his entire life.

His pressed slacks draped with crisp, unbothered perfection, tailored to devastatingly precise measurements. His oversized sweater—expensive cashmere, no doubt—was a deceptively casual addition that only made him look more expensive, like he had just stepped out of a private driver’s car and graciously decided to grace the café with his presence.

And then, of course, there were the accessories.

The single, glinting earring that caught the light just right as he tilted his head. The sleek designer watch, a "who needs to check the time when you own the world?" kind of watch. The glossy black bag slung effortlessly over his shoulder—pristine, structured, unmistakably designer. The kind of bag that demanded admiration and—whether Chan liked it or not—attention.

Jeongin was put together in a way that made Chan profoundly uneasy.

It wasn’t just that he looked good—he always looked good. It was the intentionality of it. The sheer weaponization of his beauty, his confidence, his presence.

This was not the same boy who used to wear Chan’s hoodies after sneaking out of his apartment in the morning.

This was a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The smirk that said, You can run, but I will always find you.

And then—

Mi Sun, bless her, gasped.

“Oh wow,” she breathed, delighted, immediately shifting forward in her seat, fully taken by the spectacle that was Jeongin. “Jeongin, you look amazing! Seriously, so put together. And that bag—” She leaned in, her admiration growing. “It’s gorgeous! Is it—what brand is it? Saint Laurent? Celine?”

Chan’s mouth moved before his brain could stop him.

"Don’t be so impressed. It’s fake."

The words left him in an unthinking mutter, barely audible—but not nearly quiet enough.

Silence.

Mi Sun’s entire body went rigid.

Jeongin’s smirk stretched wide—so wide—so unbearably wide, like a wolf who had just been handed a helpless little lamb on a silver platter.

“Oh?” he purred, fox eyes narrowing in delight.

Mi Sun’s head snapped toward Chan so fast it was a medical miracle she didn’t sprain something.

"Chris." The horror in her voice was palpable. “You can’t just—” She turned back to Jeongin, scrambling to repair the damage. “I’m so sorry, he doesn’t mean that—of course it’s real, it looks—”

Jeongin lifted a hand.

Mi Sun shut up immediately.

She did it not because Jeongin was offended—he didn’t look the least bit insulted.

She did it because he was clearly entertained.

That smirk.

The twinkle in his eyes.

The way he slowly, deliberately, adjusted the strap of his bag like it was a crown, like he was relishing the moment.

Jeongin took his time. Of course, he did. He pulled out the chair across from them with unbearable elegance, sinking into it with the kind of slow, luxurious ease that only people born to be adored could manage.

Then, as if this was the best news he’d heard all day, he beamed.

“He’s right,” Jeongin said, utterly delighted. “It’s fake.”

Mi Sun’s entire soul left her body.

Chan, meanwhile, was already plotting his own funeral.

Jeongin set his bag delicately on the table, smoothing a hand over it like it was a beloved pet, before looking up at Mi Sun with pure mischief in his eyes. “It’s a really, really good fake, though. I mean, don’t you think?” He cocked his head, twisting the knife. “Chris used to have such a good eye for spotting the real ones.”

Chan’s blood turned to ice.

Mi Sun, still reeling, turned to Chan, confused. “Wait—used to? You—what?”

Chan’s mouth went dry. “I—”

Jeongin wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Ah,” he sighed wistfully, eyes twinkling with pure, unfiltered evil, “but he always bought the real thing. Nothing but the best for our Channie.”

Mi Sun squinted. “Wait, what do you mean he always—”

Chan’s brain went full nuclear meltdown mode.

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—I didn’t buy them for myself!” he blurted out, his hands flailing like he could physically bat away the conversation.

Dead. He was dead. This was it.

Mi Sun’s entire demeanor shifted.

She gasped. Loudly. Dramatically.

“Wait.” She grabbed Chan’s arm, her eyes going wide with excitement. “Chris. Chris. Are you telling me you had a girlfriend back in Korea?!”

Chan lost the will to live.

Jeongin, devil incarnate, actually threw his head back and laughed.

A full, joyful, delighted laugh, completely unrestrained, beautiful, horrifying, melodic, pure evil.

“Oh my god,” Mi Sun clapped a hand over her mouth. “You never told me you had a girlfriend!”

“I didn’t—” Chan cut himself off, clenching his jaw so tight he could feel his molars grinding into dust.

Jeongin wiped a fake tear from the corner of his eye, positively glowing with amusement.

“Oh, this is good,” he mused, grinning at Chan like he had just won the lottery.

Chan considered causing a full-scale disaster just to have an excuse to leave.

Toppling the table. Setting the café on fire. Screaming “FIRE!” and sprinting into traffic. Anything.

Mi Sun, completely enthralled, turned back to Jeongin. “Oh my god, I have to know. What was she like?”

Chan’s brain buffered.

For a long, agonizing moment, all he could do was sit there, processing the sheer audacity of the situation. He was experiencing a full system crash, a Windows blue screen error, the little spinning wheel of death turning endlessly in his mind.

And then, at last, he rebooted.

“I didn’t have a girlfriend,” he managed, voice flat, completely drained of life.

Mi Sun’s face fell. “Aww,” she pouted, tilting her head at him. “That would have been so cute! I can’t believe you never told me you were seeing someone before.”

Chan almost sobbed. “I wasn’t.”

Mi Sun, undeterred, tapped a finger against her chin. “Okay, then who were you buying designer bags for?”

The air locked in Chan’s lungs.

Jeongin raised an eyebrow, his smirk curling with amusement as if to say, Yes, Chris, please do tell us—who were you buying designer bags for?

Chan panicked.

“Hannah.”

Silence.

Mi Sun blinked.

Jeongin, grinning like a fox in the henhouse, propped his chin up in his palm, clearly settling in for whatever disaster was about to unfold.

Mi Sun, meanwhile, just looked… confused.

“Hannah?” she repeated slowly.

Chan nodded way too fast. “Yeah. Hannah.”

Mi Sun squinted, brows furrowing slightly. “But… I didn’t think Hannah was really the designer bag type?”

Chan opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

His brain, the great liar it was trying to be, utterly abandoned him.

The silence stretched. Thick. Painful. Unbearable.

And then—betrayal.

“She isn’t,” Chan heard himself say.

Mi Sun’s confusion grew.

“…Oh,” she said, blinking again. “Then why did you—”

“ANYWAY,” Chan announced at full volume, clapping his hands together as if he could physically change the subject through sheer force of will.

Mi Sun jumped at the sudden shift.

Jeongin outright grinned, barely restraining a laugh.

Chan barreled forward, full speed ahead, no looking back, crashing through the debris of his own stupidity.

“Jeongin, listen, we actually asked you to meet us here because—” he bulldozed on, speaking way too fast, voice borderline manic, desperate to steer this runaway train back onto any sort of reasonable track.

“Because?” Jeongin prompted, clearly amused, sitting back with an expectant look like he was watching the best show of his life.

Chan inhaled deeply.

Focus. Stay on track. Do not let Jeongin lead this conversation into further disaster.

He forced his expression into something neutral, businesslike, professional—

And prayed to whatever higher power was listening.

“We want you to be a groomsman,” he blurted.

For the first time since arriving, Jeongin’s smirk faltered.

His expression went blank.

He stared at Chan like he had just grown a second head—like the words had reached him, but his brain was still buffering, trying to process if he had actually heard them correctly or if Chan had just suffered a complete mental breakdown in front of him.

Jeongin had come to cause mischief. To toy with Chan, to push his buttons, to poke the bear and watch it flail. He had come expecting to enjoy every second of watching Chan squirm.

But this?

This was not what he had expected.

Chan could see the gears turning in his head, see the way Jeongin’s entire understanding of this encounter shifted.

This wasn’t just flustered, awkward Chan digging himself into a hole with lies about designer bags.

This was Chan, sitting across from him, asking him—Jeongin—to be in his wedding.

This was something else entirely.

And Chan—despite knowing full well that he had just sealed his fate—couldn’t look away.

For one suspended moment, they just stared at each other.

Two men at a standoff.

Two former lovers standing on opposite sides of a battlefield, eyes locked, waiting.

Chan could practically hear the calculations happening behind Jeongin’s sharp gaze.

What’s the angle?

What’s the game?

Because this had to be a game, right?

There was no way Chan wanted this. No way.

And Jeongin knew it.

Chan saw the flicker of realization in Jeongin’s eyes.

He knew.

He knew Chan would rather do literally anything else than invite him into his carefully constructed new life.

He knew this was the last thing Chan wanted.

And now?

Now, Jeongin was deciding what to do with that information.

He was plotting his next move.

Chan couldn’t predict it.

Couldn’t anticipate where Jeongin would strike next.

Couldn’t breathe.

For a moment, Jeongin just… stared. Then, slow as a loaded gun cocking, his smirk returned.

Slow. Sharp.

Dangerous.

He tilted his head, feigning innocence, but Chan wasn’t fooled. Not for a second.

This was bad.

This was so, so bad.

Jeongin had just been handed a loaded gun.

And Chan?

Chan had just given him permission to fire.

Jeongin’s smirk stretched wider, then—to Chan’s absolute horror—he gasped.

Loud. Dramatic. Hands flying to his chest like he had just received the most precious, heartfelt proposal of all time.

And then, in the most exaggerated, sickly-sweet voice imaginable—

“Chaaannniieeee!”

Chan flinched.

Heads turned.

Several café patrons glanced over, startled.

The barista behind the counter paused mid-espresso pull.

Chan wanted to disappear. Right there. On the spot.

But Jeongin, completely undeterred by the spectacle he was causing, clasped his hands together like a Victorian maiden receiving a love letter at dawn.

Mi Sun giggled, completely taken by the ridiculous display. “Oh my god, you’re adorable,” she beamed, utterly oblivious to the fact that this was an act.

Chan knew it. He knew this game.

This was what Jeongin did when he wanted to disarm people, when he wanted to lull them into a false sense of security.

Play dumb. Play fluffy. Play sweet.

And most people fell for it.

Because Jeongin—with his perfect pout, his wide, innocent eyes, his saccharine lilt—could make anyone believe he was cotton candy incarnate.

But Chan?

Chan knew better.

Cotton candy rots your teeth.

Jeongin cooed. Actually cooed.

“Awwww! Our Channie wants me in his wedding! That is just so, so precious.”

Chan clenched his jaw so tight his molars might crack.

Jeongin clasped his hands together, swaying slightly, voice lilting into a sugary, delighted hum. “Oh, Mi Sun, I had no idea he was so sentimental! He always tries to act all tough, but deep down, he’s just a big softie, isn’t he?”

Mi Sun sighed dreamily. “He really is. He pretends he’s all serious, but he’s got the biggest heart.”

Chan wanted to die.

Or flip the table.

Or fake a medical emergency and get carried out by an ambulance.

Jeongin tilted his head, eyes sparkling with pure evil. “I mean, it’s just—such a big honor, you know? Our Channie must really, really care about me to want me in such a special role.”

Chan gritted his teeth. “I didn’t say—”

“Oh, I’m touched.” Jeongin pressed a hand to his chest, voice softening into a gentle, wistful sigh. “I mean, considering everything we’ve been through—”

Chan’s blood turned to ice.

No.

Oh, hell no.

Jeongin wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

He sighed, long and dramatic, fluttering his lashes like a silent film actress about to faint. Then, with all the theatrics of a Broadway star, he reached across the table—

And took Chan’s hands in his own.

Chan’s entire body locked up.

Every muscle in his arms went rigid.

Mi Sun gasped. The café gasped. The entire universe gasped.

Jeongin’s fingers curled around Chan’s, warm and deliberate, his grip firm but gentle—like he was accepting a love confession. Like he was about to cry from sheer, overwhelming emotion.

Chan could literally hear people whispering. Watching.

This was a public execution.

And he was dying.

Jeongin tilted his head, gaze soft, mouth parting as if he was about to say something deeply heartfelt.

Chan braced himself.

And then—

“Yes, Channie! A thousand times, yes!”

Chan jerked so hard his chair scraped against the floor.

The café exploded in noise.

Someone at the next table squealed.

A woman clapped.

The barista behind the counter fully dropped a cup.

Mi Sun threw her hands over her mouth, giggling uncontrollably. “Oh my god, you’re so funny!”

Chan was not laughing.

Chan was questioning the very fabric of reality.

Jeongin bounced in his seat, squeezing Chan’s hands like they had just gotten engaged.

“Ahhh, what an honor! Me, a groomsman? Standing beside my dearest, oldest, most beloved friend on his special day?”

Chan’s soul left his body.

This was it.

The worst moment of his life.

And Jeongin knew it.

He finally—finally—released Chan’s hands, clapping his own together in delight. “Oh, I just can’t wait! It’ll be such a beautiful ceremony. Just like we always imagined, right, Channie?”

Chan’s entire system crashed. Rebooted. Crashed again.

Mi Sun sighed dreamily. “Awww, I love that! You two must have been so close.”

Chan stared at Jeongin, aghast.

Jeongin smiled back, eyes twinkling, face the picture of innocence.

Chan had walked straight into his own funeral. And Jeongin? He was already picking out the casket.

Chapter Text

The soft chime of the salon’s front door barely registered over the hum of the blow dryer and quiet chatter. The space was sleek yet cozy, an intimate two-station setup with modern finishes—warm, neutral walls, soft lighting, and minimalist shelving stocked with premium styling products. Despite its boutique aesthetic, the salon had a lived-in feel, the kind that came from two people working day in and day out in a space that was both their workplace and their creative sanctuary.

Hyunjin’s station was a masterclass in precision. His styling tools were lined up perfectly, his brushes neatly stored in a glass container, and his product selection organized by function—volumizers, heat protectants, finishing sprays. His station exuded the polished elegance of someone who had spent years curating both his craft and his aesthetic.

Jeongin’s, however, was an entirely different story.

As a makeup artist, Jeongin operated in controlled chaos. At the start of the day, everything was pristine—brushes freshly washed, foundations lined up in perfect gradient order, a row of mixing pigments neatly arranged for custom blends. But by mid-afternoon? It was a different story. A few foundation shades sat open on the counter, their pumps still slightly smudged from earlier clients. Brushes that still needed washing lay in a designated “tomorrow problem” pile. A ring light perched just to the side of the mirror, casting a cool glow over his space. His drawers were packed with products, a treasure trove of lipsticks, palettes, and setting powders—because one could never be too prepared for any skin tone, texture, or dramatic transformation request.

It was a mess, but it was his mess.

And now? It was the site of his complete and utter collapse.

Jeongin flung himself into his styling chair with all the grace of a collapsing marionette, limbs draped dramatically over the armrests, head thrown back like a dying widow in a period drama.

A long, suffering sigh left his lips.

Hyunjin, who was currently finishing a client’s blowout, immediately clocked the nonsense happening behind him.

And ignored it.

Instead, he maintained his professional warmth, the very picture of charm as he rounded the chair, guiding the round brush through the client’s hair and giving it one last pass with the blow dryer. “Oh my gooooodness,” he trilled, inspecting his work with a delighted gasp. “Stop it. You are actually stunning. Who even gave you the right?” He fluffed the waves with his fingers, stepping back like an artist admiring a masterpiece. “This should hold beautifully. You’re gonna walk out of here looking like a romance novel cover model. Like—who is she?!”

The woman beamed, running her fingers through the styled waves. “Oh wow, Hyunjin, you’re a miracle worker.”

Jeongin let out another tragic sigh.

Hyunjin’s eye twitched.

“Oh, please,” Jeongin muttered, staring up at the ceiling like he was contemplating the meaning of life.

Hyunjin pressed his lips into a tight line, the professional, tip-boosting smile still stretched across his face like an elastic band ready to snap.

“Stop,” he whispered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the whir of the blow dryer. Then, brighter, more animated—customer service mode engaged—he spun back to the client. “Babe, I’m so glad you love it! I told you this length would give you that perfect, effortless volume. Ugh, and the way it frames your face?” He placed a hand on his chest, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have chills.”

The client giggled. “You’re amazing. Seriously.”

Hyunjin’s grin stretched wider. “Oh, stop it!” He flapped a hand at her, dramatically fake-blushing, then leaned in like they were besties sharing a secret. “Listen, if you happen to mention me in your review—five stars only, of course, we don’t acknowledge the existence of anything less—just say something about my energy. Clients live for energy.”

The woman laughed, nodding. “Absolutely.”

“Mwah!” Hyunjin blew her a kiss and grabbed her purse for her. “I’ll see you at your next appointment, yeah?”

The client, still blissfully unaware of the soap opera unfolding just two feet away, thanked him one last time and gathered her things. He winked, giggling as she waved him off with a laugh and headed for the door.

The second it shut behind her, Hyunjin’s customer-service mask fell off like a cheap wig.

His entire expression went flat.

His smile vanished.

He turned on his heel and stormed over to Jeongin’s station.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed, slamming his hands on Jeongin’s counter.

Jeongin jumped.

Hyunjin’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know how hard I had to work to keep my customer service voice from cracking while you were over here having a meltdown?”

Jeongin barely lifted his head. “You’re being dramatic.”

Hyunjin gaped. “I’m being dramatic?”

Jeongin finally peeled himself upright, his devastation still heavy in his expression.

He turned to Hyunjin, eyes dark, voice solemn.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of the world.

Hyunjin crossed his arms, unimpressed. “Then make me.”

Jeongin took a slow, deep breath.

Then—he dropped the bomb.

“Chan asked me to be in his wedding.”

Silence.

Hyunjin blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

“WHAT?!”

The shrillness of Hyunjin’s voice rattled the entire salon.

The receptionist, who had been scrolling through her phone at the front desk, immediately perked up. With the instincts of someone who had spent far too much time consuming reality television, she silently reached into her bag, pulled out a bag of chips, and settled in.

Hyunjin, meanwhile, looked feral.

His hands flew up, his jaw practically unhinging from his skull. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, CHANNIE ASKED YOU TO BE IN HIS WEDDING?!”

Jeongin, still reeling from the sheer absurdity of it all, could only spread his hands out in front of him, like he, too, was baffled by the very words leaving his mouth.

“I—I don’t know!” he cried. “I thought he was inviting me to a public execution, not offering me a role in his perfect little wedding with his perfect little fiancée and his perfect little new life.”

Hyunjin was vibrating.

Like a phone about to explode from too many notifications.

His eyes were huge, his body tensed like he had just been plugged into an electrical socket. His hands shot out, grabbing Jeongin by the arms and shaking him lightly, as if trying to physically reboot his brain.

“You’re telling me,” Hyunjin began, voice soaking wet with scandal, “that Bang Chan—your Bang Chan—the man you turned inside out like a human pretzel, the man you quite literally ruined for all other men—”

Jeongin winced. “I mean, ruined is a strong word—”

Hyunjin smacked his arm.

“Ow!” Jeongin yelped, rubbing the spot. “Can you not?!”

“FOCUS.” Hyunjin’s hands were back in the air, frantically gesturing like an overworked conductor. “—his ex, his mortal enemy, the man who could single-handedly destroy his entire illusion of a perfect, heterosexual fairytale—to be in his wedding?”

Jeongin opened his mouth.

Paused.

Then shut it.

Because when Hyunjin put it like that… it really was insane.

Hyunjin’s face split into an unholy grin.

“Oh-ho-ho,” he cackled, throwing his head back like a villain in a K-drama. “Oh, my god. Oh my god.” He clutched his stomach, bending forward in pure, delicious glee.

Jeongin scowled. “Stop enjoying this.”

Hyunjin ignored him, pacing now, hands flying through the air like he had just been handed a script with the greatest plot twist of all time.

“I can’t believe this. I genuinely cannot believe this. This is the best thing to ever happen to me.”

Jeongin threw his hands up. “You’re acting like you’re the one getting revenge!”

Hyunjin stopped laughing.

Dead serious, he placed both hands on Jeongin’s shoulders.

“In a way,” he whispered, “I am.”

Jeongin blinked.

The receptionist choked on a chip.

Hyunjin released him, spinning away, still absolutely thriving. He paced again, energy bouncing off the walls. “Wait—wait, wait, wait—” He whirled back around, pointing at Jeongin. “You said yes, right?”

Jeongin scoffed, crossing his arms. “Of course, I said yes. What do I look like? An idiot?”

Hyunjin grinned. “No, but you do look like a villain.”

Jeongin scoffed, flipping his invisible hair over his shoulder like a spoiled heiress in a K-drama. “I’m not a villain.”

Hyunjin let out a short, sharp ha and fixed him with a look.

“Oh, yeah?” He propped a hand on his hip, eyebrow arched. “Then what were your plans, exactly?”

Jeongin hesitated.

Hyunjin grinned.

“Because,” Hyunjin continued, drawing out the word like he was savoring the moment, “it’s pretty obvious you weren’t planning to play nice and throw Channie a happy little wedding.”

Jeongin huffed, arms crossing tighter over his chest. “I mean… I was going to see where the wind took me.”

Hyunjin let out a full-body laugh, tilting his head back in absolute delight. “Ohhh, my god, you are a villain.”

“I’m not—”

Hyunjin held up a finger. “You literally just said you weren’t planning on playing nice.”

“That doesn’t make me a villain,” Jeongin argued, gesturing vaguely, as if waving the entire notion away. “That makes me… strategic.”

Hyunjin’s laughter only grew louder. “You’re plotting. That’s literally what villains do.”

Jeongin narrowed his eyes, lips pressing together. “Okay, fine, so what if I am?”

The receptionist was now openly eating her snack like she was watching the finale of a drama.

Hyunjin just spread his arms. “I rest my case.”

Jeongin rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out of his head. “It’s not—I wasn’t gonna sabotage anything.”

Hyunjin gasped theatrically. “Oh my god, you were gonna sabotage the wedding!”

Jeongin paused.

Oh.

…Was he?

Was that… the plan?

His silence stretched a little too long, and Hyunjin’s grin widened, devilish and victorious. “Unbelievable,” he whispered, like he’d just uncovered state secrets. “You don’t even know, do you?”

Jeongin let out a strangled groan, tipping his head back against the chair like it might swallow him whole. “That’s not what this is.”

Hyunjin, gleeful and fully committed, clasped his hands to his chest like he’d just solved a murder. “Sweetie,” he said, voice syrupy with condescension. “You are sabotage in heels.”

Jeongin scowled. “It’s not like that.”

Hyunjin leaned in, eyes sparkling. “It’s exactly like that.” Hyunjin pointed a perfectly manicured finger at him, eyes sparkling with scandal. “Oh my god, you weren’t even planning on it consciously, but your little gremlin brain was already scheming, wasn’t it?”

Jeongin’s lips parted, an indignant retort forming—but then he hesitated.

Because… okay, maybe he had intended to make Chan sweat a little.

Maybe he had imagined whispering some choice words to him at the rehearsal dinner, letting his fingers brush just a little too close when adjusting his tie, watching the way Chan’s carefully composed life cracked at the seams.

Maybe he had wanted to remind Chan exactly what he had given up.

But that wasn’t sabotage, per se.

That was just… balance.

Jeongin sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Should I not sabotage this wedding?”

The sheer absurdity of the sentence sent Hyunjin into hysterics. He doubled over, cackling, one hand on his stomach, the other gripping Jeongin’s arm like he needed support to stay upright.

The receptionist, at this point, had fully committed to the drama, popping another chip into her mouth as she leaned forward.

Jeongin, exhausted, threw his hands up. “I mean, maybe I should just—be normal about this. Maybe I should just accept the role, smile for the pictures, and—I don’t know! Let them have their stupid fairytale wedding.”

Hyunjin sobered just enough to stare at him like he’d just spoken in tongues.

“Okay, but like…” He squinted, tilting his head. “Why?”

Jeongin blinked. “What do you mean, why?”

Hyunjin grabbed both of Jeongin’s shoulders again, shaking him lightly. “Jeongin. Why the hell would you be normal about this?”

Jeongin scrunched his nose. “I don’t know! Maybe because I’m a good person?”

Hyunjin outright cackled. “You’re not.”

Jeongin scowled. “Rude.”

“Accurate!” Hyunjin shot back. “Good people don’t sit in salons wondering if they should sabotage weddings.”

Jeongin slumped further into his chair, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. “God, I am a villain.”

Hyunjin patted his knee comfortingly. “You are, baby.”

Jeongin exhaled. “Like, I was just planning to… I don’t know. Exist near him. Make him think about me. Maybe haunt his dreams a little bit.”

Hyunjin gasped, delighted. “Sexy ghost era, I love that for you.”

“But now I have to—” Jeongin gestured vaguely. “Like, be in the wedding? Participate? Stand there and look happy for him? Ugh.” He shuddered. “I feel unclean.”

Hyunjin threw a comforting arm around him. “You’ll shower later.”

“I won’t shower later,” Jeongin muttered, hugging himself. “I want to marinate in my resentment.”

The receptionist audibly snorted.

Hyunjin squeezed his shoulder, his face scrunching in faux sympathy before his tone turned wicked. “I mean, babe, you do realize what this means, right?”

Jeongin side-eyed him warily. “What?”

Hyunjin’s voice dropped into something far too pleased. “It means you don’t even have to try to ruin anything.”

Jeongin’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing together. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, honey,” Hyunjin cooed, tilting Jeongin’s chin toward him. “You don’t need to throw a tantrum. You don’t need to sabotage a thing. All you have to do—” He leaned in, grinning. “—is be there.”

Jeongin blinked.

Hyunjin tapped his own temple. “Think about it. You, existing in his wedding party? Standing at his side while he pledges eternal love to some woman who will never know him like you do? That’s the real fun.”

Jeongin tapped his nails against the arm of his chair, a slow, rhythmic tick tick tick that matched the turn of gears in his head.

He didn’t need to pull some grand stunt, didn’t need to cause a scandal, didn’t even need to set a single thing on fire (though he could—the option was always there).

Chan was already standing in a house of cards.

Jeongin just had to remind him of the wind.

Something electric buzzed through Jeongin’s veins.

Chan could spin whatever narrative he wanted. Could smile through the speeches, toast to the future, wrap himself in the illusion of a clean-cut, settled-down life.

But Jeongin?

Jeongin would be right there.

A living, breathing reminder of everything Chan had been.

Everything they had been.

Everything Chan had tried to pretend never happened.

And when Chan looked at him—really looked at him—he’d have to face the truth.

Jeongin’s lips parted.

Oh.

Oh, this was fun.

The shift happened slowly—his shoulders squaring, his expression sharpening, the slow, wicked curve of his lips.

Hyunjin saw it.

And beamed.

“There he is,” Hyunjin cooed, giving him a playful shake. “There’s my petty little menace.”

Jeongin preened.

Because that was it.

Chan could lie to Mi Sun.

Chan could put on his little suit, tie his little tie, say all the right things, pretend.

But he couldn’t lie to Jeongin.

Not now. Not ever.

Jeongin had seen him unravel, had felt his hands tremble against his back, had heard the wreckage in his voice when he whispered his name in the dark.

He had held the truth of him in his hands.

So, no.

Chan could pretend all he wanted, could play the perfect fiancé, could stand in a neat little wedding suit and convince the world he was a brand-new man.

But Jeongin had been there.

Jeongin knew better.

And he was going to do everything in his power to make Chan stop lying to himself.

Hyunjin exhaled a delighted laugh, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. You’re really gonna do it, huh?”

Jeongin leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily, a slow smirk curling at his lips.

“Oh, please,” he purred. “I won’t ruin his wedding. I’ll just remind him what he’s been missing.”

Hyunjin blinked. Once. Twice. Then dragged a hand down his face. “You’re going to wreck him.”

Jeongin’s smirk was pure sin. “If I’m lucky.”

The receptionist crunched the last of her chips, nodding. “Respect.”

Jeongin twirled a makeup brush between his fingers, exhaling like a man settling into something sweet.

“By the time I’m done,” he murmured, “Bang Chan won’t know which way is up.”

Hyunjin sighed, already exhausted. “God help him.”

Chapter Text

Chan knew better than to make eye contact.

He knew better than to linger, to engage, to do anything that might draw attention to himself.

Because attention in this dressing room was a death sentence.

He had learned that the hard way last week, when he’d barely escaped with his dignity intact. One too many saucy remarks, one too many knowing looks, and an entire room of drag queens with absolutely no boundaries had made sure he left questioning every life choice that had led him here.

So tonight?

Tonight, he had a plan.

That plan was simple: Do the job. Avoid the theatrics. Leave unscathed.

Which was exactly why he was hyper-focused on not reacting as he attached Lina’s mic pack, keeping his eyes locked firmly on the task at hand.

Clip to the waistband. Adjust the wire. Test the levels.

No distractions. No theatrics.

And definitely no—

“Ohhh, look who came back.”

Chan flinched so hard he nearly headbutted Lina.

No.

Not again.

Slowly—painfully slowly—he turned his head, already knowing what awaited him.

And there he was.

Jeongin.

Perched on the arm of the couch like a very expensive problem, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, fingers drumming lightly against his knee. His robe—which was absolutely clinging for life—had slipped off one shoulder, teasing the shimmer of body glitter smeared across his bare chest.

Chan’s entire body screamed DO NOT LOOK.

He looked.

And regretted it immediately.

Jeongin smirked, lips painted a sinfully deep red, liner sharp enough to gut him, and a dusting of blush that made him look expensive in the kind of way that would leave you financially and emotionally ruined.

He moved.

Slowly.

Too slowly.

With all the ease of a predator who had no fear of its prey getting away.

Chan gripped the mic wire like a lifeline.

He turned back to Lina, trying—desperately—to focus. “Hold still,” he muttered, reaching for the mic wire.

Jeongin ignored this completely.

Instead, he slid off the couch with excruciating ease, his movements too slow, too deliberate, like he was making a meal out of standing up. His robe slipped further off his shoulder as he approached, revealing the delicate slope of his collarbone, the faintest shimmer of highlight catching in the dressing room lights.

Chan stared at Lina’s back, praying to whatever gods were listening.

But Jeongin was not in a merciful mood.

His fingers—soft, manicured, and absolutely dangerous—traced a slow, lazy path up Chan’s forearm, barely grazing his skin. “Why so tense, sound guy?” Jeongin mused, dragging his lower lip between his teeth. “You’re standing like someone’s either holding you at gunpoint… or making you see God.”

Chan physically short-circuited.

Lina, still delicately adjusting her bangs, picked up her hairbrush and tapped it against her palm, her tone smooth, almost sweet. “If you make him pass out, I’m going to dent your pretty little skull with this. Just a love tap.”

Jeongin, entirely unfazed, let out a soft hum, as if she’d just complimented his shoes. He leaned in closer, his perfume thick in the air, heat ghosting against the shell of Chan’s ear.

“You should let someone…” His voice dipped into something sinful, slow, deliberate. “…stretch you out.”

Chan dropped the mic wire like it was burning hot lava—except in his panic, he also fumbled it straight into Lina’s lap, smacked his shin against the chair, and staggered backward—

—right into Jeongin’s chest, who, naturally, caught him.

Jeongin, warm and solid behind him, made a delighted little noise.
“Well, if you wanted to be in my arms, sound guy, you could’ve just asked.”

Chan nearly died on the spot.

Lina, having precisely enough of this nonsense, snorted. “Must you harass every man who enters this dressing room?”

Jeongin pouted, placing a hand over his heart. “It’s not harassment,” he insisted. “It’s flirtation.”

Lina didn’t even blink. “And that’s how you end up on a watchlist. It’s obsession.”

“It’s fun,” Jeongin corrected, grin absolutely feral.

Lina didn’t even blink.

“It’s a criminal offense in some countries.”

Jeongin gasped, scandalized, pressing both hands to his chest like he had just been personally attacked. 

Lina side-eyed him, completely unfazed. “Save the dramatics for the stage, yobu.”

Chan, standing completely frozen, very much wishing he had the ability to disappear, watched in horror as the two of them continued their conversation as if he wasn’t even there.

Lina continued, swiping some loose powder off her cheekbone. “It’s thirst, that’s what it is.”

Jeongin scoffed. “And what’s wrong with being a little hydrated?”

Lina flicked her wrist. “A little hydrated? Baby, you are a whole-ass flood warning.”

Chan was actively trying not to implode.

He had one goal tonight: survive.

But Jeongin?

Jeongin could smell fear.

Chan stiffened as Jeongin hummed, stepping even closer, his perfume wrapping around him like a trap.

“You know…” Jeongin mused, his voice silky, his gaze heavy.

And then—he reached.

Chan froze.

Jeongin’s fingers ghosted over his shoulder—light, deliberate—before brushing down, his nails barely grazing the fabric of Chan’s shirt, his head tilting just slightly as his eyes flickered downward.

Chan stopped breathing.

“If you ever need help unwinding after a long shift…” Jeongin’s voice dripped with something dangerous, something soaked in promise. His lips parted just slightly as his gaze lingered—

—dragging from Chan’s shoulders, down to his chest, then finally—

locked onto his lips.

Chan was not okay.

Lina’s head snapped toward Jeongin, her eyes wide with horrified exasperation.

“Oh my god,” she deadpanned. “You are so horny.”

Jeongin sighed wistfully, tipping his head back like a tragic heroine in an old Hollywood film.

“Unnie, I am in my prime.”

Lina groaned, pressing her fingers to her temples. “You are nineteen.”

Jeongin gave a devastating smirk. “Exactly.”

Lina threw her hands in the air. “Jesus, take the wheel.”

Chan, physically vibrating, was experiencing a full-body shutdown.

His ears were hot. His hands were sweaty. His soul had left the building.

He needed to leave.

He needed to get out of this room immediately.

Lina, sensing his pure desperation, clapped her hands together with a loud smack. “Alright, pretty boy,” she declared, turning in her chair. “You’re done. You can go. Run. Flee. Before this demon twink eats you alive.”

Chan did not hesitate.

He turned on his heel, beelining for the door like it was the last exit from a burning building.

Jeongin, ever the menace, called after him—

“Oh, honey, don’t run too fast—I like the chase.”

Chan bolted.

The moment the dressing room door swung shut behind Chan—his escape so urgent it nearly rattled on its hinges—Lina exhaled, slow and deliberate, before swiveling in her chair to face the absolute menace responsible for the chaos.

Jeongin, meanwhile, was utterly unrepentant. With a dramatic sigh, he collapsed onto the couch like a damsel in a silent film, one hand pressed to his chest, the other flung across his forehead. If someone had handed him a fainting couch, he would’ve used it.

Lina gave him precisely two seconds before she picked up the nearest thing—her hairbrush—and chucked it at his head.

Jeongin barely dodged, yelping as it whizzed past him and clattered to the floor.

“What the hell was that?” Lina demanded, voice flat, unimpressed, and entirely over it.

Jeongin cracked one eye open, then grinned—grinned—as if Lina hadn’t just watched him sexually harass their poor sound guy into a full existential crisis.

“I think,” Jeongin drawled, fingers idly tracing the edge of his robe, “that was what the kids call chemistry.”

Lina blinked once.

Then grabbed her setting spray.

Jeongin yelped, barely dodging as she launched it.

“Violence?” he tutted, shaking his head. “Unnie, please. Not very motherly of you.”

Lina pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t have enough setting spray to deal with your bullshit.”

Jeongin sighed dreamily, melting further into the couch like a lovestruck fool, long legs stretching out, a hand pressing dramatically to his tormented heart.

“He’s so pretty.”

Lina rolled her eyes so hard it was a medical miracle they didn’t fall out of her head. “He’s so straight.”

Jeongin just hummed, tapping a manicured nail against his chin. “A tragedy, really.”

“More tragic than that performance?” Lina snapped, waving vaguely at the now-empty doorway where Chan had sprinted for his life like he was being chased by a demon. “That poor man has never known peace.”

Jeongin giggled. “Mmm, I do love a challenge.”

Lina groaned. “Jeongin, for the love of drag, leave him alone.”

“But he’s so fun to tease,” Jeongin whined, flopping onto his stomach, kicking his feet like a teenage girl on the phone. “Did you see his face? He blushed, unnie. He flushed. I felt the heat off of him.”

“You nearly fried his brain like a cheap curling iron,” Lina muttered.

Jeongin beamed, rolling onto his back, legs flung dramatically over the couch arm. “And yet, he still functions. Handsome and resilient.”

Lina, refusing to indulge this lunacy, grabbed a makeup sponge and whipped it at his face.

Jeongin gasped as it bounced off his cheek.

“UNNIE,” he cried, clutching his face like she had just personally slapped him across the Moulin Rouge stage.

Lina pointed a sharp finger at him. “I heard from the manager that he almost quit last week when he found out about the drag nights.”

Jeongin’s brows lifted. “Oh?” Now that was interesting.

Lina nodded. “Yes. Almost quit. Walked right up to the office ready to hand in his resignation.”

Jeongin tapped his bottom lip, considering. “And yet…”

Lina’s eyes narrowed. “And yet?”

Jeongin’s grin stretched wide. “And yet, he’s still here.”

Lina groaned, dragging a hand down her face, already exhausted. “He’s here for the paycheck, Jeongin, not for you.”

Jeongin gasped, clutching his robe like she’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “How dare you? You think I don’t know when a man is intrigued?”

Lina didn’t blink. “He was terrified.”

Jeongin tilted his head, smirking. “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

Lina gagged, grabbing a lipstick tube and pelting it at him.

Jeongin barely dodged, laughing as it bounced off the couch.

“I need you off my furniture before I throw you out a window.”

Jeongin ignored this entirely, instead rolling onto his side, propping his chin in his palm, eyes sparkling with pure, unfiltered delusion. “Come on, unnie. You really think he’s not at least a little curious?”

Lina threw both hands in the air. “HE. ALMOST. QUIT.”

Jeongin shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

Lina grabbed the hairbrush again.

Jeongin shrieked and finally, finally, got his menace ass off the couch.

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” he laughed, tossing up his hands in surrender—but not before shooting one last glance at the door, where Chan had fled like a man who had seen God and wanted a refund.

His lips curled, wicked and knowing.

Lina, watching him with the exhausted patience of a single mother raising a feral child, exhaled through her nose. Then, sharp as a whip crack—

“Get your ass dressed.”

Jeongin scoffed, scandalized, placing a hand over his chest like she had personally insulted him.

“Excuse me? You just witnessed a masterclass in temptation, and now you expect me to cover up like some common peasant? I am art, unnie. Would you throw a tarp over the Mona Lisa?”

Lina didn’t blink. Didn’t even move. Just slowly reached for a loose eyelash curler and held it up like a weapon.

“I will clamp this onto your skinniest lash and rip it out one by one, you little incubus.”

Jeongin gasped, delighted.
“Ooh, say it again, but slower.”

Lina lunged.

Jeongin yelped, cackling as he snatched up his dress—if it could even be called that. A barely-there slip of red latex, tighter than sin, short enough to be a scandal, and cut in ways that left very little to the imagination.

He twirled it once in his hands, entirely unbothered. “You act like I’m about to walk out in a hanbok for Chuseok.”

Lina let the eyelash curler snap shut with a sharp clack. “You act like you’re wearing a dress and not just a suggestion of fabric.”

Jeongin winked. “Exactly. The illusion of modesty is what makes it exciting.”

Lina picked up a can of hairspray and cocked her arm back like she was about to throw a grenade.

Jeongin yelled, dodged, and ran for his life, cackling all the way to his station.

In the following weeks, I.N. had latched on to Chan. 

Like a curse. Like a particularly stubborn poltergeist. Like glitter in the seams of his clothing—impossible to get rid of and getting everywhere he didn’t want her to be.

Chan didn’t know how it had happened. He just knew that, suddenly, she was everywhere.

And it was ruining him.

It started small. A little game of cat and mouse that he had very clearly not consented to. I.N. would waltz into the sound booth like she owned the place, hips swaying, confidence dripping from every step. It didn’t matter that she had no business being there—she made it her business.

She’d lean against the soundboard like it was a casual seating option, arms draping over the equipment in a way that made Chan’s nerves short-circuit. The first time, he had tried ignoring her, keeping his head down, eyes locked on his work.

It had not worked.

“Looks complicated,” she mused, tilting her head as she watched him adjust the levels. “Do you even know what all these little knobs do, sound guy?”

Chan, who had been professionally trained in audio engineering, who had literally gone to school for this, gritted his teeth and muttered, “Yes.”

I.N. smirked, slow and knowing. “Sure you do.”

Then she just stayed there.

Watching.

Studying him like he was an exhibit in a museum, like she was a judge at a talent show waiting for him to slip up.

“Hyung,” she purred, voice rich and sweet like poisoned honey. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Chan stiffened so fast he nearly knocked over a monitor.

Every nerve in his body lit up like a warning flare. This was a trap. A setup. A psychological landmine wrapped in lace and lip gloss.

He opened his mouth to deflect—to dodge—to do anything but answer. His mouth, unfortunately, had a death wish.

“Yes.”

The word escaped before he even knew he’d thought it. Unfiltered. Undeniable.

Chan blinked.

Oh god.

Because of course he knew. Of course he’d known from the first time he saw her—standing in the back hallway of the club in heels and lashes, all legs and cheekbones and glittering menace. She’d left him speechless.

But admitting it? Saying it out loud?

That had never been part of the plan.

And now it hung in the air—too loud, too true.

I.N. smiled.

Not the polite kind. Not the nice kind.

The kind that curled slow and sharp, that dripped with satisfaction.

The kind that promised nothing but trouble.

“Thank you,” she said, oh so sweet.

Chan was already regretting everything, scrambling for an excuse. “It— it doesn’t mean as much when you ask,” he argued, as if that would somehow lessen the weight of his own admission.

I.N. laughed, tilting her head like a cat that had just cornered its favorite toy.

“Funny,” she murmured, “I think you’re pretty, too.”

Chan swallowed.

The room shrank. The sound booth, already small, suddenly felt suffocating, walls pressing in as I.N. leaned closer, the scent of her perfume curling into his lungs.

“You—” Chan tried, then stopped. His tongue felt thick, his heartbeat a traitorous drum against his ribs. “You can’t call me that,” he managed, voice thin and weak and nothing like how he wanted it to sound.

I.N. grinned.

“Why?” she asked, tapping a manicured nail against the console. “Does it make you feel fragile?”

Fox in the chicken coop.

Chan had spent years thinking of himself as the predator, the professional, the one in control of the situation.

But I.N. wasn’t just some guy playing dress-up in a wig and heels.

She was practiced.

She was polished.

She had spent years sharpening herself into something razor-edged and dangerous, a weapon wrapped in silk and glitter.

Chan was not affected by that.

He wasn’t.

Except—

There were… other things.

Little things. Things that made it impossible to forget her even when she wasn’t physically in his space.

Like the lipstick-stained coffee cup left near his station—the imprint of red lips teasing him whenever he sat down, a ghost of a kiss he had not asked for but couldn’t stop staring at.

Like the faint traces of perfume lingering on the soundboard whenever he got to work, a soft, insidious whisper of her presence. A scent he could identify in a lineup at this point, and wasn’t that just a little terrifying?

Like the time he found a note scrawled on his setlist—

Miss me? 💋

Chan had nearly thrown his entire laptop across the club.

The worst thing—the absolute worst—was that it was working.

Chan was losing his mind.

He couldn’t act normal.

He was fumbling wires. Missing cues. Staring at the booth door whenever he thought he saw her pass by, waiting for her next attack.

His sleep schedule was suffering. He was dreaming—no, nightmaring—in winged eyeliner and slow smirks and the sharp click of heels that haunted his every waking hour.

And she knew it.

I.N. knew, and she was thriving in the knowledge.

She played it up.

Every performance, she found him. Sought him out in the crowd. Locked eyes with him from the stage, letting her smirk stretch slow and knowing, like she felt how much he was sweating under his collar.

The first week, it was subtle.

A glance. A tilt of her head. A teasing, fleeting moment of eye contact held a second too long. A slow smile curving her painted lips, like she knew a secret he hadn’t figured out yet.

Chan convinced himself he was imagining things.

But the second week?

She danced closer to the booth.

Closer to the edges of the crowd. Making a show of stretching, rolling her shoulders back, dragging her fingers up the column of her throat, teasing the lapels of her barely-there corset like she might unfasten them.

He stopped breathing.

By the third week, she was escalating.

No longer teasing at the edges of his peripheral. No longer waiting for him to notice.

She was in his line of sight now, deliberately, purposefully—leaning into the mic with that devastating smirk as she lip-synced the most suggestive parts of her set while watching him.

She twirled her fingers through her hair, tugging at the strands, parting her lips just slightly before trailing her nails down her own thigh—slow, deliberate—like she was thinking of someone else doing it.

Like she was thinking of him.

Chan almost blacked out.

And then.

Each week, she took it even further.

By the fourth week, she had upped the ante.

A new number. Sultry. Slow. The bass rolling through the club like a heartbeat.

And I.N.?

I.N. tilted her head, licked her lips, and sank into the music like it was something she could physically taste.

Her hips rolled, smooth and deliberate, as she dragged her fingers down the line of her own body, teasing the hem of her miniskirt—the absolute excuse of fabric that it was—tugging at it as if there were any room left to hike it up.

There wasn’t.

But it was the illusion that mattered.

Her lips parted on a breath, her lashes fluttering, and then—

She moaned.

Fake. Exaggerated. Right into the mic.

Right as the lyrics turned particularly explicit.

The crowd ate it up.

Cheers, whistles, hands flying up to the stage, some desperate, some worshipful, as she rode the edge of the beat, let her knees bend in a slow, sinful drop before sliding up again with a deliberate drag of her palms up the sides of her thighs.

Chan’s brain shut down.

Completely.

He could feel the other sound techs watching him now, one of them literally slapping his arm like, Dude. Bro. Are you seeing this?

Oh, he was seeing this.

He was witnessing his own goddamn downfall in real time.

By the time Chan entered Han and Changbin’s apartment that Tuesday, he was like a man with a secret, horrible burden.

A burden he could no longer bear alone.

He set his bag down carefully—deliberately—then straightened up, exhaling slowly. His hands hovered in front of him like he was about to confess something grave, something life-altering.

Then, in a voice that sounded entirely too haunted:

“I am being psychologically tortured.”

Changbin, seated at the kitchen counter with his third protein shake of the day, raised a brow. “By who?”

Han, lying fully on the floor in what could only be described as the crime scene outline of a man, didn’t even lift his head. “Is it capitalism? Because same.”

“No,” Chan said, shaking his head, staring at the middle distance like a soldier returning from war. “It’s worse.”

Han finally lifted his head. “Worse than capitalism?”

Chan’s lips parted, voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s I.N.”

Silence.

Then Changbin frowned. “Wait, who?”

“The drag queen at the club.”

Han blinked. “There’s a drag queen at the club?”

Chan turned, slow and mechanical, betrayal written all over his face.

“Jisung,” he said, voice tight, controlled, dangerous. “You got me this job.”

“Yeah?” Han scratched his stomach, unbothered.

Chan stared. “And you didn’t think to mention the drag nights?”

Han’s face scrunched up. “They have drag nights?”

“Jisung! Thursday nights are drag nights.”

Han made a vague motion with his hand. “Dude, I only go there on Saturdays. You think I go out on a Thursday?”

Chan stared. “You look like you don’t leave this apartment.”

“That’s also true,” Han conceded.

Changbin leaned forward slightly. “Okay, but, like. What’s the problem? I thought you liked the job?”

Chan made a strangled noise. “I did! Before—” He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands down his face. “Before I.N. happened.”

Han and Changbin exchanged a look.

Then, with increasing intrigue: “Okay, but who is she?”

Chan groaned. “She’s a performer at the club. And she’s—everywhere. She’s always in the sound booth. She—she watches me work, she talks to me, she—” His voice caught, like saying it out loud made it real, like admitting it would only dig the knife deeper into his soul. “—she left a note on my setlist.”

Silence.

Then Han snorted. “Oh no. A note. How will you ever recover.”

Chan gestured wildly, flailing like a man losing his last shred of sanity. “It said ‘Miss me?’—WITH A LIPSTICK KISS.”

Changbin choked on his protein shake. Han’s brows shot up. “Oh. Oh, that’s funny.”

Chan threw his hands in the air. “NO, IT’S NOT.”

Han nodded. “No, you’re right—it’s hilarious.”

“It’s harassment.”

Han crossed his arms, smirking. “She’s flirting with you.”

Chan shook his head, exasperated. “No, she’s tormenting me.”

“Is there a difference?”

“YES.”

Han lost it. Full-body wheezing. Absolute breathless cackling.

Chan scowled. “I am being haunted. This isn’t a joke!”

Changbin, finally recovering, cleared his throat. “Hyung… just quit.”

Chan froze.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Changbin blinked. “Dude?”

Han, however, saw it. The way Chan’s mouth opened, then shut. The way his jaw tightened. The way he shifted, uncomfortably, like he knew that was the logical solution—but also like quitting had never even occurred to him.

Han’s grin stretched. “Oh my god.”

Chan scowled. “What?”

Han pointed at him. “You like this.”

Chan scoffed, deeply offended. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No. I. Don’t.”

Han grinned wider. “If you really hated it, you’d quit.”

Chan clenched his fists. “I just—I just don’t want to quit out of spite.”

“Spite against…?” Changbin prompted.

Chan hesitated.

Han clapped. “Aha.”

Chan groaned, collapsing onto the couch like a man defeated.

Changbin grabbed his protein shake. “So, to summarize, you’re staying in a job where you are being relentlessly harassed by a sexy drag queen and refuse to leave even though quitting would solve all your problems?”

Chan buried his face in his hands. “Shut up.”

Han kicked his shin. “No, no, let’s be clear—a sexy drag queen who specifically wants to torment you.”

Chan groaned louder. “Shut up.”

Changbin hummed. “And you don’t like the attention?”

“I DON’T.”

Changbin sighed, setting down his shake. “Okay, real talk, though—if it’s actually making you uncomfortable, you should quit. Like, for real. If it’s weird, if it’s too much, if you feel pressured at all—we’ll help you find something else.”

Han nodded, for once completely serious. “Yeah, exactly. If you feel weird about it, we’ll back you up. No job is worth that.”

Chan paused.

His two best friends, his biggest enablers, were giving him an out. A real, legitimate escape.

And yet.

He didn’t take it.

By the fifth week, I.N had eliminated all pretense. She only grinned. Because she saw him, too.

Saw the way he gripped the soundboard like it might physically hold him together. Saw the way his jaw had gone tight, the way his shoulders had locked, the way his eyes couldn’t seem to leave her, no matter how hard he tried.

So she blew him a kiss.

Right there.

From the stage.

In front of everyone.

Chan nearly died.

She was a succubus. A demon. A force of absolute destruction wrapped in latex and glitter and the most devastating smirk he had ever seen in his life.

He wanted to quit.

He should quit.

But he hadn’t.

And wasn’t that the most damning thing of all?

Because if he really wanted this to stop—if he really didn’t want her attention—he would’ve packed his bags and run. He would’ve gone back to his apartment, rewritten his resume, gotten a normal job at some quiet little café where drag queens weren’t haunting his every thought.

But he was still here.

Still gripping the soundboard like a lifeline.

Still trying so hard to ignore the way she made him feel like a deer caught in headlights.

Still pretending he wasn’t counting down the seconds until she walked through that door again.

And I.N.?

I.N. wasn’t going anywhere.

She had found her new favorite toy.

And she was going to play with it until it broke.

Chapter Text

Chan barely had the energy to untie his shoes. He slumped against the doorway, the weight of the day pressing heavy against his shoulders, and exhaled slowly. His back ached. His brain felt fried. His soul? Probably floating somewhere between exhaustion and existential crisis.

He just needed five minutes. Five minutes to shut his eyes, let his bones settle, and pretend he wasn’t a man unraveling at the seams.

Instead—

“Oh, you’re home!”

Mi Sun’s voice was bright, excited, full of energy, and it crashed into him like an oncoming train. She was perched on the couch, laptop open on the coffee table, surrounded by color swatches. Peach, blue, variations of each in soft pastels and deep tones. There were printouts scattered across the cushions, a glass of wine in one hand, her expression one of absolute delight.

Chan blinked. “What’s all this?”

Mi Sun grinned, shifting to sit up straighter. “Wedding colors! I finally decided.”

Right. The wedding. The wedding that was definitely happening, that he was definitely enthusiastic about, that was absolutely not making him feel like his ribcage was collapsing in on itself every time he thought about it too hard.

Chan swallowed, pushing past the fog of fatigue, and forced a smile. “Yeah?”

“Peach and baby blue,” Mi Sun declared, beaming. “I was working on a color palette at work today and it just—clicked. It feels so fresh, right? Like, romantic but not overdone? Like, soft and playful but still elegant?”

She was so excited, and Chan felt like an asshole for not being able to match her energy.

“It’s nice,” he said, nodding, pulling off his jacket. “Good choice.”

She brightened further. “Right? I was torn at first, but once I put the colors together, it just felt so right. Look—” She leaned forward, tapping at the laptop. “Imagine the suits in that soft blue, and the flowers? Like peach roses and dahlias, maybe even ranunculus? And then—oh! The table settings! The napkins can be a deeper peach, and the ribbons on the chairs can tie in the blue—”

Chan listened, nodding where he was supposed to, trying—really trying—to absorb her excitement. This was good. This was normal. This was his future.

And yet.

The whole time, something gnawed at him.

Because peach and blue had never been his wedding colors.

Sage green.

That had always been his vision. His idea of a perfect wedding palette. Something soft, something timeless, something calm. He had pictured it so clearly—muted sage woven subtly throughout the venue, the deep green of sleek tableware against dark wood, the refined elegance of celadon ceramics arranged carefully on a modern, minimalist spread.

Groomswear in cool, sophisticated tones—maybe a deep charcoal suit with a sage-green tie, or something more contemporary, an open-collared look with hanbok-inspired details. The warm glow of hanji lanterns against modern glass architecture, blending the past and the present.

Something understated but deliberate—the kind of wedding that didn’t try too hard to be flashy, yet carried a quiet, self-assured beauty. A space where tradition met the clean lines and effortless style of a modern Seoul wedding, maybe held at a boutique hotel or a renovated hanok with an intimate courtyard reception.

Something grounding.

And he didn’t know why that thought made him so uneasy—until he did.

Until he realized.

Green.

Because green had been Jeongin’s favorite color.

The realization hit like a brick to the chest, knocking the wind out of him so fast he had to physically shake his head to push it out. No. No, no, no. That wasn’t why. It was just a coincidence. He liked sage green because it was a nice color. It had nothing to do with—

“Chan?”

Mi Sun was watching him, brow slightly furrowed.

Chan blinked. Forced himself back into the moment. “Yeah?”

“You spaced out.” She tilted her head, curious but not yet suspicious. “Do you not like it?”

“No—” He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter, forcing a smile that felt like it belonged to someone else. “I love it.”

And he decided, in that moment, that he did.

He loved peach and blue.
He loved how fresh and romantic it felt.
He loved how happy it made Mi Sun.
He loved everything about it.

Because there was no reason not to.

Sage green was irrelevant.

Green was nothing.

And Jeongin had nothing to do with this.

Mi Sun was still watching him, waiting for something—confirmation, enthusiasm, a reaction that didn’t feel like it had been manually switched on. He knew she was perceptive, knew she could pick up on his hesitation, but she let it slide, perhaps chalking it up to exhaustion.

“You’re tired,” she murmured, softer now. “I shouldn’t have ambushed you the second you walked in.”

Chan exhaled, relieved to have an easy excuse. He leaned back against the couch, stretching his arms with a tired groan. “Long day,” he said simply. “But I do love it. Really. Peach and blue—it’s perfect.”

Mi Sun’s eyes searched his face for a second longer before she seemed to accept it, her excitement returning full force. “Good! Because I already told my mom, and she loves it too.”

Of course she did.

Chan smiled, nodding, because that’s what was expected. “That’s great.”

Mi Sun leaned over, nudging his shoulder. “I also may or may not have already reached out to a planner to discuss the color scheme.”

Chan huffed a laugh, playing along. “Wow, no hesitation?”

“No hesitation,” she confirmed, grinning. “I told you—I was feeling inspired today. The second I put the palette together, it just felt right.”

Felt right.

Chan forced himself not to overthink it. Not to compare.

Mi Sun talked about color coordination and floral arrangements, about how she could already picture their wedding photos against the backdrop of a spring wedding—clear skies, cherry blossoms lingering in the air. She wanted something bright, something full of life, something that felt like them.

Chan nodded along, agreed when necessary, laughed when prompted.

And yet—

His mind wouldn’t stop pulling.

Not to a wedding. Not even to Jeongin—not at first.

But to Thursdays.

To the way green had lingered in his life for years without him even noticing.

Not sage.

Not the soft, muted greens of florals and tableware.

Forest green.

Deep, rich, grounding.

The color of the first time he saw Jeongin—not I.N., not the force of nature wrapped in latex and stilettos, but Jeongin. Just a boy, stepping out of the green room in an oversized, worn-in hoodie, fluffy-haired and fresh-faced, sleeves hanging past his fingers as he tugged at the cuffs.

That damn hoodie.

That giant, swallow-him-whole green hoodie that he became too familiar with in the years to follow.

Chan could still feel it in his arms. The fabric soft with age, the way it pooled around Jeongin’s frame, drowning his small waist, hiding everything but the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the delicate slope of his collarbones peeking from the neckline.

Chan had borrowed that hoodie more times than he could count. Had worn it on cold mornings, rolling the sleeves up when they got in the way, curling into its warmth like it was his own.

He had walked around their apartment in nothing but that hoodie, loose and comfortable, tugging at the frayed hem absentmindedly. And Jeongin—Jeongin, wild and insatiable and so himself—would grab at him.

Would pull him in, rough and greedy, possessive, pressing his face into the fabric, breathing Chan in like a man desperate for air.

Chan had laughed, every time. Had rolled his eyes, had teased, had held him close anyway—because Jeongin had made him feel like home.

And now—

Now he was sitting in his apartment, with his fiancée, discussing wedding colors.

And all he could think about was the way Jeongin used to hold him.

Chan’s stomach twisted so hard it felt like nausea. His throat closed. His skin burned, itched, like something had crawled under it and taken root.

No. No, no, no.

Not now. Not anymore.

He cleared his throat, forced his legs to move. “I think I’m gonna take a shower,” he said, pushing himself up from the couch.

Mi Sun barely glanced up from her laptop, still lost in color swatches and floral arrangements. “Mmm, okay. Want me to order food while you’re in there?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled. It barely sounded like a word. “That’d be great.”

He left.

He all but fled.

Down the hall, into the bathroom, shutting the door harder than necessary. Stripping off his clothes like they were weighing him down. Turning the shower on scalding before stepping in, letting the water hit his back, his shoulders, his face—anything to drown out the thoughts clawing their way to the surface.

He had nothing to feel guilty about.

Sage green was just a color.

A coincidence.

And Jeongin—

Jeongin had nothing to do with this.

So why did it feel like no matter how hot the water was, it wasn’t enough to scrub him clean?

Why did it feel like his mind was dragging him back, over and over, to the things he had buried so deep they should have been dead and gone?

Why did it feel like the past was sitting just behind him, breathing down his neck—waiting for the moment he was too tired to keep pushing it away?

Chan closed his eyes, let the steam billow around him, let the water scald his skin.

This was ridiculous.

He was happy now.

He was.

Mi Sun was beautiful. She was kind. She was funny in a way that caught him off guard sometimes, made him laugh when he least expected it. She had this way of rambling when she was excited, words spilling out of her like a rushing stream, bubbling over with enthusiasm for whatever had captured her attention that day. She was warm, like sunlight through a window—steady and bright and safe.

She was everything he wanted.

Everything he had chosen.

And he was excited to marry her.

He was.

The past was the past.

Buried. Over. Gone.

Whatever his mind was doing, whatever his body was doing—the twisting in his gut, the itch in his skin, the ghost of Jeongin’s touch lingering where it had no right to be—it didn’t mean anything.

It was just… the exhaustion. The stress. The weight of wedding planning and work piling up all at once, his brain dredging up memories he hadn’t thought about in years, memories that didn’t matter anymore.

They didn’t.

So, he pushed it down.

Pushed it deep.

When Chan stepped out of the shower, steam curling around his skin, he felt a little lighter. The heat had burned away some of the tension, loosening the knots in his shoulders, the stiffness in his spine.

He focused on that. On the sensation of relief. On the simple pleasure of right now.

Mi Sun had already ordered dinner. He could hear her in the living room, rustling through the takeout bags, humming to herself as she set things up. When he padded into the room, towel still slung over his shoulders, she turned and grinned at him.

“Figured you’d be hungry,” she said, nudging a steaming bowl of jjigae toward his usual seat at the table. “And I put out your clothes—figured you’d want something cozy after a long day.”

Chan glanced toward the couch and, sure enough, his favorite worn-out sweats and softest t-shirt were neatly folded over the armrest.

A small thing. An easy, thoughtful thing.

He let out a slow breath, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Mi Sun knew him. She understood the rhythm of his tired nights, anticipated his needs before he even said them. He loved that about her—the quiet, steady way she showed her care.

Chan dried his hair quickly and threw on the clothes she’d set out before joining her at the table. The scent of warm broth and fresh rice filled the air, the kind of meal that comforted without trying too hard. Mi Sun had already started eating, her chopsticks deftly picking through the side dishes, and when he sat beside her, she leaned lightly against him.

The weight of her was warm. Familiar. Solid.

He exhaled, letting himself relax.

This was home.

“This is good,” he murmured between bites, appreciating the simple warmth of the meal.

Mi Sun beamed. “Good choice, huh?”

Chan nodded, and for a while, they ate in companionable silence, the soft sounds of chopsticks against bowls filling the room.

And then, because something in him still felt restless—still felt like it needed to be anchored—he turned toward her.

She looked up, mouth still full, blinking at him curiously.

He kissed her.

Firmly. Deliberately. Purposefully.

She made a startled noise before laughing against his lips, playfully swatting at his arm. “You have soup breath.”

Chan huffed a soft laugh, kissing her again anyway, this time lingering, pressing closer.

She was beautiful. Kind. Reliable. She was everything he wanted.

He loved her. He was excited to marry her.

This was his life. His present. His future.

The past had no place here.

The past was nothing.

And Jeongin—

Jeongin was nothing.

Chan didn’t stop kissing her until he almost convinced himself of that.

Mi Sun laughed against his lips, playfully nudging him back. “Okay, okay, I get it. You missed me today.”

Chan smiled—soft, easy. “I always miss you.”

It wasn’t a lie.

She rolled her eyes fondly before picking up her chopsticks again, shifting comfortably against his side as she reached for more banchan. “You’re being cute,” she teased, chewing thoughtfully. “Long day?”

Chan exhaled, nodding. “Yeah. Just… a lot of work.”

Mi Sun hummed in sympathy. “At least we have some time this weekend to breathe,” she mused. “I was thinking we could check out a couple of venues? We don’t have to decide right away, but it’d be nice to start looking.”

Chan didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

And he meant it.

This was the life he had chosen. The life he wanted.

He could already picture it—the two of them walking through a sleek, modern venue, the kind of place that felt warm but elegant. Mi Sun, clipboard in hand, rattling off details about guest counts and catering options, her excitement palpable. She’d get that determined gleam in her eyes when she was serious about something, and Chan would just let her lead, let her dream.

Because Mi Sun’s dreams were his dreams now.

And Chan would be happy.

He was happy.

“I saw this one place near the river that looked really nice,” she continued, swiping at her phone with one hand as she chewed. “Very clean lines, good lighting, big enough for the guest list we’re thinking about.”

He nodded along, letting her words wash over him.

“Mm,” she mused, showing him her phone screen. “I think they have a tea ceremony room too.”

That gave him pause.

It wasn’t traditional-traditional, but he liked the idea of incorporating elements of a paebaek ceremony. The deep bows, the symbolic offerings, the way it honored family. The weight of history in the room.

“Tea ceremony could be nice,” he said, voice steady, turning back to Mi Sun.

She smiled, pleased. “I thought you’d like that.”

Of course, she had thought of him.

Because she always did.

And this—this was what mattered.

Not the past. Not the things that lurked in the corners of his memory, whispering, waiting.

He had everything he needed right here.

Chan picked up his chopsticks again and smiled.

He just had to hold on to this.

—

The weekend came too fast.

Chan stood outside the venue entrance, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as Mi Sun rummaged through her purse like she was searching for a missing relic.

“Ugh, hold on,” she muttered, jamming her entire arm inside as if it were a portal to the void. “I just had it—where is it?”

Chan sighed, tucking his hands into his pockets. “We’re just looking at venues, not taking the bar exam.”

Mi Sun ignored him, now shaking the bag as if threatening it would produce results. “I had my pen and my notepad right here. I specifically put them in this pocket—I organized for this, Chris. Do you understand? I organized.”

Chan bit back a smile, watching as she pulled out increasingly useless items—a mini lint roller, a half-eaten protein bar, a loose earring, three different lip balms—before groaning in frustration.

“Where is it?!”

“Maybe the pen ran away because it knew you’d overuse it,” Chan mused.

Mi Sun narrowed her eyes. “This is not the time for jokes.”

She promptly shoved her bag into his chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

“Here. Hold this.”

Chan grunted, barely managing to catch it as Mi Sun turned her full focus on her coat pockets, patting herself down like a cop checking for concealed weapons.

Chan sighed, slinging her bag over his shoulder like a long-suffering husband, when a car pulled up beside them.

Chan barely registered it at first—too busy watching Mi Sun go through her own personal betrayal arc against her missing stationery—until the door opened, and a familiar voice rang out.

“Yo!”

Chan froze.

Because that voice belonged to Felix.

And why was Felix here?

Chan turned, watching as his best friend stretched like a cat before strolling toward them, completely unbothered.

“Nice day for wedding planning, huh?” Felix greeted, hands in his pockets.

Chan’s brain malfunctioned. “Felix?”

Mi Sun, still rummaging, barely glanced up. “Oh, yeah! I invited Felix.”

Chan’s entire thought process came to a screeching halt.

“You—what?”

Mi Sun shot him a look. “What? He’s your best man, right? I thought it would be nice if the wedding party got involved.”

His stomach sank.

Wedding party.

Mi Sun’s bridesmaids were all in Australia, which meant—

Chan slowly turned back to the street, scanning the cars.

And then.

Then he saw it.

His heart stopped.

Parked innocently by the curb, a little blue moped gleamed in the sunlight.

Chan inhaled sharply.

No.

Not that.

God, he hated that thing.

He also loved that thing.

Which was the real problem.

The moped had been a menace, a borderline hazard on the best of days. A machine that should not have been allowed to carry two fully grown men, and yet—

Yet, he had adored riding on the back of it.

Adored the thrill of it. The wind in his hair, the city blurring past in streaks of neon and streetlights, the way Jeongin had always laughed—full, unrestrained, electric—whenever they hit a sharp turn, Chan’s arms tightening around his waist, clinging for dear life while Jeongin yelled over the wind, “Tighter, hyung, or you’ll fall off!”

So many stupid, reckless, incredible adventures.

Adventures Chan never would have taken on his own.

Jeongin had been the reckless one. The one who never planned anything but somehow knew all the best places.

He had dragged Chan onto that cursed moped at every opportunity.

And Chan—who was supposed to be the responsible one, who was supposed to hate it—had always climbed on anyway.

Because Jeongin had taken him to the secret beaches. The ones where the sand was untouched and the water was so clear Chan could see his feet beneath the waves.

Because Jeongin had always known where to find the best street food stalls, even in the middle of nowhere.

Because Chan—

Chan had loved it.

The adventure. The recklessness. The feeling of being somewhere new, of being with someone who made the world feel bigger and brighter and limitless.

And now?

Now he was here. Standing outside a wedding venue with his fiancée, talking about color palettes and ceremony seating, while the ghosts of his past showed up to haunt him in the form of a tiny blue moped.

His fingers twitched.

Chan closed his eyes.

Breathed in.

Breathed out.

This was fine.

This was completely fine.

Sure, Jeongin was going to be here. Sure, it was another opportunity for chaos. Sure, it felt like the universe was laughing at him—but that didn’t mean anything.

It didn’t mean anything.

And yet—

Yet, Chan had the horrible feeling that this was about to become a disaster.

Chan was still staring at the moped when he felt it—

A hand on his shoulder.

Light. Familiar. Teasing.

And then—

“You always did look good with a purse, hyung.”

Chan jumped.

Whipped around so violently that he nearly smacked Jeongin in the face with his shoulder.

His heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Jeongin.

Of course.

Chan’s brain was still buffering, trying to process how this had happened—how Jeongin had snuck up on him—when he noticed the smirk pulling at Jeongin’s lips.

Slow. Delighted. Dangerous.

And then—

The bag.

Mi Sun’s bag.

Still slung over his shoulder.

Chan’s soul ascended.

Oh.

Oh no.

Jeongin had seen it immediately.

Had recognized it for exactly what it was.

A well-made fake designer bag—one Chan had clocked instantly when Mi Sun bought it. Not because he had a trained eye. Not because he had experience.

But because he had been the one to teach Jeongin.

Because once upon a time—years ago, in a different life, in a different world—he and Jeongin had spent entire nights hunting for the best knockoffs together.

Night markets, outlet malls, thrift stores—they knew all the best places.

Jeongin had always been the instigator. He had always been the one to try first.

And Chan—

Chan had wanted to try, too.

Once upon a time, Jeongin had dragged him into high-end stores, had forced him into luxury boutiques where Chan had stood awkwardly, shifting on his feet, telling Jeongin, I don’t get the hype.

And Jeongin, ever the menace, had just grinned at him.

“Then hold it.”

And he had.

He had held them—expensive, ridiculous, extravagant things—and Jeongin had watched him with the kind of smug satisfaction that only came from knowing.

Because Jeongin had been right.

Because the first time Chan had slung a real designer bag over his shoulder, he had felt it.

Felt the weight of it, the way it sat perfectly on his frame, the way it made him look different, feel different.

Felt good.

Felt right.

And Jeongin had seen it—had seen that tiny, fleeting moment where Chan had let himself like it, let himself admire his reflection, let himself want.

And now, years later, standing in the middle of the street, holding Mi Sun’s bag like it was some smoking gun, Jeongin was reminding him of it.

Because Jeongin never forgot a single thing.

Chan panicked.

Viscerally.

His body reacted before his brain could process, before he could make a rational decision.

And he flung it.

Physically flung the purse off his shoulder.

Mi Sun’s very expensive, very practical bag hit the pavement with a small, tragic little thud.

Silence.

Chan just stood there, hands rigid at his sides, staring at it like he had just committed a federal offense.

Felix, standing next to them, had no clue what was happening but still instinctively mirrored Chan’s energy, eyes wide, head snapping between them like a confused golden retriever who had just witnessed something so, so important yet had no idea what it meant.

Chan saw him blink.

Then again.

Jeongin’s smirk stretched, slow and knowing. Enjoying this way too much.

“Still into designer, huh?” Jeongin hummed, eyes dripping with mischief. He picked up the bag and turned it over in his hands, inspecting it like it was some high-end fashion piece instead of a standard leather tote. “Gotta say, not your usual taste, but—” He tilted his head, biting back a smirk. “Kinda cute.”

Chan panicked.

“It’s not mine.”

Jeongin blinked. “Obviously.”

Felix, who had been watching this entire exchange in complete bafflement, finally found his voice.

“Wait,” he said, brows furrowing as he gestured vaguely at the bag. “What just happened?”

Chan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Felix squinted harder, glancing between them. “Why did you freak out like that? What’d that bag do to you?”

Chan opened his mouth. Closed it.

Jeongin, barely sparing him a glance, answered smoothly, “Fashion trauma. We all have it.”

Mi Sun, finally victorious, finally retrieving her pen, finally re-entered the conversation with no idea what had just transpired.

“Oh, thanks, babe,” she said absentmindedly, taking her bag back from Jeongin without a second thought, already flipping open her notepad. “Okay, so we should go in soon before our appointment starts—”

Felix, still processing, turned to Mi Sun. “Did you see that?”

Mi Sun blinked up at him. “See what?”

Felix turned back to Chan, who was still standing there like a man who had just seen a ghost.

Chan, however, was already pulling himself back together.

Already shoving every memory, every thought, every feeling back into the vault where they belonged.

Already deciding—firmly, aggressively, desperately—that none of this mattered.

That Jeongin wasn’t going to get to him.

That this wasn’t going to be a thing.

So, he straightened. Squared his shoulders. Forced his voice into something calm, casual, indifferent.

“Nothing,” Chan said, turning toward the venue. “Let’s go.”

And then he walked inside.

Jeongin caught up in three quick strides, all too joyful, all too smug. He fell into step beside Chan with the ease of someone who had never in his life taken “go away” as an instruction.

“Hyung, wait up,” he sang, slipping his hands into his pockets as he bounced along next to him. “What’s the rush? Can’t wait to show me where you’ll be selling your soul?”

Chan refused to acknowledge him.

His jaw clenched. His eyes locked forward.

Not a thing. Not happening.

Jeongin let out a delighted little hum.

“Oh, is that it? Right there?” He nodded toward the large, traditional-style venue entrance just ahead, the glass doors catching the early afternoon light. “It’s cute. Pretty.” He tilted his head, mock-considering. “A bit safe, but I suppose that’s your whole thing now.”

Chan’s eye twitched.

Nothing. It’s nothing.

He was fine. He was fine.

He shoved the door open, a little harder than necessary.

Jeongin, unbothered, slipped in behind him, his grin practically audible.

And that was how the venue coordinator found them.

A middle-aged woman with tastefully curled hair and an air of practiced enthusiasm stepped forward, beaming at them both. “Oh my goodness,” she cooed, clasping her hands together. “What a handsome couple! You two are just the most charming grooms I’ve ever seen.”

Chan’s soul left his body.

“We’re not—”

“I know, right?” Jeongin interrupted immediately, placing a gentle yet obnoxious hand over Chan’s heart. “The chemistry is unreal.”

Chan’s eye twitched so violently he nearly gave himself a headache.

Before he could so much as begin to untangle the disaster unfolding, Felix and Mi Sun finally trailed in behind them.

Felix, brows furrowed, stepped inside, glancing between the coordinator and Jeongin. “Wait, what?” he asked, half a beat behind.

Mi Sun, flipping through a brochure, barely looked up. “Oh, yeah, we’re really excited.”

Chan nearly blacked out.

Jeongin smiled wider.

The venue coordinator sighed dreamily. “You two are just lovely together,” she gushed. “Such a striking couple. And so in sync, too! I can always tell when two people are meant for each other.”

Felix blinked. Slowly. “Huh?”

Jeongin, of course, took this as an invitation to ruin Chan’s life.

“Oh, absolutely,” he sighed, leaning into Chan just enough to make his skin crawl. “It’s been such a journey for us, you know? The ups, the downs, the longing stares—”

“There haven’t been longing stares.”

“—the repressed feelings, the slow burn, the dramatic reunion…” Jeongin sighed wistfully, nudging Chan with his shoulder.

Chan was going to strangle him. Here. In this venue. In front of God and Felix.

Mi Sun, finally tuning in, blinked at them.

Then at the venue coordinator.

Then back at them.

Her brows furrowed. “Wait—what?”

The venue coordinator clapped her hands together. “I just love seeing couples like you two!” she gushed. “You’re going to be such a beautiful pair standing up there together.”

Mi Sun, finally catching up, looked between them once more.

Then—she burst out laughing.

“Oh, no, no,” she waved a hand, giggling. “I’m the bride! He’s marrying me.”

The coordinator blinked.

Then turned bright red.

“Oh—oh, my goodness,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth. “I am so, so sorry! That was a terrible assumption to make—I just saw you two interacting and I—oh, I feel awful.”

Chan, still fuming, muttered, “It’s fine.”

Jeongin grinned wider.

“Oh, no need to apologize,” he hummed. “It happens all the time.”

Felix fully folded in half, laughing.

Mi Sun, teasing now, nudged Chan. “See? The chemistry is unreal.”

Chan’s entire body stiffened.

Jeongin, positively thriving, threw an arm over Chan’s shoulders.

“Well, I mean,” he hummed, “if it’s so obvious to everyone else—”

Chan snapped.

“WE’RE NOT TOGETHER.”

It ripped out of him, sharp and too loud, crashing through the venue’s delicate ambiance like a glass shattering on tile.

Everything stopped.

Mi Sun jolted so hard she nearly dropped her purse.

Felix, mid-step, stumbled over absolutely nothing, wheezing as he choked on his own spit.

A couple at the reception desk flinched.

An employee stacking chairs stopped mid-stack, arms still raised like he’d been paused in a video.

Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off.

And in the suffocating silence that followed—
Chan realized he had no idea who he was even saying it for.

The venue coordinator? So she’d stop looking at them like they were the perfect love story waiting to be told?

Mi Sun? So she wouldn’t see something in this that wasn’t there—couldn’t be there?

Or Jeongin?

Because Jeongin still looked at him like he was waiting for something. Like nothing had changed. Like none of this mattered.

But it had changed. And it did matter.

It was over. Had been for years.

Chan’s jaw locked. His pulse hammered.

The venue coordinator, still clasping her hands over her mouth, let out a tiny, startled breath. “Oh dear,” she whispered.

Mi Sun, after a long pause, exhaled a short, startled laugh. Not her usual bright, amused giggle—something quieter, more hesitant. Her eyes flickered between Chan and Jeongin, just for a second, like she had caught onto something beneath the surface. A blink of confusion, maybe even concern, before she smoothed it away, choosing—deliberately—to brush past it.

Felix, still recovering from inhaling wrong, coughed into his sleeve. He glanced between Chan and Jeongin, brows furrowed, like he was missing something big. Like he had just walked into a conversation that had started long before he got here.

Jeongin… didn’t say anything at all.

He just tilted his head. Watching.

Like he was considering something. Like he was still waiting.

And then—just for a second, a fraction of a moment—there it was.

A flicker. A pause, barely perceptible, in the way his gaze lingered on Chan. His fingers, normally so relaxed, pressed into the sleeve of his sweater before smoothing it out again, like the movement had never happened.

Chan almost missed it.

Almost.

But for that brief, impossible-to-ignore second, Jeongin wasn’t just playing along. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t performing.

Something about this had landed.

And then, just as quickly, the moment was gone.

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.

Chan wanted to scream.

Or flip a table.

Or throw himself into traffic.

The venue coordinator, trying to move past this disaster, cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said, visibly recovering, “why don’t we start the tour?”

Jeongin, finally breaking the quiet, smiled. Not his usual smirk—something smaller. Something unreadable.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Let’s.”

Chan hated this.

Hated everything.

The tour started on the wrong foot. And it just kept getting worse.

Chan, still stewing in the mess of his own making, stomped after the venue coordinator with the aura of a man whose entire day had been personally sabotaged. His jaw was tight, his steps heavy, his entire existence vibrating with barely restrained irritation.

Jeongin, on the other hand, had gone suspiciously quiet.

Not the usual, smug, performative silence he used to bait Chan into reacting—this was something else. Something eerily still. He moved through the venue with an almost absent-minded ease, his hands tucked into his sweater sleeves, his expression light and pleasant when spoken to, but otherwise distant. Like he wasn’t quite here. Like he was somewhere else entirely.

Which was somehow worse.

Meanwhile, Mi Sun and Felix—completely unaware of whatever existential hell their companions were wading through—were struggling.

Hard.

The venue coordinator, ever the professional, was speaking smoothly in Korean, gesturing toward the large, open event hall with an air of practiced enthusiasm. “여기는 실내와 실외를 자연스럽게 연결하는 공간입니다.” (Here, as you can see, we offer a seamless connection between indoor and outdoor spaces.) “한옥 스타일을 현대적으로 재해석해서, 자연 채광이 아름답게 들어오도록 설계했어요.” (The design takes inspiration from traditional hanok architecture with a modern touch, allowing natural light to fill the space beautifully.)

Mi Sun and Felix exchanged a glance.

A long, deeply uncertain glance.

Felix, squinting at his pamphlet like it might morph into English if he stared hard enough, whispered, “Uh. Did she say something about doors?”

Mi Sun, flipping through her notes, nodded. “I think she said there’s… light?”

Felix frowned. “Are we… inside or outside?”

Mi Sun, utterly lost, whispered, “I genuinely don’t know.”

The coordinator, still completely unaware of their struggles, smiled and gestured toward the open courtyard through the back doors. “그리고 연회 공간은 뒷편 정원과 연결되어 있어서, 웨딩 사진 촬영에 인기가 많습니다.” (The reception area also connects to the garden in the back, which is very popular for wedding photos.)

Mi Sun perked up at the one word she recognized. “Oh! Garden!”

Felix, nodding, added, “Okay. Got it. Garden.”

Mi Sun, still determined, tried again. “Like, flowers? Uh—꽃... uh… 꽃들? 꽃이?” She winced, her toddler-level Korean hanging in the air like a deflating balloon. “꽃…thing?”

The venue coordinator blinked, clearly trying to decide whether to correct her or just let it slide.

Felix, ever supportive, nodded sagely. “Yeah. 꽃 thing.”

The coordinator tilted her head. “정확히 말하면 꽃밭이라기보다 전통적인 마당에 가까워요.” (Not exactly a flower garden—more like a traditional courtyard with structured greenery.)

Mi Sun nodded like she understood before immediately whispering to Felix, “What did she say?”

Felix whispered back, “Not flowers.”

“Right, okay,” Mi Sun muttered, scribbling it down anyway.

Chan, who had been on the verge of collapse since walking through the door, exhaled sharply. “Do you guys need me to—?”

“Nope!” Mi Sun interrupted, all too quickly. “We’re fine!”

Felix nodded in agreement. “Yup. Totally got it.”

Chan, unconvinced, raised an eyebrow.

Jeongin snorted. Loudly.

Then, in Korean, just loud enough for Chan to hear, he murmured, “이해하는 척이라도 하는 게 귀엽네.”
(It’s cute how they’re at least pretending to understand.)

Chan’s head snapped toward him. “Jeongin.”

Jeongin blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “뭐?”
(What?)

Chan narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be a dick. Just speak English.”

Jeongin tilted his head. Slow. Smug.

And then, with a tiny, put-upon sigh, he murmured, “못 해.”
(Can’t.)

Chan scoffed. “거짓말.”
(Bullshit.)

Jeongin shrugged. “오래 안 쓰니까, 좀 녹슬었나봐.”
(Haven’t used it in a while. I must be rusty.)

Chan exhaled sharply, stepping in just slightly—too naturally, too familiar, drawn into this stupid, pointless game he swore he wouldn’t play.

Jeongin hummed. Shrugged again, slower, like he was inviting the escalation.

And Chan—God help him—took the bait.

“제발 좀 작작해,” Chan muttered, voice low. “그냥 말해. 니가 영어 잘하는 거 다 알잖아.”
(Cut the shit. Just talk. We both know you can.)

Jeongin tilted his head, so close now that Chan could catch the faintest trace of his cologne—woodsy, familiar, sharp like memory.

Then, softer—too soft—he murmured,

“이제는 아니야.”
(Not anymore.)

Chan barely had time to process before Jeongin leaned in just a little further, his voice dropping even lower.

“선생님이 떠났잖아.”
(My teacher left.)

Chan stilled.

And that—that—was when he realized.

They weren’t just bickering anymore.

They were fighting.

But it was so easy.

So painfully, disgustingly easy to slip back into this rhythm, like they had never stopped, like no time had passed, like Chan hadn’t spent years trying to forget the exact way Jeongin squared up when he was pissed, the way he only ever looked like this when he wanted to hurt him.

And fuck, Chan was so close now.

They were standing dangerously near each other, pulled in by the sheer force of this stupid, spiraling argument, bodies unconsciously shifting inward, locked in their own world.

A world where they still spoke the same language.

A world where, no matter how much time had passed, this—this fire, this tension, this stupid, suffocating push and pull—had never really gone away.

Mi Sun and Felix, completely unaware of the minefield unfolding before them, exchanged a glance.

Felix frowned. “Wait. What the hell are they saying?”

Mi Sun sighed. “I have literally no idea.”

Felix squinted. “They’re talking so fast.”

Mi Sun shrugged. “Probably about the 꽃 thing.”

Felix, nodding sagely, crossed his arms. “Yeah. The 꽃 thing.”

The silence between Chan and Jeongin stretched, taut and thin, like a thread about to snap.

For the first time since Jeongin had reappeared in his life, there were no smirks, no teasing glances, no glint of mischief in his eyes.

Nothing about this was fun anymore.

And Chan knew that because he wasn’t enjoying it either.

The words sat heavy in the air between them, thick with something unspoken. Something that had been waiting. Something unresolved.

Not water under the bridge, but something deeper. Something tempting to boil over.

Chan swallowed hard. His jaw clenched. His pulse pounded, but not from anger. Not just from anger.

He could still hear Mi Sun and Felix chatting behind them, oblivious, detached from whatever was happening right here, right now, between him and Jeongin.

And then—he caught sight of the venue coordinator.

The poor woman stood frozen a few feet away, horrified, staring at them like they had just started swinging punches in the middle of the venue.

Shit.

Chan exhaled sharply. Forced his expression into something neutral, casual—anything but the mess he actually felt.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice flat, clipped. “We’re just gonna—step outside for a second.”

And before anyone could question it, he reached out—grabbed Jeongin’s arm, right over the forearm—and dragged him toward the exit.

Jeongin sucked in a sharp breath, not from shock, but from pain.

Chan’s grip was too tight.

His fingers were digging in, pressing too hard against the tendon, forcing Jeongin’s wrist to flex involuntarily.

He yelped. “Ow, fuck—hyung—”

Chan didn’t slow down.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t acknowledge the sharp, biting flash of English that slipped past Jeongin’s lips, either—

Oh, so now he chooses to speak English?

Now, when he’s whining? When he’s got something to complain about?

Of course.

Typical.

Chan’s grip only tightened.

He just kept moving, his grasp ironclad, yanking Jeongin through the doors and into the open-air garden.

The cool breeze hit them immediately, rustling the carefully curated greenery, brushing through the stone pathways and sculpted pines.

Chan barely took in the tranquil beauty of it—the hanok-style pavilion standing further back, the trickling of a small water feature, the way bamboo swayed in the distance.

He barely noticed the stepping stones beneath their feet, the delicate way the garden was designed to blend nature with structure.

All he saw was red.

He didn’t stop until they were secluded enough—tucked behind an ornately carved partition, just out of sight from the venue, the hum of conversation from the others just a distant murmur.

Only then—only then—did he let go.

Or—ripped his hand away like the very contact burned him.

Jeongin stumbled back a step, immediately cradling his forearm.

“Jesus,” he hissed, rubbing at the spot where Chan’s grip had been. “Are you trying to break my arm?”

Chan barely heard him.

His heart was hammering in his chest, breath coming fast and uneven.

He was so goddamn angry.

But not in the way he had been before.

This wasn’t annoyance. This wasn’t the simmering frustration that usually came with Jeongin’s bullshit.

This was something old. Something deep. Something heavy and raw and clawing its way up after years of being shoved down.

And Jeongin—
Jeongin knew it.

Because Jeongin wasn’t smirking.

He wasn’t goading. He wasn’t playing.

He stood a few steps away, rubbing his arm, his face a mask of something too careful, too measured.

And when he finally glanced back up—

His eyes were sharp.

Guarded.

A mirror of Chan’s own anger, tight and contained but undeniably there, simmering just beneath the surface.

The air between them had shifted.

This wasn’t teasing.

This wasn’t a game.

This was combat.

Chan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, trying—failing—to collect himself.

Then he turned on Jeongin, still fuming, still brimming with something dangerously close to resentment.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Jeongin, still rubbing his arm, barely blinked. “You asked me to be your groomsman.”

Chan let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Then, before he could stop himself—before he could even think—he yelled.

“You were supposed to say no!”

Jeongin’s expression didn’t even flicker. “Oh?”

“You were supposed to say you were too busy,” Chan spat, stepping forward, too close, his voice rising in sheer frustration. “Or that you had a scheduling conflict— literally anything. That it was pathetic. That I was pathetic for even asking.”

Jeongin’s jaw twitched.

“You were supposed to laugh in my face and walk away,” Chan snarled, getting louder. “You were supposed to make it easy.”

There it was. The mask cracked, just a little.

“Why?” he asked, voice dangerously even.

Chan’s breath caught.

His mouth opened—
And nothing came out.

Because fuck.
Because they both knew why.

Because it was a house of lies, built too fast, stacked too high, and one wrong move would bring it all crashing down.

Jeongin saw it. Of course, he did. And he went for the throat.

“You thought if I rejected you, you’d be off the hook,” Jeongin’s voice was sharp, cutting, filled with something that wasn’t amusement anymore. “That you could lie to your fiancee. That I’d be gone, and you could pretend none of this ever happened. Smile through your wedding like it’s not all built on bullshit?”

Chan’s throat tightened.

“And now I’m here,” Jeongin went on, his voice turning to ice. “And suddenly your little fantasy life is all tangled up in something real.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

Jeongin’s expression twisted. “And you’re a liar.”

Chan surged forward. “Shut the fuck up.”

“No,” Jeongin snapped. “I’m not going to shut up, because someone has to say it. Someone has to look you in the face and call bullshit.”

“Why are you even here?” Chan bit. “What are you trying to do? Ruin my life? Torment me? What the hell do you want?”

Jeongin laughed once—dry, joyless. “Oh, now you care what I want?”

“Stop dodging,” Chan barked. “Tell me the truth.”

Jeongin’s mouth opened, then shut again. His shoulders rose—tense, defensive. “You’re lying to yourself.”

Chan barked a bitter laugh. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

“Because you don’t get to ask it,” Jeongin snapped. “You don’t get to stand there and pretend like I’m the one fucking everything up. You were the one who walked away. You were the one who said it didn’t mean anything. So maybe—just maybe—you don’t get to be the one mad about it now.”

Chan’s blood ran hot. “Shut up.”

Jeongin laughed. Short. Sharp. Cruel.
Not a snicker. Not a smirk. A weapon.

“Why? Because you don’t want to hear it?” Jeongin tilted his head, stepping forward with that look. That look he had always used when he wanted to bait him. When he wanted to be cruel. Like a kid dangling a bug over his friend’s lunch tray, just waiting for them to flinch.

Chan hated that look.
He hated—
Fuck—he hated him.

“Because if you say it enough times, maybe you’ll start believing it?” Jeongin hummed, voice taunting, mocking. “That’s how it works, right?”

Chan stepped closer. “I said shut up.”

“Yeah?” Jeongin grinned now. Not his usual one—meaner. “Or what? You gonna drag me through another hallway? Maybe throw me into some bushes this time?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Jeongin’s grin stretched. He loved this.
This was his fight style.
He taunted. He teased. He played dirty.

And Chan always fell for it.

“Go on, then,” Jeongin goaded, spreading his arms wide like he was welcoming a hug. “Take a swing, hyung. I know you want to.”

Chan’s fingers twitched.
He would never.
But God, he wanted to.
And Jeongin knew it.

But Jeongin didn’t stop.
Didn’t let up.
Didn’t fucking blink.

Chan saw it so clearly.

Saw the way Jeongin deflected, dodged, refused to answer.

And that only pissed him off more.

"Tell me what you want." His voice was lower now, more dangerous. "Tell me why you agreed. What are you trying to get out of this?"

Jeongin tilted his head again, all teeth, all fangs. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

“Jesus Christ, Jeongin—”

“What, you think I’m just here to ruin your life?” Jeongin threw his arms up, feigning innocence. “That’s what you’re thinking, right? That I came back just to torment you?"

Yes.

That was exactly what Chan thought.

Because this was Jeongin. Petty. Vindictive. Petty. Ruthless.

Petty.

But Jeongin didn’t confirm it. Didn’t deny it, either.

He just shrugged.

“You can fight me. You can yell at me. You can pretend all you want—but you and I both know the truth.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was disappointed. “And I’m going to prove it.”

Chan’s breath came out sharp, disbelieving. “You—”

Jeongin leaned in, slow and deliberate, voice dropping low.

"I’m going to make you love me again."

Silence.

Actual, earth-shattering, brain-numbing silence.

And then—Chan burst out laughing.

Loud. Unhinged. Half from shock, half from sheer, cosmic disbelief.

"You," Chan gasped between laughs, doubling over slightly, "are actually out of your fucking mind."

Jeongin’s smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened.

“Oh, I’m fully sane,” he said, breezy. "I just happen to be an agent of chaos.”

Chan let out another short, disbelieving laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re gonna make me love you again?”

“Mmhm,” Jeongin hummed. "Just watch."

“You’re delusional.”

“Maybe,” Jeongin allowed, shrugging. “But you’ve always had a thing for delusional.”

Chan gawked at him. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life."

Jeongin’s eyes sparkled with mischief. "Is it, though?"

Chan’s eye twitched. “YES.”

Jeongin crossed his arms, tilting his head. “Okay, but consider this: No, it’s not.”

Chan physically recoiled. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

Jeongin sighed, like he was explaining something painfully obvious to a child. “It means—I already did it once.”

Chan blinked. “...Excuse me?”

Jeongin took a step closer, voice as casual as ever. “I did it once, hyung. I made you love me before.” He tilted his head, thoughtful. “And if I did it once…” His smirk curled at the edges.

Chan felt the trap snapping shut before the words even landed.

Oh, fuck no.

“No.”

Jeongin grinned. “Oh, yes.”

“That’s not how this works—”

“That’s exactly how this works.” Jeongin’s eyes glinted. “I broke you once, I can do it again.”

Chan’s skin crawled. “You’re not talking about love, you’re talking about a hostage situation.”

Jeongin’s expression didn’t budge. “Semantics.”

Chan pointed a wild, flailing hand at him. “You think you’re gonna, what, romance me? Sweep me off my feet?”

Jeongin sighed dreamily. “Oh, no, no. Not this time.” He tapped his temple. “This time, I’m gonna ruin you first.”

Chan’s entire body went cold.

Not because he didn’t know what Jeongin meant.

But because he did.

Jeongin’s voice softened, teasing, but low—dangerous. “You remember how easy it was, don’t you?” His lips curled, tongue barely brushing his bottom lip. “How fast you folded? How needy you got the second I touched you?”

Chan’s stomach dropped.

His pulse fucking skyrocketed.

No. No. He wasn’t doing this.

Jeongin took a step closer.

“You’re trying to break me before my wedding,” Chan bit out, forcing his voice into something steady, something firm.

Jeongin gasped, hand to his chest. “Break you? Hyung. Please.”

He took a step forward. Then another.

Chan took a step back.

Jeongin’s voice dipped into something dark, syrupy, warm. “I’m just going to remind you of what you lost.”

Chan took another step back, but Jeongin was relentless.

A slow, lazy pursuit, like he had all the time in the world.

Chan’s headache grew violent.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His back hit something solid.

A pillar.

The cool wood of the hanok pavilion pressed firm against him, stopping him in his tracks, grounding him—trapping him.

And Jeongin?

Jeongin didn’t stop.

He stepped in closer, the space between them vanishing, his eyes dragging over Chan, slow and assessing, his mouth curling with pure satisfaction.

“Maybe it won’t even take much,” Jeongin murmured, his voice mellow, easy—dangerous.

Chan swallowed. Felt something in his chest twist.

Fear, he told himself.

It was fear.

Not panic—not quite.

But it sat heavy in his stomach. Unspoken. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

“Maybe all I have to do is get close—”

His hands lifted—smooth, practiced—pressing to either side of Chan’s head, caging him in.

Chan’s breath stuttered.

Jeongin leaned in, just enough for Chan to feel the warmth of him, the weight of his presence, close, too close.

And then—his voice dipped.

Barely above a whisper.

“Maybe all I have to do is look at you like this.”

For half a second—just half a second—Chan barely noticed the slow rush of blood flooding south, the way something deep, primal, and so goddamn familiar coiled warm in his stomach.

And then—panic.

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

His survival instincts kicked in, and he shoved Jeongin off him with far too much force, sending him stumbling back with an oof.

Jeongin—the insufferable, conniving little shit—laughed.

Lazy. Low. Smug as all hell.

Chan groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

Jeongin didn’t even look at him. Just flopped his arms out to the side dramatically, like the universe had wronged him personally.

“Lying again?” he whined, lips pushed into a pout. “Wow, it’s basically your second language now.”

Jeongin tutted. Mocking. Infuriating. Unrelenting.

Chan ground his teeth together so hard it was a miracle they didn’t shatter. “I’m not lying.”

Jeongin’s grin stretched too wide.

“Oh?” he mused, tone deceptively light. “So she knows I used to rail you into next week?”

Chan physically choked.

His entire nervous system shut down in self-defense.

“What the fuck—”

Jeongin grinned like a cat with a dying bird in its paws.

“Hyung,” he hummed, "I promise you, this is going to be so much fun."

Chan had a sudden, visceral vision of throwing him into the koi pond.

"Get this through your head,” Chan gritted out. “I don’t love you.”

Jeongin nodded. “Sure, sure.”

Chan’s eye twitched. “No, I mean it."

Jeongin mock-gasped. “Oh my god. You do.”

"I DON’T."

Jeongin wagged a finger. “You’re saying it too much. Now it’s suspicious.”

Chan was going to commit a crime.

And Jeongin knew it.

He delighted in it.

And then—the final nail in the coffin.

Jeongin sighed, long and theatrical, tilting his head like this was all a bit boring now. “Well,” he mused, slipping his hands into his pockets with the kind of insufferable calm only he could pull off. “Hate to break it to you, hyung... but until you come clean?” He smiled. Small. Sharp. All teeth. “You’re stuck with me.”

Chan didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

Because he heard it. Loud and clear. The subtext, the threat, the agreement Jeongin was making without ever saying it out loud:

He’d lie for Chan. Play nice. Smile and keep the secret.

But the only way to get rid of him—the only way out—was telling the truth.

Which meant…

Chan’s stomach sank.

He was never getting rid of him.

Jeongin took a step back—not forward—grinning like he’d just gift-wrapped himself. “Don’t worry,” he said sweetly. “We’ll make it work.”

He lifted one hand in a little wave, wrist limp, fingers fluttering mockingly.

"We’re going to be the best friends that ever were."

And there it was.

The grin.

The mask.

The Jeongin-ness of it all.

Pure menace.

Unfiltered chaos.

A goddamn threat.

Chan just stared at him. Blank. Hollow. Already beginning to disassociate.

Because Jeongin was right. Of course he was. They were “best friends” now. At least, that was what everyone would see. What Mi Sun would see. What Felix, poor bastard, had already seen.

And since Chan would rather eat glass than let the truth see the light of day again…

Well.

Best friends it was.

Chan exhaled. Long. Slow. Soul-weary.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Jeongin beamed.

“Don’t be so smug,” Chan hissed, stomping ahead down the garden path.

Jeongin trailed after him, hands in his pockets, posture loose, absolutely insufferable. “Why not? You’re so easy to rile up. It’s like poking a balloon full of bees.”

“I swear to god—”

“What?” Jeongin drawled, honey-sweet and deadly. “You gonna throw another handbag? Better aim this time. Maybe get me in the face.”

Chan spun around, scandalized. “I didn’t throw it at you—!”

“Oh right,” Jeongin mused, tapping his chin. “You just hurled it into the sun in a fit of crisis. My mistake.”

“I panicked because you were being—”

“Hot?”

“I was going to say unhinged.”

“Oh,” Jeongin nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fair. I contain multitudes.”

Chan turned back around and speed-walked like a man trying to outpace regret. “I’m going to leave your body in the koi pond.”

“Romantic,” Jeongin sighed dreamily. “A watery grave. Just like the end of Titanic.”

Chan groaned. “You are not the Rose in this metaphor.”

“Fine,” Jeongin said. “I’ll be the iceberg.”

Chan was this close to lunging.

And then—voices.

Laughter. Footsteps. Approaching.

They both froze for a nanosecond.

Then—snap.

Chan dropped onto the nearest bench with all the grace of a man being tackled by invisible forces, legs crossed awkwardly, arms folded like he was posing for a perfume ad titled Barely Contained Rage.

Jeongin leaned casually against the opposite pillar, looking like he was born to be loitering in serene architectural elegance. He even crossed one ankle over the other. Bastard.

Mi Sun’s voice rang out as she stepped around the hedge: “Oh! There they are!”

Chan’s spine straightened like he’d been electrocuted. Jeongin smiled beatifically.

Felix trailed behind her, still squinting at the venue brochure. “Are we in the garden? This feels garden-y.”

The venue coordinator followed, smiling. “이쪽은 포토존으로 인기 많은 공간이에요.” (This spot is very popular for wedding photos.)

Chan stood quickly. “Yeah! Great spot. So photogenic.”

Jeongin clapped him on the back, much too hard. “Right? We were just saying that.”

Chan side-eyed him. “We were?”

“We were.” Jeongin smiled sweetly. “Weren’t we, jjinchin?”

Chan’s jaw clenched. “So much.”

Mi Sun looked between them, brows raised. “You two seem... chipper.”

Jeongin spread his arms. “What can I say? The healing power of nature.”

Felix narrowed his eyes. “Were you just arguing?”

Chan forced a chuckle. “Us? No. We were bonding.”

“Over death threats,” Jeongin added helpfully.

Felix blinked.

Mi Sun blinked harder.

The venue coordinator looked like she was mentally calculating escape routes.

Chan cleared his throat. “He’s kidding.”

“찐친 농담,” Jeongin said innocently. (Real friend jokes.)

Chan stared at the koi pond and wondered if it would accept human sacrifice.

Jeongin elbowed him. “Smile, hyung.”

“I am smiling.”

“You look like you’re getting a colonoscopy.”

“Says the man dressed like an off-duty K-drama villain who sells luxury skincare out of a trench coat.”

“Ouch,” Jeongin said, unbothered. “Still less criminal than your blazer.”

Chan looked down. “What’s wrong with my blazer?”

“It says ‘I’m forty and fiscally responsible.’”

“It’s slate!” Chan snapped.

“It’s sad.” Jeongin looked him up and down, dramatic and disgusted.

“At least I’m not dressed like the human version of a perfume ad no one asked for.”

“Oh, so you admit it’s giving salaryman energy?”

Chan threw up a hand. “You’re wearing a turtleneck in March.”

“Because I understand layering!” Jeongin fired back. “You look like you came from a finance meeting and cried in the bathroom.”

“Okay, diva,” Chan hissed. “At least I don’t pick my outfits based on which ones say ‘I might cry if you compliment me wrong.’”

Jeongin’s eyes lit up like Christmas. He didn’t even hesitate.

“손까락만 갖고 울던 놈이, 참 할 말은 많다 아이가.” (The guy who used to cry from just my fingers sure talks a lot.)

Chan made a sound like he’d swallowed a fork.

His entire body went stiff, eyes wide in horror, mouth opening with no sound coming out. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust.

And thank god—thank every pantheon of gods—that Mi Sun and Felix were still three pages behind on the Korean-to-English translation manual.

Mi Sun stepped in, blissfully unaware of the social homicide that had just occurred. “Okay, I think she’s moving on to talk about the courtyard now—Felix, come on.”

Felix blinked, eyes still glued to his brochure. “Did she say courtyard?”

“No clue.”

“Oh. Good.”

Chan, still rebooting like a 2009 Dell laptop, hissed, “I hate you.”

Jeongin, grinning like the cat that had not only eaten the canary but also claimed its life insurance, purred, “But you missed me.”

They followed the coordinator deeper into the venue.

Jeongin leaned in again, just close enough to set off every alarm in Chan’s body. “You’re still flushed, by the way.”

“Go to hell.”

“I plan to,” Jeongin said brightly. “But it’ll be more fun with you there, jjinchin.”

Chan’s brain broke clean in half.

Because he was right.

He was stuck with him.

He was stuck with Jeongin: glitter gremlin, sequin menace, lipstick-wearing, stiletto-stomping war criminal in a mesh crop top. A human glitter bomb with no safety pin. A drag-drenched chaos demon who had, on more than one occasion, made Chan cry—cry—not from sadness, not from emotion, not even from anything as rational as physical exertion, but from sheer, unrelenting overstimulation, the kind that came with a smile and a purr and teeth dragging across skin while whispering, “Just one more, jagi, you’re doing so well.” A pint-sized sadist in highlighter and heels with the patience of a saint and the morals of a Bond villain, who knew every button Chan had and pressed them like he was playing a goddamn jazz solo. He was a walking serotonin spike followed by immediate post-orgasm regret, a twink terrorist with the stamina of a marathon runner and the attitude of a runway model who knew you couldn’t afford anything she was wearing. He was a chaos-monger, a lipstick-smeared goblin king, a brat with a vendetta, a smirking little menace wrapped in thrift-store couture and delusions of grandeur, who’d probably scratch “TOP” into Chan’s tombstone just to make a point and sign the guestbook in lipliner.

Chan exhaled through his nose, slow and pained.

He was going to die here.

Then, like a man marching to the gallows in custom-tailored slacks, Chan squared his shoulders and followed the group into the courtyard with the grim determination of someone who knew damn well he was about to get out-sassed at his own wedding.

Best friends, indeed.

And if he died here, at least Jeongin would be the one to give a wildly inappropriate eulogy.

Chapter Text

Jeongin opened the door and immediately stopped short.

Han and Lee Know were curled up together on the couch like some indie rom-com cover—Lee Know in a hoodie that absolutely was not his, and Han draped over him like a blanket with boundary issues. One of Lee Know’s hands was buried in Han’s hair, the other resting suspiciously low on his thigh. A nature documentary played on mute in the background, utterly ignored.

Jeongin blinked.

Then kicked off his shoes like this was just another episode in the ongoing series “Things I’m Too Tired to Question.”

“Hey,” he said, shrugging off his jacket by the door. “Don’t get up. Or do. I really don’t want to sit in the residue of whatever this is.”

Lee Know rolled his eyes. Han just hummed happily, snuggling deeper like he was auditioning to become furniture.

“How was the venue?” Han asked casually.

Silence.

Jeongin froze.

Oh, fuck.

His blood turned to static. His shoes were still half-off, one heel caught like he might turn and flee.

Lee Know’s head turned. Slowly. Like a haunted doll in a horror film.

“…The what?” he said, calm. Too calm.

Not confused.

Not surprised.

Just quiet.

Quiet in the kind of way that said you better say it before I do.

Jeongin swallowed. Loudly.

Lee Know sat upright, spine straight, hands folded. Patient. Lethal.

Waiting.

Han realized his mistake a beat too late, going rigid like a squirrel spotting a hawk. “I—I meant the menu. Like. The menu at that place. That serves… food.”

Lee Know blinked once. “You don’t go places.”

“That’s true,” Han admitted immediately. “I panicked and started lying.”

Lee Know turned to Jeongin, who was actively trying to evaporate through the wall.

“What venue?” Lee Know asked sweetly.

Jeongin panicked. “For—um—Hyunjin’s grandma’s funeral.”

Han choked. “Jesus, what?!”

“She’s alive!” Lee Know snapped.

“She’s an… active spirit,” Jeongin tried.

“She tagged me in a recipe reel this morning.”

Jeongin threw his keys into the bowl like a man lobbing a grenade. “Okay! Okay. I went to a wedding venue. For a wedding. That I am—somehow—involved in. As a groomsman. But listen—”

“Whose,” Lee Know said, already knowing the answer.

Jeongin stared at Han.

Han stared at the ceiling.

“Whose. Wedding.”

“…Chan’s,” Jeongin whispered.

Silence.

Han slowly rotated toward Jeongin like a malfunctioning office chair. “You told him?!”

Lee Know’s eye twitched. “He didn’t.”

“You told him nothing?!” Han whisper-shrieked.

“He didn’t tell me a damn thing,” Lee Know snapped. “And you knew.”

Han made a noise like an electric kettle powering down. “In my defense, I panicked and started saying words.”

“You always start saying words!”

“I didn’t think he was actually gonna go to the venue!”

“I didn’t think you’d let him!” Lee Know’s voice pitched.

“I didn’t let him! I’m not his mom!”

“Maybe someone should be—!”

Han jumped to his feet. “I need to pee.”

“No, you don’t!” Lee Know thundered, rounding on him. “You don’t get to leave the scene of the crime and like you didn’t help light the fuse!””

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You let Jeongin become a groomsman!”

“Have you met him?! He says one ‘pretty please’ and you’re suddenly helping him color-code revenge binders!” Han pointed at Jeongin like he’d been wronged. “You said you were just going to observe chaos!”

Jeongin yelled back, “I was!” Then, after a beat—shoulders rising, lips twitching—he added, far too pleased with himself, “Now I am the chaos.”

Lee Know launched a throw pillow at him.

Jeongin ducked. “HEY!”

“You broke the only rule I gave you!”

“Technically two—don’t get involved with Chan, and stay out of his wedding.”

“You did both.”

Jeongin held up two fingers. “Double feature.”

Lee Know stormed toward the kitchen. “You’re doing dishes until you die!”

“I’m already dead inside!”

Lee Know yelled from the kitchen, “I want my hoodie back!”

“Wait!” Han called after him. “Are we still dating?!”

Lee Know didn’t respond.

Han looked at Jeongin. “Is that a no?”

Jeongin collapsed onto the couch like a dying Victorian heroine. “I don’t know. Probably. You’ll be back together by Wednesday.”

Han flopped down beside him with a groan. “We’re so toxic.”

“I’m in a wedding party with my ex-boyfriend who’s pretending he doesn’t love me.”

“Oh my God, we’re all disasters.”

From the kitchen: “DISHES. JEONGIN.”

Jeongin sighed. “Yeah. Okay. Deserved.”

—

Han exited Lee Know’s room with the defeated shuffle of a man who’d just been told he was both complicit in a crime and single again—possibly. Probably. Honestly, with those two, it was always a toss-up between a breakup and aggressive spooning.

Jeongin, elbow deep in the fallout and the dishes, scrubbed at a pan like it had personally wronged him. The sink gurgled. Soap suds clung to his forearms. Everything smelled like dish soap and regret.

Behind him, Han flopped onto the couch like a dying sea lion and turned the volume up on the muted nature documentary.

Jeongin didn’t even bother turning around. “Did he forgive you?”

“I think he’s letting me exist in the same postal code again,” Han mumbled. “Which is progress.”

“You’ll be back to bending each other in half next week.”

Han sighed. “I know.”

The moment settled—domestic, weird, vaguely tragic—and then Jeongin’s phone buzzed on the counter.

He glanced at the screen. Froze.

Mi Sun.

His thumb hovered over the screen like it was radioactive.

He could ignore it. He could pretend he was busy, elbow-deep in bubbles and mental instability. He could throw the phone into the sink and claim water damage. Easy. Tempting.

But something stopped him. He couldn’t put his finger on it—just a low, irksome flicker of discomfort. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was good old-fashioned petty rage. Maybe it was the way she reminded him, just a little, of the bachelorette parties that descended on drag nights like flocks of drunk hens—screaming and sloppy and always too handsy. The kind of women who thought tipping a 10,000 won note gave them permission to grab him mid-performance.

Mi Sun had never done that. Had never even come close. She’d been kind. Polite. Generous in the way people with Pinterest boards for their futures often were. He couldn’t hate her. Didn’t even really want to.

But damn, did she rub him wrong.

Still—he sighed and answered.

“Hi,” he said warily, switching to English.

“Jeongin!” she chirped. “Hi! Sorry to bother you—are you busy?”

He looked at the sink. “I’m… busy, but not busy? Kitchen… punishment.” He winced at himself. The words came out weird—slightly crooked, like a drawer that wouldn’t close all the way.

Mi Sun didn’t notice. She never did.

“Perfect! So—I was just working on the wedding party spreadsheet—”

Jeongin already wanted to jump out the window.

“—and I realized we’re one groomsman short on Chan’s side. My bridesmaids are all set, and we want to keep it even for the aisle shots, you know?”

He blinked. The words swirled for a second, some clicking into place, others catching like static. “Aisle…? For pictures?” he asked, slower than he meant to.

Mi Sun giggled. “Yes! Yes—pictures! Uh… Sa-jin?” she added proudly, the word wobbling out of her mouth like a tourist ordering coffee in Busan. “Like, walking down the aisle? Wedding party symmetry? It’s super important for the photos.”

Jeongin nodded stiffly, even though she couldn’t see.

Right. Symmetry. Whatever.

He hated this. Not her—this. The extra few seconds it took now to catch up. The way his tongue stumbled over sentence structures he used to fly through without thinking. Back when he and Chan spoke English together every day. Back when he was trying for him.

His jaw tensed.

And whose fault was it, really? He used to be fluent. Comfortable. Capable. Now he was floundering in present tense like it was middle school again. He hadn’t practiced in years. Not really. Not since Chan left.

And wasn’t that just poetic? Chan took his heart, his pride, and—apparently—his fucking second language.

Jeongin forced a breath through his nose. “Okay,” he said. “So… Chan need more groomsman.”

“Exactly!” Mi Sun chirped. “You two are such good friends—“ Jeongin physically flinched. “—I figured maybe you’d have a suggestion? Someone who’d fit the vibe. Doesn’t have to be super close to him, just someone dependable. Handsome would help for photos!”

Jeongin turned to glance at the couch.

Han was currently eating grapes directly from the stem and watching flamingos on TV like it was a telenovela.

Something clicked behind Jeongin’s eyes.

The gears turned.

Oh.

Oh, this could work.

An inside man. A partner in crime. Someone who wouldn’t ask questions until it was too late—and might just help him throw a little chaos into the wedding machine on principle alone.

A slow, evil grin curled at Jeongin’s lips.

“What about Han?” he asked, trying to sound innocent.

Across the room, Han’s eyes blew wide. He mouthed: What the hell.

Mi Sun paused. “Wait… Han? Was he at the engagement party? Kinda short? Really expressive face?”

“That's the one,” Jeongin said cheerfully, trying not to laugh as Han launched off the couch and scrambled toward the kitchen, silently flailing his arms like a cartoon character mid-breakdown. “He was in 3RACHA with Chan.”

There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the line.

“You’re kidding,” Mi Sun whispered, like Jeongin had just revealed a hidden treasure map. “He was in 3RACHA?!”

Jeongin smiled as Han silently flailed behind him, mouthing a string of obscenities and shaking his head so violently he looked like a malfunctioning bobblehead.

“Oh my god,” Mi Sun breathed. “I’ve been trying to get Chan to talk about that forever! He acts like it’s some secret boyband war crime. I want to know everything.”

Jeongin smiled, tone sweet and just a little too innocent. “Han knows everything. All the story. He tell you—very detailed. You ask, he talk forever.”

Han grabbed Jeongin’s arm and shook it violently. Jeongin swatted him away with a soapy hand.

Mi Sun laughed. “What’s his full name again?”

“Han Jisung,” Jeongin said, resisting the urge to cackle. “Two words.”

Han grabbed Jeongin’s shoulder, shaking it violently. Jeongin waved him off like a particularly annoying fly.

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” Mi Sun asked.

Jeongin smiled, eyes locked with Han’s panicked face.

“He’ll be thrilled.”

Han mouthed: I will end you.

Mi Sun giggled. “Amazing! I’ll add him to the group chat and send the updated spreadsheet!”

Jeongin hung up before she could ask for Han’s contact photo.

Han stared at him like he’d just lit a match in a gas station.

“You michin gojipjaengi akmasekki-ya,” he hissed. (You crazy, stubborn little demon bastard.) “You’re actually trying to get me murdered.”

“You’re already dead,” Jeongin replied cheerfully. “Lee Know killed you ten minutes ago.”

Han started pacing like a caged animal, throwing his hands up in frantic arcs. “Do you know how much shit I’m already in for enabling your delusional little wedding heist? I’m already on thin ice!”

Jeongin smirked. “Then wear shoes with good grip.”

“I’m going to get dismembered,” Han ranted, gesturing wildly. “CSI-level, forensic-files-style dismembered. And for what? For you? For the emotionally unstable raccoon masquerading as a a sentient threat with no self-preservation?!”

“You’ll look great in groomsmen gray.”

Han dragged his hands down his face. “Tell Mi Sun I say absolutely not. I will not be a sacrificial lamb in your gay little revenge parade.”

Jeongin’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with malice. “Tell her yourself. She already added you to the group chat.”

Han’s phone buzzed.

His soul visibly left his body.

“Nooooo—!”

From the living room, the flamingos on screen began to squawk. It sounded like applause.

Han groaned, “I didn’t even say anything! You drafted me like this was the military!”

“Think of it as your second enlistment,” Jeongin said cheerfully. “Except this time it’s gay and petty.”

Han looked skyward, like the ceiling might open up and take him. “I’m gonna die in a matching suit.” He sank slowly to the floor like his bones had given up, one leg splayed out dramatically, phone still clutched in his hand like a smoking gun.

Jeongin leaned against the counter, arms folded, smug and satisfied. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being traumatized!” Han yelled. “Lee Know is going to crucify me. Do you know what he said the last time you came up in an argument? He said I had the judgment of a damp sock!”

“That’s not even a real insult.”

“He made it one!” Han cried, gesturing wildly. “He’s creative when he’s pissed!”

Jeongin raised an eyebrow. “You’re still arguing like you won’t do it anyway.”

Han paused.

His whole body sagged.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered.

There it was. That tiny crack in his voice. The heavy sigh of a man who knew the ship had already sunk, but was still pretending he could patch it with duct tape and denial. He didn’t say yes—but he didn’t need to.

Jeongin watched the slow collapse of his resolve with the quiet satisfaction of a man who’d just pulled off the ultimate heist using nothing but charm and emotional blackmail. He returned to the sink with a hum, scrubbing the last of the dishes like he hadn’t just detonated Han’s entire week.

On the floor, Han groaned again, dramatic and defeated. “Do you know what he’s gonna do to me when he finds out?”

“Depends,” Jeongin said lightly. “Do you want me to leave you something nice for the funeral altar?”

“Make it soju. And don’t let him plan the memorial slideshow. He’ll use that one picture of me in the fishnet shirt and cat ears.”

Jeongin cackled, just as Han slumped fully onto his back with a long, suffering sigh.

And maybe it was the soap fumes or the buzz of chaos still humming in the walls, but something about the moment felt eerily familiar—this exact kind of bickering, the tired laughter underneath it, the feeling of being both doomed and in it together.

Just like it used to be.

—

The studio wasn’t much. Cheap acoustic foam lined the walls like soundproofed bandages, half of it curling off in the corners. A wheezy air conditioner in the window sputtered and coughed, doing more to add background noise than relieve the heat. The couch was secondhand, sagging in the middle and covered with an emergency blanket Chan swore was decorative. The wires were tangled, the floor was sticky in places no one dared investigate, and the coffee table doubled as a noodle bowl graveyard—cups stacked, some still bearing the ghosts of late-night writing sessions past.

But it was theirs.

It was midnight, or close enough. The air buzzed with caffeine and unspoken urgency. Half-finished demos flickered across the DAW timeline, blinking like city lights in motion. Time didn’t move normally here—it blurred, stretched, looped.

Chan sat hunched over his laptop, brows furrowed, headphones askew as he clicked through layers of tracks with surgical precision. He looked half-wired, half-feral. “Okay, let’s go again,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Just the second chorus—more air on the ad libs, yeah?”

Changbin leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen against his thigh like a metronome. “We could stack the ‘drop it low’ line with the doubled harmony. Make it punchier.”

“I think it needs more bounce,” Chan said. “Like, rhythmically. Funk it up. Maybe add a slap bass, let it ride.”

Han, who’d been draped upside down over the couch with his legs thrown over the backrest like a bat in athletic socks, let out a long, dramatic groan. “Or—and hear me out—we add one tiny ‘sexy whisper’ right before the bridge. Like, real close. Like ASMR. Like—”

He flipped upright and leaned into the mic, voice dropping into a sultry rasp: “I’m in your walls.”

Chan snorted.

Changbin burst out laughing. “Stop, that’s going to haunt me.”

“No, wait, wait,” Han said, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What if we added a meow? Just a little one. A spicy meow. For flavor.”

Chan turned in his chair. “A spicy meow?”

“Yeah, like—” Han cleared his throat and growled into the mic with dramatic flair: “Meow~.”

Silence.

Then Changbin wheezed. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Han grinned.

Chan slumped forward into his keyboard. “You’re lucky I haven’t banned you from this booth.”

“I am the booth,” Han declared, arms thrown wide like Moses parting a Red Sea of bullshit. “I bring the vibe.”

“You bring something,” Chan muttered, already muting the mic as he scrolled back through the bridge. But a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Because that was the thing about Han—he brought chaos, sure, but he also brought levity. Joy. This undercurrent of kinetic brilliance that sparked even brighter when Changbin’s grounded intensity met Chan’s perfectionism head-on. They were a three-part storm, all tension and color and noise—but somehow, it always worked.

It wasn’t just a studio.

It was a heartbeat.

The door creaked open.

Jeongin stepped in, wind-tousled and sleepy-eyed, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands, a plastic bag slung from one wrist that smelled of hot soup and convenience store snacks. The hoodie—Chan’s hoodie—fit all wrong on someone Jeongin-shaped. Too broad in the shoulders, the seams sagged halfway to his biceps; too loose in the chest, it bunched at the elbows and hung awkwardly off his frame like a borrowed shrug of memory.The drawstrings bounced as he moved, still uneven from the last time Chan had tugged on them absentmindedly.

Chan didn’t turn around right away.

He didn’t need to.

His body recognized the sound of those footsteps, the soft thunk of the door, the rustle of Jeongin’s shuffle across the studio floor. Something in his chest unclenched just hearing it.

“Well,” Jeongin said, deadpan. “Looks like a whole lot of productivity happening in here.”

Han shot a finger in the air. “I contributed a meow!”

“Of course you did,” Jeongin replied, monotone, weaving around the tangled cables with the casual grace of someone who’d done this exact route a hundred times. He placed the food down gently on the cluttered desk, then leaned in to peer over Chan’s shoulder at the laptop screen. “Wow. So much progress. Did you guys even press record?”

And sure—his tone was unimpressed, and he looked like he’d walked straight out of a nap—but he was here. Chan’s hoodie draped over his small frame, bag of food swinging like an afterthought, lips chapped and eyes still soft from sleep.

He’d crossed town for them. For this. For no reason other than making sure they ate.

Chan’s heart did something inconvenient in his chest.

Because Jeongin would never say it—not out loud, not with words—but Chan knew. He knew Jeongin hated the cold. Knew he’d rather be home in bed, burritoed under three layers of blankets. Knew, if Jeongin had his way, he’d be curled up with Chan in said bed, using him as both heater and pillow.

But instead, here he was.

Sleepy. Slightly grumpy. Hands full of snacks and care.

And Chan—tight-shouldered, exhausted, caffeine-rattled—felt something like peace thread through his spine.

Just from the sight of him.

Just from knowing Jeongin still showed up.

He turned to respond, but Jeongin was already shifting—dropping fluidly into Chan’s lap like it was his seat all along. His arms looped lazily around Chan’s neck, the scent of his shampoo soft and clean between them. Chan’s hands found Jeongin’s waist without thinking. His chin tucked against Jeongin’s shoulder like muscle memory.

It was casual. Unremarkable.

Like breathing.

Changbin groaned theatrically. “Do you guys have to do that when we’re mixing?”

Jeongin turned his head, smirk sharp. “Do you have to exist while I’m cuddling?”

“Touché,” Han said, already halfway through a bag of shrimp chips.

Chan didn’t say anything.

He just held on.

Fingers resting a little too tight at Jeongin’s side. Chin tucked a little too close. Like if he loosened his grip, Jeongin might disappear.

And Jeongin let him.

No teasing. No snark. Just warmth, passed silently between hoodie seams and studio static.

Jeongin leaned slightly, fiddling with one of the sliders on the board—not enough to ruin anything, just enough to annoy. “You know this is off, right?”

“Get your jangnanchi hands off my levels,” Chan murmured into his shoulder.

Jeongin snorted, eyes half-lidded. “You always say that.”

Chan’s lips brushed the fabric near Jeongin’s collar. “And you never listen.”

And for a moment—just one, brief, borrowed moment—it all felt so easy. Like 3RACHA wasn’t about to fall apart. Like Jeongin wasn’t already slipping sideways out of Chan’s world. Like none of them had grown up enough yet to lose each other.

—

The subway rumbled beneath Chan’s feet, the car rocking in its tired rhythm, fluorescent lights humming overhead with all the warmth of an operating room. He sat stiffly, one knee crossed over the other, hands folded neatly on his briefcase like a salaryman-shaped statue. His back ached. His tie was too tight. His knees cracked when he shifted. He was thirty-one and slowly fossilizing.

Around him, everyone looked the same shade of dead-eyed: office workers clutching convenience store snacks, a couple high schoolers passed out against each other, and an old man arguing with a candy wrapper. Someone’s phone was playing trot too loud. Someone else was chewing gum like it owed them money.

It was the kind of evening Chan barely registered anymore. Just another day, another train, another moment of silence before he returned to Mi Sun’s planner-flower-candle-scented apartment and sat quietly on the edge of their bed like a man contemplating his life sentence.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He glanced at it, expecting another text from Mi Sun about napkin patterns or boutonnière ribbon widths or her ongoing war with the bakery over fondant thickness.

Instead, the message preview froze him in place.

[Mi Sun: Updated spreadsheet attached! 💕 I talked to Jeongin and we figured out the perfect third groomsman—you don’t even have to worry about it! 🥰 It’s your old friend Han!! Isn’t that so sweet?? A little 3RACHA reunion ✨ Everything’s balanced now!!]

Chan blinked. Then blinked again.

He unlocked the phone. Clicked.

GROOMSMEN:

• Lee Felix
• Han Jisung
• Yang Jeongin

Time stopped.

Then restarted in the worst way possible.

He stood up so violently he smacked his head on the overhead handrail. Hard.

“씨—아악!!”
(“Shi—AACK!!”)

The sound was somewhere between a curse, a yelp, and a dying cat.

Every passenger within a ten-foot radius jerked toward him in alarm.

A middle-aged woman gasped. The teenager across from him dropped their earbuds. A child burst into tears.

Chan clutched his phone in one hand and the top of his skull in the other, swaying slightly from the impact. “Gwenchana, gwenchana…” he muttered in mortified Korean (“I’m okay, I’m okay”), bowing like his life depended on it. His ears were red. His dignity had left the chat.

He sat back down. Slowly. Carefully. Like he was defusing a bomb.

Then stared back down at the spreadsheet.

Still there.

Still Han.

Still sitting there, digitally wedged between Jeongin and Felix like he belonged there.

Like this was fine.

It was not fine.

It was Mi Sun, that’s what it was. Mi Sun with her “just balancing the vibes!” and “I thought you’d love this!” and her constant cheerful, Pinterest-board-coded necromancy. God, he loved her—but if she didn’t stop resurrecting ghosts from his past like she was starring in a wedding-themed horror movie, he was going to lose his mind.

He ran a hand down his face. Considered deleting the spreadsheet. Considered deleting the wedding. Considered stepping into traffic.

Why couldn’t the past just stay buried?

Why did it have to climb out of the grave, perfectly manicured, spreadsheet-ready, and smiling?

The train rumbled on.

And Chan, temples throbbing and suit wrinkled, sat in his seat like a man on death row.

With a Google Sheet as his execution notice.

Chapter Text

The beat wasn’t working.

It wasn’t bad, exactly. But it also wasn’t right—not the kind of right that made you sit up in your chair and feel your bones rearrange themselves. And Chan wasn’t the kind of person who let something slide just because it was fine.

Not when it could be better.

“Okay,” he muttered, shoulders hunched, fingers flying across the laptop as he soloed the drums again. “Let’s try a swing on the back half of the loop. Just a hair. Might give it more groove.”

Across the studio, Changbin let out a groan and flopped dramatically over the arm of the couch. “Hyung, you said that forty-five minutes ago.”

“And I was right, forty-five minutes ago,” Chan said without looking up.

Changbin made a face, pulling out his phone with the sullen air of a student waiting for class to end. “I have an exam tomorrow.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Because it’s still true,” Changbin deadpanned. “College doesn’t pause just because you operate on insomnia and vibes.”

“Shhh,” Han hissed from his throne of floor cushions. “I’m trying to feel the bassline with my soul.”

“You’ve been lying down with your eyes closed for thirty minutes.”

“I’m manifesting.”

“You’re napping."

Chan barely registered them. He was already deep in the zone, looping the chorus again, isolating vocals, tightening kicks. Sweat dotted the back of his neck despite the wheezing air conditioner that coughed more than it cooled. They’d been at it for hours. The whiteboard behind them still had half a verse scribbled in dry-erase marker and an ominous tally of how many energy drinks they’d consumed this week (seven, not counting the mystery can Han drank by mistake).

They were tired. Starving. Probably slightly dehydrated. But they were also close. So close it hurt.

Chan didn’t want to stop. Not now. Not when they were circling it—whatever it was—that elusive click when the track finally locked into place. But his eyes burned. His spine ached. And across the room, Changbin looked like he was about to pass out face-first into the midi controller. Han had gone disturbingly quiet, which usually meant he was either asleep with his eyes open or about to say something unhinged.

They weren’t getting one more note down—not until someone got a meal into them that wasn’t carbonated.

“Alright,” Chan said, sitting back with a sigh. “Let’s take five. Maybe we’ll hear it clearer after we eat.”

“Praise be,” Changbin groaned, hauling himself upright like a resurrected corpse.

“Samgyeopsal?” Han asked, already pulling on a hoodie.

“God yes,” Chan said, shutting his laptop with reverence. “Let’s get some protein before someone starts hallucinating chord progressions.”

—

It was a new place.

Not new-new—judging by the yellowed menus and scuffed tile floor, the restaurant had been here a while—but new to them. They’d wandered in mostly because it was open, smelled good, and had three empty seats next to a working grill. That was enough.

The sign out front boasted charcoal-grilled pork belly and handmade kimchi. The inside boasted… noise. A lot of it. Meat sizzled, patrons shouted, and the air was dense with smoke and the promise of cheap soju.

3RACHA collapsed into a booth near the back.

Changbin yawned like he was trying to swallow the ceiling. Han flopped across the bench seat like someone had cut his strings. Chan’s back cracked audibly when he sat down, and he didn’t even flinch.

They looked like they’d been through war.

In reality, they’d been in the studio for eleven hours.

“You’re sure this place is good?” Han asked blearily, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand.

“Nope,” Chan said.

Changbin pulled a menu toward him. “There’s meat. We’re starving. It qualifies.”

They were halfway through debating side dish strategies—whether to double up on kimchi or gamble on the spicy radish—when the waiter approached.

Pad in hand, apron slung casually at the waist, hair swept back with the kind of effortless precision that shouldn’t have been possible in this much fluorescent lighting. He looked polished. Calm. Almost too composed for someone about to serve three half-feral music majors who hadn’t eaten since noon and were arguing about bean sprouts like it was life or death.

“Hey there,” he said, friendly and smooth. “Welcome in. I’ll be taking care of you tonight. My name is—”

He stopped.

Chan didn’t notice right away. He was too busy squinting at the menu, trying to decipher a section labeled “Premium Intestine Special” and deeply regretting his ability to read hangul. His mouth was dry. They hadn’t even gotten water yet.

The silence stretched. Just long enough to be noticeable.

The waiter blinked. Once. Then again, slower. Like he’d just seen a ghost.

“…Lee Minho,” he finished, voice a hair stiffer than before.

Chan flipped the menu to check the drink options. “Do you guys have—” He looked up.

And stalled.

Just a beat. A pause.

The words dried in his mouth like they’d evaporated on the way out.

It wasn’t instant. Not a lightning strike. More like the world paused for buffering, then tried to load a completely different scene.

The guy standing there looked normal. Tidy. Black shirt, clean apron, professional smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Just a waiter.

Except.

Something about the way he stood. The arch of a brow. The practiced ease of the posture that screamed look at me even when he clearly didn’t want to be looked at.

It started slow. A flicker of recognition behind Chan’s eyes.

It hit Chan like a bus.

Lina.

Not just memory. Not just recognition. A full-body, full-sensory collision.

Lina, in all her impossible elegance—poised and untouchable in a sweeping pink hanbok that shimmered like candlelight, each step purposeful, heels clicking like punctuation. Her eyes framed in gold glitter and liner sharp enough to wound, lips painted with a perfect smirk that knew exactly how much power it held. There had always been a regality to her, a kind of practiced grace that made her seem taller than she was, older than she looked, softer and sharper all at once. She moved like she was meant to be watched, like the room only existed because she chose to walk through it.

And now—
Here.

Minho stood before him stripped of all that glamour, but none of the gravity. No makeup. No silk. Just a plain black shirt, apron tied tight at the waist, a notepad in one hand. Still, that same impossible poise clung to him like perfume. The posture hadn’t changed. The gaze hadn’t dulled. Even here, out of drag, Minho carried himself like he knew exactly who he was—and that if you dared to underestimate him, that was your problem.

Chan’s breath caught. Because it was still her. Still Lina—even like this. And he didn’t know what to do with that.

“Oh,” he said. Barely. Like someone had punched the air out of him.

Minho’s expression didn’t flicker, but his jaw tensed just enough to give him away. That same flicker of recognition. The mutual oh fuck.

“You’d like a few minutes with the menu?” Minho asked, tone clipped and professional—but only barely holding.

“Yes,” Chan blurted. “I mean—no. I mean—uh. Yes. We’re good. We’re—deciding.”

Minho nodded once. Sharp. Controlled. Already retreating.

“I’ll get your water.”

And he was gone.

Straight-backed, too quick, like he was fleeing a crime scene.

Chan stared after him.

Mouth dry. Brain fried.

“…What was that?” Han said immediately, the second Minho disappeared into the kitchen.

Chan kept his face neutral. “What was what?”

Han squinted. “He looked like he recognized you.”

Chan gave a noncommittal shrug, flipping his menu back open with forced casualness. “We’re in a band. People recognize me.”

“You’re in an underground hip-hop trio with thirty YouTube subscribers.”

“Exactly,” Chan deadpanned.

Han made a skeptical noise but let it go, scanning the menu like he was trying to solve a cryptic crossword puzzle.

Changbin barely looked up. “If he brings us meat and doesn’t spit in it, I don’t care.”

“Noted,” Han muttered.

The conversation fizzled from there, attention span collectively devoured by the sizzling scent of grease and gochujang drifting from the kitchen. They were too tired, too hungry, and too deeply entrenched in student poverty to prioritize mystery over meat. And Han, for all his curiosity, could be distracted by steamed egg like a dog with a shiny toy.

Still, just as the kitchen door swung shut behind their server, Han’s eyes lingered longer than they should’ve.

“…He was really pretty,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper, almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

No one responded.

Not because they were ignoring him, but because Han always said shit like that. He had a brain-to-mouth pipeline with no brakes and no context clues. Half the time he said things just to hear the sound of them. The other half, he forgot he said them at all.

If anyone had caught it, they probably would’ve chalked it up to character development. Han had a habit of getting weirdly competitive around hot people—acknowledging someone else was pretty was probably good for his soul. A step toward maturity. Or therapy.

Plus, the meat was coming. Nobody had the emotional bandwidth to process anything.

A few minutes passed, filled with the slow shuffling of cutlery and the impatient clinking of metal chopsticks against empty plates. Han tried to fold his napkin into the shape of a crane. It looked like a depressed moth. Changbin told him so.

Then the kitchen door swung open again, and Minho returned—stoic, professional, holding a tray of waters with the precision of a man desperate not to spill or feel anything.

“Here you go,” he said smoothly, placing glasses around the table without a hitch. “Are you ready to order?”

They rattled off their choices quickly. No frills. No games. Meat, meat, more meat, and a token order of mushrooms to pretend they were functioning adults. Minho nodded, jotted it all down, and murmured a polite, “I’ll get that started,” before retreating toward the kitchen again.

Minho disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door like a magician slipping behind a curtain—too smooth, too fast, and leaving behind the faint scent of kimchi and existential crisis.

Chan didn’t move.

He just stared at the door.

Unblinking. Unbreathing.

Somewhere to his right, Han was trying to convince Changbin that ordering five rounds of meat wasn’t excessive, it was strategic.

“Think about it,” Han said, waving a chopstick like a pointer. “If we front-load the samgyeopsal, we hit peak hunger satisfaction before we even get to the beef. That’s budgeting.”

“We’re not budgeting,” Changbin muttered, flipping through the menu again. “We’re spiraling. There’s a difference.”

“Chan agrees with me,” Han added confidently, elbowing Chan without looking. “Right, hyung?”

Nothing.

Not even a blink.

“Hyung?” Han said again.

Chan was still staring at the kitchen door like it might spit out a ghost. Or worse, a second version of Minho. One in eyeliner and heels.

Han blinked. Then leaned into Changbin. “He’s been like that since the guy left.”

“Which guy?”

“The waiter. The hot one.”

Changbin glanced at Chan. “He looks like he’s solving a murder.”

“He’s probably trying to remember where he saw those cheekbones before,” Han said, resting his chin on his hand. “You don’t forget cheekbones like that.”

“Didn’t you just call me pretty last week?”

“You were standing in front of a mirror and fishing for it,” Han shot back.

Changbin shrugged. “Still counts.”

They turned back to their menus, the argument lazily shifting into a debate about side dishes and whether or not pickled perilla leaves were a trap. Neither of them noticed Chan hadn’t said a word in three full minutes.

Because honestly? This wasn’t new. Chan spaced out all the time—usually while rearranging imaginary kick drums in his head or solving the global music crisis via ProTools.

They just chalked it up to that.

But Chan wasn’t hearing a single thing they were saying.

He was too busy watching the small square window in the kitchen door.

And when Minho appeared again, he sat up straighter without realizing.

Minho ducked past the dish pit. Handed the ticket to the cook with a polite nod.

Then glanced once over his shoulder.

And slipped out the back door.

Chan blinked.

“Gonna hit the bathroom,” he blurted, already half-standing.

Han didn’t even look up. “Don’t fall in.”

Changbin waved him off. “Bring back some soju.”

But Chan was already sliding out of the booth, grabbing his jacket and disappearing between tables at a pace that was definitely not just a casual stroll to the urinals.

The door clicked shut behind Chan with a thud far too loud for the alley it echoed into, cutting off the noise of sizzling pork and Han yelling something about side dish hierarchy.

Cold air rushed his face—startling, bracing. It smelled like like grease, smoke, and cold concrete. The dim yellow backlight above the service entrance flickered like a dying bug zapper. He paused. Let his eyes adjust.

The alley wasn’t much—just a narrow strip of asphalt cluttered with trash bins and broken crates. Somewhere above, a vent hummed lazily, blowing out steam in bursts like a bored dragon.

Then—

Smoke.

Not the thick, greasy kind from the kitchen. Something thinner. Sharper. The unmistakable curl of a cigarette.

Chan turned his head.

Minho was leaning against the brick wall like he’d grown from it—one ankle crossed over the other, apron still tied, sleeves pushed up. His wrist was half-cocked midair, cigarette inches from his mouth, the ember glowing faintly in the dark—but it hadn’t made it to his mouth yet. He was just holding it there. Frozen.

Staring.

At Chan.

The expression on his face hovered somewhere between judgment, disbelief, and the very specific horror of a man whose worlds had just violently overlapped.

Chan blinked. “What are you doing here?”

Minho blinked. Once. Then again. Then rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it physically hurt.

Chan coughed. “Okay. Right. Dumb question.”

“What gave it away?” Minho deadpanned. “The apron? The tray? The part where I took your order?”

Chan scratched the back of his neck. “I just thought… I thought the club was your job.”

Minho took a long, exaggerated drag like he needed the nicotine to get through this interaction. “Wow. That’s cute. You think drag pays rent.”

“I mean—don’t you make good tips?”

“We do,” Minho snapped. “And if there was a club that hired us more than once a week, maybe I could live off it. Until then—”he flicked his cigarette toward the alley, the loading dock, the peeling paint, “welcome to the glamorous world of double shifts and double lives.”

Chan opened his mouth. Closed it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Talk about this?” Minho cut in, sharp but quiet. “Here? Behind the restaurant? At my day job? Where my manager has hawk vision and zero sense of humor?” He took another drag, exhaling smoke like it was frustration made visible. “And I’d like to keep this job, if you don’t mind,” he added, gesturing vaguely with his cigarette. “Pretty sure the manager wouldn’t be thrilled to find out I spend my Thursdays cross-dressing for horny men and drunk ajummas.”

Chan winced. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

“God.” Minho shook his head, mostly to himself. “You couldn’t have just awkwardly stared at your banchan like a normal person. You had to follow me out back like you were about to confess a murder.”

“I wasn’t—”

Minho pointed his cigarette at him. “You’ve got the face of someone about to confess to murder.”

Chan held up both hands. “I just… recognized you. That’s all.”

“And now here we are,” Minho muttered, eyes flicking skyward like he might will a lightning bolt into existence. “Talking about drag in an alley behind a pork joint. God forbid I get to keep my nightlife separate from my actual life.”

Chan hesitated. “You’re still really good. As Lina, I mean.”

Minho let his head thunk gently back against the brick. “Stop talking.”

Chan shut his mouth immediately.

The cigarette made it to Minho’s lips again. He took a slow drag, then let the smoke roll out in a clean, practiced line, like it was the only thing under control.

They stood there a second. Steam vent hissing overhead. Footsteps from the kitchen scuffing past the other side of the wall.

“Just—go back inside,” Minho said eventually. Not angry. Just… done. “Eat your meat. Pretend you don’t know me. I’ll drop off your grill set and disappear. Cool?”

“Yeah,” Chan said. “Cool.”

But he didn’t move.

Minho noticed. Groaned. “What,” he snapped, not even pretending to be polite now. “What do you want?”

Chan shifted his weight. Then again. Then back. Like a man caught between two exits and neither one looked good. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again—like if he just kept trying, the words might stop turning to wet cement in his throat.

Minho squinted at him. Still smoking. Still unimpressed. “Seriously?”

Chan rubbed the back of his neck. Eyes skittered toward the alley floor, then back to Minho.

“…Jeongin?”

Minho let out a laugh—short, sharp, and not even close to amused. “He’s not here, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He took a drag off his cigarette, exhaled through a sigh. “You’re safe from the soul-consuming stare of that underaged menace.”

Chan winced like the words had caught him off guard.

Minho clocked it. Rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not about to start eye-fucking you across the pork belly, either. Sorry to disappoint.”

“I didn’t think—” Chan started, but Minho was already waving him off.

“Jesus,” he muttered, tipping his head back against the brick with a soft thunk. “I am wasting my goddamn break.”

But the heat had gone out of his voice. Not softer, exactly—but tired. Faded at the edges. He flicked ash to the ground. Didn’t look at Chan. Didn’t walk away either.

Chan shifted his weight again. Like he was trying to find balance in a conversation that had none. 

“He… Jeongin. Does he have a day job, too?”

Minho glanced at him, unimpressed. “What, you his career counselor now?”

Chan didn’t answer.

Minho sighed. It was a rough sound—like something scraped from the bottom of a long week. “He’s figuring it out,” he said finally. “He’s… living with a friend from high school. Kid goes to uni. Art major, I think.”

His tone made it clear what he thought about that, but he didn’t linger.

Chan opened his mouth. Thought better of it. Closed it again.

Minho didn’t wait. “Why?”

“I was just asking,” Chan said, quiet.

“Well, don’t,” Minho snapped. “It’s weird. You’re weird.”

The silence that followed had teeth. Not sharp. Just tense. Awkward. Something trying to settle and not quite landing.

Chan cleared his throat. “So… he’s not in school anymore?”

Minho’s jaw ticked.

Then—flat. Blunt. “Dropped out.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

Chan nodded, slowly, like he was making peace with it. “Well, I mean… that’s okay. College isn’t for everyone—”

“High school,” Minho cut in. Immediate. Precise. Like a slap across the mouth.

Chan stilled.

The words hit like impact—not loud, but bone-deep. Like the sudden realization you’ve missed the drop-off and the ground is gone beneath you.

“I… I didn’t know that.”

“No shit.” Minho dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel like he wished it were Chan’s neck. “But you asked, so—congrats. Now you do.”

Chan didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there with his hands buried in his jacket pockets, staring at the pavement like it might offer him a script. Some answer that wouldn’t make him feel like an intruder.

Minho let out a breath. Long. Measured. Not angry anymore—just tired, in the kind of way that comes from caring too long.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “About the club. About… Jeongin.”

Chan glanced up—surprised—but Minho wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was far off, somewhere past the edge of the alley. Like he couldn’t look directly at what he was saying without breaking it.

“I’ve tried talking to him,” Minho said, voice low. “Tried telling him to ease up. Stop pushing so hard. He doesn’t always listen.” He hesitated. “Lately, he never does."

Chan shifted, unsure if he was supposed to fill the space. He didn’t.

“He’s not a bad kid,” Minho said, still not quite meeting Chan’s eye. “Just… messed up, I think. A little off-kilter. Like he’s always bracing for something that’s already happened.”

That made Chan’s chest tighten, though he couldn’t explain why.

“When I met him, he’d just turned eighteen. Still had this look in his eyes—like the world hadn’t gone the way he thought it would, and he hadn’t figured out who to blame for that yet.”

Minho’s voice stayed soft. Unfolding memory, not defending it.

“He used to go on dates just to get fed. Like… full-on dinner dates with strangers from apps he had no real interest in. Let them pay, listen to their bullshit, smile at the right moments, and then disappear. Sometimes he’d tell me about them afterward. Sometimes he didn’t.”

Chan swallowed. The image was hard to sit with. Like something crooked in the shape of someone he thought he knew.

“One of those guys brought him to the club one night. Probably thought it’d be fun. Probably thought Jeongin would go home with him after.”

Minho’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile.

“He didn’t.” He flicked ash to the side. “Spent the whole night talking to me instead. Wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Wanted to know everything—what glue I used, how I got my padding smooth, how to walk in heels without flinching.”

Minho’s voice had shifted. Not fond, exactly. But warmer.

“The guy who brought him left halfway through the conversation. Jeongin never even noticed.”

Chan’s heart thudded once, low and uncertain.

“I put him in drag a few weeks later,” Minho said. “Basic beat. Borrowed wig. Nothing fancy. Just wanted to see what would happen.”

Finally, he looked at Chan. Not with accusation. Not with challenge. Just with the weight of having been there.

“And something did.”

The alley was still. Even the hum of the vent above them felt quiet.

“It was like…” Minho exhaled. “Like watching someone remember they have a body. Like he’d been walking around without one for years and suddenly found a shape that fit. Something loud enough to drown out whatever was chasing him.”

Chan didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

“He goes too far with it, sometimes. Flirts too hard, performs too loud. Like he’s trying to prove something no one asked him to. But I think it’s because he doesn’t know how to turn it off. Because when he does… he’s just Jeongin again.”

He looked away again. Voice quieter now.

“And I don’t think he likes being just Jeongin.”

Chan didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the cold made his lungs ache.

“He’s not stable,” Minho said, softer now. Not cruel. Just honest. “And he wears so many masks, I don’t think he remembers what his real face looks like anymore.”

He shook his head. “But there’s still a kid in there. Someone smart, and scared, and too proud to ask for help. Someone fragile. Even when he’s being a goddamn menace.”

Minho exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the sky.

“I’m not saying it’s okay. I know he comes on strong. I know it’s… a lot. Too much, sometimes. But half the time, I don’t think he knows where the line is until he’s already crossed it. And by then, he’s too deep in the performance to walk it back.”

He looked over, steady now. Grounded.

“I’m not saying you need to let it slide. Hell, I get it if it makes you uncomfortable. But if he spirals again, and you’re the one there—just... try to see past the act. Don’t hold it against him. Try not to punish him for being loud about the things he doesn’t know how to say quietly.”

Chan didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His throat felt thick, his mind full of puzzle pieces that didn’t fit together. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—some excuse, maybe. Some warning to steer clear.

But not this.

Not a story about loneliness in eyeliner. Not the strange tragedy of someone finding freedom only when dressed as someone else. Just… a person. A boy with too many sharp edges and nowhere to set them down.

He didn’t know what to do with this.

Didn’t know if he wanted to.

But now he had it.

And there was no putting it back.

Minho didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he clicked his tongue, quietly. Not at Chan—at himself.

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “That wasn’t mine to tell.”

Chan blinked. “No, I—I mean. Thank you. I didn’t—thank you.”

Minho shook his head. “Don’t get all weird about it.”

“I’m not,” Chan lied. Immediately. Stiffly. Like someone who had never said a casual thing in his life.

Minho gave him a flat look. Then rolled his eyes.

“Go back to your damn table,” he said, jerking his chin toward the door. “You smell like alley now.”

Chan hesitated, mouth still open, brain clearly lagging behind. “Right. Yeah. Of course. I’ll—yeah.”

Minho didn’t wait. He turned on his heel, striding toward the kitchen door, the tail of his apron snapping behind him like punctuation.

And Chan—

Chan moved.

Not because he chose to. Because something in the way Minho said it—the ease, the authority, the quiet confidence that assumed he would be listened to—commanded him.

It wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t loud. But it had the same gravitational pull he remembered from the stage. From Lina.

That same presence. That same weight.

It didn’t matter that there was no makeup. No glitter. No spotlight. He could see her in him now—in the lift of his chin, in the steel behind his eyes, in the way a single sentence cleared the air like a curtain drop.

Minho might’ve taken off the wig. But Lina was still here. Still royal.

And Chan obeyed like it was law.

He followed the instruction without thinking.

By the time he slid back into the booth, Han and Changbin were still arguing about whether it was socially acceptable to request extra perilla leaves and no rice.

Neither of them looked up.

“Bathroom lines?” Han asked without glancing over.

Chan blinked. “Uh. Sure.”

Changbin squinted at him. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Something like that,” Chan muttered, reaching for his water glass more to give his hands something to do than because he was thirsty. “Just cold out there.”

But his stomach had curled in on itself.

Everything felt heavy now. Not bad, exactly. Just… different. Weighted. He could still hear Minho’s voice in his head, calm and low, unraveling stories that weren’t his to tell. Still feel the flicker of something reverent in his chest when Minho said go and Chan had just—gone.

He wasn’t sure what to make of any of it.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The kitchen door swung open again.

Minho stepped out carrying a tray full of meat and side dishes, the grill set tucked expertly between his hands. He smelled faintly of grease now, and faintly of smoke—barbecue and cigarette—like someone trying to wear two lives at once.

He moved quietly. Efficiently. Set everything down without comment.

And just as he was about to turn away, Chan caught his eye and offered the smallest smile. Something grateful. Or maybe apologetic. He wasn’t sure which.

Minho met his gaze.

And for a second—just a second—he returned it.

Not a smile, really. Just a softening. The barest flicker of something quiet and tired and known. A nod between two people who didn’t know what they were to each other, but knew enough not to say more.

Then—

“Okay, but what do you use on your face?” Han said, far too loudly. “Because I swear to god, you’re glowing like a minor deity.”

Minho froze.

“What?!” Minho asked, visibly thrown.

Han leaned forward, absolutely undeterred. “Your skin,” he said, with the manic sincerity of someone uncovering a state secret. “It’s so clear. So ethereal. You look like you moisturize with moonlight and cry only once a year.”

And that’s when Chan saw it—the tiniest flicker of red, crawling up Minho’s neck. A betraying blush, high and hot behind the ear, like his body was reacting before his pride could stop it.

Because Minho knew what he looked like.

And Minho was gay.

And Han—

Han was just… Han.

Blissfully oblivious. Emotionally feral. Completely unaware that he was currently, and very aggressively, flirting with a gay man. With intensity. With grace. With the raw energy of a poet who fell in love with a Renaissance painting.

“I’m serious,” Han continued, utterly committed now. “Do you double-cleanse? Is it toner? Witchcraft? Have you ascended? Are you sponsored by a skincare cult? Blink twice if it’s illegal.”

Minho opened his mouth. Then closed it again, visibly short-circuiting. He looked faintly horrified, like someone had pointed a spotlight at his diary and read it aloud to a stadium.

Then he spun around and fled.

Like, fled.

Almost knocked over the grill tray, apron flaring like a cape, disappearing into the kitchen so fast it looked like a retreat from battle. The swinging door slapped shut behind him with the finality of a guillotine, leaving nothing but the faint scent of barbecue and existential crisis.

Han turned back to the table, completely unfazed. “What?” he said, chewing on a piece of radish. “I said what we were all thinking.”

Changbin didn’t even look up from his lettuce wrap. “You are banned from speaking in public.”

But Chan—Chan just stared after Minho, jaw tight, brain short-circuiting.

Because he was the only one who’d clocked the blush. The panic. The flicker of flustered attraction Minho had tried very hard to kill in cold blood.

And he was the only one thinking: Jesus Christ. Han just accidentally flirted with a drag queen out of drag, and now I have to explain all of that.

If Minho ever speaks to him again.

Chapter Text

Chan was going to kill Mi Sun.

Lovingly. Gently. With great care and a full heart.

But kill her nonetheless.

Because this?

This tux fitting?

This performance art piece of psychological warfare?

Was her idea.

She’d framed it as a sweet gesture—something fun, something sentimental, something for her.

“I want to be surprised when I see which tux you pick! It’ll be cute!”
“Like a little reveal!”
“I trust your taste!”

Which was rich, considering she had picked the candidates. She had orchestrated this whole thing. And now she’d bowed out of attending like she was abstaining from a reality TV rose ceremony to preserve the drama.

So now he was here.

In a boutique that smelled like steamed wool, hairspray, and expensive insecurity, blinking under aggressively flattering light and already sweating through his shirt collar. Again.

Across from him, Felix sat perched on a velvet bench like someone actually comfortable in their own skin, thumbing through a lookbook and humming quietly to himself. He looked radiant. Relaxed. Slightly overdressed for a fitting. Chan had never been more grateful for his presence.

“Hey,” Felix said suddenly, not looking up. “You good?”

“Fine,” Chan said too fast.

Felix did look up then. One brow lifted. “That didn’t sound like a real-person ‘fine.’ That sounded like an 'I’m about to walk into traffic and call it fate' fine.”

Chan huffed a soft laugh. “I’m just… thinking.”

“About tuxes?”

“Sure.”

“Is it Jeongin?”

Chan looked up, startled.

But Felix just shrugged. “I mean—you two have been weird. Not bad weird. Just… stiff. Like someone replaced your friendship with a script and gave the understudies five minutes to memorize it.”

Chan exhaled through his nose. “We’re fine.”

“You keep saying that,” Felix said gently. “But you don’t look it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Chan couldn’t say it. Any of it. Couldn’t explain why seeing Jeongin now felt like holding a live wire. Couldn’t confess that every moment in his presence dragged guilt through his chest like barbed wire—and not just guilt, but dread.

Because he wasn’t just dealing with a friend being weird.

He was dealing with an ex.

An ex who was now a groomsman.

In his wedding.

And who was, with increasing boldness, actively trying to ruin it.

Chan certainly couldn’t say that.

There was no normal way to say, “Yeah, my ex-boyfriend is sabotaging my engagement from the inside out while pretending to be chill about it. Also, I think he might be winning.”

So instead, he said, “It’s just a lot. New job, new country, wedding planning… It’s not Jeongin. It’s everything.”

Felix nodded slowly. “That makes sense. It’s a lot to juggle. And you’ve always been better at carrying other people’s stress than your own.”

Chan blinked at that, surprised.

Felix smiled. “You don’t have to do it all by yourself, you know. I’ve got you. Mi Sun’s got you. And if it ever really gets to be too much—just say the word. We’ll figure it out together.”

Chan laughed. Small, a little shaky, but real. “Thanks.”

“And if it is Jeongin,” Felix added, more cautiously now, “you should talk to him. He’s still your friend, yeah?”

Chan hesitated. “Yeah. He is.”

But it wasn’t true. Jeongin had never just been his friend.

Not from the moment they met.

Not with the way he looked at Chan like he already knew the shape of him—understood him, inside and out. Not with the shameless flirting, the reckless touches, the biting jokes, the nights that spiraled into something hot and breathless and too much. Not with the way he wanted Chan—so openly, so unrelentingly—that Chan forgot how to want anything else.

His friends knew his schedule. Jeongin knew the sounds he made when no one else was around.

His friends knew how he took his coffee. Jeongin knew how he tasted when he came.

His friends knew how to make him laugh. Jeongin knew how to ruin him. Knew how to pull him open with just a look. Knew every place he liked to be touched and every filthy word that could make him beg for it.

They’d been too close, too fast, in ways that didn’t leave room for friendship.
And now—whatever they were now—he couldn’t even lie about it without tasting smoke in the back of his throat.

Before he could spiral further, a familiar noise clawed its way into the air outside.

A sputter. A choke. A mechanical cry for help.

Chan went still.

BRRRRRRRAAAGGGGKKKKKT.

That goddamn moped.

Chan groaned and marched to the boutique window like a man headed for a guillotine.

And sure enough, it skidded to a stop outside, coughing one last breath before dying in protest. Jeongin hopped off first, pulling off his helmet with far too much cinematic flair for someone who had just parallel-parked a glorified lawnmower. His bangs blew back from his face in a perfectly timed gust of wind. Of course.

Riding behind him, clutching his shoulders like a backpack with opinions, Han removed his helmet and immediately tripped over the curb.

Felix let out a soft “oof” of secondhand pain.

Outside, Han lay sprawled on the sidewalk like a man personally betrayed by concrete. Jeongin just stood there, entirely unfazed, like he’d expected this outcome and was frankly bored by it.

Chan watched, jaw tightening.

“Of course he tripped,” he muttered.

Felix leaned in, face lit with interest. “What’s going on? Is that Han?”

Chan didn’t answer.

Jeongin gave Han a light kick to the shin. “Get up.”

Han moaned like he was dying. “No. Leave me. Let the curb claim me. I was never meant to survive this day.”

Jeongin crouched beside him with all the mercy of a cat about to knock over a vase. “You tripped over air.”

“I tripped over regret,” Han hissed. “I regret everything.”

“I told you not to ride with me,” Jeongin continued, deadpan. “You said ‘it’ll be fun, Jeongin,’ ‘it’s charming, Jeongin,’ ‘what’s the worst that could happen, Jeongin.’”

“I didn’t say that,” Han snapped, sitting up like a drowned cat. “I said I hated your scooter, I hated this plan, and I hated you personally. But did you listen? No. Because you’re a chaos demon in eyeliner and vintage denim.”

Jeongin nudged him again with the toe of his boot. “You’re blocking the door.”

“I am the door.”

Chan exhaled through his nose. “I’m going to lock the door.”

“You won’t,” Felix said brightly.

“Watch me.”

And sure enough, after another thirty seconds of pure Broadway-level suffering, Han hauled himself upright with a noise that could only be described as existential.

Jeongin held the boutique door open for him with all the grace of a smug concierge.

“After you, disaster.”

“Bite me, criminal.”

They stepped inside like they hadn’t just performed a ten-minute street play titled ‘Why Are We Like This: A Tragedy in Two Acts.’

Felix whispered, “Oh my god, I love them.”

Chan whispered back, “I need a drink.”

Jeongin entered first, casual and composed, like he hadn’t just instigated sidewalk warfare for fun. Han followed, disheveled and muttering, like someone recovering from an exorcism.

Felix whispered, “Do you want me to run interference?”

Chan muttered, “저 스쿠터로 저놈 쳐버리고 싶어.” (I want to run him over with that scooter.)

Felix blinked. “Huh?”

Chan straightened. “Nothing.”

Jeongin and Han finally made their way across the boutique, like two ends of a very mismatched magnet. Jeongin was all forward motion, draped in smugness and denim and the kind of audacity that should be illegal indoors. Han looked like he was trying to fold himself into the nearest potted plant.

“Channie!” Jeongin crooned, throwing his arms wide like they were on a talk show reunion special. “You look so tense. Miss me already?”

Chan blinked. Then blinked again.

Jeongin was already halfway into a side-hug, tucking himself under Chan’s arm like a very fashionable barnacle. He smelled like baby powder shampoo and trouble.

Chan’s eye twitched.

“Hi,” Han said quickly, stepping forward like a shield between them. “Sorry we’re late. I told him the moped was a bad idea.”

Jeongin gasped. “Rude. It’s a lifestyle choice.”

Felix grinned. “I kind of respect it.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Chan muttered.

One of the boutique attendants, a sharp-faced woman with a headset and an alarming number of safety pins clipped to her belt, swooped in to start corralling them into action.

“Great, you’re all here,” she chirped. “We pulled a few tuxes based on your fiancée’s selections. We’ll start with the groomsman options.”

Jeongin released Chan only to toss his hair, clap his hands once, and coo, “Ooooh, yay! A fashion montage! Can’t wait to be so surprised by the suits your fiancée personally selected for me.”

As she swept off to retrieve a rack of suits, Chan turned to Han—finally, a chance to have a real conversation without Jeongin’s constant narration of the apocalypse.

“You still running sound at the club?” Chan asked, keeping his tone light.

Han scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, not anymore. I did for a while after you left, but…”

He trailed off.

“But?” Chan prompted.

Han shrugged. “Got an offer to ghostwrite. For a label.”

Chan blinked. “Wait—seriously? That’s huge.”

Han smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. I guess.”

“You guess?” Chan said, startled. “That’s like… your break, Jisung! You’ve been writing since before we met.”

“I know.” Han looked away. “Just… doesn’t feel how I thought it would.”

Chan didn’t know what to say to that. Before he could find something, he tried the next name that still made his chest tighten a little.

“What about Binnie? Is he still doing music?”

Han’s face stiffened like he’d been slapped with a frost spell.

“He’s… at a gym now,” he said flatly. “Personal trainer.”

“Oh,” Chan said, softly.

There was a silence. Not long, but enough.

Chan didn’t press. He didn’t have to.

A few feet away, Felix had taken it upon himself to distract Jeongin with enthusiastic small talk.

“I love your outfit,” Felix said brightly. “The layering? The denim-on-denim? It’s giving vintage editorial.”

Jeongin lit up, visibly flattered, smoothing his palms down the front of his jacket. “Ah—thank you. I… try. Always match. It has to be… um…”

He paused, lips pursed, clearly searching for the next word.

Felix leaned in, patient. “You mean like—balanced? Clean?”

Jeongin snapped his fingers. “Yes. Clean. But still… a little mess?” He tugged at his sleeve, then tapped his temple. “Not boring. Little messy, but... smart messy.”

Felix grinned. “I get it. You’ve got great instincts.”

Jeongin blushed, just barely. “I like clothes. Not always words.”

He laughed quietly, half-embarrassed. Felix laughed with him.

And Chan—against his better judgment—felt something twist in his chest.

Because that? That was real.

Not the performance. Not the posturing. Just Jeongin, awkward and earnest, trying to bridge the language gap and still be understood. And if things were different—if there wasn’t so much wreckage between them—Chan could see it. How they might’ve gotten along. How Felix and Jeongin would’ve clicked effortlessly. Laughed over fabrics. Bonded over boots. Become friends.

If only.

But then the boutique attendant returned, wheeling in the first rack of tuxedos with a flourish.

“Alright,” she said cheerfully, “who’s ready to try on some magic?”

Jeongin turned toward the changing rooms, then paused just long enough to glance back at Chan.

He smiled—sweet, lazy, dangerous.

And in soft, almost affectionate Korean, he said, “이제 벗는다. 숨 쉬지 마.”
(Getting undressed now. Try not to breathe.)

Whatever softness had been blooming in Chan’s chest promptly withered and died.

Felix turned to him, oblivious. “Did he say something?”

Chan grabbed his glass of champagne. “Nothing that should be repeated.” He was already calculating how much it would cost to remove bloodstains from boutique carpet.

Felix gave up with a helpless little laugh. “Okay! Vague and terrifying. Got it.” He gave Chan’s arm a quick pat. “I’m gonna go put on formalwear and pretend this isn’t weird.”

The first wave of suits hit the floor like a curated storm of satin lapels and confusing price tags.

Felix was the first one out of the dressing room, beaming in a deep charcoal number with a slim fit and a slightly shiny finish. He did a dramatic spin in front of the boutique mirror, arms out like he was being air-dried.

“I feel like a very expensive magician,” he announced.

“Not wrong,” Jeongin said from behind the curtain. 

Felix gave Chan a finger gun and two winks. “Perfect. Sold.”

Then Han emerged.

Sort of.

He stumbled out of the fitting room like the suit had been forced onto him mid-wrestling match. The sleeves were somehow both too long and too short. His shirt collar was askew. His entire expression radiated this is above my pay grade energy.

“I look like a lawyer who gets disbarred in the first ten minutes of the movie,” Han declared, tugging at the pants like they were made of fiberglass. “Like, I’m about to lose custody of a goldfish in court.”

Chan pressed a hand to his temple.

Felix clapped. “It’s got character!”

Jeongin stepped out next.

And once again, the boutique seemed to take a breath.

Not because he did anything dramatic. In fact, he barely moved. Just stood there in a soft black number, slightly cropped pants, no tie, no belt—just clean lines and quiet menace. It fit like it wanted to be touched.

It hugged him like it had been hand-stitched by a love-struck tailor. His posture was annoyingly perfect, his collarbone unfairly visible, and his expression a masterclass in unimpressed elegance.

He examined his reflection with a blank expression that somehow communicated I’m above this, but I will win anyway.

“Not bad,” he murmured. “Still boring.”

Because of course Jeongin could make a crummy boutique rental look like high fashion. Of course he could look breathtaking in black and mild disdain. Of course he could steal the air out of the room and act like it bored him.

Chan rubbed harder at his temple. “This is giving me a migraine.”

Han pointed at him from the mirror. “It’s the suits. They’re evil. They absorb light and joy.”

“You’re wearing it backwards,” Jeongin said.

“What?!”

“Your vest. It’s on inside out.”

Han looked down, yelped, and disappeared back into the changing room with the kind of dramatic yowl usually reserved for haunted house victims.

The boutique attendant was unfazed. “Next set’s coming out now. More modern. Less traditional.”

“Does that mean fewer ties?” Han’s voice called faintly from behind the curtain. “Because I’m not putting on another noose unless someone proposes to me.”

Jeongin, already halfway back into his stall, turned over his shoulder and smirked at Chan. “I’ll let you know if I find a ring.”

Chan didn’t reply.

He was too busy calculating if he had enough champagne left to blackout before the final fitting.

He took a deep breath.

Or tried to.

It caught somewhere in his throat and came out as a sigh instead.

This was for Mi Sun. That was the point. That was always the point.

She wanted this moment to be special—to see him standing at the altar looking like someone worth marrying. She’d curated this entire afternoon with care, picking styles and silhouettes, imagining him in each of them like pieces in a fairytale ending.

He owed her more than this performance.

So he needed to get it together.

No more spiraling. No more staring. No more whatever-the-hell it was he kept doing every time Jeongin so much as breathed near him.

Chan closed his eyes for one second. Tamped down the migraine. Reminded himself what he was doing here.

He reached for the glass of boutique champagne—sweeter than he liked, too crisp at the finish—and tossed it back like he used to at the club, in the greenroom, when Jeongin was already out there under lights and glitter and something feral that never quite stayed in character.

Chan shook that thought out of his head too.

The curtains rustled again.

Time to focus.

Felix stepped out in a pale dove-gray tux with a crisp shawl collar. He did a little hop to show off the slim pant line and beamed at Chan like he’d been waiting to be asked to prom.

Chan nodded. “That cut’s good on you. The shoulders sit clean. Might want to swap out the shirt, though—something with texture.”

Felix did another spin. “It’s got potential,” he said brightly. “Ten out of ten would marry me.”

Then Han emerged.

Barely.

He shuffled out in a deep navy number, sleeves tailored better this time, shirt collar crisp. But Han still looked like he was headed to court to lose a very public embezzlement case.

“It doesn’t hate you,” Felix offered supportively.

Han sighed. “I hate it enough for both of us.”

Chan glanced over and tilted his head. “The color works. You just need a different tie. That one’s too thick for your frame. It’s fighting the lapels.”

Han blinked. “What?”

“Here.” Chan gestured, stepping in to adjust the knot slightly. “See? It’s too high. Throws off the line of the jacket.”

Han looked at his reflection, surprised. “Huh. That… does look better.”

“You’re welcome,” Chan muttered.

And then—

Jeongin stepped out.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t wink or pose. Just moved toward the mirror, fingertips brushing over the fabric like he couldn’t decide if it was worth his time.

Chan watched. Then followed.

He didn’t mean to. Not consciously. One second he was behind the couch, the next he was next to Jeongin, eyes already scanning the suit like it was a puzzle to solve.

“You’re not filling out the shoulders right,” Chan murmured, voice low but focused. “It’s the angle—see here?”

Before Jeongin could respond, Chan’s hand was already on him. He pinched the fabric at the seam near Jeongin’s shoulder, adjusting it delicately, like working on a mannequin.

“They cut it too wide,” he continued, fingers skimming down to smooth along the top of the sleeve. “Makes the torso hang loose. Like it wants to collapse inward.”

Jeongin blinked, but didn’t move.

Chan stepped closer, fully absorbed.

His other hand found the lapel, running down its length, brushing lightly over the satin edge. He was speaking more to the suit than the person wearing it. “And this—this line’s too sharp for satin. Makes the lapel flare at the corner. It won’t sit right—see?”

Jeongin wasn’t breathing.

And Chan—
Chan still didn’t notice. Or didn’t let himself.

He shifted slightly, bringing both hands up now, adjusting the shoulders again. His thumbs dragged gently across the fabric where it met Jeongin’s collarbone, and then stayed there, pressing lightly—one, then the other—on either side of the jacket’s seam.

“The color’s not helping,” he said absently. “Slate washes out under warm light. You always looked better in true black than charcoal. I told you that—”

And then he looked up.

Into Jeongin’s face.

And everything stopped.

Their faces were inches apart. So close that Chan could see the shift in Jeongin’s eyes—the exact moment his breath hitched, the way his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t sure whether to blink or run. He could smell Jeongin’s cologne now—faint, familiar, and a little too close.

And suddenly—
Suddenly Chan realized he still had his hands on Jeongin’s shoulders.

Not just touching. Holding.

Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like they’d done this a hundred times—because they had.

He was standing too close, holding Jeongin like he’d never let go.

And Jeongin—
Jeongin wasn’t smirking.
Wasn’t teasing.
Wasn’t playing.

He looked stunned.

Totally silent.

And the horror of that truth hit him like a slap.

He let go like Jeongin had turned to flame—leapt back with the full-body panic of someone waking up in the wrong bed. Two steps, then three, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

“I’ll check the next round,” he blurted, voice too loud, too sharp, already halfway turned around.

Behind him, Jeongin still hadn’t moved.

And Chan hated it.

Hated how easy it had been to forget everything for the sake of a seam.

How natural it had felt to step into Jeongin’s space like it still belonged to him.

Like it ever had.

There was a beat of silence.
Then another.
Then—

RIIIING.

Han flinched so hard his shoulder hit the mirror.

“Oh my god,” Felix said, clutching his heart. “You scared me more than a horror movie jump scare.”

Han patted his breast pocket with increasing urgency, fished out his phone, and glanced at the screen.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Sorry. I have to take this.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just ducked toward the boutique window with all the grace of someone trying not to panic in borrowed formalwear. The front of the suit jacket flared dramatically as he spun, nearly knocking over a decorative plant. Felix clapped softly, like watching someone exit stage left.

Chan didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

He was still frozen in place, fingertips tingling where Jeongin’s lapel had been.

His neck burned. Not just with embarrassment—but heat. Shame. Something like regret. He could still feel the shape of Jeongin’s shoulders in his hands. Still see the stunned look on his face.

And now Jeongin wasn’t moving either.

Just standing there, perfectly still, staring ahead like he was rebooting from the inside out.

He looked less like a smug flirt and more like someone whose script had been ripped in half mid-performance. No backup lines. No planned exit.

Just… blank.

And Chan couldn’t look at him again. Not directly. Not after that.

So instead, he followed Han’s retreat out the front window—anything, anything to focus on but the living hurricane of Jeongin’s expression.

Han’s voice was muffled through the glass, the cadence sharp and clipped. He paced back and forth in front of the boutique like a man negotiating either a contract or a kidnapping. His arms flailed. His suit caught wind like a dramatic cape. One heel of his shoe squeaked every time he turned.

Felix leaned in with a grin. “He’s either getting scolded or solving world hunger.”

“He’s going to tear that suit,” Chan muttered.

“Worth it for the drama,” Felix replied.

Eventually, Han hung up. He stood on the curb a second longer, stared at his phone like it might offer a refund on existence, then turned back to the door with the sigh of a man who had lived too much in twenty minutes.

“I have to go,” Han said the second he stepped back inside, brushing hair from his eyes. “That was work.”

“What kind of job calls during a tux fitting?” Felix asked, blinking.

“Music,” Han deadpanned. “They never sleep. One of the girl groups I write for has a last-minute concept change. It’s a rewrite, and they want lyrics now.”

“Can’t you do it later?” Jeongin asked quickly. Too quickly. His voice was too high. “We haven’t even tried on the third round—”

“I know,” Han said, gentler now, already unbuttoning his jacket. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged it off in one fluid motion, revealing the rumpled white shirt beneath. Then the vest followed, tossed haphazardly onto the nearest bench. He tugged at the tie next—already halfway undone—and let it hang around his neck like an accusation.

Jeongin looked… not disappointed. Not quite. But something flickered behind his eyes. Something like nerves. Or dread. Or panic he hadn’t planned on showing. It was subtle—gone almost before it formed—but Chan saw it. Just for a second.

Jeongin swallowed. “You can’t leave me.”

Han stepped closer, still working on the top buttons of his shirt. “You’ll be fine.”

“I won’t.”

“Yes, you will,” Han said, with the exasperated fondness of someone who’s had this fight before. “Just don’t stir the pot while I’m gone.”

Jeongin made a face that could only be translated as: define “stir.”

Han rolled his eyes and pointed vaguely between the two of them. “Don’t burn down the boutique.”

Then, without looking, he added over his shoulder, “That goes for you too.”

Chan blinked. “I’m a model citizen.”

“Sure you are.” Han shot him a squinting side-eye like he wasn’t entirely convinced. 

Felix looked between them, amused. “Are you two like this all the time?”

“Only when he deserves it,” they both said—at the same time.

There was a beat. A pause.

Then a shared look. A flicker of something between disbelief and familiarity.

And for just a moment, it was easy.

Too easy.

Chan felt it—how seamlessly the rhythm came back, how the old comfort clicked into place like a favorite song halfway through the chorus. It tripped something warm and dangerous in his chest. Something he didn’t have time to name.

Han, blissfully unaware, was halfway through yanking the shirt over his head when he suddenly seemed to remember where he was. The tattoos across his ribs caught the boutique lighting just briefly—quick flashes of ink and skin—before he paused mid-motion, grimaced, and stumbled backward toward the changing area like he’d just remembered he had shame.

“I trust you guys to pick something,” he called from behind the curtain. “Whatever you choose, I’ll come back and get it fitted. Just—don’t let Jeongin pick. He’ll end up looking better than the rest of us and I refuse to be upstaged.”

“You’re no fun,” Jeongin muttered.

“And you’re unhinged,” Han shot back.

There was the sound of a belt clinking, a zipper, and a muffled, “Fuck, this shirt is glued to my spine.”

And then the curtain rustled again, and Han reemerged—now back in his street clothes, hair messier, expression already checked out as he thumbed through his phone.

“Alright,” he said, backing toward the exit. “I trust you. Don’t make me regret that.”

“We will,” Jeongin said.

Han pointed at him. “I know.”

Then he was out the door in a flurry of curses and corduroy, hailing a cab like he had a mixtape and five minutes to save the industry.

The boutique door swung shut behind him.

And the silence that followed was deafening.

Felix blinked. “So… he writes for idols. That’s cool.”

Chan didn’t answer. He was still watching the boutique door like it might swing open again and reverse time by five minutes.

Or five years.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why does it feel like we just lost adult supervision?”

Jeongin tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Because we did.”

Chan groaned. “Let’s just… pick a suit. Before I pick a window to jump out of.”

Jeongin turned, sweet as syrup and twice as sticky. “Bold words from someone who couldn’t keep his hands off me five minutes ago.”

Chan went still.

Felix blinked. “Wait—what?”

Chan reached blindly for the nearest champagne flute. “I need this to be stronger.”

The last set of suits made their debut with significantly less fanfare.

Felix came out first—again—in a soft ivory jacket and black trousers, something sharp but playful, almost too charming for its own good. He spun halfheartedly in the mirror, smile smaller this time.

“Still good,” he offered. “But maybe too bridal?”

Chan didn’t respond.

He was still sitting, slouched slightly now, one elbow braced on the velvet arm of the bench, nursing a fresh glass of champagne like it was medicine. His eyes didn’t lift when Jeongin emerged.

Felix glanced between them, expression twitching at the lack of enthusiasm. “We could… move on?” he offered brightly. “Like—no pressure. We don’t need to decide anything today. Could try your tuxes instead. Get you in something classic.”

It was kind, as far as redirects went.

And for a moment, Chan almost nodded. Almost stood.

But Jeongin didn’t move.

He was still watching him.

And there was something strange in his expression—something that didn’t belong to the sharp-tongued brat who’d teased him all afternoon. Something less smug. Less guarded. Less cruel.

Jeongin turned to Felix. “That’s good idea,” he said in soft, uneven English. “You go. Try now.”

Felix hesitated. “You sure?”

Jeongin nodded. “Please.”

Felix glanced at Chan, then back to Jeongin. “…Okay."

Jeongin didn’t respond. Just waited until the curtain fell shut behind Felix—until it was just the two of them again, tension thick as wool between them.

Chan kept his eyes down. Fixed on the rim of his glass. The swirl of bubbles like static. His fingers curled tight around the stem.

Then—

A shift.

Jeongin moved.

Not toward the mirror.

Not toward the dressing room.

Toward him.

Chan didn’t lift his head until Jeongin knelt—right there, in front of him, still in that slate tux he’d hated two suits ago, pressed into the plush carpet with that sharp elegance he wore like perfume.

It startled Chan more than it should’ve. His back went rigid.

“Stop,” Jeongin said quietly.

Chan blinked. “What?”

Jeongin didn’t repeat it. Just reached—slowly, carefully—and wrapped his fingers around the base of the champagne flute still caught in Chan’s grip.

And when Chan didn’t pull away, didn’t snap or speak, Jeongin took it. Gently.

Like he was handling something fragile. Like he remembered how.

Chan didn’t say a word. He watched the way Jeongin’s fingers closed over his. Watched the quiet, deliberate way he set the glass on the side table—just out of reach.

And something in his chest caved.

Because he remembered this.

The night Jeongin had taken it too far. The night everything had tilted. The night Chan had thought—really thought—he might lose him.

Jeongin had stopped drinking after that. Sober, from then on. And more than that, he’d started watching Chan instead. Not in the way of a controlling partner—but with the quiet vigilance of someone who’d seen how fast things could go wrong and never wanted to see it again.

He’d nursed Chan through hangovers. Cut him off before he could spiral. Replaced drinks with water, snacks, a touch on the wrist and a look that said enough.

Sometimes Chan got annoyed. Snapped, even. But Jeongin never pushed. He just waited it out. Always calm. Always quiet.

And now—years later, dressed in a suit he didn’t even like—he was doing it again.

Chan didn’t stop him.

But still, he sat frozen, hand suspended where the glass had been, heart thudding loud against the silence.

Jeongin stood without another word.

He didn’t say anything as he stepped back toward the dressing rooms, didn’t glance over his shoulder or follow up with another cutting joke. Just disappeared behind the curtain, vanishing like smoke—like the Jeongin who’d been here a minute ago had been a different version entirely.

And Chan stayed exactly where he was.

Still breathing like it hurt.

Still watching the empty space where Jeongin had knelt.

The next half hour passed in a blur of black fabric and boiling frustration.

Chan tried on what felt like every single tuxedo in the boutique’s back room—each one more indistinguishably sleek than the last. Slim cuts. Satin lapels. Peak collars. Shawl collars. Double-breasted, single-breasted, no buttons at all. The mirrors blurred them all together like a flipbook of the same man dissolving into a silhouette.

Every time he stepped out, Felix gasped like he was witnessing couture history.

“This one’s got presence,” he said, snapping a picture.

“Okay, but this one makes your shoulders look like a painting,” he said for the next.

“Sharp,” he praised. “Like you’re about to win an award and not apologize for it.”

Chan tried to be grateful. He really did.

But all of them felt wrong.

Every one of them sat on his body like a costume. Too polished, too stiff. None of them felt like his wedding day—just the shape of one.

The distress crept up slowly. He didn’t notice it until he was halfway through suit number who-the-fuck-knows, fingers stiff at his sides, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The world was too quiet—except for Felix’s gentle affirmations and the occasional rustle from the dressing rooms

And Jeongin.

Silent now.

He hadn’t said anything since taking the champagne. Just stood by the side wall, arms crossed, watching the procession of looks with that sharp, unreadable gaze.

Chan wanted to snap at him. Wanted him to say something. Anything. But also didn’t want to give him that power.

Still. It burned.

Eventually, Chan broke. “They all look the same.”

Felix looked up. “They don’t! I mean—they’re all tuxes, yeah, but they each have different feels—”

“They all feel blank,” he said. It came out harsher than he meant it. “Like I could be anyone.”

Felix frowned. “But you’re not anyone.”

“I don’t feel like myself,” Chan muttered.

He didn’t realize how loud the silence had gotten until Jeongin moved.

Without a word, he stepped toward the boutique attendant, speaking low, fast Korean that Chan couldn’t quite catch. The attendant tilted her head. Jeongin clarified something. Nodded. Then followed her toward the back room like a man on a mission.

Felix blinked. “Where’s he going?”

Chan shrugged. “Off to declare a fashion emergency, probably.”

Which wasn’t far off.

Because ten minutes later, Jeongin returned with a small selection of garments slung over his arm, the attendant trailing behind him. These weren’t from the same rack as before. These weren’t the blank, cookie-cutter tuxes from earlier. Each piece had something to say.

A sharp asymmetrical hem. A jacket with structured shoulders and soft silk paneling down the back. One with contrast stitching along the seams, just visible in the right light. Another with a subtle sheen like lacquered charcoal, broken only by a row of matte buttons that curved instead of straightening. There were layered belts, angled lapels, minimalist buckles instead of traditional closures—details that made them feel curated, not mass-produced.

They looked like they belonged in a designer’s sketchbook.

“Okay,” Jeongin said, breezing back like he owned the place. “I asked if they had anything by Kim Seo Ryung—she’s been doing a bridal capsule with bolder lines and hybrid cuts. Found a few options. You’re trying them on.”

Chan stared. “I’m not.”

Jeongin tilted his head. “You are.”

“I’m not trying on something just because you ran off to play dress-up.”

Jeongin raised a brow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to keep sulking in your funeral collection?”

Chan’s jaw ticked. “I’m not sulking.”

“You’re brooding, then,” Jeongin corrected breezily. “Like a widow who murdered her husband but didn’t enjoy it.”

Felix choked on a laugh.

Chan glared. “These aren’t part of the lineup Mi Sun picked.”

“Mi Sun picked options for her wedding fantasy,” Jeongin said calmly. “Not yours. Trust me.”

Chan scoffed. “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”

Jeongin raised an eyebrow. “I seem to remember you throwing me quite far when you wanted to.”

“That was one time.”

“It was a memorable distance.”

Behind them, Felix looked back and forth between the two like a very pretty golden retriever trying to follow a ping-pong match. “Are we still talking about tuxedos?”

Jeongin didn’t break eye contact. “When have I ever been wrong about fashion?”

Felix raised a tentative hand. “Not that I’ve known you long, but… he hasn’t been.”

Chan groaned. “You’re both traitors.”

Jeongin grinned. “And you’re in desperate need of a better hemline.”

He shoved the new garments into Chan’s arms and all but spun him back toward the dressing rooms.

“Go. I’ll be here judging your reflection.”

Chan stepped into the dressing room with the same emotional energy as someone about to disarm a bomb—except the bomb was made of silk and probably cost more than his rent.

He peeled off the last tux like it had personally offended him, then picked up the new one.

All black. Fine. He could handle black. But this wasn’t funeral black. This wasn’t polite reception black. This was black with a backbone. Black with edge. Black that whispered you should be seen.

He shrugged on the jacket. Adjusted the angle of the collar. Tightened the buckle at the waist—then paused.

Froze.

The jacket cinched in just right. Drew in the waist like a secret. The shoulders were broad, sculpted, like someone had cut the silhouette out with shears and intention. The trousers tapered neatly. Sleek lines, sharp drape. It hugged him. Lifted him. Transformed him.

He stared at himself.

And for the first time all day, he didn’t feel like he was wearing someone else’s wedding.

He looked like the main event.

Which was the problem.

The flood of relief crashed against fresh panic—because this wasn’t supposed to be about him. He wasn’t the one in white. Wasn’t the one walking down the aisle. This was Mi Sun’s day. He was supposed to be understated. Appropriate. Invisible.

Instead, he looked like a fashion-forward final boss.

Outside, Jeongin’s voice rang out. “Channieeeee.”

Chan rolled his eyes. “Stop calling me that.”

“Jagiyaaaaa.”

“Jeongin!”

There was a beat. Then a shuffle. Footsteps.

“I’m not coming out,” Chan muttered.

“Bullshit,” came the immediate reply.

“I mean it.”

“So do I,” Jeongin chirped, voice getting closer. “You’ve got five seconds before I drag you out like a queer eye episode with no budget.”

“Jeongin.”

“Five.”

Chan’s jaw tensed.

“Four…”

There was the sound of Jeongin’s shoes pivoting on the boutique floor, a creak of curtain rings.

Chan groaned and yanked it open.

The world went still.

Felix audibly gasped.

The boutique—bright, curated, sterile—suddenly felt too quiet. Like the moment before a storm or a reveal or a standing ovation.

Chan stood there, straight-backed and uncertain, caught in the warm light like a man made for it. The new suit didn’t just fit—it belonged. The asymmetric lines, the bold waist, the way it sculpted his form—it was architectural. Intentional. A silhouette that didn’t ask to be noticed, but demanded it.

He didn’t look like someone getting married.

He looked like someone getting chosen.

Felix’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my god.”

He looked between Chan and his own reflection like he was considering burning every jacket he’d ever loved.

“See?” Jeongin said quietly.

Not smug. Not boastful. Just matter-of-fact. Like the outcome had never been in question.

Chan didn’t speak. Couldn’t, for a second.

Because for once, the mirror was showing him someone he recognized.

And someone he almost wanted to be.

His voice was rough when it came. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” Jeongin said, stepping back with an infuriating little smile, “always correct.”

He looked Chan up and down, all cool appraisal and quiet satisfaction, like he was checking off a job well done. Like he’d known all along exactly what Chan needed.

And he had.

Of course he had.

He always had.

Chan tried to resist.

Really, he did.

He crossed his arms. He scowled. He said, “This is ridiculous,” more than once, with increasing volume and decreasing conviction.

But Jeongin was already at the rack again, plucking another jacket like it was treasure. “Next,” he sang, handing it off without waiting for a response. 

“I’m not a runway model,” Chan snapped.

“And I’m not God’s favorite,” Jeongin shot back. “But here we both are. Now go.”

And somehow, Chan went.

He told himself it was just easier than arguing. That he’d try it on, hate it, and get back to mourning his bland fiancé-approved options in peace.

But the moment he stepped into the next one, that lie unraveled at the seams.

This one had subtle embroidery down the spine, only visible when the light caught it. Chan didn’t even realize he was adjusting the cuffs in the mirror until Jeongin called out, “Don’t pretend you don’t like it. That suit wants to neo byeoge milchigo sussyuh neohgo shipeo.” (…pin you against the wall and fuck you.)

Chan whipped around, ears burning. “Jeongin!”

“What?” Jeongin grinned, all teeth and no remorse. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking.”

Felix looked wildly between them. “I don’t know what was said but I think I need an adult.”

One of the boutique attendants cleared her throat—sharp, disapproving—but didn’t intervene. Probably because Jeongin had singlehandedly doubled their commission in the last twenty minutes. Another staff member appeared in the mirror’s corner, slowly backing away with the practiced apathy of someone who had once seen a fistfight over a Vera Wang gown.

Chan turned back to the mirror with a muttered, “You’re unbelievable,” but the bite was gone. His protest had no teeth now—just breath.

Because he did like the suit. And Jeongin knew it.

Jeongin knew it every time Chan stepped out in a new one, more daring than the last, and caught his own reflection with that split second of wonder before he wiped it away. Knew it every time Chan’s hands smoothed a lapel or fussed with a collar like he was reluctant to take it off.

And Jeongin—he was thriving.

Laughing. Spinning in place like he was the one on the runway. Offering commentary from his seat like a gleeful, unhinged fashion judge. But it wasn’t snide—not this time. It was real. Bright. Almost boyish. The kind of warm that crept up on Chan so slowly he didn’t notice the soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Didn’t notice he’d stopped hating this.

Didn’t notice how easy it was to slip back into the rhythm of Jeongin at full volume and himself quietly orbiting it.

He just adjusted his cuffs again, fighting a smirk, and muttered under his breath, “The suit doesn’t want that.”

Jeongin didn’t reply.

Not right away.

Chan caught his reflection first—himself in the mirror, then Jeongin behind him. Closer than before. Walking with unhurried purpose, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He stopped just behind Chan’s shoulder.

Leaning in—low, close, voice warm against the shell of Chan’s ear—he murmured, “It absolutely does.”

The words hit like a current, crawling down Chan’s spine. Soft. Laced with something too familiar.

Something that knew exactly how to unmake him.

Chan went stiff, throat bobbing. Heat rushed to his face—too fast, too obvious.

Because he knew that tone. Knew that voice. Knew the way Jeongin said things when he wanted them to stick. And worse—he knew that look. He didn’t even have to turn around. He could feel it. That wanting gleam in Jeongin’s eyes, the one that hadn’t changed a bit since the night they met. The one that always spelled trouble.

It hit him like a sucker punch. A memory.

Jeongin at twenty—leaned against the wall of the club’s sound booth like he owned it, one boot hooked behind the other, latex wrapped tight around his waist and thighs like he’d been shrink-wrapped by sin. His crop top barely qualified as clothing. Sweat gleamed at his collarbone. His mouth was glossy. Dangerous.

Chan had been tweaking levels. Focused. Trying not to look.

And then—

“Hi,” Jeongin had said, low and amused, voice dragging over the syllable like it had claws.

Chan had looked up.

Jeongin tilted his head, eyes raking slow and shameless down Chan’s front like he was reading instructions on how to ruin him.

“You’re really hot when you’re focused,” he’d added, smiling—lazy and lethal. “You should do that more.”

Chan had dropped his pen.

And then, hours later, dropped his guard.

And his pants.

The years hadn’t dulled it. Not even close.

Because standing there now, Jeongin looked at him with that same boldness—like he was still hungry, still sure, still two seconds away from sinking his teeth into whatever came closest.

Chan’s brain short-circuited. His blood remembered before he did—rushing where it absolutely should not be going in a tuxedo boutique surrounded by reflective surfaces and innocent bystanders.

“Jesus Christ,” Chan muttered, spinning away so fast he nearly clocked the curtain rod. “I’m getting changed.”

Jeongin just smiled. All teeth. All knowing. And didn’t move from where he stood.

Because he’d already won.

Chan didn’t wait for a response. Just disappeared behind the curtain again, heart thudding, face hot, cursing Jeongin under his breath—and himself more than anyone.

He needed a reset. A breath. Something to drown out the echo of that voice in his ear.

His hands found the last hanger almost blindly.

The last tux was quiet in his hands.

Not simple. Not forgettable. But quiet—like something sacred, meant to be approached slowly, reverently. Chan’s fingers trembled a little as he unhooked the hanger, as he shrugged off the last jacket, breath catching as he stepped into the pants.

Black satin. Pressed for the gods. Sleek and dangerous like piano keys in motion.

But the jacket—

The jacket stopped him cold.

White.

Not stark, not cold—but warm white. Cream and pearl with a glint of soft rhinestones threaded through shining lace along the cuffs and lapels. It shimmered delicately, like a secret. Like a wish. Like a vow.

It buttoned high at the waist and flared slightly at the hem, the fabric weightless but perfectly tailored to fall just so when he turned. It curved against his hips, kissed his shoulders, hugged his shape with something dangerously close to affection.

Bridal, a voice in his head whispered.

He didn’t look like the groom. Not in this.

He looked like a dream. A breathless, beautiful dream—too lovely to be real.

Chan stared at himself.

Something stung behind his eyes.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to breathe, lest it break. There was no performance left, no vanity, no audience in his head—just him, standing in a stolen fairytale.

Because this was it.

This was the one.

And he couldn’t have it.

He didn’t want to walk out. Didn’t want to face anyone else’s opinion. Didn’t want Felix to smile too brightly, or Jeongin to make a joke, or the attendant to check the price tag. Didn’t want to see their faces in the mirror beside his, making it real.

Because if anyone else saw it, they’d get to have a say.

And this wasn’t theirs.

This was his.

But it couldn’t be.

Not when the soft gleam of the jacket felt like a vow he wasn’t allowed to speak. Not when the white didn’t belong to him—never had. Not when Mi Sun was waiting to be the one that took breath away. The one that shimmered down the aisle.

He looked like he was meant to walk beside her.

And that’s what ruined it.

His hand came up, trembling at the edge of the sleeve. He touched the lace gently, like it might burn him.

It didn’t.

It made him ache instead.

He wanted it. God, he wanted it.

And he couldn’t have it.

Not without stealing something sacred.

And the worst part?

It was the most beautiful he’d ever felt.

“Chan,” Jeongin called, muffled through the curtain.

No answer.

“Come on,” he tried again, a little sing-song. “We’re not keeping the tux. I just want to see.”

Still nothing.

Jeongin huffed. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not coming out,” Chan said flatly.

“You never want to come out when it counts,” Jeongin replied, instantly regretting the phrasing. “That’s not what I—okay, whatever, just—stop being weird.”

“Jeongin,” Chan warned.

Something in Chan’s tone, or maybe the silence between it, made him pause. Just for a second.

Then Jeongin moved.

Without another word, he pulled the curtain aside and slipped in—quietly, calmly, like stepping into a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

Chan didn’t flinch.

He was still standing in front of the mirror, completely still. Like if he didn’t move, the moment might not shatter.

Jeongin closed the curtain behind them.

The air in the small space shifted.

Dim. Close. Intimate in a way that felt like the room itself had inhaled and now held its breath.

Chan didn’t turn around.

He just met Jeongin’s gaze through the mirror.

And Jeongin—

Jeongin slowed.

He stopped a few feet behind him, eyes tracing the line of Chan’s spine, the way the white blazer curved over his waist like it was made for him. The soft gleam of rhinestones caught the dim boutique light and scattered it across the walls like fragments of a prayer.

Jeongin didn’t speak.

He lifted a hand instead, slow and unsure, hovering just above Chan’s shoulder. Close enough to feel the warmth. Not close enough to touch.

Because touching would break it.

He could feel it—something fragile, something tender—stretched tight between them like thread spun too thin. And he didn’t know what would happen if it snapped.

So he hovered.

Ghosting fingers just above the lapel, breath caught in his throat.

Chan’s eyes met his again in the glass.

No mask.

No armor.

Just wide, dark eyes. Quiet. Wounded. Beautiful.

Jeongin swallowed. “You look…”

He didn’t finish it.

He couldn’t.

Because the wrong word might ruin it.

And the right one might, too.

Time had stopped.

The curtain fell behind Jeongin like the final breath of a spell, soft and sealing. The rest of the boutique fell away. No Felix. No shop attendant. No wedding. Just this—

This breathless, impossible stillness.

Jeongin stood behind him, motionless except for his eyes. Chan could feel them—burning a line across the nape of his neck, down the spine of that gleaming white blazer, drifting at the edge of skin.

His hands still hadn’t touched.

But they hovered.

Like gravity was trying to pull him in, and some other, deeper law of the universe was just barely holding him back. A magnet pulled off course. A hand that wanted to grasp, to hold, to claim—but couldn’t risk the tremor it might set loose.

And Chan—

Chan couldn’t breathe.

He watched it all through the mirror. Watched Jeongin watching him. Watched the awe blooming in Jeongin’s face like a time-lapse flower—slow and full and unguarded.

And for a moment—for one suspended, crystalline second—he saw it.

The wedding photos he used to imagine in his twenties.

He used to picture this.

This exact suit.

This kind of light.

This kind of feeling.

White and radiant. Not the bride, but no less deserving of beauty. Jeongin standing behind him, hand at his waist, head tilted close. Regal. Possessive. Proud. Both of them in black and white, something elegant and soft. Both of them looking forward—together.

He’d wanted that.

But this suit didn’t belong to him. This moment didn’t belong to him. It was borrowed. It was stolen. It was something he’d slipped into by accident and now didn’t know how to take off.

He was taking too long. Felix was probably still perched outside, wondering why they hadn’t moved on. The boutique staff was being too polite, giving them space they hadn’t earned. Any minute now, someone might knock.

He should move.

Should push Jeongin out.

Should take the suit off and hang it carefully and pretend this never happened.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

Because he couldn’t bear to shatter it yet. Couldn’t break this fragile quiet. Couldn’t force himself to move when Jeongin’s reflection still looked like that—like awe and nostalgia and longing wrapped in one stunned breath.

And the worst part?

The worst part was the way it made his eyes sting.

Chan blinked, hard.

But the welling wouldn’t stop. It wasn’t a sob. It wasn’t even grief.

It was something older. Something buried. The ache of wanting something so badly and knowing—absolutely knowing—it wasn’t yours to want anymore.

So he prayed—silently, desperately—that Jeongin didn’t notice.

If he did notice, he didn’t say anything.

Just hovered.

Hands trembling like wings that didn’t know how to land.

Chan tore his eyes away first.

With a sharp breath, he turned from the mirror like it had betrayed him—like it was something shameful to have wanted something that much. The fabric rasped softly against itself as he moved, expensive lace shifting against satin.

“Get out,” he said, voice low. Frayed at the edges. “I’m done.”

Jeongin hesitated. “Don’t you want to show Felix—?”

“No.” The word came fast. Too sharp.

Jeongin blinked. “But—”

“I said get out.”

This time, it landed.

Jeongin took a step back. His expression faltered—just for a second—but then he slipped out of the dressing room without another word, curtain whispering shut behind him.

Chan stood there for one heartbeat longer.

Then another.

And then he tore the jacket off.

He stripped with jagged movements, like every button scorched him. The pants caught on his ankles and nearly made him trip, the lace brushing against his skin one final time like a goodbye. He shoved it all back on the hanger in a mess of careful wreckage, then yanked his hoodie over his head like armor and bolted for the door.

The shop was too bright when he stepped out. Too quiet.

Felix turned from the mirror, concern already etched between his brows. “Hey—wait, are you okay? Do you wanna talk about—”

“I’m fine,” Chan snapped.

Felix stilled. “I just meant—”

“I just need air,” Chan bit out. He was already halfway to the door.

Felix’s expression crumpled a little, like a kicked puppy. He stepped aside without another word.

Chan didn’t look back.

The boutique door slammed behind him harder than it needed to.

Outside, the street felt too wide. Too loud. He didn’t know where he was going—only that his skin felt too tight and his chest too full and the weight of wanting something he couldn’t have was clawing at his ribs like it wanted out.

He kept walking. Didn’t know how far. Didn’t care. Didn’t feel the chill of the wind or the way his hoodie stuck to the sweat at the back of his neck. Only the thud of his shoes against the pavement. The static in his ears. The ache curling tight in his ribs.

Back inside the boutique, Felix stood still for a moment, eyes lingering on the closed door like it might swing back open and undo the last ten minutes.

Then he turned to Jeongin, voice careful. “Should I… give him space?”

Jeongin didn’t answer right away. He was still staring at the curtain Chan had disappeared behind. Still standing in the same place. Still half-tilted forward like part of him was still back there, stuck behind the mirror.

Felix tried again, gentler. “I mean—I can call a car. Let him cool off. He’ll text one of us when he’s ready, right?”

Jeongin’s mouth opened. Closed. No words came.

Because he didn’t know. Not really. Not about any of it.

Not what Chan needed. Not what came next. Not whether he was supposed to stay or follow or just pretend the dressing room never happened.

Finally, he gave a small, mechanical nod. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. That’s probably best.”

Felix hesitated, eyes scanning his face. Like he was trying to read a signal he wasn’t trained for.

Then he nodded too, slowly. “Okay. I’ll—yeah.”

He turned away and pulled out his phone, thumbing through his ride app with quiet fingers. The boutique buzzed around them, soft sounds of fabric, the distant voice of a stylist talking to another client. But around Jeongin and Felix, the silence was dense. Awkward. Not angry, but heavy with the weight of not knowing what the hell just happened.

The tension hung like a curtain no one knew how to pull back.

Jeongin stayed frozen, arms loose at his sides. Eyes still on the curtain. Still on the past.

Outside—

Chan was still walking.

Half-stumbling. Shoulders hunched. Hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that suddenly felt childish and inadequate.

He didn’t know what he was running from, except—

Except he did.

He was unraveling. Fast. Like a thread tugged loose somewhere beneath his ribs. The white suit clung to the inside of his mind like a photograph he wasn’t allowed to keep. Like something sacred he’d desecrated just by wanting it.

He turned down a street without thinking. Then another. Took the wrong exit from the crosswalk. Ended up walking in circles past a sandwich shop, a corner mart, a cluster of identical office buildings. He didn’t notice. Didn’t care.

Every part of him was buzzing. Too much thought. Not enough sense. The dissonance inside him burned—hot and sour, like biting into something beautiful and realizing too late it was poison.

What the hell are you doing, he thought. Where the hell are you even going.

He didn’t have an answer. Couldn’t find one.

He was supposed to be choosing tuxedos. Supposed to be preparing to stand beside Mi Sun and make promises he wasn’t allowed to break. Instead, he was spiraling through the city like a broken compass.

It wasn’t just the suit. Wasn’t just the mirror. Wasn’t even just Jeongin.

It was all of it.

The history. The weight. The sense that something essential had shifted inside him, and now the floor wasn’t level anymore. Like he’d stepped into someone else’s story. Like he’d finally seen himself in it and it wasn’t the role he was meant to play.

His chest hurt. His eyes burned. Every instinct screamed at him to stop—just stop. To sit. To breathe. But he couldn’t. Because stillness would mean thinking. And thinking would mean remembering. And remembering meant—

A familiar putt-putt-putt broke through the fog.

Low. Mocking. Obnoxiously timed.

Chan didn’t even have to look up to know what it was.

That goddamn moped.

The sound slowed beside him like inevitability wheezing into frame, like a door he’d already slammed shut swinging back open on its own—loud, insistent, and absolutely not his problem right now.

The moped coughed once, then idled awkwardly as it coasted up beside him.

Jeongin was leaned forward, one hand steady on the handlebar, the other pushing his helmet up just enough to see better. His voice was cautious but not quiet.

“Hey,” he called, pulling up alongside. “You okay?”

Chan didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t even break stride.

Jeongin blinked. “Cool, yeah, love this game.”

He rolled forward a few meters, paused. Watched as Chan walked right past him again—eyes on the pavement, steps clipped and stubborn.

Jeongin jolted the moped forward again, just enough to catch up.

“Channie, come on,” he tried again, louder now. “Just let me give you a ride home.”

“I’m fine,” Chan muttered. “Just need some air.”

“You’ve been getting air for fifteen blocks.”

“Then consider me fully aired out—go home.”

Jeongin made a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “You’re gonna pass out in the middle of traffic. What’s the plan then? Lie dramatically in the intersection?”

Chan kept walking.

Jeongin sputtered forward again, the moped giving a sad little BRRRRHH as it caught up. “Seriously—get on. You’re not even walking in a straight line.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I say you’re not. You look like an existential crisis in a hoodie.”

“Go away, Jeongin.”

“You’re going in circles.”

“I’m thinking!”

“You sure? You’ve been walking like your brain left five blocks ago.”

They made eye contact for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Jeongin to see the redness around Chan’s eyes, the flush in his cheeks. It shut Jeongin up for half a block.

But then—

“This would be a lot easier if you’d just stop running and actually listen for once,” Jeongin muttered, not quite loud enough to start a fight, but not soft enough to miss. “God forbid anyone try to help you without a ten-mile detour.”

Chan threw him a withering glare.

Jeongin took that as a win.

“C’mon,” Jeongin said, gentler now. “Just let me take you home.”

Chan finally stopped. Whipped around. Glared so hard the air around him vibrated.

Jeongin stared back. Patient. Irritating. Unmoving. The moped idled beneath him like a confused pet, sputtering as he tried to keep pace with Chan’s increasingly erratic walk. He’d been swerving between gutters and bike lanes for half a block now, jerking forward every time Chan picked up speed, braking hard every time he stopped short.

At one point, he rolled directly into a recycling bin.

“Oops,” he muttered, kicking it upright again like this was normal.

By the time Chan turned around, Jeongin was attempting to balance both feet on the pedals without toppling sideways, one hand on the brake and the other dramatically shading his eyes like he was scanning the horizon for lost sailors.

“…Fine,” Chan snapped.

Jeongin blinked. “Wait, really?”

Chan didn’t answer. Just stomped over like he was heading into battle, jaw tight, hands fisted. The moped sputtered slightly as Jeongin pulled it over to the curb with a triumphant little flourish, parking with more confidence than actual control. The engine coughed once and settled into a low, lazy idle.

Jeongin reached under the seat, popped open the little compartment, and retrieved the spare helmet.

He handed it over without a word.

And something about that—about the shape of it, about the gesture—hit Chan harder than he expected.

Because he’d taken this helmet before. On worse nights and better ones. With laughter still stuck in his throat or tears drying on his cheeks. He knew the scuff on the side, the dent in the foam. He knew how it fit. Knew how it smelled—like hairspray, sweat, and Jeongin’s goddamn shampoo, just like everything they owned had that faint trace of baby powder.

The helmet hadn’t changed. And somehow, neither had they.

Still caught in that maddening rhythm—this crooked waltz of friction and familiarity, of barely getting along threaded with bursts of raw, aching vulnerability they never knew how to hold.

Moments that bloomed like wildflowers in the cracks—only to be trampled underfoot the second time moved forward.

It was a pattern. A curse. A comfort.

And it twisted something deep in Chan’s stomach.

He took the helmet without a word. Clipped it under his chin, still refusing to meet Jeongin’s eyes. Swung one leg over the back and settled into place—rigid, cautious, deliberately leaving a gap between them. As much space as the moped would allow.

Jeongin didn’t even look back. “Sit closer,” he said, casually, like they hadn’t done this a hundred times before. “Unless you want to go flying on the first left turn.”

Chan gritted his teeth.

He knew Jeongin was right. Knew the exact angle the moped would dip when it turned, the stupid uneven throttle, the pothole two blocks down that always bucked the back tire. He knew it like second nature.

Still, part of him seriously considered taking his chances with asphalt over pressing even one inch closer to Jeongin’s smug little torso. Honestly? Road rash sounded preferable to dry-humping his ex on a scooter in broad daylight.

But against his better judgment—against every instinct screaming for distance—he scooted forward. Just enough. Just so their hips brushed and his knees rested lightly at Jeongin’s sides.

The moped’s engine buzzed louder, like it was bracing for impact.

Jeongin didn’t say anything else. Just revved the throttle once, smiled like the chaos gremlin he was, and kicked off from the curb.

And Chan—despite the spiral, despite the weight in his chest, despite the goddamn rhinestones still glittering behind his eyes—held on.

Not tightly. Just enough.

Because he was tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary tired. Of the suits, the mirrors, the pretending. Of the ache he couldn’t name.

He didn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

At least he’d be home soon. 

At least this fucking day would finally—finally—be over.

Chapter Text

Chan didn’t want to get up.

Not in the poetic, melancholic sense. Not even in the “I had a bad day and want to sleep until the sun explodes” sense. No—this was the physical, molecular-level refusal of a body that had emotionally flatlined sometime around suit number eight yesterday and was still rebooting, very slowly, with a kernel panic and a low battery warning.

He lay sprawled on the couch in sweatpants and yesterday’s regrets, forehead faintly stuck to the armrest, one hand dangling off the edge like a dropped rag doll. The curtains were drawn. His phone was face-down. And the only thing he’d consumed in the last four hours was half a stale croissant and a gulp of tap water that may or may not have been legally tepid.

Somewhere, in a boutique far, far away, Mi Sun was trying on wedding dresses while FaceTiming her bridesmaids. He hoped her experience was better than his. Or at the very least, involved fewer emotional breakdowns over lace and lapels.

The memory of the suit—the one, the white one, the mistake made of rhinestones and longing—flickered behind his eyelids. He made a noise like a dying battery and rolled deeper into the couch cushions like he could smother the thought with upholstery.

He’d almost succeeded in pretending yesterday hadn’t happened when his phone vibrated once on the table.

Then again.

Then it rang.

Chan cracked one eye open like a man peering into the abyss. The name flashing across the screen made him regret every life decision that had led to this point.

Jeongin.

Of course.

He debated letting it go to voicemail. Debated launching his phone into the sun. But guilt—treacherous, enduring, polite guilt—prodded him upright. He’d been short with Mi Sun. Distant with Felix. And Jeongin—well. Jeongin had probably earned it. But still.

He answered. “What.”

Jeongin didn’t miss a beat. “Morning, sunshine! You busy?”

Chan stared at the wall. “For you? Always.”

“Cool,” Jeongin chirped, unfazed. “So Mi Sun messaged me earlier—she found another tux place online. Says it’s a backup in case. Wanted us to check it out real quick. Nothing major. It’s, like, fifteen minutes away. I’ll drop you home after.”

Chan blinked slowly. “…Did she really say that, or are you just using her as an excuse to get me back into a dressing room?”

“I would never lie about something as sacred as wedding errands,” Jeongin said with mock offense. “Besides, it’s literally just a storefront. No fittings. No mirrors. Just look and go.”

Chan frowned. “Then why wouldn’t I just go alone?”

A pause.

Then, “Moral support?”

Chan sighed.

He didn’t want to go near another tux. Not after yesterday. Not after the mirror, the panic, the hands. But he’d promised himself he’d be helpful. He owed Mi Sun at least one cooperative outing after the emotional tsunami he’d dumped into a boutique fitting room.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “But you’re dropping me off right after.”

“Ten minutes max,” Jeongin said. “Swear on my scooter’s life.”

“I hope it explodes.”

“You say that,” Jeongin replied cheerfully, “but guess who’s parked out front right now?”

Chan sat up, dread blooming in his chest like an ominous tulip. He pushed aside the curtain and squinted into the daylight.

There it was.

The moped. Crookedly parked on the curb like a delinquent pigeon. Jeongin was leaning on it, helmet in one hand, grinning up at the window like a feral anime protagonist mid-heist.

Chan let the curtain fall. Closed his eyes. Regretted ever giving Jeongin his address.

Chan got dressed like a man preparing for war.

Not an actual war. An emotional war. A petty, inconvenient, entirely-too-early-in-the-morning war with a chaos demon in designer knockoffs and way too much audacity for someone who drove a glorified leaf blower on wheels.

He didn’t bother showering. Just dragged a hoodie over his head, shoved on a pair of jeans that might’ve been clean yesterday, and jammed his feet into sneakers without untying them first. No cologne, no hair gel, no pride.

By the time he trudged down to the street, the sun was offensively bright and Jeongin was still leaning on the moped like it was a photo shoot. One foot up on the curb. Sunglasses on. Helmet under his arm. Smiling like someone who’d just egged your house and would do it again.

Chan approached like a man headed for the gallows.

Jeongin lit up. “You wore real pants!”

Chan snatched the helmet out of his hands. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, jagiya.”

Chan muttered something unprintable in three languages and jammed the helmet onto his head with all the grace of someone trying to punish the chin strap for existing. He didn’t bother adjusting it. Just climbed onto the back of the moped and gripped the seat behind him like he’d rather be holding a live grenade.

“Where is this place again?” he grumbled as Jeongin revved the engine. “And why am I not asleep right now?”

“Nearby,” Jeongin chirped. “Chill.”

Chan narrowed his eyes behind the helmet visor. “You said that yesterday. Then I almost had a nervous breakdown in front of a silk rack.”

“And didn’t you look stunning doing it,” Jeongin said, kicking off from the curb. “Honestly, peak drama. I give it four and a half stars.”

The moped sputtered to life like it had asthma. They pulled out into traffic with all the grace of a possessed blender, and Chan immediately gripped the side tighter.

“I swear to God, if you hit a pigeon—”

“Don’t insult my girl,” Jeongin replied, patting the scooter like it was a sentient being. “She’s delicate.”

“She’s a death trap.”

“She’s efficient.”

“She’s a lawnmower with a license plate.”

“Do you want to walk?”

Chan shut up.

The first few blocks passed in relative silence—if you didn’t count the banshee wail of the moped’s engine or the distant screech of honking horns every time Jeongin made a lane change that was probably illegal in at least three provinces.

Chan hunched forward slightly, trying to look like someone who wasn’t absolutely convinced he was going to die in a fiery crash. The city blurred around them. Traffic lights. Café signs. The same pharmacy they’d passed twice now.

Wait.

Chan frowned. “Hey.”

Jeongin didn’t answer.

Chan raised his voice slightly. “We just passed that corner.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you miss a turn?”

“Nope.”

Chan narrowed his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“Scenic route.”

Chan’s stomach sank.

The turn they’d take— that they should’ve taken ten minutes ago—was well behind them now. Jeongin wasn’t slowing down. If anything, he was picking up speed.

“Jeongin,” Chan barked. “Turn around.”

Jeongin didn’t even glance back. “Can’t hear you over the sound of adventure.”

“Turn. Around.”

“No can do, Channie. We’re already in motion. Momentum, physics, vibes—it’s out of my hands.”

Chan stared at the back of Jeongin’s head like he was trying to develop heat vision through sheer force of will. “You lied.”

“I… creatively reframed the truth.”

“You said it was ten minutes.”

“And technically, it still is. Just… ten minutes from now.”

“Jeongin.”

“And then ten minutes from then,” Jeongin said sweetly. “And ten more after that. You’re great at math, jagi—just keep counting.”

“I’m going to jump off.”

“Please do. I could use the insurance payout.”

Chan thunked his helmeted forehead against Jeongin’s shoulder with a dramatic groan. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re adorable when you suffer.”

Chan pulled back, jaw locked, eyes blazing.

“I’m not getting back on after we stop. I mean it. I will Uber home, barefoot, in shame, and Venmo you the emotional damages.”

“That’s future you’s problem.”

Chan didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. He did neither. Just glared at the city blurring past them and cursed every single choice that led him to this point.

And Jeongin?

Jeongin just hummed a cheerful little tune and kept going.

Because this?

This was his favorite game.

And Chan—grumpy, furious, and helpless to stop it—was already playing.

They kept going.

And going.

And going.

Chan didn’t say another word.

He didn’t need to.

The silence spoke for him—loud, damning, volcanic. It radiated off his body like heat. The kind of silence that built pressure behind the eyes. The kind that made birds fly in the opposite direction. The kind that Jeongin, somehow, seemed completely immune to.

They passed the outer edge of town twenty minutes in. Chan recognized the road signs. Then stopped recognizing them. Then realized they weren’t in the city anymore—they weren’t even in the outer neighborhoods.

Jeongin had driven them out into open road.

Past the flower markets.

Past the delivery trucks.

Past reason.

Chan sat stiff as a gargoyle on the back of the scooter, clinging to the seat like it was the only thing keeping him from hurling himself off and walking home.

He didn’t ask where they were.

He didn’t ask again to turn back.

He just fumed.

Silently.

Audibly.

Vibrating with tension.

The scooter wheezed along the highway, its tiny motor gamely hauling two full-grown men like it was a noble steed and not a glorified toy.

Eventually, even Jeongin had to give in to the laws of physics. The engine gave a soft, pitiful cough, then another. They slowed to a putter. Then a wheeze. Then—finally—Jeongin steered them off the road and into the gravel lot of a tiny gas station with peeling signage and a single lonely pump.

Chan climbed off the scooter before it fully stopped. Helmet off. Feet planted. Arms crossed. Jaw set.

Jeongin parked like nothing was wrong, humming under his breath as he killed the engine. “Stretch your legs,” he chirped. “Enjoy the breeze. Reconnect with nature.”

Chan glared. “I’m not getting back on.”

Jeongin blinked. “You say that every time.”

“I’m serious,” Chan snapped. “This isn’t a detour. This is a kidnapping.”

Jeongin shrugged, entirely unbothered. “If it was a kidnapping, you’d be blindfolded and tied to the back. You’re not even buckled in.”

“This isn’t a joke, Jeongin.”

“Sure it is,” Jeongin said, brightly. “I’m hilarious.”

Chan took a step back like proximity alone might make him complicit. “I mean it. I’m done. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Jeongin shrugged, unbothered. “Suit yourself.”

He hopped off the scooter and headed inside the station, pushing the glass door open with one hip. A chime rang somewhere deep inside. The place was mostly empty—rows of dusty snack racks, one very tired cashier, and a fridge humming in the corner.

Chan muttered darkly to himself under his breath. Something about motorcycle theft and untraceable crimes.

A few minutes later, Jeongin emerged.

Two green-and-white rectangles in hand.

Chan’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t.”

Jeongin held one out. “Melona?”

Chan stared at it like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

“I’m not eating that,” he snapped.

“Sure,” Jeongin said, already unwrapping his own. “You don’t deserve it anyway. This is a popsicle for people with a functioning sense of whimsy.”

Chan turned his back.

Jeongin just stepped around to the other side. “You know you want it.”

“I hate you.”

“You say that a lot.”

“You deserve it.”

Jeongin took a slow, dramatic bite of his Melona. “Mmm. Cold. Creamy. Slightly smug.”

Chan snatched the other popsicle out of his hand without making eye contact.

He unwrapped it like it was a weapon. Bit into it like it owed him money. Glared into the horizon like that would stop it from tasting good.

It didn’t.

It was perfect.

Of course it was.

He chewed with the quiet rage of a man who knew exactly what kind of emotional manipulation was happening and still fell for it. Again.

Jeongin just smiled and turned back toward the scooter, casually filling the tank with a few thousand won’s worth of gas like he hadn’t just orchestrated a minor hostage situation.

“By the way,” he called over his shoulder, “you look cuter when you eat angry. Like a baby dragon with a frozen treat.”

“Stop talking.”

“You’re welcome.”

Chan bit the Melona again.

Hard.

And scowled at how good it still was.

He stood like a statue beside the pump, Melona stick clutched in one hand, eyes narrowed like he was mentally weighing the pros and cons of arson.

Jeongin, unfazed, capped the tank and stretched like this was just a normal pit stop on a perfectly normal road trip that hadn’t started with lies and soft kidnapping. He turned, hands on his hips, expression bright and completely unserious. “Alright, let’s go.”

“No,” Chan said flatly.

Jeongin blinked, already halfway to putting his helmet back on. “No?”

“I’m not getting back on that thing.”

Jeongin tilted his head. “Why not?”

“Because I didn’t ask for this,” Chan snapped. “I didn’t agree to this. This isn’t a tux shop, this is the middle of nowhere. This is the kind of gas station that gets featured in documentaries about disappearances.”

“I told you,” Jeongin said, still maddeningly cheerful, “it’s an adventure.”

“It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Jeongin stepped forward, holding his helmet like a peace offering. “Chan, come on. Just trust me.”

“Why,” Chan barked. “Give me one reason I should trust you.”

“Because you’re tired,” Jeongin said, the first note of sincerity breaking through. “You’re stressed. You’ve been holding your breath for weeks. Months, maybe. And I know you’re not gonna let it out unless someone drags you out of the city and makes you.”

Chan frowned. “That someone didn’t have to be you.”

“Unfortunately for you,” Jeongin grinned, “I’m the only one unhinged enough to do it.”

Chan looked away. His jaw clenched. “I just want to go home.”

Jeongin’s voice softened. “You will. After.”

“After what.”

“After you exhale that stick up your ass.”

Chan shot him a venomous look.

Jeongin pointed calmly down the highway. “Look. You can either get back on and let me finish this surprise—which, I swear, is actually for you—or you can hoof it home on foot. If you’re fast and lucky and don’t get eaten by a raccoon, you’ll be back in the city by… tomorrow night.”

Chan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God, I hate you.”

“Well hate me with a breeze in your hair,” Jeongin offered, swinging a leg over the scooter. “C’mon. Please?”

Chan hesitated.

Then: “Fuck.”

He got on.

They rode.

Further this time. The road twisted away from gas stations and rest stops. It narrowed. Emptied. Grew wild with tall grass and soft bends. The wind picked up, cool and sharp, and for the first time since the day started, Chan didn’t feel suffocated.

And then, finally—after a final turn through a thicket of trees—they arrived.

Jeongin pulled off the road into a little clearing, the engine sputtering to a stop just shy of the bluff. Chan blinked through his helmet visor.

It was a beach.

A real one. Not a tourist trap, not a crowded boardwalk. Just open sand, a curved shoreline, and the sea stretched wide and quiet before them. No people. No umbrellas. Just the sound of waves and wind and gulls in the distance.

Chan dismounted like someone waiting for the punchline. “What is this?”

Jeongin hopped off after him and started walking backward toward the sand, arms out. “This is called the ocean, ahjussi. Maybe you’ve heard of her?”

“I said take me home.”

“This is home,” Jeongin said, turning back around, heading down the slope.

Chan stomped after him. “You do not get to hijack my day and then throw a metaphor at me.”

Jeongin laughed. “You’re gonna thank me.”

“I’m gonna strangle you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

They stepped onto the sand, soft underfoot. The wind lifted Chan’s hoodie, carried the salt to his skin. He scowled, gaze locked on Jeongin’s back as the younger man spun around again, walking backwards with that maddeningly pleased grin.

“Chan,” Jeongin called, arms out like a TV host revealing a prize behind curtain number three. “Jagiya. Come on. Feel your feet in the sand. Smell that? That’s healing.”

“I swear to god—”

“You’re welcome.”

Chan stomped after him. “You kidnapped me.”

“Romantically,” Jeongin said. “For your own good.”

“This is not romantic.”

“It could be,” Jeongin sing-songed. “If you weren’t being such a jjajeungnaeneun ajusshi.” (Cranky old man)

Chan didn’t dignify that with a response. The wind tossed his hair into his eyes.

Jeongin turned again, finally walking normal, hands in his pockets, voice softer but still annoyingly pleased with himself. “You used to talk about places like this all the time, you know. Back when you were still tolerable.”

Chan snorted. “I was never tolerable.”

“Nope,” Jeongin agreed brightly. “But you used to be cuter when you talked about the ocean. You’d get all philosophical about tides and perspective and whatever. I thought it was hot.”

Chan rolled his eyes. “Glad my existential crises did it for you.”

“They did,” Jeongin said cheerfully. “And also you wouldn’t shut up about how the ocean made you feel small in a good way, like it washed out all the bullshit. So I figured…” He paused, waving a hand at the empty shore like it was a showroom display. “Maybe you needed help washing off the bullshit.”

Chan opened his mouth. Closed it.

Jeongin glanced back at him, eyes crinkling. “Look, I know you’re allergic to joy these days. And I know feelings make your skin itch. But you’ve been wound tighter than my mini skirt lately, and I’m not letting you implode on the side of a freeway.”

“I didn’t ask you to fix anything,” Chan muttered.

Jeongin smiled. Infuriatingly fond. “You never do.”

And Chan—still furious, still suspicious, still buzzing with whatever static Jeongin always brought with him—felt something unspool in his chest. Just a little.

Jeongin turned to face him fully, hands spread, eyebrows raised in mock exasperation. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Chan blinked at him. “What?”

Jeongin tilted his head. “Come on. You know what I’m asking.”

“No, actually. I really don’t.”

Jeongin gave him a look—pointed, amused, just on the edge of fond. “Chan. Be serious. I know your first love wasn’t music.”

Chan crossed his arms. “You’re being weird.”

Jeongin stepped closer, voice dipping just enough to sound almost sincere. “It was swimming.”

Chan’s brow twitched.

“You always said that, remember?” Jeongin continued, like he wasn’t casually dragging ancient memories out into the sunlight. “You said it was the only thing that ever made your brain shut up. Like your thoughts couldn’t catch up to you in the water.” He grinned. “That always sounded nice.”

Chan’s face did something complicated. “I don’t have trunks.”

Jeongin’s grin only widened—sharp and wicked. “So don’t wear any.”

Chan choked. “What—”

But Jeongin was already peeling off his hoodie, tossing it into the sand. “What?” he called innocently, now tugging his shirt over his head. “You shy now?”

Chan stared, frozen. “You are not—”

“Why not?” Jeongin was down to his jeans now, undoing the top button with absolutely no shame. “It’s just us. Middle of nowhere. Empty beach. Not like I haven’t seen it all before.”

He met Chan’s eyes as he said it—calm, direct, infuriatingly casual.

“Inside and out,” Jeongin added, smug.

Chan made a strangled noise and looked away—anywhere else, which unfortunately included Jeongin’s back just as he turned around and shoved his jeans down.

And Chan’s brain short-circuited.

Because of course it did.

Because his eyes—traitorous, well-trained bastards that they were—didn’t just glance. They locked in. Dropped instantly, instinctively, like muscle memory honed over years of knowing exactly what Jeongin looked like with his clothes off.

And there it was. Bare skin. Long legs. And the curve of Jeongin’s ass, round and sun-warmed and bouncing with youthful, infuriating abandon as he sprinted toward the surf like some half-feral beach sprite who’d never known shame.

“Jeongin, what the fuck—!”

But Jeongin didn’t stop. He charged into the surf, arms flung wide, and dove headfirst into the shallows with a whoop that echoed off the water.

Chan stood on the sand like a man recently hit by a truck. Because Jeongin had always been like this—reckless and radiant and impossible not to watch.

Out in the water, Jeongin surfaced with a bright, breathless laugh. His hair was slicked back, his shoulders gleaming in the sun. He looked wild.

“Come on, ajusshi!” Jeongin shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Stop being a jotbap and get in!”

Chan gawked. “You’re insane!”

“You’re boring!”

Chan opened his mouth to fire back but—

God.

Jeongin was floating now, the tide rolling gently against his chest. The water hugged him, carried him. His expression was soft now, stupidly bright. Like this was the only place he ever wanted to be.

He looked free.

And Chan—Chan stood on the sand, sweating and pissed and overdressed, with the taste of Melona still lingering on his tongue and the stupid realization creeping in like a wave:

He wanted that.

Maybe just for a minute. Maybe just to remember what it felt like.
But he wanted that.

Chan stared at the water, then at Jeongin—who was now floating on his back like a smug little sea demon, arms spread, face tilted toward the sun as if he were the patron saint of chaos and nudity.

“Fucking hell,” Chan muttered.

He glanced over his shoulder. Scanned the shoreline. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

No people. No cottages. No signs of life beyond some scrub grass and a seagull looking judgmental in the distance. They were alone. Truly alone. And Jeongin—goddamn Jeongin—was already out there in the waves, bobbing and gleaming and calling him names like a menace with a death wish.

Chan swore under his breath. Loud. Creative. A string of curses that might’ve curled Jeongin’s toes if he could hear them from the water.

And then—he moved.

He tugged off his hoodie with a jerk, peeled off his jeans in record time. His shirt caught on his elbow, his boxers tangled briefly with his ankles, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t dare. Not when his entire ass was moments from being caught in the open by an errant kayaker or rogue beachcomber. Not when he knew Jeongin was definitely watching.

His clothes hit the sand in a messy heap beside Jeongin’s.

Chan didn’t fold them. Didn’t even think about it. He usually would’ve—neat and careful, organized by habit—but not now. He couldn’t afford the exposure time. Couldn’t afford the hesitation. Not with the ocean yawning in front of him like a promise. Not with the sun warming the sand like it was daring him to jump.

And suddenly, he was sprinting.

Feet pounding the sand, arms pumping, swearing all the way.

The water met him like a shock.

Salt and foam and chill slapped up his thighs, then his ribs, and then he dove—headfirst, breath held, body slicing through the brine like he belonged there.

Everything went silent.

The ocean swallowed him whole.

And it was—

God.

It was home.

It always had been.

The cold bit his skin, kissed his bones, but it didn’t matter. The ache in his chest loosened. The tightness in his back eased. The air in his lungs felt deeper, fuller. The weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying unspooled like kelp in a current.

He kicked hard, then surfaced.

Breathless.

Alive.

The salt clung to his lashes. His hair plastered to his scalp. The breeze caught his skin in cold fingers and it felt like waking up from a year-long nap he hadn’t agreed to.

Jeongin was treading water a few feet away, watching him with something that might’ve been smugness or might’ve been awe.

Chan didn’t care.

He swam toward him anyway.

He surfaced near Jeongin, the salt stinging his eyes, but he didn’t blink it away. Didn’t need to. The water was cold and perfect and familiar, and his lungs burned in the best way, like he was finally breathing air meant for him.

He exhaled hard, sucked in the sea breeze like it was oxygen after years of breathing the wrong kind, and—

He smiled.

Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop it.

It cracked open his face, wide and easy and real, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

His shoulders dropped. His jaw loosened. Even the ache between his ribs dulled, caught in the sway of the tide. It wasn’t a miracle. It wasn’t healing. But it was something.

It was silence, finally not screaming at him.
It was the kind of stillness that didn’t feel like punishment.

And Jeongin—of course—was watching.

Floating nearby, half-submerged and slick with saltwater, hair dripping into his eyes, arms lazily outstretched like he was sunbathing on a liquid throne.

“There he is,” Jeongin said, voice quiet—but not reverent. Not sweet.

It wasn’t even teasing, not really.

It was something else.

Like he’d spotted something rare in the wild and wasn’t sure if getting too close would scare it off. A softness beneath all the usual bite. His smile didn’t sharpen—it stayed where it was, small, lopsided, real.

Chan blinked. Still smiling, still half-uncertain of it. “What?”

Jeongin’s gaze didn’t shift. “You,” he said, lightly. “Smiling like you didn’t just have a stick surgically removed from your ass.”

Chan huffed. “You’re so annoying.”

“That’s not a denial,” Jeongin murmured. His grin widened, just a little. “I’m serious. You haven’t smiled like that since you got back to Korea.”

Chan’s brow twitched. “You don’t know that.”

But even as he said it, something stung. Because of course he’d smiled. He had to have smiled. At Mi Sun. At the engagement party. At the venue. He was sure he’d laughed at the rehearsal dinner playlist Mi Sun started. He’d helped pick the colors, hadn’t he? He must’ve smiled.

Hadn’t he?

Jeongin tilted his head. “Right. My bad. Maybe it’s just me you don’t smile around.”

Chan didn’t even hesitate. “Exactly.”

Jeongin gasped—faux-wounded. One hand to his chest like he’d been shot in a silent film. “I’m wounded. Truly. Cut to the core. Someone alert the coast guard and tell them I’ve been emotionally waterboarded.”

Chan rolled his eyes. “You don’t want me to smile around you.”

“Oh, no, I’d hate that,” Jeongin drawled. “Heaven forbid I see the corners of your mouth turn up. My entire personality would combust.”

“You’d mock it the second I did.”

Jeongin snorted. “Obviously. If you smiled at me I’d assume you were having a stroke and call an ambulance.”

Chan rolled his eyes, but the smile didn’t go away. It only deepened—betraying him with every flicker of warmth he wasn’t ready to admit to. He floated onto his back, letting the sea carry him, trying to pretend it wasn’t Jeongin’s presence—Jeongin’s chaos—that was unraveling something inside him in the best and worst way.

The sky was bright. The water was colder now. Calmer.

Jeongin drifted closer, just enough that their arms brushed in the tide. Not deliberate. Not hesitant. Just… easy.

Chan didn’t move away.

It hit him all at once—the absurdity of it. Of being here. Of this. Of everything. Being kidnapped by his ex under the flimsiest of wedding-related lies, dragged out past the outer edges of civilization, forced onto a scooter of doom, and now—now—floating naked beside said ex in the fucking ocean like they hadn’t been locked in emotional trench warfare for the past month and a half.

He could lose everything for this. If someone saw them. If the wrong person heard the wrong thing. If Felix called and Mi Sun asked where he was.

But no one had seen. No one would. And Jeongin—

Jeongin had always been like this. Unhinged. Reckless. Some volatile combination of clever and cursed. The kind of person who flirted with disasters like they were old friends and laughed in the middle of emergencies.

It used to scare Chan. It used to exhaust him.

But it had also thrilled him, once. Once, he’d loved that about Jeongin. Maybe still did.

He swallowed down the thought, eyes tracking the way Jeongin floated without tension, face tilted toward the sky like he hadn’t just disrupted the laws of Chan’s moral physics.

“You’re absolutely insane,” Chan muttered, voice low, the words pulled from him like a reluctant confession.

Jeongin tilted his head lazily toward him, hair slicked back, the sun making his cheekbones look sharper than necessary. “Because I’m known for my self-awareness.”

The double edge of the joke landed.

On the surface, it was classic Jeongin—snide, flippant, an automatic shrug at his own behavior. But underneath it, there was something truer. Something quieter. The casual self-awareness of someone who had stopped pretending he was built for normal a long time ago. Not embarrassed by it. Just… used to it. Like chaos was muscle memory by now.

Chan stared at him.

“I’m serious,” he said, tone tightening. “If anyone sees us—”

“No one’s out here,” Jeongin cut in, waving a hand at the empty beach like he’d personally secured it with warning signs and a hired hitman. “We’re a hundred kilometers from anything resembling civilization. If a crab sees your dick, I promise I’ll apologize on your behalf.”

That pulled a laugh out of Chan. Sharp. Unintentional. Immediately regretted.

He tried to swallow it down, tried to look anywhere else, be anywhere else—but the corners of his mouth curled up again, helpless against it.

Because it was funny. It was so stupid. And it was so Jeongin.

Jeongin didn’t gloat.

He didn’t need to.

He just watched. Just smiled—soft and surprised—and held it like something precious. Like a secret he wasn’t going to ruin by naming.

Jeongin rolled onto his back to float with his eyes closed, like this was a spa day and not whatever the hell it actually was.

Chan hated how easy he looked. How weightless. Like he hadn’t dragged them out here on a moped from hell and launched them headfirst into the world’s most chaotic kidnapping disguised as a swim.

And yet—he couldn’t deny it. His body was lighter. His breath deeper. The tight ring of tension in his chest had started to unwind, slow and reluctant, like something thawing under sun and salt.

It scared him.

He was supposed to be at home. Being responsible. Being reliable. His fiancée was probably in a dress shop right now, smiling for photos and imagining her wedding day while he was out here naked with his ex, drifting through a memory like it was his own personal purgatory.

God.

What kind of person did that?

What kind of person let themselves?

Chan closed his eyes.

Tried to shut it out. The guilt. The panic. The realization that Jeongin—infuriating, chaotic Jeongin—was the only person in the world he couldn’t lie to. Because there was nothing to hide. Not anymore.

And that… That was the most dangerous part.

Because maybe that was why it felt so good to be here.

Because with Jeongin—at least out here—there were no expectations. No rewrites. No pretending.

Just the tide.

Just the salt.

Just a truth they’d both stopped naming.

Because Jeongin was here. And Jeongin knew everything. Knew the timeline. Knew the silences. Knew the places Chan liked to be touched and the exact tone of voice that could pull his walls down in a breath. Knew the things Chan had buried and the things he still clutched like broken glass.

And out here—alone, drifting, with no audience and no alibi—Chan couldn’t lie about any of it.

He couldn’t fake detachment with Jeongin. Couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter. Jeongin had lived it. Worn it. Felt it in his hands. If Chan said “it didn’t mean anything,” Jeongin would laugh.

And if he said nothing at all?

Jeongin would know anyway.

So Chan didn’t say anything. He just swam. Slowly. Carefully. Avoiding eye contact like it might trigger an alarm.

“Hey,” Jeongin called, floating closer. “If you’re gonna keep sulking, can you at least do it with dramatic flair? Like splash around or scream into the sky? I’m bored.”

Chan didn’t answer.

Not with words.

He narrowed his eyes, considered it—just for a second—and then lifted one arm with deliberate, passive-aggressive calm. A slow, practiced arc across the water’s surface. Too casual to be playful. Too sharp to be innocent.

The wave hit Jeongin like a wet slap to the face.

There was a gurgled yelp, a flailing of limbs, and then Jeongin vanished beneath the surface with all the grace of a capsized pool toy.

Chan didn’t smile at first. Didn’t even breathe.

Because it hadn’t been a joke. Not really.

It was punishment. Recompense. A warning shot fired in salt.

But then—

The floundering silhouette broke the surface again, spluttering and wild-eyed, and something inside Chan cracked.

The corner of his mouth twitched. His chest lifted. And then—

Laughter. Full-bodied and unrepentant.

A laugh that started low and startled and rolled upward into something bright and raw and real. The kind that made his ribs ache and his eyes crinkle, that punched through his sternum like a wave breaking over a seawall.

Because finally—for once—he wasn’t the one being dragged along.

He’d splashed Jeongin. And Jeongin had suffered.

And it felt good.

Jeongin regained his footing with a dramatic gasp, hair plastered to his face, blinking through seawater with a murderous glare.

“You bitch,” he sputtered, wiping his eyes with both hands. “That was uncalled for!”

“You were bored,” Chan said smugly, treading water just out of reach. “Thought I’d help.”

Jeongin growled and launched himself forward. “You’re dead.”

Chan was already swimming backward, laughing. “Try me.”

Jeongin lunged for him, but Chan twisted to the side and darted away with practiced ease, cutting through the water like it loved him.

Because it did.

Because he remembered now.

His muscles knew this. His body remembered how to be in water like it had never stopped. It was muscle memory and freedom wrapped in salt and sun, and it was his.

Jeongin flailed behind him, sputtering curses and smacking at the water like it had betrayed him.

Chan twisted around again, swimming a lazy circle just out of reach. “Jesus, I knew you were dramatic, but this is pathetic.”

“Fuck off,” Jeongin gasped, thrashing forward with the grace of a drunk sea otter. “The sea is biased.”

Chan snorted. “Yeah, it likes people who can actually swim.”

Jeongin hurled a splash at him. It flopped in the water with all the menace of a tossed washcloth.

Chan didn’t even flinch. “Wow. You’ve really lost your touch.”

“I’m going to drown you.”

“You can try,” Chan said, gliding backward like he was lounging in a pool. “But judging by that splash, I’m not exactly shaking in my nonexistent swim trunks.”

Jeongin surged forward with a wild, wordless yell.

Chan ducked and spun away before the splash even landed, cackling. “This is the most exercise you’ve gotten in months, isn’t it?”

“Keep talking, ajusshi, see what happens!”

“Sure. I’ll keep talking while you dog paddle after me like a toddler in a puddle.”

Jeongin made an inhuman noise and lunged again—closer this time, but still off-balance, still flailing.

And for once, Chan had the upper hand.

And God, it felt good.

His laughter came sharp and free, edged with something victorious. Like a leash had slipped from his neck and he’d remembered how to run.

Jeongin lunged.

Again.

Reckless. Spiteful. Predictably dramatic.

And this time—Chan didn’t dodge.

He stepped into it.

Spun.

And caught him.

Arms locked around Jeongin’s chest, pinning his elbows to his sides like a feral toddler in time-out.

Jeongin let out a startled shriek—half insult, half sea-salt wheeze—and flailed like a wet noodle in distress.

“What the hell?!”

Chan grinned, teeth flashing. “Aw. What’s wrong, princess? Water too rough for you?”

“You’re gonna die,” Jeongin hissed, thrashing against the hold. “I hope a jellyfish stings your balls.”

Chan didn’t even flinch. “Please. I’d pay extra for that kind of attention.”

The words left his mouth too easily—slick, instinctive, a low swipe of honesty he wasn’t supposed to let out. Not anymore. Not like that.

But Jeongin just snickered.

Not surprised. Not scandalized.

Just amused. Knowing. Like he’d been waiting.

Because of course he knew. He’d always known. Chan could bench twice his weight and still fold like origami if Jeongin pressed the right bruise and smiled while doing it.

“You’re such a sick little freak,” Jeongin twisted harder. “No wonder you miss me.”

“You’re all bark and no biceps,” Chan shot back, recovering fast. “You throw tantrums like a drag queen denied a smoke break.”

“You wish you had this much rage and range.”

“And you wish your arms didn’t feel like uncooked ramen.”

“You’re just mad I’m prettier.”

“I’m not mad,” Chan said, smug. “I’m winning.”

That earned him a genuine screech. Jeongin thrashed harder, but it was useless. He was all limbs and no leverage. Chan just adjusted his grip like he’d done this a thousand times before—which, technically, he had. Usually followed by kisses or dragging him to bed or something that felt way less illegal.

And now?

Now it was war.

“Tap out,” Chan said smugly.

“Eat my ass.”

“I’d rather starve.”

“You wish you could starve. I saw the way you looked earlier. You paused, bitch. You lingered.”

Chan’s smile twitched. “I was horrified.”

“You were mesmerized.”

“You jiggle when you run. Like a peeled peach with trauma.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

Chan raised a brow. “Says the man who kidnapped me on a scooter and stripped like it was a drag number with no tip minimum.”

Jeongin bucked again—but with less effort this time. Less fire. Because it wasn’t working. Not against Chan’s gym-built biceps and evil sense of timing.

He was losing.

He hated losing.

“I hate you,” Jeongin snapped.

Chan leaned forward, voice low. “Tap out.”

Jeongin thrashed again—one final, impotent flail—and then sagged with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. You win. I’m weak. I’m dying. Tell my story.”

They bobbed there a moment, saltwater lapping at their chests, Jeongin pinned firmly against him, limbs slack in mock defeat. His skin was warm, smooth from the sun, slick from the sea. His head rested back against Chan’s collarbone, their breathing syncing in the lull of waves.

And then—

It hit Chan.

Like a fucking freight train.

He was naked.

They were naked.

And he was currently chest-to-back with Jeongin in full-body contact. Thighs against thighs. Hips snug. His arms locked around Jeongin’s ribs. His—oh god. Oh no. There was no padding. No clothing buffer. Not even a belt buckle to cling to for dignity.

Just skin. And water. And contact.

Too much of it.

Way too much.

His brain short-circuited.

“Oh—shit,” he blurted.

Then immediately dropped Jeongin like a hot potato.

Jeongin splashed under with a yelp, flailing limbs and flinging saltwater in every direction. “What the—!”

Chan staggered backward, red from the neck up, face caught between pride and horror. “Jesus Christ, we’re naked!”

Jeongin surfaced, coughing, hair plastered to his face. “Took you that long to realize?”

“I wasn’t— I didn’t— I wasn’t thinking about it!”

“That’s your first mistake,” Jeongin said, casually spitting out a mouthful of seawater. “Rule number one of aquatic foreplay: always know where your dick is.”

Chan spluttered. “You were the one trying to drown me!”

“And you were the one grinding like it was club night in Busan!”

“I was not—”

“Oh, relax,” Jeongin said, throwing a lazy splash at him. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen. Touched. Rated out of ten.”

“Jeongin—!”

“Eight point seven, if you’re wondering. Great arms, but you lose points for your complete lack of chill.”

Chan’s mouth opened. Closed. His brain was buffering. He hated how fast Jeongin still got under his skin.

“I hate you.”

“You say that,” Jeongin grinned, “but you pressed your entire frontal regret against my back.”

Chan dragged a hand over his face and muttered something unholy.

And Jeongin?

He just laughed. Loud. Bright. Victorious.

Chan didn’t laugh.

Not really.

He scrubbed a hand down his face again, slick with salt and shame, and when he looked up this time, the brightness was gone. Just tight lines, furrowed brows, the familiar pinch between his eyes like the smile had been exorcised from his body entirely.

And then—without a word—he turned and started wading toward shore.

Jeongin blinked. “Wait, what—”

Chan didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t say a damn thing.

He marched out of the water like it had personally betrayed him, strides stiff and purposeful, shoulders ratcheting up with every step. By the time he reached the shallows, he was already halfway back in his head—clothes, alibis, location tracking, timelines, timelines, timelines—

“Chan,” Jeongin called, swimming a little closer. “You good?”

No answer.

“Oh my god,” Jeongin muttered, then louder, “You’re kidding me, right?”

Still nothing.

Chan was out of the water now, dripping and furious and red in the ears, stalking back toward the sand like the beach owed him money. He snatched up his jeans from the heap without ceremony, shook them out with too much force, and yanked them on while still half-drenched.

Jeongin surfaced with a scowl, slicking his hair out of his eyes. “Jesus, I said you could just laugh. I didn’t mean ruin your life over it.”

Chan ignored him.

Pants on. Shirt next. Hoodie last. No towel. No pause.

Just motion—frantic, focused, like if he stopped to think, he’d combust on the spot.

Jeongin swam to shore, scowling now. “Seriously? You were actually fun for five whole minutes. Is this your punishment for enjoying yourself?”

Chan didn’t even turn around. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

“Oh, don’t pull that,” Jeongin snapped, hauling himself out of the surf, water cascading off his skin in angry rivulets. “You don’t get to suddenly grow a conscience just because your dick touched my spine.”

Chan froze.

Jeongin grabbed his own jeans from the sand and tugged them on with way more dignity than someone fully nude and covered in seaweed had any right to.

“This was your idea,” Chan said tightly, voice low and dangerous.

“This was your smile,” Jeongin fired back, pointing. “I just dragged it out of the hole you buried it in.”

“Well, congratulations. You win. We had fun. It’s over.”

Jeongin snorted. “Wow. You really do treat joy like it’s an affair you have to scrub off before your fiancée sees.”

Chan’s head snapped toward him.

But Jeongin was already towel-drying his hair with his shirt, done arguing, done pleading, done playing lifeguard to Chan’s moral panic.

And just like that—the spell broke.

Whatever sunlit sanctuary they'd drifted into out there dissolved the second their feet hit sand. The tension returned like a cloak, heavy and wet. Familiar. Ugly. Safe.

Chan tugged on his hoodie in silence. Jeongin didn’t look at him again.

By the time they were both dressed, neither of them was smiling.

Back to form.

Back to hell.

And the waves rolled on, indifferent.

Chapter Text

The club was finally quiet.

Lights dimmed, floor half-cleared, glitter settling like fallout. The post-show static still buzzed faintly in the monitors, but Chan barely noticed. He was crouched behind the DJ booth, one knee braced on the edge of the stage, coiling cables with the grim determination of someone trying to stay busy enough not to think.

Minho’s advice clanged around his skull.

It hadn’t been harsh, not really. Minho hadn’t meant to scare him. He’d just wanted Chan to be careful.

But the message had been clear enough: Let him mess with you. Let it roll off your back. But don’t be an idiot. Don’t start thinking you’re special just because he likes to play with fire.

Chan looped the cord again. Tighter than necessary.

It helped to remember. To keep some distance.

Because now—after hearing the way Minho said it, with a sigh in his voice that was more tired than angry—Jeongin’s chaos didn’t seem quite so razor-sharp. It was still dangerous. Still a live wire. But maybe—maybe—there was something sad under the static too.

Some lost, reckless part of him trying to spark against anything warm enough to catch.

Chan wasn’t stupid enough to think he understood it, but it dulled the edge of the fear. Just a little.

Until the door creaked.

And before he even turned around, Chan knew.

There was a breath at his ear. A whisper of heat against the shell of it.

“You on your knees for me, hyung?”

Chan flinched so hard he dropped the cable.

Behind him, Jeongin laughed—low and delighted, predatory in that way he always was when he caught prey twitching. 

And just like that, the sad, quiet picture Minho had painted shattered into a million sharp-edged pieces.

“Should’ve known you liked it rough,” Jeongin purred, crouching beside him now. Out of drag, but no less dangerous. Makeup half-wiped, hair messy, eyes gleaming like a kid lighting matches in a dry field. “Or are you the type who likes to be watched while he wraps it nice and tight?”

Chan made the mistake of looking at him. And regretted it instantly.

Because Jeongin wasn’t just being flirty. He was performing. One hand on the cable, lips parted slightly like the word coil had never sounded filthier in anyone’s mouth.

Chan shot to his feet like the floor was hot lava.

“I—uh—need to—” He grabbed for a random cable and turned so fast he nearly clotheslined himself.

Jeongin followed like a shadow. “God, you’re so easy to scare. It’s adorable.”

Chan tried to steel himself. Water off a duck’s back, he told himself. It’s just banter. It doesn’t mean anything. He does this to everyone. You’re not special. You’re just—

“Bet I could get you to blush just by describing what I’d do to you with that mic stand,” Jeongin crooned in his ear.

Before Chan could implode on the spot, another voice cut in—dry, unimpressed, and way too close.

“I swear to God, I leave you unsupervised for five minutes and you start sexually harassing the tech staff.”

Minho appeared at Chan’s other side like a judgmental ghost, arms crossed, expression blank in that way that somehow radiated complete exasperation.

Jeongin grinned but didn’t even glance up. “Technically, I’m off the clock. That makes him fair game.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “You are banned from being horny during teardown.”

“You say that like it’s enforceable,” Jeongin chirped, still not looking at him.

“Try me,” Minho deadpanned. Then glanced at Chan, his expression softening by about three percent. “Ignore him. He gets like this when he thinks someone’s hot and has no impulse control.”

Chan burned down to his toes.

“Hey!” Jeongin barked, finally spinning around. “You’re ruining the mystery.”

“What mystery?” Minho said dryly. “You’ve been humping his leg since he started.”

Chan looked like he wanted to fall into the cable crate and never come out.

Minho stared at him. Then slowly turned to Chan, tone bone-dry, “Did he ask you to wrap cables or just wrap him?”

Chan made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Jeongin just winked. “I multitask.”

Minho sighed like this was his cross to bear. “You’re a menace. Leave him alone. I need him to finish coiling actual wires before you get him tangled in metaphorical ones.”

“Metaphorical’s generous,” Chan muttered.

Minho ignored him. “We’re grabbing takeout, by the way. My place. After the mop and glitter settle. You’re welcome to come, but I’m not gonna beg.”

He cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah. Maybe.”

Minho shrugged. “Up to you.”

Jeongin, beaming like the world had tilted in his favor, leaned in and whispered, “You’ll like it. I promise not to bite.”

Pause.

“…Unless you ask nicely.”

Chan groaned into the coils of cable and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like God give me strength. 

Minho turned to go. Then paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Fair warning though—he will keep flirting. And we will all pretend not to notice.”

“I’m a delight,” Jeongin said brightly.

Chan rubbed his temple.

Minho walked off.

And Chan was left with the sound of Jeongin giggling behind him and the terrible, terrible realization that he was already considering going.

Water off a duck’s back, he thought.

But God, the duck was drowning.

You don’t have to go.

That thought repeated like a metronome in Chan’s head as he coiled the last cable, wrapped it with more tension than necessary, and set it down beside the monitor board.

He didn’t have to go.

He wasn’t obligated. No one had pressured him. Minho had offered with all the enthusiasm of a waiter reading the terms of service aloud. And Jeongin—well, Jeongin had just smirked and wandered off like he already knew what Chan would do.

But he didn’t have to.

He could go home. He had friends. Han and Changbin were probably still holed up in their studio dungeon mixing some hellish new bassline or arguing over rhymes. He could grab snacks on the way, crash on the couch, talk about anything but this.

He didn’t need more people.

He didn’t need these people.

He especially didn’t need to walk into an apartment full of drag queens who could cut him open with a single look and one chaotic gremlin in six-inch heels who’d spent the better part of the evening verbally railroading him for sport.

And yet—

Across the room, he could hear Jeongin again.

Bad sign.

He was at the bar now, perched on a stool like a gargoyle, harassing the bartender with the manic persistence of someone who had never once been told "no" and refused to start now.

“Come on,” Jeongin wheedled. “Just mix all the sad little last drops together. I’m saving you from doing inventory. I’m a humanitarian.”

The bartender gave him a long, dead-eyed stare. "You're going to die."

"Not tonight," Jeongin said cheerfully. "Tonight I'm thriving."

Against all better judgment—and possibly out of sheer exhaustion—the bartender grabbed a line of nearly empty bottles from the rail. Whiskey, vodka, soju, something neon green that should not exist outside a chemical lab—and poured them all into a plastic cup with the weary resignation of a man witnessing a crime he couldn't prevent.

Chan watched, morbidly fascinated, as Jeongin accepted the Frankenstein drink with both hands and a beatific smile.

"You're disgusting," the bartender said, shaking his head.

Jeongin just laughed, high and bright and cracked around the edges. "You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first."

He raised the cup in a mock toast, eyes glinting and, without a single ounce of hesitation, knocked back a mouthful.

Chan winced instinctively, expecting him to gag, to grimace, to at least pretend to be human about it.

But Jeongin only coughed once, grinned wider, and slammed the cup down on the bar with a victorious thud.

"Delicious," he declared, absolutely lying, and kicked his heels against the stool like a child drunk on chaos instead of just... drunk.

And then he turned, faced the DJ booth, and locked eyes with Chan.

Like he'd been waiting for him to look. Like he'd known exactly when to catch him.

Chan froze.

Jeongin just smiled, loose and feral, and propped his chin on one hand—watching him. Unblinking. Hungry. Alive in a way that made Chan's skin itch and his stomach flip.

No shame about the drink. No shame about begging for scraps. No shame about the fact that whatever Jeongin was drinking would probably curdle his organs and still be the best part of his night.

It wasn’t about the drink. It was about the hustle. The principle. The sheer, stubborn joy of surviving ugly and laughing anyway.

Chan ripped his gaze away like it burned.

You don’t need this.

You don’t need him.

So why—why—was he still thinking about it?

Was it morbid curiosity?

Was it some kind of karmic debt?

Did he have a death wish? A humiliation kink? A psychological disorder that made him crave conversations where he was guaranteed to be the dumbest, straightest, most bullied person in the room?

Because nothing about this was smart. Or fun. Or necessary.

It was like staring at a trainwreck—gory and beautiful and loud—and feeling some twisted compulsion to walk toward it instead of backing away.

He had no answers.

Just the crushing certainty that he was already in too deep.

By the time he finished tearing down the last of the cables, the club was practically deserted. Only a few stragglers remained—the bartender cleaning glasses, the bouncer checking his phone by the door.

And Jeongin.

Still perched on a stool at the bar, that monstrous cocktail half-drained in front of him, legs swinging idly like a kid on a swing set.

Waiting.

For him.

Chan swallowed the knot in his throat and forced himself to walk over—each step heavier than it should've been.

Jeongin’s grin cracked open the second Chan got close—sharp and wicked, all teeth and bad intentions.

"Took you long enough," he drawled, eyes raking over Chan in a way that made his skin itch. "I was starting to think you were making me beg."

Chan rubbed the back of his neck, mortified, painfully aware of how obvious he was.

"Not—uh—" he muttered. "Just... finishing up."

"Uh huh," Jeongin said, completely unconvinced. He grabbed his sad little Frankenstein drink off the bar, drained the last of it with a grimace like he was gargling battery acid, and thumped the cup down with finality.

Then, without warning, he hooked two fingers in the hem of Chan’s jacket, tugging like he owned him.

"Let's go, hyung," he said, voice low and thick with implication. "I’m feeling generous. Might even let you put those hands to better use."

Chan stood there, blinking, brain screeching abort mission, and all he could do was let Jeongin tow him toward the door.

What is wrong with you? he thought, stomach twisting itself into tighter knots with every step. You’re volunteering for this. You’re signing up for more.

He was absolutely, categorically, out of his fucking mind.

Jeongin glanced back once, smirking like he could read it all on Chan’s face.

And Chan hated how easy it was to follow.

Outside, the night was cold and sharp. The other queens were already gathered in the alley—smoking, laughing, shouting insults at each other like it was foreplay. They barely noticed Chan's arrival except to jeer at Jeongin for "his new boyfriend" taking so long.

Chan wanted to die.

As soon as Jeongin yanked him into view, the razzing started.

“Well, well, well," one of them crooned, flicking ash off the end of their cigarette. "Look what the cat dragged in.”

"Jeongin found himself a stray," another chimed in, lips curling into a smirk. "Poor thing looks like he got lost on the way to Bible study."

Chan opened his mouth, no idea what he was planning to say, only knowing he should probably defend himself, but Jeongin beat him to it.

"Please," Jeongin drawled, tossing an arm around Chan’s shoulders like a hook. "If he’s Bible study, I’m the fuckin’ burning bush."

That got a howl of laughter.

One of the queens—Chan recognized her vaguely from earlier, lip-syncing Whitney Houston like her rent depended on it—winked and called out, "You always pick the spicy ones.”

Jeongin didn't miss a beat. He winked back, wicked and lazy. "Spicy? Baby, he’s pure gochu under that hoodie. You just gotta roast him a little to taste it.”

The queens howled.

Chan blinked, brain stuttering to catch up—gochu? Like, pepper? Spicy? No, wait. Wasn't that also slang for—

Oh.

Oh God.

Mortification hit him like a truck.

And yet—somewhere under the horror—was something else too.

A flicker of something warm.

Because for all his filth and fire, Jeongin wasn’t throwing him to the wolves.
He was intercepting every jab, flipping every insult, bending the chaos like it was nothing, making sure the jokes curved around Chan without ever quite landing.

Not shielding him exactly—nothing so obvious—but shaping the chaos like a weapon in his own hands. Dragging Chan along without asking permission. Making him part of it whether he liked it or not. Defending him in the only language they all seemed to understand: fast, filthy, and funny as hell.

The restaurant wasn’t much—just a narrow slip of space tucked between a beauty supply store and a closed pharmacy, the kind of hole-in-the-wall that catered to drunk college students and graveyard shift workers. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a tired, slightly yellow tint over everything. A metal counter ran along one side where a single middle-aged ajumma barked orders at the kitchen in the back, wiping her hands on her apron as she took a cigarette break between customers.

No one here cared how loud you were. No one cared about anything except cash upfront and whether you cleared out before the next rush.

Minho headed straight to the counter without waiting, rattling off their order in quick, clipped Korean that made it obvious he was a regular. The queens barely hesitated, filing into a battered booth along the wall like they owned the place.

The noise was instant—laughter loud enough to rattle the walls, the kind that didn’t care who was listening. Half the queens were out of drag, but not a single one was quiet. Even stripped of lashes and wigs, they were still all glitter and bite, yelling over each other in three different dialects and arguing like it was a competitive sport.

Chan hesitated in the doorway, frozen between fight and flight. He didn’t belong here. He knew that in his bones. He could feel the ajumma’s side-eye as she sized him up—square jacket, straight haircut, obvious deer-in-headlights energy—and dismissed him just as fast. Another idiot the drag queens dragged in.

He should leave. He should—

Before he could even finish the thought, Jeongin grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked.

"Move it, hyung," Jeongin chirped, hauling him across the grimy linoleum like he weighed nothing. "Before they decide you’re too slow and eat you alive."

Chan stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet, and barely caught himself as Jeongin manhandled him into the booth, shoving him down onto the bench like an oversized doll being posed for tea time.

The table immediately erupted into cheers and obnoxious catcalls.

"Aw, look at him! So obedient!”

"Straight boy got manners, I’m gonna cry—"

Chan’s ears burned.

He opened his mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to apologize to the universe—but before he could get a single word out, Jeongin slid in right next to him, thigh pressed firmly against his.

Chan sat there, rigid, pinned against the cracked vinyl booth, feeling the chaotic gravitational pull of Jeongin like he was caught in the orbit of a very small, very sparkly black hole.

Minho swaggered over, receipt in hand. "Total’s eighty-thousand, not counting tip," he rattled off like a death sentence, slapping the slip of paper down in the middle of the table.

Without missing a beat, the queens started digging into their bags—clutch purses, rhinestone-studded backpacks, a tote that said NOT YOUR BABYGIRL in glittery letters. Out came fistfuls of crumpled bills, fat wads of won bound together with stray hair ties and cheap plastic clips.

The booth transformed into a chaotic flurry of hands and cash, everyone barking over each other about who owed what, like some cracked-out Wall Street trading floor.

Chan stared, wide-eyed.

No Venmo. No KakaoPay. Not even a battered debit card. Just…cash. Stacks of it.

For a split second, he thought—Are they...rich?

But then he caught a closer look: sweaty tips, lipstick-smudged won, bills that looked suspiciously like they’d been fished out of someone's cleavage.

And it hit him.

They weren’t flexing. They weren’t showing off.

This was just what they had.

Tip money. Door cash. Payment for a night of being gorgeous and loud and impossible to ignore. Income earned one bill at a time under stage lights and smoke machines. It wasn’t organized. It wasn’t neat. But it was theirs.

Suddenly the table of wrinkled bills didn’t look like a power move. It looked like an altar.

Shady. Scraped-together. Real.

Scrambling, Chan fished out his wallet, desperate not to be that guy who didn’t contribute. He rifled through it—receipts, an expired coffee coupon, one sad, crumpled ten-thousand-won bill—and shoved it onto the growing pile like a kid bringing a half-eaten sandwich to a potluck.

Minho swooped in with the speed of a man who’d done this a thousand times, snatching up the cash in one sweep without even counting it.

"God’s strongest soldiers," he deadpanned, raising an eyebrow at the mess of bills, "and not one of you knows how to make change.” He gave Chan a pointed look that somehow said, yes, you too, rookie, before stalking back to the counter to pay.

The booth erupted. Shrieking, cackling, someone actually slapping the table, and Chan barely had time to wonder if it was legal to be this publicly humiliated before—

Jeongin grabbed him.

No warning. No buildup.

One second Chan was flinching at the noise and the next, Jeongin had latched onto him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Not tightly. Not theatrically.

Just… hooked onto him. Fingers looped through Chan’s elbow. Chin tilted high as he leaned in, smiling at someone across the table and launching right back into whatever chaotic conversation he’d been having before.

Chan froze.

He could feel the weight of Jeongin’s arm, the brush of his sleeve against bare skin where his t-shirt stopped. It wasn’t aggressive. Wasn’t teasing. Jeongin didn’t even glance at him.

He just held on.

Like it was nothing.

Like it was normal.

Chan braced himself for the punchline—for the filthy whisper in his ear, the sleazy joke about being Chan’s armrest or human leash. The moaned innuendo. The drama.

But it never came.

It wasn’t even flirtation anymore. Not really. It felt like something else entirely. Something Chan didn’t know how to name.

Grounding, maybe.

Like Jeongin needed something to hold on to. Like he’d picked the first solid thing in reach and decided not to let go.

Chan didn’t know what to do with that.

He didn’t know Jeongin well enough to be anyone’s grounding.

And his instincts screamed to pull his arm away, put space between them, reclaim some kind of control—

But he didn’t.

Because even if he didn’t understand it…

Even if it didn’t make sense…

Even if his whole body still braced like the next thing out of Jeongin’s mouth would be some filthy pun about deep-throating soup dumplings—

It never came.

Jeongin just yelled across the table at one of the other queens, voice loud and flippant and gleefully vicious. He read them for their eyebrows, their breath mints, their plastic bag shoes, and then collapsed laughing into Chan’s shoulder like he’d said something funny himself.

When he got too worked up, he tugged Chan’s arm by accident—jerky, flailing motions that sent them both slightly sideways. At one point, he thumped the table so hard the napkin holder fell over.

And still his hand didn’t leave Chan’s arm.

He gripped tighter without thinking, anchoring himself like he might float off if he didn’t hold on.

Chan’s heart knocked once, hard and slow.

Because it wasn’t just the absence of innuendo.

It was Jeongin’s face.

His smile was wide, but softer than the sharp, maniacal thing Chan had come to expect. It didn’t look like performance. It didn’t gleam like latex or leer like the stage. It looked—young. Real.

And God, so did he.

Chan looked down and realized Jeongin’s hair was still damp—fluffy at the roots, curling slightly at the nape like it never got the full blow-dry after his wig came off. His lashes were clumped from old glue, eyeliner smudged in one corner, and there were faint glitter flecks stuck to his collarbone like stardust he hadn’t bothered to wash away.

He looked… kind of small.

Still sharp, still fire-tongued and chaos-born, but not as invincible as he pretended to be. He laughed loud, bit back louder, but there was something quieter underneath—something tender in the way he clung to Chan like it was reflex.

And suddenly Chan wasn’t bracing for the next assault anymore.

He just watched Jeongin laugh. Watched him tease his friends, lean against Chan’s shoulder again, flick sesame seeds across the table like a brat.

And underneath the noise and neon, something inside Chan shifted.

Not all at once.

Not cleanly.

Just enough to realize he wasn’t afraid of the trainwreck anymore.

He was standing in the middle of it.

And—for some reason—he hadn’t run.

Minho returned with the bags like a man wrangling wayward sheep—arms full, jaw set, expression carved from concrete. The takeout rustled against his chest in clear plastic and thin foil, steam already curling from the tops of dumpling containers.

“Alright, you glitter rats,” he deadpanned. “Move your asses. I’m not standing here while your soup gets cold.”

The queens cackled.

Minho didn’t even blink. Just turned on his heel and started walking like he knew they’d follow.

And they did.

One by one, the group began to peel off the bench, gathering coats, stuffing change into pockets, still squabbling about sauces and side dishes. The din moved like a tide, sweeping them all toward the door in one chaotic, glitter-stained current.

Chan made a move to stand, but Jeongin beat him to it.

Still latched onto his arm, he surged up in one smooth, horrifyingly coordinated motion—dragging Chan along like luggage on a leash.

Chan stumbled, caught himself against the edge of the table. “I can walk, you know."

"Mm." Jeongin pursed his lips, thoughtful. "But why would you, when you could be swept off your feet?”

"You know," Chan said dryly, "if you’re gonna manhandle me, at least buy me dinner first."

Jeongin blinked. Just for a second. Just long enough for Chan to realize he'd actually managed to stun him.

The mischievous gleam returned a beat later, sharper and brighter than before, blooming across Jeongin’s face like a sunrise made entirely of bad ideas.

"Baby," Jeongin said, voice syrup-sweet and absolutely merciless, "dinner’s just foreplay."

Chan made a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a wheeze, his neck immediately flushing hot enough to fry an egg.

Jeongin just grinned wider—clearly, infuriatingly satisfied—and tugged him toward the door without giving him a chance to recover, already marching them out like a one-man parade

Chan rolled his eyes—

Or at least, he tried to.

It was supposed to be exasperated. Dismissive.

But it came out brittle, useless, more of a white-flag surrender than anything else.

He should’ve shaken Jeongin off.

Should’ve pulled his arm away, reclaimed his space, set some kind of boundary. But instead, he let Jeongin cling. Let him lead. Let himself be tugged out the door like it was normal. Like Jeongin belonged there.

Or worse—like he did.

The night had cooled, the air crisp with grease and spring wind. They fell into step behind the others, shoes clacking on uneven pavement, the scent of fried dough trailing in their wake.

Minho walked ahead like a man on a mission—steady, balanced, shoulders squared against the weight of three plastic bags and a gaggle of queens trailing behind.
And from the back, Chan recognized it.

That wasn’t just confidence. It was service industry posture.

The same set to the shoulders, the same economy of movement he’d seen at the BBQ restaurant—Minho in a half-apron and rolled sleeves, fielding side dishes like weapons, tongs flashing like a second language.

Minho didn’t just perform leadership. He was the leader. The server. The backbone.

Chan wondered, vaguely, if that was why Jeongin always looked so rattled when Minho scolded him. Not just because Minho could read him, but because Minho saw things. Took care of things.

And Chan wasn’t sure if he wanted to be seen like that.

Especially not now, walking through the dark, arm still in Jeongin’s grasp, pulse ticking louder with every block.

He looked down at their arms.

Jeongin’s grip had loosened a little, but his hand was still there, looped through Chan’s like it was muscle memory. Like he hadn’t even noticed he hadn’t let go.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because the teasing? The torment? Chan knew what to do with that. After the panic wore off, he could roll his eyes and huff and bite back. It was loud. It was obvious. He could brace for it.

But this?

This quiet clinging? This casual comfort?

It was worse.

Infinitely worse.

Because it felt normal.

Because Jeongin—this brat in latex and lashes, who just hours ago had tried to deepthroat a microphone for attention—was now walking beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world to hold his arm like that. No performance. No innuendo. Just quiet weight. Soft tether.

And Chan didn’t know how to process it.

Didn’t know why it made his chest tight or his throat dry or his head buzz with the sudden, irrational urge to pull away and never speak again.

It was too much.

Too real.

And somehow, impossibly, harder to ignore than all the flirtation in the world.

Jeongin didn’t look at him. Just laughed at something ahead—some crack one of the queens made about tequila, bad decisions, and a guy who still had his ex’s name tattooed on his thigh—and bumped Chan’s shoulder with his own, casual as breathing.

Chan stumbled a little at the contact, heart lurching against his ribs, and before he could catch his balance, they were already at Minho’s apartment.

It was small, a little drafty, and so full of personality it practically buzzed. A studio with an open kitchen and barely enough room for the battered coffee table they crammed around. The queens sprawled out across the floor and a scatter of throw pillows like it was the most natural thing in the world, packing themselves in shoulder-to-shoulder and taking up twice as much space as the apartment allowed—just by being themselves.

The energy was electric. Loud. Effortless.

They yelled over each other, passed dumplings with chopsticks like weapons, argued about stage lighting and foundation brands and whether the new bartender at the club was hot or just tall. It was chaos, but a familiar chaos. Like they were all reading from a script only they could see.

Chan sat at the edge of it. Quiet. Smiling when appropriate. Nodding along like he understood the punchlines even when he didn’t.

He wasn’t miserable.

But he didn’t belong.

And he could feel it, sitting there in his tech blacks with his takeout container balanced on his knees, the only one drinking water instead of budget somaek out of a chipped novelty mug. He’d had nights out with Han and Changbin that ended in stolen fries and tequila-fueled beatboxing in stairwells. But this… this was a different kind of wild. This was ritual. Rhythm. A world with its own rules.

Still, Jeongin didn’t let go. He kept gravitating toward Chan like it was instinct. Bumping shoulders when he got too worked up reading another queen for a bad eyeliner day. Grabbing his wrist mid-story just to anchor the punchline. Tugging his sleeve with glee when someone mispronounced Gaultier. Each time was casual. Easy. Like he’d forgotten Chan wasn’t furniture.

But sometimes—just sometimes—Jeongin would look at him. Really look. Head tilted. Eyebrows arched. Like he couldn’t quite figure out why Chan was still here either.

And Chan hated it.

Hated the way it pulled him in. The way it made the room feel smaller. The way his chest twisted like he was fifteen again and sitting at the cool kids’ table for the first time, unsure if he’d earned it or if someone just felt sorry for him.

The noise swelled again. Someone made a joke about Minho’s old boy band haircut and nearly got smacked with a dumpling.

Minho stood with a grunt, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. "Smoke break. Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone."

Two queens peeled off with him, laughter already spilling out as the balcony door slammed behind them.

Silence closed in like a slow tide.

Jeongin stayed sprawled on the couch, one arm thrown lazily over the backrest, his drink dangling from loose fingers. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched Chan from under half-lowered lashes, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like he was already in on a joke Chan didn’t know yet.

Chan shifted, gripping his takeout container a little tighter. He should move. Say something. Instead, he stayed frozen—acutely aware that it was just the two of them now, and that Minho had definitely said something about not getting pulled into Jeongin’s orbit.

"You always this tense," Jeongin said eventually, voice soft and amused, "or did I just earn special treatment?"

Chan stiffened. "I'm not tense."

Jeongin made a low, disbelieving noise in the back of his throat.

He didn’t push it. Just let the silence wrap around them again, heavier this time.

"You’re quieter than I thought you'd be," Chan blurted, desperate to fill the gap.

"Offstage doesn't pay," Jeongin said lightly. He finally turned his head, fixing Chan with a look that was somehow both sharp and sleepy. "Why waste the energy?”

Chan swallowed. His brain scrambled for something to say—something safe—but nothing about this felt safe. He remembered Minho’s warnings—don’t let him get in your head—and braced himself.

"You're... different," Chan said stiffly. "From what I heard."

Jeongin’s smile sharpened, bright and wolfish. "Oh yeah?" he said. "And what exactly did you hear, hyung?"

Chan tensed further, heat creeping up the back of his neck. "Just... that you’ve been through a lot."

The second it left his mouth, Chan winced.

Too vague. Too telling.

Jeongin tilted his head, watching him. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just… knowing.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Minho talked.”

Chan opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“You don’t have to confirm,” Jeongin said with a sigh, eyes cutting away. “He does that. Says it like he’s concerned, but it still sounds like a case study.” He paused, then glanced over. “What’d he say?”

Chan hesitated. “Just that… you’ve had to figure a lot out. That things haven’t always been easy. That you’ve made it work, even when it meant being… resourceful.”

The word landed like a bruise.

Jeongin blinked. Slow. Deliberate. “Resourceful,” he repeated, mouth twisting like it tasted sour.

“I didn’t mean it like—”

“I’m not mad,” Jeongin said, waving him off. “It’s just… Minho’s version of me comes with subtitles. All quiet and tragic. Like I got tricked into being this way. Poor Jeongin. Shows up too pretty and too hungry, takes his dinner in dicks and pity.”

"Jeongin—" Chan started, helpless.

But Jeongin just laughed—sharp and sudden, like a spark catching dry grass—and leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

"God, no," he said, grin splitting wider. "Fuck that. I like sex."

Chan flinched, caught off guard by the casual brutality of it, but Jeongin didn’t slow down. Didn’t even blink.

"I like being a slut. I like getting railed so hard I forget my own name. I like having men twice my age wrapped around my little finger, begging to spoil me because I batted my lashes and said yes."

He jabbed a finger at Chan, reckless, almost playful, if it weren’t for the wildfire burning behind his eyes.

“I like getting off. I like getting paid. I like walking out of a hotel with a full stomach and their cologne on my jacket like it means something. I like doing whatever the fuck I want because it feels good.”

Chan sat frozen, heart hammering against his ribs, feeling like he’d walked straight into a fire and stood there, not sure if he was supposed to respond—if he even could.

Jeongin just smiled wider—wild and wicked and terrifyingly at ease.

"So don’t you for one fucking second," he said, voice dropping low and lethal, "think I’m not exactly where I want to be."

His smile was still there—bright, feral, gorgeous—but it didn’t reach his eyes anymore. His voice still rang a little too loud for a living room, still shaped like a performance. But underneath it—buried, barely breathing—was something quieter. Not soft. Just… worn. Familiar. Like a speech he’d practiced in a mirror too many times, daring himself to believe it.

Chan didn’t speak for a long moment.

Because Jeongin did mean it. Or needed to mean it. And maybe the truth was something in between—something Minho hadn’t gotten quite right, and Jeongin couldn’t afford to admit.

But either way, Chan had no script for this.

So he just nodded. Careful. Measured.

And didn’t look away.

Chan spent the rest of the week turning it over in his head—what Jeongin said, what Jeongin meant, and the uncomfortable, inescapable possibility that the two weren’t the same thing.

Because Chan had seen people talk like that before—loud and gleaming, eyes too bright, voice pitched like a dare. People who wore their pride like armor and their shame like glitter, who made a spectacle of the wound so no one would ask where it hurt.

It wasn’t the words that haunted him. It was the edge beneath them. The glint of something jagged, tucked too carefully behind every line. Like Jeongin had memorized his defense, but the more he repeated it, the less it sounded like belief and the more it sounded like survival.

Chan spent the rest of the week stewing. Not in fear, exactly. He told himself it wasn’t fear. It was discomfort. Annoyance. A nagging feeling he couldn’t shake off, like a splinter just under the skin.

He didn’t want Jeongin to be mad at him. Not because he cared about Jeongin’s friendship—he didn’t. He absolutely didn’t. It was just... easier.

If Jeongin hated him, if Jeongin pulled away, if Jeongin finally gave up whatever strange fixation he’d been harboring—

then Chan would be free.

That was the logical outcome. That was what he wanted.

And yet, he was the one who couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Every mixing session, every clattering late-night snack run with 3RACHA, every DJ set at the club—Jeongin lived in the back of his mind like static. Not loud. Not demanding. Just there. Buzzing underneath everything.

By the time Thursday dragged itself back around, Chan was half convinced he wouldn’t even make it through the door.

Maybe Jeongin would ignore him.

Maybe he'd ice him out, cut him down to size with a smile, and finally—mercifully—let Chan off the hook.

He should have known better.

When he slipped through the back entrance, gear case clattering behind him, the first thing he saw was Jeongin.

Full drag. Full grin. Full chaotic, unstoppable force of nature.

He was perched at the bar in something tiny and glittering, drink in hand, legs crossed like he owned the whole building. And when he spotted Chan, his smile didn’t falter for a second.

"Hey, sexy," Jeongin called across the room, lifting one glitter-tipped heel behind him in a mock pin-up pose. "You free later? I need someone to wreck my throat and my credit score."

His voice curled through the room like smoke, sweet and filthy and impossible to ignore.

Chan stumbled mid-step, nearly dropped his gear, caught himself with a muttered curse—and Jeongin just laughed, delighted, and went right back to terrorizing the bartender.

It was like that conversation had never even happened. Like it meant nothing. Like nothing had changed.

Jeongin was still Jeongin.

Loud. Shameless. Magnetic.

He ended up at Minho’s apartment again that night, crammed onto the floor with the others around the battered coffee table, sticky takeout containers spread like offerings between them.

And when the smoke break inevitably happened—Minho and a handful of queens peeling off to the balcony in a swirling cloud of laughter and nicotine—Chan found himself alone with Jeongin again.

The dread twisted low in his gut. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to start a conversation without stepping into another emotional landmine.

But Jeongin didn’t seem interested in emotional grenades tonight.

He sprawled onto his side, phone loose in his hand, absently flicking through what Chan belatedly realized was a hookup app. Bright profile pictures blurred under Jeongin’s thumb—sharp-jawed men, bare chests, captions like "bored and hosting" or "let’s make bad choices."

Jeongin clicked his tongue in mild frustration. "Ugh. Why is everyone so ugly tonight?"

Chan blinked, thrown off. "I—what?"

Jeongin tilted his phone toward him, shameless. "C'mon, hyung. Tell me. Is this one cute or just sad?"

The man on the screen was, objectively, fine. Muscles, soft smile, tragic little peace sign selfie.

Chan had no idea what made a good gay hookup.

He stared at the screen, panicked, and blurted, "Uh. He’s... fine?"

Jeongin made a face. "Yeah, fine’s a death sentence. Next."

He kept scrolling, asking for Chan’s opinion every few swipes, tossing sarcastic commentary at each poor soul unfortunate enough to appear in his radius.

It should have been uncomfortable.

It should have been mortifying.

But somehow—against all odds—it was almost funny.

Weirdly casual. Weirdly easy.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because it didn’t end there.

Over the next few weeks, it became a pattern. Thursday nights and late-night takeout at Minho’s. Jeongin sprawling next to him during smoke breaks, complaining about his options, dragging Chan into his ruthless critiques of the local gay dating scene.

The heavy, suffocating tension from that first week didn’t disappear. Not completely. But it frayed at the edges, wore thinner with every laugh, every eye-roll, every shared groan over someone's disastrous profile picture.

And somehow, without Chan meaning to, without even noticing, they became friends.

Real friends. The kind who bickered and snarked and stole fries off each other's plates without asking.

Mind you, it did absolutely nothing to tone down Jeongin’s advances.

If anything, they got worse.

Bolder. More absurd.

But Chan was starting to understand the rhythm of it now—the way Jeongin’s flirtations were more performance than proposition, more game than genuine invitation. And understanding made it easier to breathe.

Easier to roll his eyes and fire back a snarky comment without feeling like he was slipping into a trap.

Easier, maybe, to stop being afraid of him.

And that, Chan realized one night as Jeongin shoved his phone under his nose again and demanded to know if "getting a blowjob in a karaoke room counted as a first date", was almost more dangerous than the panic had ever been.

It was a ritual now.

Part of the rhythm.

Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped being an outsider. Not fully. Not loudly. But enough to fold into the current. Enough to know where to stand in Minho’s living room, which queen always stole the spicy dumplings, and that Jeongin would inevitably end up tucked against his side, loud and laughing, warm through the fabric of his sleeves, leaning into him like gravity had favorites.

Chan never said yes to any of this.

He just… hadn’t said no.

And week after week, that started to feel like the same thing.

He was crouched behind Minho in the green room when it happened—fumbling with the mic pack under layers of satin and sequins, while Minho, already in full Lina drag, tossed commentary over his shoulder like throwing knives.

"You’re all thumbs tonight, hyung," Lina sniped, adjusting a rhinestone cuff. "Try not to tape it to my ass this time."

Chan rolled his eyes, smoothing the wire flatter along the edge of the corset. "Maybe if you’d hold still for once."

Lina huffed dramatically, hands on her hips. "Some of us have standards."

Chan was half-listening, half-fighting the tangle of tape and wires, when Lina said it—offhand, like it was nothing.

"Try to make I.N.’s entrance clean, yeah? Birthday girl deserves at least that much."

Chan’s hands froze. “It’s Jeongin’s birthday?"

Lina caught his reflection in the mirror and immediately clocked the confusion written all over his face. Her brows lifted, sharp and knowing. "You didn’t know?"

Chan shook his head, mute.

For a second, Lina just looked at him, something almost pitying flickering across her face before she smoothed it over with a dramatic sigh—the kind reserved for a particularly stupid cat knocking a vase off the counter.

"Of course he didn’t tell you," she muttered, turning back to her earrings. "That little shit thinks everything’s a fucking game.”

She snapped the clasp into place, adjusting it with a flick of her fingers. "Don’t get weird about it," she said, tone light, almost bored. "He didn’t want anything special. So we’ll do the usual. Eat garbage, steal my dumplings, and try not to burn down my apartment lighting birthday candles."

A shrug.

Careless.

Effortless.

Like it was no big deal at all.

"But if he acts surprised, just pretend you didn't know either."

Chan nodded numbly, brain stuck in the part where he hadn’t known.

Not a hint. Not a comment. Not a single clue dropped, even by accident.

Jeongin, who would flirt outrageously, cling shamelessly, demand Chan’s opinion on the most degenerate hookup profiles imaginable had said nothing about something as basic as his own birthday.

He hadn’t even joked about it. Hadn’t teased it. Hadn’t given Chan the chance to notice.

And maybe it wasn’t that strange. They weren’t that close. Not really.

But the realization still sat wrong with him. A small, sharp wrongness under his ribs, pressing harder the longer he thought about it.

Because Jeongin was never direct about anything.

But this—this felt intentional.

Because if there was one thing Chan had learned about Jeongin, it was that nothing he hid was by accident.

The show rolled on like always—thundering bass, lights cutting across the crowd, the sound booth rattling faintly under Chan’s hands.

He adjusted the levels on instinct, fingers skating over the board without thinking.

He was supposed to be working. Supposed to be focused.

And yet—

his eyes kept drifting.

Because it was Jeongin’s birthday. And he hadn’t known.

And somehow that made tonight feel like it should be different, even if everything onstage looked the same.

When I.N. hit the stage, the room leaned toward her like it always did. A flash of sequins, a wicked grin, hands dragging slow and deliberate over glittering skin.

It wasn’t new. It wasn’t special.

But Chan watched too closely anyway—tracking the roll of I.N.'s hips, the sinuous sweep of her hand down the line of her body—until heat prickled low in his gut and he forced himself to look away.

Chan fiddled with the EQ, not because it needed adjusting, but because staring felt—Not wrong. Just... distracting.

It didn’t mean anything. He wouldn’t let it.

He was just doing his job. Keeping the levels clean. Making sure Jeongin had a perfect show.

Nothing more.

The rest of the night rolled on without missing a beat.

Queens paraded across the stage, drunk on spotlight and applause, while Chan hovered in the booth, adjusting levels, cueing tracks, pretending not to think too hard about the way I.N. had winked into the crowd like she could break hearts by accident.

By the time the last number closed out, the usual chaos had already spilled into the alley. They crossed the street in a loose, noisy flock, laughter and cigarette smoke curling around them like threadbare jackets.

Jeongin linked onto Chan’s arm halfway there, hooking their elbows together with a casualness that shouldn't have made Chan's throat feel tight.

It was the same as always.

Glitter still clung stubbornly in his hairline and smudges of mascara ghosted in the corners of his eyes. The night always left fingerprints he couldn't wash off, no matter how hard he tried.

Jeongin leaned into him, body warm through the thin cling of his hoodie.
Jeongin laughing too loudly at something Lina said, tossing his head back and bumping against Chan's side like a buoy in a rough sea.

It should have felt the same.

But it didn’t.

Because now Chan knew.

Knew it was Jeongin’s birthday.

Knew that in the quiet spaces between shows and takeout containers and smoke breaks, Jeongin had crossed some invisible line—a year older, a little further away.

And Chan hadn’t known until it was too late to do anything about it.

He shifted the takeout bag against his side, feeling the easy pull of Jeongin’s weight on his arm, the small, thoughtless way he fit there like it had always been his place.

And still, that wrongness gnawed at him.

A whole year. A whole piece of Jeongin’s life he hadn’t been trusted to see.

They reached Minho’s apartment in a noisy wave, queens kicking their shoes off at the door, someone immediately shouting about ordering soju before the stores closed.

Inside, it smelled like leftover perfume and cheap fried food, the walls still humming faintly from a bassline long gone.

It wasn’t a party, not really. Just their usual post-show routine—takeout, floor pillows, loud queens in oversized hoodies—but everything was brighter. Louder. Someone brought a cake that looked like it had been assaulted with glitter. There were candles in every color. Twenty of them. Tall, thin, jammed into the frosting like a war crime, flames flickering dangerously low and dripping wax onto Minho’s poor coffee table before anyone thought to grab a plate to catch it.

"Jesus Christ," Minho muttered, waving smoke away from his face. "Someone blow them out before we have to call the fire department.”

The queens hooted, shoving the cake toward Jeongin with the subtlety of a drunk stampede.

"Make a wish, birthday bitch!" someone crowed.

The night felt chaotic, but on purpose. Like celebration layered over ritual. A little more laughter, a little more shouting, a couple extra shots of soju that no one kept track of. Chan somehow ended up wedged on the floor between a very drunk Minho and an even drunker Jeongin, who was already leaning on him like it was his assigned seat.

Jeongin was glowing.

That was the only word for it. Not glamorous, not polished—he wasn’t in drag anymore. His hoodie was too big, hair damp and curling into his forehead, cheeks flushed pink from the soju and attention. But he looked bright.

Alive.

The center of gravity.

And he wasn’t used to it. Not like this.

For all the noise he made, all the scenes he stole, there was something strangely shy about the way he smiled when people toasted him. Something in the way he looked down when Kim Bora clinked his glass and yelled “to our favorite slut!” with tearful sincerity.

He was still loud—still read everyone to filth like it was his job—but there was a softness to him tonight. A light behind the chaos.

And through it all, he didn’t let go of Chan.

Chan didn’t know when it started—maybe halfway through his second bottle, maybe the second Jeongin curled into his side like furniture—but it just became a fact of the evening. Jeongin’s hand around his arm, Jeongin’s shoulder against his, Jeongin yelling over the queens with his pinky hooked in Chan’s hoodie drawstring like he might float off without an anchor.

It was absurd. Chan should’ve been mortified.

But somehow, he wasn’t.

He laughed when Jeongin pouted over not getting the last dumpling, bottom lip stuck out so theatrically Chan almost offered him his own just to shut him up.

He grinned when Jeongin fake-sobbed into Minho’s shoulder about "being wronged on my special day," only to get a chopstick flicked at his forehead in retaliation.

He shook his head when Jeongin tried to open another bottle of soju and immediately sloshed half of it onto the table—then, to a chorus of delighted shrieks, dropped down and slurped it straight off the surface like a raccoon at a buffet, grinning wickedly the entire time.

It was stupid. It was messy. It was loud and dizzy and a little too bright around the edges.

But it was fun.

Real fun.

And Chan couldn’t stop watching him.

Not in the way he usually did, half-wary and half-dazzled by the sheer force of Jeongin’s presence. Tonight, it was smaller. Quieter.

Just Jeongin bright and easy and boyish in a way Chan didn’t usually get to see when the lights were low and the stage was waiting.

Somewhere around two in the morning, the night started thinning out.

The queens—messy, loud, tipsy—shuffled toward the door in a clump, chattering about needing "a smoke and a sanity check."

Someone called back over their shoulder, "Don’t let the birthday bitch drink the candle wax!” which earned a middle finger from Jeongin without him even lifting his head.

Then they were gone.

The door clicked shut. The apartment sagged into quiet.

And Chan realized, belatedly, that he and Jeongin were alone.

Jeongin was sprawled half across him, head tipped against Chan’s thigh, one arm loosely thrown around Chan’s hips like he couldn’t be bothered to hold himself up anymore.

He was giggling under his breath at something Chan hadn’t even heard, all loose-limbed and boneless from alcohol and exhaustion and whatever leftover sugar high the cake had given him.

It should have been awkward.

It wasn’t.

Not really.

Jeongin tugged lazily at the strings of Chan’s hoodie, twining them around his fingers like a cat playing with yarn.

"You’re quiet, hyung," he said, poking Chan’s stomach with a knuckle. "Brooding? Thinking about dumplings you didn’t get?"

Chan snorted, batting his hand away. "I’m thinking about how you’re gonna drool all over my pants if you pass out."

Jeongin’s grin went sharp, teeth flashing wicked. "Aw, hyung," he purred, giving the hoodie strings a teasing tug, "if you wanted something wet on your lap, you could’ve just asked."

Chan didn’t even blink. "Pretty sure that’s a biohazard violation," he said dryly. "Try pissing yourself first and work your way up.”

Chan just grinned, shifting so Jeongin tumbled even further against him—like throwing gas on a fire he’d already accepted he couldn't put out.

Jeongin cackled, scandalized—then, without missing a beat, leaned in closer, voice dropping into a low, mock-innocent murmur. "Careful," he said, twirling the hoodie string around his finger, "or I might start thinking you’re into that."

Chan barked a laugh, shoving Jeongin lightly off his lap without an ounce of panic. "Not even for your birthday, princess."

Jeongin collapsed against the floor in a heap, clutching Chan’s hoodie string like a trophy, still giggling helplessly.

Chan just sat there smirking—warm, buzzed, and way too comfortable with how easy it had gotten to let Jeongin crawl all over him.

He didn’t even think about it anymore—the way he leaned in. The way he smiled back.

It was easy now.

Dangerously easy.

And he wasn’t sure when that had happened.

Jeongin stretched lazily, then slumped back against the couch, head tilted toward Chan with a small, satisfied hum. His lashes fluttered. His lips still curled with mischief.

“I think I’m drunk,” he said, like a confession and a dare.

Chan raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“Not messy drunk,” Jeongin clarified. “Just soft drunk. Birthday drunk.”

Chan snorted. “Is that a real category?”

Jeongin shrugged, nuzzling slightly against Chan's side like a cat getting comfortable. "I made it up. You have to be at least three sojus in and moderately adored."

"You're more than moderately adored," Chan said before he could think better of it—warm, stupid truth slipping out too easily.

Jeongin blinked at him. Smile faltered—small, quick—before slotting back into place, lighter, brighter, almost shy.

"Don't get sappy on me, hyung," he said, teasing again, even as his fingers found the drawstrings of Chan’s hoodie and resumed idly tugging at them. "I'm still trying to get you to tell me what size shoes you wear."

Chan rolled his eyes. "Absolutely not."

"I bet it’s cute. Petite."

"Do you ever stop?"

"Not when I’m winning."

Chan was smiling before he realized it. Small. Soft. Unworried.

Because this—somehow—wasn’t frightening anymore.

Jeongin was still chaos, still crass, still entirely too good at wrapping Chan around his finger.

But this quiet version—this soft drunk, pink-cheeked Jeongin with a death grip on Chan’s hoodie?

This, Chan could handle.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind the grip so much anymore.

Jeongin’s fingers brushed his wrist, warm and thoughtless, tugging lightly, anchoring him.

And Chan—buzzed, loose, happy—let himself lean into it, just a little. Just enough that their knees bumped. Just enough that Jeongin huffed a soft little laugh and nudged closer in turn.

It was stupid how natural it felt.

The room blurred around the edges—low music still playing, takeout containers sagging half-open on the table, glitter still stubborn in the cracks of the couch.

It was just them.

Close and easy.

Warm and soft.

And then—without thinking, without planning, without any fanfare at all—

Jeongin tugged the hoodie strings one last time, a little too hard, a little too close, and Chan tipped forward at exactly the wrong (or right) moment.

Their mouths bumped together—clumsy, breathless, stupid.

Not a kiss, not really.

A drunk collision.

A mess of too-close teeth and startled laughter.

But even as it happened—even as their lips grazed, sloppy and sudden—Chan knew.

It wasn’t an accident.

He felt it in the way Jeongin held the strings too tight, too sure. In the sharp little glint in his eye as their noses brushed.

Chan let out a shaky laugh—half mortified, half exasperated—and muttered, "You’re such an asshole," against Jeongin’s mouth.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move at all.

And Jeongin just smiled.

Slow. Crooked. Wicked.

And then he leaned in again—tilted his chin, slotted their mouths together properly this time, no clumsiness, no accident, no hesitation.

The world tilted sideways for a second. Warmth spilled down Chan’s spine in a rush he wasn’t ready for.

And somehow, he didn’t pull back. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t flinch or deflect or say, What the fuck are you doing?

Because it was a trap. It had to be. That laugh said it all—sharp and bright and triumphant. Jeongin had meant to do it. Maybe not consciously. Maybe not carefully. But he’d still meant it.

Chan should have shoved him off right there. Should have laughed it off, clapped him on the back, called him a drunk idiot and ended it.

But before he could even catch his breath, Jeongin was tugging harder at the hoodie strings, using them like reins—pulling Chan right back in.

And this time when their mouths met, it wasn’t a stumble. It was deliberate.

Slow. Soft.

And to Chan’s horror, he kissed back.

Reflexive. Instinctive.

A hot, helpless spark down his spine that made his fingers twitch against the floor, like he didn’t know whether to anchor himself or shove Jeongin away.

He didn’t move at all.

And Jeongin—grinning against his mouth like he owned him—just kept going. 

Chan’s heart hammered so hard it drowned out the music, the city noise, everything but the heat curling low in his gut and the absolute trainwreck of thoughts screaming behind his eyes. But his hands—traitorous, slow—just found Jeongin’s hips instead, gripping too loose, too hesitant, not pulling, not pushing.

And Jeongin smiled against his mouth, soft and drunk and unbearably sweet.

It felt good.

Too good.

The kind of good that made Chan’s stomach twist. Because he shouldn’t like this. Shouldn’t be responding. His breath hitched. His brain screamed. But his body—

His body leaned in. Fisted the hem of Jeongin’s shirt. Dragged him closer.

His fingers dug into Jeongin’s waist, brushing bare skin under soft cotton, and he told himself it was instinct—

Muscle memory from old girlfriends.

A reflex.

An accident.

But Jeongin wasn’t a woman.

And Chan couldn’t pretend he didn’t know that.

Still, his thoughts clawed for excuses.

It’s the soju.

It’s been a long time.

He looks different in drag.

His mouth is soft. That’s not weird. Right? That’s not gay, that’s just—human.

But none of it helped.

Because Jeongin’s tongue brushed his lower lip and Chan made a sound—quiet, startled, a gasp he didn’t mean to let out—and Jeongin grinned against his mouth like he’d won something.

And then climbed into Chan’s lap, straddling his thighs without hesitation, without fear. Towering over him now, weight warm and bold and shameless across his thighs.

Chan’s whole body lit up—nerves scrambled, thoughts fracturing into static. He gripped Jeongin’s waist like he was trying to anchor himself to reality, but all he could feel was soft skin, a warm mouth, and the shocking hum of arousal pressing low in his gut.

Jeongin rocked once, just slightly.

Chan’s hips twitched.

His panic exploded.

Because he was half hard.

Because he shouldn’t be.

Because this was a man in his lap and it was turning him on and no amount of excuses could undo that.

Jeongin pulled back just enough to speak, still close enough to feel like a flame licking the edge of something dangerous. “I’ll let you fuck me,” he whispered, grin still lazy, eyes glittering, “if you bring me home tonight.”

Chan froze.

His blood stopped cold.

It didn’t feel romantic.

It didn’t feel tender.

It felt like an offer.

A dare.

“I—” he stammered, “You’re drunk.”

Jeongin laughed—low, amused, annoyingly clear. “I won’t be by the time we get there,” he said simply. “You know that.”

And Chan did know.

But he didn’t say yes.

Didn’t say no.

Didn’t move.

And that—that was the problem.

Because it should’ve been a no. An easy no. A what the fuck are you talking about no.

But instead he sat there, blinking, breath shallow, hard under Jeongin’s weight and unable to answer.

Because part of him wanted to.

Not all of him. Not out loud.

Just the part of him that grabbed Jeongin harder, that catalogued every place their bodies touched, that counted the ways Jeongin’s softness felt familiar and feminine enough to justify the stir in his gut.

And Jeongin saw it.

He saw all of it.

But he didn’t gloat.

Didn’t push.

Just pulled back slowly, slid off Chan’s lap with a little huff like it was nothing, like Chan was the one making it weird. 

The loss of Jeongin’s weight was jarring, like a rope going slack too fast.

Jeongin straightened his hoodie, ran a hand through his hair, then turned for the kitchen. “It’s just an offer,” he said, light and easy again. Like nothing had happened. Like that hadn’t been the most terrifying sentence Chan had ever heard. “If you’re not into it, I’ll find someone else.”

He said it like it was normal.

Like it was routine.

Just another night. Just another man. Just another choice.

And it should have been a relief. It should have been mercy. But all it felt like was a door closing that he hadn't meant to open. Chan sat there—still silent, still burning, dick half-hard and thoughts roiling like static, trying to remember what he was supposed to believe about himself.

And wondering when exactly all of that had started to fall apart.

The rest of the night blurred.

Not in the way nights usually blurred—not with drinks or exhaustion or music too loud to hold thoughts. This was different. A blur of noise outside and static inside. A wall of laughter in the room, and one long, unrelenting siren screaming inside Chan’s skull.

Jeongin was acting like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t kissed Chan like it meant something. Like he hadn’t offered his body like it didn’t. Like he hadn’t murmured an offer into his skin—something reckless and raw, something that had cracked open a door Chan wasn’t ready to look behind.

Like he hadn’t made it sound effortless. Disposable. Normal.

And now he was sitting across the room, curled into a blanket with one hand tucked under his chin, flipping through his phone like he was bored.

Because he probably was.

Because this wasn’t special.

Because Chan hadn’t said yes.

And Jeongin wasn’t the type to wait around for maybes.

Chan swallowed hard and stared at the floor.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this.

He shouldn’t be considering anything.

What the hell was he doing?

You don’t even know how to have gay sex, he told himself. Fiercely. Silently. You wouldn’t even know what to do.

And then, worse: Why are you worried about that?

Why was that the panic?

Why was that the thought that kept spinning instead of no?

Why wasn’t the thought just I’m not going to?

Because he wasn’t. He wasn’t going to.

He wasn’t… this. He wasn’t gay. He’d never even thought about having sex with a man before. He’d had girlfriends. He liked women. Curves and softness and long hair and perfume. He’d spent his whole life sure of that. Stable in that.

So why—

Why was his heart racing?

Why was he still thinking about Jeongin’s mouth? The heat of his thighs? The curl of his fingers in Chan’s hoodie?

It didn’t mean anything.

He was just confused.

Drunk.

(He wasn’t.)

He was… warm. A little buzzed. But nowhere near gone enough to blame this on alcohol.

So then it was a trick of the eye. A sleight of hand. His body got confused. Thought it was a woman. That’s it. That’s all. It didn’t mean anything.

But Jeongin had kissed him.

And Chan had kissed back.

And now Jeongin was swiping through his phone—hookup app, obviously—face slack, mouth tilted into that bored little smirk he wore when he was deciding who he felt like ruining next.

Because he was going to go home with someone.

He was.

He’d offered it to Chan first, and Chan hadn’t said yes, and now—now he was going to find someone else.

Because he could. Because he would.

The night wound down in a slow, chaotic sprawl—takeout containers scraped empty, soju bottles knocked over like bowling pins, the queens slowly collecting their things in a storm of makeup wipes and half-hearted complaints.

Jeongin stayed draped across the couch like a cat that had no plans to move, swiping lazily through his phone.

And then the chirp of a match notification sounded, and one of the queens leaned over and peered at his screen.

"Ooooh, birthday girl’s got a date!" she crowed, loud enough to make everyone still in the room look up and cheer.

"Slut," someone shouted fondly.

"Icon," another corrected.

"Who the hell even wants to fuck at this hour?" Minho snorted with the resigned air of a man who had long ago given up trying to understand Jeongin’s chaos.

Jeongin just shrugged, smug and serene, stretching his arms overhead until his hoodie rode up and revealed a sliver of bare waist.

"What can I say," he drawled, "I’m irresistible."

The laughter chased them all the way out the door.

Chan followed in a daze, clutching his jacket, mind roaring with all the things he wasn’t feeling.

This was good.

This was normal.

Jeongin always had hookups lined up after a show.

It had never mattered before.

It didn’t matter now.

Definitely didn’t matter.

Chan’s jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it.

Outside, the air was sharp and cold, biting against sweat-damp skin. The queens scattered in pairs, drunk and happy and careless.

Jeongin lingered just ahead, phone pressed to his ear, swaying a little as he waited for the call to connect.

And when the line picked up Jeongin’s voice changed instantly, slipping into something high and bratty and saccharine-sweet, the kind of tone Chan had only ever heard him use when he was playing someone like a fiddle.

"Hiii," Jeongin purred, twirling a lock of his hair around his finger. "You still up, handsome? Still wanna—"

Chan moved before he thought about it.

Snatched the phone right out of Jeongin’s hand and hung up.

Jeongin blinked at him, stunned into rare silence.

"Hyung—?"

But Chan had already grabbed his hand—tight, certain—and was pulling him down the sidewalk without a word.

Jeongin stumbled after him, breathless and laughing, confusion flickering across his face.

"Wait, wait—" he gasped, catching up, blinking rapid and wide-eyed, like he wasn’t sure what was happening. “Wait really?”

And when Chan didn’t let go—when Chan didn’t look back, didn’t explain, just kept walking faster, pulling him closer, desperate and furious and wrecked—Jeongin’s confusion cracked wide open into something brighter.

He grinned. Sharp and wild and a little breathless. A grin that stretched wider and wider the farther they went. Like he couldn’t believe it. Like he’d finally won.

Like he'd been waiting for Chan to break.

And now that he had—now that the dam was cracked and crumbling—there was no point pretending either of them could put it back together.

Somehow they made it to Jeongin’s moped—hands fumbling with the keys, helmets forgotten, logic abandoned—and Chan didn’t even think, just climbed on behind him, fists curling tight in Jeongin’s hoodie as they tore down the empty streets, the city blurring past in a smear of neon and night air.

It was reckless.

It was stupid.

It was already too late to stop.

The ride to Chan’s apartment passed in a rush of cold air and heartbeat thunder, neither of them speaking, neither of them daring to.

The door had barely clicked shut behind them before Jeongin was on him.

Chan stumbled back—half-shoved, half-dragged—until his shoulders hit the wall with a dull thud. Jeongin’s body pressed up against his, all heat and urgency and maddening confidence, hands already sliding up under Chan’s jacket like he owned the place.

Like he owned him.

Chan gasped, hands flying up instinctively—not to push him away, but to catch him. To anchor himself against the sudden rush of weight and heat and want.

It was dizzying.

It was terrifying.

Jeongin kissed him hard—none of the softness from earlier, none of the careful asking. Just want, straight and unfiltered, poured into Chan’s mouth like it was a need he couldn’t hold back anymore.

Chan’s head spun.

He was used to women being softer. Slower. Cautious hands, tentative mouths, waiting for him to take the lead.

Jeongin didn’t wait.

Jeongin took.

His fingers twisted into Chan’s jacket, tugging him lower, grinding up against him like he wasn’t afraid of the space he occupied. Like he wasn’t worried about second thoughts. Like he was sure—goddamn sure—of what he wanted, and even surer he was going to get it.

Chan let out a broken sound against his mouth. Hands clutched at Jeongin’s hips—unthinking, scrambling for balance more than control. Jeongin just pressed closer, teeth grazing Chan’s bottom lip, a low hum vibrating between them.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

Chan squeezed his eyes shut, breath heaving against the kiss, and for a second—just a second—his brain snapped awake, screaming.

What the fuck are you doing?

Your parents. They’re helping you pay for this apartment. They sent you care packages and good luck notes and handwritten prayers tucked between ramen packets and vitamins, and you’re letting a man pin you against the front door to fuck like a goddamn animal.

Guilt slammed into him—sharp and cold.

This wasn’t who he was.

It couldn’t be.

This had to be desperation. Had to be.

Some act of morbid curiosity. Some fucked-up collision of loneliness and boredom and something in him breaking.

Because he wasn’t gay.

He wasn’t gay.

Chan clutched at Jeongin’s waist, fumbling, trying to steady him—steady himself—hands fitting too easily into the curve of Jeongin’s hips, where his jeans clung tight and low and fuck, he was soft there. Small waist, soft thighs, pressed up against him like temptation in human form.

Chan squeezed his eyes shut. Focused on that. On the waist. The softness. The familiar curve where a woman’s body might be.

That’s all it is, he told himself. That’s all you’re reacting to. Muscle memory. Confusion.

Except—

Except then Jeongin shifted, nosed along his jawline, and Chan felt it.

The faintest grit of stubble growing back in.

The wrongness of it.

The rightness of it.

A rasp of something male, something undeniably real, against his skin.

Chan flinched—but Jeongin only grinned against his throat, hands sliding lower, gripping Chan’s hips like he had every right to them.

Chan’s breath caught.

He tried again—focused, desperate—to find the right things.

The smallness of Jeongin’s frame. The gloss of his lips. The tilt of his neck when he laughed low against Chan’s pulse point.

Just a very feminine man, Chan lied to himself. You’re just drunk. You’re just lonely. It’s been a while. That’s all.

But then Jeongin ground against him, slow and filthy, and there was nothing confusing about that.

No softness there. No pretending.

Hard lines. Hard hips. Hard want.

Undeniable.

And yet here he was—heart racing, hands skimming up under Jeongin’s shirt, feeling bare skin and soft muscle and the low, shuddery sound Jeongin made when Chan touched just right.

Here he was—letting Jeongin pin him against the door, mouth hot and relentless against his jawline, gasping into the hollow of his throat.

Here he was—gripping Jeongin’s hips harder, dragging him closer, chasing the friction like he needed it to breathe.

Here he was—wanting.

Wanting Jeongin.

Wanting this.

Wanting more.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, fighting it, fighting himself, fighting the overwhelming, electric rightness of Jeongin’s body against his.

This wasn’t him.

This couldn’t be him.

But Jeongin wasn’t doubting. Wasn’t hesitating. Wasn’t second-guessing.

He just kissed Chan harder—biting his bottom lip, dragging a breathless, wrecked sound out of him—and smiled against his mouth like he knew exactly how close Chan was to falling apart completely.

And maybe that scared Chan more than anything else.

Because he wasn’t running.

Because he wasn’t saying no.

Jeongin shifted again, grinding down rougher now, more purposeful—like he wasn’t just trying to tease anymore, like he was trying to break him.

Chan gasped into the kiss, hips jerking without meaning to, chasing friction before his brain could stop him—

And then he panicked.

Full-blown, chest-seizing, throat-closing panic.

He shoved—hands flat against Jeongin’s chest, pushing him back just enough to gasp, to think, to remember himself.

“Wait—” he blurted out, voice cracking sharp and high.

Jeongin stopped instantly. Didn’t force it. Just eased back a little, cocking his head, hair messy, lips still shiny from the kiss.

There was a beat—a tense, awful beat—where Chan was sure he’d fucked everything up.

Instead, Jeongin just looked at him. Lazy. Amused.

And said, “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

Chan flushed so hard he felt sick.

“No,” he snapped, defensive and brittle. Then, quieter, because he couldn’t lie, “I’ve just… never done this with a man before.”

He hated how small it sounded. How naked.

Jeongin blinked once. Unbothered.

And then shrugged.

“What?” he said, voice flat. “You want a gold star?”

It wasn’t cruel exactly—but it wasn’t kind either. It was dismissive. Casual.

Like it didn’t matter at all.

Like Chan’s big confession wasn’t even worth a reaction.

Chan stood there, frozen, swallowing down humiliation and guilt and the awful, confused arousal that burned under his skin like a second heartbeat.

He should have been embarrassed.

And he was.

But the way Jeongin looked at him—steady, unbothered, already turning away like Chan was old news—made something twist low in his gut.

Made something stir.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

Grabbed Jeongin’s hips. Yanked him close.

Crashed their mouths back together.

But even then—even with Chan taking the lead, desperate to reclaim some control—Jeongin didn’t really give it up.

He let Chan grab him. Let him pull.

But the second their mouths met again, Jeongin took over without hesitation.

He kissed Chan deeper, slower, mouth sliding over his like he owned it. His hands weren’t frantic like Chan’s—they were sure. Guiding. Mapping out Chan’s body with smooth, certain drags of his palms. One hand fisted into Chan’s hoodie, the other slipping up the back of his neck, keeping him there—tilting his head exactly where Jeongin wanted him.

And Chan—

Chan let him.

Without thinking, without meaning to—he gave in.

Let Jeongin guide the rhythm, deepen the kiss, control the tension between them like it was a leash he tugged at will.

And God help him, it felt good.

Jeongin angled his hips against Chan’s again—grinding slow and dirty—and Chan whimpered into the kiss, knees threatening to give out. His hands scrambled for purchase—Jeongin’s waist, his back, his thighs—but they didn’t push anymore.

They pulled.

Dragged Jeongin closer, clung to him like he didn’t know how to breathe without it.

And Jeongin just smiled against his mouth, smug and devastating.

He didn’t even have to try.

Chan was already undone.

Already giving himself up, one kiss, one gasp, one shaky touch at a time.

And when Jeongin’s teeth scraped his jawline, when his hips rolled slow and ruthless against Chan’s cock, all the stupid rationalizing, all the pathetic excuses about being confused or lonely or just tricked by the softness of Jeongin’s waist burned to ash, because there was nothing confusing about the way Chan was grinding back, chasing every little flicker of friction Jeongin gave him. Nothing confusing about how good it felt to let Jeongin manhandle him. To stop thinking. To stop deciding. To just be wanted like this—wrecked and desperate and easy.

Chan squeezed his eyes shut and let it happen. Let Jeongin pin him to the wall, kiss him raw, take what he wanted. Because somehow, somewhere along the way Chan had started wanting it too.

Somehow, they made it to the bedroom.

Chan didn’t remember the steps between the door and here. Just a blur of heat, of hands, of Jeongin’s body pressed to his—insistent, laughing under his breath, tugging Chan along like it was inevitable.

Chan stumbled backward until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and Jeongin climbed into his lap without asking, without hesitating, and all Chan could do was sit there, hands hovering uselessly, brain static with the weight of it.

Of him.

It wasn’t like with girls—where Chan knew the rhythm, the steps, the right way to touch without pushing too far.

This was different.

Rawer. Rougher. More real.

Jeongin wasn’t delicate. He wasn’t pretending to be something fragile. He bit at Chan’s jaw, scraped nails down his chest, moved against him like he knew exactly how to make Chan squirm and loved it.

But somehow—Somehow, he was still gentle.

When Chan froze, Jeongin noticed. When Chan’s hands trembled, Jeongin slowed. When Chan started breathing too fast, Jeongin kissed him softer—slower—guiding him back from the edge like it was second nature.

“You’re topping,” Jeongin said eventually, matter-of-fact, voice low and amused against Chan’s mouth. “Trust me. It’s easier. Straight boys freak less that way.”

Chan burned all over—humiliated, grateful, wrecked.

Jeongin just smiled like he already knew.

Rolled his hips once, slow and filthy, dragging a broken noise out of Chan’s throat.

Then—like it was nothing—Jeongin slid off Chan’s lap, peeled the rest of his clothes off with lazy flicks of his wrists, and sprawled back on the bed like he was sunbathing.

“Enjoy the view, hyung,” he teased, winking, voice low and dirty.

Chan flushed violently.

And he couldn't look away.

No matter how hard he tried to remind himself that this was wrong, that this was crazy, that he needed to stop—his eyes stayed locked.

Because Jeongin wasn’t hiding anything now.

There was no glitter, no lashes, no illusion of drag softening the reality.

Just Jeongin.

Stripped bare.

Chest flat and dusted with faint freckles. Stomach taut and smooth, interrupted only by the light dip of his navel. And lower—God—lower, the undeniable proof that there was no woman lying in front of him.

A cock, heavy and flushed against his thigh, careless and natural and wrong in a way that made Chan’s brain glitch out completely.

He’s a man.

He’s a man and he’s naked and he’s offering himself to you and you’re not running.

Chan’s mouth was dry.

His palms were sweating.

He couldn’t deny it anymore. Couldn’t pretend he was confused or tricked or momentarily deluded by soju and glitter.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

He was hooking up with Jeongin.

He was about to fuck another man.

And that reality crashed into him like a freight train—sharp, breathless, unforgiving.

He didn’t know what to do with it.

He’d never done this before.

Never even thought about doing this before.

This wasn’t some faceless fantasy or a drunken dare. It was real. Raw. Solid flesh and muscle stretched out before him, so fucking casual about it, while Chan sat there on the edge of the bed like he was about to jump out of his skin.

He moved stiffly, clumsy as a kid again, like he was too big for his own body—shoulders hiked awkwardly, hands hovering helplessly between them.

Jeongin didn’t seem to notice. Or didn’t care.

He just grabbed a bottle of lube—because of course he had one—and said, totally casual, “Hold up. Gotta prep.”

Chan blinked at him, mind stuttering.

Prep?

He didn’t know what that meant. Not really.

Some dim, horrified part of his brain understood the basics, but the reality—what it actually involved—sat like a brick in his throat.

Jeongin caught his expression and laughed under his breath—quiet, raspy, not unkind. “You really are a baby.” More amused than anything, like he found Chan’s wide-eyed panic endearing.

Chan clenched the sheets, swallowing down the rising panic.

“It’s just stretching,” Jeongin explained, slicking his fingers with an easy efficiency that made Chan’s face burn hotter. "Otherwise, it fucking hurts and you’ll ruin my night."

Chan’s stomach twisted violently.

Hurt?

He hadn't even thought about that.

Hadn't thought about anything beyond the sheer, blinding wrongness of this—this whole night—and now he had to sit there and watch Jeongin prepare himself to take Chan inside him?

His palms were slick with sweat. His throat felt too tight to swallow.

"I—" he croaked, and immediately wanted to die. Wanted to crawl out of his own skin and disappear.

Jeongin just smirked.

"Relax, hyung," he said, sliding down onto his back, spreading his legs without shame, lazy and confident. His thighs—God, his thighs—were pale and soft-looking, dappled slightly with old bruises and glitter that clung stubbornly to his skin. "You'll like it. Promise."

Chan doubted he would survive it.

He doubted he would survive the next five minutes.

Because Jeongin slicked his fingers casually and, without a hint of embarrassment, slid one inside himself—hissing faintly, more out of pleasure than pain.

Chan’s whole body locked up.

He watched—helpless, frozen—as Jeongin stretched himself open. Slowly. Methodically.

He talked while he did it, almost conversational, like it was no big deal.

"One finger to start,” Jeongin said, voice low and steady. “Not too deep. Just loosening up the rim. Nothing too scary yet, hyung.”

Chan sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, every nerve in his body screaming. He didn’t know where to put his hands, where to look, how to be.

Jeongin kept going, coaching like it was second nature, all while slowly, patiently working himself open. "Second finger," he murmured, voice low and a little breathless now. "Feels tight now. Hurts a little. But it gets better.”

The soft grunt Jeongin made when he pushed the second finger in, the way his lashes fluttered, damp with sweat, the slight rasp of his breathing—It was too much.

Too real.

Chan squeezed his knees together like it would somehow keep him from flying apart.

This was insane.

This was insane and messy and real in a way that terrified him down to his bones.

And Jeongin—Jeongin wasn’t trying to hide any of it. He wasn't making it prettier, or easier, or less.

He was just showing him.

Letting Chan see every part of it.

Every obscene, private detail.

And Chan—God help him—couldn’t look away.

"You good?" Jeongin asked lightly, glancing up, smirk curving his mouth.

Chan nodded, but it felt like lying.

Still, Jeongin smiled—pleased and smug—and worked himself open with steady little thrusts, hips twitching up slightly with each careful push.

“Helps when you’re turned on,” Jeongin said, breathier now, voice dropping. “Good thing I’m dripping for you already, huh?”

Chan made a sound that wasn’t quite human.

Jeongin just laughed again—quiet and cruel and fond—and finally, finally, when he judged himself ready, he slinked back into Chan’s lap, crawling up like a cat.

“See?” he whispered, nosing along Chan’s jawline. “Easy.”

Chan shuddered under him.

It wasn’t easy.

None of this was.

"Still with me, hyung?" Jeongin murmured, nudging Chan’s jaw with the tip of his nose, voice low and coaxing.

Chan nodded, dizzy and silent.

Jeongin smiled wider—sharp and wicked—and tugged at the hem of Chan’s hoodie, peeling it off like he was unwrapping something he owned.

"Arms up," he teased. "Come on, you can do that much."

Chan obeyed, hands shaking a little.

Jeongin didn’t miss it. Of course he didn’t. But he didn’t say anything—just stripped him slow, steady, until Chan was bare under him, burning hot and helpless in the cool air.

He didn’t mock him. Not exactly.

He just made it obvious he saw everything—every tremble, every stumble—and loved it.

When Chan sat there, stripped to nothing but raw nerves, Jeongin hummed under his breath and reached to his clothes, fishing out a condom with a casual flick of his wrist.

He tore it open between his teeth, slow and showy, and palmed Chan’s cock like he had all the time in the world.

Chan jolted—half from shock, half from how good it felt—but Jeongin just smirked.

"Relax, hyung," he said, slow-stroking him shamelessly. "You're already embarrassing yourself enough."

Chan made a broken noise—half protest, half plea—and Jeongin just laughed quietly, pleased.

He rolled the condom down over him with careful hands, working Chan fully hard without even trying, watching him with a smug little tilt to his mouth like he was documenting a personal victory.

"There," Jeongin said, tapping lightly against Chan’s stomach, all mock-innocence and dirty promise.

Chan thought he should be humiliated. Thought he should shove him off, snap something back, take control.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t move at all.

Because the truth was it was easier this way.

Easier to just let Jeongin run the show. Easier to hand over the reins and stop pretending he knew what he was doing.

Jeongin tossed the wrapper aside, shifted forward, and sank back into his lap—knees bracketing Chan’s hips, hands braced on his shoulders, weight hot and solid and impossible to ignore.

He rocked down once—grinding slow and dirty—and Chan gasped, hands flying to Jeongin’s waist without thinking, clutching like he might break apart if he let go.

Jeongin just laughed low against his mouth—sweet and cruel and devastating—and guided him into place with one cool, slick hand wrapped tight around him.

And then—without fear, without hesitation—Jeongin sank down onto him.

Chan’s world went white around the edges.

It was tight. So tight. Nothing like the slick, familiar give of a woman’s body. This was raw friction and heat and pressure that made his fingers bite into Jeongin’s hips, desperate for purchase.

He froze up immediately, wide-eyed, panting.

Jeongin leaned in close—grinning, breath hot against his ear. "Don’t pussy out on me now, hyung," he purred, filthy and sweet.

Chan whimpered.

He tried to focus on the familiar things—the soft curve of Jeongin’s waist, the shimmer of leftover glitter stuck to his cheekbone, the faint musky-sweet smell of whatever perfume he’d worn onstage.

It helped. A little.

But then Jeongin rocked his hips—grinding slow and filthy—and there was no mistaking it anymore.

The scratch of stubble against his throat. The cut of masculine muscle under his palms. The hard, heavy cock smearing against his stomach with every roll of their bodies.

Not a woman.

Not even close.

Chan squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to move—small, clumsy thrusts, trying to find a rhythm, trying to survive it.

And Jeongin let him pretend for a minute. Let him chase the pace. Let him believe he was leading.

But it was obvious who was really in control.

Every slow grind of Jeongin’s hips. Every filthy, breathless encouragement whispered against his ear. Every time Jeongin tightened around him just right and dragged another wrecked sound out of his throat.

"That’s it," Jeongin breathed, voice syrup-sweet and condescending. "Good boy. Knew you could figure it out."

Chan shuddered—body and mind splintering under the weight of it.

He hated how the words went straight to his cock. Hated how badly he wanted to deserve it.

This was insane. This was humiliating.

And it felt so fucking good.

It wasn’t perfect. It was awkward, messy, bodies colliding in stuttering, shivery movements, but somehow it worked.

Jeongin’s forehead was slick with sweat, mouth red and bitten from too many kisses, and the stubborn glitter on his cheekbone caught the light every time he moved—stupid, bright, and unbearably tender.

And Chan—

Chan thought—

God.

He had thought Jeongin was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen that first night in the club.

But he’d been wrong.

Jeongin had always been beautiful. Not in spite of his body. Not in spite of his sharpness, his masculinity, the way he didn’t fit anyone’s idea of what he should be.

Because of it.

Because he was real. Because he was messy and feral and stunning and kind in all the wrong places.

Because when Chan lost his footing—when his hips stuttered, when he whimpered in the back of his throat—Jeongin just rocked down harder, kissed his temple, and whispered, "You’re doing so good, hyung."

And Chan, for once, just let himself fall apart.

—

It was supposed to end there.

It was supposed to be just a night.

Just a mistake.

Just a drunk, lonely accident he could shove into a closet and forget.

Except—

When Chan blinked awake the next morning, the room still smelled like sweat and soju and Jeongin’s ridiculous perfume.

And Jeongin was still there.

Still tangled up in his sheets like he belonged there. Still breathing slow and even beside him. One bare leg thrown over Chan’s hips, an arm draped lazy and heavy across his chest, mouth slack with sleep.

Like it was normal.

Like it was easy.

Chan stared up at the ceiling, heart thudding slow and steady in his ears.

He didn’t know how to feel. Didn’t know how to move.

He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t even sure he regretted it.

He just... didn’t know what to think.

The whole night sat heavy on his skin, buzzing under the quiet.

It was calm. It was stilted.

Like waking up in a room that wasn’t his.

He shifted slightly—careful, cautious—and felt it then.

The slight tension in Jeongin’s body. The hitch of breath. The faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, even as his eyes stayed shut.

Jeongin was awake.

The little shit was awake and pretending not to be.

Chan swallowed, throat dry, and said lightly—trying to make it a joke, trying to make it anything. ”Do you stay over with all your hookups, or am I just lucky?"

Jeongin’s mouth twitched wider—smug, infuriating—and without opening his eyes, he murmured, "Do you want me to tell you you're special, hyung?"

The words hit harder than they should have—sharp and soft all at once, cutting right under Chan’s ribs.

He didn’t know how to answer. Didn’t know what he was supposed to say.

He lay there stiffly, weirdly, every nerve on edge, feeling the warmth of Jeongin pressed against him, feeling the hum of the night still in his bones.

Jeongin didn’t move. Didn’t tease further.

He just shifted closer, burrowing into Chan’s side with a sleepy little sigh, like he didn’t notice—or didn’t care—how strange it all felt now.

Chan stayed still. Breathing shallow. Brain blank.

He wasn’t running. He wasn’t breaking.

He just didn’t know what came next.

And worse—he didn’t know what he wanted to come next.

Was this supposed to be it? Another night, another body, another easy slip into Jeongin’s revolving door of hookups?

Would that make it easier?

Would it make it worse?

The panic didn’t hit until after Jeongin left.

He was quick about it—slipping out of bed with a stretch and a grin, gathering his clothes with the casual indifference of someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

He didn’t linger. Just winked as he pulled on his hoodie, tossed a lazy “See you next week, hyung," over his shoulder, and was gone.

And Chan—

Chan sat in the quiet wreckage of his bedroom, staring at the door like it had personally betrayed him.

The panic came slow, then all at once.

Like a pressure front collapsing on his chest. Like a storm he hadn’t seen coming, even though it had been there all along.

What the hell was he thinking? How the hell was he supposed to look Jeongin in the eye now?

And worse—

What if Jeongin didn’t even care?

The week crawled by in a blur of static.

He didn’t have answers. Not about Jeongin. Not about himself.

He just had questions that kept unraveling the harder he tried to pin them down.

And by the time Thursday rolled around again—by the time he dragged himself to the club, stomach twisted into knots—he thought he knew what he would find.

Jeongin would be different. Or he wouldn’t.

And either way, Chan would have his answer.

Except—

Jeongin wasn’t different at all.

He was infuriatingly, devastatingly normal.

He breezed into the green room like always, loud and cocky, glitter already clinging to his skin, cracking dirty jokes with the queens, throwing a wink at Chan like he hadn’t spent the week setting his brain on fire.

It was like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn't offered himself up so shamelessly. Like he hadn’t whispered things that still scraped raw across Chan’s mind when he tried to sleep.

And Chan swallowed it down.

Played his part. Did his job. Told himself it was fine.

That this was better.

That he didn’t want it to be anything else.

By the time the night wound down, he was almost convinced.

Almost convinced he could go back to normal. Almost convinced he could file it away like a bad dream and move on.

And then—

Then Jeongin caught him by the sleeve as the queens spilled out into the night, laughing and shoving and scattering toward the crosswalk.

"Hyung," he said, grinning, tugging him toward the curb where his moped was parked. "C’mon."

Chan blinked, stunned.

And before he could think, before he could argue, before he could even catch up—

Jeongin was pressing a helmet into his hands. Was swinging a leg over the seat. Was grinning over his shoulder like it was a foregone conclusion.

Chan hesitated for one breath.

And then he got on.

Because of course he did.

Because even when he thought he knew better, even when he thought he was learning, it turned out—

He was still stupid when it came to Jeongin.

Still breakable.

Still easy.

The moped roared to life under them, and Jeongin laughed—bright and reckless—like he could already taste the night ahead.

And just like that—

their one-night stand became two.

Three turned into—

Chan stopped counting.

Because it stopped feeling like accidents. It stopped feeling like mistakes.

It became a rhythm.

A ritual.

A breathless, grinding, panting, half-dressed, half-laughing rhythm.

And Chan—

Chan fucking craved it.

It was like a second puberty, violent and urgent and all-consuming.
He was starving for the things Jeongin did to him, for the things Jeongin taught him to want. Things Chan had never imagined himself wanting. Had never let himself want.

The first time Jeongin pulled Chan’s wrists above his head and rode him slow, made him beg—

Chan came so hard he saw stars.

The first time Jeongin wrapped a hand around his throat—light, playful, more suggestion than pressure—

Chan almost sobbed into his mouth.

And it scared him. Because he liked it.

Liked giving up control.

Liked letting Jeongin decide how fast, how deep, how rough.

Liked the dizzy rush of it—how every time Jeongin teased him, every filthy whisper, every mocking little kiss against his throat, made him harder than he thought possible.

The first time Chan shyly asked—awkward, burning with shame—if he could try bottoming. Jeongin didn’t laugh. Didn’t blink. Just grinned slow and wide and said, "Took you long enough to admit you wanted a cock in you, hyung."

Chan had turned crimson on the spot.

And then there was the reality of it.

The first time Jeongin pressed slick fingers against him—steady, patient, coaxing—Chan flinched so hard he almost knocked them both off the bed.

"Relax," Jeongin said, voice low and wicked against his ear. "It's just a finger, hyung."

Chan wanted to die. And he said as much—gritting out, ”It feels weird," into the crook of his arm, voice muffled and mortified.

Because it did. Alien and intrusive, every nerve ending lit up, not quite painful but so foreign he didn’t know whether he liked it.

Jeongin snorted—amused, unbothered. "Yeah, well," he said dryly, nosing along Chan’s jaw, "it’s a finger in your ass. It’s supposed to feel weird."

Chan let out a strangled noise—humiliated, burning up.

Jeongin just laughed under his breath—wicked but not unkind—and pressed a kiss just behind Chan’s ear, like he could feel him shaking.

It wasn’t just the feeling that overwhelmed Chan. It was everything.

The slow way Jeongin opened him up, careful but relentless. The gentle way he whispered encouragement, crooned filth and praise into Chan’s sweaty skin, called him a good boy when he finally—finally—breathed through it and pushed back, desperate for more.

It made Chan dizzy. It made him want.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—Jeongin always looked so pretty underneath him when they fucked. Maybe—maybe—he could be pretty like that too.

When Jeongin finally lined up—cock slick and leaking, face flushed, breathing hard—Chan squeezed his eyes shut, bracing.

The first breach made him gasp.

And when Jeongin pushed a little further, a small, broken whimper left Chan's mouth. “Hurts."

Instantly, Jeongin froze.

Hands steady, heart hammering against Chan’s chest, Jeongin stilled like a bomb about to go off. He placed one firm hand on Chan’s chest—flat, grounding—keeping him from curling away.

"You wanna stop?" Jeongin asked, and his voice was different now—no teasing, no mocking. Just soft. Careful.

Chan shook his head immediately, but Jeongin still didn’t move.

"Deep breath," Jeongin said. "C’mon, baby. In, then out. Relax on the exhale."

Chan did it—shuddering in a breath, feeling Jeongin's palm rise with it—and when he exhaled, Jeongin pressed in a little deeper, slow, cautious.

They repeated the process. Again. And again.

Breathe. Relax. Sink a little deeper.

It still burned. It still stretched in ways Chan hadn’t thought possible. But with every slow push, with every low, grounding murmur from Jeongin’s mouth to his skin, it got easier. Better. The sting dulled. The overwhelming sense of wrongness began to bleed into something else—something sharp and bright and full.

And when Jeongin finally bottomed out—buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to Chan’s shoulder, breathing ragged—Chan felt something click into place inside him.

Like a door opening.

Like something letting go.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t slick or porn-smooth. It was awkward and messy and real—But God, it was good.

Jeongin was mean sometimes—teasing, bratty, filthy with the things he whispered against Chan’s burning skin. But this—

This careful, patient, devastating tenderness—

It was Jeongin’s saving grace.

It ruined Chan.

Because after that night, bottoming became his new normal.

Jeongin in control. Jeongin whispering orders, dragging sounds out of Chan’s chest he’d never made before, grinding into him slow and deep while Chan clutched at the sheets and begged for more.

Chan let him.

Let him take everything.

Let himself be taken.

Loved the way Jeongin fucked him open, wrecked him slow, whispered smart-ass comments against his ear while holding him like he was something precious.

It was addicting.

Jeongin was addicting.

The way he murmured smart-ass comments even while touching Chan so carefully. The way he never let Chan forget how new he was, how green—but somehow never made it cruel.

"Cute," Jeongin would whisper, smirking as Chan gasped under him. "Fucking adorable how wrecked you get."

And Chan loved it.

Loved the sting of humiliation. Loved the dizzy slide of losing himself.

Loved how Jeongin made it all feel good—the embarrassment, the confusion, the aching, greedy hunger that had no name before this.

He’d never felt so alive.

Because Thursday night intimacy turned into Friday morning sleep-ins—Jeongin burrowing under Chan’s covers like a smug cat, warm and clingy and impossible to shake.

Turned into Friday afternoons spent draped over each other on the couch, Jeongin in one of Chan’s hoodies, eating convenience store snacks and bullying him into playing video games he sucked at.

Turned into Jeongin "borrowing" a spare key and never giving it back, letting himself into Chan’s apartment without knocking like he owned the place.

Turned into Jeongin having a little box shoved under Chan’s bathroom sink—cheap skincare, travel-sized deodorant, his favorite strawberry toothpaste, a few clean pairs of boxers—things Jeongin would grumble about forgetting once, then just… left there like it was inevitable he’d need them again.

And it became normal.

Normal, to hear the door click on random afternoons and know it would be Jeongin, dropping his bag on the floor, kicking off his shoes with a curse, throwing himself onto Chan’s bed or lap or couch without so much as a hello.

Normal, to see Jeongin stretched out shirtless on Chan’s mattress, scrolling his phone, pouting until Chan climbed in with him.

Normal, to feel him breathe beside him at night—soft and steady—and not question it anymore.

The other queens knew. They’d be stupid not to.

Jeongin’s famous flirting hadn't faltered, but it bent sharper now—possessive and bratty, never really directed anywhere else for long. And the way he clung to Chan over late night takeout, or sprawled half-asleep against his shoulder during group movie nights, didn’t exactly scream subtlety.

Minho knew, definitely. Probably from the first morning Jeongin showed up to a brunch hungover and glowing, wearing what was unmistakably Chan’s t-shirt and an expression like he knew exactly what he’d done.

But Chan never talked about it. Never confirmed it. Never breathed a word to Han or Changbin.

Kept it hidden.

Kept it private.

Like a secret box shoved under his bed—full of things he couldn't explain, couldn’t show anyone, couldn’t even always face himself. 

This life. This version of him.

The Chan who cleaned Jeongin’s glitter off his pillows.

The Chan who knew exactly which cheap strawberry chapstick Jeongin liked.

The Chan who kept a bottle of lube and a plug in his nightstand now, hidden under a stack of notebooks.

It stayed sealed away.

Hidden from 3RACHA. Hidden from his parents. Hidden from the world he still told himself he belonged to.

But every Thursday—

Every Friday—

Every stolen Tuesday morning when Jeongin climbed into his bed reeking of cheap perfume and pressed cold toes against Chan’s calves just to hear him curse—

The box cracked open a little wider.

And Chan stopped fighting it.

Stopped pretending it was just sex. Stopped pretending Jeongin was just another hookup. Stopped pretending he didn’t want—

More.

Even if he still didn’t have the words for what more meant.

Chapter Text

The rain came fast.

One minute, they were winding back through the hills, half-shivering in damp clothes and silence, the next—thunder cracked overhead like a divine fuck-you, and the sky opened up.

It wasn’t just a drizzle. It was a downpour. Blinding. Aggressive. The kind of rain that bounced off the asphalt and slapped the visor of Jeongin’s helmet with every blink. The scooter coughed against the wind, tires slick on the curve of the road.

“Shit,” Chan hissed through his teeth as another gust of wind slammed into them. “You need to pull over.”

“We can make it,” Jeongin called back, squinting through the deluge. His hair was plastered to his forehead. The handlebars trembled under his hands.

Chan didn’t yell again. He just reached forward and grabbed Jeongin’s shoulder—firm, unrelenting, final.

“We’re stopping. Now.”

Jeongin cursed under his breath but swerved anyway, tires crunching through gravel. He pulled into the narrow driveway of a small roadside yeogwan—one of those older ones with a flat roof, fading LED signage, and narrow exterior staircases crawling up the side. A couple of parked cars glistened under the downpour. The vending machine out front buzzed under a flickering awning.

It was the kind of place people used when they didn’t want to explain where they’d been.

Chan climbed off the scooter before it stopped, soaked from the knees down, hoodie clinging to his back. He didn’t wait for Jeongin. Didn’t speak. Just stomped toward the entrance under the buzzing red 여관 sign like the rain had personally offended him.

“Chan—” Jeongin called after him, sharp and uncertain all at once.

Not a protest. Not yet.

But it had weight.

The kind that hung between them like a price tag.

Chan didn’t turn around. Didn’t slow. Just said, flatly, “I’ll pay.”

And that was that.

Not an offer. Not kindness. Just fact.

Because Chan knew.

Knew exactly how thin Jeongin’s wallet stretched between gigs and club nights. Knew how far drag tips went after rent and ramen. Knew the way Jeongin counted coins at convenience stores and rationed eyeliner like it was blood.

Chan had seen it. Lived it. He still remembered the way Jeongin used to sigh at his bank app like it had personally betrayed him.

And now?

Chan didn’t need to check his account.

He had a job. A salary. A fiancée who liked bridal brunches and linen napkins and venues with guest lists longer than their relationship.

He could afford this.

So he didn’t ask.

Didn’t wait for Jeongin to say anything at all.

The glass door creaked open. A bell chimed overhead.

Inside, the air was musty with stale heat. The wallpaper had peeled at the corners. A little tray of complimentary toothbrushes sat beside a plastic water jug on the counter. The clerk barely looked up from his phone as Chan approached, pulled out his wallet, and paid for a night without asking the price.

No names. No questions. Just a brass key slid across the counter with a faded room number.

Behind him, Jeongin stepped inside, rain still dripping from his sleeves. He looked tense. Unspoken. Like the words were still there, pressed behind his teeth.

Chan didn’t look at him.

He just took the key, walked toward the stairs, and didn’t say a word.

The room was up a flight of narrow stairs that creaked like an apology. Second floor, end of the row. A metal door with chipped paint and a dent near the handle, like it had been kicked in once and never fully recovered.

Chan unlocked it without ceremony and pushed inside.

It smelled like dust and old heater coils. A single bed took up most of the space, covered in a comforter the color of disappointment. There was a tiny table with a boxy TV bolted to the wall, and a wet spot near the window where the rain had found its way in.

Jeongin lingered at the threshold.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there in the open doorway, shoulders tense, dripping water onto the tile like his body hadn’t caught up to the moment yet.

Chan shrugged off his hoodie and tossed it over the nearest chair. He looked around once, then moved to the bathroom without comment. The door creaked shut behind him, and a second later, the shower started—old pipes groaning to life, water hissing against tile.

The room was silent except for the rain and the distant whir of the motel’s flickering sign.

Jeongin finally stepped inside. Closed the door quietly. He peeled off his own sweatshirt, set it over the back of the other chair, and stood there a moment—motionless, unsure.

Then his eyes landed on Chan’s phone.

It was face-up on the nightstand, buzzing softly.

Incoming call: Mi Sun.

Jeongin blinked.

The screen lit up bright against the dim room. Vibrating soft, steady. Her name spelled out in crisp Hangul like it belonged there—like this was her world, and he was just passing through.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for it. Didn’t look away.

For a second, it didn’t mean anything. Just another name. Another noise. Just Mi Sun, calling to check in.

Then his stomach turned, slow and sour.

Of course she was calling. Her fiancé had vanished for hours. No texts. No updates. No excuse. Just left the apartment and never came back.

And Jeongin—

Fuck.

Jeongin had done this.

The guilt didn’t crash down. It crept. Slipped in like a draft beneath the door, soft and damp and settling somewhere behind his ribs before he even noticed it. Not heavy—yet—but unmistakably there. The kind of feeling that snuck in when you weren’t looking and made itself comfortable.

He hated it. That it came so quietly. That it curled in with no fanfare and no permission.

Because the truth was—he wasn’t supposed to feel bad.

It had seemed simple, when he planned it. Stupid, maybe, but simple. He’d seen the way Chan looked at that tux. The way he’d crumpled inward like the fabric itself had knocked the breath out of him. He’d watched him spiral and lock down, and yeah, maybe Jeongin wasn’t good at feelings, but he’d always known how to make Chan smile.

It wasn’t about missing him.

It wasn’t.

He didn’t miss him.

He just… remembered how to flip the switch. How to poke and prod until the tension cracked and something warm leaked through. He’d done it a hundred times before. It was muscle memory by now. A trick. A reflex.

So he’d dragged him out here. Just for a day. A detour. A distraction.

But now?

Now they were here.

In this room. In this silence.

And Mi Sun was calling.

Because Jeongin had taken something that didn’t belong to him anymore. Dressed it up like a joke. Called it an errand. Acted like it didn’t matter.

The phone buzzed again.

Then again.

And then stopped.

The guilt stayed. Quiet. Settled. Nestled in like it had found a place to burrow.

And Jeongin, dry-mouthed and motionless, didn’t know how to make it leave.

The shower shut off.

A few seconds later, the door creaked open and Chan stepped out, damp hair flat against his forehead, towel slung around his shoulders and another around his waist, which barely fit around his frame. His eyes were bloodshot and tired.

He walked to the nightstand, picked up his phone, and stared at the missed call.

Didn’t move at first.

Just stood there, thumb hovering over the screen, eyes unreadable. Long enough that Jeongin almost said something. Almost filled the silence with a joke. But he didn’t. He waited.

Because Chan was thinking.

Not just hesitating—building something. Reaching for the scaffolding of a story, quiet and deliberate. He didn’t frown. Didn’t grimace. He just… stared, long enough for Jeongin to recognize it for what it was.

Fabrication.

Then Chan sat on the edge of the bed. Quiet. Still. Like he didn’t want to be in his body anymore.

Jeongin watched from across the room. The air between them buzzed with something electric and unspoken. Guilt nested deeper in his chest, slow and tight.

“I should’ve texted her,” Chan murmured.

Jeongin didn’t answer.

Chan unlocked his phone, flipped through his messages, and tapped to call her back.

The phone rang. He turned his back to the room, voice low and steady when he finally spoke.

“Hey. Yeah—sorry, I know. I should’ve messaged. No, I’m okay. I was out with Jeongin. We were… checking out a tux shop. Got caught in the rain before heading back. Didn’t want to risk the roads, so—we’re just holed up at some motel for the night. Nothing fancy.”

Jeongin swallowed.

The lie sat heavy in the room.

Soft. Casual. Easy.

Too easy.

Chan didn’t sound like he was lying. Didn’t even sound tired. Just calm. Composed. Like this was nothing. Like this didn’t mean anything. Like Jeongin hadn’t dragged him out here on impulse. Like none of it was real enough to matter.

Jeongin stared at the floor.

The ache in his chest twisted.

He’d started the lie. Set the pieces in motion. But hearing Chan say it—fold it neatly into something domestic and harmless—made it worse.

Because now it was mutual.

Now it was theirs.

“Yeah, I’ll be back tomorrow,” Chan continued, voice soft. “No, don’t worry. I’m fine. Just resting. You should go to bed.”

A pause. Then, “Yeah. Me too. Night.”

He hung up.

He didn’t look at Jeongin.

Just set the phone down gently and leaned back against the headboard like the call had taken something out of him. His eyes tracked the ceiling. His chest moved slow and steady.

The silence crawled between them again.

“You didn’t have to lie,” Jeongin said quietly.

Chan didn’t answer at first.

Then, “Didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell the truth either.”

Chan’s jaw clenched.

Jeongin studied his face. “You could’ve told her I dragged you out here. Blamed me. Said it wasn’t your idea.”

Chan turned his head just slightly. Not enough to meet his eyes. “She didn’t ask.”

Jeongin nodded slowly. “Still.”

Another beat passed.

“I wasn’t protecting you,” Chan said, finally. His voice was low. Rough around the edges. “I just didn’t want to explain it.”

“Why not?”

Chan didn’t answer.

Not right away.

Then, almost too quietly to hear, “Because I don’t know what it is.”

Jeongin blinked.

That was new.

That was dangerous.

He stood up and crossed to the bed, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have come.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

Chan looked up at him now—finally. His eyes were tired. And angry. And something else. Something older.

“No,” he said. “Not with you.”

The words hit like a sucker punch.

Jeongin’s breath caught.

And for a second—for just a second—it felt like they were standing on the edge of something that hadn’t been named yet. Something wild and inevitable and waiting.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them said it.

Jeongin stepped back first. Let the silence close in around them.

“I’m taking the shower,” he said, and disappeared into the bathroom without looking back.

The door shut behind him with a click.

The bathroom was small—barely room to turn around—but Jeongin stood under the shower head like it was trying to baptize him. The water wasn’t hot enough. The pressure was uneven. It hissed and spit like it was resentful of being used. He didn’t care.

He’d cranked the dial as far as it would go, and still, the warmth barely reached his bones. Still, he stood there—motionless, arms braced against the tile, forehead pressed to the wall—until his skin pinked and the steam curled around his lashes like smoke.

It wasn’t helping.

Not the water. Not the silence. Not the scald or the space.

Because his mind was loud.

Not screaming, not yet. But humming. Glitching. That strange, staticky dissonance of a plan gone sideways and a motive gone blurry.

Because what had he been doing?

What was this?

He’d told himself it was harmless. A getaway. A little chaos therapy for a man whose entire soul had been clenched like a jaw for weeks. Chan had looked like he was dying in that fitting room. Not literally, but something close. Like the tux had been a coffin lined in satin. Like every sequin had cut a little deeper.

And Jeongin had seen it. Recognized it.

Not because he was nosy.

Not because he was smug.

But because he knew what distress looked like on Chan.

Knew it like a language. Knew the shape of it in his shoulders, the way it caught behind his eyes. Knew what it meant when Chan got quiet in all the wrong ways.

And yesterday Chan had worn that distress like a tux. Had tried it on. Stood in the mirror with it. Let it cling to his body like grief. Let it settle.

He used to know what to do.

Get him out. Make him move. Make him laugh. Hijack his schedule. Give him something stupid to fight about. Give him air. Give him space.

Because Jeongin didn’t know how to fix anything. Not really. But he knew how to crack a joke. How to manufacture chaos. How to push until Chan exhaled through his nose and said, God, you’re annoying, which really meant, Thank you for breaking the silence in my head.

But that had been instinct.

Not logic.

Not care, exactly. Not anything clean or noble or safe.

And now?

Now the consequences were slapping him in the face like cold water.

Because no matter how he spun it, no matter how many jokes he wrapped it in, he hadn’t just borrowed a day from Chan. He’d borrowed him from someone else.

He tilted his head back under the water. Let it sting his eyes until they stopped blinking.

He didn’t miss Chan.

He didn’t.

But he had seen him flinch in a suit that wasn’t meant for him. Had watched him try to bury himself under half a bottle of champagne like he was trying not to cry. And Jeongin had remembered—suddenly, painfully—what it felt like to be the only person in the room who knew why.

So maybe that’s why he’d done it.

Not because he wanted him back.

But because the sight of Chan in that tux had looked too much like a funeral. And Jeongin had never been good at funerals.

Chan had been unraveling, slow and quiet, like a thread tugged loose.

And Jeongin—Jeongin had panicked.

He’d grabbed the first idea that crossed his mind. The stupidest one. A scooter ride and a beach and a borrowed joke about needing air.

He hadn’t thought it through.

Hadn’t mapped the guilt. Hadn’t factored in Mi Sun. Hadn’t paused long enough to ask what the hell he was actually trying to accomplish.

He’d just… moved.

Because that’s what he always did when it came to Chan. Always impulse first, logic later. Always instinct before intention.

He had meant to help. That part was true. As much as it stung, it was true. He wasn’t trying to wreck anything. Wasn’t out to play saboteur. He wasn’t that cruel.

But standing there now, in the mildew-damp shower of a motel he couldn’t afford, while Chan’s engagement sat blinking on the nightstand?

He felt like the villain anyway.

The water kept falling.

So did his shoulders.

He let his eyes shut, lashes catching steam. His throat ached. His chest tightened like it had forgotten how to expand. And beneath it all, that quiet, gnawing whisper: What am I doing?

Because this wasn’t a game anymore.

Not really.

Not if he kept feeling like this.

Not if Chan kept looking at him like that.

He exhaled shakily and scrubbed a hand through his hair, pushing the water back. It didn’t help. Nothing did. Not the burn of the water, not the distance he was trying to put between his skin and his intentions.

He didn’t want to want this.

Didn’t want to be the kind of person who crashed someone’s wedding plans with unresolved longing and a goddamn moped.

But he also didn’t want to see Chan like that again. Caged in a tux that felt like punishment. Staring at himself like the mirror was mocking him.

So yeah.

Maybe he’d made a mistake.

Maybe this whole thing was a mistake.

But in the moment… in the moment he’d just wanted to see him breathe.

And that, more than anything, terrified him.

Because it meant it wasn’t just a joke anymore.

It meant he still cared.

Too much. Too fast. Too wrong.

The water ran cold before he could move.

And even then, it took him too long to get out.

Jeongin dragged himself out of the shower, skin pink, hair dripping, towel barely hanging on. He stared at the heap of wet clothes on the bathroom floor for a moment—shirt tangled in his jeans, boxers clinging like seaweed—and then gave up. Left them there. Crumpled. Defeated. Someone else’s problem. Probably still his, later.

He rubbed a hand over his face, swiping away the steam from his lashes, then stepped back into the room.

The light was dim. One flickering lamp in the corner. The rain was still going outside, rhythmic and relentless against the windowpane. It smelled like damp cotton and motel soap.

Chan was sitting on the bed, hunched over, a towel still slung around his shoulders and another knotted low on his hips. He was scowling at his phone like it owed him child support. The light from the screen painted his face in shades of tired and annoyed, and his thumb kept twitching like he was debating typing something and deleting it all over again.

Jeongin hovered in the doorway, towel hitched precariously around his waist. It gaped a little at the hip where he’d tucked it in, short enough to rival his smallest stage skirts. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t care. His body had been a tool long before it was a temple. A thing to display. A thing to weaponize. Half-naked didn’t mean exposed.

Especially not with Chan. Not anymore.

He thought about making a joke. Something stupid. Something easy. You keep looking at your phone like it’s gonna apologize. Or maybe: You miss a call from the love of your life while I was rinsing off the evidence? Something petty. Something sharp. Just enough to provoke.

But then Chan might bite back.

And Jeongin wasn’t sure he could take it.

Not tonight.

So he said nothing.

Just crossed the room on quiet feet and sat beside him on the bed. The mattress dipped. Their shoulders nearly touched.

Chan didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Despite everything he’d said about boundaries and space and lines that couldn’t be crossed anymore, he didn’t shift away. Didn’t even glance at the towel situation, which was—to be fair—barely legal. He just sat there, jaw tight, breath slow, thumb still hovering above the screen like he was bracing for a message he didn’t want to deal with.

And Jeongin—

He just sat beside him.

Bare skin. Damp silence. Too much history between their shoulders.

There was no one left to perform for.

No audience. No friends. No fiancée.

Just two people who knew each other too well to pretend. Sitting on a cheap motel bed in borrowed towels, soaked in rain and unresolved tension.

It was bittersweet.

This comfort. This terrible, familiar intimacy.

Like muscle memory in a haunted house. They knew every creaking floorboard. Every hallway. Every dead end.

And still, they walked it.

Because the most dangerous thing wasn’t the proximity.

It was how easy it still was to fall back into place.

Jeongin cracked his phone open like it might save him. The screen lit up, too bright in the low light. No messages. No missed calls. A few notifications from apps he didn’t remember downloading. He swiped through them aimlessly, thumb stuttering across nothing important, just to look like he had somewhere to be. Like he was too busy to feel anything at all.

It lasted about a minute and a half.

Then his stomach growled.

Not politely. Not a subtle nudge. It was a full-bodied complaint, echoing off the cheap laminate flooring and vibrating in his spine.

He blinked down at his screen, then over at Chan.

“You eat today?”

Chan didn’t look up. “Melona.”

Jeongin frowned. “That doesn’t count.”

Chan shrugged, still scowling at his phone like it was trying to pick a fight.

Jeongin tossed his phone onto the bed and stood. “I’m gonna find a vending machine.”

That got Chan’s attention.

“You’re gonna what?” he asked, finally looking up.

“Vending machine,” Jeongin repeated, already heading for the door.

“In that?” Chan gestured vaguely toward him, like the towel might combust under scrutiny.

Jeongin blinked. “Yeah?”

“You’re just gonna walk out there. Barefoot. In a motel towel.”

Jeongin glanced down at himself. The towel was still mostly in place—tucked at the hip, hit mid-thigh, maybe an inch and a half away from flashing God and everyone else. But it wasn’t like he hadn’t worn less. In front of bigger crowds. Under hotter lights. With a wind machine and rhinestones on his chest.

He looked back at Chan, genuinely confused. “Why not?”

Chan’s face twitched. “Because it’s raining. And freezing. And you’re basically naked.”

“I’ve worn worse on stage,” Jeongin said, deadpan. “People paid me for that.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It kinda does.”

Chan sighed through his nose. “Jesus.”

But his voice had lost the bite.

Jeongin smirked—just barely. The weight in the room shifted. Not lighter. Not easier. But something close. Something familiar.

Chan ran a hand down his face like it physically pained him to say it. “At least put on some pants.”

Jeongin blinked. “Why?”

“Because we’re in public, Jeongin.”

“There’s no one out there.”

“There might be security cameras.”

“Let them enjoy the view.”

Chan looked like he aged five years in five seconds. “This is not a cabaret show. It’s a motel.”

Jeongin gasped, scandalized. “You think I’d do cabaret in this?” He tugged dramatically at the towel like it was designer couture. “This cut? This hemline? I’d get booed.”

“I’m begging you,” Chan groaned. “Just pants. A wet hoodie. One damp sock and a prayer. You cannot go out like that.”

Jeongin grinned. “You’re so dramatic.”

Chan gestured wildly. “I’m not the one about to flash the CCTV gods for a packet of shrimp chips!”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jeongin muttered, already reaching for the door handle.

Chan opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed both hands down his face like he was trying to erase himself from the conversation.

Jeongin took it as permission.

He pushed open the door, bare feet slapping softly against the tile, towel still riding scandalously low on his hips. He didn't bother tying it tighter. Let it gape and flutter dramatically like it was part of the performance.

“Jeongin—” Chan called, a warning in his tone, but it was too late.

Jeongin was already halfway down the row of rooms, towel flapping behind him like a cape, strutting barefoot over the damp concrete like the parking lot was a runway and the vending machine near the manager's office was his final judge. He didn’t look back.

Inside the room, Chan groaned into his palms.

But—he wasn’t scowling at his phone anymore.

And Jeongin, glancing over his shoulder one last time, caught the edge of it—Chan watching, tense and scandalized and furious—but not spiraling.

So he smiled to himself, just a little.

Because hey—he’d stopped the scowl.

He’d take that as a win.

Jeongin padded across the puddled asphalt like he owned it, towel dragging behind him, bare feet slapping faintly against the concrete. The vending machine buzzed under the half-lit awning near the office, casting him in soft red and blue as he approached.

It should’ve been humiliating. It should’ve been insane.

There was no one else around—just a couple of parked cars, a tired plastic plant by the entrance, and the night clerk watching from behind the glass window of the front office. They looked up from their phone just long enough to clock the towel, blinked once, and immediately looked back down.

To their credit, the clerk didn’t say a word. Just gave Jeongin a slow once-over from behind the foggy plexiglass of the front office window, then—without comment—reached for the remote and turned up the volume on their tiny countertop TV, where a muted rerun of Running Man had been playing beneath closed captions. They resumed watching with the dull-eyed resignation of someone who’d definitely seen worse.

Jeongin didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Just offered a polite nod as if this were the most normal thing in the world—because for him, it kind of was—and made a beeline toward the vending machine nestled beside the ice bin and a faded cork board plastered with old delivery menus and curling festival flyers from three summers ago.

The machine whirred to life as he approached, lights blinking like a tiny UFO. Jeongin leaned in close, arms crossed loosely over his bare chest, studying the options like he was selecting fine wine instead of convenience snacks.

There were the classics, of course: bags of saeukkang shrimp chips, tubes of pepero, packets of yakgwa honey cookies. Bottled ionized water and chamkeun barley tea sat nestled between rows of banana milk and canned demisoda. There was a microwavable tteokbokki cup if he wanted to gamble with his digestive tract. And nestled way down near the bottom—a vacuum-packed triangle samgak gimbap, label slightly peeling and expiration date just barely on the right side of acceptable.

Jeongin squinted at it.

That would do.

He fished a few crumpled notes and coins from where he’d tucked his wallet under his arm, clutching it awkwardly against his bare side. No pockets to speak of—he was, after all, one strong breeze away from full exposure. Barely a few thousand won—enough for one real snack and maybe something sweet if he skipped the drink.

He smirked to himself.

Then, with the kind of ease that came only from either deep confidence or a complete detachment from shame, he bent down to collect his haul.

The towel—already precariously low—hitched even higher in the back, inching upward like it, too, had grown tired of pretending it was a real outfit. Jeongin crouched, stretching to scoop up the gimbap, a couple choco pie, and two cups of ramyeon that smelled faintly like seaweed and battery acid. The hem fluttered, toeing the line of indecency.

And if he accidentally flashed a little too much cheek to the security camera mounted above the ice machine?

Well. That sounded like a them problem.

He straightened, adjusted his grip around the wobbling stack of snacks, and padded off—barefoot, towel barely clinging, dripping in leftover rain and shamelessness.

He moved with the same confidence he wore onstage. No rush. No shame. Just skin, steam-damp hair, and enough nerve to turn scandal into suggestion.

The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had softened, misting the asphalt and making it gleam. Jeongin’s towel clung lower with every step.

He didn’t adjust it. Didn’t look back.

The clerk definitely did.

Still watching from the office window—shoulders hunched, lips pursed around a melting popsicle—their eyes tracked him with quiet disbelief. One blink. Two. Then they turned back to Running Man like that was easier to understand.

Jeongin gave them another polite nod as he passed. The kind you offer taxi drivers or old ajummas in elevators. Like nothing was wrong. Like holding a convenience store buffet to his bare chest in the middle of a rain-slicked courtyard was the height of dignity.

He rounded the corner past the stairwell and found what he was looking for: a narrow utility nook wedged between two rusting drainage pipes that smelled faintly of damp cardboard and leftover kimchi.

There was a battered microwave, the front fogged with condensation. A dented electric kettle with a scorched handle. A shallow shelf nailed into the wall, home to a leaning tower of warped paper cups and a half-empty basket of instant coffee packets with mystery stains and questionable shelf lives.

Tragic. And perfect.

Jeongin dumped his haul, shook open the ramyeon cup, filled it to the line with hot water from the kettle, and shoved it into the microwave. He twisted the dial until it wheezed into life, rattling faintly on the shelf.

Then he stood back—barefoot, towel-clad, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Watching the soup spin like it was going to solve something. The towel slipped lower. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

It wasn’t that Jeongin had no shame—he’d just long since stopped recognizing certain things as shameful. His body had been a stage prop for years. A tool, a costume, a joke, a weapon. Nudity wasn’t vulnerability. Not to him. Not anymore.

Still, the wind was a little cold. The cement was rough under his feet as he stood there watching soup rehydrate like it was the most normal thing in the world. Arms crossed, weight on one foot. Looking like he was waiting for a cue that wouldn’t come. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. A bug circled the microwave like a drunken satellite.

Jeongin didn’t flinch.

His stomach grumbled again—softer this time. Like even it was grateful he’d made the trip.

He didn’t walk fast on the way back. There was no need. He had what they needed. Or at least what could pass for dinner if you squinted and didn’t read the ingredient labels.

And maybe—just maybe—it made the silence back in the room a little easier to sit with.

Because this was something he could still do.

Feed him.

Carry the weight of two empty stomachs in one towel-clad, mildly illegal walk.

That part, at least, hadn’t changed.

The door creaked open with a soft groan, and Jeongin stepped back inside, arms full of cheap dinner and legs still entirely too bare for public decency.

Chan was pacing.

Phone pressed to his ear. One towel still slung around his shoulders like a shawl of responsibility, the other knotted low at his hips—tugged tighter now, probably from stress. His voice snapped through the air, sharp and clipped.

“No—Director-nim, the spreadsheet’s there. I saved it myself. It’s in the 공유 폴더—yes, the shared folder. Not the planning doc. No—아니, 오른쪽 클릭 말고, just scroll down—아래로—scroll down. It’s labeled ‘Q2_Draft_Updated.’ That one. Yes. That one.”

He paused. Pinched the bridge of his nose. Started pacing the opposite direction.

“No—Director-nim, if you opened it in Excel and not Google Sheets, the formatting will be off. That’s why it looks weird. 아니요, 그거는 원본이 아니에요. No—there’s no separate file. It’s the same one. You just have to log in to the team drive first—yes, under your work email. Did you check the right profile?”

He stopped walking. Listened. His jaw clenched.

Jeongin, meanwhile, had set the food down on the desk and was in the process of unstacking instant soup cups, completely silent. He didn’t say a word—but his eyebrows twitched upward.

Because now that he was paying attention, he noticed it.

Their damp clothes—his hoodie, his jeans, even his socks—were all hanging neatly over the shower rail, aligned like Chan had drafted a blueprint first. His own shirt and jeans were there too, arms draped carefully, pockets turned out to dry. Chan’s doing. Obviously.

It almost escaped him, that warmth.

The way Chan still couldn’t help but pick up after him. Still couldn’t leave a mess alone, even when the mess wasn’t his. Still borderline obsessive about order, about neatness, about routines that didn’t even belong to him anymore.

Jeongin didn’t comment. Just unwrapped a choco pie and leaned against the dresser, chewing slowly, watching Chan try to explain Dropbox to someone twice his age and ten times more powerful.

“No, Director-nim. The draft marked final is not the final. The draft marked ‘Q2_Draft_Updated’ is the—yes. That one. No, if it’s asking you for permission, you’re in the wrong account again. Could you—Director-nim, could you try clicking the icon in the top right corner? The profile. The circle. Yes. Click that. Then switch to your work email. I’ll wait.”

He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath like he was about to start meditating or scream into a hotel pillow.

Jeongin popped another bite of choco pie into his mouth and nodded to himself.

Yep.

That sounded about right.

Chan muttered something unintelligible into the phone—half Korean, half English, one hundred percent spiritually deceased. Then, finally:

“Yes, Director-nim. I’ll resend the link. 네, 다시 보낼게요. Yes. Okay. Good night. Yes. You too. Good night. Okay. Good—yep. Okay. Bye.”

He hung up. Lowered the phone like it was radioactive. Stared at it, dead-eyed, for a full three seconds.

Jeongin, who had been perched on the dresser like a gremlin in a towel and spite, cocked his head. “Well, someone’s professionally getting railed.”

Chan didn’t even look up. “Don’t start.”

Jeongin grinned like a shark scenting blood. “Oh no, I insist. That call had the erotic tension of a hostage negotiation. Very Fifty Shades of Administrative Hell.”

“I swear to god,” Chan muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“Bet that shared folder’s not the only thing getting manhandled tonight,” Jeongin added sweetly. “You moaned ‘Okay, good night’ like you were on a first date with despair.”

Chan finally turned to him, eyes bloodshot, expression flat. “Do you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?”

Jeongin took another bite of his choco pie like it was a mic drop. “Do you ever get tired of making it this easy?”

“Why are you like this,” Chan asked the ceiling, voice cracked and quiet, as if he could speak directly to God.

“Born this way, jagi,” Jeongin said, dragging the word out just to watch Chan flinch. “And before you ask—yes, I am the punishment for your sins.”

Chan slumped onto the bed like his bones had melted. “I don’t have the strength.”

“You didn’t have it before the phone call either,” Jeongin pointed out, crossing the room to set a soup cup onto the bed beside him. “But look at you. Sitting upright. Making words. That’s progress.”

Chan looked at the cup. Then at Jeongin. Then back at the cup. “Did you… actually get food?”

Jeongin grinned. “Obviously. Better fuel up before your next thrilling installment of Director-nim Can’t Use Google Drive.”

Chan didn’t reply right away. Just peeled the plastic lid off his soup cup with tired precision, set the spice packet to the side without thinking, and began stirring the noodles like he could mix his thoughts back into order one dehydrated strand at a time.

The spice packet—bright red and menacing—landed near Jeongin out of sheer muscle memory. He didn’t even blink. Just picked it up and tore it open with his teeth, dumping it straight into his own cup without pausing the assault on his choco pie.

Crumbs clung to his lips. Chocolate smudged the corner of his mouth. He looked like a raccoon in a miniskirt who’d broken into a snack factory and refused to feel bad about it.

“Dessert first?” Chan asked dryly, not bothering to hide the judgment in his voice.

“Impulse control is for the employed,” Jeongin replied around a mouthful. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Chan sighed and took a bite of soup. It was too hot. He burned his tongue. He didn’t complain.

“It’s a good job,” he said stiffly. “It’s stable.”

Jeongin licked chocolate off his thumb. “So is a coma.”

Chan’s spoon clicked against the styrofoam. “I don’t hate it.”

“You sure?”

Chan looked up, jaw tightening. “It pays well. I have health insurance. Paid time off. I don’t go to bed wondering if I’ll have to sell my gear to cover rent.”

Jeongin cocked his head. “You sound ecstatic.”

“I am,” Chan said, stabbing his chopsticks into the soup with quiet vehemence. “I have structure. I have a retirement plan.”

“You have heartburn and a boss who calls you at ten p.m.”

“I have a future,” Chan snapped, then immediately winced, like the words had surprised even him. “I’m just saying,” Chan continued, too sharp now, “it’s good. It’s the kind of life people want.”

“You’re miserable.” 

Chan blinked. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jeongin said. “I’ve known you too long. You’re burnt out and sleep-deprived and one spreadsheet away from throwing your phone off a bridge. But sure—congrats on the stability.”

“I’m not miserable.”

“You don’t smile anymore.”

Chan looked away. “Smiling doesn’t pay rent.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who used to call his DAW a fifth limb.”

“I grew up.”

“No,” Jeongin said, “you gave up.”

That landed. Chan’s head snapped up, eyes sharp.

But Jeongin was already leaning forward, voice low and cutting now, tired of soft edges. “You used to talk about joy like it was oxygen. Like we could scrape it out of nowhere and build a life around it. Now you sit in boardrooms and talk about quarterly metrics while your fiancée picks out napkin textures. And I’m supposed to be the one who’s lost?”

Chan’s voice came quiet, cracked. “I have a life.”

“And I have a living,” Jeongin bit back. “I don’t need it to look like yours. I want a life that’s loud and stupid and full of color, even if I crash sometimes. At least I’m not drowning in beige.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is pretending this is what you wanted.”

Chan’s fingers clenched around the soup cup.

The silence swelled—too heavy, too thick.

Not loud, not sudden—just deep. Settling in around them like smoke. Like it had been waiting.

Jeongin didn’t move.

Chan didn’t breathe.

Because they both knew what this was.

Not a new fight.

Just another rerun of a thousand they’d had before—dressed in different words, sharper clothes, but the same bones beneath it. The same splinters.

It had always been like this. Jeongin chasing joy like it was the last train out of town. Chan building a future like a bunker, brick by careful brick. And every time they tried to make room for each other inside those choices, something cracked.

“I need to know where I’m going,” Chan had said, once. Desperate. Tired. “You can’t just live off dreams forever.”

“And you can’t plan your way out of loneliness,” Jeongin had snapped back, hotter, crueler than he meant.

He remembered the way Chan had looked at him—like something had just broken, and they weren’t sure yet if it was going to be the last time.

He remembered regretting it. Immediately. But not apologizing. Because he never did. Because his temper always hit before the guilt.

And Chan—

Chan remembered everything. Too much. Too long.

Still looked at him sometimes like he was waiting for another outburst. Like Jeongin was just a match someone had already struck once.

And now?

Now they sat in silence.

Almost a decade older.

Not wiser.

Still eating instant soup in a motel room like they’d time-traveled back to their worst days.

Chan stared into his cup, the broth rippling slightly with each shallow breath. His grip was too tight around the plastic. His jaw clenched like he was chewing on the words he didn’t want to say.

And Jeongin?

Jeongin sat cross-legged, choco pie crumbs dotting his bare thigh, eyes down, throat tight. The towel still clung to his hips like it had nowhere else to go. He felt ridiculous. And tired. And somehow still defensive.

Because Chan still looked at him like he was a child. Like being happy wasn’t enough. Like being free wasn’t real.

And Chan still saw someone reckless. Beautiful, yes. Brave, maybe. But untethered. Unfinished. Like he needed to be saved from himself.

They both wanted the other to give in.

They both hated that they never would.

So they sat.

Soup cooling.

Mouths shut.

Hearts loud.

And the motel walls, thin as they were, couldn’t hold all the history between them.

Jeongin shifted, absently brushing a crumb off his thigh. The silence was starting to itch. He cleared his throat. “So… what do you do, anyway?”

Chan blinked. Looked up slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “You mean for work?”

“No,” Jeongin deadpanned. “I meant existentially.”

Chan didn’t laugh. Didn’t even twitch. Just went back to staring into his soup like it might offer him a better conversation.

“I’m an executive assistant,” he said eventually, voice clipped. “Medical device company.”

No inflection. No pride. Just the facts. Like he was reading it off a résumé he didn’t remember submitting.

Jeongin blinked at him. “...Thrilling.”

Chan didn’t rise to it. Just went back to his soup.

For a second, Jeongin thought that was the end of it. That they’d fall back into silence again. But then Chan spoke—quietly, without looking up.

“What about you? What’ve you been doing? I mean—besides drag.”

It wasn’t accusatory. Just… tentative. Like he was feeling around for normal.

Jeongin shrugged. “I’m a makeup artist. At a salon.”

Chan glanced up. “Seriously?”

Jeongin nodded, a little defensively. “Got certified and everything. Sanitation, skincare, full kit. It’s legit.”

Chan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, carefully: “That’s… good. It suits you.”

Jeongin didn’t say anything for a moment. Just nodded, like he didn’t quite trust the compliment. Or maybe didn’t know what to do with it.

The silence crept back in—awkward this time. Not biting like before. Just… weird. Lopsided. Like they were stuck in a game of twenty questions with someone who used to know their favorite meal, their childhood trauma, and what song made them cry in the car.

Chan took another bite of soup. Chewed slowly. Swallowed like it hurt.

Jeongin picked at the wrapper from his choco pie, folding and unfolding the foil like it might distract him from how bizarre this all was.

Because this was Chan.

The same Chan who used to kiss the corner of his mouth when they cooked together. Who used to fall asleep on Jeongin’s chest on Sundays, mumbling half-dreamed lyrics. Who once stood in the mirror behind him at 2 a.m. and said, “You’re going to be something. I hope I’m around to see it.”

Now they were talking about jobs.

Like acquaintances.

Like people figuring out how to fit back into each other’s lives through the shape of a resume.

Jeongin shifted. “So. Assistant, huh?”

Chan nodded. “Yeah.”

“To a doctor or something?”

“To a director. Of sales ops. I mostly do calendar stuff. Scheduling. Meetings. Some budgets.”

Jeongin made a noise that might’ve been a hum or a wince. “Sounds…” he trailed off.

“Boring?” Chan supplied, voice dry.

“I was gonna say corporate,” Jeongin muttered. “But yeah. That too.”

Chan’s jaw twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite anger. Something heavier, pressed flat.

“You get used to it,” he said, looking at the floor.

Jeongin didn’t reply.

Because what was there to say?

You shouldn't have to get used to hating your life?

Or maybe just: I wish I knew how to stop disappointing you.

He didn’t say either.

Instead, he crumpled the wrapper and tossed it toward the trash can. Missed. Didn’t move to fix it.

“You still writing music?” he asked, quietly.

Chan didn’t answer right away.

“No,” he said finally. “Not really.”

And that—somehow—hurt more than anything else.

Chan didn’t move at first. Just sat there, soup cooling in his lap, expression blank.

Then, too casual: “Han and Binnie—have they still been making music?”

He didn’t look at Jeongin when he said it. Didn’t let the question hang like it mattered. But Jeongin could see the shift. The way Chan’s shoulders stiffened just a little. The way he held his spoon midair like he was bracing for something.

Because he had hoped, hadn’t he?

Hoped they’d kept going without him. Hoped they’d made something new. Hoped his absence hadn’t been the end of it all.

Jeongin hesitated. Just a second.

Then: “No.”

Chan’s jaw clenched.

Jeongin continued, carefully. “They tried. For a while. Han especially. Thought they could keep it alive. Just the two of them.”

Chan looked at the wall. Not at him.

“It didn’t work,” Jeongin said, quieter now. “They kept butting heads. Couldn’t agree on sound, structure—anything. I think they both knew they were trying to revive something with a DNR.”

Chan didn’t say a word.

“Eventually, they gave up,” Jeongin added. “Han picked up your old gig at the club for a while. Running sound. He kept writing, though. Wouldn’t stop. That part of him never really shuts up.”

He hesitated again, then pushed forward.

“He got picked up by a label. Ghostwriting stuff. But it’s… it hasn’t been great for him. They overwork him. Pay like shit. And he’s still always tired. Always pissed.”

Silence.

“And Changbin?”

Jeongin’s lips tugged into something crooked. “Stopped altogether. One day he just… walked away from it. Started working as a personal trainer. Said he needed something real. Said music didn’t feel like his anymore.”

He didn’t say the rest. Didn’t say he barely talks to us now. Didn’t say he’s still pissed, Chan. Didn’t say you broke something.

Because Chan already knew.

Even if he didn’t flinch, even if he didn’t fold, Jeongin could see it in the line of his back. The way his mouth pressed shut. The way his eyes didn’t move from that fixed spot on the wall, like if he didn’t look at Jeongin, he wouldn’t have to hear it.

“I thought…” Chan started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I thought they’d keep going.”

Jeongin didn’t say, they thought you’d come back.

He just said, “They couldn’t. Not without you.”

Chan sat there, quiet, the soup forgotten in his hands, as the truth he’d left behind finally settled into the room between them.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

And his.

Chan didn’t speak for a while. Just sat there, soup cooling in his lap, gaze still fixed somewhere on the wall like he could stare through it if he tried hard enough.

Then—soft, careful:

“And what about you?”

Jeongin flinched.

It wasn’t visible, not exactly, but it was palpable. Like the air snapped tight around him.

His throat closed.

“What?” he said, too sharp, too fast.

Chan looked at him then. Really looked. Something tentative in his eyes. Something maybe even a little lost.

But Jeongin’s stomach had already turned to stone.

“You don’t get to ask that.” The words dropped out like a weapon. Cold. Unsteady. Final.

Chan blinked, startled. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Jeongin cut in, voice cracking halfway through the single syllable. “No. You don’t get to ask.”

The silence after was louder than the storm outside. Deafening. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead buzzed in his ears. The old heater kicked on in a sudden growl, coughing heat like a smoker’s breath. Somewhere in the hallway, a faucet screeched to life. Everything felt too close.

Too loud. Too bright. Too much.

The floral wallpaper clawed at the edges of his vision, the pattern swirling like it was mocking him. The plastic of the soup cup squeaked under his grip. His heart was pounding so hard it rattled his ribs, and still—he couldn’t look at Chan.

Because he could feel it.

The question in his voice. The care in it.

Too little, too late.

And it gutted him.

Chan had walked out. Vanished. No explanation. No warning. Just gone. And now—now—he wanted to ask what Jeongin had done with the wreckage?

Jeongin’s lungs strained under the weight of it.

He hadn’t even blinked.

He just stared, frozen, eyes glassy and jaw clenched like he was holding back something that wanted to scream. Something hot and terrified and brittle. Something that had been buried for three years under glitter and sarcasm and bad decisions.

God, the bad decisions.

They hit him like a blow to the chest. Sudden. Relentless. All at once.

The fight with Minho. The ache in his chest that he was trying to bury with sweat and bass and someone else’s breath in his mouth. The drinks. The moment it stopped feeling like control. The silence after. The shame. The running. The bathroom floor.

And the worst of them all.

The clinic.

The sterile walls. The bright lights. The way Han had guided him inside like Jeongin was going to bolt at any second—one hand on his elbow, the other clutching a clipboard like it might help. Not angry. Not judging. Just quiet. Careful. Like he was coaxing a wounded animal out of a trap.

Jeongin had sat there in the intake room, legs bouncing, arms crossed so tightly he thought his ribs might crack, unable to meet the nurse’s eyes.

Unable to meet his own.

Because it hadn’t been an accident. Not really. It hadn’t been some unfortunate twist of fate. It had been him. His choices. His body. His mouth saying yes when it didn’t mean it. His endless appetite for attention and destruction and something, anything, that didn’t feel like missing Chan so hard it made him nauseous.

And now here he was.

In a towel. In a motel. With the man who left him—who broke him—and had the audacity to care.

His chest tightened.

His vision blurred.

He couldn’t breathe.

The motel room swam around him—fluorescent lights screaming, wallpaper curling like claws, air too hot and too thick and too still. The heater roared. The damp in his hair burned. Everything stung.

“Jeongin?” Chan’s voice cut through, low and unsteady.

But Jeongin couldn’t answer. His throat wouldn’t open. His fingers had gone numb. The buzzing in his ears surged into a roar, and his pulse thundered in his skull.

He stood up without meaning to. Backed away from the bed. One step. Two.

“Jeongin—”

He shook his head, fists clenched at his sides. Shaking. Breath shallow. Eyes wide.

Chan froze.

He had seen Jeongin angry. Seen him smug, flirty, furious, heartbroken.

But never like this.

Never unraveling at the seams.

It hit Chan like ice water: this wasn’t a fight. This wasn’t performance. This wasn’t even Jeongin lashing out.

This was panic.

Real. Tangible. Crackling like a live wire behind his eyes.

“Hey,” Chan said, softer now. “Jeongin, look at me.”

Jeongin couldn’t. Didn’t. His feet moved again, another step back, hitting the corner of the desk. He gripped the edge like it might anchor him, knuckles bone-white. Still trying to breathe through a throat that wouldn’t work.

“Jeongin,” Chan tried again, quieter, almost pleading.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t reach out.

Because he didn’t know how.

Didn’t know what part of Jeongin was safe to touch. Didn’t know what he’d trigger.

Didn’t know when he became someone who didn’t have the right to help.

So he just… watched.

A deer in headlights.

While Jeongin trembled in front of him like the light was too bright. Like it would burn him alive.

The bathroom door clicked shut.

Jeongin stood there for a moment, towel clinging damply to his hips, chest heaving like he’d run a mile in the rain. He didn’t lock it—didn’t need to. Just turned, slow and mechanical, and slid down the door until his back hit the floor.

The tile was cold. The air smelled like leftover steam and drugstore soap. He let his head thunk back against the doorframe and stared up at the yellowed ceiling, vision swimming with leftover static.

The panic receded just as fast as it had come. That was the worst part—how it always did. No crescendo. No warning. Just gone. Leaving behind the hollow echo of its absence.

His breath slowed. His hands stopped shaking.

But his chest felt bruised.

And not in a way anyone could see.

He closed his eyes. Pressed the heels of his palms into them until stars bloomed behind the lids. He felt scraped out. Threadbare. Like he’d been hollowed with a spoon and left behind for someone else to clean up.

He didn’t cry.

He hadn’t in a long time.

Not because he was strong.

Just because it never helped.

He didn’t know how long he sat there—barefoot and quiet and unspeakably tired—but eventually he heard it. The soft shift of weight on the motel carpet. The hesitant hush of footsteps near the door. A breath.

Then, through the thin wood, Chan’s voice. Gentle. Low. Almost too quiet to be real.

“…I’m sorry.”

No excuses. No softening. Just that.

And then silence.

Jeongin didn’t answer.

He sat there, back against the door, fists still clenched in his towel, chest aching like he’d been punched clean through. The apology echoed hollow in his head, rattling off the places where his shame had already carved grooves.

Because he did know what to say.

It’s fine. I’m okay. I’m over it.

But none of those were true.

And this—this—was the part he hated most. Not the spiraling, not the panic. Not even the fact that Chan had seen him like that.

It was the shame that came after.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind that made you cry in a mirror or confess at a party. The quiet kind. The weighty, exhaustive kind. The kind that lived in your bones and wore your name like a bruise. The kind that made him feel foreign in his own skin.

Jeongin didn’t often feel shame. He didn’t see the point. He’d strutted through too many dressing rooms, too many back alleys and stage doors to give a damn. He’d walked a motel lobby in nothing but a towel with full eye contact and a choco pie. He’d never cared about being seen.

But the things he did when Chan left?

That was different.

That wasn’t performance. That wasn’t survival.

That was something else.

And when the adrenaline burned off, it always left this behind. This feeling like the floor of his chest had been torn out. Like there was something rotten in him, something loud and hungry and fundamentally unlovable. And no matter how brightly he smiled, no matter how much glitter he slapped on, it never went away.

He didn’t cry.

He never did.

He just… stood up.

Eventually.

Joints stiff. Head heavy. He pressed his hand to the door like it might stop the world from spinning for just one more second. Then he opened it.

The room hadn’t changed.

Chan had retreated to the bed, soup cup gone, his phone glowing in one hand like a flashlight in a power outage. But he wasn’t looking at it. Just holding it. Still. Waiting.

Jeongin stepped out quietly.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t look at him.

He just walked past—if you could call it walking. It was more of a slow, reluctant drift. His spine didn’t lift like it normally did. His steps weren’t light. There was a hitch to them, a drag, like the shame was still clinging to his legs.

Jeongin always moved like he was onstage—even in a grocery store. Even barefoot on pavement. Even bleeding. Like he had nothing to hide.

But now?

Now it looked like gravity had grown personal.

Chan noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But if it hurt to witness, he didn’t say anything.

Just watched as Jeongin lowered himself onto the edge of the bed again, quieter this time. Smaller. Not defeated—but raw. Like the air had taken something from him and hadn’t given it back.

Neither of them spoke.

But the silence wasn’t angry anymore.

It was something else.

Something brittle and heavy. Something that tasted like old grief and tired hearts and too many things said too late.

Chan swallowed.

Jeongin stared at the floor.

And outside, the storm raged on, indifferent.

Jeongin didn’t say a word. Just shifted, tugged the towel tighter around his waist, and climbed into bed with the same mechanical grace he used when packing up after a show. Movements practiced. Detached. Not performance, but armor.

The sheets were scratchy. The pillow was too flat. The blanket smelled like someone else’s soap from a decade ago.

Still, he settled.

Rolled onto his side, away from Chan.

Back turned. Spine stiff. Eyes locked on the wall like if he stared hard enough, he could manifest a door out of here.

Because he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let himself acknowledge what this was.

Not the shitty motel room. Not the cold air creeping in under the rattle of the heater.

Not the fact that they were sharing a bed again.

No. For his own sanity, he had to pretend.

Pretend this wasn’t Chan behind him. That it wasn’t his scent lingering on the pillow. That the tension between them wasn’t hanging heavy in the sheets like fog.

Pretend he was anywhere else.

Chan shifted behind him.

Then—quietly—“Jeongin…”

Jeongin didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

But he heard the hesitation in Chan’s voice. The way he was gearing up to say something. Maybe to apologize again. Maybe to ask if he was okay. Maybe to dig into something neither of them had the strength to unearth tonight.

But before he could get the words out, the phone buzzed in his hand again.

Chan sighed. Frustrated. Bone-deep.

Jeongin heard the rustle of the screen being tapped. Then—

“It’s the director,” Chan muttered. “I have to take it.”

Of course he did.

The mattress lifted beside him. The sheet tugged slightly against his back as Chan rose. Jeongin stayed motionless, face unreadable in the dim light, body curved like a barrier.

The bathroom door clicked softly shut.

Then came the voice. Not angry, but strained.

“Yes, Director-nim. I saw the email. Yes. I’ll resend it. No, I sent it from the team account—yes, with view permissions. Did you try—right. Yes. I understand. No, I’m not home, I’m—just, give me a moment. I don’t have my laptop…”

Jeongin shut his eyes.

Not to sleep.

Just to block it out.

But he could still hear him. That same thread of patience Chan had always used when his frustration was fraying at the seams. That tone meant for managers and elders and people who held power but no clue. That sharp, forced calm that bled out in the silence between sentences.

Jeongin listened. And something inside him mourned.

Because Chan hadn’t always been like this.

Sure, he’d always been precise. Focused. Maybe even a little obsessive. But he used to laugh about it. Used to bend his own rules just to see what happened. Used to let Jeongin drag him out at 3 a.m. to chase neon lights and cheap coffee and bad ideas just because why not?

There’d been a spark in him.

Something alive. Something reckless.

Now?

Now he sounded like a man tap-dancing through eggshells and calling it a blessing.

And Jeongin—

Jeongin had always acted bulletproof.

Even believed it, most days. Believed in the mask. The lashes. The glitter. Believed in the power of walking into a room and owning it, even if he hadn’t eaten that day. Believed in his own shine.

But when Chan left?

He’d cracked—quietly. A hairline split no one could see. And then one night came along and widened it, careless and sharp, right down the middle of him. He’d patched over it with arrogance. With eyeliner and noise. With hands he didn’t care about and choices he won’t say out loud. But the fracture remained.

And now he couldn’t press too close to it. Couldn’t think too hard. Couldn’t feel too much without risking it all splintering again.

And now he was here.

Lying on his side in a towel that barely covered him, in a motel bed with his ex, while the same man whispered exhausted apologies into a phone call that would never love him back.

His throat felt dry.

He didn’t cry.

Just stared at the wall.

And thought: How the fuck did we end up here?

Not in this room.

But in this version of themselves.

And what would it take, what would it cost, to ever feel like more than ghosts in each other’s lives again?

Jeongin didn’t sleep.

Not really.

He closed his eyes. He kept still. He forced his breathing into something slow and even. But his mind wouldn’t shut up. The thoughts pressed against the inside of his skull like water against cracked glass, waiting for the moment it would all shatter again.

The bathroom light turned off.

The door creaked open.

Footsteps—soft, tired, heavier than they used to be—crossed the room.

Chan climbed back into bed like someone trying not to be heard, but Jeongin felt it anyway: the dip of the mattress, the pull of weight, the whisper of movement beneath the sheets.

And they didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Because somehow, even now, they still remembered.

Still knew their sides.

Still gravitated toward them without a word.

Jeongin felt the heat of Chan’s body settle on the far side of the bed. Not close enough to touch. But there. Present. Familiar in a way that scraped the inside of his ribs raw.

And then—

The snoring.

Not loud, not yet. But creeping in. That uneven rhythm, the low buzz of a stalled engine trying to start. The ghost of a wheeze between breaths. And Jeongin knew it would get worse as he slipped deeper. Knew it like muscle memory.

It used to make him laugh.

Back when they were young and stupid and in love, back when they ended every night tangled in each other and woke up sore and smiling and late for everything. When they’d crash at a friend’s place and the post-party haze would be pierced by groans of “Jesus Christ, do you two breathe through chainsaws?” and someone chucking a pillow at them in the dark.

They were obnoxious. A stereo of snoring and stolen blankets.

It had been funny.

Until it wasn’t.

Until it skipped.

Until it stopped.

Until the snoring would cut off for a beat too long, and Jeongin would shoot upright like he’d been shocked. Like he had a sixth sense for it. A gut-level alarm set not to the absence of sound, but the wrong kind of quiet.

Until Jeongin used to lie there, heart clutched in his throat, counting the seconds until it returned.

He’d shake Chan. Once. Twice. A hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm. “Breathe, baby.”

And Chan would. Eventually.

He would inhale suddenly—too loud, too fast, like he was falling back into his body. And Jeongin would exhale just as sharply. 

Relief always came with its own kind of ache.

He’d begged him, once. More than once. Just go to a clinic. Just get a sleep study. Just check that your lungs will keep working when I’m not around to shake you awake.

Chan had kissed his forehead. Said he was fine. That it wasn’t that bad.

Jeongin had never told him how many times he’d cried silently in the dark, just from the sheer, helpless weight of loving someone whose body might betray him in his sleep.

And now?

Now Jeongin didn’t know how he used to sleep through it. How he used to sleep at all.

Because the sound of Chan not breathing had once been the scariest silence in the world.

And the sound of him breathing again wasn’t much better.

Jeongin stayed still. Eyes closed. Towel scratchy under his hip. Muscles tense. Mind spinning.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours.

Letting the rhythm of Chan’s snoring fill the room. Letting it crawl up his spine and settle somewhere just beneath his skin. Familiar. Infuriating. So stupidly safe, it made his chest ache.

Then—

It stopped.

Not long. Not dramatic. Just a single beat of silence where breath should’ve been. One second. Two.

Jeongin didn’t think.

He rolled fast, reached out before his brain could catch up—hand landing firm on Chan’s shoulder.

“Breathe,” he whispered, urgent and low. “Come on, baby, breathe—”

Chan inhaled sharply. A stuttered gasp like the surface breaking open. His body jerked slightly, then settled.

Jeongin’s hand dropped like it had been burned.

Fuck.

He didn’t look at him. Didn’t move.

Just lay there, stomach twisting, fingers curling against the sheets, shame hot in his throat.

That hadn’t been his name to use.

That hadn’t been his place anymore.

But it was instinct. A reflex built from too many nights watching for that exact silence. From knowing what it meant. From being the only one who ever noticed.

And maybe—maybe that was the worst part.

That even now, even after everything, his body still remembered how to love Chan when it counted.

He closed his eyes again.

Didn’t sleep.

Just stayed still, facing away. Listening to the breath return to rhythm behind him.

Eventually, he reached out. Quiet. Careful. Pulled the blanket up over Chan’s shoulder where it had slipped.

Just enough so he wouldn’t wake up cold.

Then he tucked himself back beneath the same blanket. Curled toward the edge of the bed. And stared at nothing.

Because this wasn’t his to care about anymore.

But that didn’t stop him from doing it.

Not even a little.

And the snoring—uneven, human, alive—didn’t stop again.

And Jeongin?

He didn’t sleep.

But at least his hands stopped shaking.

Chapter Text

Chan was halfway through his second cup of instant coffee when he realized he’d read the same sentence three times.

He blinked, refocused on the spreadsheet. The cells hadn’t moved. The numbers hadn’t changed. His brain, however, had wandered far enough off-course it might as well have filed for vacation time.

He shut his eyes. Exhaled. Reopened them.

Still Thursday.

Still a desktop full of budgets and slide decks and a to-do list longer than his sanity.

Still no messages from Jeongin.

Not even a snarky reply when Mi Sun sent a picture of matching groomsmen socks with the caption “sooo cute right?? 💕”—and if that didn’t bait Jeongin into a read, Chan didn’t know what would.

Radio silence.

Since Sunday.

Since the motel.

Chan rubbed his temple like he could massage the memory out of his skull. The drive back had been quiet—not tense, just… hollow. Like all the fuel had already been burned up, and they were coasting on fumes. No fighting. No jokes. Just two tired bodies in damp clothes and borrowed silence, watching the world blur by around the scooter.

It was sunny.

Bright, almost. The kind of sharp spring light that made puddles sparkle and windshields too hot to touch. It would’ve been a beautiful day, if it hadn’t felt so strange.

When Jeongin eased to a stop outside his own apartment, Chan had braced himself for another curveball. Some impulsive whim. One more off-script moment just to cause chaos.

He half-expected Jeongin to suggest breakfast. Or a hike. Or some final cosmic errand for old time’s sake.

Instead, Jeongin got off. Walked inside.

Came back two minutes later with a wad of cash in his fist.

He dropped it into Chan’s lap like it was a live grenade.

"Take it."

Chan blinked down at the bills. Then up at Jeongin—his jaw clenched tight, his hair still mussed from the helmet, his sweatshirt dry but rumpled at the collar like he’d gotten dressed in a hurry and forgotten to look in the mirror.

"You don't need to—"

"It’s half the room." Jeongin’s voice didn’t waver. "I’m not gonna owe you."

And that was it.

No jab. No joke. No flirty sendoff to haunt Chan’s subconscious for the next decade.

Just that. Cold. Flat. Final.

And then silence.

Jeongin hadn’t messaged since.

Chan should have been grateful. He should’ve breathed a sigh of relief.

Peace, finally.

But all he could do was stare at his phone and think about the way Jeongin’s hands had trembled as he shoved that cash into his lap.

Think about the quiet click of the bathroom door shutting. About the way Jeongin had curled into himself afterward—small, silent, as if he could fold away the damage and pretend he hadn’t bled all over the room.

And worst of all, the way it hadn’t left Chan.

It followed him.

Into meetings, into spreadsheets, into the pitiful excuse for coffee at the office kitchenette.

The echo of Jeongin’s laugh in the water, bare shoulders catching the sunlight, eyes bright with mischief like none of it ever hurt.

Then the motel. The silence. The crack in Jeongin’s voice when Chan asked—gently, stupidly—what it had been like after he left. The way Jeongin had frozen, backed away, bolted for the bathroom like the question had hit bone.

Chan dragged a hand over his face and forced his eyes back to the screen.

Focus. You have deliverables. You have meetings. You have a wedding to plan and a life to pretend is good.

But the silence in his inbox throbbed like a bruise.

And no matter how loud the office got, it couldn’t drown out the echo of that goddamn motel room.

He forced himself to click through another tab. Another spreadsheet. Another cell that demanded something of him. He adjusted a number in the budget proposal, then stared at it like it might sprout wings and fly off the screen.

Focus.

He checked his calendar. Two back-to-back meetings after lunch. A slide deck to finalize before three. An email from Mi Sun flagged as “urgent” but probably about flower arrangements or bridesmaid shoes again. He flagged it for later.