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Chapter Text

Law & Letters

Chapter One

"The right understanding of any matter and a misunderstanding of the same matter do not wholly exclude each other."

The Trial by Franz Kafka

"Tangina, ang ingay."

Haechan winced as he stepped into Johnny Suh’s overcrowded condo, instantly regretting his decision to come. The bass from the speakers vibrated through the walls, mixing with the drunken laughter and slurred conversations of students from different universities. He wasn’t even sure why he agreed to this—oh, right. Renjun had blackmailed him with the promise of a week’s worth of free coffee.

"’Di ba sabi mo gusto mong mag-relax?" Renjun smirked, nudging him towards the crowd. "O, ayan. Socialize ka muna."

Haechan rolled his eyes. "Relaxing is me, in my dorm, binge-watching documentaries habang may hawak na kape. Not this mess."

Before Renjun could reply, a commotion by the bar area caught their attention. A group of students—mostly wearing blue—were gathered around, engaged in an animated discussion. One voice, firm and slightly condescending, stood out.

"That’s a gross oversimplification of the law," the guy argued, his English annoyingly crisp. "You can’t just quote one case and ignore jurisprudence that followed. The application is nuanced."

Haechan let out a sharp laugh, drawing the attention of a few people nearby. "Wow. Ang deep naman. Sayang, wala akong dictionary sa bulsa."

The guy—tall, neat, and reeking of privilege—turned to him, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"

"You law students talaga," Haechan crossed his arms, lips curling into a smirk. "Laging may pa-nuance, pa-jurisprudence. Eh kung ‘yung batas lang sana madaling intindihin ng masa, baka mas maraming hindi dehado sa sistema."

For a moment, the guy just stared at him, as if processing whether it was worth engaging. Then, he scoffed. "Understanding the law isn’t about making it sound simple just to appease people. It’s about accuracy."

Haechan clicked his tongue. "Accuracy, my ass. Alam mo kung anong accurate? Na mayayaman lang ang may access sa hustisya sa bansa natin."

That seemed to strike a nerve. The guy's jaw tightened, his posture stiff. "You’re making baseless generalizations."

"And you sound exactly like someone who’s never had to fight for something a day in his life."

A beat of silence. The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Then Johnny, ever the peacemaker, slid between them with his signature charming grin. "Gentlemen, gentlemen. Let’s not turn my party into a courtroom drama, okay?" He turned to Haechan. "Bro, chill ka lang." Then, to the law student, "Mark, wag masyadong serious."

Mark. So that was his name.

Haechan narrowed his eyes at him, not missing the way Mark was still watching him with barely concealed irritation.

"Yeah, whatever." Haechan huffed, grabbing a drink from the counter before disappearing into the crowd.

But even as he tried to distract himself with shots and small talk, he could still feel Mark’s gaze burning at the back of his head.

Sparks flew, but not the good kind.

And somehow, Haechan had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time they clashed.

The party dragged on, but Haechan’s mood remained sour. Every now and then, his eyes would dart across the room, unintentionally searching for the law student he had just argued with. And every damn time, he’d find Mark effortlessly blending in with the crowd—sipping from a red cup, nodding politely at conversations, looking every bit the perfect, put-together Atenista.

Haechan scoffed to himself. Figures.

He turned back to his own little circle, where Renjun was deep in conversation with Karina about some art exhibit. Jeno, their other friend, nudged Haechan.

"Dude, anong trip mo kanina?" Jeno asked, chuckling. "Parang ready ka nang makipag-debate sa Supreme Court, ah."

"Tarantado kasi 'yung isang ‘yun," Haechan muttered, taking a sip of his drink. "Mayabang. Feeling superior. Typical rich law boy."

Jeno followed his gaze. "Si Mark Lee? Kilala ko ‘yun. Mabait naman ‘yun, pre."

Haechan gave him an incredulous look. "Mabait? Eh ‘di ikaw na mag-bestie sa kanya."

Jeno just laughed. "Basta, don’t judge too fast."

"Eh ano naman kung tama ako?"

Before Jeno could reply, Johnny’s voice boomed over the speakers.

"Alright, you degenerates! Time for a game!"

A loud cheer erupted from the crowd, and Haechan groaned. He hated party games.

"Spin the bottle—truth or dare edition!" Johnny announced.

Haechan shot Renjun a murderous glare. "Putangina, sinama mo ko dito tapos may ganito?"

Renjun grinned. "Tigil-tigilan mo ‘ko, masaya ‘to."

Reluctantly, Haechan allowed himself to be pulled into the forming circle. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his arms crossed, mentally preparing himself to refuse any dare thrown his way.

The game started with harmless truths and dares—people admitting to embarrassing crushes, taking shots, dancing on tables. Haechan stayed quiet, hoping to remain unnoticed.

But of course, fate had other plans.

When the bottle spun and landed on Mark, Haechan already knew trouble was coming.

Johnny grinned wickedly. "Mark, truth or dare?"

Mark, ever the composed one, shrugged. "Truth."

"Lame." Johnny rolled his eyes. "Fine. Have you ever disliked someone at first sight?"

A collective "ooh" echoed through the group. Mark’s lips twitched slightly as he considered the question. Then, his gaze flickered—just for a second—toward Haechan.

"Yeah," Mark said simply.

Haechan felt his irritation spike. Ang kapal talaga ng mukha.

He leaned back, feigning indifference. "Same, bro."

A few people snickered at the obvious tension between them. Johnny, ever the instigator, spun the bottle again. This time, it landed on Haechan.

"Truth or dare?" Johnny smirked.

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "Dare."

Johnny's grin widened. "Kiss the person you find the most annoying in this room."

A roar of laughter exploded in the room. Haechan froze for a split second before his gaze zeroed in on Mark, who, to his annoyance, remained completely unfazed.

"Go on," Mark said smoothly, as if daring him.

Haechan could feel the heat creeping up his neck, but he refused to back down.

"Tangina," he muttered under his breath before downing the rest of his drink. Then, without giving himself time to overthink, he leaned in and pressed a quick, hard kiss on Mark’s lips.

A mix of cheers and gasps filled the air.

When Haechan pulled away, Mark raised an eyebrow at him, completely unreadable. "Satisfied?"

Haechan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not even close."

And just like that, the night took a turn neither of them saw coming.

A heavy silence followed. The kind that felt suffocating despite the noise of the party still raging around them.

Haechan’s lips tingled—putangina, why did it feel warmer than it should? He scoffed, brushing off the heat creeping up his neck. It was just a stupid dare. No big deal.

But when his eyes flickered to Mark, irritation bubbled up again. The guy looked completely unbothered, like getting kissed in front of a crowd was just another Tuesday night for him.

"Parang hindi first time ‘no?" Haechan muttered under his breath, loud enough for only Mark to hear.

Mark smirked—just a twitch of his lips, but enough to annoy Haechan even more. "Disappointed ka ba?"

Haechan rolled his eyes. "Ew, gago."

The circle erupted into chatter, with Johnny practically howling from where he sat. "Damn! That was intense! Round two?"

"Putangina, gago ka ba?!" Haechan snapped, standing up. "Isa pa talagang kiss gusto mo?"

Johnny laughed. "Di mo naman kailangang magalit, pre. Aminin mo na lang—there’s tension."

Haechan grabbed a nearby pillow and threw it straight at Johnny’s face. "Tension mo mukha mo."

Still chuckling, Johnny turned to Mark. "Ikaw, Mark? Wala kang reaction? Napahiya ka, bro?"

Mark just took a slow sip of his drink before answering. "Why would I be? I got a free kiss out of it."

Haechan swore his eye twitched. "Ulol."

Deciding he had enough of this party—and of Mark Lee—he stormed off towards the balcony, ignoring the teasing whistles behind him.

**

The crisp night air did little to cool the irritation burning in Haechan’s chest. He leaned against the railing, inhaling deeply, trying to shake off the weird, lingering feeling in his gut.

"Stupid dare," he muttered. "Stupid Mark Lee."

As if summoned by his thoughts, the glass door slid open behind him.

"Nagagalit ka pa rin?"

Haechan exhaled sharply before turning around. Of course, it was him.

Mark stood there, hands in his pockets, his usual composed expression in place. The dim city lights cast shadows on his face, making him look even more annoyingly refined.

"Hindi ako galit," Haechan said flatly. "Pikon lang."

Mark tilted his head slightly. "There’s a difference?"

"Oo, gago. Pikon means naiinis ako sa’yo, galit means gusto kitang suntukin."

Mark chuckled. "So I should be grateful you only find me annoying?"

Haechan shot him a glare. "Wala ba talagang point ‘tong conversation na ‘to?"

Mark leaned against the railing beside him. "You’re the one who walked out. I figured you needed fresh air."

Haechan scoffed. "Anong pakialam mo?"

"Wala naman," Mark admitted. "Pero ikaw ‘tong masyadong affected sa nangyari."

Haechan whirled toward him. "Excuse me?!"

Mark smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. "I mean, you’re the one who ran off the moment it ended. Halata masyado, Haechan."

The way he said his name—so casual, like they weren’t practically strangers—made something in Haechan’s chest tighten. He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like Mark Lee.

And he definitely didn’t like whatever game Mark was trying to play.

"Alam mo," Haechan said, stepping closer, "kung iniisip mong may gusto akong patunayan sayo, mali ka."

Mark didn’t back away. If anything, his smirk deepened. "Really? Kasi parang defensive ka masyado."

Haechan clenched his jaw. His hands itched to wipe that smug look off Mark’s face, but instead, he forced a smirk of his own.

"Fine," Haechan said, tilting his head. "Let’s get one thing straight—kung sa tingin mo maaapektuhan ako sa’yo, sorry na lang. Hindi kita type."

Mark blinked, caught off guard just for a second. Then, to Haechan’s utter irritation, he laughed.

"Good," Mark said, his voice laced with amusement. "Kasi hindi rin kita type."

Haechan wanted to throw him off the balcony.

Instead, he huffed, turned on his heel, and walked away—for real this time.

But even as he left, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time Mark Lee would get under his skin.

And he hated that.

**

For the next few days, Haechan tried to erase that stupid night from his memory. The problem was, it seemed like the universe had other plans.

“Haech, nakita mo ‘yung latest sa Law & Letters?” Jeno asked, sliding his phone across the table.

Haechan looked up from his notes, frowning. “Anong meron?”

“Mark Lee just published a new article—some long-ass essay about due process and media influence on court cases.”

The name alone was enough to make Haechan’s eye twitch. “Hay nako. Of course, siya na naman.”

“Parang invested ka masyado, ah?” Renjun smirked, sipping his iced Americano.

Haechan snatched Jeno’s phone and skimmed the article. It was well-written—annoyingly well-written. Concise, logical, and structured like a damn courtroom argument.

He hated how good it was.

“Such a show-off,” he muttered, pushing the phone back. “Lahat na lang may opinion siya.”

Jeno chuckled. “You’re literally a journalist. Your entire job is having opinions.”

“Iba ‘yun,” Haechan shot back. “At least, ako, hindi ako pa-impress.”

Just then, a notification popped up on Jeno’s phone.

Mark Lee: “Saw your comment. If you actually read the article, you’d know you’re missing the point.”

Haechan’s blood boiled. “Tangina, he’s replying to me?”

Jeno raised an eyebrow. “Ikaw kasi, kung makacomment ka parang gusto mong makipagbardagulan.”

Haechan grabbed his phone and quickly typed a reply.

Haechan: “Oh wow, Mr. Law Student has entered the chat. Sorry, I forgot you guys are the only ones allowed to have opinions on the law.”

A few seconds later, a new reply appeared.

Mark Lee: “You can have opinions, sure. But at least make sure they’re informed.”

Haechan gritted his teeth. Putangina, was Mark Lee always this insufferable?

“Babe,” Renjun said, watching him with amusement. “You know what this looks like, right?”

Haechan glared at him. “What?”

Renjun smirked. “Foreplay.”

Haechan nearly choked on his coffee. “Gago ka ba?!”

Jeno just laughed. “In fairness, it’s giving enemies-to-lovers.”

“Walang lovers dito, gago,” Haechan snapped, typing furiously on his phone. “I just hate his guts.”

Mark Lee: “Hate is a strong word. Careful, baka ma-obsess ka.”

Haechan stared at the message, his grip tightening on his phone.

Oh, this was war.

**

Later that night, despite his better judgment, Haechan found himself rereading Mark’s article.

The title alone annoyed him—"Due Process and the Media: A Delicate Balance in Pursuit of Justice."

It was so typically law student-y. So precise. So infuriatingly well-argued.

He skimmed over the introduction, already bracing himself for whatever rich-boy wisdom Mark had to offer.

"The intersection of law and journalism has long been a contested space, with legal practitioners arguing for fairness in judicial proceedings and journalists advocating for the public’s right to know. However, in our pursuit of transparency, we must ask: where do we draw the line between responsible reporting and trial by publicity?"

Haechan clicked his tongue. He hated to admit it, but Mark had a point.

Too often, high-profile cases were skewed by media sensationalism. He had seen it firsthand—how one viral headline could shape public opinion before a court ruling was even made. His own professors warned them about the dangers of misleading narratives.

But still, Mark’s article felt too… detached.

All logic, no heart. Like justice was just a theoretical puzzle and not something that affected real people.

Haechan leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against his desk.

Maybe that was the difference between them.

Mark saw the law as something to be analyzed, dissected, followed to the letter. Haechan saw it as something personal, something that could change lives—for better or for worse.

And that’s when the idea hit him.

His own article.

One that countered Mark’s points, not just with facts, but with stories. With real-life consequences that couldn’t be reduced to mere legal principles.

Haechan pulled out his laptop and opened a blank document.

Title: "When the System Fails: The People Left Behind by Due Process."

He smirked to himself.

If Mark Lee thought he had the final say, he was dead wrong.

Haechan cracked his knuckles and stared at the blinking cursor on his laptop screen.

Alright, Lee. Let’s play.

He started typing.

*****

When the System Fails: The People Left Behind by Due Process

 by Haechan Lee

Due process is often hailed as the backbone of justice. A safeguard against wrongful convictions. A system designed to ensure that everyone—rich or poor—gets a fair trial. But in reality, how fair is it when only those with power and resources can truly navigate it?

Take the case of Manuel Santos, a street vendor falsely accused of theft. CCTV footage proved his innocence, but by the time his case was reviewed, he had already spent seven months in detention—losing his livelihood, his home, and his family in the process. The law granted him due process, but it didn’t grant him time.

Compare that to businessman Rafael Go, who was accused of embezzling millions. With high-profile lawyers and an airtight legal strategy, his case dragged on for years. By the time a verdict was reached, he had already moved his assets overseas and was living comfortably in another country. Due process worked for him.

Justice is not just about following procedures. It’s about outcomes. And right now, the scales are tipped in favor of those who can afford to wait.

So the question remains: when the law serves only those who can afford it, is it truly justice?

*****

Haechan leaned back, rereading his draft. He smirked.

This would piss Mark off.

Good.

He saved the file and closed his laptop, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction.

Let’s see how Mr. Law Boy reacts to this.

**

A few days later, Haechan’s article went live.

It didn’t take long for the comments section to blow up. Journalism students praised the sharp critique, activists shared it across social media, and even some law students begrudgingly admitted it raised valid points.

But Haechan was waiting for one reaction in particular.

Mark Lee.

And it came sooner than he expected.

He was in the campus café, sipping on an iced Americano, when a familiar voice cut through the quiet hum of conversation.

"You’re enjoying yourself too much."

Haechan smirked before even looking up. "Bakit, nasaktan ka ba?"

Mark slid into the seat across from him, a printed copy of Haechan’s article in hand, annotated in the margins with annoyingly neat handwriting.

"Let me guess," Haechan drawled, "you’re here to educate me with jurisprudence?"

Mark set the paper down, tapping a finger against one of his notes. "Your argument is compelling, but oversimplified. You make it sound like due process is a privilege, not a right."

"Isn’t it, though?" Haechan shot back. "A right that not everyone actually gets to exercise? You think Manuel Santos got the same justice as Rafael Go?"

Mark exhaled sharply. "The system isn’t perfect, but abandoning due process isn’t the solution."

"Who said anything about abandoning it?" Haechan challenged. "I’m saying we stop pretending it works equally for everyone."

Mark was quiet for a moment, studying him. Then, to Haechan’s surprise, he smirked. "You’re a pain in the ass."

Haechan grinned. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

Mark shook his head, but there was something different in his expression this time—less irritation, more intrigue.

And Haechan hated the way it made his pulse quicken.

Because this wasn’t just an argument anymore.

It was a game.

And neither of them planned on losing.

**

A week after their little café showdown, Haechan was minding his own business—meaning, he was half-asleep in the newsroom while pretending to edit an article—when Renjun burst in, looking way too excited for a Monday morning.

"Babe, may chika ako."

Haechan groaned. "Kung hindi ‘to tungkol sa libreng kape, hindi ako interested."

Renjun ignored him and smacked a flyer onto his desk. "Intercollegiate Debate Competition. Hosted by Ateneo. Bukas na."

That got his attention. "And why do I care?"

"Because, gago, ikaw ang nirepresent ng department natin," Renjun grinned. "Surprise!"

Haechan stared at him. "Tangina, anong surprise? Wala akong sinalihang debate!"

"Yeah, but Prof. Reyes did." Renjun patted his shoulder, barely holding back a laugh. "Sabi niya, since ang galing-galing mong pumuna ng sistema, you should argue about it sa harap ng buong audience."

Haechan wanted to die. "Putangina, Renjun. Bakit hindi ikaw?"

"Photojournalist ako, gago. You’re the columnist," Renjun shot back. "Ikaw ‘yung may tapang sumulat ng ganitong bagay, so ikaw na rin ang lalaban para dito. Fair, ‘di ba?"

It was not fair.

At all.

"Okay, fine. Sino kalaban ko?" Haechan grumbled.

Renjun hesitated.

And Haechan knew it wasn’t good news.

"Renjun," he warned.

"Uh," Renjun started, looking suspiciously like he wanted to flee. "Si Mark Lee."

Silence.

Then—

"PUTANGINA, HINDI TALAGA."

Haechan shot up from his seat, sending his laptop almost toppling over.

Renjun winced. "Babe, chill—"

"CHILL? CHILL?! Hindi pa nga ako tapos kainin ng embarrassment from last week, tapos ngayon debate pa?! Against that smug, privileged, infuriating—"

The newsroom door creaked open.

"You know I can hear you, right?"

Haechan whipped around so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

Standing by the doorway, in his usual cleanly pressed uniform and annoyingly composed expression, was none other than Mark Lee.

Of course.

Of course, the universe hated him.

Mark stepped inside, crossing his arms. "You’re debating against me. Might as well accept it now."

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "You knew about this?"

"Found out this morning," Mark said smoothly. "Unlike you, I didn’t react like a dying cat."

Renjun snorted. Haechan kicked him under the table.

"Whatever," Haechan muttered. "Ano bang topic?"

Mark slid a folded paper across the desk. Haechan snatched it up and unfolded it.

“Is the Philippine justice system inherently biased in favor of the wealthy?”

Haechan smirked.

This was his topic. His battleground. His entire article had been about this exact argument.

Mark must’ve noticed the spark of confidence in his eyes because he sighed, shaking his head. "Don’t get cocky."

Haechan grinned. "Oh, I will."

Mark leaned slightly closer, voice lowering just enough for only Haechan to hear.

"Then I hope you’re ready, Lee."

Haechan’s breath hitched. He hated how Mark’s voice sent an annoying chill down his spine.

He hated Mark.

But even more than that—

He hated how much he wanted to win.

**

The Intercollegiate Debate, 12:00 NN

The Ateneo auditorium buzzed with restless energy, filled with students from different universities—some eager for intellectual discourse, others just there for the drama. Haechan could hear murmurs of excitement, the occasional, “Uy, siya ‘yung columnist sa UP paper!” followed by hushed whispers about Mark’s reputation as one of Ateneo Law’s rising stars.

He took his seat at the podium marked Affirmative, heart pounding as the moderator went over the rules. Mark sat directly across from him, exuding his usual calm, collected aura. Unlike Haechan, whose fingers tapped restlessly against the desk, Mark looked completely unfazed—elbows resting on the table, fingers interlaced, eyes sharp and assessing.

The topic flashed on the screen behind them:

"Is the Philippine justice system inherently biased in favor of the wealthy?"

Haechan exhaled slowly. This was his fight.

The moderator cleared her throat. “Opening statements, Affirmative side.”

Haechan stood, ignoring the way his pulse quickened under the weight of everyone’s attention. He glanced briefly at Mark, who simply raised an eyebrow as if to say, Show me what you got.

Fine.

Time to give them a show.

“The law, in its purest form, is supposed to be the great equalizer. But in reality, justice is a commodity—one that the rich can afford, and the poor can barely access.”

Murmurs rippled through the audience. Haechan let them settle before continuing.

“We see it in the bail system, where a well-off defendant can pay their way to temporary freedom while the impoverished remain behind bars for the same crime. We see it in high-profile cases where powerful names can stall the judicial process, while marginalized individuals suffer swift, disproportionate punishment. If justice were truly blind, we wouldn’t have innocent people rotting in jail just because they couldn’t afford legal counsel.”

Haechan’s gaze flickered to Mark. He expected to see irritation, maybe a slight falter. Instead, Mark looked… intrigued. Like he was waiting.

Fine. Let’s see how he fights back.

Haechan took his seat.

“Negative side, your turn.”

Mark stood, adjusting his tie before speaking in that smooth, articulate voice that made Haechan’s eye twitch.

“The justice system is not perfect, but to say it is inherently biased is an oversimplification that ignores the progress we’ve made in legal reforms and public interest law.”

He gestured slightly with his hand, controlled and deliberate. “Our Constitution guarantees legal assistance to those who cannot afford it. Organizations like the Public Attorney’s Office work tirelessly to defend marginalized clients. To claim that the system is hopelessly rigged against the poor is not just misleading—it’s dismissive of those fighting to make it fairer.”

Haechan clenched his jaw.

“Of course, corruption exists,” Mark continued, his eyes locking onto Haechan’s. “But bias is not an inherent feature of the justice system itself. It is a flaw in its implementation—one that can and should be reformed, not condemned as irredeemable.”

The audience hummed with interest.

Haechan clicked his pen. This guy really had a way of making his side sound so damn reasonable.

Game on.

The moderator gave a small nod. “Rebuttal, Affirmative side.”

Haechan exhaled sharply, standing up. His pulse thrummed, but his voice was steady.

“So, what I’m hearing from my opponent is that since there are existing mechanisms for legal aid, we should all just sit back and trust that justice is served equally? That’s a nice, polished argument—one that looks great on paper. But let’s talk about reality.”

He turned slightly, eyes scanning the audience. “The Public Attorney’s Office? Overburdened. Severely understaffed. One PAO lawyer is expected to handle hundreds of cases at a time. How is that fair compared to the legal teams that wealthy defendants can afford? Implementation is not just a footnote, Mark. It’s the entire problem. A broken system, no matter how well-intentioned, is still broken.”

Haechan glanced at Mark, who was watching him intently, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk. Good. At least he was paying attention.

Haechan continued, voice sharper now. “And let’s talk about high-profile cases. You say the system can work, that it’s not inherently biased. Then riddle me this—how come certain politicians with stacks of corruption charges are still roaming free while small-time offenders are locked up for decades? The same laws exist for everyone, but the application? Heavily skewed. Why? Because wealth buys influence, and influence bends the law in ways that ordinary people can never afford.”

He leaned forward slightly, leveling Mark with a look. “So tell me, Mark. How is that not inherent bias?”

The audience let out an audible murmur. Even the moderator looked mildly impressed.

Haechan sat down, crossing his arms. Beat that.

The moderator turned to Mark. “Negative side, your rebuttal.”

Mark stood up with practiced ease, his expression unreadable.

“With all due respect to my opponent,” Mark began, and Haechan had the sudden, sinking realization that he was about to get wrecked.

Mark tilted his head slightly. “You’re arguing as if corruption is synonymous with the law itself, when in reality, they are separate issues. The existence of corrupt officials and delays in the judicial system do not make the law itself inherently unjust. You’re pointing at systemic failures, but instead of advocating for reform, you’re treating them as permanent conditions.”

His eyes flickered with something sharp—amusement, maybe? “You’re passionate, I’ll give you that. But passion doesn’t replace precision. Legal bias is different from institutional flaws. Conflating the two only fuels distrust in legal institutions rather than pushing for actionable reform.”

Haechan gritted his teeth. This bastard was good.

Mark’s voice didn’t waver. “Let’s talk about legal precedents. There have been landmark cases where marginalized individuals have won against powerful figures, proving that the system is capable of fairness. The argument shouldn’t be that the law is inherently biased, but rather, how we hold institutions accountable for its proper enforcement.”

Then—because Mark Lee was an insufferable show-off—he smirked slightly. “You throw around statements like ‘justice is a commodity,’ but where are your figures? Your citations? You’re speaking in absolutes, but real-world data shows a more nuanced picture.”

Haechan felt his jaw tighten. He hated that word.

Mark sat down smoothly, like he hadn’t just eviscerated Haechan’s entire argument.

The audience was buzzing now, their rivalry igniting a fire in the room.

The moderator smiled. “This debate just got a lot more interesting.”

The moderator adjusted his glasses. “Now, we proceed to the cross-examination round. Negative side, you may begin.”

Mark leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk as he looked directly at Haechan. His expression was composed—too composed. Calculated.

“You made a bold claim earlier,” Mark began smoothly, “that justice is a commodity. You said wealth determines access to fair trials. I assume you have statistical evidence to support this?”

Haechan scoffed. “Mark, you’re studying law. Are you really gonna sit there and act like social inequity isn’t a factor? It doesn’t take a genius to see who benefits from the current system.”

Mark’s lips twitched. “That’s not an answer.”

Haechan clenched his jaw. He didn’t have hard numbers in front of him—just years of witnessing the system fail people like his own neighbors, his own family. But Mark was playing this by the book, and Haechan knew he had to keep up.

“Fine,” Haechan shot back. “Let’s look at incarceration rates. Poor defendants rely on overworked public attorneys. Their cases take longer, their convictions are higher, and they’re more likely to get maximum penalties. Meanwhile, those with money—” he gestured toward Mark “—hire entire teams of lawyers to drag cases out for years. They negotiate. They settle. And when that fails, they can afford bail. Tell me, who’s really getting justice?”

Mark’s gaze didn’t waver. “And do you believe abolishing the legal framework is the solution? If so, what alternative are you proposing?”

Haechan exhaled sharply. “I never said abolish. I said reform.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Reform how?”

Haechan narrowed his eyes. “By making legal representation truly accessible. Free legal aid shouldn’t just exist in theory—it should be properly funded. We should have more pro-bono programs, stronger oversight on corruption within judicial offices, and transparency on case handling. What’s the point of laws if they only serve those who can afford to wield them?”

A pause. Mark studied him, expression unreadable. Then—just for a split second—something like approval flickered across his face.

The moderator cleared his throat. “Affirmative side, your turn to cross-examine.”

Haechan leaned back, arms crossed. “Okay, Mark. Since you love jurisprudence, let’s play by your rules. You said earlier that marginalized individuals can win against the powerful if they use the right legal channels. But do you honestly believe that’s the norm? Or is that just the exception that proves the rule?”

Mark didn’t hesitate. “Just because it’s difficult doesn’t mean it’s impossible. The law has evolved. We have frameworks for legal aid, organizations that fight for judicial fairness. The issue isn’t that the law is biased—the issue is implementation.”

Haechan let out a dry laugh. “Exactly! And who controls the implementation? Who funds these institutions? Who benefits when cases get delayed? Hint: it’s not the ordinary Filipino.”

Mark exhaled slowly, as if choosing his words carefully. “So what do you propose? That we dismantle everything and start from scratch?”

“No,” Haechan said firmly. “I propose we stop treating legal access as a privilege and start treating it as a right.”

A beat of silence.

Then the moderator stepped in. “Thank you, representatives. That concludes our cross-examination round.”

The tension was palpable as Haechan and Mark locked eyes. There was no outright winner yet, but one thing was clear—this debate wasn’t just about law. It was personal.

And neither of them planned on losing.

The air in the auditorium was thick with anticipation as the moderator cleared his throat. “We now move to the final arguments. Each side will have three minutes. Affirmative side, you may begin.”

Haechan exhaled, gripping the edge of the podium as he stepped forward. His heartbeat was steady now—his nerves replaced by the rush of the debate. He wasn’t just speaking as a student; he was speaking as someone who had seen the system fail too many people.

“My opponent says that the law itself isn’t biased, that the problem is in its implementation. But let’s be real—who controls that implementation?” His gaze swept across the room before landing back on Mark. “The wealthy. The powerful. Those who can manipulate legal loopholes because they have the resources to do so. You tell me to trust in legal aid? Sure. But tell that to the single mother who can’t afford to take a day off work to file a case. Tell that to the falsely accused vendor who had to wait years in jail just because he didn’t have bail money. The problem isn’t just about implementation—it’s about who the system was built to serve.”

He let his words settle before continuing. “I’m not saying the law should be burned to the ground. But pretending it’s fair when it’s not? That’s dangerous. That’s how we allow injustice to keep happening. The law is only as just as the people who uphold it. And if we don’t acknowledge its flaws, then we’re part of the problem.”

A smattering of murmurs rippled through the audience. Some students nodded in agreement, others exchanged glances. Haechan didn’t need to see their reactions, though—he could already feel the weight of his words.

He took a step back. “That’s all.”

The moderator nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Lee. Negative side, your turn.”

Mark adjusted his tie and strode up to the podium. If Haechan was all fire and emotion, Mark was the picture of calm.

“There’s a saying in law: Fiat justitia ruat caelum. Let justice be done, though the heavens fall.” He let the words sink in before continuing. “I respect my opponent’s passion. He’s right—there are inequalities, and implementation is flawed. But here’s the thing: dismantling faith in the system doesn’t fix it. You don’t solve corruption by rejecting law—you solve it by strengthening it. By making the people within it more accountable.”

He glanced at Haechan. “You asked me earlier if the people in power manipulate the law. Some do. But that doesn’t mean the law itself is the enemy. If that were the case, then every journalist who exposes corruption, every human rights lawyer fighting for the oppressed, every activist who demands policy change—they’d all be fighting a losing battle. And yet, they keep fighting. Because change doesn’t happen by abandoning the system. It happens by using it better.”

Mark turned to the audience, his voice unwavering. “The law is not a perfect institution, but it is necessary. It is the tool that separates order from chaos, justice from revenge. And if we want that tool to work for everyone, then we have to learn how to wield it—not destroy it.”

He stepped back with a composed nod. “That is all.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

The moderator finally spoke, his voice measured. “That concludes our debate.”

A round of applause erupted, but Haechan barely registered it. His heart was still racing—not from nerves, but from the sheer intensity of it all.

Mark’s gaze met his from across the stage, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Not arrogance. Not condescension. Something else.

And for the first time since they met, Haechan wasn’t sure if they were rivals—

Or something much more complicated.

The applause faded, replaced by the low hum of students exchanging opinions about the debate. Haechan barely heard them as he stepped off the stage, his mind still replaying Mark’s words.

"Change doesn’t happen by abandoning the system. It happens by using it better."

Putangina. Why did that line stick?

“Haechan.”

He turned to see Jeno approaching, arms crossed. “You were on fire back there, bro”

Haechan scoffed, grabbing a bottle of water from the table nearby. “Tangina, hindi ko nga alam kung nanalo tayo.”

Jeno shrugged. “It’s not just about winning. You got people to listen—that’s what matters.”

Before Haechan could respond, a familiar voice cut in.

“You argue like a journalist.”

Haechan looked up and—of course—it was Mark, standing there with his usual composed expression. Except this time, there was something different in his gaze. Less irritation, more… curiosity?

Haechan raised an eyebrow. “And you argue like someone who’s never lost a debate in his life.”

Mark smirked slightly. “I haven’t.”

Haechan rolled his eyes. “Yabang.”

“Just facts.” Mark slipped his hands into his pockets. “You made good points, though.”

Haechan blinked. “Wait, did Mark Lee just admit I had a point?”

Mark chuckled. “I’m capable of acknowledging strong arguments.”

“Wow. Sino ‘to? Nasaan si Mark na nakakainis?”

Mark tilted his head. “You sure I still don’t annoy you?”

Haechan opened his mouth, ready to fire back, but before he could, a group of students from the audience approached Mark, congratulating him and pulling him into conversation.

Haechan watched as Mark interacted with them, effortlessly slipping into the role of the polished law student—composed, articulate, every bit the Atenista golden boy.

“Tangina, kinakausap ka pa rin niya.”

Jeno’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Ha?”

Renjun gave him a knowing look. “Mark. He never engages with people after debates. Pero sayo? Kanina pa siya nakabantay.”

Haechan scoffed, but his ears felt warm. “Wala ‘yan. He just wants to prove a point.”

Jeno smirked. “Sure ka? Baka naman may gusto siyang ibang patunayan.”

Haechan threw his water bottle at him.

But even as he turned away, he could still feel Mark’s lingering gaze on him.

And for reasons he didn’t want to acknowledge, he wasn’t sure if he hated it as much as he should.

**

Later that evening, Haechan found himself seated in front of his laptop, the blank document taunting him. He was supposed to be drafting an article about the debate for the university paper, but his thoughts kept circling back to Mark.

He groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Putangina, bakit ba siya nandito sa utak ko?”

Sighing, he cracked his knuckles and forced himself to start typing.

*****

The System and the People: A Debate Beyond the Podium

by Haechan Lee

The debate stage is a battleground where ideologies clash, and tonight’s interschool event was no different. The motion: Can true justice be achieved through the legal system as it stands today? Two sides. One arguing for the power of reform within the structure. The other, the necessity of dismantling what’s broken.

On the surface, it was just another academic exercise. But beyond the formalities, tonight’s discussion mirrored the reality outside the four walls of the auditorium.

Mark Lee, representing Ateneo’s law school, spoke with the precision of someone who has spent years immersed in the intricacies of jurisprudence. His arguments were airtight, his delivery measured. He believed in the power of the system—flawed, yes, but functional if wielded properly.

I, on the other hand, argued from a journalist’s perspective. The stories I’ve covered, the voices I’ve listened to—people failed by the very laws meant to protect them—have painted a different picture. The system, no matter how well-crafted in theory, favors those who know how to play it. And not everyone gets a fair shot.

Justice should not be a privilege. And yet, in our country, it so often is.

The debate ended with no clear winner. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe justice isn’t something that can be captured in the structured arguments of a debate round. Maybe it’s something messier, something that can’t be decided by rhetoric alone, but by the choices we make in the real world.

*****

Haechan stared at the words, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. It wasn’t finished yet. But as he read it over, he knew one thing for sure—Mark Lee had gotten under his skin.

And he had no idea what to do about it.

The debate had ended, but the tension in Haechan’s chest hadn’t eased. Even after the event wrapped up and the teams dispersed, he could still hear Mark’s voice in his head—articulate, confident, infuriatingly composed.

The worst part? Mark had made solid points.

But Haechan wasn’t about to dwell on that.

**

Haechan didn’t expect to run into Mark Lee again so soon—let alone in a coffee shop this close to UP.

He had barely even sat down, his laptop open and a half-drunk iced americano in front of him, when an annoyingly familiar voice cut through his concentration.

“Well, well. Look who it is.”

Haechan sighed before looking up. And there he was. Mark Lee, standing across his table with a slight smirk, holding a cup of coffee. Next to him was another guy—sharp features, warm smile, and an observant gaze that flickered between the two of them like he could sense the tension.

Haechan scowled. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a coffee shop,” Mark said simply, as if that answered everything. He gestured lazily to the guy beside him. “By the way, this is Jaemin. My best friend. He’s studying psych in Ateneo.”

Jaemin grinned. “So you’re the infamous Haechan.”

Haechan raised an eyebrow. “Infamous?”

Jaemin hummed. “Mark talks about you a lot.”

Haechan nearly choked on his drink. “Excuse me?”

Jaemin laughed. “Relax, I meant the debate. And your article.” He glanced at Mark. “But now I’m curious. You didn’t mention that he was this entertaining.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “You’re not helping.”

Haechan narrowed his eyes at them. Something about the way Jaemin spoke—calm, knowing—put him on edge. Like he could read straight through him.

“I don’t have time for whatever this is,” Haechan muttered, returning his attention to his laptop.

But Mark just slid into the seat across from him, Jaemin following without hesitation.

Haechan groaned. “Seriously?”

“What?” Mark took a sip of his coffee, looking way too at ease. “This is a public space.”

Jaemin nodded. “And we’re feeling social.”

Haechan shot them both an exasperated look. “I, on the other hand, am feeling antisocial.”

Mark smirked. “That’s new. Thought you loved a good argument.”

Haechan rolled his eyes. “Only when I have the energy for it.”

Jaemin leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. “Tough week?”

Haechan didn’t answer right away. He had too much on his plate—deadlines, research, the constant struggle of balancing school and part-time work. But he wasn’t about to share that with two Atenistas he barely knew.

Mark, however, was watching him too closely. Like he could already tell.

Haechan clicked his tongue. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Jaemin chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Mark drummed his fingers against the table. “Let me guess. Journalism is kicking your ass.”

Haechan scoffed. “As if law school isn’t doing the same to you.”

“Touché.” Mark tilted his head. “But you look more exhausted than usual.”

Haechan hated that Mark noticed. He hated it even more that Jaemin seemed amused by the whole thing, like he was watching a social experiment unfold.

He sighed. “If you’re just here to be annoying, please leave.”

Mark grinned. “But annoying you is fun.”

Jaemin laughed. “He’s got a point.”

Haechan groaned. This was going to be a long coffee break.

Haechan tapped his fingers against his laptop keyboard, pretending to focus on his article. In reality, he was hyper-aware of Mark and Jaemin sitting across from him, making themselves comfortable as if this were some kind of friendly coffee date instead of an intrusion on his much-needed peace.

"You guys seriously have nothing better to do?" Haechan muttered, eyes darting between his screen and the two Atenistas.

"We do," Mark said, sipping his coffee. "But this is more fun."

Jaemin smirked. "I’m just here for the show."

Haechan sighed dramatically, pointedly looking at the door. "Don’t you have, I don’t know, a frat meeting or some rich people gathering to attend?"

Jaemin laughed. "Wow, the hostility."

Mark just grinned. "I think he likes us."

Haechan scoffed. "I think you’re both delusional."

But his irritation wasn’t just because of their presence—it was because they had a way of making him feel... seen. And that unsettled him. He had spent years perfecting the art of hiding behind wit and sarcasm, yet here was Mark Lee, poking at the cracks without even trying. And Jaemin? He observed everything like he was studying the patterns of Haechan’s behavior, filing it away for later analysis.

He hated that.

"So," Jaemin started, propping his chin on his palm. "What’re you working on?"

Haechan tensed. He had been drafting an article about the ongoing tuition hikes and how they disproportionately affected students from lower-income backgrounds. It was personal. Too personal.

"Nothing," he said quickly, shutting his laptop halfway. "None of your business."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "You know, for someone who literally calls out the government on transparency issues, you’re not very transparent yourself."

Haechan clicked his tongue. "That’s different. I write about things that matter."

"Maybe you matter too?" Jaemin said casually.

Haechan blinked. He wasn’t expecting that. It wasn’t even said with mockery—Jaemin looked entirely sincere, which somehow made it worse.

"I don’t need your psychoanalysis," Haechan muttered.

Jaemin just smiled knowingly, but Mark leaned forward, fingers tapping lazily against his cup. "Seriously though, what’s the article about?"

Haechan debated lying, but he knew Mark wouldn’t let it go. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see how Mark would react.

"Tuition hikes," he admitted. "The way they’re pricing out students who don’t come from money."

Mark was quiet for a moment, his smirk replaced with something more thoughtful. "That’s a solid topic. You got your sources?"

"Of course." Haechan frowned. "What, you think I’d write an article without research?"

"No," Mark said. "I just know how hard it is to get admin to comment on these things."

Haechan hesitated. "How do you—?"

"I wrote a paper on financial discrimination in legal education," Mark said simply. "It’s not the same, but it overlaps. Admin never wants to admit that they favor students who can afford the system."

Haechan was thrown off by that. He had expected Mark to challenge him, to play devil’s advocate the way he had during the debate. Instead, he sounded like he actually understood.

Jaemin, ever the observer, smirked. "Looks like you guys have something in common after all."

"Don’t push it," Haechan shot back, feeling the urge to change the subject before things got too introspective. He wasn’t here to have a heart-to-heart with Mark Lee. "Anyway, shouldn’t you be studying case law or whatever?"

Mark shrugged. "Already did."

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "Oh, so you just happen to have free time to bother me?"

"Pretty much."

Haechan groaned, pushing his coffee aside. "You are insufferable."

"And yet, you’re still talking to me." Mark smirked.

Jaemin snickered. "I like this dynamic."

Haechan threw his hands up. "Of course you do."

For all his annoyance, though, he didn’t tell them to leave.

**

The next few days passed in a blur of deadlines and sleepless nights. Between his classes, his part-time job, and his article, Haechan barely had time to breathe. Renjun, his ever-supportive best friend and dormmate, watched his suffering with a mix of amusement and concern.

"You look like death, babe," Renjun commented as he set down a cup of instant coffee on Haechan’s desk.

"Thanks," Haechan muttered, rubbing his temples. "Exactly what I needed to hear."

"Kailan ang deadline ng article mo?"

"Tomorrow."

Renjun sighed. "Tapos kumain ka na ba?"

"...Define kumain."

Renjun rolled his eyes and tossed a bag of chips onto the desk. "You know, for someone who spends so much time writing about social justice, you’re really bad at self-care."

Haechan groaned, leaning back in his chair. "I don’t have time to take care of myself. I have to finish this."

"Pero, you had time to get coffee with Mark Lee."

Haechan choked. "What—how did you—?"

Renjun smirked. "He posted a story."

"That bastard," Haechan muttered under his breath.

"So?" Renjun pressed, grinning. "You and Mark hanging out now?"

"No! It was an ambush!"

Renjun snorted. "Sure, sure. Whatever you say, babe"

Haechan threw a pillow at him. "I hate you."

Renjun just laughed. "No, you don’t. Now finish your article before I force-feed you actual food."

Haechan sighed. "Yes, Mom."

But despite his exhaustion, he found himself smiling.

**

That weekend, as he was walking home from campus, he spotted a familiar figure leaning against a parked car near the entrance to his dorm.

Mark Lee.

Haechan stopped in his tracks. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Mark looked up, completely unfazed. "You left your notebook at the café."

Haechan blinked. "Wait—you actually returned it? You could’ve just messaged me."

Mark shrugged. "Wanted to see your reaction."

Haechan scowled, snatching the notebook from Mark’s hands. "Thanks, I guess. Now leave."

Mark chuckled. "You’re so defensive."

"You’re so annoying."

Mark smirked. "And yet, you keep talking to me."

Haechan hated how true that was.

As Mark finally walked away, Haechan found himself flipping through his notebook. And there, on one of the pages, was a scribbled note in the corner.

Keep writing. It matters.

It wasn’t signed. But he knew exactly who wrote it.

And for some reason, that made his heart race just a little bit faster.

**

As soon as Haechan was alone in his dorm room, he flopped onto his bed, gripping his notebook like it held some kind of answer to a question he wasn’t ready to ask. He traced his fingers over the scribbled words.

Keep writing. It matters.

He scoffed. Of course, Mark Lee had to be cryptic. Couldn’t just return the notebook like a normal person—no, he had to leave something behind, something that would make Haechan overthink at 2 AM when he should be catching up on sleep.

He threw the notebook onto his desk like it burned him and rubbed his face. Why did this bother him so much?

It wasn’t like Mark’s opinion mattered. Haechan had been writing long before Mark Lee waltzed into his life with his infuriating smirks and unsolicited opinions. He had spent years pushing himself—chasing deadlines, chasing stories, chasing some kind of purpose in this whole chaotic, broken system.

But no one had ever told him his writing mattered. Not like this.

It was one thing to get praise from his professors or see his articles published. That was validation, sure, but it was expected. It was part of the job. But Mark? Mark had nothing to gain from saying it. Mark didn’t even like him.

…Right?

Haechan groaned, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into his pillow. This was stupid. He was tired. He was stressed. That was the only reason he was letting one handwritten note get to him.

After a few minutes of moping, he pushed himself up, grabbed his notebook again, and flipped through the pages. His latest article draft was there—half-done, still messy, still filled with question marks where quotes should be. Was it enough?

He thought about all the students he had interviewed for the piece—students like him, struggling to keep up with tuition hikes, skipping meals just to afford printing fees, working multiple part-time jobs just to stay afloat. He thought about how unfair it was, how no one in power seemed to care.

He thought about Mark, that stupid note, and the way he had casually mentioned writing about financial discrimination in legal education.

Haechan’s grip tightened on the notebook.

Why did Mark care?

And more importantly, why did it make Haechan feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as alone in this as he thought?

Haechan didn't know how long he sat there, just staring at Mark's words like they would rearrange themselves into something less... unnerving.

He hated this. Hated the way his brain latched onto things that didn’t deserve this much attention. It’s just a note. It’s not like Mark was saying anything profound. He wasn’t the first person to acknowledge Haechan’s writing.

And yet, it stuck.

He groaned, throwing his notebook onto his desk with more force than necessary. The sound of paper rustling was met with silence, save for the faint hum of an electric fan in the background. He needed to get out of his head.

Just as he was contemplating another cup of instant coffee—despite knowing he was already running on caffeine fumes—his door burst open.

"Putangina, Haechan! Anong iniisip mo at para kang nauntog sa katotohanan?"

Jeno. Of course.

Haechan barely had time to react before his best friend strolled in like he owned the place, dropping a plastic bag onto the desk and eyeing the discarded notebook.

"Uh," Haechan started, pushing himself upright. "Gutom ka? Bakit parang ang aggressive ng entrance mo?"

"Ikaw ang aggressive," Jeno shot back, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "Nag-message ka kanina sa group chat na ‘di mo na ‘to kaya, tapos now you’re ignoring me? Ano? Magpapakabayani ka na lang mag-isa?"

Haechan blinked. Right. He had, in a moment of stress, messaged their friend group something along the lines of “Tangina, hindi ko na ‘to kaya. Magpapakamatay ako sa deadlines.” He had meant it figuratively, obviously, but Jeno had always been quick to check in.

Haechan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. I just... got distracted."

Jeno eyed him suspiciously. "Distracted?"

"Yeah," Haechan muttered. "Wala lang."

Jeno squinted at him, then shifted his gaze to the notebook. "Wala lang, pero mukhang may pinaghuhugutan. Spill."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

Jeno raised an eyebrow. "Haech, huwag mo ‘kong pilitin basahin ‘yan. You know I will."

Haechan glared, but he knew it was a losing battle. So he grabbed the notebook and held it to his chest like a lifeline. "It’s not a big deal."

"Then why do you look constipated?"

Haechan scowled. "Gago ka talaga."

Jeno smirked. "Ikaw rin." He reached for the plastic bag he brought and tossed a warm sandwich at Haechan. "Sige. Kain ka muna bago kita pwersahang paaminin kung anong gumugulo sa ‘yo."

Haechan caught it, frowning. "Ba’t may food?"

"Kasi hindi ka na kumakain nang maayos," Jeno deadpanned. "Alam mo, minsan mas madrama ka pa sa mga sinusulat mo."

Haechan sighed, unwrapping the sandwich. "I swear, minsan gusto kitang idisown bilang best friend."

"Impossible," Jeno said smugly. "Mahal mo ako masyado."

"Yuck."

But the teasing did its job. For a few minutes, Haechan allowed himself to eat in silence, pushing thoughts of Mark’s note to the back of his mind.

Of course, Jeno wasn’t the type to let things go that easily.

"So," Jeno started again, tone casual. "Ano na ‘yung latest chismis mo with Mark Lee?"

Haechan almost choked. "Walang chismis!"

"Eh ‘yung nakipagkape ka sa kanya?"

"Ambush ‘yun!"

"Eh ‘yung sinundan ka niya hanggang dorm mo?"

"He was returning my notebook!"

Jeno gasped dramatically. "Oh my God. Kayo na ba?"

Haechan actually choked this time. "Putangina, NO."

Jeno cackled. "I mean, if gusto mo, suportado kita. Kahit Atenista siya."

"Jeno," Haechan warned. "Tumigil ka na bago kita batuhin."

Jeno raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. But then his expression softened slightly, and he leaned back against the wall. "Pero seriously, Haech. Alam kong hindi mo lang iniisip ‘yung deadlines mo. Something’s up."

Haechan hesitated. He hated how well Jeno knew him—hated that he couldn’t just brush it off.

Finally, he sighed. "...He left a note."

Jeno blinked. "A note? Ano ‘to, love letter?"

"ANONG LOVE LETTER?!"

"Joke lang," Jeno snickered. "Ano nga ‘yung note?"

Haechan begrudgingly reached for his notebook, flipping it open to the page where Mark had scrawled those stupid words. He shoved it toward Jeno without looking.

Jeno read it, eyes scanning the short message.

Then he looked up, unimpressed. "Ito lang?"

Haechan scowled. "‘Ito lang’ daw. Putangina, ‘di mo gets!"

"Eh kasi naman," Jeno said, handing the notebook back. "Anong problema mo dito? Mark Lee is being nice. Or at least, as nice as he can be."

"It’s just—" Haechan groaned, flopping back onto the bed. "I don’t know! It’s annoying!"

Jeno hummed. "Annoying kasi tama siya?"

Haechan stayed silent.

Jeno smirked. "Tama nga."

"Shut up."

"Ikaw nga ‘tong ayaw maniwala na magaling ka. Eh ‘di ba yun naman talaga ‘yung punto mo sa pagsusulat? Na dapat may boses ‘yung mga taong hindi pinapakinggan?"

Haechan gritted his teeth. "Alam ko naman ‘yun."

"Pero?"

"...Pero iba kasi pag si Mark ang may sabi."

Jeno’s smirk widened. "So may something nga."

Haechan groaned into his pillow. "Tangina mo, Jeno Lee."

Jeno just laughed, standing up and stretching. "Basta, Haechan. Huwag mo masyadong pahirapan sarili mo sa kakaisip. Keep writing. Kasi tama siya—your words matter."

Haechan peeked out from his pillow, frowning. "Ikaw din ba si Mark Lee?"

Jeno winked. "Nope. I’m more handsome than him."

Haechan threw the sandwich wrapper at him.

**

Later that night, long after Jeno had left and the dorm was quiet again, Haechan sat back at his desk.

He stared at his article draft. At the half-written sentences, the notes scribbled in the margins.

Then he glanced at Mark’s message again.

Keep writing. It matters.

Maybe, just this once, he’d believe it.

**

While Haechan tried (and failed) to shake off Mark’s words, Mark himself had his own battles to fight.

Ateneo Law School was relentless. The moment he stepped into campus, it was like walking into a war zone of overworked students running on coffee and willpower alone. His schedule was packed with case readings, mock trials, and endless recitations where a single wrong answer could crush whatever dignity he had left.

"Lee, you’re up," Professor Santos called out as soon as he entered the lecture hall.

Mark exhaled sharply, setting down his books and standing. It was an unspoken rule that if you were called at the start of class, you were in for a grilling.

"Facts of People v. Sandoval?"

Mark recited them from memory, barely pausing to breathe. His classmates were silent, their eyes flitting between him and the professor, waiting to see if he’d slip up.

"Legal issue?" Santos pressed.

"Whether the warrantless search conducted on the accused violated his constitutional rights," Mark answered.

"Ruling?"

Mark hesitated for a fraction of a second. Not because he didn’t know the answer, but because his brain was already four steps ahead, anticipating follow-ups.

"The Supreme Court ruled that the search was unconstitutional. The evidence obtained was inadmissible," he said finally.

Santos studied him for a moment before nodding. "Good. But next time, don’t second-guess yourself."

Mark sat down, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease.

Beside him, Jaehyun nudged him with his pen. "Nice save, Mr. Future Lawyer."

Mark rolled his eyes, flipping open his notes. "Shut up."

Jaehyun just smirked, twirling his pen between his fingers. "You overthink too much."

Mark didn’t respond. Overthinking was second nature to him—something drilled into him not just by law school, but by his own family.

**

Later that evening, Mark found himself back home, greeted by the sterile quiet of his family’s house in Makati.

"Mark, dinner," his mother called from the dining room.

He entered to find his parents already seated, his father scrolling through his phone while his mother set down a bowl of soup.

"How was school?" she asked, offering him a small smile.

Mark sat down, loosening his tie. "Same as always. Stressful."

His father didn’t look up. "You should be used to that by now."

Mark bit back a sigh. "Yeah."

"Did you review for your upcoming moot court?" his father added.

"Yeah, Dad."

His mother, sensing the shift in mood, placed a serving of vegetables onto Mark’s plate. "You need to eat properly, anak. You look tired."

Mark gave her a small smile. "Thanks, Mom."

His father finally looked up. "Don’t forget—your uncle is expecting you to intern at his firm this summer. It’ll be good for networking."

Mark’s grip on his spoon tightened. "I know."

"Good," his father said, already returning to his phone. "Connections are everything in this field."

Mark knew that. He had known that since he was old enough to understand what being part of the Lee family meant. His father was a respected lawyer, his uncle a senior partner in one of the country’s top firms. He was expected to follow in their footsteps—to be competent, ambitious, and above all, successful.

But there were days when the weight of those expectations felt suffocating.

Mark swallowed the frustration rising in his chest and forced himself to eat.

**

That night, as he sat at his desk, drowning in case readings, his mind drifted—unexpectedly—to Haechan.

Mark smirked to himself. That guy is probably still mad about the note.

It was funny, in a way. Haechan was stubborn as hell, always acting like he didn’t care, but Mark had seen the way his fingers lingered over his notebook. The way his expression had shifted for just a second, like the words had hit deeper than he wanted to admit.

Mark leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

Haechan’s words mattered. Mark knew that.

Maybe, in some way, he just wanted Haechan to know that too.

**

The next few days passed in a blur of recitations, readings, and stress-induced coffee runs. Mark had been drowning in legal jargon when Jaemin suddenly plopped into the seat across from him in the library.

“You look dead,” Jaemin said, grinning. “More than usual.”

Mark didn’t even glance up from his notes. “Thanks, that’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

Jaemin snorted. “You need a break. Let’s grab food.”

“Can’t. I have a case digest due.”

Jaemin scoffed. “Dude, you’ll survive if you take an hour off.”

Mark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But only because I don’t want to listen to you whine about it.”

Jaemin grinned in triumph. “Great. There’s this new ramen place near UP—”

Mark froze mid-motion. “UP?”

Jaemin smirked. “Yes, UP. You have a problem with that?”

Mark gave him a suspicious look. “This isn’t about food, is it?”

Jaemin leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mark groaned. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jaemin laughed. “Come on, Lee. Let’s see if fate wants you to run into your favorite journalist again.”

Mark didn’t dignify that with a response, but he still found himself following Jaemin out of the library, the idea not entirely unwelcome.

**

Meanwhile, Haechan was not having a good day.

His editor at the campus publication had just handed him another assignment on top of his already packed schedule, and his latest article on tuition hikes had sparked more controversy than he anticipated. While many students had supported it, some faculty members weren’t pleased, and he was now caught in the crossfire of academic politics.

He slumped onto a chair at his usual coffee shop, exhaustion settling into his bones. Across from him, Renjun raised an eyebrow.

“You look like hell, babe,” Renjun commented, sipping his milk tea.

Haechan groaned, burying his face in his arms. “Can everyone stop saying that?”

Renjun chuckled. "Well, totoo naman. Tsaka, nakita ko yung mga reaction sa article mo. Talagang napikon mo yung ibang admin, no?"

Haechan sighed. “It’s not like I wrote anything false. It’s the truth.”

“I know. And that’s why it’s making waves,” Renjun said. “You keep this up, and you’ll either get an award or a suspension.”

Haechan snorted. “Or both.”

Renjun smirked. “Maybe you should ask Mark Lee for legal advice.”

Haechan groaned loudly. “Why does his name keep coming up?!”

“Because you keep running into him?”

“That’s not my fault!”

“Sure,” Renjun said, grinning.

Before Haechan could retort, the coffee shop door chimed, and he glanced up out of habit—only to immediately regret it.

Because there, walking in like some kind of Atenean menace, was none other than Mark Lee.

And beside him, looking far too entertained, was Jaemin.

Renjun followed Haechan’s gaze and smirked. “Well, well.”

Haechan muttered a curse under his breath.

Of all the coffee shops in Quezon City, why did Mark have to walk into his?

Mark spotted him almost instantly, and the smirk that curled on his lips was infuriating.

Jaemin, ever the instigator, immediately nudged Mark toward their table.

“Don’t,” Haechan hissed under his breath.

Renjun, completely ignoring his plea, waved. “Hey, Mark, Jaemin!”

Haechan shot his best friend a look of betrayal.

Jaemin grinned. “Wow, small world.”

Mark just shook his head, looking far too amused. “Or maybe you just attract trouble, Haechan.”

Haechan scowled. “What do you want?”

Mark tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You left such a strong impression on me that I just had to see you again.”

Renjun let out a loud laugh, while Jaemin looked impressed. “Damn, smooth.”

Haechan rolled his eyes. “Are you flirting or just being annoying?”

Mark smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

Renjun and Jaemin exchanged looks, clearly enjoying the show.

“Should we leave them alone?” Jaemin teased.

Haechan shot him a glare. “No.”

Jaemin laughed but sat down anyway, dragging Mark with him. “Relax, we’re just here for coffee.”

Haechan groaned, sinking further into his chair. “This day keeps getting worse.”

Mark leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “You could just admit you enjoy my company.”

Haechan snorted. “I’d rather admit defeat in a debate.”

Jaemin whistled. “Ouch.”

Mark, instead of being offended, just grinned. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

Haechan groaned again. This was going to be another long coffee break.

And, as much as he hated to admit it—he didn’t mind as much as he should.

Haechan glared at Renjun, who was sipping his milk tea like he hadn’t just committed an act of betrayal.

“Alam mo, Renjun, minsan gusto kitang ipagpalit sa mas matinong kaibigan.”

Renjun snorted. “Sige, hanap ka ng iba na kasing latina at supportive ko. Good luck.”

Haechan just grumbled, stealing a sip from Renjun’s drink in retaliation. Meanwhile, Mark and Jaemin settled into their seats like they belonged there.

Jaemin smirked. “UP students are so friendly.”

Haechan gave him a look. “Sino’ng friendly?”

Mark chuckled, stirring his coffee. “I don’t know, Haechan. You’re the one who keeps crossing paths with me. I’m starting to think this is fate.”

Haechan gagged. “Ang kapal ng mukha mo, Lee.”

Renjun leaned in, thoroughly entertained. “But seriously, anong ginagawa niyo dito? This is kind of our spot.”

Mark shrugged. “New ramen place nearby. Thought we’d check it out. Didn’t expect to see him,” he said, nodding at Haechan. “But hey, I’m not complaining.”

Haechan scoffed. “Ako, nagcocomplain.”

Mark, completely unbothered, took a sip of his coffee. “You can pretend all you want, but you’re not telling us to leave.”

Haechan opened his mouth to argue—then promptly shut it. Annoyingly, Mark was right. He could have just ignored them, walked out, or switched tables. But instead, he was still sitting here, tolerating their presence.

Renjun smirked. “Grabe, Haechan. Iba ‘yung tinitiis sa nag-e-enjoy.”

Haechan kicked him under the table. “Tumahimik ka.”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. “You guys always this chaotic?”

Renjun grinned. “Oh, you have no idea,” then he turned to Mark, arms crossed. “Since nandito ka na rin lang, sagutin mo nga ‘to, Mark.”

Mark blinked. “Answer what?”

Renjun leaned forward, voice dropping into something more serious. “Totoo ba ‘yung sinabi mo kay Haechan? ‘Yung sa note?”

Mark looked at Haechan, then back at Renjun. “Yeah. Why?”

Renjun studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Wala lang. Curious lang ako kung sincere ka o trip mo lang asarin ‘to.”

Mark’s gaze didn’t waver. “I meant what I said. His writing matters.”

Haechan didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he felt Renjun nudge him.

“‘Di mo ba sasagutin?” Renjun asked.

Haechan scoffed, crossing his arms. “Ano naman gusto niyong sabihin ko? ‘Oh wow, Mark, thank you, ang bait mo’?”

Jaemin chuckled. “Or you can admit that you were flattered.”

Haechan rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he focused on Mark, eyes narrowing. “Bakit ka ba masyadong invested?”

Mark shrugged. “Because I think you’re good at what you do.”

It was a simple statement. No teasing lilt in his voice, no smug grin. Just sincerity.

And for some reason, that made Haechan more uncomfortable than anything else.

Renjun, noticing the shift in atmosphere, suddenly stood up. “Jaemin, tara, kuha tayo ng pagkain.”

Jaemin looked between Mark and Haechan, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “Oh? Biglang gutom?”

Renjun rolled his eyes. “Oo, at ‘wag ka nang magtanong. Bilisan mo.”

Before Haechan could protest, the two had already walked away, leaving him alone with Mark.

An awkward silence settled between them. Haechan shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling the weight of Mark’s gaze.

Mark leaned back, tilting his head. “You’re overthinking again.”

Haechan scowled. “Tigilan mo nga ‘yang psychoanalysis mo sa’kin.”

Mark smirked. “I’m just observant.”

Haechan huffed, looking away. His fingers unconsciously traced the edges of his notebook—the same one where Mark’s note was still tucked away.

“So,” Mark said, voice softer now. “You gonna keep writing?”

Haechan hesitated for only a second before replying. “Of course.”

Mark smiled. “Good.”

And for reasons Haechan didn’t want to analyze, that one word—simple as it was—felt like something he had been needing to hear.

Haechan tapped his fingers against the table, pretending to be more interested in the condensation forming on his iced Americano than in the Atenean sitting across from him. But Mark’s presence was hard to ignore, especially when he was just sitting there, radiating this stupid calm confidence that made Haechan want to pick a fight just to see if he could break it.

“So,” Mark started, dragging the word out. “Are you gonna keep avoiding my question?”

Haechan blinked, forcing himself to look up. “What question?”

Mark gave him a look, the kind that screamed, ‘I know you know what I’m talking about.’

“The one about your article.”

Haechan exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “I already answered. I’m going to keep writing. Hindi mo naman ako mapipigilan, kung ‘yun ang iniisip mo.”

Mark held up his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t say I was stopping you. Just wondering how you’re handling all the backlash.”

Haechan hesitated, caught off guard by the genuine concern in Mark’s tone. It was easier to deal with Mark when he was being infuriating—this version of him, the one who actually seemed to care, was much harder to brush off.

“I’m handling it,” Haechan muttered.

Mark hummed, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “That’s a very convincing answer.”

Haechan rolled his eyes. “Ano bang gusto mong marinig? Na nahihirapan ako? Na nakaka-stress ‘to? Fine, oo, hindi siya madali. Pero ganun talaga, ‘di ba? Kung madali lang, edi wala nang point.”

Mark studied him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I get that.”

That threw Haechan off. He expected more teasing, maybe a smug remark. But Mark just leaned back in his chair, expression thoughtful.

“You know,” Mark continued, “law’s kind of the same. You go in knowing it’s gonna be brutal. But you do it anyway, ‘cause you believe in something. Or at least, you’re stubborn enough to see it through.”

Haechan scoffed. “You saying you believe in something, Lee?”

Mark smirked. “I believe in winning.”

Haechan groaned. “Wow. So inspiring.”

Mark chuckled. “Okay, okay. Maybe I also believe in doing something meaningful. Even if it pisses people off.”

Haechan eyed him warily. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to say we’re alike?”

“Because we are.”

Haechan made a face. “That’s the worst thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Mark just laughed, unfazed. “You’ll survive.”

Before Haechan could respond, Renjun and Jaemin returned, carrying trays of food. Jaemin took one look at them and smirked.

“Wow. You two look cozy.”

Haechan and Mark immediately leaned away from each other.

Renjun set his drink down with an exaggerated sigh. “So, nag-aaway pa ba kayo o nagkakaintindihan na?”

Haechan glared at him. “Nagpapalamig lang kami bago mag-round two.”

Jaemin snorted. “Sounds like a love story.”

Haechan and Mark simultaneously groaned. Renjun and Jaemin high-fived.

Mark shook his head, amused. “You guys are impossible.”

Haechan huffed, grabbing a fry from Renjun’s tray. “Let’s just eat before I completely lose my mind.”

Mark smirked. “Too late for that.”

Haechan kicked him under the table.

And if he noticed how Mark didn’t kick him back—how instead, the other just grinned and let him have that small victory—he decided not to think too hard about it.

**

Haechan’s head was about to explode.

His desk at the campus publication office was a disaster—papers everywhere, his laptop screen filled with half-written paragraphs, and an untouched cup of coffee slowly going cold. His article on student mental health was due in two days, and he was barely halfway through. On top of that, midterms were creeping up like a silent assassin, ready to ruin his life.

“Diyos ko,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “One crisis at a time, please.”

Unfortunately, the universe didn’t believe in mercy.

The door to the publication office swung open, and in strolled Jeno, a burger in one hand and an iced coffee in the other. He took one look at Haechan’s mess of a workspace and whistled. “Wow. Parang dinaanan ng bagyo dito.”

Haechan groaned, dramatically dropping his head onto his keyboard. “Jeno, ‘wag mo na akong asarin. I am suffering.”

Jeno snorted and sat on the desk next to him, taking a huge bite of his burger. “Bakit, ano na namang nangyari?”

Haechan lifted his head just enough to glare at his screen. “This article is a nightmare. I know what I want to say, pero parang hindi ko maayos nang maayos. Tapos may exams pa next week—”

“Hala, totoo?” Jeno blinked. “Ano na, review na ba ‘to o full breakdown?”

“Both,” Haechan deadpanned.

Jeno laughed, shaking his head. “Gusto mo ng tulong?”

“Unless kaya mong magsulat ng in-depth investigative piece sa loob ng isang oras, hindi ako sure kung paano mo ako matutulungan.”

Jeno shrugged. “Eh di ‘wag na lang kita tulungan.”

Haechan groaned again, slumping back in his chair. “Tama na ‘to. Magsasaka na lang ako.”

“Sure ka? Baka hindi mo kayanin ang init ng araw,” Jeno teased.

“Mas kaya ko ‘yun kesa sa stress na ‘to!”

Jeno grinned, then suddenly paused, his eyes narrowing. “Wait. Wala ka bang ibang stress na iniisip?”

Haechan frowned. “Anong ibig mong sabihin?”

Jeno leaned in, smirking. “Mark Lee.”

Haechan made a strangled noise. “Tangina mo.”

Jeno laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Eh kasi naman! Ang daming kwento ni Renjun kagabi.”

Haechan glared at him. “Wala namang nangyari, Jeno. Tumigil ka nga.”

“Wala?” Jeno raised an eyebrow. “Sure ka? Kasi sabi ni Renjun, parang ang lalim ng usapan niyo.”

Haechan huffed. “Nag-usap lang kami tungkol sa article ko.”

Jeno studied him for a moment, then nodded, looking way too amused. “Okay, okay. Pero aminin mo, hindi mo na siya gaanong inaaway.”

Haechan scowled, but didn’t deny it.

Jeno just smirked. “Hala. Interesting.”

“Jeno, kung gusto mo pang mabuhay hanggang graduation, tumigil ka na.”

Jeno held up his hands in surrender, laughing. “Sige na, sige na. Balik na ako sa burger ko.”

Haechan sighed, turning back to his article. He needed to focus. Midterms were coming, deadlines were piling up, and the last thing he needed was to let Mark Lee—or Jeno’s teasing—live rent-free in his head.

The ticking of the office clock was starting to sound like a countdown to his doom.

Haechan stared at his laptop screen, blinking at the words that no longer made sense to him. He had rewritten the same paragraph three times, and each version felt worse than the last. His mind was scattered—half on his article, half on his upcoming exams, and an embarrassingly small part still replaying his last conversation with Mark.

He scowled at himself. Focus, tangina.

Jeno, now comfortably lounging on the desk beside him, sipped his iced coffee like he had all the time in the world. “So, anong plano mo? Magpapaka-stress ka hanggang bumagsak ka, or are you actually gonna take a break?”

Haechan shot him a look. “I can’t afford a break.”

Jeno raised an eyebrow. “Totoo ba ‘yan, o nagpapaka-martir ka lang?”

Haechan groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Jeno, kung hindi ako tapos sa article na ‘to by tomorrow, malalagot ako sa editor ko. Tapos may exams pa. Wala na akong oras sa kahit ano.”

Jeno hummed thoughtfully. “Eh kung tumulong kaya ako?”

Haechan blinked. “Ha?”

“I mean, I can’t write like you,” Jeno admitted, “pero kaya kong maghanap ng sources or mag-proofread. Kahit man lang ‘yun, baka makatulong sa’yo.”

For a moment, Haechan just stared at him. He hadn’t expected Jeno to actually offer help—sure, Jeno was a good friend, but he usually preferred to watch Haechan suffer for entertainment.

“…Bakit ka biglang mabait?” Haechan asked suspiciously.

Jeno smirked. “Bakit, bawal?”

“Medyo.”

Jeno laughed. “Tarantado. Seryoso ako. Kung ayaw mo, edi ‘wag—”

“Okay, fine,” Haechan cut in, exhaling. “If you can help me find more student testimonials, that would actually be great.”

“See? Hindi naman mahirap humingi ng tulong.”

Haechan huffed, but he couldn’t deny that a tiny weight lifted off his shoulders. “Thanks, Jeno.”

Jeno grinned. “Anytime. Basta libre mo akong milk tea next time.”

“Putangina, may bayad pala?”

“Syempre.”

Haechan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. For the first time in hours, he felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t completely drowning.

That feeling, however, lasted only five minutes.

Because just as he started typing again, his phone buzzed.

Mark Lee: Hope you’re not stressing too much, Haechan.

Haechan stared at the message.

Jeno, noticing his sudden stillness, leaned over. “Oh? Sino ‘yan?”

Haechan locked his phone immediately. “Wala.”

Jeno smirked. “Wala, ha?”

“Jeno, putangina, ‘wag mo akong simulan.”

But Jeno was already grinning like he had just discovered the greatest secret in the universe. “Teka lang. Mark ba ‘yun?”

Haechan groaned loudly, slamming his forehead against his desk. He really needed a break.

Haechan refused to look at his phone.

Which was ridiculous because it was his phone, and his messages, and he had every right to check them—but the problem wasn’t the message itself. It was the fact that it was from Mark Lee. And somehow, that made it ten times more annoying.

Jeno, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. “Teka lang,” he said, grinning. “So Mark is texting you now?”

“Hindi siya now, okay?” Haechan muttered, still face-down on his desk. “Isang beses lang ‘to.”

Jeno snorted. “Sigurado ka?”

Haechan peeked up, scowling. “Ano ba, abogado ka rin?”

Jeno smirked. “Hindi, pero baka kailangan mo ng isa kung itatanggi mo pa ‘to.”

Haechan grabbed the nearest crumpled piece of paper and chucked it at Jeno, who dodged effortlessly, still grinning.

“Gusto mo basahin ko para sa’yo?” Jeno offered, reaching for Haechan’s phone.

Haechan swatted his hand away. “Over my dead body.”

“Grabe naman, defensive.”

Haechan groaned, finally lifting his head. He exhaled sharply, unlocking his phone and reading the message again.

Mark Lee: Hope you’re not stressing too much, Haechan.

“What the hell does he even mean by that?” Haechan muttered.

Jeno, still watching him like a hawk, shrugged. “Baka concerned siya?”

“Concerned my ass,” Haechan scoffed. “Baka gusto niya lang akong asarin.”

Jeno hummed thoughtfully. “Eh ‘di i-test mo. Replyan mo.”

Haechan made a face. “Bakit ko siya rereplyan?”

Jeno smirked. “Kasi curious ka.”

“I am not—”

“Uh-huh, sige, ‘di ka curious.” Jeno crossed his arms. “Eh bakit hindi mo pa binababa ‘yang phone mo?”

Haechan realized, too late, that he was still staring at the screen. He cursed under his breath and shoved his phone face-down on the desk. “Wala akong oras sa kabullshitan mo, Jeno. I need to finish my article.”

“Sure, sure.” Jeno was obviously unconvinced but let it go—for now.

Haechan tried to refocus, but it was no use. Mark’s message kept replaying in his head, over and over, like an irritating pop song he couldn’t shake off.

After five minutes of aggressively typing nonsense into his article draft, he groaned and snatched his phone back up.

And before he could think too much about it, he quickly typed a reply.

Haechan: Define "too much."

He hit send, locked his phone again, and shoved it into his pocket.

Jeno raised an eyebrow. “So...?”

Haechan refused to meet his gaze. “Shut up.”

Jeno grinned but wisely said nothing.

For now, at least.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

"The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience."

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Jeno didn’t say anything—for about thirty seconds. Then, because he was Jeno and had zero self-restraint, he leaned in again. “So, ano feeling ng may special mention mula kay Mark Lee?”  

Haechan scoffed, pretending he wasn’t gripping his pen a little too tightly. “Gago, it’s just a text.”  

“Mhmm.” Jeno took another sip of his iced coffee, looking far too entertained. “Pero bakit ka parang kinikilig—”  

Haechan smacked his arm. “Tangina mo.”  

Jeno cackled, dodging another half-hearted attempt at violence. “Uy, grabe ka naman. Eh ikaw ‘tong nagtatago ng ngiti diyan.”  

“I am not smiling.”  

“Sure, sure.” Jeno wiggled his eyebrows. “Pero bakit parang namula ka?”  

“Hindi ako namumula!”  

Jeno gave him a once-over, then nodded solemnly. “Ah, oo nga. Mukha ka lang nilagnat.”  

Haechan let out a frustrated noise, slumping against his chair. “Putangina talaga, bakit ba kita kaibigan?”  

Jeno grinned. “Kasi ang galing ko.”  

Haechan rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull. “Alis ka na nga, netong-ngayon lang kita kailangan.”  

“Ang sakit naman.” Jeno clutched his chest dramatically. “Nag-alok ako ng tulong, ‘di ba?”  

Before Haechan could snap back, his phone vibrated again.  

Mark Lee: You already know the answer to that.  

Haechan blinked. What the—  

Jeno, sharp as ever, caught his expression change. “Oh? May reply na?”  

Haechan ignored him, staring at the message. “You already know the answer to that.”

Tangina. Bakit parang ang lakas ng tama ng simpleng text?  

Before his brain could stop him, his fingers were already moving.  

Haechan: Wow, ang talino mo pala. Baka gusto mong gawin ‘tong article ko para sa’kin?  

Mark: That depends. What’s the topic?  

Haechan hesitated. He wasn’t expecting Mark to actually entertain the idea.  

Jeno, watching him intently, wiggled his fingers. “Haechan. Ipakita mo.”  

“Gago ka ba?” Haechan turned his phone away like a kid guarding their exam paper.  

Jeno pouted dramatically. “Hala, ngayon pa may secrecy?”  

Haechan groaned, ignoring him as he typed back.  

Haechan: Student mental health. Eh ikaw, hindi ba dapat nag-aaral ka ngayon?  

Mark: I am. But you seem more distracted than I am.  

Haechan:   Excuse me, nag-iimbestiga ako.  

Mark: Right. Is that what you call it now? Thought you were busy, but you replied fast.  

Haechan stared at the screen.  

Putangina.  

Jeno gasped. “Oh my God. Ano ‘yan? Bakit ganyan mukha mo?”  

Haechan locked his phone so fast he nearly dropped it. “Wala.”  

Jeno narrowed his eyes. “Hindi ka marunong magsinungaling, alam mo ‘yan?”  

“I swear to God, Jeno—”  

Before Haechan could finish, Jeno lunged for his phone. Haechan yelped, dodging out of the way as Jeno cackled, reaching for it again.  

“Gago! Bumalik ka dito!” Haechan scrambled away from his desk, holding his phone high above his head.  

Jeno, determined, nearly climbed onto the table. “Isang tingin lang! Jusko, Haechan, bakit ang damot mo?”  

“Putangina mo, Jeno, manahimik ka na lang—”  

The office door suddenly creaked open.  

Both of them froze.  

Renjun stood at the doorway, blinking at the chaos. His usual unimpressed expression settled onto his face immediately. “Ano na namang kaguluhan ‘to?”  

Jeno, still half-stretched across the desk, grinned. “Wala lang! Naghahanap lang ako ng—”  

Haechan, panting, glared at him. “Tangina mo, Jeno, ‘wag kang magsumbong.”  

Renjun raised an eyebrow. “Sa’n ka magsusumbong? Sa akin?”  

Haechan scowled.  

Jeno, however, took one look at Renjun’s suspicious expression and smirked. “Alam mo, ‘Jun, parang may tinatago si Haechan.”  

Haechan nearly launched himself at Jeno.  

“PUTA—”  

Renjun, ever the peacemaker, sighed and closed the door behind him. “Hindi ba kayo napapagod?”  

Jeno and Haechan, now locked in an impromptu wrestling match for Haechan’s phone, ignored him.  

Renjun pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”  

“Wala ka ngang bayad,” Haechan grumbled, still trying to get Jeno off him.  

Renjun rolled his eyes. “Exactly.”  

Jeno cackled, dodging Haechan’s attack effortlessly. “Pero seryoso, Haechan. Sino talaga ‘yung nag-text?”  

Haechan huffed, giving up the fight. He shot Jeno a glare, then exhaled.  

“…Mark,” he muttered.  

Renjun perked up. “Mark? As in—”  

Jeno gasped dramatically. “SEE? SABI KO NA NGA BA.”  

Haechan groaned loudly, slumping onto his chair in defeat. “Putangina niyo pareho.”  

Jeno and Renjun exchanged glances before grinning.  

Haechan was so, so doomed.

**

The newsroom smelled like old books and fresh coffee, but to Haechan, it might as well have been the scent of pure stress. The low hum of keyboards filled the space, an orchestra of student journalists racing against deadlines, yet all he could do was stare at the blinking cursor on his screen.

His latest assignment loomed over him like a storm cloud.

"Duterte Arrested by ICC: What This Means for the Victims of His Drug War."

A heavy topic, even by his standards.

His editor had barely given him time to breathe before handing him the assignment, and while he knew this was important, the weight of it pressed against his chest. The story was massive—historical, even—but it was also dangerous. The drug war had left deep scars, and any discussion about Duterte’s arrest would inevitably reopen old wounds.

Haechan sighed, rubbing his temples. He had covered political issues before, but this wasn’t just about policy or governance. This was about people—the families who had lost loved ones, the children orphaned overnight, the communities that still carried the fear of those bloody years.

He opened a dozen tabs on his laptop, skimming through legal reports, government statements, and reactions from human rights organizations. As expected, there was an immediate divide. Pro-administration figures condemned the arrest as a “foreign interference,” while activists and international legal experts hailed it as long-overdue justice.

He clicked on a video of a press conference. A senator—one of Duterte’s long-time allies—was speaking.

"This is an attack on our sovereignty. The ICC has no jurisdiction here. President Duterte served the Filipino people with dedication, and this so-called 'justice' is nothing but political theater."

Haechan clenched his jaw. The narrative was predictable but frustrating.

"Tell that to the thousands of families who lost someone," he thought bitterly.

But anger wouldn’t help his writing. He needed facts.

He scrolled to another tab, where a human rights lawyer was being interviewed.

"The arrest of Rodrigo Duterte is a monumental step toward justice for the victims of the drug war. The ICC has a responsibility to hold leaders accountable for crimes against humanity, and the Philippines’ withdrawal from the Rome Statute does not erase the atrocities committed."

Haechan took notes, carefully structuring his argument. He had to approach this strategically—balance legal facts with human narratives, make it compelling but airtight. His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he finally began typing.

"For years, the families of Duterte’s drug war victims have been screaming into the void, demanding justice. Now, for the first time, the world is listening."

He barely noticed when the newsroom door opened. It wasn’t until a familiar voice spoke that he was yanked from his writing trance.

"Grabe, ang lalim ng iniisip mo, parang may binubuo kang constitution."

Haechan turned to see Jeno leaning against the doorway, holding two cups of iced coffee. He tossed one toward Haechan, who barely caught it in time.

"Saved you from another caffeine withdrawal," Jeno said, plopping down in the chair beside him.

Haechan sighed. "Salamat. Akala ko iiwan mo na akong mamatay sa stress."

Jeno smirked. "No way, I got you. Ano na naman ‘tong sinusulat mo?"

Haechan took a sip of his coffee before answering. "Duterte’s ICC arrest."

Jeno let out a low whistle. "Lakas ng trip mo ah. Alam mong maraming magagalit diyan, ‘di ba?"

"Alam ko." Haechan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Pero ‘di naman ako nagsusulat para lang i-please sila."

Jeno studied him for a moment before nodding. "Tama ka diyan." Then, more casually, he added, "May nakausap ka na bang mga pamilya ng victims?"

"May naka-schedule akong interview mamaya. Pero…" Haechan hesitated, staring at the half-written article on his screen. "Minsan ‘di ko alam kung tama ‘yung ginagawa ko. I mean, writing about it is one thing, pero ‘yun lang ba ang magagawa natin? Sulat lang?"

Jeno was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer. "Haechan, journalism gives people a voice. Minsan, ‘yun lang ang meron sila."

The words settled heavily between them.

Haechan nodded slowly. He wasn’t naïve—he knew one article wouldn’t fix years of injustice. But if it could push the conversation forward, if it could remind people of what happened… maybe that was enough.

For now.

**

Later that day, as Haechan made his way across campus, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it at first, focused on mentally preparing for his interview, but when it buzzed again, he sighed and pulled it out.

A message from an unsaved number. No, scratch that—he knew exactly who it was.

Mark Lee: Don’t overwork yourself too much, journalist.

Haechan blinked. Of all the people who could have texted him, why was it always this guy?

He debated ignoring it but found himself typing before he could stop himself.

Haechan: Are you my editor now?

Mark’s reply came almost instantly.

Mark Lee: Just concerned for my favorite UP student.

Haechan scoffed, shoving his phone back into his pocket before he could waste any more brain cells on whatever game Mark was playing.

He had bigger things to worry about.

And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, that stupid message lingered.

**

Mark leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders as he stared at the mock trial case file in front of him. His desk was a mess of legal textbooks, case notes, and highlighters—an organized disaster that made sense only to him. The case they were working on was a high-stakes criminal defense scenario. The defendant was accused of homicide under controversial circumstances, and Mark was part of the defense team.

And it was proving to be a bigger challenge than he expected.

Across from him, Jaehyun was flipping through the prosecution’s arguments, brow furrowed in concentration. "You know they have a strong case, right?"

Mark sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. That’s what makes it fun."

Jaehyun gave him a flat look. "Sure. Fun. That’s what we’re calling it."

Mark smirked but didn’t argue. If they wanted to win, they had to dismantle the prosecution’s argument without making their client look guilty by association. A delicate balance.

Giselle, their team’s lead counsel, leaned forward, tapping a pen against her legal pad. "Mark, you’re handling the cross-examination of the key witness, right?"

"Yeah," he confirmed, flipping through his notes. "The goal is to make the judges question his credibility. He contradicted himself in two different statements—one in the initial police report and another in his sworn affidavit. I’ll press him on that."

Jaehyun nodded in approval. "Good. But don’t be too aggressive. If you push too hard, he might turn the judges against us."

"I know," Mark replied. "I’ll pace it. Make him contradict himself naturally."

Giselle grinned. "I like the confidence. Just don’t underestimate their lead counsel. I heard she’s sharp."

Mark smirked. "Then I guess I’ll have to be sharper."

Before Jaehyun could respond, the door to the study hall opened, and Johnny, one of their seniors, walked in. "Mock trial teams, listen up. The final trial schedule is out. We’re up against the best prosecution team."

Giselle groaned. "Of course we are."

Jaehyun exhaled. "Walang madaling laban."

Mark just smirked, closing his notebook. "Good. I like a challenge."

Jaehyun rolled his eyes. "You say that now, but let’s see if you’re still smiling after the trial."

Mark’s phone buzzed before he could respond. Expecting it to be about the trial, he pulled it out—only to see a news notification instead.

An article from the Philippine Collegian.

“Duterte’s ICC Arrest: What This Means for the Victims of His Drug War”
By Haechan Lee

Mark’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

So, Haechan had finally published it.

Curious, he tapped the link.

**

The moment Haechan stepped into the newsroom, Karina was already waiting for him with a smirk, arms crossed as she leaned against her desk.

"Congratulations," she said, sipping her coffee. "You managed to piss off a bunch of pol sci profs and a few law professors in less than twelve hours. New record ‘yan."

Haechan groaned, dropping his bag onto his chair. "Wow. At least may talent ako sa something."

"Ginawang speedrun," Jeno added, spinning lazily in his chair. "Pero bro, trending ka sa Twitter. Some people are calling you brave, others reckless."

Haechan sighed as he opened his laptop. "Let me guess—may bagong admin statement na naman about ‘journalistic responsibility’?"

Karina hummed, nodding. "Yup. Pero mas interesting ‘to. You got quoted by an international journalist." She slid her phone toward him, showing a tweet.

Haechan blinked. It was from a well-respected reporter—a Pulitzer finalist, no less—praising his analysis of the ICC’s jurisdiction.

"Oh," was all he managed to say.

Karina smirked. "‘Oh’ lang? Hindi ka ba natutuwa?"

"I mean, yeah, it’s cool," he admitted, but his mind was already racing toward the backlash. Opening Twitter, he scrolled through the replies—some applauding his courage, others outright attacking him. The usual mix.

Jeno whistled. "Grabe. Damang-dama ko ‘yung galit ng mga DDS."

"That’s what happens when you criticize Duterte," Haechan muttered, scrolling further. But then, his eyes caught a familiar name in the list of likes.

Mark Lee.

He froze.

Jeno, being nosy as usual, peeked over. "Oh? Law boy approved?"

Haechan quickly locked his phone. "Paki ko?"

Karina raised an eyebrow. "Eh bakit parang gusto mong i-check ulit?"

"Ang kulit niyo," he grumbled, flipping open his notes. "May exams pa ‘ko. Wala akong oras sa ganito."

Karina chuckled but didn’t push. "Okay, fine. Pero heads-up, baka ipatawag ka ng admin."

Haechan groaned. "Classic."

Still, even as he tried to focus on his readings, one thought lingered at the back of his mind.

Mark had read his article.

And for some reason, that was harder to ignore than the rest of the noise.

Just as Haechan was about to dive into his notes, his phone vibrated on the table. A message from Karina popped up in their Collegian group chat.

Karina: Chan, pinatawag ka ng admin. Now.

Haechan’s stomach twisted. He barely had time to process before Karina sent another message.

Karina: ASAP daw. Report to the VPAA’s office.

Jeno let out a low whistle, reading over his shoulder. "Mukhang may audience ka kay sir."

Haechan groaned, running a hand down his face. "Putangina. Ang bilis naman. Di pa nga 24 hours ‘yung article."

Karina, who had just stood from her desk, patted his shoulder in mock sympathy. "Ganyan talaga kapag matunog ang pangalan mo. Sige, good luck. Sabihin mo na lang na editorial independence ang labanan."

Jeno smirked. "O kaya sabihin mong press freedom, tapos mag-debate kayo. Baka bigla kang i-recruit sa law school."

"‘Tangina, Jeno," Haechan muttered, grabbing his bag. "Ikaw kaya sumama."

Karina snorted. "Kaya mo ‘yan. Just don’t let them intimidate you."

Haechan rolled his eyes but felt a little less tense at her words. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and marched out of the newsroom.

**

The Vice President for Academic Affairs’ office was in the main admin building, an air-conditioned space that felt far too sterile for Haechan’s liking. When he arrived, the secretary barely looked up before gesturing for him to sit.

"Hinintay ka na nila sa loob," she said.

He exhaled sharply before pushing open the door.

Inside, three people were seated at the long conference table—VPAA Santos, an older woman with a no-nonsense aura, a professor from the political science department, and another from law.

"Haechan Lee," VPAA Santos said, gesturing for him to take the seat across from them. "Have a seat."

Haechan sat, back straight, face carefully blank. "Good afternoon, ma’am, sirs."

Santos folded her hands on the table. "You must know why we called you here."

"Presumably because of my latest article."

"Precisely."

The political science professor—Professor Ramirez—sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Hijo, your article is well-researched. There’s no doubt about that. But you do realize the sensitivity of the issue, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Haechan said evenly. "But I also believe it’s a journalist’s duty to report on issues that affect the nation, no matter how sensitive."

The law professor, Atty. Rivera, leaned forward. "You made strong claims about Duterte’s accountability under the ICC. Are you prepared to defend them legally?"

Haechan didn’t flinch. "Sir, I referenced international law experts and court precedents. My claims aren’t baseless."

VPAA Santos sighed, exchanging glances with the other two. "No one is saying your work lacks merit, Mr. Lee. But you must understand the weight of your words. The university is receiving complaints—some from alumni, others from certain political figures."

Haechan’s fists clenched under the table. "So, what does the admin want me to do? Retract my article?"

Ramirez shook his head. "Not necessarily. But we do ask that you be more... mindful . There are repercussions to this kind of work."

"With all due respect, sir," Haechan said, voice steady, "isn’t that the point of journalism? To challenge power, even at the risk of repercussions?"

A beat of silence.

Rivera exhaled. "Just be careful, Mr. Lee. Not everyone takes kindly to this kind of reporting."

Haechan met his gaze and held it. "Understood."

**

By the time he stepped out of the admin building, his hands were shaking—not with fear, but with frustration. He pulled out his phone and saw Karina’s message.

Karina: Kamusta interrogation mo?

Haechan: They didn’t ask me to retract it, pero basically sinabihan akong mag-ingat.

Jeno: So... warning?

Haechan: More like veiled intimidation.

Karina: Tangina. Alam mong nagawa mo nang tama ‘pag pinapatahimik ka.

Jeno: Tara inom.

Haechan let out a sharp exhale, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

Exams, a controversial article, and now the admin breathing down his neck.

Great. Just what he needed.

And somehow, as if his day couldn’t get any worse, his phone vibrated again.

This time, it wasn’t Karina or Jeno.

It was Mark.

Mark Lee: Heard you got called to the admin. You okay?

Haechan stared at the message.

Then, with a groan, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and kept walking.

He didn’t have time to deal with Mark right now.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

**

Haechan had one goal: get back to the newsroom, drown himself in work, and pretend the last hour didn’t happen. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans.

As he crossed the main courtyard, footsteps fell into sync beside him.

"So, campus rebel ka na pala?"

Haechan groaned before even turning his head. He already knew that voice.

Mark fucking Lee.

"Shouldn’t you be busy with your mock trial?" Haechan muttered, refusing to slow down.

Mark, completely unfazed, just walked alongside him. "I am. But news travels fast, and apparently, you’re today’s headline."

Haechan scoffed. "Wow. Glad my stress is keeping you entertained."

Mark shot him a look. "I’m just saying—getting called to the admin? That’s pretty intense. Ano’ng nangyari?"

"Exactly what you’d expect," Haechan said flatly. "Warnings, reminders to be ‘mindful’ of my writing, the usual bureaucratic nonsense."

Mark hummed, clearly analyzing every word. "So basically, they’re scared of backlash."

"Bingo," Haechan muttered, kicking at a stray pebble.

Mark was quiet for a second before asking, "And you? Are you scared?"

Haechan stopped walking.

Mark had that look again—the one that was too perceptive, too knowing. It made Haechan feel exposed, like Mark could see past all the bravado.

His fingers curled into fists. "No," he said, maybe a little too quickly. "Just… pissed off."

Mark held his gaze for a moment before nodding. "Good."

Haechan frowned. "‘Good’?"

Mark’s lips curled slightly. "It means you still care. If you were scared, that would be different. But anger? That means you’re not backing down."

Haechan blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

Before he could figure out a response, Mark continued.

"If you need anything, you know where to find me."

Haechan scoffed. "Wow. So helpful."

Mark chuckled. "I try."

Haechan rolled his eyes and started walking again. "Go study for your mock trial, Lee."

Mark smirked. "See you around, Haechan."

And annoyingly, Haechan already knew he would.

**

By the time Haechan made it back to the newsroom, the usual hum of activity had died down. A few staff members were still typing away at their desks, but no one paid him any attention as he sank into his chair.

His laptop screen glowed, the draft of his article staring back at him.

Title: “Rodrigo Duterte’s Arrest: What This Means for the Victims of His Drug War”

The cursor blinked at him, waiting.

Haechan ran a hand down his face.

He had written countless articles before—some controversial, others even more so. He had faced backlash from faculty, angry messages from anonymous accounts, and the occasional passive-aggressive comment from students who thought he was "too radical."

But this one felt different.

Bigger.

Riskier.

He wasn’t just talking about tuition hikes or university policies. He was questioning power—challenging a former president who still had loyal supporters in every corner of the country.

Haechan exhaled sharply, leaning back.

Was he doing the right thing?

Or was he just asking for trouble?

His family would say it was the latter.

He could already hear his mom’s voice in his head: “ Anak, kailangan mo ba talagang sulatin ‘yan? Baka may makabangga ka.”

It wasn’t that his parents didn’t support him. They did—in their own way. His mom was a public school teacher, his dad a former journalist turned PR officer. They knew how the system worked. They knew the dangers of speaking too loudly.

His dad had been a reporter in the early 2000s, covering corruption cases and political scandals. Haechan grew up hearing stories about the late-night phone calls, the threats, the way some of his dad’s colleagues suddenly stopped writing—and how some disappeared entirely.

Eventually, his dad left the industry. Switched to something safer, more stable.

Haechan wondered if he was supposed to do the same.

He glanced back at his screen, rereading the words he had written.

This wasn’t just a news piece. It was about real people—families who had lost sons, mothers still searching for justice, children who would grow up never knowing their fathers.

If he didn’t write about it, who would?

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitation creeping in.

Then, finally, he started typing again.

Whatever happened next, he’d deal with it when it came.

For now, he had a story to finish.

**

Ateneo’s law library was quieter than usual, the usual chatter replaced by the scratch of pens against paper and the occasional rustling of books.

Mark sat at one of the long tables, his laptop open, case files spread out in front of him. Across from him, Jaehyun leaned back in his chair, flipping through their mock trial materials with an easy confidence that Mark wished he could share.

"You look stressed," Jaehyun remarked, not even looking up from his notes.

Mark sighed, rubbing his temples. "I am stressed, dude. This mock trial is gonna be brutal."

Jaehyun finally glanced up, smirking. "You? Stressed? I thought Mark Lee never cracks under pressure."

Mark scoffed. "Yeah, well, there’s a first time for everything."

Jaehyun chuckled, flipping another page. "Relax. We’ve prepped enough. Alam mo namang we’ll crush this."

Mark didn’t respond immediately. Technically, Jaehyun was right—they had gone over their case multiple times, analyzed every possible angle, prepared counterarguments for every anticipated rebuttal. But something about this trial felt heavier.

Maybe it was because their opposing team was just as competitive. Maybe it was because their professor was notorious for tearing weak arguments apart. Or maybe it was because Mark was also juggling internship applications, class readings, and—annoyingly enough—thoughts of a certain UP journalism student.

Jaehyun narrowed his eyes. "You’re overthinking again."

Mark exhaled, shaking his head. "I just want to make sure we don’t get destroyed."

Jaehyun smirked. "We won’t. You’re too competitive for that."

Mark let out a dry laugh. "That’s not reassuring, Jae."

Jaehyun leaned forward, tapping the stack of notes between them. "Okay, let’s run through it again. Opening statements. Give me your best shot."

Mark straightened, shifting into professional mode. He cleared his throat, clasped his hands together, and began.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the court, today we are here to prove beyond reasonable doubt that the defendant—"

Jaehyun held up a hand, cutting him off. "Too stiff. You sound like you’re reading from a script. Loosen up."

Mark sighed. "Dude, it’s law. It’s supposed to sound formal."

Jaehyun grinned. "Formal, yes. Robotic? No. Try again, pero this time, like you’re actually talking to the jury, not reading to them."

Mark rolled his shoulders, adjusting his tone. "Alright. Let’s try this again."

This time, he spoke with more conviction, letting his words flow naturally. Jaehyun nodded approvingly.

"Better," he said. "See? You got this."

Mark sat back, feeling slightly less tense. "Yeah, yeah."

Jaehyun smirked. "Now, if you could apply that same confidence to your personal life, you’d be unstoppable."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Jaehyun chuckled. "Come on, man. You’ve been distracted lately. It’s not just the mock trial. Something else is on your mind."

Mark scoffed. "I’m fine."

Jaehyun shot him a knowing look. "Does your definition of ‘fine’ include staring at your phone like you’re waiting for a text from someone specific?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Dude, I swear—"

Jaehyun leaned back, grinning. "It’s the journalist , isn’t it?"

Mark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Why does everyone keep bringing him up?"

Jaehyun laughed. "Because you keep bringing him up, even when you don’t realize it."

Mark shook his head, refusing to engage. "Can we focus? We have a trial to win."

Jaehyun smirked but didn’t push further. "Fine. But if you suddenly need ‘legal advice’ about your feelings, let me know."

Mark pointedly ignored him, turning back to his notes.

He had enough on his plate. Whatever thoughts he had about Haechan? He’d deal with them later.

For now, he had a case to win.

**

Mark arrived home late, the warm glow of the living room lights spilling into the hallway as he stepped inside. The scent of dinner still lingered in the air—garlic, soy sauce, something fried. He figured he had just missed dinner, which wasn’t unusual these days. His schedule barely left him time to eat with his family.

He placed his bag down by the door, stretching out the stiffness in his shoulders.

“Mark?”

His father’s voice came from the dining area. Mark sighed, mentally preparing himself, before walking in.

His dad, Charles Lee, was seated at the head of the table, reading something on his tablet. His mom wasn’t around—probably upstairs already—but his dad? He always waited up.

“You just got home?” his father asked without looking up.

“Yeah,” Mark said, heading to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “Had to prep for the mock trial.”

Charles hummed. “And? How’s it going?”

Mark leaned against the counter, sipping his water. “It’s fine. Jaehyun and I have our arguments laid out, but I want to refine them more. The other team’s tough.”

His father finally looked up, setting his tablet aside. His gaze was sharp, assessing. “And your internship?”

Mark exhaled. “I have interviews lined up, but I’ll probably go with Tito’s firm.”

His uncle owned a respected law firm in Makati—one of the best places for aspiring lawyers to gain experience. It was the logical choice, the expected one.

His father nodded, as if that was the only acceptable answer. “Good. That’s the best option for you.”

Mark bit back the urge to say that he already knew that. It was how things had always been in their family—structured, logical, mapped out. There were no second guesses, no room for failure.

Charles leaned back in his chair. “You know what we expect from you, Mark.”

Mark’s grip on his glass tightened slightly. “Yeah, I know.”

His father wasn’t harsh, not exactly. He didn’t yell, didn’t threaten, didn’t belittle. He didn’t need to. His expectations carried enough weight on their own.

“You’ve always done well,” Charles continued. “That’s why we never had to push you too hard. You understand that there’s no room for mediocrity.”

Mark swallowed the bitterness creeping up his throat. “I understand.”

His dad nodded approvingly. “Good. Because after law school, you’re going straight to the bar exams. No delays.”

Mark knew this conversation was coming. He’d been preparing for it since the moment he decided to study law. Still, hearing it aloud made his chest feel tight.

“Of course,” Mark said, keeping his voice even.

Charles studied him for a moment before nodding. “Good. I know you won’t disappoint us.”

Mark forced a small smile. “I won’t.”

His father picked up his tablet again, signaling that the conversation was over.

Mark took another sip of his water, letting the silence settle around him.

He knew he should feel motivated—his father’s approval was something most people would kill for. But all he felt was pressure, pressing down on him like an invisible weight.

No room for failure. No room for anything less than excellence.

Mark sighed, placing his glass in the sink. He turned to leave, but his father’s voice stopped him.

“By the way,” Charles said without looking up, “I heard from your Jaemin that you’ve been spending time with a Journalism student from UP.”

Mark stiffened. “What?”

His father glanced at him, unreadable. “Just be careful, Mark. You know how those kinds of people are.”

Mark’s jaw clenched. He forced his expression to stay neutral. “What do you mean?”

Charles set his tablet down again, folding his hands on the table. “Journalists—they ask too many questions. They stir up trouble, whether they mean to or not.”

Mark exhaled slowly. “Dad, it’s not like that.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Charles said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t convinced. “But I don’t want you getting distracted, Mark. You have more important things to focus on.”

Mark nodded stiffly. “I know.”

His father studied him for a moment longer before picking up his tablet again. “Good night, Mark.”

Mark didn’t respond immediately. He turned and walked out of the dining room, his mind swirling with thoughts.

He wasn’t sure what irritated him more—the weight of expectations, or the fact that his father thought Haechan was a distraction.

Either way, sleep wasn’t coming easily tonight.

Mark shut the door to his room and exhaled sharply. The conversation with his father still echoed in his head, looping like a bad refrain.

"You know how those kinds of people are."

He tossed his phone onto his desk, running a hand through his hair. It wasn’t just the words themselves—it was the tone. The way his father said it like a warning. Like Haechan was some kind of threat.

Mark wasn’t stupid. He knew how his family operated. His father was a corporate lawyer, his uncle the owner of one of the top firms in the country. His mother, while not a lawyer, came from old money and had a very clear picture of what their family should look like. Everything in their world was about connections, alliances, reputation.

Journalists? They were the opposite of that. They didn’t protect systems; they exposed them.

And yet, for some reason, Mark couldn’t stop running into Haechan.

It was almost ridiculous how often the guy came up in conversation. Jaehyun had been teasing him about it since their last study session, Renjun and Jaemin acted like they knew something he didn’t, and even Mark’s own father—who had never met Haechan—had somehow caught wind of him.

Mark scowled, grabbing his phone again.

It wasn’t that deep.

Yeah, Haechan was sharp and annoying and had a smart mouth, but that didn’t mean anything. UP students were like that.

And yet.

He stared at his lock screen, then clicked his messages open. The last one he sent to Haechan was still there—an attempt to check in after hearing about the admin calling him in. Haechan had replied with his usual sarcasm, but Mark could tell he was stressed.

Not that it was Mark’s problem.

He tossed his phone onto his bed, rubbing his temple.

It wasn’t just his father’s comment that irritated him. It was the fact that it lingered. That it made Mark question why he even cared about Haechan’s stress levels in the first place.

"You have more important things to focus on."

Right. The mock trial. The internship. The expectations that had been drilled into him since childhood.

Mark sighed, shaking his head.

He’d get some rest, refocus, and forget about all this by morning.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

**

The heat was stifling, even as the late afternoon sun dipped below the buildings, casting long shadows across the campus. Haechan wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, adjusting the strap of his camera bag as he pushed through the growing crowd in front of Quezon Hall.

“Kabataan, lumalaban!”

The chant echoed through the air, voices rising in unison as students waved banners and placards. Some stood on makeshift platforms, megaphones in hand, leading the protest with fierce determination.

Haechan quickly scanned the scene. He had covered rallies before, but this one felt different. The tension was heavier, fueled by the university’s recent announcement of yet another tuition increase—one that would price out even more students from lower-income backgrounds.

He spotted Jeno near the front, taking photos with his DSLR. Beside him, Renjun was already deep in conversation with one of the protest leaders, jotting down notes in his worn-out notebook.

Haechan took a deep breath and waded in.

“Hoy, late ka,” Jeno greeted without looking up, still focused on getting his shots.

“Hindi ako late,” Haechan shot back. “Nag-interview pa ako sa admin kanina.”

Renjun snorted, eyes still on his notes. “And? Ano nanaman sinabi nila?”

Haechan exhaled sharply. “The usual. Justifications, bureaucratic bullshit. Kesyo ‘di raw nila gusto ‘to pero wala silang magagawa.”

Jeno scoffed. “Tapos tayo ‘yung binabansagang masama kasi nagrereklamo.”

“Exactly,” Haechan muttered, pulling out his phone to record as one of the speakers took the stage.

A girl, probably from the student council, raised the megaphone. “Hindi ito ang unang beses na sinubukan nilang patahimikin tayo. Pero hindi tayo titigil! Ang edukasyon ay karapatan, hindi negosyo!”

The crowd erupted in agreement.

Haechan felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as he typed notes on his phone, capturing the moment, the energy. This was why he loved journalism—documenting the truth, making sure people saw what was really happening beyond official statements and press releases.

“Shit,” Renjun murmured, nudging Haechan. “May mga pulis.”

Haechan looked up, heart rate spiking as he spotted a group of uniformed officers lingering near the edges of the protest. They weren’t doing anything—yet. But their presence alone was enough to put everyone on edge.

Jeno cursed under his breath, lowering his camera slightly. “Dapat walang manghaharass sa atin today, ‘di ba?”

“Dapat,” Haechan muttered. “Pero alam mo namang ‘pag hindi nila gusto ang ingay natin…”

Renjun tensed. “Basta, keep recording.”

Haechan nodded, gripping his phone tighter.

This was going to be a long night.

The protest was growing. More students trickled in, some joining the chants, others holding up signs with messages like "No to Tuition Hikes!" and "Education is a Right, Not a Privilege!" The collective anger was palpable, but so was the determination.

Haechan’s fingers flew over his phone’s keyboard, typing down snippets of speeches and reactions from the crowd. Jeno was snapping photos non-stop, while Renjun, ever the meticulous one, kept track of key statements from student leaders.

Then, from the side, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Hoy, Haechan!”

Haechan barely had time to brace himself before Winter appeared beside him, slipping effortlessly through the crowd. Her sharp gaze swept over the scene like she was already plotting their next move. Winter had always been one of the most fearless voices in their movement—unyielding, quick-witted, and never afraid to call out the administration’s bullshit.

“Akala ko ‘di ka na darating,” she teased, arms crossed.

“Grabe naman,” Haechan groaned, running a hand through his hair. “Dumaan lang ako sa admin office, ‘di naman ako nakulong.”

Winter smirked. “Well, knowing you, that’s still a possibility.”

Haechan rolled his eyes. “Minsan gusto kitang i-report sa admin, alam mo ba ‘yon?”

“G lang,” Winter said, grinning. “Pero ikaw ang mas una nilang babanatan, sigurado ako.”

Haechan clicked his tongue in annoyance, but he couldn’t deny that she had a point. The admin was already watching him closely—one wrong step, and they’d find a reason to make his life even more difficult.

But that wasn’t going to stop him.

“Guys, may balita ako.”

Seungkwan jogged up to them, slightly out of breath. He was another key figure in the movement—loud, expressive, and always ready to call out bullshit when he saw it.

“May mga reports na may plainclothes officers daw na nakikihalo sa crowd,” Seungkwan said, his tone more serious now. “Wala pang gumagalaw, pero alam mo namang hindi tayo pwedeng magpabaya.”

Jeno cursed under his breath. “Damn. Sinimulan na nila.”

Dino and Dokyeom, who had been quietly helping distribute placards, joined the conversation. Dino, despite being younger than most of them, had an intensity that made people listen when he spoke. Dokyeom, on the other hand, had a more calming presence—charismatic and reassuring, even in moments like this.

“Kung may mga plainclothes na, kailangan mas maingat tayo,” Dino said, voice firm. “Dapat may nakabantay sa bawat sulok ng crowd.”

“Agree,” Dokyeom added. “Dapat may naka-assign na mag-document din just in case may mangyaring hindi maganda.”

Minji, who had been quietly listening beside them, finally spoke up. “Ako na sa documentation. Felix and I can keep an eye out sa may likod, make sure walang biglaang dispersal attempt.”

Felix nodded from beside her, adjusting his cap. “Got it. May dala akong extra power bank in case we need to record for long hours.”

Haechan looked at all of them— Winter, Seungkwan, Dino, Dokyeom, Minji, Felix . They weren’t just random students who happened to be here. They were people who believed in the same fight, who knew that this wasn’t just about one tuition hike, but a system that continuously put education out of reach for those who needed it most.

A surge of pride swelled in his chest.

“Alright,” Haechan said, nodding. “Let’s make sure this story doesn’t get buried.”

Jeno grinned, lifting his camera. “Let’s do this.”

With that, they moved back into the crowd, ready to face whatever came next.

The protest had swelled even further. Chants filled the air, bouncing off the walls of the university buildings as students stood their ground. Some waved banners high above their heads, their messages bold and unrelenting:

“EDUKASYON, HINDI NEGOSYO!
STOP TUITION HIKES!
FREE EDUCATION FOR ALL!”

Haechan tightened his grip on his notebook, scanning the crowd as he took in every detail. He had covered many student demonstrations before, but something about this one felt different. Maybe it was the tension thick in the air, the growing unease that came with knowing that, at any moment, things could take a turn.

From his left, Renjun nudged him. "Dami ng tao, no? I think this might be the biggest protest this semester."

Haechan nodded. "Yeah. Admin won’t be able to ignore this one."

Across the crowd, Jeno was busy snapping photos, crouching down to capture different angles of the protestors. Winter was at the front, megaphone in hand, leading the chants with her commanding voice.

Seungkwan and Dino moved through the crowd, talking to students, keeping the energy up. Meanwhile, Minji and Felix hung back, staying alert for any signs of movement from security or plainclothes officers. Dokyeom was checking on the students who had been shouting for hours, making sure they stayed hydrated.

"Let’s start gathering statements," Haechan said, flipping open his notebook. "Renjun, sama ka sa akin. Jeno, keep documenting everything."

Renjun hummed in agreement, already pulling out his phone to record. "Sino unang kakausapin natin?"

Haechan scanned the crowd and spotted a student holding a sign that read MAHIRAP ANG BUHAY, MAS PINAPAHIRAP PA. He recognized her from past organizing efforts—one of the more vocal members of their alliance.

"Sige, kay Bea muna tayo."

They pushed their way through the crowd, calling her name. Bea turned, and upon seeing them, a knowing look crossed her face.

"Alam kong may itatanong ka, Haechan," she said with a wry smile.

"Alam mo naman akong hindi papalagpas ng ganito," he shot back. "How do you feel about today’s turnout?"

Bea’s expression turned serious. "It’s inspiring. But also frustrating. Ilang beses na tayong lumalaban para sa ganito, tapos ang response nila? Taas pa rin nang taas. They think we’ll stop making noise, but we won’t."

Haechan scribbled furiously, nodding as she spoke. "Anong gusto mong sabihin sa admin?"

"That we’re not going anywhere," Bea said firmly. "That students are not cash cows. And that if they keep ignoring us, lalaban pa rin kami. Mas malakas."

As Haechan finished writing down her words, Renjun lowered his phone and sighed. "Ang hirap lang isipin na kahit gaano tayo ka-vocal, parang hindi pa rin sila nakikinig."

Haechan clicked his pen. "That’s why we have to keep pushing."

A sudden shift in the crowd’s energy made him look up.

Near the entrance of the admin building, security guards had started forming a line. They weren’t moving in yet, but their presence alone was enough to make the tension spike.

Winter had noticed, too. She tightened her grip on the megaphone, her gaze sharp.

"Damn," Jeno muttered, moving beside Haechan. "This might get ugly."

Haechan exhaled slowly. He had been through enough protests to know that once security started positioning themselves like that, anything could happen.

But that only meant one thing—

They had to keep documenting everything.

"Renjun," he said quietly, "be ready to record if things go south."

Renjun gave a small nod. "Got it."

And with that, they braced themselves for whatever came next.

The tension in the air was palpable. Haechan could feel it in the way the chants grew louder, more urgent. The line of security guards at the admin building’s entrance remained still, but the way they stood—feet planted firmly, radios crackling—sent a clear message. They were waiting.

Winter, still gripping the megaphone, lifted it again. “Hindi tayo aalis hanggang hindi tayo pinapakinggan!” Her voice rang out across the crowd, met with another surge of cheers.

Haechan kept his gaze moving, noting the way some students had started to shift nervously. This was the point where things could tip in any direction.

“Pucha,” Jeno muttered, lowering his camera for a second. “May mga admin reps na lumabas.”

Haechan turned his head and spotted them—three faculty members stepping out onto the steps of the admin building, arms crossed, expressions unreadable. One of them, a man in a crisp barong, raised a hand.

“Students,” he began, his voice carrying over the crowd, “naiintindihan namin ang inyong hinaing—”

“Kung naiintindihan niyo, bakit hindi niyo inaaksyunan?” someone from the crowd shot back.

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the students.

The admin rep sighed, glancing at the guards before continuing, “May proseso ang ganitong mga bagay. Kung gusto niyong mapag-usapan ito, may tamang paraan—”

Winter scoffed into the megaphone. “Ang tamang paraan na sinasabi niyo? ‘Yung mga consultation meetings na hindi naman talaga consultation? ‘Yung policies na ginagawa niyo na walang tunay na student representation?”

A louder murmur spread, angrier this time.

Haechan scribbled notes furiously. This was the same script every time. The admin would placate, pretend to listen, then do whatever they wanted anyway.

Felix, who had been quiet all this time, leaned closer. “Ito na ‘yun. Either lalambot ‘yung admin or magpapadala ng more security.”

Haechan exhaled sharply. He already knew which one was more likely.

The admin rep frowned. “Kung gusto niyo ng tunay na pag-uusap, dapat ay sa maayos na paraan. Hindi ganitong may rally pa.”

That set Winter off. “Maayos? Gano’n din ba ang sinabi niyo sa mga estudyanteng bigla niyong siningil ng mas mataas na tuition nang walang abiso? Sa mga working students na muntik nang hindi makapag-enroll dahil sa biglang taas ng fees? Sa mga magulang na nagpakahirap mag-ipon tapos nagulat na lang na kulang pa rin?”

The crowd roared in agreement.

Haechan could see the faculty members exchanging uneasy glances. The security guards shifted.

Jeno lifted his camera again. “Haechan,” he muttered, “get ready.”

Then—

A sudden movement from the side.

A student had climbed onto a bench, waving a placard high. “Makibaka, ‘wag matakot!” she shouted.

And that was when the first security officer stepped forward.

The crowd collectively tensed.

“Back up,” Haechan murmured to Renjun, pulling him slightly behind Jeno.

Winter lifted the megaphone again. “Ano ‘yan? Harassment? Just because we’re demanding something fair?”

The guard didn’t respond, but another step forward sent a message loud and clear.

Seungkwan cursed under his breath. “Pucha. They’re really gonna do this?”

Haechan swallowed hard. He had covered protests before, but he never got used to this moment—the fine line between peaceful demonstration and outright suppression.

His grip tightened around his pen.

He had to document everything. No matter what happened next.

The tension thickened like a storm about to break. Haechan tightened his grip on his notebook, eyes darting between the guards and his friends. The first step forward from security had already shifted the mood. The chants continued, but there was an edge of uncertainty now.

Winter, ever the firebrand, wasn’t backing down. “Ano ‘yan? Intimidation tactic?” she called out, voice sharp through the megaphone. “Bakit, may nagawa ba kaming masama? We’re just students demanding our right to affordable education!”

The admin reps exchanged glances, looking increasingly impatient.

Another step from security.

Another beat of silence.

Then—

A loud voice from the crowd. “Huwag kayong matakot! Karapatan natin ‘to!”

The energy surged again, a wave of defiance against the silent threat.

Jeno, standing slightly ahead of Haechan, lifted his camera, snapping photos as fast as he could. “Haechan,” he muttered, “if they push forward, we need to move back fast.”

Haechan knew that. He had been in too many student protests to not see the signs. But right now, his mind was spinning—partly at the situation, partly at the pressure of making sure he got everything down right.

Because if they got forcibly dispersed, the admin would spin the story in their favor. They always did.

He glanced at Minji, who was holding onto a sign demanding tuition transparency. She was tense, fingers clutching the cardboard edges tightly.

Beside him, Seungkwan muttered a curse. “Damn, they really think we’re just gonna pack up and leave, huh?”

Winter turned to the crowd. “Anong gagawin natin?”

The answer was instant.

“LABAN!”

Another step from the guards.

Haechan’s heartbeat sped up. His mind was already forming the first lines of his article. He knew what this moment meant. The students weren’t just fighting tuition hikes—they were standing against a system that had long ignored them.

The megaphone crackled as Winter lifted it again. “Kung gusto niyong marinig kami sa mas ‘maayos’ na paraan—” she sneered, throwing the admin’s words back at them, “—then let’s hear an actual commitment. May babaguhin ba kayo? May gagawin ba kayong konkretong aksyon?”

Silence.

Then, finally, the man in the barong sighed, stepping forward. “We will set a formal dialogue.”

Winter didn’t look convinced. “Kailan?”

“We’ll notify the student council.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

A flicker of frustration crossed the admin’s face. “Kung gusto niyong matuloy ‘to, let’s talk properly.”

The crowd was still buzzing with energy, but the shift was noticeable. The first step toward something—whether it was progress or another delaying tactic, no one knew yet.

Haechan exhaled. For now, it seemed like the worst had been avoided.

For now.

As the crowd slowly began to disperse, students lingering in groups to discuss what had happened, Jeno nudged Haechan. “Nakuha mo lahat?”

Haechan nodded, tapping his notebook. “Every word.”

Jeno let out a low whistle. “Good. Because we both know the admin is gonna twist this.”

Haechan sighed, rolling his shoulders to release some of the tension. “Yeah. But we won’t let them.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught Renjun shaking his head, a wry smile on his face. “You’re really in deep, no?”

Haechan smirked. “Too late to back out now.”

Seungkwan slung an arm around his shoulder. “Ay, wala na. Activist ka na talaga, Haechan. May initiation na ba ‘to?”

Haechan groaned, but he couldn’t fight the small, proud grin that tugged at his lips. “Putangina niyo.”

Winter, overhearing, smirked. “You’re one of us now.”

And despite the exhaustion weighing him down, Haechan couldn’t help but feel a little lighter.

This was worth it.

**

Mark sat at his desk, absently tapping his pen against his open notebook. His readings for the mock trial lay untouched, the printed words blurring together as his mind wandered elsewhere.

The protest had made headlines on social media, his feed flooded with images of students standing their ground against security. Haechan had been there. Mark had no doubt about that.

And somehow, people kept bringing up Haechan to him.

Mark sighed, leaning back against his chair. He didn’t even know why it was getting under his skin. Maybe because every time someone mentioned that guy, it was either to tease him or to make some comment about their constant run-ins.

Or maybe it was because—despite everything—he kept paying attention.

His father’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Mark.”

Mark straightened immediately. “Yes, Dad?”

His father, Charles Lee, stood by the door, arms crossed. The man had always carried himself with the presence of someone used to being listened to—calm, measured, but firm. “How’s your preparation for the mock trial?”

Mark resisted the urge to sigh. He knew this conversation was coming. “It’s going well. Jaehyun and I are finalizing our arguments.”

His father nodded approvingly. “Good. And your internship at your uncle’s firm?”

“I’ll be ready when it starts.”

Another nod. “I expect nothing less.”

Mark clenched his jaw. He had heard those words a thousand times before. He wasn’t sure when they had started to feel more like a weight than motivation.

His father lingered for a moment before speaking again. “This is your future, Mark. Every move you make now builds your foundation. Don’t let anything—or anyone—distract you.”

Mark knew what that meant. No unnecessary risks. No wasted energy. No pointless attachments.

“Yes, Dad,” he said, voice carefully neutral.

His father gave him one last look before leaving the room.

Mark exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples.

He should get back to work. He had too much on his plate to be thinking about anything else.

And yet, as he finally picked up his pen again, his mind betrayed him.

Because instead of case law and arguments, all he could think about was a certain Journalism student standing in the middle of a protest, fire in his eyes, refusing to back down.

**

Mark forced himself to focus. He skimmed over the case files for the mock trial, jotting down notes, but the words barely registered. The conversation with his father lingered like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

"This is your future. Don’t let anything—or anyone—distract you."

Mark clenched his jaw. He understood why his father was strict. He’d been raised in an environment where success wasn’t just expected—it was demanded. The Lee name carried weight in legal circles, and his father had made it clear that Mark had a responsibility to uphold that legacy.

Which meant no room for mistakes. No room for failure.

No room for distractions.

Mark exhaled sharply, tossing his pen onto his desk. He grabbed his phone, scrolling mindlessly. His feed was still flooded with posts about the protest. Videos, photos, testimonies from students who had been there.

His thumb hovered over one post.

A picture of Haechan.

The shot was candid—taken mid-sentence, probably while he was talking to another student. His brows were furrowed, his mouth set in a determined line, eyes burning with frustration but also something else—conviction.

Mark stared at the image longer than he should have.

It was one thing to hear about the protest, another to see the students involved. And Haechan—he wasn’t just reporting. He was in the thick of it.

“He always has something to fight for,” Jaehyun had once said.

Mark shook his head, exiting the app.

Why did it even matter? He had nothing to do with any of this.

And yet, a part of him couldn’t shake the thought—

How could someone willingly walk into a fight like that? How could someone choose to stand in the fire, knowing they could get burned?

And why—despite everything—did Mark find himself wanting to know more?

He groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “This is ridiculous.”

Jaehyun, who had just walked into the study lounge, raised an eyebrow. “What’s ridiculous?”

Mark blinked, caught off guard. “Nothing.”

Jaehyun clearly didn’t believe him but didn’t press. Instead, he dropped his bag onto the seat across from Mark and sat down, stretching his arms. “You ready for the trial?”

Mark latched onto the change of topic like a lifeline. “Yeah. Just refining a few points. You?”

Jaehyun smirked. “I was born ready.”

Mark rolled his eyes, but the familiarity of their banter grounded him. This—this was what he should be focusing on. Not some Journalism major who had nothing to do with his path.

Jaehyun leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. “You sure you’re okay, though? You look… preoccupied .”

Mark hesitated. Then, against his better judgment, he asked, “Do you think it’s stupid to put yourself in a fight you know you might lose?”

Jaehyun frowned slightly, considering the question. “Depends. Some fights are worth losing if it means standing for something bigger .”

Mark exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

That was what he was afraid of.

Because something about Haechan told him that he wasn’t the type to back down.

And Mark was starting to think that, if he got too close—

He might not want to back down either.

Mark tried to bury himself in work, but no matter how many times he read through the case files, his mind refused to cooperate. His thoughts kept drifting back to his father’s words, Jaehyun’s response, and—most annoyingly—Haechan.

He hated feeling this way.

It wasn’t even about Haechan specifically. It was about what he represented—this reckless, stubborn defiance against a system Mark had spent his entire life learning how to navigate.

And yet, here he was, unable to stop thinking about some Journalism major who had nothing to do with him.

"Get it together, Mark."

Sighing, he stood up, stretching his arms before grabbing his blazer from the chair. He had spent enough time brooding. He had to be productive.

He checked his watch. His uncle had told him to drop by the firm before his internship officially started, just to get a feel for the environment. It was exactly the kind of distraction he needed.

When he arrived at the firm, the atmosphere was as polished as expected—sleek offices, glass partitions, the quiet hum of professionalism in every corner. The receptionist greeted him with a polite smile, directing him to his uncle’s office.

Charles Lee’s younger brother, Michael Lee, was a senior partner at the firm. He was a little more relaxed than Mark’s father, but the expectations remained the same. Excellence. No excuses.

“Mark,” his uncle greeted as he walked in, gesturing for him to sit. “Good to see you. How’s law school treating you?”

Mark took a seat, keeping his expression neutral. “Challenging, but I’m managing.”

His uncle chuckled. “That’s the Lee way. Always managing.” He leaned back. “I heard from your father that you’ll be starting your internship here. I expect you to handle yourself well. No room for mistakes.”

Mark nodded, already expecting those words. “Of course.”

His uncle tapped his fingers against his desk. “You’ll be assisting with case research. Reviewing legal documents, sitting in on meetings, that kind of thing. Nothing too heavy—yet. But I expect you to keep up.”

Mark nodded again, taking mental notes. This was what he had prepared for.

His uncle studied him for a moment. “You’ve always been a sharp one, Mark. But law isn’t just about knowing the rules—it’s about understanding how to use them. ”

Mark met his gaze, waiting for him to continue.

“Sometimes, knowing when not to fight is just as important as knowing how to.”

Mark stiffened slightly. He had heard variations of this advice his whole life. Law was about strategy. Logic. Choosing battles wisely.

And yet, it only reminded him of Haechan—who seemed to pick fights on instinct, who walked straight into conflict without hesitation.

Mark wasn’t sure if he envied that or found it reckless.

Either way, it stuck with him.

His uncle’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I know your father has high expectations. Don’t let yourself get distracted.”

There it was again. That word.

Distracted.

Mark kept his expression composed. “I won’t.”

His uncle seemed satisfied with that answer. “Good. Your father and I worked hard to build our names in this industry. You’ll be next in line, Mark. Make sure you’re ready.”

Mark forced a polite smile. “I will.”

But as he left the office, stepping out into the city air, the weight of those expectations pressed heavier than ever.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t even sure what counted as a distraction anymore.

**

That night, Mark found himself at his desk again, flipping through his notes, but nothing stuck. He tapped his pen against the table, irritation bubbling in his chest.

He should be reviewing for the mock trial.

He should be preparing for his internship.

Instead, his thoughts kept circling back to that damn protest. To the way Haechan looked in that photo—so sure of himself, so unapologetic in his defiance.

Mark scoffed under his breath. What do you even know about standing for something, Haechan?

That thought didn’t sit right with him.

Because as much as he wanted to dismiss it, he knew—Haechan wasn’t just running his mouth. He believed in what he was fighting for.

And Mark hated that a part of him respected it.

Annoyed at himself, he picked up his phone. His fingers hesitated over the screen before he opened his messages.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it, but before he could think twice, he typed:

Mark Lee: Hope you didn’t get yourself arrested today.

He stared at the message for a second before hitting send.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.

Haechan: What, concerned ka?

Mark rolled his eyes, already regretting reaching out.

Mark Lee: Just making sure I don’t have to defend you in court anytime soon.

Haechan: Tsk, sayang. I was hoping for a free lawyer.

Mark huffed out a quiet laugh despite himself.

Maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind the distraction as much as he thought.

**

Mark adjusted his tie, rolling his shoulders as he stood outside the moot courtroom. His fingers drummed lightly against the folder in his hands—his final notes for the defense. Across from him, Jaehyun was reading through a printed copy of their case brief, his expression unreadable as always.

“Ready?” Jaehyun asked without looking up.

Mark let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

The case they were handling was a simulated corporate dispute: A group of workers had sued a major company for unjust labor conditions, claiming that their contracts were exploitative and that the company had knowingly violated labor laws. Mark and Jaehyun were on the defense, representing the company. Their opponents—a team of highly competent upperclassmen—were arguing for the workers.

The case was designed to test their ability to argue within the constraints of existing laws. But to Mark, it was more than just an academic exercise. It was a battle of logic, persuasion, and sheer will.

They entered the moot courtroom, the air thick with quiet anticipation. The panel of professors, acting as judges, sat at the front, their sharp gazes scanning each participant. Their opponents were already seated, their lead counsel—an intense-looking guy named Reyes—flipping through his notes one last time.

The trial began with the opposition’s opening statement.

“Your honors, we are here today because justice demands accountability,” Reyes began, his voice steady and commanding. “The company in question knowingly exploited a legal loophole to deny workers fair compensation. The facts are clear, the violations are blatant, and we will prove that these workers were unfairly treated under an outdated legal framework that prioritizes corporate profit over human dignity.”

Mark listened carefully, pen poised over his notepad. Reyes was good—precise, well-researched, and emotionally compelling.

Too bad emotions didn’t win trials.

When it was his turn, Mark stood, buttoned his blazer, and approached the bench with practiced ease.

“Your honors,” he began, his voice cool and measured. “The prosecution makes a strong emotional appeal. But our legal system is not based on feelings. It is based on laws.”

He let the words sink in before continuing.

“The company adhered to the labor laws in place at the time of contract signing. There was no deception, no coercion—only agreements entered into willingly by both parties. To retroactively punish a company for laws that did not exist when these contracts were formed would be setting a dangerous precedent.”

He stepped back, letting his argument land before taking his seat. He felt Jaehyun glance at him approvingly.

Then, the questioning phase began.

Reyes called their first witness—a former employee of the company who claimed they had been forced to work overtime without additional pay.

“Mr. Santiago,” Reyes began, “can you confirm that your working conditions were, in your words, ‘unfair and exploitative’?”

Santiago nodded firmly. “Yes. We were made to work long hours with little regard for our well-being. When we raised concerns, we were dismissed.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. It was a strong testimony, but he wasn’t about to let it go unchallenged.

When it was his turn for cross-examination, he rose from his seat.

“Mr. Santiago,” he said smoothly, flipping through his notes. “You signed a contract with the company, correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did that contract outline the working hours and conditions you agreed to?”

Santiago hesitated. “It did, but—”

“And did you, at the time, willingly agree to those terms?”

There was a pause. Then, begrudgingly, “Yes.”

Mark nodded. “So, while you may not have liked the conditions, they were legal under existing labor laws at the time of your employment?”

Santiago clenched his jaw but said nothing.

“No further questions.”

The opposition team called two more witnesses, each with compelling personal stories, but Mark and Jaehyun countered with legal precedent after legal precedent.

The turning point came when Jaehyun questioned the lead investigator who had compiled a report on the company’s labor practices.

“Would you agree,” Jaehyun asked, “that while the company’s policies may not have been ideal, they did not technically violate any labor laws at the time?”

The investigator hesitated before answering, “That is correct.”

Jaehyun turned to the panel. “No further questions, your honors.”

The closing arguments were the final chance to solidify their positions.

Reyes spoke passionately about the need for ethical responsibility beyond the letter of the law, arguing that the court had a duty to set a precedent that would protect workers from future exploitation.

When it was Mark’s turn, he met the judges’ eyes directly.

“The law is not perfect. And yes, there is always room for improvement. But today, we are not here to rewrite the law—we are here to apply it,” he said. “If there is injustice, it is up to the legislative branch to correct it. This court, however, must rule based on the laws as they exist, not as we wish them to be.”

The judges deliberated, and after a tense wait, the verdict was announced:

Defense wins.

Mark allowed himself a brief exhale. Around him, there was a polite round of applause, and Jaehyun nodded at him in quiet approval.

As they packed up their things, one of their professors approached.

“You argued well, Mr. Lee,” she said. “But remember—sometimes, winning the case doesn’t mean winning the moral argument.”

Mark stiffened slightly but gave a polite nod.

He wasn’t here to debate morality. He was here to win.

But as he walked out of the moot courtroom, that thought nagged at him more than he expected.

**

Haechan’s fingers flew across his keyboard, the blue glow of his laptop screen the only light in his dorm. The adrenaline from the protest still buzzed through him, but now it needed to be shaped into something tangible—something that people could read and feel.

He stared at the words forming on the screen:

“THE STUDENTS SPEAK: WHY THE TUITION HIKE PROTEST MATTERS”

The article was already taking shape, but Haechan wasn’t satisfied yet. He had to get it right.

He leaned back, rubbing his temples. The rally had been intense—chants filling the air, students standing their ground despite the heavy presence of security. Winter had given a fiery speech, Seungkwan had led the crowd in their demands, and Jeno had helped make sure the logistics ran smoothly. It was unity in action.

But the administration’s response had been predictable—empty reassurances, vague promises, and a firm stance that nothing would change.

Haechan exhaled sharply.

"How do I write about this in a way that actually means something?"

The student movement wasn’t just about tuition hikes. It was about power. About who got to decide what education was worth.

He turned back to his screen, typing furiously.

"The students of this university have always been told to ‘trust the system.’ But when the system actively works against them, trust is no longer an option—it’s a luxury they can’t afford."

He paused, rereading the sentence.

Good.

It wasn’t just a news piece. It was a statement. A challenge.

Haechan let out a deep breath and continued writing.

Because if the administration thought this was over, they had another thing coming.

Haechan clicked “Save” on his article draft before pushing his laptop away. His hands were sore from typing, his shoulders tense from hunching over for hours. He glanced at the clock—almost 2 AM.

"Tangina, bukas na yung deadline," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He’d spent the whole night refining every sentence, making sure it wasn’t just a bland report but something that spoke . His fingers hovered over the keyboard again, but exhaustion was starting to cloud his thoughts.

A knock on his dorm door made him jump.

“Uy, gising ka pa?” Jeno’s voice came from the other side.

Haechan groaned but got up anyway. The second he opened the door, Jeno was already stepping inside, holding up two bottles of iced coffee.

“Naisip ko na di ka pa natutulog, kaya dinalhan na kita,” Jeno said, handing him one. “Pero putangina, Chan, kailangan mo nang matulog. Mukha ka nang walking dead.”

Haechan took the bottle, twisting off the cap and taking a sip before answering. “Salamat, pero hindi pa tapos ‘to.” He motioned to his laptop. “Ayoko lang magsulat ng putanginang generic article. If I’m going to say something, it has to mean something.”

Jeno leaned against the desk, watching him. “Alam ko. Kaya nga gusto kitang tanungin—hanggang saan mo balak dalhin ‘to?”

Haechan frowned. “Ano’ng ibig mong sabihin?”

Jeno crossed his arms. “Lahat tayo galit. Lahat tayo gusto ng pagbabago. Pero ikaw, Haechan—iba ka. You’re not just here to chant slogans and hold placards. Gusto mong may impact yung sinusulat mo. Gusto mong may marating ‘to. So… hanggang saan ka willing umabot?”

The question hung between them, heavier than the late-night silence.

Haechan wanted to say as far as it takes . That he wouldn’t stop until something actually changed. But deep down, he knew the answer wasn’t that simple.

He thought about the admin calling him in. About the way some professors looked at him now—like he was trouble. He thought about his family, his mother reminding him to “stay out of problems that aren’t yours.”

The reality was, journalism wasn’t just about writing the truth. It was about carrying the consequences of speaking it.

Haechan exhaled, gripping the bottle of iced coffee. “Hindi ko alam, Jeno,” he admitted. “Pero kung matatakot lang tayo, walang mangyayari.”

Jeno studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Tama ka. Pero alalahanin mo rin sarili mo, ha?”

A small smile tugged at Haechan’s lips. “Tangina, anong drama ‘to? Sweet mo naman.”

“Ulol,” Jeno shot back, shoving him lightly before heading for the door. “Sige, tapusin mo na ‘yan. Pero matulog ka rin, gago.”

As the door clicked shut, Haechan glanced back at his laptop screen.

He had a lot more to say.

But for now, this was enough.

**

Mark scrolled through his messages, barely reading them. His contacts list had been flooded since the mock trial—congratulatory messages from classmates, subtle (and not-so-subtle) reminders from his professors about his upcoming internship, and of course, his father’s ever-present expectations.

Dad: Good work on the mock trial. I expect the same level of excellence in your internship.

No “I’m proud of you.” No “How are you feeling?” Just a reminder that winning was the bare minimum.

Mark locked his phone and set it aside, staring at his desk. His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, the weight of the day still pressing on his shoulders.

Jaehyun’s words from earlier echoed in his mind.

"Sometimes, winning the case doesn’t mean winning the moral argument."

Mark wasn’t stupid. He knew the mock trial had been an exercise in technicality, not justice. He had argued for the side that had the stronger legal standing, not the side that had been right .

And he had won.

So why did it feel so… hollow?

His fingers tapped against the desk absentmindedly. He needed a distraction.

Without thinking, he reached for his phone again. His messages were still open. His thumb hovered over a name he hadn’t even realized he was thinking about.

Haechan .

He frowned. He hadn’t heard from him since—what? The day he’d sent that random text about stress? Which, by the way, had been stupid.

Mark wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the way people kept bringing up Haechan’s name like he was someone Mark needed to watch out for.

Or maybe it was the way, despite all of that, Mark couldn’t shake the feeling that Haechan was the only person around him who didn’t expect him to be perfect.

He hesitated.

Then, before he could think twice, he typed:

Mark: Still stressed?

The second he sent it, he regretted it.

"Putangina, ano na namang ginagawa ko?"

Mark tossed his phone onto his bed and ran a hand through his hair.

Maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe Haechan wouldn’t even reply.

Or maybe—just maybe—he was starting to care a little too much.

**

Haechan blinked at his phone screen, frowning at the unexpected message.

Mark: Still stressed?

He scoffed, fingers instinctively typing out a sarcastic reply.

Haechan: Hindi, nag-vacation ako sa Maldives. Ikaw, kumusta ang pagiging future abogado ng mga corrupt?

He smirked as he hit send, expecting Mark to ignore it or, at most, send an annoyed response. Instead, his phone vibrated almost immediately.

Mark: Wow. Someone’s feisty tonight.

Haechan rolled his eyes, but for some reason, his smirk didn’t fade.

Haechan: Bakit ka ba nagtetext? Dapat busy ka sa pagiging golden boy.

Mark: I am busy. I just happened to remember someone saying they had deadlines.

Haechan paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Mark remembered?

For a moment, something in his chest felt uncomfortably warm.

He shook his head, forcing himself to focus.

Haechan: Sige, naalala mo nga. Bakit, gusto mo akong tulungan magsulat?

Mark: I’ll pass. I’d rather not be an accomplice to your anti-administration agenda.

Haechan let out a sharp laugh. Tangina, this guy.

Haechan: Takot ka lang ma-red tag.

Mark: I’m not stupid.

Haechan: Debatable.

There was a pause before Mark sent another message.

Mark: Just don’t get yourself in trouble.

Haechan’s smile faltered.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

He stared at the screen for a moment before typing back.

Haechan: Wow, may pake ka pala.

This time, Mark didn’t reply.

Haechan stared at his phone for another second before tossing it aside.

"Ano bang trip ng taong ‘yon?"

He shook his head, reaching for his laptop. He had work to do. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

And yet, somehow, Mark's words stayed with him.

**

Mark locked his phone and exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Just don’t get yourself in trouble?"

What the fuck had possessed him to say that?

The moment the words left his fingers, he’d regretted them. He didn’t even know why he cared.

Haechan wasn’t his problem.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about him—about the way his name kept coming up, whether in student discussions or even in conversations with his professors.

"Watch out for students like Lee Donghyuck."

"Journalists like him are reckless."

"You should be careful about the company you keep, Mark."

Mark wasn’t keeping company with Haechan. Hell, he barely knew the guy. But somehow, their paths kept colliding.

And despite himself, he was starting to wonder if maybe—just maybe—there was a reason for that.

**

Haechan stared at his laptop screen, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

The student protest had been intense—one of the largest in recent months. He had all the notes, all the necessary details. He knew exactly how to frame the article.

So why did he feel like he was carrying a hundred-pound weight on his chest?

"Just don’t get yourself in trouble."

Mark’s words echoed in his head, completely uninvited.

Haechan scowled and shook his head. Tangina, bakit ba siya nasa utak ko?

It wasn’t just Mark, though. It was everything.

His meeting with the admin had been a warning—thinly veiled, but a warning nonetheless. They didn’t tell him to stop outright, but the implication had been clear.

"Your work is admirable, Mr. Lee, but perhaps you should consider a more… balanced perspective."

As if there was anything balanced about tuition hikes, corrupt officials, and students being silenced.

Haechan let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair.

He thought of the students he had spoken to. The ones who couldn’t afford another increase. The ones who had already dropped out because the university had become impossible to sustain.

The ones who had no voice unless people like him spoke up.

He set his jaw and started typing.

No holding back. No self-censorship.

If the administration wanted him to stop, they were going to have to do a hell of a lot more than just warn him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

"Each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it."

The Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon

Haechan had spent the past hour staring at his laptop, the cursor blinking mockingly at him. His article draft for the Philippine Collegian was already halfway done, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every time he tried to focus, his thoughts kept circling back to one thing—

Or rather, one person .

Putangina, why was Mark Lee still in his head?

He groaned, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face. He could still hear Mark’s voice from the debate—smooth, calculated, and infuriatingly composed. “The law is not inherently biased, but the people implementing it are. So instead of tearing it down, shouldn’t we be holding them accountable?”

It had been a good argument.

Haechan hated that it had been a good argument.

"Hoy."

A pillow smacked him in the face.

"Putangina, Jeno!" He peeled it off, glaring at his friend, who was lounging on Haechan’s bed with a bag of chips.

Jeno snickered. "Dude, kanina ka pa nakatulala. Huwag mong sabihing iniisip mo na naman si—"

"HINDI," Haechan snapped before he could even say it.

Renjun, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his laptop, hummed. "Hmm. Defensive."

"I am NOT defensive!"

"Okay, sige, babe," Renjun said in the most patronizing tone possible, barely holding back a smirk.

Jeno leaned over, peering at Haechan’s screen. "Anong sinusulat mo?"

"Article ko for Philippine Collegian ." Haechan sighed, pushing his laptop toward them. "About tuition hikes. Kasi putangina, wala na talagang awa ‘tong admin. Saan ba nila gustong kumuha ng pangbayad ‘yung mga estudyanteng nagtitipid na nga sa pagkain?"

Jeno whistled lowly, scrolling through the draft. "Damn. Diretsahan ‘to, Chan."

"As it should be," Haechan muttered. "Kailangan nilang marinig ‘to."

Renjun read over his shoulder and grinned. "Aba. So, journalism versus the system. Sounds familiar."

Haechan frowned. "Ano na naman ‘yang pinapalabas mo?"

Renjun smirked. "Baka may isa pang Atenistang magreact dito."

Haechan scowled. "Tangina, wala siyang pake sa—"

A loud ping cut him off. Jeno glanced at his phone and smirked. " Philippine Collegian just posted your article." He turned the screen toward Haechan. "Guess we’ll find out if Mark Lee really doesn’t care."

Haechan rolled his eyes, grabbing his own phone to check the comments. It had only been up for five minutes, but the engagement was already high. Students were either praising the article or arguing in the replies.

Then he saw it.

A familiar name in the comments.

Mark Lee: "Interesting perspective. But I think you're missing some key legal considerations."

Haechan almost dropped his phone.

Putangina.

Renjun burst out laughing. "Babe, wala pang ten minutes."

Jeno shook his head in amusement. "Mukhang may pake nga siya."

Haechan groaned. "Bwisit."

And somehow, he knew—this was far from over.

**

Mark wasn’t supposed to engage.

At least, that’s what he told himself when he first saw Haechan’s article pop up in his notifications. He had just finished a three-hour mock trial preparation session and was about to take a break when his phone vibrated. The headline caught his eye immediately.

“The Price of Education: How Tuition Hikes Bury Students in Debt Before They Even Graduate”
By Haechan Lee, Philippine Collegian

He hesitated for only a second before clicking.

Mark knew Haechan’s writing style by now—blunt, sharp, and filled with a kind of raw frustration that was impossible to ignore. Unlike legal articles, which dissected policies with technical jargon, Haechan wrote in a way that hit people where it hurt. The article didn’t just lay out numbers—it told real student stories. One girl is working two part-time jobs just to pay for a semester. A student was forced to take a leave of absence because his parents couldn’t afford the sudden increase in tuition. Professors turning a blind eye because "wala namang magbabago."

Mark sighed, rubbing his temple.

Haechan had a point. But as always, he oversimplified the issue.

Mark had spent the past three years drowning in legal documents about education policies. He knew tuition hikes weren’t as black-and-white as Haechan made them seem. Schools—especially private universities—justified them with rising operational costs, faculty salaries, and research funding. Financial aid existed, but the system wasn’t perfect.

Still, as he read through the article, Mark found himself typing out a response in the comments before he could stop himself.

Mark Lee: “Interesting perspective. But I think you're missing some key legal considerations."

The moment he hit send, his phone vibrated again.

Jaemin: Did you just reply to his article?

Mark scowled. Of course Jaemin saw it already.

A second later, another message popped up.

Jaehyun: Bro, just say you like arguing with him and move on.

Mark groaned. These idiots.

Jaemin wasn’t done, though.

Jaemin: Ateneo Law’s rising star engaging in a comment war with UP Journalism’s resident attack dog? Love it. Pls continue.

Mark didn’t dignify them with a response. Instead, he shut off his phone and grabbed his laptop. If Haechan wanted to make this a battle of narratives, then Mark was more than happy to play.

**

Mark spent the next two hours drafting his article for Law & Letters .

Unlike Haechan, whose style was full of emotion and direct calls to action, Mark’s piece was methodical. Structured. Logical.

"Understanding Tuition Regulation: The Legal Framework Behind Education Costs"
By Mark Lee, Law & Letters

He outlined the laws governing tuition increases, explained the appeals process, and even included case studies of universities successfully implementing tuition caps. He didn’t dismiss Haechan’s points—he acknowledged them—but he also made it clear that the problem was more complex than "administrators just want to profit off students."

By the time he was done, he leaned back in his chair, rereading the last paragraph.

"Change doesn’t happen through outrage alone. If students want to challenge tuition hikes, they need to understand the legal mechanisms behind them. Protests and headlines can pressure institutions, but policy reform is what creates lasting change."

Mark exhaled.

Yeah. This would piss Haechan off.

Perfect.

He sent it for publication.

**

"Tangina niya talaga."

Haechan slammed his laptop shut so hard that Renjun flinched.

"Putangina, ano na naman?" Renjun asked, stirring his iced coffee lazily.

"Mark Lee wrote a response."

Jeno, who had been scrolling through his phone, whistled lowly. "That was fast."

Haechan shoved his laptop toward them. "Basahin mo."

Renjun skimmed through the article, his lips curling in amusement. " Wow. He really went all out, huh? ‘Understanding Tuition Regulation’—putangina, parang lecture."

Jeno chuckled. "Kailangan ko ng kape bago tapusin ‘to."

Haechan, still fuming, grabbed his phone and opened Twitter. The students were already eating it up.

Some were debating in the replies, some were quoting both articles like it was a boxing match, and others were just here for the drama .

@iskolarngbayan: Omg sino ‘tong dalawang ‘to at bakit parang nagbabangayan sila through published articles???

@UPvsADMUthrowdown: Philippine Collegian vs Law & Letters real. Also, magkakadebate ulit ba sila?? Gusto ko ng sequel.

Haechan groaned, running a hand through his hair.

Renjun, meanwhile, was just watching him with an annoying smirk. "So… ano na, babe? Maghihintay ka na lang? Or magpapasabog ka rin?"

Haechan scoffed. "Anong maghihintay? Tangina, syempre may sagot ako."

Jeno grinned. "Gusto mo na ba talagang i-prove na academic foreplay ‘to?"

Haechan threw a pillow at him.

**

Two days later, Mark was at a coffee shop near Ateneo when Jaemin strolled in, holding his phone up.

"Congrats, Mark," Jaemin said, sliding into the seat across from him. " You officially have a nemesis in print media."

Mark frowned. "What—"

Jaemin turned his phone toward him.

"When Laws Fail the People: Why Policy Isn’t Enough to Solve the Education Crisis"
By Haechan Lee, Philippine Collegian

Mark stared at the headline. Then at the first paragraph.

He clicked his tongue. "Of course he had to answer back."

Jaemin grinned. "Of course. You practically invited him."

Mark sighed, scrolling through the article. Haechan had directly referenced his points, arguing that while legal frameworks existed, the reality was that most students didn’t have the time or resources to use them. He highlighted cases of failed petitions, inaccessible legal aid, and how bureaucracy often buried student appeals before they even reached administration.

Mark smirked. Good.

He liked a challenge.

"So," Jaemin mused, stirring his coffee. "What’s next? Another article? Or maybe a proper face-to-face discussion?"

Mark took a sip of his coffee, his expression unreadable. "I think I’ll pay him a visit."

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. "You’re going to UP?"

Mark leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Well, it’s a public space, isn’t it?"

Jaemin grinned. "Now this I gotta see."

**

It was a perfectly normal afternoon at the UP Sunken Garden.

Students lounged on picnic blankets, org mates sat in circles discussing their latest projects, and the occasional stray dog weaved between groups, looking for scraps of food. It was the kind of scene that usually made Haechan feel at ease.

But today, something was ruining his peace.

And that something was currently walking toward him in a perfectly pressed button-down and a smug expression.

Haechan almost choked on his iced coffee. "Tangina."

Jeno, who had been sitting beside him, looked up and followed his gaze. His reaction was instant amusement. "Ohhh shit. He's here."

Renjun, ever observant, raised an eyebrow. "Sino—" Then he spotted the approaching figure. "Oh my God. Babe, nag-effort siyang maglakad papunta dito?"

Mark fucking Lee was walking across campus grounds like he belonged there. He was clearly out of place—his Ateneo law student aura clashing against UP’s more laid-back energy—but that didn’t stop him from striding straight toward Haechan with purpose .

Haechan barely had time to react before Mark stopped in front of their group, hands in his pockets, looking way too pleased with himself.

"Lee."

Haechan scowled. "Anong ginagawa mo dito? Nawala ka ba? Dapat iniwan na kita sa Katipunan."

Mark smirked. "Nah, I’m exactly where I need to be." He tilted his head. "Nice article, by the way. You really have a thing for dramatics, huh?"

Haechan scoffed. "At least I don’t sound like I’m writing a damn law textbook."

"That’s because I actually cite my sources."

Jeno let out a low whistle. "Okay, this is about to get good."

Renjun, already enjoying the show, took a long sip of his drink. "Sige lang, huwag kayong magpigil."

Haechan rolled his eyes. "So ano? Napalakad ka all the way to UP just to mansplain tuition policies to me in person?"

Mark chuckled, shaking his head. "Relax. I’m not here to start a fight."

"Wow, miracle ."

"I just thought," Mark continued, ignoring him, "that if we’re going to keep publishing arguments about each other, we might as well do it properly."

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "A real debate." Mark shrugged casually. "Face to face. You. Me. No hiding behind published articles."

For a second, Haechan just blinked.

Renjun nearly dropped his drink. "Wait. Wait. Did he just challenge you?"

Jeno let out a low laugh. "Putangina, Haech. If you say no, you’re a coward."

Haechan bristled. "Hoy gago, bakit naman ako aayaw? Siya nga ‘tong pumunta dito para pilitin ako, eh."

Mark smirked. "So that’s a yes?"

Haechan crossed his arms, leaning back. "Anong makukuha ko dito?"

“Bragging rights." Mark tilted his head. "Unless you think you’ll lose?"

Haechan scoffed. "Tangina, sige. Pero ikaw ang bumili ng kape pagkatapos ko manalo."

Mark’s smirk widened. "Done."

Jeno clapped his hands together. "Oh shit, this is happening."

Renjun, shaking his head in amusement, muttered, "May Diyos talaga sa langit."

By the time they got to the cafeteria, word had already spread.

It started with Jeno loudly announcing, "Mga Iskolar ng Bayan, makinig! May libreng live debate ngayong hapon!" which immediately got the attention of passing students.

Then Renjun, ever the instigator, added, "Ateneo Law vs. UP Journ. This is the crossover event of the year!"

Within minutes, they had gathered an actual audience.

"Tangina niyo," Haechan muttered, but he didn’t exactly stop them either.

Mark, to his credit, didn’t look the least bit fazed. If anything, he looked amused as he took a seat across from Haechan at one of the tables.

"Rules?" Mark asked, rolling up his sleeves.

Haechan tapped his fingers against the table. "Simple lang. No time limits. No moderators. Just arguments."

Mark nodded. "Fine by me. Since you’re so eager, you can start."

Haechan leaned forward, smirking. "Tsk. Ginoo talaga. Sige, game."

He took a breath. "Ganito lang kasimple. Tuition hikes hurt students—lalo na ‘yung mga hindi galing sa mayayamang pamilya. Hindi lang ‘to numbers sa papel. We’re talking about real lives getting disrupted dahil sa policies na hindi naman talaga nagpapahalaga sa estudyante. Ang edukasyon dapat para sa lahat, hindi lang sa may pambayad."

The crowd hummed in agreement. Someone in the back even muttered, "True yan, bro!"

Mark, unfazed, leaned back in his chair. "You’re arguing that tuition hikes are unfair, but universities aren’t just money-hungry corporations. They need funding to function. Professors need salaries. Facilities need maintenance. You think quality education is free?"

Haechan’s jaw clenched. "So dapat kaming mga estudyante ang magdusa sa gastos? Hindi ba dapat may alternative solutions? Transparency, better fund allocation—kahit anong paraan para hindi lang kami ang pinapahirapan?"

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Then advocate for those solutions, not just outrage. Policies don’t change just because people complain on Twitter."

"Putangina, sino’ng nagsabing puro reklamo lang ang ginagawa namin?" Haechan shot back. "UP students have always fought for accessible education. The difference is, we don’t just hide behind legal loopholes—"

"We don’t hide behind them either," Mark interrupted smoothly. "We use them to create actual change. That’s the difference between idealism and strategy."

The audience let out a collective " ooohhh."

Haechan’s eye twitched. "Tangina mo talaga."

Mark smirked. "You’re welcome."

The debate raged on. Arguments flew back and forth, neither willing to back down. More students gathered, drawn in by the intensity, the sheer energy of two people who clearly lived for this.

And somehow, in the middle of it all, Haechan realized something.

Mark wasn’t just debating to prove him wrong.

He was enjoying this.

Enjoying him .

And maybe—just maybe—Haechan was too.

**

If Haechan was being honest, he hadn’t expected the debate to go on for this long.

What started as a casual intellectual fight over tuition policies had turned into a full-blown academic showdown.

The cafeteria had transformed into an impromptu debate hall, with students crowding around their table, forming a semi-circle of eager spectators. Some were recording, others were whispering their own side comments, and a few—Renjun and Jeno included—were actively enjoying the entertainment .

Haechan’s blood was boiling, but in the best way.

He loved this. The energy, the challenge, the sheer adrenaline of throwing arguments at someone who could actually keep up.

And Mark?

That bastard was enjoying it, too.

"Alright, Lee," Haechan said, voice laced with challenge. "You wanna talk about real solutions? Sige. You say students should push for policy reforms instead of protesting tuition hikes, but have you actually seen how that works in real life? Have you seen petitions get ignored, proposals get buried in red tape, and students forced to drop out while the system drags its feet?"

Mark didn’t miss a beat. "And you think the answer is always outrage? That complaining on social media and staging rallies without an actual legal foundation is enough to create change?"

Haechan let out a sharp laugh. "Tangina, sino’ng nagsabing puro sigaw lang ang ginagawa namin? Do you think the Philippine Collegian just writes angry think pieces? We do research, we present evidence, and we push for action. But let’s be real—no one listens until they’re forced to."

Mark’s eyes flickered with something—recognition, maybe.

But he didn’t let it show. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. "So what exactly are you suggesting? That the legal system doesn’t work?"

"I’m saying it doesn’t work for everyone."

The words came out sharper than intended, but Haechan didn’t care.

"The law favors those who can afford to use it properly." Haechan met Mark’s gaze head-on. "It’s like tuition fees—the rules may seem fair on paper, but in reality, they favor the people who have the means to play the game."

There was a beat of silence.

For the first time since the debate started, Mark hesitated.

Just for a second.

But Haechan caught it.

Mark’s fingers tapped once against the table, a tell Haechan had started picking up on—he did it when he was thinking of how to reframe his argument. When he was trying to not react emotionally.

Interesting.

"The law may not be perfect," Mark said, voice measured, "but dismantling trust in it completely will only lead to chaos. If we want the system to work for everyone, then we need to make sure the people in power are held accountable. And that doesn’t happen when the conversation is reduced to ‘us versus them.’"

"Right," Haechan drawled, leaning back, "because trusting the system has worked out so well for marginalized communities, hasn’t it?"

Mark exhaled through his nose. "Cynicism doesn’t fix anything, Lee."

"And blind faith does?"

The audience was practically vibrating at this point.

Renjun, who had been taking a sip of his drink, muttered, "Babe, you’re going for blood at this point."

Jeno just grinned. "This is better than any law school lecture I’ve ever attended."

"You don’t even go to law school," Renjun deadpanned.

"Exactly."

Meanwhile, Mark was studying Haechan again, his head tilted slightly.

Haechan’s pulse was still racing, but now that the conversation had slowed, something shifted.

Mark wasn’t arguing for the sake of proving him wrong anymore. He wasn’t even trying to win.

He was really listening.

And for some reason, that made Haechan even more irritated.

Because Mark shouldn’t be listening. He should be fighting back. He should be frustrated.

Instead, he was looking at Haechan like—

Like what?

Haechan didn’t even know.

Before either of them could say anything else, someone clapped.

"Okay, okay, tama na, bago pa mag-away ‘tong dalawa sa gitna ng cafeteria," one of the students joked, breaking the tension.

There was a ripple of laughter as the crowd finally relaxed, the energy shifting from intense debate to light hearted banter.

But Haechan wasn’t laughing.

He was too busy processing the fact that, for the first time, Mark hadn’t dismissed his arguments completely.

**

Mark should have walked away.

The moment the impromptu debate ended, he should have turned around, left UP, and gone back to Ateneo like nothing happened.

Instead, he was still sitting at the table, watching as Haechan talked animatedly to Jeno and Renjun, his hands moving as he ranted about something that probably had nothing to do with the debate anymore.

Mark didn’t know why he was still here.

"Dude," Jaemin’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Mark blinked. "What?"

Jaemin smirked. "You’re staring."

Mark scoffed, finally looking away. "I am not."

Jaemin hummed, unconvinced. "Right. So, what’s the verdict? Are you gonna write another article or are you just gonna keep showing up here to argue with him in person?"

"I don’t—"

"Care?" Jaemin finished for him, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure. Totally believable."

Mark exhaled. "He’s reckless. Too emotional when he argues. He needs to learn how to structure his points better."

"Uh-huh."

"And he jumps to conclusions without considering the legal perspective—"

"You are so obvious, it’s painful to watch."

Mark scowled. "I’m just saying—"

"You’re just listing all the things you clearly like about him," Jaemin interrupted, grinning. "Face it, Mark. You don’t just enjoy arguing with him. You enjoy him."

Mark didn’t dignify that with a response.

Mostly because he didn’t know if Jaemin was wrong.

**

Later that night, Haechan found himself alone in his dorm room, staring at his laptop screen.

His cursor hovered over a blank document, the title field still empty. He was supposed to be writing a follow-up article. Instead, all he could think about was Mark fucking Lee.

Haechan groaned, flopping onto his bed and covering his face with a pillow. "Putangina, bakit siya nandito sa utak ko?!"

His phone buzzed. He grabbed it blindly, assuming it was Renjun or Jeno sending another meme about the debate. But it wasn’t. It was a message notification. And it was from Mark .

Haechan’s breath hitched.

Mark: Well argued. But you still owe me coffee.

Haechan sat up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. He stared at the message. Then at the words Well argued . Mark had never—not once—complimented him before. Not directly. Not like this. Haechan exhaled sharply, typing out a reply before he could overthink.

Haechan: Tangina mo. Fine. Starbucks, 2 PM. Don’t be late.

Mark’s response was immediate.

Mark:   Wouldn’t dream of it.

Haechan groaned again. Because this wasn’t just another argument anymore. And he had no idea what to do about it.

**

Haechan had no idea why he was here.

Actually, scratch that.

He knew exactly why—because Mark Lee had challenged him , and Haechan never backed down from a challenge.

That didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

"Putangina," he muttered under his breath as he walked into Starbucks, spotting Mark immediately. "Bakit ba ako pumayag dito?"

Mark was already sitting at a table near the window, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just dragged Haechan into this situation. He looked as put-together as ever—crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to be annoyingly attractive, and a composed expression that made it seem like he had planned this entire thing out.

Haechan scowled. So what if he looked good? That wasn’t the point.

"Relax, Lee," Mark drawled without looking up. "You look like you’re about to fight someone."

"Gago, kasi parang niloko mo ako sa usapan natin," Haechan huffed, dropping into the seat across from him. "Akala ko ‘tong ‘kape’ ay metaphor lang."

Mark smirked. "You assume too much. I meant it literally."

"Tangina, dapat sinabi mo agad—"

"I did."

Haechan opened his mouth, then shut it when he realized Mark had a point.

Fucking hell.

"Anyway," Mark continued smoothly, "since you lost, I assume you’ll be paying for my drink?"

Haechan scoffed. "Ano? Paanong talo? Walang nanalo sa debate natin!"

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Says the guy who’s currently buying me coffee."

"Gago ka talaga," Haechan grumbled, but he was already standing up and heading for the counter.

Mark leaned back in his chair, watching him with amusement. "Dark roast, no sugar. Thanks."

Haechan flipped him off over his shoulder.

When Haechan returned, he not-so-gently placed Mark’s coffee in front of him before flopping back into his seat.

"So," Mark said, taking a sip, "why’d you agree to this?"

"Sino’ng may sabi na gusto ko ‘to?" Haechan shot back. "Nagbigay lang ako kasi may utang na loob akong sinasabi mo. Kung hindi, wala akong pake kung matuyo lalamunan mo sa sobrang kapal ng mukha mo."

Mark chuckled. "You really can’t go five minutes without insulting me, huh?"

"Sanay ka naman, ‘di ba?" Haechan smirked. "Besides, it’s what you deserve."

Mark rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. For a moment, they just sat there. 

The coffee shop buzzed with the usual late-afternoon crowd—students typing away on laptops, professors having quiet discussions, the sound of steaming milk and the occasional clatter of cups.

It was normal. But Haechan hated how not normal it felt sitting across from Mark like this. They weren’t debating. They weren’t trying to outsmart each other. They were just… talking. And that was dangerous .

"So, what’s your next article about?" Mark asked, breaking the silence.

Haechan frowned. "Anong pakialam mo?"

"None," Mark admitted, sipping his coffee. "I’m just curious."

"Curious o gusto mo lang makahanap ng isasagot?"

"Maybe both," Mark said easily. "You keep me on my toes."

Haechan nearly choked on his drink. "Putangina, ano ‘yun? Compliment?"

Mark smirked. "Take it however you want."

Tangina .

Haechan looked away, trying to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat .

"But seriously," Mark continued, tapping his fingers against his cup, "your arguments are solid, but they’re fueled by emotion. Have you ever considered taking up law?"

Haechan scoffed. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Because you’re good at making a case," Mark replied. "You’re already doing half the work—gathering evidence, crafting arguments, exposing loopholes. You’d make a good lawyer."

Haechan stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. "No way. Hindi ako bagay sa ganyang mundo. I don’t want to argue about justice in a courtroom—I want people to actually feel its impact. That’s why I write."

Mark tilted his head. "And you think lawyers don’t do that?"

"Not the way I want to."

Mark studied him for a second, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Then he exhaled, leaning back. "Fair enough."

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "Wait. That’s it? No five-minute counterargument?"

Mark smirked. "Not everything has to be a fight, Lee."

Haechan rolled his eyes. "I’m starting to think you actually like arguing with me."

"Hmm." Mark took another sip of his coffee, watching him over the rim of his cup. "Maybe I do."

Haechan swore his brain short-circuited for a second. No. Nope. We are NOT going there.

"TANGINA, SINO NAGSABI NA MAY GANUN?" Haechan blurted out, far too loudly for a Starbucks.

A couple of students turned to look at them.

Mark, completely unfazed, just chuckled. "Relax, Lee. You’re too easy to mess with."

Haechan scowled. "Putangina, ‘wag mo ‘kong gawing joke."

"Who said I was joking?"

Haechan froze. For a split second, the air between them changed. It was barely noticeable—a shift, a pause, a flicker of something unspoken.

Then, just as quickly, Mark leaned back, breaking the moment. "Anyway," he said smoothly, "this was fun. But I have to head back to Ateneo soon."

Haechan blinked, still trying to process whatever the hell just happened. "Ano? Tapos na ‘to?"

"Unless you have something else to say?"

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. Next time, ikaw ang taya sa kape."

Mark chuckled, standing up and adjusting his sleeves. "Fine. But that means there will be a next time."

Haechan opened his mouth, ready to argue—except… he didn’t actually have an argument. Because shit. Mark was right. And that might have been the most annoying realization of all.

**

Haechan spent the rest of the evening spiraling.

The moment he got back to his dorm, he collapsed onto his bed, groaning into his pillow.

"Putangina, bakit ako pumayag doon?"

Across the room, Renjun barely looked up from his laptop. "Babe, hindi ko alam kung nagdedebate kayo o may dinidate ka nang bago."

"ANO?" Haechan sat up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "Hindi ako—! Tangina, Renjun, shut up!"

Jeno, who had been sitting on the floor, burst out laughing. "Haech, chill. He’s just saying what we’re all thinking."

"Wala akong iniisip!"

Renjun raised an eyebrow. "Eh bakit parang affected ka masyado?"

Haechan scowled, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at him. "Putangina niyo pareho."

Renjun and Jeno just grinned. Haechan groaned, flopping back down. Because the worst part? He couldn’t stop thinking about what Mark had said.

“Maybe I do.”

And that was a problem. A very big problem.

**

If Haechan thought he could just forget about what happened at Starbucks, he was dead wrong. Because the next morning, everyone at UP was talking about him and Mark Lee.

“Putangina, Haechan Lee, explain.”

Haechan barely had time to process Renjun’s words before his phone was shoved in his face, the screen flashing a Twitter thread:

@UPvsADMUthrowdown: GUYS. MARK LEE AND HAECHAN LEE HAD COFFEE TOGETHER. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN??? 👀🔥 (1/?)

@iskolarngbayan: Wait, I thought gusto nilang patayin isa’t isa???

@UP_gossip: Akala ko enemies sila pero bakit parang may something??????

@AteneoLawDaily: Not Mark Lee leaving a debate at UP and immediately taking the guy he argued with to Starbucks. This is a fanfic waiting to happen.

Haechan almost threw Renjun’s phone out the window.

"PUTANGINA, BAKIT ALAM NG TAO ‘TO?!"

Renjun cackled. "Babe, what the hell did you two do?"

"Nag-kape lang kami!" Haechan said, voice rising. "Bakit parang scripted fanservice ‘to sa Twitter?!"

Jeno, who had been scrolling through the replies, snorted. "Chan, ‘nag-kape lang’ daw pero parang ang daming nakakita ng chemistry niyo."

"What chemistry?!"

Renjun gave him a look. "Babe. Be honest. Do you really think people wouldn’t notice the way you and Mark Lee argue like it’s foreplay?"

Haechan choked. "ANO?!"

Jeno burst out laughing. "Gagi, Renjun, paano mo nasabi ‘yan nang hindi man lang nag-blink?"

"Kasi totoo?" Renjun grinned. "Come on, babe. You two literally wrote academic love letters to each other and now you’re sharing coffee? Dapat ba kaming mag-abang ng wedding invitations?"

"PUTANGINA, SHUT UP!"

Haechan groaned, grabbing a pillow and smashing it against his face. This was hell. Actual hell. And the worst part? Mark hadn’t even messaged him since their coffee shop meetup.

**

Mark was having a problem. And that problem was currently staring at him from Jaemin’s phone screen.

"Mark," Jaemin said, barely holding back his laughter. "Explain."

Jaehyun, who had been reviewing his notes beside them, leaned over. "What now?"

Jaemin turned his phone toward him, revealing the same Twitter thread that was currently ruining Mark’s life.

Jaehyun blinked. "Oh. Well, that’s awkward."

Mark scowled. "It’s not awkward."

"Mark, everyone thinks you’re flirting with him." Jaemin grinned. "Even I think you’re flirting with him."

"I am not—"

"Sure."

Mark exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This is ridiculous. It was just coffee."

Jaehyun hummed. "Funny how you didn’t deny the flirting part."

Mark shot him a glare. "It’s not—"

"Not what?" Jaemin wiggled his eyebrows. "Not real? Not a thing? Not the reason you’ve been checking your phone every five minutes since yesterday?"

Mark hated how predictable he was. Because yes, he had been checking his phone. And no, he didn’t know why. It wasn’t like he was waiting for Haechan to message him first. Except… maybe he kind of was. Shit.

Jaemin was still watching him with a knowing look. "You like him."

Mark scoffed. "I tolerate him."

"That’s what they all say before they fall, bro."

"Jaemin, shut up."

Jaemin smirked. "Make me. Or better yet, go argue with Haechan about it—since that’s your favorite pastime."

Mark groaned, leaning back in his chair. This was a problem. A very big problem. Because if even his friends were noticing, then it meant Mark had lost control of whatever this was. 

And Mark Lee did not lose control.

**

The next few days were weird. For the first time since their rivalry started, Haechan and Mark weren’t publicly fighting. There were no Twitter debates. No scathing articles responding to each other’s points. No snarky comments in student forums. Nothing. And that was driving Haechan insane.

"Gago, am I crazy or is he ignoring me?" Haechan asked, pacing around their dorm room.

Renjun barely looked up from his laptop. "Babe, maybe he’s just busy?"

"Busy my ass. He literally replied to my article in under ten minutes last time."

"Maybe he’s taking a break from fighting with you?"

Haechan scowled. "Tangina, bakit ngayon pa?"

Jeno smirked. "Awww. Miss mo na siya?"

"HUH?!" Haechan whirled around. "Anong miss?! Hindi ko siya nami—!" He stopped mid-sentence because Renjun and Jeno were both giving him the most judgmental looks he had ever seen.

Haechan groaned. "I hate both of you."

"We know."

**

By Friday, Mark gave up pretending he didn’t care. Which was how he ended up accidentally walking past the Philippine Collegian office. Totally by accident. Not because he had been thinking about Haechan. Or because he wanted to see him. Definitely not because he missed their debates.

Just… coincidence.

Except, of course, Haechan chose that exact moment to step out of the office. The second their eyes met, they both froze. For a solid three seconds, neither of them said anything.

Then Haechan narrowed his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Mark smirked, recovering quickly. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Gago, this is literally my office."

"Fair point."

Haechan crossed his arms. "So?"

Mark sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don’t know."

Haechan blinked. "Wait, what?"

Mark exhaled. "I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why I keep thinking about our arguments. I don’t know why I—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Never mind."

Haechan’s stomach did something weird. He should make fun of Mark. Tease him, mock him, anything. But instead, what came out was—

"Tangina, same."

Mark looked at him. Really looked at him. And for the first time, they weren’t arguing. They weren’t debating, or trying to prove each other wrong. They were just two people standing outside a campus office, realizing that maybe—just maybe—this was something else entirely.

**

If Mark thought avoiding Haechan would make things easier, he was wrong. Because now, instead of being annoyed by Haechan’s articles, Mark was annoyed by the lack of them.

His Twitter feed wasn’t filled with their usual back-and-forth. His notifications weren’t blowing up with debates. And for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t constantly checking Philippine Collegian to see what Haechan had written next.

It was like trying to quit caffeine. Impossible. Unfortunately, Mark had bigger problems to deal with.

"You’re distracted," Jaehyun noted, flipping through their case study notes. "That’s not like you."

Mark exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "I’m fine."

"You’re not."

"Jaehyun—"

"You know how I know?" Jaehyun leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Because for the first time ever, you’re actually struggling to organize your arguments. Which means something is messing with your head."

Mark scowled, flipping a page in his binder. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Right." Jaehyun chuckled. "So this has nothing to do with the fact that you haven’t stopped checking your phone since we got here?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "Can we focus? The mock trial is in three days."

"Exactly," Jaehyun said, voice turning serious. "Which means now is the worst time to let yourself get distracted."

Mark clenched his jaw. He knew Jaehyun was right. He knew he should be fully focused on the upcoming mock trial—the one his father was already expecting him to dominate. But the weight of expectations was getting heavier.

His father had barely acknowledged his Law & Letters debate with Haechan. The one time they talked about it, all he said was:

"Idealism is good, Mark. But if you want to make a real difference, you do it in court—not in student publications."

As if everything Mark had argued for didn’t matter. As if debating Haechan was just… a phase. Mark hated that. And he hated even more that he hadn’t replied to Haechan’s last message.

**

"Babe, you need to stop staring at your phone like a jowa mo ‘yang notifications tab," Renjun said, sprawled across Haechan’s bed.

"Putangina mo," Haechan grumbled, shoving his phone under his pillow. "I’m not waiting for anything."

Renjun raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. And if I check your screen time, hindi ba lahat ‘yan puro messages and Law & Letters?"

"Shut up."

Jeno snorted. "Chan, just admit it. You miss fighting with him."

Haechan scowled. "Bakit parang kayo ‘yung excited? Tangina, wala lang akong pinag-aawayan lately, okay?"

"So hanap tayo ng bagong target?" Jeno offered. "UP admin? Marcos trolls? Ateneo basketball team?"

"Putangina, Jeno, bakit basketball team?"

"Wala lang. Ang yabang kasi ng mga Atenista minsan."

Haechan laughed at that, but his chest still felt heavy. Because as much as he wanted to pretend he wasn’t thinking about Mark, it wasn’t working. And he was about to get a very rude reminder of that fact.

It happened in the most inconvenient place possible—right in the middle of UP Diliman’s main library.

Haechan had just settled into a quiet corner when someone dropped a book onto his table. He looked up, already annoyed—then immediately frowned.

"Anong ginagawa mo dito?"

Mark crossed his arms. "Research."

Haechan scoffed. "Sa dami ng library sa Ateneo, bakit dito?"

"It’s a public space, Lee."

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "Bullshit. You’re following me."

Mark smirked. "That’s a very self-centered assumption."

"Tangina, just say you miss me and go."

Mark blinked. For the first time, he looked caught off guard. Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You think I miss you?"

Haechan faltered. Oh shit. Because suddenly, they weren’t arguing anymore.

The library around them faded into the background. The tension wasn’t about politics or articles—it was something else entirely.

Something Haechan wasn’t ready to deal with. So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He pushed back.

"You tell me," Haechan said, voice casual but his heartbeat anything but. "You’re the one who showed up at my school, sat at my table, and started a conversation."

Mark’s jaw tightened. "You want an answer?"

"Obviously."

Mark exhaled, like he was weighing his words carefully. Then he said—

"Maybe I do."

Haechan forgot how to breathe. Mark didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t back down. Haechan hated him for that. Because what the hell were they even talking about anymore?

"Mark—"

"Forget it," Mark said suddenly, shaking his head. "This was a bad idea."

Before Haechan could react, Mark grabbed his book and walked away. Just walked away.

Leaving Haechan alone at the table, completely and utterly lost.

**

Mark didn’t stop walking until he was outside. His heart was pounding. His mind was a mess.

"Maybe I do."

What the fuck was he thinking? He shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have gone to UP. Shouldn’t have sought Haechan out when he knew things were already complicated. But he couldn’t help it.

Jaemin’s voice echoed in his head. "You don’t just enjoy arguing with him. You enjoy him."

Mark groaned, raking a hand through his hair. He needed to get his shit together. Because if he didn’t, this was going to turn into something he couldn’t control. And Mark hated losing control.

**

Mark Lee was drowning. Not literally, of course. But it felt like he was. There were too many case readings. Too many mock trial preparations. Too many expectations weighing on his shoulders, pressing down like a force he couldn’t shake off.

And he was tired. Not the kind of tiredness that could be fixed by a few hours of sleep, but the kind that settled in his bones, refusing to leave.

"You need to focus, Mark," his father’s voice echoed in his head. "This is what matters. Not school debates. Not student politics. Real change happens in the courtroom."

Mark clenched his jaw, flipping through his notes. He knew that. His father had been drilling it into him for years. But why did it feel like something was missing?

**

"Lee, your counter argument is weak."

Mark barely stopped himself from sighing. Across from him, their mock trial coach—an actual practicing lawyer—was watching him with a sharp gaze.

"You focused too much on moral reasoning. The court doesn’t care about emotions, it cares about evidence. You need to be sharper, faster."

Mark nodded, biting his tongue. "Understood."

"Again. From the top."

And just like that, they restarted the entire mock trial argument.

For the next hour, Mark sparred with Jaehyun and their teammates, taking hit after hit—legal loopholes he hadn’t thought of, case laws he should have memorized, mistakes that weren’t even real mistakes but weren’t perfect either. By the end of it, his head was pounding.

"You’re overthinking again," Jaehyun muttered, packing up his notes beside him. "That’s not like you."

Mark exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "I’m fine."

"Are you?"

Mark didn’t answer. Because no, he wasn’t fine. He was exhausted. He was frustrated. He was suffocating under the pressure of always being expected to be the best. And the worst part? His father didn’t even see how hard he was trying.

**

"Your performance in the mock trial will determine the firm’s decision about your internship," his father said over dinner, barely glancing up from his phone. "You should already be thinking ahead, Mark. Law school is just the foundation—your real career starts the moment you enter that courtroom."

Mark gripped his fork. "I know."

"Then stop wasting your time with student debates."

Mark stiffened. His father didn’t even say it like an insult—just a fact. Like everything Mark had been doing outside of law school meant nothing.

"I wouldn’t call it a waste," Mark said, voice carefully neutral.

His father finally looked up. "Mark."

Mark held his gaze. "I’m just saying—"

"What? That arguing with college journalists is going to change the world?" His father scoffed. "Come on. You’re better than that."

Mark clenched his jaw. Better than what, exactly? Better than caring about something outside of legal technicalities? Better than engaging in discussions that actually challenged him? Better than Haechan? That thought made him pause.

His father sighed, returning to his phone. "You want to make a difference? Win your cases. Change the system from the inside. Everything else is just noise."

Just noise. Mark stared at his plate, appetite completely gone. He knew his father wouldn’t understand. Because to his father, winning was all that mattered. But for the first time, Mark wasn’t sure if that was enough anymore.

**

It hit him two nights before the mock trial.

Mark had been staring at the same legal document for over an hour, his brain refusing to function. His desk was a mess—papers scattered everywhere, empty coffee cups stacked in the corner, his laptop screen filled with half-written arguments that didn’t make sense anymore.

And then, out of nowhere, his phone buzzed. He grabbed it instinctively, expecting another email— But it wasn’t. It was a message notification.

Haechan: You dead, Golden Boy? Or just too scared to argue with me again?

Mark froze.

For a second, everything else disappeared. The stress. The expectations. The exhaustion. All that was left was Haechan’s message, staring at him like a challenge. And without thinking, Mark took off.

**

Mark wasn’t thinking.

Or maybe he was—just not rationally.

Because if he were thinking rationally, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t have left Ateneo in the middle of the night, wouldn’t have taken a Grab to UP, wouldn’t have marched across campus with nothing but frustration and exhaustion fueling his every step.

But he was here, and his knuckles were tight around his phone as he reread the message that had pushed him over the edge.

Haechan: You dead, Golden Boy? Or just too scared to argue with me again?

Mark had spent days ignoring him. Had convinced himself he was too busy, too focused, too fucking exhausted to engage in another pointless fight.

But the truth was, he had needed an excuse to break. And Haechan had handed him one.

**

Haechan was not expecting to be dragged into a confrontation at eleven-fucking-thirty PM.

One minute, he was chilling outside the dorms, sharing a smoke with Jeno and Renjun. The next, someone grabbed his wrist and pulled him aside.

"Tangina—!" Haechan swore, jerking away—then froze when he saw who it was.

"Mark?"

Mark’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes—fuck. Something about them made Haechan’s stomach drop.

"What the hell—"

"Shut up."

Haechan’s eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"You want a fight, Lee?" Mark’s voice was low, rough. "Fine. Let’s fight."

Haechan scoffed. "Putangina, ano bang problema mo?"

"You."

Haechan blinked. "What?"

"You don’t shut up. You don’t stop pushing. You act like you’re the only one who fucking cares about change, like you have the moral high ground just because you write about it—"

"Tangina—!"

"And you don’t even realize how easy you have it," Mark continued, voice tight. "You get to write and protest and throw words around without ever having to deal with the actual legal consequences. Do you even know what it’s like to have the weight of real cases, real fucking people’s futures, in your hands?"

Haechan’s temper snapped. "So ngayon kasalanan ko na? Putangina, ikaw ang dumayo dito para sigawan ako—!"

"Because you don’t get it!" Mark stepped closer, jaw clenched. "You think you’re fighting the system? I have to work inside it. I have to play the game while you just throw punches from the outside and call it a revolution."

Haechan’s chest burned. "At least ako, hindi ako nagpapanggap na neutral. At least alam kong may pinapanigan ako—!"

"You think I don’t have a side?"

Mark was right in front of him now, inches away, voice shaking with anger.

"You think I don’t care?"

And fuck, Haechan should have thrown another insult. Should have pushed him back and walked away. But instead, he just stared. Because Mark looked wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes. Tension coiled in his shoulders. Hands shaking slightly—whether from anger or exhaustion, Haechan couldn’t tell. He had never seen Mark look like this. And suddenly, it didn’t feel like a debate anymore. It felt like something else entirely.

**

Mark exhaled sharply, breaking eye contact first. He ran a hand through his hair, stepping back like he had just realized what he was doing. Haechan still hadn’t moved. For the first time, he didn’t know what to say.

"You have no idea," Mark muttered, voice quieter now. "You have no fucking idea what it’s like to be expected to win every single time. To be told that if you don’t succeed, then you’re nothing. That fighting the wrong way means throwing away everything your family built."

Haechan swallowed. Because shit. This wasn’t just about their fight. This wasn’t even about tuition hikes or legal systems anymore. This was about Mark.

Mark, who was tired. Mark, who was cracking under pressure. Mark, who had been carrying something so much heavier than Haechan had ever realized.

And Haechan—loud, relentless, always ready to push back—had never noticed. That realization felt like a gut punch.

"Mark—"

"Forget it."

Mark turned around. Started walking away. And for the first time, Haechan didn’t want to let him go.

**

Mark was leaving. Haechan should have let him. Should have crossed his arms, scoffed, muttered something about Ateneo boys being cowards, and walked away in the opposite direction. But he didn’t. Instead, he was moving before he could think, grabbing Mark’s wrist and pulling him back.

"Wait."

Mark stiffened. For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then Mark exhaled sharply. "Haechan, let go."

But Haechan didn’t. "Putangina, anong problema mo?" Haechan demanded. " You come all the way here to yell at me, and now you’re just gonna leave? Ano ‘to, dramatic exit? Gago ka ba?"

Mark turned his head slightly, but he didn’t face him completely. "I shouldn’t have come."

Haechan gritted his teeth. "Yeah, no shit. Pero since nandito ka na, might as well finish what you fucking started."

Mark didn’t move. His wrist was still in Haechan’s grip, his body tense, like he was about to bolt but something was keeping him rooted to the spot. And Haechan—who had spent weeks arguing with this infuriating, self-righteous, idealistic Atenean—realized something.

Mark wasn’t just tired. He was breaking. And Haechan hated that. Hated seeing him like this. Hated that he cared enough to notice. But most of all? Hated that he didn’t know how to fix it.

"Mark."

It was the first time Haechan had ever said his name like that. No sarcasm. No bite. No Golden Boy, no debate, no challenge. Just his name. And Mark finally looked at him. His face was blank, but his eyes—fuck, his eyes—were saying everything he wouldn’t. Haechan’s chest tightened.

"Tangina," he muttered, softer now. "You look like shit."

Mark huffed out something that could have been a laugh, but it was empty. "Thanks."

"Hindi ‘yun compliment, gago."

Silence. Then, Mark sighed, pulling his wrist free. He didn’t walk away this time, but he didn’t say anything either.

Haechan shoved his hands into his pockets. "Did you eat?"

Mark frowned. "What?"

"Did. You. Eat."

Mark looked like he wanted to argue. Maybe say something sarcastic. But instead, he just exhaled and muttered, "No."

Haechan clicked his tongue. "Figures."

Before Mark could react, Haechan grabbed his bag and started walking. "Tara."

Mark blinked. "Where—"

"Late-night lugaw. Ikaw ang taya."

"Haechan—"

"Wala akong pake, Golden Boy. Kung gusto mong umalis, umalis ka. Pero kung gusto mong kumain at ‘di ka man lang magpapasalamat sa pagiging concerned ko, putangina mo talaga."

Mark stared at him. Then, to Haechan’s complete and utter shock, he followed.

They ended up in a 24-hour lugawan near UP’s main gate, sitting at a dimly lit outdoor table with two steaming bowls in front of them. Haechan barely noticed the street noise, too focused on the way Mark was actually eating instead of arguing with him. It was weird. But not in a bad way.

"So," Haechan said, breaking the silence. "Gusto mo nang sabihin kung bakit ka talaga nandito?"

Mark exhaled. "I told you—"

"No, you didn’t."

Mark went quiet. Haechan watched him carefully. The tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers curled around the spoon, like he was holding onto something he couldn’t say out loud. 

Then, after what felt like forever, Mark finally spoke. "I just… needed to get out."

Haechan frowned. "From what?"

Mark stared at his bowl. "Everything."

And just like that, Haechan understood. He didn’t push. Didn’t demand more answers. Because he knew what it was like to want to disappear, even for just a little while.

So instead, he just said, "Next time, try texting instead of showing up out of nowhere like some ghost haunting my life."

Mark let out a tired chuckle. "Noted."

Haechan smirked. "Gago ka pa rin, though."

"Likewise."

For the first time that night, it didn’t feel like a fight. Just… them. Whatever the fuck that meant.

By the time they left the lugawan, it was almost 3 AM. They walked side by side, silent but not uncomfortable. Then, as they reached the dorms, Mark slowed down.

Haechan turned to him. "Ano? May problema pa?"

Mark looked at him for a long moment. Then, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, he said— "Thanks."

Haechan blinked. "Sa lugaw? Gago, ikaw nagbayad."

Mark shook his head, something unreadable in his expression. "No. Just… thanks."

And before Haechan could process that, Mark turned and walked away. Leaving Haechan completely and utterly confused. And for the first time, Haechan realized— T his wasn’t just rivalry anymore. This was something else entirely.

**

Haechan had a plan. And that plan was simple: Act. Normal.

Forget about the fact that Mark Lee had shown up at UP in the middle of the night like some tragic law school ghost. Forget about the way his voice had cracked when he admitted he just needed to get away.

Forget about how something shifted when they sat in that lugawan, side by side, not as rivals—but as something else.

Haechan could do that. He could pretend. Or at least, he thought he could— Until Mark fucking Lee walked into the Philippine Collegian office.

The moment Mark stepped inside, every single head in the room turned. Including Haechan’s. His heart immediately launched into his throat.

"Tangina," he muttered under his breath.

Because what the hell was Mark doing here?!

Mark, for his part, looked completely unbothered, standing in the middle of the Collegian office like he hadn’t just broken every law of the universe by voluntarily stepping into enemy territory.

"Lee," Mark greeted, too casually.

Haechan squinted at him. "Bakit ka nandito?"

"Looking for someone."

"Gago, sino namang ibang Atenista ang kilala mo dito?"

"You."

Haechan choked. "ANO?!"

"Relax," Mark said, smirking slightly. "I just came to return this."

Then, to Haechan’s complete and utter horror, Mark reached into his bag— And pulled out Haechan’s jacket. The one he had let Mark borrow that night. The night Haechan was supposed to be forgetting. The room went silent. And then—

"PUTANGINA," Renjun gasped, eyes wide as hell. "HAECHAN, BAKIT NASA KANYA ‘YUNG JACKET MO?!"

Jeno, already grinning, crossed his arms. "Chan. Explain."

Haechan’s entire life flashed before his eyes. "Tangina, hindi ‘yan—!"

"He left it in my Grab," Mark cut in smoothly, handing the jacket over like this wasn’t the biggest scandal of the century. "Figured I’d return it."

Haechan snatched it from his hands. "Hindi mo ba pwedeng itago ‘to? Hindi ba pwedeng ‘wag mo nang ipakita sa harap ng buong Collegian?!"

Mark smirked. "Why? Got something to hide?"

Renjun and Jeno were eating this up.

"Babe," Renjun said, grinning like a devil. "Is there something you want to tell us?"

"WALA!"

Jeno raised an eyebrow. "Sigurado ka? Kasi parang ang daming ebidensya na—"

"TANGINA, TAMA NA!"

Haechan grabbed Mark’s wrist, dragging him out of the office before Renjun could start a PowerPoint presentation on why this was suspicious.

The moment they were outside, Haechan whirled around.

"PUTANGINA MO, MARK!"

Mark chuckled. "What?"

"Bakit mo ‘to dinala sa office?! Tangina, ngayon may fan theories na naman ‘yang mga gago kong kaibigan!"

"You’re overreacting," Mark said, leaning against the wall. "It’s just a jacket."

Haechan glared at him. "Alam mong hindi ‘to ‘just a jacket’ para sa kanila!"

Mark raised an eyebrow. "So what? You don’t want them to know we were together that night?"

Haechan froze. Because fuck. That was not what he meant. But Mark wasn’t wrong either.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably. "It’s not like that."

Mark’s smirk faltered just slightly. "Then what is it like, Haechan?"

Haechan hated him. Hated that Mark had the audacity to look at him like that—like he already knew the answer. Hated that he couldn’t fucking lie. So instead of answering, he just muttered, "Next time, just text me."

Mark tilted his head. "Next time?"

Haechan blinked. Shit.

"Tangina," he muttered, turning away so Mark wouldn’t see the way his face was burning. "Alis ka na nga."

And for once, Mark actually listened. But as he walked away, Haechan swore he was smirking the entire time.

**

Haechan barely made it back into the Collegian office before Renjun and Jeno attacked.

"Babe," Renjun gasped dramatically, hand on his chest. "How could you keep this from us?"

"KEEP WHAT FROM YOU?! WALA NAMANG NANGYAYARI!"

Jeno snorted. "Chan, that’s exactly what people say when something’s happening."

"PUTANGINA, AYOKO NA!"

Haechan threw his jacket over his head, trying to physically escape reality. It didn’t work.

**

Back at Ateneo, Mark was also struggling. Because the moment he walked into the student lounge, Jaemin and Jaehyun were waiting. And they knew.

"So," Jaemin drawled, looking up from his phone. "How was your little field trip to UP?"

Mark sighed. "I just returned his jacket."

Jaehyun smirked. "And somehow, that’s the least interesting part of this story."

Jaemin nodded. "You could’ve given it back privately. But nooo, you had to show up at Philippine Collegian. That’s a power move, Mark."

Mark rolled his eyes. "You guys are reading too much into this."

"Right," Jaehyun said, flipping through his notes. "Just like you were ‘totally not thinking about him’ when you randomly left Ateneo at 11 PM last week?"

Mark stiffened. "That was different."

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. "Was it?"

Mark didn’t answer. Because fuck. He didn’t know anymore.

Later that night, Mark was alone in his dorm, staring at his phone. His fingers hovered over Haechan’s contact. He shouldn’t text him. He shouldn’t be thinking about him. But his mind kept replaying that night. The way Haechan grabbed his wrist. The way he didn’t let him leave. The way he cared. And before he could stop himself, Mark typed out a message.

Mark: Next time, I’ll text you first.

He hit send before he could overthink. And then— Haechan replied immediately.

Haechan: Good. Baka isipin ko gusto mo lang akong makita ulit.

Mark smiled. Because maybe… Maybe that wasn’t the worst idea. For two people who claimed they weren’t thinking about each other, Mark and Haechan were doing a terrible job proving it. Because suddenly, everything felt different.

Their fights? Different.
The way they looked at each other? Different.
The way Haechan felt when Mark was around? Dangerously, annoyingly, confusingly different.

And the worst part?

Neither of them knew what to do about it.

**

Haechan tried to avoid him. He really did. But that was kind of difficult when Mark kept showing up.

"You know," Renjun mused as they sat outside the cafeteria, "for someone who claims to be avoiding Mark, you’re doing a shit job at it."

Haechan scowled. "Tangina mo."

"Babe, I’m just saying—"

"Hindi ko siya iniiwasan!"

Renjun raised an eyebrow. "Right. Which is why you almost dove behind a pillar when you saw him walking this way."

Haechan froze. "What?"

Renjun smirked and tilted his head. "Look behind you, babe."

Haechan did not look. Because he already felt it—that annoying, familiar presence that sent his heartbeat into a completely unnecessary panic. And then—

"Lee."

Fuck.

Haechan turned around, forcing his expression into maximum irritation mode. "Anong ginagawa mo dito?"

Mark, who absolutely knew Haechan had been avoiding him, just smirked. "It’s a public space."

"Putangina—"

"Relax, I’m not here to fight."

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "Oh? Bago ‘yan ah."

Mark just hummed, adjusting the strap of his bag. "Just wanted to let you know—new Law & Letters article drops tomorrow. Thought you’d want a heads-up."

Haechan bristled. "Ano na namang pinagsasabi mo dun?"

Mark smirked. "You’ll see."

Then, just to be a little shit about it, he winked and walked away. Haechan stared after him, scowling way too hard for someone who was totally unaffected. Renjun? Absolutely dying.

"Babe." Renjun grinned. "You are so fucked."

Haechan groaned. Yeah. No shit.

The next day, the article dropped. And Haechan? Was absolutely, 100%, ready to kill Mark Lee.

"PUTANGINA MO, MARK!"

The entire campus turned to watch as Haechan stormed across the Sunken Garden, murder in his eyes, Law & Letters article pulled up on his phone.

And Mark? Waiting for him with a fucking iced Americano like this was a normal Tuesday.

"You read it?" Mark asked, sipping his coffee.

"ANO SA TINGIN MO?!"

"I think you should be thanking me."

"Thanking you?" Haechan scoffed. "GAGO KA BA? ‘Journalism thrives on chaos, but law creates order?’ You basically just called my entire career path messy!"

Mark smirked. "Was I wrong?"

Haechan seethed. "Putangina, I swear to God—"

"Relax, Lee." Mark leaned forward slightly. "I meant it as a compliment."

Haechan froze. "Ano?"

Mark tilted his head. "Journalists disrupt things. You make people uncomfortable. You expose things that most people want to ignore. I don’t think that’s a bad thing."

Haechan stared at him. Because what the fuck. Mark just… admitted that? He agreed? And now Haechan didn’t know how to argue back. So instead, he grabbed Mark’s coffee and took a sip out of pure spite.

Mark blinked. "Did you just—"

"Oo," Haechan said, swallowing the bitter liquid. "Anong gagawin mo?"

Mark’s eyes darkened just slightly. "Careful, Lee. That almost looked like flirting."

Haechan immediately choked. FUCK.

**

The problem with pretending nothing changed was that everyone else could see right through them. And Renjun, Jeno, Jaemin, and Jaehyun? Were having the time of their lives watching this mess unfold.

"I give them a month," Jaemin mused, sipping his overpriced coffee.

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. "Before what?"

"Before one of them snaps and kisses the other in the middle of an argument."

Jaehyun hummed. "Two weeks, actually."

Meanwhile, on the UP side of things—

"Babe, just admit it," Renjun sighed, watching as Haechan definitely didn’t keep glancing at his phone. "You like him."

"I do not—"

"Babe.”

"Tangina, fine! Maybe I don’t hate him as much as I thought I did!"

Renjun smirked. "Progress."

**

That night, Mark got another notification.

Haechan: This is stupid, but that article was good. Don’t get used to the compliment.

Mark stared at the message. Then, slowly, he typed back.

Mark: Noted. But I’ll take it anyway.

And even though they weren’t ready to name it yet, they both knew—

Something had already changed.

**

Haechan was losing his mind. And it was all Mark Lee’s fault. Because lately, everything felt off. Mark was still Mark—annoying, competitive, law-student-brained—but now, he was also something else. Something Haechan couldn’t figure out. 

And the worst part? Mark wasn’t trying to be different. He wasn’t doing anything special. He was just… there.

Too much. Too close. Too fucking everywhere. And Haechan didn’t know what to do about it.

**

It happened after another stupid debate. One moment, they were arguing outside a UP café. The next—

"What is your fucking problem, Mark?!"

Mark exhaled sharply. "You. You are my problem, Haechan."

And just like that, the air shifted. Haechan’s breath caught. Mark looked at him—really looked at him. Like he was pissed, exhausted, and something else Haechan didn’t want to name.

"You keep pushing me, Lee." Mark’s voice was low, rough. "You make everything feel like a fight. You get under my skin, and I—“ He stopped himself. Jaw clenched. Fists tight.

Haechan’s heart was pounding. "And what?" he demanded.

Mark didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he took one step closer. And for the first time, Haechan didn’t step back. 

The space between them was too small. Mark’s breath was warm against his skin, and fuck, fuck, fuck— Haechan should have said something. Should have made a joke, thrown an insult, anything to break the tension. But he didn’t.

Because suddenly, this wasn’t about debating anymore. It wasn’t about winning. It was about them.

Mark exhaled. "Haechan—"

And Haechan panicked. So he did the only thing he could think of. He shoved Mark back. Hard.

"You need to leave."

Mark stilled. And for a moment, Haechan thought he would fight back. But instead, Mark just nodded once, tightly—then turned and walked away. And Haechan hated how much he regretted it.

That night, Haechan couldn’t sleep. His mind kept replaying that moment—Mark, standing too close. Mark, looking at him like that.

Like he wanted something. Like he wasn’t just fighting anymore.

And the worst part? Haechan had wanted it, too.

He groaned, covering his face with his pillow. "Putangina." He was so fucked.

**

Jaemin stared at him. "You walked away?"

Mark sighed, running a hand through his hair. "What else was I supposed to do?"

Jaehyun smirked. "I can think of a few things."

Mark glared at him. "Not helping."

Jaemin leaned back. "Mark. You like him."

Mark groaned. "I know."

Jaemin blinked. "Wait, what?"

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. "Damn, I was not expecting self-awareness this early."

Mark sighed. "I just… don’t know what to do about it."

Jaemin smirked. "You could always try talking to him."

Mark huffed a laugh. "Right. Because that went so well last time."

Jaehyun nodded. "So what’s the plan?"

Mark exhaled. He didn’t have one. But one thing was certain. Ignoring this wasn’t an option anymore.

**

Haechan had spent his entire life knowing how to run. Not physically—he was a terrible sprinter—but in the way that mattered.

He knew how to avoid things before they became problems. How to change the subject when a conversation got too personal. How to pretend he didn’t care before someone had the chance to prove him wrong.

It had always worked. Until now. Because somehow, Mark fucking Lee had become the one thing he couldn’t run from. And Haechan hated that. Or at least, he wanted to. But when he thought about the way Mark looked at him that night, about the way his own heart had fucking betrayed him, all he could feel was something terrifyingly close to regret.

**

The art of avoidance  (and why it’s failing miserably for Haechan). The first mistake was thinking that if he just ignored the problem, it would go away. It didn’t. Instead, it followed him everywhere.

In the way his stomach twisted uncomfortably whenever someone mentioned Mark’s name.

In the way he kept checking his phone out of habit, waiting for a notification that never came.

In the way Renjun and Jeno kept watching him like he was some kind of ticking time bomb.

"Babe," Renjun said one evening, voice painfully patient, "if you sigh one more time, I’m going to throw you out the window."

"Tangina, wala akong ginagawa!" Haechan snapped.

Jeno looked up from his laptop. "Actually, you have been sighing a lot lately."

"Gago ka rin."

Renjun smirked. "Let me guess. Mark Lee?"

Haechan scoffed. "Hindi nga! Bakit parang siya na lang umiikot sa utak niyo?!"

Renjun raised an eyebrow. "Babe, ikaw kaya ‘tong nagmumukmok diyan parang na-ghost ng jowa."

Jeno nodded. "Tama. Ang difference lang, hindi mo naman siya jowa. Not yet, anyway."

"PUTANGINA, HINDI NGA!"

Haechan grabbed a pillow and launched it across the room.

Renjun caught it easily, looking too smug for Haechan’s liking. "Denial is a disease, babe."

Haechan groaned and buried his face in his hands. Because the worst part? The absolute, fucking worst part? He was starting to think Renjun might be right.

**

Mark, meanwhile, was equally fucked. If Jaemin and Jaehyun were tired of Mark’s bullshit, they didn’t show it. Probably because they were too busy enjoying the show.

"You’re being dramatic," Jaemin said, watching as Mark stared at his phone like it was going to spontaneously combust.

"I’m not," Mark muttered, very much being dramatic.

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. "You’ve been staring at his name for five minutes, bro. Just text him."

Mark exhaled. "I don’t know what to say."

Jaemin smirked. "That’s a first."

Mark shot him a glare, but he couldn’t argue. Because the truth was, he had no idea what to do. He and Haechan had spent so much time defining themselves by their arguments, their rivalry, their endless back-and-forth.

But that night—when they had come so fucking close to saying something they couldn’t take back—it had changed everything. And Mark didn’t know how to come back from that. So he didn’t. Instead, he did what he did best. He buried himself in work.

Mock trial preparation. Legal research. Case studies.

Anything to keep his mind off of UP, off of Haechan, off of the way his chest had felt too fucking tight that night. But no matter how much he tried to drown himself in responsibilities, it didn’t work. Because at the end of the day— Haechan was still there. Lingering in the back of his mind. And Mark didn’t know how to make it stop.

**

It took a week. A full fucking week before everything finally snapped. It was late—too late—when Haechan got the text.

Mark: Are you still at campus?

Haechan frowned, staring at the screen. He should have ignored it. He should have. But instead, his fingers moved before his brain could catch up.

Haechan: Yeah. Why?

There was a long pause. Then—

Mark: Meet me at Sunken Garden.

Haechan’s stomach flipped. He stared at the message, trying to convince himself he wasn’t going to go. That it didn’t matter. That whatever had almost happened last time was nothing. But before he could even think twice, his legs were already moving. And that was when he knew— He was fucked.

Mark was already there when Haechan arrived, standing under the dim glow of a streetlamp, hands shoved into his pockets. For a moment, Haechan just looked at him. Because Mark looked— Tired. Like he hadn’t slept in days. Like something was eating him alive from the inside. And the worst part? Haechan understood exactly how that felt.

"You wanted to talk?" Haechan asked, keeping his voice steady.

Mark exhaled, turning to face him. "Yeah." A pause. Then— "I don’t know what the fuck is happening between us."

Haechan froze.

Mark ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "I just—" He shook his head. "It’s been a week, and I can’t stop thinking about that night. And I don’t—" He exhaled sharply. "I don’t know how to deal with this."

Haechan’s chest tightened. Because fuck, fuck, fuck. This was real. They weren’t pretending anymore. And now, standing there under the soft glow of campus lights, Haechan had a choice. To keep running. Or to finally, finally face the truth.

He took a breath. Then, slowly—carefully—he said, "Me neither."

And just like that— There was no turning back.

**

Haechan had always known how to talk his way out of things. There was an art to it—knowing when to throw in sarcasm, when to push a little harder, when to let silence do the heavy lifting.

He knew how to turn words into weapons. Knew how to shift the weight of an argument so that, even when he lost, it still felt like winning.

But tonight, words were failing him. And it was because of Mark fucking Lee .

"You don’t know either?" Mark’s voice was steady—controlled—but there was something tight in it, something that made Haechan feel like they were standing on the edge of something neither of them knew how to name.

Haechan swallowed. "No."

Mark didn’t react immediately. He just looked at him, gaze unreadable, eyes dark beneath the dim glow of the Sunken Garden lamps.

Haechan didn’t like it. Didn’t like how quiet Mark was being. Didn’t like how different this felt from all their other fights. Didn’t like how this wasn’t a fight at all. Because for the first time, it wasn’t about winning. It was about them. And Haechan wasn’t sure if he was ready for that.

Mark sighed, tilting his head back slightly like he was trying to find the right words. Or maybe just trying to find a way out of this. "It’s just—" He stopped, exhaled sharply. "You get under my skin, Lee."

Haechan’s stomach flipped. He knew how to argue. He knew how to counter, how to turn words around and throw them back harder. But right now? Right now, he had nothing. Because the way Mark said it—like it wasn’t just frustration, like it wasn’t just an insult—threw him completely off balance. And Haechan had no fucking idea how to deal with that. So he went for instinct. For what he knew. For what was safe.

"I get under your skin?" He forced himself to scoff. "Gago, ikaw kaya ‘yung pinaka-bwisit na taong nakilala ko sa buong buhay ko."

Mark let out a low chuckle, but there was no real humor in it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." A pause. A beat of silence. Then— "Then why do I keep ending up here?"

Haechan’s breath caught. And fuck, fuck, fuck— There it was. The real question. The one they had both been avoiding for weeks. Why did Mark keep showing up? And why did Haechan keep letting him? And why— Why did it feel like they were one wrong move away from something they couldn’t take back?

Mark took a step forward. It wasn’t much—barely anything, really—but Haechan felt it. Felt it in the way his chest tightened , in the way the air between them suddenly felt too thick , in the way his body tensed like something was about to happen.

And Haechan— Haechan should have stepped back. Should have laughed it off, shoved Mark away, thrown another insult into the air to remind them both that this wasn’t real. But he didn’t. He stayed. And that was the most dangerous part.

"Mark—"

"Just answer me," Mark said, voice low, controlled, but so fucking tired. Like he had spent too long thinking about this already. Like he needed Haechan to give him something. "Why do we keep ending up here, Lee?"

Haechan’s pulse hammered. Because Mark was asking for the truth. And Haechan— Haechan had never been good at telling the truth when it mattered. So instead, he did what he always did. What was easier. What wouldn’t ruin everything. "You tell me."

Mark searched his face. Looked at him like he was trying to find something. Like he was waiting for a different answer.

And for a second—just a second—Haechan thought he was going to say it. Thought he was going to break the tension, rip the thread, let the words finally spill out. But then—

Mark exhaled. And stepped back. And the air between them snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight. "Forget it," Mark muttered, shaking his head. "This was a mistake."

Haechan felt it. Felt the moment Mark chose to let this go. And it made him fucking panic. Because this felt like a choice. Like Mark was giving him an out. And if Haechan let him walk away now— That would be it.

So before he could think, before he could convince himself that running was safer, his hand shot out— And grabbed Mark’s wrist. Again. And this time— He didn’t let go.

**

There were two types of silence.

The first was comfortable—the kind that stretched between friends sitting on a rooftop at midnight, the kind that settled after a long day when words weren’t needed, the kind that was easy.

The second was suffocating—the kind that weighed too heavy, the kind that stretched too long, the kind that felt like it was choking the air out of the room.

Right now, standing under the streetlights with Mark’s wrist still in his grip, Haechan was drowning in the second kind. Because this wasn’t just silence.

This was the silence before something broke.

**

Mark didn’t pull away. Didn’t say anything. He just stood there, still, like he was waiting. Like he was giving Haechan a chance to fix whatever the hell this was before it shattered completely.

And Haechan— Haechan didn’t know what to do. Because the problem with moments like this was that they weren’t planned.

They just happened—too fast, too intense, too fucking real—and suddenly you were standing in the middle of an empty campus at midnight, holding onto someone you were supposed to hate but didn’t, realizing that you were one wrong word away from changing everything.

And Haechan wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. Or if he even had a choice anymore.

"Haechan." Mark’s voice was low, steady, but there was an edge to it. Not anger. Not frustration. Something else. Something heavier. "Ano bang gusto mo?"

Haechan swallowed. "I—" He didn’t know. Didn’t know what he wanted. Didn’t know why he couldn’t just let Mark walk away like he had so many times before. All he knew was that this felt different. That the thought of Mark leaving right now, of this being the last conversation they had like this, of this moment slipping away without either of them acknowledging it for what it really was— It made something in his chest feel too tight, too wrong, too unbearable. And that scared him. 

So instead of answering, he did what he always did. He deflected. "Gago ka kasi." His voice came out lighter than it should have. "Ikaw ang nag-text, tapos ikaw ang aalis? Ang hassle mo, Lee."

Mark exhaled, shaking his head. "Of course."

"Ano?"

Mark finally pulled his wrist free. And this time, Haechan let him.

"You can’t even be honest with yourself, can you?" Mark’s voice was quieter now, but there was something sharp beneath it. "You’d rather make a joke out of everything just so you don’t have to fucking deal with it."

Haechan tensed. "Deal with what?"

Mark laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was frustrating, like he had already lost before the argument even started. "Forget it, Lee."

And Haechan panicked. Because no— That wasn’t the answer. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. That wasn’t what he wanted. But fuck, fuck, fuck— He still didn’t know how to say it.

**

Haechan had always been good at speaking. Words were his thing. They were how he made sense of the world, how he fought back, how he won. But right now? Right now, words weren’t enough. Because what was he supposed to say? 

That Mark was right? That this—whatever the fuck this was—had been twisting inside his chest for weeks? That he hated how much space Mark took up in his mind, hated how much he noticed him, hated that he didn’t want to stop?

That for all the ways they fought each other, all the ways they had convinced themselves that this was just rivalry— It had never been that simple? That it had never been just that?

Haechan could already feel the words forming—heavy, dangerous, impossible. And if he said them out loud, if he admitted it, if he let this thing between them become real— Then what?

"Mark—"

Mark turned back, expression unreadable. And Haechan—stupid, reckless, running-on-instinct Haechan—stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that he could see the way Mark’s breath hitched, see the way his hands curled into fists like he was trying to hold something back.

And for a second— For a brief, fleeting, terrifying second— Haechan thought Mark might close the rest of the distance. That he wouldn’t be the one who had to say it first.

That maybe— just maybe —Mark would make the choice for him. But then— Mark exhaled sharply and stepped back. Again. And Haechan felt it this time. Felt the way it was different. The way it wasn’t just Mark walking away. It was Mark choosing to stop trying. And Haechan— Haechan let him.

Mark left. And Haechan stood there—rooted to the spot, hands clenched, heart fucking aching in a way he didn’t understand. Because he should have said something. He should have stopped him. Should have been brave. But he wasn’t. Because this wasn’t a debate. This was something bigger. And Haechan—for once in his life was too fucking scared to lose.

**

Haechan didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the empty space where Mark had been just moments ago. Time felt strange, stretched too thin and too tight all at once, like he was stuck in the wrong timeline of his own life. The air around him was still heavy, thick with the weight of things unsaid, and yet Mark was gone. Just like that. No parting shot, no lingering hesitation, just the sound of footsteps fading into the distance, leaving Haechan standing in the aftermath of something that had unraveled too fast for him to hold onto.

And he let him go.

That was the part that kept replaying in his head, over and over again, like a scratched-up record refusing to move on to the next track. He had let him go. He had watched Mark’s back retreat into the night, had felt the weight of his own silence press down on him like a crushing tide, and he had done nothing. Said nothing. Stood there like a fucking idiot while something slipped away that he wasn’t ready to name yet.

But it was too late for that now, wasn’t it?

Except… it didn’t feel like it.

Haechan had spent years perfecting the art of moving on. He had always known how to let things roll off his shoulders, how to pretend things mattered less than they did, how to brush off feelings before they could turn into something that had the power to hurt. It was easier that way. Safer. Feelings only become problems when you let them fester, when you let them root themselves into places they didn’t belong. He knew that. He had spent his entire life believing it.

But as he stood there, in the middle of an empty street, staring down the direction Mark had walked away in, he felt something new. Something unfamiliar, something that twisted in his chest in a way he didn’t understand. Because this time, moving on didn’t feel easy. It didn’t feel natural, like something inevitable. It felt wrong. Like something was unfinished. Like he was standing on the edge of a moment that hadn’t been given the chance to become what it was supposed to be.

It was terrifying.

Because Haechan knew, deep down, that there was no coming back from this.

Because this wasn’t just about Mark leaving. This wasn’t just about an argument left unresolved, or an article left unanswered, or a fight left unfinished. This wasn’t about debates or bylines or even whatever the fuck had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks.

This was about Mark.

Mark, who had gotten too close. Mark, who had pushed in a way that no one else ever had. Mark, who had always been an opponent, an annoyance, an infuriating presence that Haechan had built entire arguments around, like they were two opposing forces that could never exist without tension between them. Mark, who had become a constant.

Mark, who had left, and taken something with him. And Haechan hated that. He hated the way it made his stomach twist uncomfortably, hated the way his hands clenched into fists like he wanted to pull time backward and do it over, hated the way the ache in his chest didn’t fade even when he told himself this was how things were supposed to go.

He hated that he cared.

That was the worst part.

The fact that it mattered.

The fact that Mark had walked away, and it wasn’t relief sitting in his chest—it was something sharp, something bitter, something dangerously close to regret. The fact that Mark had stopped pushing—had looked at him like he was tired of trying, like Haechan was the one making this difficult, like he was waiting for Haechan to say something—and Haechan had done nothing.

And now, standing in the cold, with his thoughts looping over themselves in an endless spiral of what ifs, he realized something terrifying.

He didn’t want Mark to leave. Not like this. Not at all.

The thought landed like a brick to the chest, heavy and suffocating, and he almost doubled over from the sheer weight of it. Fuck. He didn’t know what to do with this. He didn’t know how to process this, how to take this tangled mess of feelings and straighten it into something that made sense. He had spent so long treating Mark like a challenge, an opponent, a name in a byline that made his blood boil in all the right ways—when had it become more than that?

When did it become this? This impossible, infuriating ache lodged so deep inside him that he couldn’t ignore it anymore? Maybe it had always been there. Maybe he had just been too stubborn, too afraid, too stupid to acknowledge it for what it really was. Or maybe this was the moment it became undeniable. Maybe this was the moment he had to stop running.

Haechan inhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a second, feeling his pulse hammering too fast beneath his skin. He needed to make a decision. He needed to either let this be the end, let Mark walk away for good and pretend it didn’t matter—pretend he could live with it—or he needed to stop him.

And the thing was… He had never been good at letting things go.

His feet were already moving before he could think twice about it. He wasn’t entirely sure when he started running, or when his legs decided they were done standing still, but suddenly he was moving, chasing after something he wasn’t sure he’d even be able to reach.

But he had to try. Because the thought of not trying, of letting Mark believe for even one second that Haechan didn’t care— That was worse than anything else.

He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t know if words were even enough anymore. But he knew he couldn’t let Mark leave without saying something. Without doing something.

Because this wasn’t a fight he could afford to lose. And for once in his life, Haechan wasn’t running away. He was running toward. But it was too late.

**

Mark sat in his father’s office, back straight, hands resting on his lap, face blank.

This was a performance he had mastered a long time ago—sitting still, answering when expected, never reacting too much. His father had never been one for theatrics. Emotions were distractions, personal feelings were irrelevant. In his world, the only thing that mattered was winning. And Mark had never been allowed to forget that.

Across from him, his father flipped through a case file, not even bothering to look up when he spoke. "The firm has high expectations for you."

Mark’s fingers curled slightly against his leg. "I know."

"Do you?" His father finally glanced at him, sharp and calculating, like he was assessing a case, not talking to his son. "Because lately, I’ve been hearing less about your mock trial performance and more about your little... student debates."

Mark exhaled slowly, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "They’re not distractions."

"They’re not useful." His father leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Mark, you can waste your energy arguing with student journalists, or you can focus on real influence. The kind that actually changes things. The kind that happens in a courtroom, not in opinion columns. "

Mark clenched his jaw, the words hitting harder than he wanted to admit. Because he had heard this before. Because this was exactly what he had been trying not to think about. Because deep down, a part of him still wasn’t sure if his father was wrong.

The law was supposed to be the answer. The solution. And yet— Why did it feel like the only time he ever really got to fight for what he believed in was outside of it?

His father watched him carefully. "Do you know why I’ve worked so hard to build my reputation?"

Mark didn’t answer. Because he already knew. Because he had been raised on this lesson, had had it drilled into his mind over and over until it felt like a law of nature.

"Because influence is power," his father continued. "Not passion. Not idealism. Influence. And if you don’t have that, Mark, then no matter how well you argue, no one is going to listen to you."

Mark inhaled sharply. "I understand."

His father nodded, like that was all he needed to hear. "Then act like it."

And just like that, the conversation was over. But Mark knew the weight of it wouldn’t leave. Because this wasn’t just pressure. This was expectation. And no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise—this was the life that had already been chosen for him.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

"Ang pag-ibig ay hindi lang para sa dalawang taong nagmamahalan. Minsan, ito’y para sa bayan, sa prinsipyo, at sa paninindigan."

“Dekada ’70” by Lualhati Bautista

Haechan was fine. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. He had always been good at pushing things aside, at shaking things off before they could settle into something permanent. He knew how to distract himself, how to drown out unnecessary emotions with work, with arguments, with the sheer force of his own will.

And right now, he was going to prove it.

"Babe, hindi mo naman kailangang basagin ‘yung keyboard para magsulat," Renjun muttered, watching as Haechan furiously typed away on his laptop.

"Gago, hindi ako galit," Haechan shot back without looking up, his fingers moving at lightning speed.

Jeno, sitting across from them, raised an eyebrow. "Tangina, eh parang gusto mong patayin ‘yung laptop mo, ah."

"Gago, magpapasa ako ng article, bakit ba?"

Renjun exchanged a knowing look with Jeno before turning back to Haechan. "Eh ‘di magpasa ka, pero huwag mo kaming idamay sa pagiging praning mo."

"I’m not—" Haechan stopped himself, exhaled sharply, and forced himself to focus on his screen.

He wasn’t praning. He was just working. Because working was easier than thinking about things that didn’t need to be thought about.

**

The problem was that Haechan’s brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up. No matter how much he tried to throw himself into writing, into deadlines, into anything but Mark Lee, his thoughts kept circling back. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

Mark was supposed to be a debate rival, an intellectual annoyance, a law student who pissed him off just enough to make things interesting. He was not supposed to be someone whose absence felt like unfinished business. He was not supposed to be someone Haechan kept searching for in crowded hallways, only to pretend he wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t see him. He was not supposed to be someone Haechan regretted letting walk away.

Haechan clenched his jaw, shoving the thoughts away as he skimmed through his draft. His latest article was about contractualization in the Philippines, exposing how thousands of workers were trapped in unstable jobs with no benefits, no security, and no legal protection.

This was what mattered. This was where his focus should be. Not on some Atenean law student who—

"Babe, sinasaktan ka ba ng Google Docs?"

Haechan snapped his head up to glare at Renjun. "Ano na naman?"

"Hindi ko lang gets bakit mo sinusuntok ‘yung keyboard mo parang may atraso sa’yo."

Jeno smirked. "Baka kasi meron talaga, ‘Jun."

Haechan rolled his eyes. "Hindi ko alam kung anong gusto n’yong marinig sa’kin, pero wala akong problema, okay? Nagsusulat lang ako. Hindi ko kasalanan kung kayo ‘yung ingay nang ingay dito."

Renjun raised an eyebrow. "Hindi mo problema? Eh bakit parang gusto mong sunugin ‘yang laptop mo?"

"Putangina, Renjun—"

"Babe," Renjun cut him off, voice suddenly softer. "Ano ba talagang problema?"

Haechan froze. For a second—just a second—he considered telling the truth. Maybe he wasn’t fine. Maybe he should have said something that night. That maybe he was starting to think about Mark in ways that had nothing to do with debates or articles or rivalry.

But instead, he just scoffed. "Wala. Seryoso, wala."

Renjun didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. For now. But Haechan knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. And worse—he wasn’t fooling himself.

**

Haechan convinced himself that if he just kept writing, he wouldn’t have time to think about anything else. That was the plan, anyway. If he kept his hands moving across the keyboard, if he drowned himself in research, in interviews, in endless revisions, then maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t have time to ask himself why he kept feeling like something was missing.

So he worked. And worked. And worked. Until he had three unfinished drafts, three cups of coffee, and three sets of frustrated sighs from Renjun and Jeno, who had officially given up trying to talk sense into him.

"Babe, matutulog ka ba ngayong gabi o plano mo na talagang maging multo?" Renjun asked, watching as Haechan furiously edited his latest article.

"Hindi ako inaantok," Haechan muttered without looking up.

"Tangina, hindi na ‘yun normal," Jeno muttered, scrolling through his phone. "Dati nga, ikaw pinakamadaling tamaan ng antok sa atin, tapos ngayon parang may away kayo ng kama mo."

Haechan ignored them both, eyes glued to the screen. His latest article was a piece on labor laws—or more specifically, how legal loopholes allowed corporations to exploit workers. He was knee-deep in analyzing case studies, cross-referencing Supreme Court rulings, and trying not to think about the fact that Mark Lee was probably reading the same cases, but from the other side of the argument.

He didn’t know why that thought made him feel so restless. Maybe because he already knew how Mark would counter him. Maybe because a part of him still wanted to hear what Mark had to say. Maybe because, despite everything—despite silence replacing late-night arguments, despite the way they both seemed to be pretending the other didn’t exist—Haechan still couldn’t shake the feeling that their debate wasn’t really over.

It had just moved somewhere quieter. Somewhere neither of them wanted to acknowledge yet.

**

Meanwhile, Mark was doing the exact same thing. 

"Mark, you need a break."

Mark barely looked up from his desk as Jaemin collapsed onto the couch in his dorm, dramatically throwing an arm over his eyes. "Seriously, Mark. It’s 2 AM."

"Then go to sleep," Mark muttered, flipping through another set of case notes.

"I would, except I think the sound of your highlighters attacking your notes is giving me a headache."

"Then leave."

"Wow, so hospitable."

Jaehyun, who was reading quietly on the other side of the room, finally glanced up. "Mark, Jaemin has a point. You’ve been at this for hours."

Mark sighed, pressing his fingers against his temples. "I have an internship case review tomorrow. I need to be prepared."

Jaemin scoffed. "You were already prepared like three days ago. At this point, you’re just torturing yourself."

Mark didn’t answer. Because maybe they were right. Maybe he was overdoing it—throwing himself into work, into case files, into anything that kept his mind from drifting where it shouldn’t. Because the moment he stopped working, the moment he let his mind wander, he knew exactly where it would go. To a certain Collegian journalist who had been posting article after article, each one more infuriating than the last.

And Mark —despite all his attempts to ignore it, despite his refusal to engage, despite the way he had told himself he didn’t care anymore— had read every single one. 

And worse? He had wanted to reply. He had drafted a response to Haechan’s piece on labor laws, his fingers hovering over the submit button, before forcing himself to delete the entire thing. Because this wasn’t about Haechan anymore. This was about law school, about his father, about the expectations he had to meet.

So Mark forced himself to stop thinking about the articles, stop thinking about what Haechan would say to his arguments, stop thinking about the fact that for weeks, their words had been directed at each other, even if neither of them had the guts to admit it. This was how it had to be.

And yet— Why did it still feel like neither of them had actually let go?

**

Haechan had always thrived under pressure. Deadlines didn’t scare him. Confrontations didn’t shake him. He had built his entire identity around resistance, around standing his ground, around never backing down from a fight. But this— This felt different. Because this time, he didn’t even know what he was fighting. Or rather, who.

Haechan liked to think he was writing for something bigger than himself—for justice, for accountability, for all the things that powerful people wanted buried. He wrote because it was his job to tell the truth, because he believed that if you shouted loud enough, if you refused to be ignored, then people had no choice but to listen.

But lately, he wasn’t sure if that was true. Lately, he wasn’t sure if his words were reaching the right people at all. Because lately every time he wrote something, every time he published an article, every time he called out a system designed to keep people down the only thing he could think about was whether or not Mark Lee was reading it.

And that was a problem.

Because Mark was not the point. Mark was supposed to be a distraction, an annoyance, a law student who lived in his own world of legal arguments and loopholes. Mark was not supposed to be the person Haechan kept waiting for. And yet, with every article he published, he caught himself wondering if Mark had read it. If Mark had opinions. If Mark would have something to say, something to argue, something to throw back at him that would send them spiraling into another fight that wasn’t really a fight at all.

But Mark wasn’t engaging. And that was almost worse. Because Haechan knew he was watching. Knew, in some unspoken, undeniable way, that their conversation had never really stopped. It had just gone quiet. And Haechan didn’t know how to deal with that. 

So he did what he did best.

He wrote.

And wrote.

And wrote.

Because if Mark wasn’t going to say anything, then Haechan was going to make sure he had something to respond to. Even if it took everything in him to admit it.

**

Mark could handle pressure. He had been trained for it, had been raised in it, and had spent his entire life learning how to carry the weight of expectations without letting it show. But even steel cracked under enough force. 

And Mark was starting to feel the fractures. The moment he stepped into his father’s office, he already knew how this conversation was going to go.

"Your mock trial performance was adequate," his father said, flipping through a file without looking at him. "But that’s not what I want to talk about."

Mark exhaled slowly, bracing himself. "Then what?"

His father set the file down, finally looking at him. "The internship. Your future at the firm. You’ve been getting distracted, Mark."

Mark’s jaw tightened. "I’m not distracted."

"Really?" His father raised an eyebrow. "Then explain this."

He slid a printed article across the desk. Mark’s stomach dropped. Because he didn’t need to read the byline to know exactly who had written it. Haechan’s latest article. And suddenly, Mark couldn’t breathe.

"This was sent to me by a colleague," his father continued, his voice carefully neutral. "Imagine my surprise when I saw your name all over it—indirectly, of course."

Mark clenched his fists. "I didn’t write that."

"No, but it seems like your… involvement with the writer has people talking."

Mark swallowed, forcing himself to meet his father’s gaze. "I debate with him sometimes. That’s all."

His father hummed, unimpressed. "Debate."

Mark refused to react. "Yes."

"And that’s all this is?"

Mark hesitated. And that was a mistake. Because his father’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened—like he had already figured out the answer.

"Mark," his father said, voice suddenly colder. "This is not the kind of attention you need. I don’t care what nonsense student journalists write—you are not here to play politics with them. You are here to build a career. And if you can’t separate your emotions from your work, then maybe you’re not as prepared as I thought you were."

Mark’s throat tightened. "I can separate them."

"Good." His father nodded, already dismissing him. "Then act like it."

Mark didn’t say anything else. He just turned and left, his father’s words ringing in his ears. Because the worst part? The absolute worst part? For the first time, he wasn’t sure if his father was wrong.

**

That night, Haechan published another article. It wasn’t about Mark. But it might as well have been. Because it was a direct attack on the legal loopholes that allowed corporations to exploit their workers—the same loopholes that Mark had spent the entire week reviewing at his uncle’s law firm.

And Mark—despite every warning, despite every attempt to ignore it, despite every single thing he had told himself—read it. And for the first time in weeks, he couldn’t stop himself.

He picked up his phone, opened Twitter, and typed out a response. Not under his anonymous debate account. Not in an email. But in the open. For everyone to see.

@marklee_esq: “Loopholes exist because laws have to be written within realistic boundaries. The problem isn’t the law itself—it’s the way people manipulate it. We don’t need emotional arguments. We need actual solutions.”

And not even a minute later—

@haechanwrites: “Emotional? I’d call it reality. You want solutions? Maybe start by acknowledging the problem instead of pretending laws are neutral when they never have been.”

Mark stared at the reply.

And against every rational thought in his mind— He smirked. Because just like that— The silence was over.

**

Mark hadn’t planned to engage. For weeks, he had forced himself to stay out of it, had watched from a distance while Haechan kept writing, kept pushing, kept demanding attention. He had told himself it didn’t matter. That it was irrelevant. That Haechan was just another voice in a sea of people who didn’t understand the law, who argued on emotion instead of logic, who had no idea what it meant to be on the other side.

But when he saw the tweet—when he saw Haechan’s words, biting and unrelenting, practically daring him to respond— He cracked. And now, it was too late to take it back. Because Haechan had replied. And Mark? Mark was about to make things worse.

@marklee_esq: "Loopholes exist because laws have to be written within realistic boundaries. The problem isn’t the law itself—it’s the way people manipulate it. We don’t need emotional arguments. We need actual solutions."

A minute later, the notification popped up.

@haechanwrites: "Emotional? I’d call it reality. You want solutions? Maybe start by acknowledging the problem instead of pretending laws are neutral when they never have been."

Mark’s jaw tightened. Haechan was so predictable. Always so quick to frame things as some grand moral fight, as if that was enough. As if passion alone could change an entire legal system. As if just writing about oppression was the same as fixing it.

Mark had spent years studying how the law worked. How it had to be built within realistic limits. But people like Haechan—journalists, activists, idealists—they didn’t care about that. They wanted the world to shift overnight, wanted change to come from words instead of action.

But change didn’t happen like that. And Mark was done letting him act like it did.

@marklee_esq: "You think acknowledging the problem is enough? That’s the difference between us. You write about issues. I work with them. The law doesn’t bend just because people don’t like it."

The reply came faster this time.

@haechankwrites: "Laws don’t bend, but people in power do. And they write the laws, Mark. You can pretend legal systems are neutral all you want, but at the end of the day, it’s the same elite few making the decisions."

Mark exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around his phone. Of course Haechan would bring that up. Of course he would turn this into a discussion about power, about who controlled the law instead of the law itself.

Mark wasn’t stupid. He knew how politics worked. He knew laws weren’t made in a vacuum. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that Haechan didn’t understand what it was like to be inside the system. To have to play by its rules. To have to find a way to change it from within, instead of just screaming from the outside.

Mark’s phone buzzed again. Another tweet.

@haechankwrites: "The law isn’t built for ordinary people, and you know it. You can pretend all you want, but the fact is, if you’re not rich, not powerful, not protected, then the law was never written for you. It was written to keep you in line."

Mark’s breath hitched. Because the worst part? The worst part was that Haechan wasn’t wrong.

Mark had seen it firsthand—in his father’s firm, in the way cases were handled, in the way justice was often just another game of who could argue better, who had the best connections, who had the resources to make the system work for them.

Mark had spent his whole life preparing to be part of that system. And yet, right now, staring at Haechan’s words, all he could feel was a strange, suffocating guilt. Because if he had been anyone else—someone without his last name, without his education, without his privileges—

Would the law have worked for him?

Would he have been protected?

Would he have even been heard?

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. For the first time, he didn’t know what to say. And then, before he could overthink it— Another notification.

From a different account.

Jaemin Na (@jaeminthoughts): "This is getting interesting. Will @marklee_esq and @haechanwrites finally admit they’re obsessed with each other, or will they keep flirting through legal discourse?"

Mark choked.

"PUTANGINA," he muttered, slamming his phone down on his desk.

Jaehyun, who had been watching from his bed, smirked. "So, how’s your little Twitter war going?"

"Shut up."

Jaemin, sprawled on the couch, grinned. "Mark, if you wanted to argue with him so bad, you could’ve just texted."

"I don’t want to argue with him," Mark snapped.

Jaemin snorted. "Right. That’s why you replied in two minutes, right?"

Jaehyun hummed. "And why are you still checking your phone every five seconds?"

Mark scowled. "I’m not—"

His phone buzzed. He grabbed it instinctively. Jaemin and Jaehyun burst out laughing.

"OH MY GOD, YOU’RE SO PREDICTABLE," Jaemin wheezed.

Mark groaned, tossing his phone onto his bed and covering his face with his hands. "I hate both of you."

Jaehyun smirked. "No, you don’t. You just hate that we’re right."

Jaemin nodded. "Yeah. And you hate that you care. About him. About what he thinks. About what he writes."

Mark didn’t answer. Because fuck. They weren’t wrong.

**

"Babe, ano na naman ‘tong kagaguhan mo?" Renjun asked, staring at his phone.

Haechan pretended not to hear him, furiously typing another tweet.

Jeno sighed. "Tangina, Chan, kausap mo na naman si Mark sa Twitter?"

"Hindi siya kausap, Jeno, inaaway ko siya," Haechan corrected.

Renjun scoffed. "Gago, same thing na ‘yon."

"It’s not—" Haechan’s phone buzzed. A reply from Mark. His heart did something stupid in his chest.

Jeno and Renjun both noticed.

"Putangina, tingnan mo ‘to," Jeno muttered, shaking his head. "Akala mo, hindi affected, pero kita mo ‘yung mata? Para siyang nagka-crush for the first time."

"Babe," Renjun said, voice way too amused. "Just admit na miss mo siya."

Haechan rolled his eyes. "Miss mo ‘yang mukha mo—!"

"So hindi mo siya miss?"

Haechan froze. Because that was a trick question. Because that was a question he didn’t want to answer. Because if he said no, they wouldn’t believe him. And if he said yes— Then that meant everything between him and Mark was real. And Haechan wasn’t ready for that. So instead, he did what he did best. He changed the subject.

"Anyway, mag-tweet pa ako. Alam kong galit na galit na ‘yung gago."

Renjun groaned. "Damn babe, you are so down bad."

Haechan ignored him. Because this wasn’t about Mark…Right?

Haechan wasn’t done. He should be. He should have logged off. Should have closed the app, ignored the notifications, and pretended Mark’s latest reply didn’t make something burn under his skin. But instead, he sat there, staring at his screen, refreshing the thread like a man possessed. Because Mark had responded again. And Haechan— stupid, impulsive, reckless Haechan — was about to make things worse.

@marklee_esq: "The law isn’t perfect, but it’s the best system we have. You can criticize it all you want, but at the end of the day, change doesn’t happen through opinion pieces. It happens in courtrooms, through actual cases, not emotional rants."

Haechan saw red. His fingers flew over the keyboard before he could stop himself.

@haechanwrites: "Courtrooms where the rich win and the poor lose? Where money decides who gets justice? Tangina, Mark, wake up. The system isn’t broken—it’s working exactly as it was designed to. You just don’t want to admit that because you benefit from it."

Mark inhaled sharply. Because there it was. The part they hadn’t said out loud yet. The unspoken truth Haechan had just shoved straight into the light. Mark’s fingers hovered over his phone. He could end this. Could log out, let it go, walk away. But then— Another tweet.

@haechanwrites: "You talk about 'real change' like you actually want it, but let’s be real—guys like you don’t change anything. You just learn how to play the game better."

And that— That hit somewhere deeper. Mark’s stomach twisted. Because he didn’t know if Haechan meant it as an insult. Or if he meant it as the truth. And Mark didn’t know which one was worse. He gritted his teeth. Fine. If Haechan wanted a fight, Mark would give him one.

@marklee_esq: "You think screaming into the void makes a difference? You think writing articles changes the world? All you do is criticize people who are actually doing the work. Maybe if you spent less time ranting and more time understanding how things actually function, you wouldn’t be so naive."

A pause. Then—

@haechanwrites: "Fuck you, Mark."

Mark’s breath caught. Because that— That wasn’t like the others. That wasn’t just another argument. That was real. For the first time, it didn’t feel like a debate. It felt like a fight.

And Mark— God help him —felt something in his chest tighten painfully. Because Haechan was mad. Really, actually, mad. And Mark didn’t know why that hurt. But it did. More than it should. More than he could admit. And for the first time, Mark didn’t know if this was something they could just walk away from. Because maybe they had finally gone too far.

**

Haechan had never regretted pressing send before. Not once. Not when he was exposing corruption in student government, not when he was tearing apart policies that deserved to be burned to the ground, not even when he was publicly calling out university officials who threatened press freedom.

But now—

Now, staring at his phone screen, at the last thing he had sent— Fuck you, Mark. Haechan’s stomach twisted. Because it didn’t feel like a win. It didn’t feel like a victory.

It just felt wrong.

Renjun and Jeno were watching him carefully from the other side of the room.

"Babe," Renjun started, voice way too soft, "okay ka lang?"

Haechan scoffed, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Gago, oo naman. Bakit hindi?"

Jeno raised an eyebrow. "Maybe kasi parang gusto mong ihagis ‘yang phone mo sa pader."

"Hindi ah," Haechan muttered, but he set his phone down a little too quickly.

Renjun hummed. "Right. Kasi hindi ka affected, ‘di ba?"

"Exactly."

Jeno snorted. "Sige na, babe. Sabihin mo na lang na nasaktan ka para tapos na ‘to."

Haechan glared. "Punyeta, hindi ako nasaktan!"

Renjun smirked. "Pero affected ka?"

Haechan opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it. Because—fuck. He was. More than he wanted to admit. More than he could admit. Because this wasn’t just about the debate. This was about Mark. And something between them broke in a way Haechan didn’t know how to fix.

**

Jaemin and Jaehyun were staring at him. Mark was pointedly ignoring them.

"Mark," Jaemin said, still holding back laughter. "You got blocked, didn’t you?"

Mark didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know. Because he hadn’t checked. Because he was too much of a coward to find out.

Jaehyun sighed. "Mark, what were you thinking?"

Mark ran a hand through his hair. "I don’t know."

"Liar."

Jaemin smirked. "You know exactly what you were doing, bro. You wanted a reaction. You wanted him to fight back. And when he did—"

Mark clenched his jaw. "I went too far."

Jaemin blinked. "Wait. Did you just admit that?"

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. "Wow. Character development."

Mark groaned, sinking deeper into his chair. "I hate you both."

"No," Jaemin corrected, grinning. "You just hate that you care."

Mark didn’t answer. Because fuck. He wasn’t wrong.

**

For the first time in weeks, Haechan didn’t check Mark’s replies. And for the first time in weeks, Mark didn’t read Haechan’s articles.

It wasn’t a truce. It was something worse. Because it wasn’t a debate anymore. It was silence. And that? That was the thing neither of them knew how to fix.

**

The problem with pretending not to care was that, eventually, you ran out of places to hide. Haechan had tried. For the past three days, he had done everything in his power to make himself too busy to think about Mark Lee.

He had thrown himself into work—piling deadlines on top of each other, pushing out more articles than usual, volunteering for extra coverage in the Collegian. Jeno and Renjun had called him out for it immediately.

"Babe, alam naming may tinatakasan ka," Renjun had said on the second day, watching as Haechan typed like his life depended on it.

"Tangina, wala akong tinatakasan," Haechan had muttered, fingers moving too fast across the keyboard.

Jeno had raised an eyebrow. "Sure ka? Kasi parang gusto mong gawan ng PhD dissertation ‘yung latest article mo."

"Oo, sure ako." But he wasn’t. Because no matter how much he worked, how many words he wrote, how much coffee he drank just to keep himself moving— Mark’s absence was still there. Lurking in the back of his mind. Sitting heavy on his chest. A reminder of a fight that had spiraled out of control. 

And the worst part?

Haechan didn’t know if Mark was feeling it too. Because ever since that last tweet since he told Mark ‘fuck you’ in front of the entire internet Mark had disappeared. No articles. No replies. Nothing. And that was somehow worse than fighting. Because at least when they were arguing, Mark was still there. Now, it felt like he wasn’t at all. And Haechan hated that. More than he should.

**

Mark was good at compartmentalizing. He had spent years perfecting it, learning how to box his emotions up neatly, how to put things in order, how to keep his head down and stay focused.

But this—this was different. Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something between him and Haechan had shifted. And he didn’t know how to put it back.

Jaemin and Jaehyun had stopped teasing him for now, which was a bad sign. It meant that even they could see it—that something was wrong. But Mark wasn’t going to talk about it. He didn’t have time.

Not with his father’s expectations hanging over him, not with his internship piling up, not with his final mock trial already looming. So he did what he did best. He buried it. And it worked—for a while. Until the moment he saw Haechan again.

**

It happened in the worst possible place. The Ateneo-UP Law and Journalism Forum. Haechan hadn’t wanted to go. He had almost skipped, because there was no fucking way he was going to sit in a room full of Ateneans right after getting into a Twitter war with their star law student. But then his editor insisted.

And so here he was. Walking into the auditorium. And coming face-to-face with Mark Lee. The moment their eyes met, everything froze. Haechan’s stomach twisted. Mark’s jaw tensed. And for a long, unbearable second— Neither of them looked away. The world blurred. The noise around them faded. And all that was left was this. This moment. This silence. This thing between them that neither of them knew how to name anymore. Then—

Jaemin’s voice cut through the air. "Well, this is awkward."

Haechan blinked like he had just been snapped out of a trance. Mark exhaled sharply like he had been holding his breath. And just like that, reality crashed back in.

**

They could have walked away. They could have ignored each other, pretended like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t just spent weeks throwing arguments at each other until one of them finally snapped. 

But Haechan wasn’t built for silence. And Mark despite everything was still the person he wanted to fight with the most. So instead of walking away, Haechan did the opposite. He took a step forward.

"Mark."

Mark stiffened. Haechan saw Jaehyun glance at Jaemin, saw Jeno and Renjun shift uncomfortably nearby, saw everyone in their group slowly realize that something was about to happen. Something that couldn’t be stopped.

Mark met his gaze. "Lee."

And just like that, the fight was back on. Because Haechan wasn’t done. And Mark, no matter how much he tried to ignore it,   wasn’t either.

**

Haechan didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was Mark. Maybe it didn’t matter. All he knew was that one second, they were standing in the middle of the crowded auditorium, pretending not to see each other. And the next— They were outside. Alone.

Facing each other like two opposing forces on the verge of collapse. The air between them was tight, heavy, suffocating. Mark’s jaw was clenched. Haechan’s hands were shaking. And for the first time in weeks, there was no screen between them.

No audience. No Twitter threads. No likes and retweets turning their arguments into a spectator sport. Just them. And the weight of everything they hadn’t said.

**

"I blocked you." Haechan’s voice was sharp, but underneath it, there was something unsteady.

Mark scoffed. "You told me to fuck off so it’s understandable."

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "So what? You just—walk away?"

Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?"

That— That made something snap inside Haechan. "Tangina, Mark, ang tanga mo ba?" His voice rose, frustration bubbling up too fast, too much. "Akala mo ba gusto ko ‘yun? Na wala na lang, na parang hindi tayo—" He stopped himself. Too late.  Because Mark’s eyes darkened.

"Parang hindi tayo ano, Haechan?" Mark’s voice was low, dangerous. "Ano bang gusto mong sabihin?"

Haechan’s breath hitched. Because fuck. He didn’t know. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t want to say it out loud. 

So instead, he said the only thing that made sense. The only thing he knew how to say. "Putangina mo."

Mark’s lips curved into a smirk. "Na-miss mo akong murahin?" And that— That was the last straw.

"Gago ka, Mark," Haechan hissed, stepping closer. "Proud ka ba? Na ikaw ‘yung umalis? Na ikaw ‘yung unang bumitaw?"

Mark’s eyes flickered. "You think I wanted to walk away?"

"You did anyway."

"You gave me no choice!"

"You always have a choice!" Haechan shot back, voice breaking slightly. "Pero anong ginawa mo? Hindi ka na lang sumagot. Hindi ka na lang lumaban!"

Mark let out a sharp breath, looking away. "I wasn’t going to fight with you forever, Lee."

Haechan swallowed. "So ano? Tapos na? Ganun na lang?"

Mark didn’t answer immediately.

And that— that silence, that hesitation — was worse than anything else. Because this was the moment. This was the moment Haechan had been dreading. The moment where Mark finally admitted they weren’t fighting for the same thing anymore. And if Haechan was being honest— That fucking hurt. More than it should. More than he could handle. 

So he did what he always did. He lashed out. "Alam mo kung anong pinaka-ayaw ko sa’yo, Mark?" Haechan’s voice was shaking now, but he didn’t stop. "Hindi ‘yung pagka-elitista mo. Hindi ‘yung pagiging conyo mong gago. Hindi ‘yung kakulitan mo na parang ikaw lang ‘yung laging tama." He took a breath, staring right into Mark’s eyes. "Ang pinaka-ayaw ko sa’yo? Ang dali mong sumuko."

Mark stilled. And in that moment, Haechan knew— He had hit something deeper. Because Mark didn’t fire back. Didn’t argue. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t roll his eyes. He just stood there. Silent. Unmoving. Until finally— He spoke.

"And what about you, Haechan?" Mark’s voice was quieter now. But somehow, that made it worse. "Ano ba talaga gusto mo sa’kin? Kasi parang gusto mo akong lumaban—pero hindi ko alam kung para saan."

Haechan’s breath caught. Because fuck. Because he didn’t know either.

**

The tension between them was unbearable now. Mark was breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Haechan’s heart was slamming against his ribs, his pulse loud in his ears. And for the first time— For the first time since this entire mess started— Neither of them had anything left to say. Because the truth was— They had no idea where to go from here.

**

The fight should have ended the moment Mark turned around. It should have been over when he walked away, when he disappeared back inside the auditorium without another word, without another glance, like Haechan’s words hadn’t just ripped something open between them.

But it wasn’t over. Because Haechan was still standing there, heart pounding, fists clenched, anger twisting in his chest like a storm he couldn’t control.

And worse— Worse was the fact that he wasn’t just angry at Mark. He was angry at himself. Because he had pushed too hard. Because he had said things he wasn’t sure he could take back. Because he had wanted Mark to fight back—and when he didn’t, it felt like losing. And Haechan hated losing. Especially to Mark. Especially when he wasn’t even sure what game they were playing anymore.

**

Jaemin and Jaehyun didn’t say anything when Mark rejoined them inside the auditorium. They didn’t have to. They had seen everything. The fight. The way Mark had walked away. The way Haechan had just stood there, eyes burning with something that was more than just anger.

And now, sitting in his seat, staring blankly at the stage while the forum continued around him, Mark felt like he was barely holding himself together. Because Haechan had been right. About everything. And that was the worst fucking part.

That was the part Mark couldn’t shake. Because the way Haechan had looked at him, the way he had said “ang dali mong sumuko” — It had cut deeper than anything else. Because Mark had spent his whole life trying not to be the kind of person who ran away. But he had walked away tonight, hadn’t he? He had left. Because staying there felt too hard. Because facing Haechan—really, actually facing him—meant admitting things he wasn’t ready for.

So instead, he sat there, staring at nothing, trying to convince himself that this wasn’t affecting him. That he wasn’t still thinking about the way Haechan had looked at him, like he was waiting for something that Mark couldn’t give.

**

The days after the fight were worse than the fight itself. Because Mark and Haechan didn’t speak. Didn’t tweet. Didn’t write about each other. Didn’t acknowledge each other’s existence at all. And somehow, that hurt more than anything.

Because before, they had always been talking—even if it was through arguments, through online debates, through sharp words and public callouts. But now? Now, there was nothing. And silence was its own kind of war.

**

Mark drowned himself in work. Haechan drowned himself in writing. And both of them tried to pretend they weren’t waiting for the other to break first. But the thing about silence? It never lasts. Not for people like them. Not for people who don’t know how to leave things alone. And soon— sooner than either of them expected — something was going to make them talk again. Whether they were ready or not.

**

The first thing Mark learned at his uncle’s law firm was that corporate law was nothing like mock trials. In school, law was about argument. Winning. Standing in front of a judge and proving, beyond doubt, that you were right. But here, in the real world, law was a game of paperwork and power. And Mark was realizing, very quickly, that he wasn’t sure if he liked it.

"You’ll be shadowing Atty. Lim for the first few weeks," his uncle had told him on his first day, handing him a thick folder. "Learn as much as you can. And remember, Mark—clients don’t hire us for justice. They hire us to win."

That sentence had stuck with him. Clients don’t hire us for justice. They hire us to win. And Mark, sitting in his new office, drowning in case files that all seemed to favor the rich and powerful, couldn’t help but wonder— Was that really what he wanted?

Because so far, all he had seen were corporations finding loopholes to avoid taxes. CEOs fighting labor disputes. Big names using legal technicalities to make their problems disappear. And no one was asking whether it was right. Because the law wasn’t about right or wrong. It was about who had the better lawyer. And Mark was starting to understand why Haechan hated it so much.

**

If Haechan worked hard before, now he was unstoppable. His internship at one of the biggest media companies in the country meant he was finally working with actual journalists—real reporters who had covered protests, corruption scandals, even EJK cases.

And Haechan, desperate for a distraction, threw himself into everything. Investigative work. Interviews. Fact-checking reports for national news. He was everywhere, all the time.

"Babe, natutulog ka pa ba?" Renjun asked one night, watching as Haechan typed furiously on his laptop.

"Tangina, Chan," Jeno muttered. "Tatlo na ‘yung sinusulat mong article at sabay-sabay mong tinatapos."

"And?" Haechan didn’t even look up.

Renjun sighed. "And baka gusto mong aminin na hindi lang trabaho ‘to. Na baka… I don’t know, may iba ka ring tinatakasan?"

Haechan’s fingers paused. For a second—just a second—Mark flashed through his mind. His voice. His words. The fight. The way Haechan had walked away feeling like he had lost something without knowing what it was. But he shook it off.

"Gago, ang drama mo." He forced a laugh. "Trabaho lang ‘to, okay? Nothing else."

Renjun and Jeno didn’t look convinced. And the truth was— Neither was Haechan.

**

Days passed. Then weeks. And still, neither of them reached out. Mark saw Haechan’s name on headlines. Didn’t click. Haechan saw Mark’s last tweet. Didn’t reply. They were both moving forward. And yet, somehow— They were still stuck.

**

Haechan told himself he was fine. He repeated it like a mantra, like if he said it enough times, it would start to feel true. He was fine. He was busy. His internship was in full swing, and he had more work than ever—news stories to fact-check, interviews to transcribe, editors to impress. Every day was a cycle of coffee, deadlines, and barely enough sleep to function.

There wasn’t time to think about Mark Lee. There wasn’t time to care that their last conversation had been a disaster. There wasn’t time to sit with the fact that, for the first time in years, they weren’t talking. So Haechan worked. And worked. And worked. Until the moment he saw Mark’s name again. On a case. On a real, actual legal case. And suddenly, he wasn’t fine at all.

**

"Hyuck, may bago tayong assignment," Jeno said, sliding a document across the table as they sat in the newsroom, the sound of journalists typing around them.

Haechan grabbed it without thinking. "Ano ‘to?"

"Labor dispute. May corporation na nasangkot sa illegal termination case—nag-lay off ng workers na nag-unionize. Magre-report tayo sa hearing bukas."

Haechan scanned the page. It was a familiar story. He had covered similar issues before—big companies crushing workers who dared to demand better conditions. But then— His eyes landed on a name. And his entire body went rigid.

Legal Representative: Atty. Richard Lim & Mark Lee (Intern).

His pulse stopped. For a second, the entire newsroom faded into the background. Because no. No fucking way. Mark was in this case? The case Haechan was covering? The case where some rich corporation was arguing against the very workers Haechan had been writing about for weeks? He felt Jeno and Renjun watching him.

"Babe, okay ka lang?" Renjun asked carefully.

Haechan forced himself to breathe. "Yeah," he muttered, voice tight. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t. Because the silence was over. And tomorrow, for the first time since the fight— He was going to see Mark again.

**

Mark barely looked up from his laptop when his uncle dropped a case file onto his desk.

"You’ll be attending the hearing tomorrow," Atty. Lim said. "Sit in, observe, and learn. This is a fairly straightforward case—corporate vs. labor union. These things happen all the time."

Mark nodded, flipping through the file. "Which company?"

"Velasco Corporation."

Mark’s stomach dropped. Because he knew that name. Because Haechan had written about them. Because Haechan had called them out in an article just last week. Mark froze. His fingers tightened around the case file. Because suddenly, he knew— Tomorrow wasn’t going to be just another case. Tomorrow, he was going to see Haechan again. And this time, they weren’t going to be on the same side.

**

Haechan had spent the past week trying not to think about Mark.

He had drowned himself in work, stayed late at the newsroom, written article after article just to keep himself busy. He had convinced himself that he was fine, that their fight didn’t matter anymore, that the silence between them wasn’t suffocating.

But now, as he sat in the courtroom, watching Mark Lee take his seat at the defense table, he realized he had been lying to himself this whole time. Because the moment their eyes met, everything came rushing back. The fight. The words they had thrown at each other. The things they hadn’t said. And now, this. This moment. This realization that Mark wasn’t just an observer in this case. He was part of the fucking defense. 

Haechan’s stomach twisted. Because of course. Of course Mark would end up here—sitting beside a corporate lawyer, learning firsthand how to argue for the people who had power, not the people who were being crushed by it. Of course he would be shadowing Atty. Richard Lim, one of the firm’s best litigators, the kind of lawyer who could twist the law into whatever his clients needed it to be. Of course Mark would pick this side.

Because wasn’t this exactly what Haechan had been saying all along? Mark didn’t change things. He just learned how to play the game better. Haechan looked away, gripping his pen so tightly his knuckles turned white. Because if he kept looking at Mark, he might not be able to stop himself from marching across the courtroom and demanding to know if he even believed in anything anymore.

**

He had known Haechan was covering this case. Had seen his name on articles, on social media threads, on opinion pieces that had dissected exactly why this labor dispute mattered.

And still— somehow, stupidly — he hadn’t been prepared for this. For the way his stomach dropped the moment he spotted Haechan in the courtroom. For the way Haechan’s face darkened when their eyes met. For the way it suddenly felt like Mark was sitting on the wrong fucking side of the room. 

Because this wasn’t just another case. This wasn’t just another learning experience. This was Mark—sitting beside Atty. Lim, a corporate lawyer who had built his career defending clients like Velasco Corp., one of the biggest business giants in the country, now accused of illegally firing workers who had unionized.

And across the room? Haechan, sitting with the press and the labor representatives—the very people Mark’s side was arguing against.

Mark clenched his jaw. Because this wasn’t a debate anymore. This was real. And for the first time, Mark realized—he didn’t know what to do.

“Your Honor, this case is about legality, not sentiment.” Atty. Lim’s voice rang through the courtroom, smooth and practiced, as he stood to deliver the opening statement.

Mark sat beside him, eyes fixed on his notes, pretending he couldn’t feel Haechan’s gaze burning into the side of his head.

“The opposing party will attempt to paint my client, Velasco Corporation, as unjust,” Atty. Lim continued, pacing slowly. “But the facts are clear. These terminations were legal. The company was exercising its right to maintain an efficient workforce. The law is on our side.”

Haechan let out a quiet scoff. Mark heard it. Felt it like a direct hit to his ribs. And for the first time since starting this internship, he hated where he was sitting.

He had spent weeks telling himself that the law was a tool—that if he learned how to use it properly, he could make it work for the right people. But now, watching Atty. Lim twist the argument so that the law sounded like a shield for corporations instead of the people it was supposed to protect—

Mark felt like he was suffocating. And worse— Haechan was watching him suffocate. And he knew. Mark knew that Haechan was already writing the next version of their fight in his head. “ See? This is what I meant. This is why I don’t believe in your system.” And Mark, for the first time, had no idea how to argue against it.

The first recess was called. The second the judge announced the short break, Mark made the mistake of glancing at Haechan. Haechan was already looking at him.

And Mark knew— knew with absolute certainty —that if he didn’t get out of this courtroom right now, Haechan was going to say something that would destroy him. So he left. Fast. Out into the hallway, where he could breathe. Where he could think. Where he could try to figure out how the hell he was supposed to face Haechan after this.

But then—

Footsteps.

Fast. Determined.

And then—

"Mark." 

Mark closed his eyes. Because of course. Of course Haechan had followed him. Because nothing between them ever ended in silence. Because Haechan never let him walk away without a fight.

And Mark—stupid, reckless, exhausted Mark—turned to face him. Because he was tired of running, too.

Mark had known this was coming. Had known, from the moment Haechan followed him out of the courtroom, that there was no escape. Because Haechan didn’t let things go. Haechan didn’t do silence.

And Mark—Mark didn’t want silence either. Not anymore.

So when he turned around and saw Haechan storming toward him, eyes burning with something sharp and dangerous, he didn’t walk away. He stood his ground. And waited for the impact.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Mark?" Haechan’s voice was low but furious, each word laced with accusation.

Mark exhaled, keeping his expression neutral. "I work here."

"No, you intern here," Haechan shot back, stepping closer. "And you didn’t just end up in this case by accident."

Mark said nothing. Because he wasn’t sure how to answer that. Because Haechan was right.

Haechan scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course. Of course ikaw na naman ‘yung nagde-defend sa mga taong may power. Kasi ganun ka naman, ‘di ba? Lagi mong pinipili ‘yung panig na may panalo."

Mark’s jaw clenched. "It’s not that simple, Haechan."

"It is that simple," Haechan snapped. "Alam mo kung ano ‘tong kaso, alam mong may mali—pero anong ginagawa mo? Tumutulong kang lusutan sila."

"I don’t make the decisions," Mark muttered, trying to keep his voice even. "I don’t get to choose which cases I work on."

"Pero pinili mong nandoon ka, Mark!" Haechan’s voice rose, his frustration bubbling over. "Pinili mong tumabi sa kanila. Pinili mong manahimik habang ginagawang legal ‘yung pang-aabuso. Kasi alam mong hindi mo kayang lumaban nang hindi ka parte ng sistema. Kasi alam mong—"

"And what about you?" Mark cut him off, voice suddenly sharp.

Haechan froze.

Mark took a step forward. "You act like you’re better, like you’re doing something different, but what are you actually changing, Haechan? What does calling people out online actually do? What does another article about injustice actually fix?*"

Haechan’s eyes flashed. "At least hindi ako bayad para ipagtanggol ‘yung mga may kasalanan."

That one landed. Mark felt it hit somewhere deep—somewhere too raw, too real. Because it wasn’t true, but it wasn’t entirely false either. And that—that was the worst part.

"Tangina, Mark," Haechan continued, his voice breaking slightly. "Naniwala ako sa’yo noon. Akala ko gusto mo ring baguhin ‘to. Pero ngayon, kitang-kita ko na kung sino ka talaga."

Mark inhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists. "And who is that?"

Haechan met his gaze, unflinching. "Someone who talks big about justice, pero at the end of the day, mas mahalaga sa’yo ‘yung panalo kaysa sa tama."

And that— That was the moment Mark snapped.

"And you?" Mark shot back, stepping even closer. "You act like you have all the answers, pero ang totoo, wala kang plano. Wala kang solusyon. Ang alam mo lang gawin ay magsulat, umangal, at ipakita kung gaano ka katalino. Pero alam mo kung anong hindi mo ginagawa, Haechan? You don’t fix anything. You just talk like you do."

Silence. A heavy, crushing silence.

Haechan’s breathing was uneven. Mark’s chest was rising and falling too fast. And neither of them knew what to say next. Because this fight—this wasn’t just about the case anymore. This was about them. About everything they had been avoiding. Everything they hadn’t said. Everything that had been building between them since the moment they met. And now— Now, there was no taking any of it back.

**

The fight had ended the same way it had started. Abrupt. Loud. And leaving too much wreckage behind. Haechan didn’t remember walking away.

One moment, he had been standing there, his breath uneven, his hands shaking, his mind racing with a thousand things he wanted to say—things that were angrier, meaner, messier. And the next— He was gone. Out of the hallway. Out of Mark’s orbit.

Because if he had stayed, he might have said something he actually regretted. If he had stayed, he might have done something he couldn’t take back. And the problem was—he already had. Because he had meant every word. And judging by the look on Mark’s face before Haechan had turned his back on him— So had he.

**

Haechan didn’t go back inside the courtroom. Didn’t return to his seat in the press area. Didn’t even tell Jeno and Renjun he was leaving. He just walked. And walked. And walked. Until he was outside, standing under the dull gray sky, trying to get his breathing under control.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from Renjun.

Renjun: Babe, where the hell are you?

Renjun: The hearing’s still ongoing, you know that, right?

Renjun: Did something happen?

Haechan stared at the screen. At the messages. At the tiny blinking cursor, waiting for a response. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to say. Because how was he supposed to explain any of this? That this fight with Mark wasn’t just about law or journalism or their opposing sides in this case. That this wasn’t just another argument, another debate, another public showdown between two people who had been fighting since the day they met. That this time, something between them had actually broken.

And Haechan—stupid, reckless, impulsive Haechan—had no fucking clue how to fix it. So instead of replying, he shoved his phone back into his pocket. And kept walking.

**

Jaehyun found him first. Mark didn’t know how long he had been standing there—frozen in place, his pulse still racing from everything Haechan had just thrown at him. Long enough for Jaehyun to walk out of the courtroom. Long enough for Jaemin to follow. Long enough for both of them to see the wreckage written all over his face.

"So," Jaemin said, slowly, like he was afraid of setting off a bomb. "That looked… intense."

Mark exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?" Jaemin raised an eyebrow. "Ask what the hell just happened?"

"Exactly."

Jaehyun crossed his arms. "Mark."

Mark ignored him.

Jaemin grinned despite the tension. "Fuck it, Mark, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you and Haechan just had a—"

"Jaemin, shut up."

Jaemin held up his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. But Mark," he whistled lowly, "That was personal."

Mark said nothing. Because he knew. Because this hadn’t just been about the case. This had been about everything else. And now— Now, he had no fucking idea what to do.

**

Neither of them went back to the hearing. Neither of them reached out. Neither of them knew how. And for the second time in their lives— They weren’t talking. And neither of them could pretend they were fine.

**

Haechan avoided Ateneo for a week. He told himself it wasn’t on purpose. That he was just busy—that his internship was demanding, that his articles had tight deadlines, that he had better things to do than waste time thinking about Mark fucking Lee.

And yet— Every time he scrolled past an article from Law & Letters, his fingers hovered over the byline. Every time he opened Twitter, he caught himself checking if Mark had posted anything. Every time he walked into the newsroom, he braced himself for Jeno and Renjun to bring him up. They never did. 

And somehow, that was worse. Because it meant they knew. It meant they had seen the fight in the hallway. Had seen the way Haechan had walked away looking like he had lost something. Had seen the way Mark had stood there like he wasn’t sure if he should follow.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part? Haechan didn’t know if he wanted him to.

**

Mark told himself he wasn’t avoiding Haechan. He was just busy. His internship was demanding, his workload was increasing, and he had no time for useless distractions. But even as he tried to focus, tried to push forward, the fight wouldn’t leave him alone. The words Haechan had thrown at him kept looping in his head.

“You don’t fix anything. You just talk like you do.”

“Someone who talks big about justice, pero at the end of the day, mas mahalaga sa’yo ‘yung panalo kaysa sa tama.”

Mark clenched his jaw. Because Haechan wasn’t supposed to get to him like this. Not now. Not anymore. And yet— Every time he walked past the debate room, he thought about the first time they had argued. Every time he sat in court, he thought about the way Haechan had looked at him from across the room. Every time he saw the news, he wondered if Haechan was the one writing it.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part? Mark didn’t know if he wanted him to stop.

**

The first time they saw each other again, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a grand moment of realization. It was a fucking accident. A rainy afternoon. A crowded coffee shop.

Haechan, fresh from an interview, soaked from the rain, cursing under his breath as he ordered coffee. Mark, exhausted from work, walking in without looking— And then— Their eyes met. And everything stopped. Because suddenly, the past week didn’t matter.

The fight. The silence. The avoidance.

Because suddenly— They were here. Standing in the same place. Breathing the same air. 

And they had no idea what the hell to do about it.

**

The rain outside hadn’t let up. It fell in heavy sheets against the windows, the dull hum of the downpour filling the space between them.

Haechan was still standing at the counter, waiting for his coffee, water dripping from the ends of his sleeves. His bag was slung over his shoulder, his press ID tucked beneath the folds of his jacket, his fingers tapping impatiently against the counter like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

Mark, on the other hand, hadn’t moved. His grip on the strap of his bag was tight, his breathing just a little too controlled, his posture stiff in a way that made it obvious—he was debating whether or not to walk out the door. Because this wasn’t planned. Because this wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Because he hadn’t prepared for this.

But then Haechan turned his head, eyes locking onto him again— And suddenly, leaving wasn’t an option anymore. Not when Haechan was looking at him like that. Like Mark was the last person he wanted to see. Like Mark was the only person he wanted to see. Like he was still angry. Like he didn’t know what to do with that anger anymore.

Mark exhaled sharply. And then— before he could overthink it, before he could give himself a reason to run— he stepped forward. Right up to the counter. Right next to Haechan. And waited. Waited for whatever was about to happen next.

"Aalis ka na dapat, ‘di ba?" Haechan’s voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made Mark’s chest tighten.

Mark glanced at him. "Akala ko rin."

Haechan scoffed. "So anong ginagawa mo pa dito?"

Mark tilted his head slightly. "Ano sa tingin mo?"

Haechan’s jaw clenched. And for a second, neither of them spoke.

The barista placed Haechan’s coffee on the counter, calling out his order.

Haechan grabbed it without looking away from Mark. Like he wasn’t done yet. Like he wasn’t going to walk away first.

Mark sighed. "Haechan—"

"Huwag," Haechan cut him off. "Huwag mo ‘kong tawagin nang ganyan."

Mark stilled. Because that hurt more than it should have. More than it had any right to.

But he nodded anyway. "Okay."

Haechan’s grip on his coffee tightened. "Ano bang gusto mong sabihin, Mark?"

Mark hesitated. Because fuck. Because what was there left to say? That he hadn’t meant for things to turn out like this? That he had spent the past week thinking about their fight, about what Haechan had said, about the fact that maybe—just maybe—he had been right? That he wasn’t sure what scared him more: the fact that they had fought, or the fact that he didn’t know if they could ever go back to what they were before? That he wasn’t even sure what they were supposed to be anymore?

Mark swallowed. "I don’t know."

Haechan laughed—a short, humorless sound. "Putangina, Mark, ang galing. Wala ka na namang sagot."

Mark bristled. "Ano bang gusto mong sagot, Haechan?"

Haechan took a step closer. "Gusto ko lang malaman kung may punto pa ‘tong lahat. ‘Yung sa atin. Kasi pakiramdam ko, matagal na tayong nagsasalita pero hindi tayo nagkakaintindihan."

Mark’s breath hitched. Because fuck. Because that felt too real. Because Haechan wasn’t just talking about the case anymore. And Mark didn’t know if he was ready for what that meant.

**

The rain kept falling. The noise of the coffee shop buzzed around them, people moving in and out, conversations overlapping. But here—in this small space between them—everything felt too quiet. 

Haechan’s gaze was still locked onto Mark’s. Waiting. Demanding.

And Mark—for once, for the first time since this entire mess started—didn’t look away. "Ano bang gusto mong marinig, Haechan?" His voice was low, steady, but something in it wavered. "Na gusto ko rin sanang magalit sa’yo, pero mas galit ako sa sarili ko? Na hindi ko gusto kung anong nangyari, pero hindi ko alam kung paano aayusin?"

Haechan’s fingers curled around his cup. "At bakit hindi mo alam, Mark?"

Mark exhaled. "Kasi hindi ko alam kung saan tayo nagkamali."

That— That was the thing neither of them had said out loud yet. That this wasn’t just a fight. That this wasn’t just another debate. That somewhere along the way, they had stopped being opponents and started being something else—something neither of them had a name for. And now, they didn’t know how to go back.

Haechan swallowed hard, his throat working around words he didn’t know how to say. For the first time since the fight— He didn’t know what to say at all. Because this? This was the most honest Mark had ever been with him.

And the scariest part? Haechan didn’t know if he was ready to be honest back.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them knew what came next. Because they had spent so long fighting that they had never stopped to ask— What if they weren’t supposed to be fighting at all? And that? That changed everything.

**

The rain outside hadn’t stopped. It drummed softly against the windows, the steady rhythm filling the silence between them. Haechan wasn’t sure how long they had been standing there.

Long enough for the ice in his coffee to start melting. Long enough for Mark’s breathing to even out. Long enough for whatever had just happened between them to settle into something neither of them knew how to touch.

Because this—this wasn’t like before. This wasn’t anger. This wasn’t another fight waiting to happen. This was something else. Something quieter. Something that made Haechan’s pulse stutter. Because Mark was still looking at him.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a challenge. It just felt undeniable. Like something had shifted. Like something had always been there—but neither of them had been ready to see it.

**

Mark wasn’t sure when the silence had changed. One second, it had been thick with everything they hadn’t said. And the next— It was just the two of them. Standing too close. Waiting for something neither of them knew how to name.

Haechan’s fingers tapped absently against the side of his cup, his jaw set like he was trying to convince himself he was still mad. But his eyes—his eyes told another story.

Mark swallowed. Because this was dangerous. Because this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Because this had never been part of the plan. 

But then Haechan exhaled—a short, sharp breath, like he was frustrated, like he was thinking the same thing. Like he didn’t know how to make sense of this either. 

And Mark? Mark felt something in his chest catch.  Because for the first time, it wasn’t a question of whether or not they cared. It was a question of why. And why the answer felt so fucking obvious.

Haechan shifted his weight. Not closer. Not farther. Just… there. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave or stay. Like he was waiting.

Mark licked his lips. "Haechan—"

Haechan tensed. And that? That was how Mark knew. Because Haechan had let him call him that before. Because Haechan had never reacted like this before. Because Mark’s voice had never made Haechan look at him like that before.

And now? Now, Mark wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it anymore. Now, he wasn’t sure if he could ever stop saying it. Now, he wasn’t sure what the hell they were supposed to do with this.

The moment didn’t last forever. It stretched— too long, too much —until finally, reality settled back in. Until finally, Haechan blinked, exhaled sharply, and took a step back. Not far. Not enough to break whatever had just cracked open between them. Just enough to pretend like it hadn’t happened. Just enough to pretend like they weren’t both thinking about it.

"I have to go," Haechan muttered.

Mark nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Neither of them moved. Not immediately. Not until the moment started to feel too fragile, too real. Not until it became something neither of them knew how to carry just yet. And then— Then, Haechan turned. Then, Mark let him go. Then, the door swung open, the cold air rushing in. And Mark didn’t know whether to follow or not.

They didn’t talk about it. Not the way Mark’s voice had changed when he said Haechan’s name. Not the way Haechan had looked at him like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave or stay. Not the way everything had shifted, slow and irreversible, like two tectonic plates quietly grinding against each other—too subtle to notice at first, but enough to promise an earthquake later.

No. They didn’t talk about it. Because talking about it would mean acknowledging it. And acknowledging it would mean admitting that it wasn’t just rivalry anymore. And neither of them was ready for that. So they did what they did best. They buried it.

**

Mark had spent his whole life following a script. Law school. Debate team. Internships. Everything mapped out, step by step, leading to one inevitable future. And right now, his father was making sure he didn’t stray.

"I heard about the hearing," his father said, flipping through a case file without looking up. "Atty. Lim said you did well."

Mark sat stiffly in the chair across from him, hands folded neatly in his lap. "It was a good learning experience."

"And what did you learn?"

Mark hesitated. Because what was he supposed to say? That he had spent the entire time questioning everything? That he hadn’t been able to focus because Haechan was sitting on the other side of the room, looking at him like he had done something unforgivable? That he wasn’t sure if he was still on the right path?

Mark cleared his throat. "That law isn’t about being right. It’s about arguing better."

His father nodded approvingly. "Good." He finally set the file down and looked at him. "You’ve always been smart, Mark. But being smart isn’t enough. You need to stay focused. No distractions."

Mark swallowed. "I know."

"Good," his father repeated. "Because this internship isn’t just about learning. It’s about proving you belong in this field. And if you’re serious about your future, you won’t let anything—or anyone—pull your attention away from that."

Mark nodded, the words settling like bricks on his chest. No distractions. No detours. No room for second-guessing. And definitely no room for whatever the hell had happened with Haechan. So Mark did what he had always done.

He nodded, smiled, and lied to himself. "I won’t lose focus."

His mother found him later that night, sitting on the balcony, staring at the city skyline like it had answers.

She sat beside him, silent for a while. Then—"You look tired, anak."

Mark huffed a quiet laugh. "I’m fine, Mom."

"Mmm." She gave him a knowing look. "Is that the ‘fine’ that means you’re actually fine, or the ‘fine’ that means you don’t want to talk about it?"

Mark exhaled, tilting his head back. "The second one."

His mom smiled. "Okay." She didn’t push. She never did. She just sat there, waiting.

And maybe that was why—before Mark even realized it—the words were slipping out.

"I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing," he admitted quietly. "With law. With… everything."

His mom hummed. "Because of the case?"

Mark hesitated. "Because of Haechan."

And there it was. His mother didn’t look surprised. She just studied him for a moment, then said, "And why does he make you doubt it?"

Mark swallowed hard. "Because he makes me feel like I should be fighting for something else."

A pause. Then, softly—"And what do you feel when you’re with him?"

Mark didn’t answer right away. Because fuck. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? That when he was with Haechan, he felt alive. That when he was with Haechan, he felt seen. That when he was with Haechan, he felt like he wasn’t just playing a role anymore. But that wasn’t something he could say out loud. So instead, he whispered, "I don’t know."

And his mother— his sharp, all-knowing mother —just smiled like she already knew the answer.

"Well," she said, patting his knee. "Maybe that’s something worth figuring out."

**

Haechan had spent the entire week pretending he didn’t care. Pretending he hadn’t replayed the conversation in the coffee shop over and over. Pretending he hadn’t felt something shift when Mark looked at him like that. But when he finally cracked, it wasn’t in a dramatic moment. It wasn’t after some big realization. It was at 2 AM, in Renjun’s dorm, sitting on the floor with Jeno and a bag of fast food between them.

"Babe, seryoso ka ba?" Renjun asked, dipping a fry into his sundae. "Naglakad ka sa ulan para lang umiwas kay Mark?"

Haechan groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Putangina, ‘Jun, hindi ako umiwas."

Jeno snorted. "Gago, anong tawag mo ro’n? Pilgrimage?"

Haechan let out a long, suffering sigh. "Okay, fine. Umiwas ako."

Renjun and Jeno exchanged looks.

"And?" Jeno prompted. "Ano na?"

Haechan bit his lip.

And that—that was when Renjun’s eyes narrowed.

"Oh my god." Renjun’s voice dropped. "Babe. No way."

"What?" Jeno frowned. "Anong no way?"

"Look at him," Renjun hissed, pointing dramatically. "He’s thinking. About feelings. About Mark."

Jeno’s eyes widened. "OH MY GOD."

"Putangina, tumahimik nga kayong dalawa!" Haechan snapped, but his face was burning.

And that was when it hit him. Because if he wasn’t denying it anymore— If even Jeno and Renjun could see it— Then maybe, just maybe— It had been real all along. And Haechan didn’t know what to do with that.

**

But what happens now? Nothing.

Because they weren’t ready. Because this wasn’t something they could fix overnight. Because realizing something doesn’t mean knowing what to do with it.

So for now— For now, they would keep pretending. For now, they would keep running. For now, they would keep convincing themselves that this wasn’t what it really was.

Even if—deep down—they already knew.

**

Denial only worked when there was distance.

When Mark could drown himself in work, sit through his internship, pretend that everything was fine. When Haechan could bury himself in deadlines, let his friends tease him, roll his eyes and pretend he wasn’t still thinking about that night in the coffee shop. 

But distance didn’t last forever. And the moment they found themselves in the same place again—it was over.

**

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Not here, not now, not when they had spent so much time pretending they were fine. But life had never cared much for their plans.

So when Mark walked into the journalism building— exhausted, frustrated, already at his limit from a long day at his internship — he hadn’t expected to see Haechan.

And Haechan— who had been in the middle of rewriting an article for the third time, running on caffeine and self-inflicted stress — hadn’t expected to see Mark.

And yet— There they were. Standing face-to-face again. And suddenly, everything they had been trying to ignore came rushing back.

The coffee shop. The fight. The way Mark had looked at him like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to walk away or pull him closer. The way Haechan had looked at him like he had already made up his mind.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part? Neither of them moved. Neither of them ran this time. They just stood there. Breathing. Waiting. Like they knew—deep down—that this moment was inevitable.

"You shouldn’t be here." Haechan’s voice was quieter than usual. Not sharp. Not teasing. Just… unsteady.

Mark swallowed. "Neither should you."

Haechan huffed out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Tanga, ako ‘yung nag-aaral dito."

Mark exhaled slowly. "Right." A pause. A long, unbearable pause. Then— "Haechan—"

Haechan tensed. Mark saw it. Felt it like a direct hit to his chest. Because that was the second time. The second time Haechan had reacted like that—like his name sounded different coming from Mark’s mouth. Like it meant something else.

And Mark? Mark didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to pretend like he hadn’t noticed. Didn’t know if he even wanted to pretend anymore.

"Tangina," Haechan muttered suddenly, stepping closer. "Ano bang gusto mong sabihin, Mark? Kasi kung wala, umalis ka na lang—"

"I don’t want to leave." The words came too fast. Too real. Too fucking honest.

And Haechan—Haechan’s breath hitched. Because that— That wasn’t something Mark was supposed to say. That wasn’t something Mark was supposed to mean.

And yet— Yet, the way Mark was looking at him now—like he had stopped fighting something within himself, like he had finally let go of whatever had been holding him back—

It made Haechan realize something. Something terrifying. Something he had been trying to ignore. That he didn’t want Mark to leave either. That he had never wanted Mark to leave. That maybe he never would.

**

It was inevitable. It had been building for weeks, for months, for years without them realizing it.

And when it finally happened, it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like a collision. Like gravity. Like something that had been waiting for the right moment.

Mark didn’t think. Didn’t analyze. Didn’t plan. Didn’t hesitate.

He just grabbed Haechan by the wrist, pulling him forward in the same way he had always argued with him—without warning, without permission, without fear.

And Haechan— Haechan let him. Because for once— For once, Haechan didn’t want to fight. For once, he just wanted to know what it would feel like.

And fuck— It felt like everything.

Haechan’s breath caught the second Mark’s lips touched his—brief, hesitant, like the last second before a free fall. Then— Then, the fall happened. And neither of them wanted to stop.

They pulled away—just barely, just enough to breathe, just enough to realize what they had done. Mark was staring at him, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling too fast. Haechan was just as breathless. 

Neither of them spoke. Because what was there left to say? Because what the hell had they just done? Because there was no taking it back. Because there was no more pretending. Because whatever this was—it was real now. And they had no idea what to do next.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

"Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time / For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot.

Haechan couldn’t focus. Not on his article, not on the blinking cursor on his screen, not on the fucking coffee in front of him that had gone cold an hour ago. His fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard, his mind stuck in an endless loop of one moment—one mistake, one misstep, one stupid, fucking kiss.

Mark kissed him.

No, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Mark kissed him and then had the audacity to act like nothing happened. Like it was just another night, just another conversation, just another thing that could be buried under all their arguments and debates and unfinished fights.

Putangina, paano niya nagawa ‘yun? Paano niya nagawa ‘yun tapos parang wala lang?

Haechan clenched his jaw, gripping his pen so tightly his knuckles turned white. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about this. He had work to do. His article on human rights violations was due in less than twenty-four hours, and yet all he could think about was the press of Mark’s lips against his, the way Mark’s breath had hitched right before he closed the distance, the way Haechan had frozen, completely and utterly caught off guard.

And now? Now Mark was pretending like it didn’t happen.

“Babe, kung hindi mo gusto ‘yung ballpen na ‘yan, ibato mo na lang kaysa ganyan ‘yung hawak mo.”

Haechan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts just long enough to register Renjun’s unimpressed stare. Jeno, seated beside him, raised an eyebrow. “Ano na namang problema mo?”

“Wala.”

“‘Wala’ daw,” Jeno muttered. “Tangina, eh parang gusto mong ipasok ‘yang ballpen sa ilong mo.”

Haechan groaned, throwing the pen onto the table before slumping back into his chair. “Putangina.”

Renjun narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Hindi ba ito tungkol kay Mark?”

Haechan stiffened. Jeno’s eyes widened. “PUTA, SI MARK NGA!”

“Gago, puwede ba kayong hindi sumigaw?” Haechan snapped, but it was too late. Jeno and Renjun had already exchanged a look, the kind that meant they were about to make his life even more miserable than it already was.

“Oh my God,” Jeno said, leaning forward with a smirk. “What happened? May ginawa ba ‘yung gago? Nag-away ba kayo ulit?”

“Or…” Renjun’s voice dropped, his eyes gleaming. “Something else happened?”

Haechan didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

Jeno’s jaw dropped. “PUTANGINA, MAY NANGYARI!”

Haechan groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Wala, gago—”

“Hoy, Haechan Lee, ‘wag mo kaming gawing tanga!” Renjun snapped. “Ano’ng nangyari? Dali, spill.”

Haechan exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. There was no way out of this. “Wala lang. Hinalikan niya ako.”

Silence.

Then—

“PUTANGINA?!”

“‘Wala lang’ daw, tangina, Haechan, ikaw ba ‘yan?”

“Details. Now.”

Haechan groaned. “Wala namang special, okay? Nangyari lang. Tapos.”

Renjun scoffed. “Tangina, ‘tapos’? ‘Yun lang?”

Haechan’s jaw tightened. “Paano pa ba dapat?”

Jeno frowned. “Well, paano ka niya tinrato after?”

And there it was. The real fucking problem.

Haechan swallowed hard, his fingers curling into fists. “Like it was nothing.”

Silence again. But this time, it was different. He could feel it—the shift, the weight of Jeno and Renjun’s stares, the quiet understanding that settled between them.

Jeno was the first to speak. “Putangina naman, Haechan.”

Renjun leaned forward, voice softer this time. “And what about you?”

Haechan hesitated. He didn’t want to answer that. He didn’t want to admit that he had spent the last few days replaying it over and over again, that he had wanted—fuck, that he had wanted it. That the moment Mark pulled away, Haechan had almost, almost grabbed him and kissed him again.

But Mark had acted normal. Mark had made it seem like it didn’t matter. And Haechan refused to be the only one who cared.

So instead, he just shook his head. “Wala. Hindi ko na iniisip.”

Neither Jeno nor Renjun believed him, but for once, they let it go.

**

Mark had always been good at compartmentalizing. It was what made him a good debater, what made him excel in law school—his ability to separate emotions from logic, to shut out distractions and focus on what mattered. But right now? Right now, he was failing.

Because every time he closed his eyes, he could still feel it—the way Haechan tasted like coffee and something sweet, the way he had tensed for just a second before melting against him, the way Mark had pulled away too soon because he was fucking terrified of what it meant.

And now? Now he was pretending like it didn’t happen. Because that was the only way he knew how to deal with it.

“Mark, I swear to God, if you highlight that same paragraph one more time, I’m kicking you out of this dorm.”

Mark blinked, glancing up to see Jaemin sprawled on his bed, watching him with an exasperated look. Jaehyun, sitting across the room, raised an eyebrow. “Mark.”

“What?” Mark muttered, setting his highlighter down.

Jaemin smirked. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Mark tensed. “Who?”

“Oh my God,” Jaemin groaned. “Mark, please.”

Jaehyun tilted his head. “It’s Haechan, right?”

Mark exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “It’s nothing.”

Jaemin scoffed. “Yeah, sure. That’s why you’ve been spacing out for the past three days.”

“I have not—”

“Mark,” Jaemin deadpanned. “You put salt in your coffee this morning.”

Mark groaned. “Fuck off.”

Jaehyun chuckled. “So, what happened?”

Mark didn’t answer. He didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to explain how he had kissed Haechan like an idiot and then ran away from it like a coward.

But Jaemin, the little shit, saw right through him. “Oh my God, you kissed him.”

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Mark clenched his jaw. “And nothing.”

Jaemin’s jaw dropped. “Mark, you absolute dumbass.”

Jaehyun sighed. “You do realize you can’t just pretend it didn’t happen, right?”

Mark swallowed. “Watch me.”

**

Haechan wasn’t avoiding Mark. He wasn’t. If he repeated it enough times, maybe it would actually start feeling true.

He still showed up at their usual spots—the library, the coffee shop near UP, the law building where Jeno always teased him for "coincidentally" having work whenever Mark was there. He still answered Mark’s messages, still listened when Mark ranted about his internship, still argued with him over the smallest things.

Nothing had changed. Except everything had.

Because ever since that night—since Mark had kissed him, since he had kissed back, since Mark had pulled away with a look in his eyes that Haechan still didn’t know how to decipher—he couldn’t shake the feeling that they had crossed something irreversible. That no matter how hard they pretended, no matter how much Mark acted like everything was fine, they weren’t the same anymore. And it was fucking unbearable.

"Babe, hindi ko alam kung sinong niloloko mo," Renjun muttered, eyeing him over the rim of his coffee cup. "Pero hindi ako ‘yon."

Haechan rolled his eyes. "What now?"

Jeno smirked. " ‘What now’ daw, o. Putangina, Haechan, you haven’t been normal since that night."

"Bakit, anong ginawa ko?"

"More like anong hindi mo ginawa," Renjun shot back. "You still haven’t talked about it, have you?"

Haechan scoffed. "Wala namang dapat pag-usapan."

"Right," Jeno deadpanned. "Kasi normal lang sa inyo ‘yung maghalikan tapos act like nothing happened."

Haechan exhaled sharply, gripping his cup like it could stop the irritation clawing at his chest. "Wala namang nagbago, okay?"

Renjun raised an eyebrow. "Babe, hindi ikaw ‘yung dapat mong kumbinsihin."

And Haechan hated that. Hated that Renjun and Jeno could see right through him. Hated that he had spent days—weeks—convincing himself that he was fine, only to realize he wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all himself.

Because Mark was still Mark. Still the same arrogant, frustrating, endlessly infuriating law student who had been getting under his skin since day one.

But now, every time Mark spoke, Haechan found himself staring at his mouth. Now, every time they argued, he couldn’t help but think about how close they had been that night. Now, every time Mark laughed—his real laugh, the one that softened his entire face—Haechan had to fight the ridiculous, absolutely fucking stupid urge to kiss him again.

And worst of all? Mark was acting normal. Like nothing had changed. Like that kiss hadn’t done something irreversible to the space between them. Like Haechan was the only one losing his mind. And that? That pissed him off more than anything else.

The next time they saw each other, it was outside the library, where Haechan had just finished an editorial meeting. His head was buzzing with deadlines, interview schedules, and the exhausting mental checklist of everything he had to do before the week ended.

And then, as if the universe had a personal grudge against him—Mark was there.

Standing near the entrance, looking effortlessly put together despite what Haechan knew was probably an ungodly amount of work, flipping through a case file like he hadn’t just completely wrecked Haechan’s ability to function like a normal human being.

Haechan forced himself to breathe. He could do this. He could be normal.

"Uy," he called out, forcing his voice to sound casual. "Dapat ka bang nakatayo lang diyan, o naglo-lawyer ka ba dapat somewhere?"

Mark glanced up, smirking slightly. "Haechan," he greeted, voice smooth, familiar. "Didn’t know you cared so much about my schedule."

"Putangina," Haechan muttered, rolling his eyes. "I take it back. Sana hindi na lang kita nakita."

Mark chuckled, and it was infuriatingly warm. "Too late for that."

Haechan scowled. "What are you even doing here?"

"Studying," Mark answered simply. "You?"

"Working."

Mark hummed, closing his case file. "Of course. Always working."

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "Ano ‘yon?"

Mark shrugged. "Nothing. Just an observation."

Haechan hated this. Hated how Mark could say things like that, so casual, so effortless, while Haechan felt like he was barely holding himself together.

So he did what he did best. He picked a fight. "At least I work on things that matter," he said, tilting his head. "Unlike some people who spend all their time defending the worst parts of the system."

Mark sighed, like he had been expecting this . "Here we go again."

"What?" Haechan pressed. "It’s true, isn’t it? How’s life defending corporations, by the way? Having fun pretending the law is fair?"

Mark’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice stayed steady. "You think the law is just black and white?"

"I think the law was never meant for people like us," Haechan shot back. "And I think you know that, too."

Mark exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Haechan, not everything is a fight."

"Says the guy who always wants to win."

Mark looked at him then—really looked at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Not always," he murmured.

Haechan’s breath caught. Because for a second—just a second—he wasn’t sure they were talking about the law anymore. And that? That scared him more than anything else.

**

Their act was slipping. Every time they saw each other, it got worse. The glances lasted too long. The silences stretched too heavy. The space between them felt like a waiting game neither of them knew how to end. It was inevitable.

Because no matter how much they tried to pretend otherwise— They were going to kiss again. And this time, neither of them would be able to ignore it. It happened like this:

A late night. A newsroom running on caffeine and chaos. Haechan, exhausted but wired, staring at the blinking cursor on his screen, feeling the weight of his own words before they were even written.

And then— A message.

Mark: You’re still up?

Haechan stared at his phone for a long second before sighing and typing back.

Haechan: Hindi ko pa tapos ‘yung article ko. Bakit, gusto mo akong asarin bago matulog?

Mark replied almost instantly.

Mark: You always assume the worst of me.

Haechan: Kasi kadalasan tama ako.

A pause. Then—

Mark: Come outside.

Haechan frowned. What the fuck.

Haechan: Ha? Bakit?

Mark: Just for a minute.

Haechan exhaled sharply, glaring at his phone like it had personally offended him. But despite himself, despite every rational part of his brain telling him he should ignore it, that this was dangerous, that nothing good could come from whatever Mark thought he was doing—

He stood up. Grabbed his jacket. And went. Because of course he did.

Mark was waiting outside the journalism building, standing near the steps, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He looked tired—probably just as overworked as Haechan, if not more—but he still managed to look infuriatingly composed.

Haechan, on the other hand, was five seconds away from cussing him out. "Tangina, Mark," he muttered, crossing his arms. "It’s past midnight. Alam mo bang may tinatawag na tulog?"

Mark’s lips curved slightly. "Says the guy who hasn’t slept properly in weeks."

Haechan scowled. "Excuse me, pero at least may dahilan ako. Unlike some people na random na lang nagyayaya ng midnight rendezvous—"

"You came, though," Mark pointed out.

Haechan opened his mouth—then promptly shut it. Because fuck. He had. And that? That was a problem.

"Okay, fine," he muttered, shifting on his feet. "Anong kailangan mo?"

Mark was quiet for a moment. Then— "Did it mean anything to you?"

Haechan froze. His heart slammed against his ribs, fingers twitching at his sides.

And Mark—Mark wasn’t smirking anymore. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t deflecting. He was just standing there, watching Haechan carefully, waiting.

"Putangina," Haechan exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. "Mark—"

"I just want to know," Mark cut in, voice even. "Was it just a mistake to you?"

Haechan wanted to lie. He really, really fucking did. It would be easier. Safer. He could pretend, like Mark had been pretending. He could laugh it off, call it nothing, let it fade into the background like a hundred other moments between them. 

But he was so fucking tired. Of pretending. Of playing this game. Of running in circles around something that had already caught up to them.

So instead— He stepped forward. Mark didn’t move.

"You think I’d be this affected over a mistake?" Haechan asked, voice quieter now, but sharp. "You think I’d still be thinking about it, weeks later, kung wala lang ‘yon sa’kin?"

Mark inhaled slowly, eyes locked onto him. "So you have been thinking about it."

"Putangina, Mark," Haechan muttered. "Of course I have."

Mark’s lips parted slightly, something shifting in his gaze—something deeper, something almost vulnerable, and fuck—Haechan wasn’t ready for that. Because it was real now. They could have kept lying. Could have kept pretending. But now, there was no turning back.

Haechan exhaled sharply. "And you?"

Mark swallowed, then— "Yeah."

The word hit like a punch to the chest. Haechan’s breath caught, something unsteady unraveling inside him. Because Mark wasn’t joking. He wasn’t dodging the question. He wasn’t pulling away. He was choosing this. Choosing to admit it. And now, Haechan had to, too.

He let out a quiet, shaky laugh. "So we’re both idiots , huh?"

Mark’s lips twitched. "Looks like it."

A beat.

Then—

Mark moved.

And this time, Haechan didn’t hesitate.

He closed the distance between them, fingers curling into the front of Mark’s jacket, pulling him in as their lips crashed together—harder, messier, more desperate than the first time.

Because this time, they weren’t pretending. This time, they both knew exactly what this meant. And neither of them wanted to run.

Haechan wasn’t sure how long they stood there. Maybe a minute. Maybe an eternity.

All he knew was the way Mark’s hands had found his waist, steady and grounding, the way their lips fit together like this wasn’t the first time, like it wouldn’t be the last. All he knew was the heat pressing against his chest, the slight tremble in Mark’s breath when they finally pulled apart, the way neither of them stepped back.

For once, there was no argument, no quick remark to fill the silence. Just them.

Mark exhaled, forehead resting lightly against Haechan’s. "So, what now?"

Haechan let out a breathless laugh. "Tangina, gusto mo akong tanungin niyan ngayon?"

Mark chuckled softly. "Better now than never."

Haechan thought about it. About everything that had led to this moment—the debates, the fights, the stubborn refusal to let go of whatever this was between them. He thought about the fact that they were both leaving soon, both set on paths that would pull them in different directions.

But standing here, with Mark looking at him like this—like Haechan was something he had been waiting for—he couldn’t bring himself to care about any of that.

Haechan sighed, leaning back slightly. "We’ll figure it out."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "That’s very unlike you. No grand speech? No overanalysis?"

Haechan smirked. "I’m trying something new. Pero huwag kang masanay."

Mark laughed, shaking his head, but his grip on Haechan’s waist didn’t loosen. "Noted."

And that was it. No official declaration, no dramatic confessions. Just this quiet understanding between them—this choice, whatever it meant, whatever it would become.

Neither of them let go.

**

Mark wasn’t expecting his father’s call.

He had barely been home long enough to process anything—his internship, the case, Haechan—before his phone lit up with his father’s name.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the reject button.

He could ignore it. He had done it before. His father didn’t call unless it was something important, and Mark already knew what this was about. The firm. His future. The inevitable conversation he had been dodging for years.

He could let it ring. But if he did, his father would just call again. And again. Until Mark had no choice but to pick up.

He exhaled sharply, swiping across the screen. "Hello."

"Mark." His father’s voice was steady as always—measured, controlled. The kind of voice that commanded a room without needing to raise it. "Come to the firm tomorrow. We need to discuss your future."

Mark clenched his jaw. There it was. No preamble, no small talk. Just straight to business, like always.

"I already know what I want to do," he said.

A pause. Not long, but long enough for Mark to know his father was measuring his words carefully.

"Then you can tell me in person," his father said simply.

Mark exhaled sharply. Of course. Of fucking course. He barely slept that night.

The office was exactly the same as it had always been—sharp, clinical, every inch of it designed to exude power and control. The walls were lined with framed certificates, degrees from the most prestigious universities, awards from high-profile cases his father had won.

Mark had spent his childhood memorizing those names. Had grown up hearing about those victories over dinner, sitting across from a father who had made sure he understood that winning was the only thing that mattered.

But now, standing here, Mark had never been more sure that he didn’t belong.

His father barely looked up from his desk as Mark stepped inside. "Sit."

Mark obeyed, trying to ignore the way the chair still felt too big, like he was eight years old again, waiting for a lecture.

His father finally looked at him, expression unreadable. "I assume you know why I called you here."

Mark nodded. "You want me to take a position at the firm."

His father leaned back slightly. "It’s what we’ve been working toward, isn’t it?"

Mark’s stomach twisted. We. As if this had ever been a choice.

He swallowed. "I don’t want to."

The air in the room shifted.

His father didn’t react at first—no sharp intake of breath, no sign of anger. He just sat there, studying Mark carefully, like he was some kind of puzzle that had started coming apart.

"Why not?"

Mark took a slow breath. "Because I want to be the kind of lawyer that actually helps people. Not just the ones who can afford to win."

Silence.

His father’s eyes didn’t waver, but something in them flickered—something cold, calculating.

"You think that’s how the world works, Mark?" His voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. "That the law is just a tool you can use however you want?"

Mark forced himself to hold his gaze. "I think I’d rather try than pretend it’s impossible."

His father sighed, shaking his head slightly. "You’re being naïve."

Mark clenched his fists. "No, I’m not. I’ve seen it firsthand. I sat in that courtroom and watched a corporation get away with firing workers for unionizing. And we defended them, Dad. We made their case stronger. We twisted the law to protect the people with power instead of the ones who actually needed it."

His father exhaled slowly, as if Mark had just confirmed something he already knew. "So this is about that case."

"It’s about all of it," Mark shot back. "It’s about the fact that the system isn’t broken—it was built like this. And if I stay here, I’ll just be another person keeping it that way."

His father was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he leaned forward.

"You think you’re different," he said quietly. "You think you won’t compromise. That you’ll be able to stand by your principles no matter what."

Mark didn’t flinch. "Yes."

His father studied him for a moment longer, then let out a quiet sigh. "I used to think the same thing."

Mark froze.

His father stood, walking over to the window, gazing out at the city below. "When I was your age, I wanted to change things too. I thought I could fight for the right people, make the law work the way it was supposed to."

Mark swallowed. He had never heard his father talk like this.

His father turned back to him, expression calm but firm. "But the world doesn’t work that way. You’ll learn, Mark. Sooner or later."

Mark straightened. "Maybe. But I won’t learn it here."

A long, heavy silence stretched between them.

His father sighed, rubbing his temple. "You’re stubborn, Mark. You always have been."

Mark tensed, bracing himself for another lecture, for his father to shut him down, to tell him he was making a mistake— But instead—

"If this is what you want to fight for," his father said, voice quieter now, "I won’t stop you."

Mark blinked. "Just like that?"

His father’s lips twitched slightly, almost like he was amused. "Just like that."

Mark didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until that moment.

His father walked back to his desk, picking up a stack of case files. He didn’t look up when he said, "You’ll always have a place here. But if you want to carve your own path, then do it well."

Mark stood slowly, hesitating for just a second before reaching out to shake his father’s hand. It wasn’t warm. Wasn’t affectionate. But it was firm. Solid. And for once—just this once—Mark thought that maybe it was enough.

**

Haechan’s article was published the next day. It hit the front page of every major publication before noon.

A deep-dive investigative piece on a political scandal that had been buried for too long—one that exposed high-ranking officials who had spent years covering their tracks, silencing whistleblowers, and twisting the law in their favor.

Haechan had spent weeks working on it, following trails that others had ignored, connecting dots that powerful people had hoped would never be connected. He had dug through court records, interviewed sources who were too afraid to go on record, pieced together timelines that told a story no one had dared to write before.

And now, there it was. Bold. Unflinching. His name on the byline.

The moment the article went live, his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Editors congratulating him. Colleagues telling him he had just written something that would shake the country. Angry emails from people who knew they had been exposed. Twitter threads dissecting every paragraph, pulling out the most damning parts.

He should have felt proud. And he did. But mostly, he felt exhausted. Because this wasn’t the end.

The people in power wouldn’t just sit back and let this happen. There would be backlash. Retaliation. Maybe even threats. That was the cost of telling the truth.

And Haechan had made peace with that a long time ago.

So when he finally put his phone on silent, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the article on his screen one last time, he didn’t feel fear.

Just certainty. He had done what he set out to do. 

And Mark? Mark read every word.

It was past midnight when Mark finally opened the article. He had seen it trending all day, heard people talking about it in the office, even overheard one of the senior associates at his uncle’s firm mutter that "this kind of journalism is dangerous."

So of course, Mark knew exactly who had written it before he even saw the name. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the weight of Haechan’s words. He read the first paragraph. Then the second. Then, before he even realized it, he was halfway through, heart pounding, gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Because it was good. No—it was fucking brilliant.

Haechan had taken years of corruption, of injustice, of stories that had been deliberately buried, and laid them bare for the entire world to see. His writing was sharp, precise, filled with facts that left no room for doubt, no space for excuses.

But it was more than that. It was furious.

And Mark—who had spent the last four years arguing with Haechan, challenging him, pushing back against every idealistic rant—had never felt the truth of his words more than he did now.

He could hear Haechan’s voice in every sentence. Could picture the fire in his eyes as he typed, the way he probably muttered insults under his breath when he uncovered something particularly damning.

By the time he reached the last line, Mark felt like he had been punched in the gut. He swallowed hard, staring at the screen, rereading the final paragraph:

"They told us justice takes time. That we have to be patient. That the system works, as long as we follow the rules. But time has passed. We’ve been patient. And the system is still protecting the same people. So maybe it’s time we stop playing by their rules."

Mark exhaled shakily, running a hand down his face. Because that—that—was what had always terrified him about Haechan. Not his sharp tongue. Not his endless arguments. But the fact that he was right.

And that Mark, for the first time, didn’t want to argue back. Instead—he just wanted to see him.

So before he could overthink it, before he could tell himself this was a bad idea, he was already grabbing his keys, heading out the door, hoping that Haechan hadn’t gone to sleep yet.

Because Mark had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to breathe properly until he saw him.

And for once— For once, he wasn’t going to fight it.

**

Mark had no idea why he was nervous. It wasn’t like this was the first time he was seeing Haechan.

They had been around each other almost every day for the past four years—arguing in classrooms, meeting at coffee shops, debating online like their lives depended on it. They had shared stages, shared fights, even shared a kiss or two.

And yet, standing in front of Haechan’s newly leased apartment, fingers hovering over the doorbell, Mark felt—off.

Not unsure. Not hesitant. Just… aware. Aware that this wasn’t neutral ground. Aware that this wasn’t some debate room where they could hide behind arguments and well-structured logic. Aware that this—them—had already changed, even if neither of them had admitted it yet.

The door swung open before he could even knock. Haechan was standing there, barefoot, wearing a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower.

Mark was pretty sure his brain short-circuited.

"You," Haechan greeted, raising an eyebrow. "Why do you look like you just realized this was a bad idea?"

Mark exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. "I am realizing this is a bad idea."

Haechan smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Too late to back out now, debate champ. Pasok ka na bago pa kita i-report sa barangay for loitering."

Mark rolled his eyes but stepped inside anyway, taking in the place.

It was… Haechan .

Not chaotic, but lived in—papers scattered on the desk, books stacked in corners, sticky notes covering the fridge. There was a half-empty coffee cup on the counter, a laptop open to what Mark recognized as a news draft, and—of course—a framed Philippine Collegian front page with Haechan’s name bold in the byline.

"Still pretending to be surprised that you’re a big deal?" Mark mused, nodding toward it.

Haechan shrugged, shutting the door behind them. "It’s not about being a big deal. It’s about making sure people listen."

Mark hummed, watching as Haechan walked toward the kitchenette, grabbing two bottles of water. "So, what brings you here, attorney? Hindi ka naman madalas pumunta sa bahay ng journalist na kinaiinisan mo, ‘di ba?"

Mark sat on the couch, stretching his legs out. "Who said I was ever annoyed?"

Haechan scoffed, tossing a bottle at him. "Please. You’ve been rolling your eyes at me since first year."

"That wasn't annoyance ," Mark countered, twisting the cap off his bottle . "That was me trying not to laugh at how serious you get when you argue."

Haechan gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. "Wow. Ikaw na pala ‘yung funny."

Mark smirked. "Glad you finally noticed."

Haechan muttered something under his breath but dropped onto the couch next to him, close enough that their arms almost brushed.

Mark cleared his throat. "I read your article."

Haechan’s smirk faded slightly, but the sharpness in his eyes didn’t. "And?"

Mark turned to him fully. "It was brilliant."

Haechan blinked.

Mark never complimented him outright. Never admitted when Haechan had gotten under his skin, when his words had left a mark. They always danced around it—snarky remarks, half-meant insults, debates where winning meant making the other person speechless for half a second.

So hearing Mark say it like that—straightforward, no hesitation—made something shift in Haechan’s chest.

He swallowed. "I know."

Mark chuckled, shaking his head. "Of course you do."

Haechan tilted his head, studying him. "That’s not the only reason you came here."

Mark hesitated for just a second. Then, quietly— "I turned down the firm."

Haechan stilled. "Your uncle’s firm?"

Mark nodded.

For a long moment, Haechan said nothing.

Then— "Good."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "That’s your reaction?"

Haechan scoffed. "Ano bang gusto mong gawin ko? Mag-party?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "I was expecting at least one dramatic speech about how you always knew I’d finally make the right decision."

Haechan shrugged, leaning back against the couch. "I did always know."

Mark huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

Silence stretched between them, not awkward, not tense—just there. Like they were both letting it sink in, the reality of everything that had changed.

Then—

"So," Haechan said, turning to him. "Are you finally admitting I was right all along?"

Mark rolled his eyes. "I thought you’d at least pretend to be surprised."

Haechan shrugged, leaning back against the couch. "I’m not. I always knew you’d figure it out eventually."

Mark huffed a small laugh. "You always knew, huh?"

Haechan smirked. "Of course. The moment you started reading my articles instead of arguing against them, I knew you were a lost cause."

Mark shook his head, leaning closer. "And yet you were the one who kissed me first."

Haechan gasped, scandalized. "Excuse me?!"

Mark smirked . "You heard me."

Haechan narrowed his eyes. "That’s factually incorrect. You kissed me first."

Mark tilted his head. "You sure about that?"

"Putangina, oo!" Haechan threw his hands up. "I am literally a journalist, Mark, I fact-check for a living."

Mark hummed. "And yet, no solid evidence."

Haechan groaned, shoving his shoulder. "Tangina, I hate you—"

Mark caught his wrist, tugging him back easily. "No, you don’t."

Haechan stilled. Mark’s grip was loose, easy to break—but Haechan didn’t pull away. Instead, his gaze flickered to Mark’s mouth.

Mark saw it. Smirked. "So," Mark murmured, "since we’re both so good at debating—who’s going to argue against this?"

Haechan exhaled sharply. "You’re so fucking annoying."

Mark just grinned. "And yet—"

Haechan yanked him in by the collar, cutting him off with a kiss. Mark melted instantly. It wasn’t their first kiss. But this time, there was no tension, no confusion, no pretending. Just the undeniable, overwhelming truth of it—of them.

Mark pulled him closer, deepening it, and Haechan sighed into the kiss like he had been waiting for this all night. Maybe longer. When they finally broke apart, Haechan smirked against his lips.

"So?" he murmured. "Who wins this round?"

Mark hummed, tilting his head. "Debate’s still ongoing."

Haechan grinned. "Good."

And this time, Mark didn’t argue. Because losing to Haechan had never felt better. Haechan sighed against Mark’s lips, tilting his head slightly to deepen the kiss. Mark responded immediately, fingers tightening around his wrists, pulling him closer like he had been waiting for this for years. Which, if they were being honest, he probably had.

The warmth of it settled into Haechan’s chest, something steady and sure, something he hadn’t let himself think about before now. Because before now, this had always been a game. A challenge. A debate where neither of them wanted to be the first to give in.

But now— Now, there was no argument left to make.

Mark pulled back slightly, eyes still half-lidded, lips slightly swollen, looking unfairly good in the dim lighting of Haechan’s apartment.

Haechan blinked at him. "Tangina, bakit ang gwapo mo?"

Mark smirked. "Ngayon mo lang napansin?"

Haechan scowled, shoving his shoulder. "Putangina, nakakainis ka na naman agad—"

Mark just laughed, grabbing his wrist again before he could pull away completely. "You’re so bad at taking a loss."

"Anong loss?!"

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come on. You just admitted I was right."

"Kailan ako—" Haechan stopped himself, then narrowed his eyes. "Gago ka talaga, no?"

Mark grinned. "A little."

Haechan groaned, tilting his head back against the couch. "Hindi ko alam kung bakit kita gusto."

Mark hummed, settling back beside him. "Me neither, honestly."

Haechan turned to glare at him, but Mark just reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers easily—like it was natural, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Haechan exhaled sharply, glancing down at their hands. "Tsk."

Mark smirked . "You’re getting soft."

"Gago, hindi ah."

Mark tilted his head. "So if I kiss you again, you’re not going to melt into it and start sighing all dramatically like you did earlier?"

Haechan’s face burned. "Putangina, Mark!"

Mark just laughed, leaning his head back against the couch. For a while, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, their hands still tangled together, the weight of everything finally settling in. This wasn’t just another argument. This wasn’t just another moment they could ignore later.

They had spent four years throwing words at each other like weapons, refusing to admit what they had both known from the start. And now, there was nothing left to fight against. Just the inevitable. Just this.

Haechan swallowed, squeezing Mark’s hand slightly. "So… ano na tayo?"

Mark opened one eye, glancing at him. "Are you asking if we’re dating?"

Haechan scowled. "Wala akong sinabi!"

Mark smirked. "You’re the journalist. Define it."

"Tangina mo, ikaw ang law student, ikaw ang sanay sa contracts."

Mark chuckled. "So you want a contract now?"

Haechan groaned, throwing his head back again. "Bakit ba ang hirap mong kausap?!"

Mark just laughed, and before Haechan could get really annoyed, he pulled him in for another kiss—slow this time, like he was savoring it. Haechan sighed into it, fingers curling against Mark’s shirt.

"See?" Mark murmured against his lips. "Soft."

"Putangina, ayoko na," Haechan mumbled, but he didn’t pull away.

Mark grinned, resting their foreheads together. "Let’s just… figure it out," he said quietly. "Like you said before."

Haechan exhaled, letting himself sink into the moment. "Hmm." Another pause. Then— "Pero ako pa rin ang mas magaling sa debate."

Mark groaned, leaning away. "Oh my God, Haechan."

Haechan smirked. "Totoo naman, ‘di ba?"

"No," Mark deadpanned.

"Tie nga tayo palagi! Ibig sabihin patas lang tayo, pero hindi naman ako full-time debater tulad mo, kaya—*"

Mark sighed, pulling him back in for another kiss. Haechan immediately lost his train of thought.

When Mark pulled back, looking entirely too smug, Haechan scowled. "Tangina, Lee, ‘wag mo akong isilence gamit ‘yan—"

Mark smirked. "I’m just using my strongest argument."

Haechan rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

Mark squeezed his hand again, pulling him closer. "Stay here."

Haechan blinked. "Ha?"

Mark exhaled. "I mean, let me stay. Just for tonight."

Haechan stilled. It wasn’t like Mark hadn’t been in his space before. They had studied together, argued together, spent countless hours in the same places.

But this? This was different. Mark wasn’t here to fight. He was here because of Haechan.

Haechan swallowed, then shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. "Diyan ka na nga sa couch. Hindi kita aampunin sa kama ko."

Mark smirked, leaning back against the cushions. "That’s fine. Just don’t stare at me too much while I sleep."

"Gago ka talaga, no?"

Mark just chuckled, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Haechan sighed, staring at him for a long moment.

Then, quietly—

"Goodnight, Mark."

Mark’s lips twitched. "Goodnight, Haechan."

And just like that—without argument, without hesitation, without pretense—Haechan let himself relax.

Maybe they’d figure this out. Maybe they didn’t need all the answers yet. Maybe this was enough. For now.

Mark exhaled, sinking deeper into the couch, feeling the warmth of Haechan’s apartment settle around him. After that first night, he lost track of how many times he found himself staying over again.

Haechan had already curled up beside him, scrolling through his phone, pretending not to be affected by the fact that Mark was still here—that he hadn’t left after their kiss, after all their back-and-forth bickering, after everything between them had changed.

Not that either of them had officially acknowledged it. Which was so on-brand for them.

Mark smirked slightly, shifting so their legs brushed together. "So, are we really not going to talk about our current situation?"

Haechan didn’t look up from his screen. "Anong ‘current situation’ ?"

Mark scoffed. "You know what."

"Hmm," Haechan hummed, still scrolling. "I have no idea what you’re talking about, attorney."

Mark narrowed his eyes. "Haechan."

Haechan bit back a grin, locking his phone and tossing it aside before finally meeting Mark’s gaze. "Ano?"

Mark tilted his head. "Are we dating?"

Haechan blinked. "Tangina, bakit parang formal announcement ‘yan?"

Mark chuckled. "I’m just checking. Since you haven’t said anything and it has been weeks."

Haechan rolled his eyes. "Gago ka, Mark, we literally kiss all the time—"

Mark raised an eyebrow . "All the time?"

Haechan’s face burned. "Tangina mo, Lee, hindi ‘yun ang point ko!"

Mark smirked. "So we are dating."

Haechan scowled. "Obviously."

Mark leaned in slightly. "You could’ve just said that from the start, you know."

Haechan huffed, crossing his arms. "Hay naku, Lee, kung hindi mo ako tanungin, hindi ka pa makakasigurado? Talaga bang tatlong beses kang naging national champion sa debate?"

Mark grinned. "I just like hearing you say it."

"Putangina mo," Haechan muttered, but his ears were red.

Mark chuckled, pulling him in for a quick kiss before leaning back again. "So, are we telling people?"

Haechan raised an eyebrow. "Feeling mo ba hindi pa nila alam?"

Mark thought about it. Their friends were not stupid. They had all witnessed the years of tension, the never-ending arguments, the way Haechan and Mark had always gravitated toward each other even when they swore they hated each other.

And considering how not subtle they had been lately…

Mark groaned, rubbing his face. "God, they probably already know."

Haechan smirked. "You just realized?"

Mark sighed. "You think they’ll say anything?"

Haechan snorted. "Si Jeno at Renjun? Oo. Magpapatay-malisya lang ‘yung dalawa, pero siguradong aasarin tayo mamaya."

Mark groaned. "Great."

And, of course, Haechan was right.

**

The moment Mark and Haechan walked into their usual café the next afternoon, Jeno and Renjun immediately exchanged looks.

Haechan ignored them, plopping down into the seat across from Jeno and stealing one of his fries. "Sup, mga gago."

Mark, on the other hand, already knew where this was going.

"Wow," Jeno drawled, looking between them. "Nagkasundo na kayo?"

"Grabe naman ‘to," Haechan said through a mouthful of fries. "Parang ‘di mo pa ako kilala, Jeno. Lagi naman kaming magkasundo ni Mark!"

Renjun snorted. "Oh, sure."

Mark exhaled sharply, setting his coffee down. "What do you want?"

Jeno smirked. "Wala naman, bro. Masaya lang kami para sa inyo."

Haechan blinked. "Anong para saan?"

Renjun grinned. "Sa bago n’yong relasyon."

Mark and Haechan froze. Then—

"Tangina, ang bilis ah!" Haechan exclaimed, pointing at them. "Sinong nagsabi?!"

Jeno laughed. "Pare, kami na lang ba ‘yung hindi nyo sinabihan?!"

Renjun smirked, stirring his drink. "You guys have been acting sus for weeks. Mark suddenly hanging out more? Haechan actually not fighting with him every two seconds?"

Jeno nodded. "Tapos biglang may lingering eye contact? May konting paghawak sa braso? Tapos, dude, you don’t even sit across from each other anymore, laging magkatabi?!"

Mark groaned, rubbing his temple. "So obvious ba talaga?"

Haechan muttered, "Putangina, dapat pala mas discreet tayo."

Renjun and Jeno both burst out laughing at the same time.

"Babe, wala na kayong tinatago!" Renjun wheezed. "You literally bicker like a married couple and then make heart eyes after—"

Jeno nodded, grinning. "Chan, I literally caught you feeding Mark a fry the other day."

Haechan scoffed. "Para sa ikabubuhay niya ‘yun!"

"What the fuck, Haechan," Mark muttered. "Seriously?"

Jeno was still laughing. "Dude, don’t even deny it. You’ve been down bad for each other since first year."

Haechan crossed his arms. "Una siyang nahulog!"

Mark scoffed. "That is so false—"

"Totoo!" Haechan turned to Jeno and Renjun. "Sino ang una? Ako o siya?"

Renjun smirked. "Feeling ko sabay kayong bobo."

Jeno nodded. "Confirmed. You both lost the debate."

Haechan groaned, flopping onto the table. "Putangina."

Mark sighed. "This is humiliating."

Jeno smirked. "Nah, bro. This is love."

Haechan lifted his head just to flip him off.

Renjun grinned. "Congrats na lang. Pero please, kung aamin na rin lang kayo, sabihin nyo na lang. Hindi na namin kailangan ng suspense."

Mark exhaled, shaking his head. "Noted."

Haechan sighed dramatically, resting his chin on his palm. "Ayan na nga ba sinasabi ko eh. Kung hindi tayo nagsimula sa away, ‘di tayo magiging ganito."

Mark smirked, bumping his knee under the table. "Still wouldn’t change it."

Haechan blinked at him. Then, begrudgingly, he grinned. "Ako rin."

Jeno gagged. "Oh my god, get a room."

Renjun nodded. "Or at least wait until we leave."

Mark chuckled, stealing one of Haechan’s fries. Haechan didn’t even stop him. And that, more than anything, was proof enough.

**

It was supposed to be a normal study session. Or at least, that’s what Mark told himself. Except nothing was normal when Na Jaemin was involved.

"OH MY GOD, I KNEW IT!"

Mark barely had time to react before Jaemin lunged across the table, grabbing Haechan’s shoulders and shaking him like a man possessed.

"Putangina, Jaemin, ‘di ako bulalo!" Haechan yelped, trying to swat him away.

Jaemin gasped dramatically. "You’re not even denying it?! Oh my god, this is the best day of my life—"

"Bwisit," Haechan muttered, scowling. "Ano pa bang silbi ng denial? Alam n’yo na rin naman, ‘di ba?"

"Mmm." That sound came from Jaehyun, who was still flipping through his case readings, completely unbothered.

Jaemin gawked at him. "‘ Mmm’? That’s it?! That’s all you have to say?!"

Jaehyun turned a page. "What else is there to say?"

Jaemin looked personally offended. "Jae. This is a huge revelation."

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. "Not really. I already knew."

Jaemin’s jaw dropped. "WHAT?! SINCE WHEN?!"

Jaehyun finally looked up, expression blank. "Since the moment Mark let Haechan steal his fries without complaining."

Mark groaned, running a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ—"

Jaemin let out a loud gasp, slamming his hands on the table. "HOLY SHIT, HE’S RIGHT."

Haechan burst out laughing. "TANGINA, YES! WALA NA AKONG SASABIHIN!"

Mark scowled. "Jaehyun, seriously?"

Jaehyun shrugged. "Just an observation."

Jaemin cackled, looking like he was having the time of his life. "Mark, I’m telling you, you’ve been different lately."

Mark narrowed his eyes. "Different how?"

Jaemin smirked. "Less stressed. More… I dunno, what’s the word?" He turned to Jaehyun. "What’s the word?"

Jaehyun didn’t even hesitate. "Whipped."

Mark groaned, dropping his head onto the table. "Oh my God."

Haechan clapped his hands, delighted. "TANGINA, YES. WALA NA ‘KO KAILANGANG GAWIN!"

Mark shot him a glare. "You are enjoying this too much."

Haechan smirked. "Of course I am, Lee. You’re suffering."

Jaemin was grinning ear to ear. "Honestly, I feel like I’m watching a love team do an exclusive reveal."

Haechan perked up immediately. "Kung love team ‘to, sino ‘yung bida?"

Jaemin gasped. "Mark, obviously."

Haechan pouted. "Excuse me?! Bakit siya?!"

Jaemin rolled his eyes. "Dude, you are the love interest who keeps pretending he doesn’t like the lead, but everyone knows you do. It’s your role. Accept it."

Jaehyun nodded. "Agreed."

Haechan gasped dramatically, hand to his chest. "PUTANGINA, MARK, HOW DID I LOSE IN MY OWN LOVE STORY?!"

Mark sighed heavily. "I should’ve gone corporate."

Jaemin cackled, slapping the table. "TOO LATE, ATTORNEY."

Jaehyun smirked, finally putting his book down. "This is fun. We should do this more often."

Mark groaned again, but Haechan just grinned, bumping his knee against Mark’s under the table.

Mark sighed. "You’re enjoying this way too much."

Haechan smirked. "I always enjoy winning."

Jaemin gasped loudly. "HOLY SHIT, DID YOU JUST ADMIT MARK WON?!"

Jaehyun raised an eyebrow. "That’s new."

Haechan’s face immediately turned red. "TANGINA, ‘DI KO ‘YON SINABI!"

Mark smirked . "Too late."

Jaemin wiggled his eyebrows. "Ohhh, you’re so in love."

Haechan groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I hate all of you."

Jaemin just grinned, nudging Mark. "You two are disgusting."

Jaehyun nodded. "Agreed."

Mark sighed, looking at the people he unfortunately called friends. This was his life now. And honestly? He wouldn’t change it.

**

Graduation day arrived faster than either of them had expected.

For years, it had felt like some distant milestone—something to prepare for, something to talk about, but never something that would actually happen. There had always been another deadline, another debate, another article to write, another case to analyze. The future was always something abstract, something just beyond their reach.

But today, it was here. And it felt… surreal.

Haechan had never been sentimental. He had spent his entire college life focused on what came next—the next article, the next issue, the next movement that needed his voice. He never looked back. He never slowed down.

But standing here now, in his University of the Philippines graduation toga, staring at the sea of students in identical maroon and cream sablay, he couldn’t ignore the weight of it.

Four years. Four years of deadlines and protests, of newsroom chaos and sleepless nights, of fighting for stories that mattered even when it felt impossible.

Four years of Mark Lee—of arguments that stretched into the early hours of the morning, of debates that neither of them ever won, of tension so sharp it blurred into something else entirely.

And now, it was over. Or at least, this part was.

"Haechan!"

Haechan barely had time to turn before Jeno practically tackled him, throwing an arm around his shoulder. "Tangina, ‘di pa nagsisimula ‘yung program pero mukhang pagod ka na agad."

Haechan scoffed. "Gago, tumigil ka nga diyan. Nagpa-practice lang ako ng ‘thank you’ speech kapag nanalo akong journalist of the year someday."

Renjun, standing beside them, rolled his eyes. "Baka naman may bago nang journalist of the year pero nag-aaway pa rin kayo ni Mark kung sino ang mas magaling."

Haechan smirked. "Eh kasi ako talaga ‘yun, ‘di ba?"

Jeno and Renjun groaned in sync.

"Putangina, ang yabang talaga nito," Jeno muttered.

"Sana may magpaulan ng diploma dito para matauhan ka," Renjun added.

Haechan just laughed. He would’ve made another sarcastic remark, but before he could, the crowd started moving. Professors called out names, families cheered, and suddenly— It was real.

Across campus, in Ateneo’s covered courts, Mark adjusted his sash as he sat among his batchmates, listening to the speeches that marked the end of an era.

Unlike Haechan, Mark had thought about this moment before.

He had imagined his father shaking his hand, telling him he was finally ready to join the firm. He had imagined standing beside his teammates from debate competitions, talking about their future in corporate law, about high-profile cases and prestigious firms.

And yet, today, none of those things mattered. Because his future wasn’t what his father had planned for him anymore. It was his own.

He had turned down the firm. He had chosen a different path—one that wouldn’t make him rich, one that wouldn’t put him in glossy magazine covers as a “rising legal star.”

Instead, he was going to fight for people who couldn’t afford a lawyer. He was going to stand in courtrooms where justice wasn’t a privilege reserved for the powerful.

And for the first time in his life, he felt at peace with it. He exhaled, glancing at his phone. No messages from Haechan.

Which wasn’t surprising. Haechan had been busy all day, surrounded by friends, classmates, professors who actually liked him despite his tendency to start fights in class.

Mark smirked to himself. It was funny. Four years ago, he would’ve said that Haechan was his biggest opponent. Now, he wasn’t sure he knew how to do any of this without him.

Hours later, after the ceremonies, after the diploma handshakes and the never-ending photos, Mark found himself outside the UP Sunken Garden, waiting.

And—because the universe loved making things dramatic—Haechan found him first.

Mark barely had time to process before Haechan was standing in front of him, arms crossed, sablay still draped across his shoulder. "Attorney, ang tagal mo. Nauna na akong grumaduate, sayang ‘yung oras ko."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "So that’s how we’re doing this?"

Haechan smirked. "Ano, gusto mo mag-drama tayo?"

Mark sighed, tilting his head. "No congratulations?"

"Gago ka, ‘di mo naman kailangan ng congratulations. Malinaw namang matalino ka," Haechan teased, before rolling his eyes. "Fine. Congrats. Three-time debate champion, cum laude, lawyer ng masa—ano pa bang gusto mong marinig?"

Mark grinned, stepping closer. "Just that you’re proud of me."

Haechan stilled. And for a second, Mark thought he was going to deflect, make another sarcastic remark—

But instead, Haechan sighed. "Putangina, oo na."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Oo na what?"

Haechan groaned, shoving Mark’s shoulder lightly. "Tangina, oo na, proud ako sa’yo, Lee. Kahit ang bagal mo minsan umamin na gusto mo ‘tong ginagawa mo. Kahit palagi mong iniisip kung anong gusto ng tatay mo imbes kung anong gusto mo. Kahit minsan nakakabwisit ka kasi masyado kang logical. Kahit—"

Mark laughed, cutting him off. "You really suck at being sincere."

Haechan rolled his eyes. "Tarantado ka rin eh."

But then—softer, quieter— "Congrats, Mark."

Mark exhaled. And suddenly, this moment felt bigger than any diploma, any title, any speech. Because this was them. Bickering, teasing, never saying things outright—but knowing anyway.

Mark grinned, bumping their foreheads together. "Congrats din, journalist of the year."

Haechan huffed. "‘Di pa ako ‘yun, gago."

Mark smirked. "You will be."

And for the first time since they had met, since they had spent years pretending they weren’t bound to collide— Haechan didn’t argue. Haechan barely had time to breathe.

**

His mornings started with back-to-back editorial meetings, his afternoons were spent chasing sources who refused to go on record, and his nights—if he wasn’t writing until dawn—were spent arguing with his editor about why his exposés shouldn’t be softened for the sake of diplomacy.

It was exhausting. And he loved it.

Every article he wrote, every investigation he pursued, every time a corrupt politician’s office refused to comment—it reminded him why he had fought so hard for this.

He was writing stories that mattered. Stories that people couldn’t ignore. Stories that made the right people nervous. And even though it meant missing sleep, surviving on coffee, and constantly risking legal threats, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The only real problem? Mark Lee kept ruining his schedule. Haechan scowled at his phone as another "You need to eat" text from Mark appeared on his screen.

Mark: How many cups of coffee have you had today?

Haechan rolled his eyes before typing back.

Haechan: Gago, hindi ko alam pero buhay pa naman ako.

Mark: That’s not a number.

Haechan: That’s because I lost count.

Mark’s reply was instant.

Mark: Jesus Christ.

Haechan smirked, leaning back in his chair.

If anyone had told him four years ago that Mark Lee would be nagging him about caffeine intake like an old married couple, he would’ve laughed in their face. Now? Now, it was just part of his routine. And maybe—just maybe—he kind of liked it.

**

Mark barely had time to think. He had three hearings this week, a stack of case files taller than his coffee cup, and at least four clients who needed legal assistance but didn’t have enough money to file a single document.

It was overwhelming. And he thrived in it.

His father’s firm had always been sleek, efficient, designed to win. The legal aid center, on the other hand, was barely surviving. Understaffed, underfunded, drowning in impossible cases.

But here, Mark wasn’t just some fresh law graduate working to impress senior partners. Here, his work actually meant something. It wasn’t about protecting corporations or strategizing the best legal loophole. It was about real people.

The labor worker who was wrongfully dismissed. The family fighting for land they had lived on for decades. The single mother who had been scammed into an impossible loan.

They weren’t just cases. They were people who needed him to win. And even though it meant late nights, impossible deadlines, and cases he knew he wouldn’t always win, he never once regretted his decision.

The only real problem? Lee Donghyuck. Mark sighed as he glanced at his phone, reading the latest notification from Twitter. Of course. Haechan had started another online fight.

Mark didn’t know how Haechan had the time to write full-length articles, start multiple Twitter wars, and still have the energy to be this annoying.

@haechanwrites: “The legal system was never built to protect the marginalized. It was built to keep them in place. Argue with the wall.”

Mark exhaled sharply. It was too early for this. He barely hesitated before typing back.

@ marklee_esq : “If you’re arguing with a wall, maybe that’s a sign you need sleep.”

Seconds later, his phone vibrated.

@haechanwrites: “Don’t lawyers have better things to do than stalk my tweets?”

Mark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before replying.

@ marklee_esq : “Not when my boyfriend is trying to start a riot before 9 AM.”

Silence. Then— Mark’s phone buzzed with an incoming call. Mark smirked, already knowing exactly what was coming.

"Lee," Haechan hissed the moment he picked up. "WHAT WAS THAT?!"

Mark leaned back in his chair. "What?"

"You just—on main—what the fuck?"

Mark chuckled. "What? You didn’t think I’d reply?"

"No, I didn’t think you’d just announce we’re dating on Twitter like it’s a goddamn press release!"

Mark hummed. "Everyone already knows, Haechan."

Haechan groaned. "That’s not the point!"

Mark smirked. "Then what is?"

Silence.

Then—a dramatic sigh. "Putangina, fine. It’s kinda hot that you did that."

Mark laughed, shaking his head. "Thought so."

Haechan groaned louder. "I hate you."

Mark smiled. "No, you don’t."

And just like that—their new normal settled in.

**

They were both drowning in work.

Haechan had gone straight to the publication he had interned for, stepping into a newsroom that never slept, filled with journalists who had been doing this for years—some who had witnessed history, some who had exposed corruption, some who had learned how to live with the constant weight of telling the truth.

Mark had started at the legal aid center, drowning in stacks of case files, walking into hearings that were already rigged against his clients, realizing just how deeply unfair the system was when there was no billion-peso corporation funding your case.

They were both buried in work. But for the first time in their lives, neither of them had any doubts. Because they had been fighting since the beginning. Now, they were fighting for the same side.

And that? That was enough. For now. For always.

**

Haechan had imagined this moment before—walking into the newsroom as a full-time journalist, a fresh press ID in his pocket, the weight of real responsibility settling on his shoulders. But nothing had prepared him for how fast-paced, chaotic, and utterly relentless it would be.

Deadlines didn’t wait for him to adjust. Neither did the country.

"Hyuck, drop everything and cover this—"

"Hyuck, rewrite this by noon—"

"Hyuck, we need to tone this down, our editor-in-chief is getting pressure from above—"

And that? That was where he refused.

"Tangina, bakit natin kailangan i-tone down?" Haechan snapped, standing in his editor’s office, holding up the latest draft of his article. "This is true. It’s backed by evidence. This is the whole fucking point of journalism—"

His editor sighed. "And the point of staying in business is knowing which battles to fight, Lee."

Haechan hated that. Hated how it was always about compromise. Hated how people in power still found ways to control the truth. Hated how the same fucking system that had let criminals get away with everything was now telling him to pick and choose which stories were worth fighting for. But he never backed down.

And that’s why he found himself, weeks later, sitting in a tiny coffee shop with a whistleblower who was scared for her life.

She had uncovered something huge—millions of pesos in missing public funds, money that was meant for disaster relief but had somehow ended up in the personal accounts of a senator’s family. She was terrified. Rightfully so. But she had come to him. Because she knew he wouldn’t let this go.

Haechan gripped his cup, leaning forward. "I need your full statement," he said, voice steady. "I know you’re scared, but if we don’t tell this story—"

She swallowed. "They’ll come after me."

Haechan exhaled. "I won’t let that happen."

And he meant it. Even if it meant pushing against a system that wanted him silent. Even if it meant being threatened, being sued, being called reckless.

Because this was what he had always fought for. And he would never stop.

**

Mark had spent years memorizing laws. He had spent years arguing, competing, perfecting legal strategy. But none of it had prepared him for the reality of working at the legal aid center.

"Mark, we have six hearings this week."

"Mark, we lost the appeal. Again."

"Mark, if we can’t find a way to delay this, they’re getting evicted by the end of the month."

Every case felt like a fight against a system that had already decided who deserved to win.

A woman who had worked for 20 years at the same factory—fired overnight without severance.

A young activist, wrongfully arrested, being detained for charges that didn’t even make sense.

A fisherman whose land had been stolen through legal loopholes.

There were so many people who needed help. And so few of them who could afford it.

One night, after yet another loss in court, Mark sat alone in his office, scrolling through the latest headlines. His eyes landed on a familiar name. Haechan Lee. His latest article had just dropped. It was bold, scathing, and fearless. 

Mark smirked, shaking his head. Of course he wasn’t sleeping either. He checked his phone. 1:57 AM. Then, without thinking, he called. 

Haechan picked up instantly. "Ano na naman, Lee?"

Mark smiled. "You’re still awake."

"Gago ka ba? Ikaw din naman eh."

Mark leaned back in his chair. "I read your article."

"Hmm." A pause. Then— "Thoughts, Attorney?"

Mark chuckled. "You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, Haechan."

Haechan laughed. "Ano ka ba, hindi ako madaling patumbahin."

Mark exhaled, closing his eyes. "Yeah. I know."

Silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Not heavy. Just there. Like even with everything happening—the stress, the exhaustion, the reality of what they were doing—they still ended up here, in each other’s space.

"...You’re doing good work," Mark murmured.

A beat.

Then, softer— "Ikaw rin."

And for a moment, it didn’t feel so impossible.

**

They saw each other when they could. Sometimes, it was over coffee at ungodly hours when Mark finished a case and Haechan needed a break from writing. Sometimes, it was crashing at each other’s places, barely awake, just existing in the same space because neither of them had the energy for anything else. And sometimes—when neither of them could afford to step away from their jobs—it was just quick phone calls.

"Did you eat?"

"Are you alive?"

"Don’t get arrested, please."

Somehow, it worked. Somehow, even with everything trying to pull them in different directions, they never drifted apart. Because they knew. They had spent too much time fighting for things that didn’t matter. This? This mattered. And that was enough.

**

The world wouldn’t slow down for them. The corruption wouldn’t stop. The broken legal system wouldn’t magically fix itself.

Haechan would keep writing, keep exposing the things people wanted hidden, keep fighting for a world where the truth wasn’t a privilege but a right.

Mark would keep defending, keep standing in courtrooms where justice wasn’t guaranteed, keep fighting for people who had been told the law wasn’t meant to protect them.

They would keep pushing against something bigger than themselves. But they weren’t alone. Not anymore. Because even after everything—even after all the fights, all the debates, all the years of circling around what they really meant to each other—

They had ended up here. On the same side. Fighting the same fight. Together. And that? That was enough. For now. For always.

**

Ten Years Later

The world hadn’t slowed down. If anything, it had only gotten faster.

Mark barely had time to think most days. His office at the legal aid center was never empty, his calendar was a mess of court hearings, client meetings, and legal clinics in rural communities. He was one of the top human rights lawyers in the country now, which meant that—on any given day—he was either standing before a judge, fighting against corrupt institutions, or dealing with the constant threat of lawsuits from people who wanted him to shut the hell up.

Haechan’s life wasn’t any quieter. He had built a reputation as one of the most fearless investigative journalists in the country. He had won awards, exposed scandals that had brought down politicians, and published a best-selling book about press freedom in a nation that tried to silence the truth.

But with that success came danger. Threats. Lawsuits. Days where his name trended online because some government official had publicly called for his arrest.

He had been detained before. More than once. And every single time, Mark was the first person to show up at the police station.

"Attorney Lee, is it?" a police officer had sneered once. "Here to save your reckless journalist boyfriend again?"

Mark had just smiled tightly, placing the pre-filed habeas corpus petition on the counter.

"No need. He’s walking out of here tonight."

That had been three years ago. And still, nothing had changed. The system was still broken. The legal fights were still endless. And yet—somehow, they were happy.

**

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Mark sat at the dining table, scrolling through case notes on his laptop, a half-empty cup of coffee growing cold beside him.

It was late. Again. Haechan wasn’t home. Again. Mark sighed, rubbing his temple.  It had been weeks since they had last seen each other properly.

Haechan was out chasing stories, meeting sources in different cities, pushing himself past exhaustion in ways that made Mark constantly worry.

Mark had been just as bad—traveling between provinces for legal aid work, spending more nights at the office than at home, letting his work take over his life because it was easier than dealing with everything else.

They weren’t fighting. They weren’t falling apart. But they weren’t here. They weren’t together.

Mark sighed, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t hear the door open, but he felt it—the quiet shift in the air, the familiar presence he had missed more than he had allowed himself to admit.

"Uy, buhay ka pa pala."

Mark exhaled sharply, turning in his chair. Haechan was standing by the door, looking just as exhausted as Mark felt. His hair was messy from travel, his press ID still hanging around his neck, his bag slung over his shoulder like he had been running on autopilot for hours.

But he was here. And that was enough.

Mark sighed. "I thought you weren’t coming back until next week."

Haechan dropped his bag on the floor, stretching his arms above his head. "Eh ‘di na ako makapaghintay, attorney."

Mark smirked. "What, you missed me?"

Haechan rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he made his way toward the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle before slumping into the seat across from Mark.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then—

"Putangina, Mark," Haechan murmured, leaning against the table. "Aren’t you tired?"

Mark’s gaze softened. "Always."

Haechan exhaled. "Me too."

Silence. Not tense. Not uncomfortable. Just… there. And then, before Mark could think better of it—

"I don’t want this anymore."

Haechan blinked. "Ano?"

Mark shook his head, exhaling sharply. "I mean—I don’t want to keep living like this." He gestured between them. "This constant waiting, this—this in-between where we’re together, but we’re never in the same place at the same time—"

Haechan didn’t say anything. 

So Mark continued. "I want to come home to you," he admitted, voice quiet but steady. "Not to an empty apartment. Not to another unanswered text or missed call. To you."

Haechan swallowed. "Mark…"

Mark shook his head. "I know we love what we do. I know we’re both—we’re always going to be busy, we’re always going to have something pulling us away. But I don’t want to keep coming home to a place that doesn’t have you in it."

Haechan looked at him then. Really looked at him. And suddenly, he realized— He wanted the same thing. He had spent years chasing the next headline, the next fight, the next battle that needed his words. 

But the real battle? The real fight? Was knowing when to stop running.

And for the first time, Haechan wanted to. To stop running. To stop chasing. To just stay. With Mark.

"Tangina," Haechan whispered, letting out a soft laugh. "I was gonna propose to you tonight."

Mark’s breath hitched. "What?"

Haechan huffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, you just beat me to it, asshole."

And before Mark could even process that—Haechan was reaching into his bag, pulling out a small velvet box.

Mark froze. "You’re kidding."

Haechan smirked. "I bought this years ago, Lee. I was just waiting for the right time."

Mark exhaled, rubbing his face. "Jesus Christ."

Haechan grinned. "What? You thought I was gonna let you propose first?"

Mark let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Tangina mo talaga."

Haechan leaned forward, flipping the box open. "So?"

Mark swallowed, staring at the ring. It was simple. Elegant. Perfect.

His heart pounded. Because of course Haechan had been planning this. Of course he had been waiting for the right time. Of course he had known—long before Mark even realized—that they would end up here.

Mark exhaled sharply. Then, slowly—he reached into his own pocket.

Haechan’s eyes widened. "Oh, fuck you—"

Mark smirked, pulling out his own ring box.

Haechan gawked. "You—you—You bought one too?!"

Mark laughed. "Yeah."

"ANO ‘TO, UNOFFICIAL CONTEST?!"

Mark shrugged. "You always say I like to argue. Maybe I just wanted to win this one."

Haechan groaned. "Putangina, I can’t believe we both planned to propose on the same fucking day."

Mark grinned. "So, what now?"

Haechan snorted. "I dunno, attorney. Should we debate who gets to say ‘yes’ first?"

Mark laughed. "You say it first."

Haechan rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Then, softer— "Yes."

Mark’s smile softened. "Yeah." He nodded. "Yes."

And then, finally, after years of fighting, years of pushing, years of never quite knowing how to say what they meant—

They weren’t fighting anymore. They were choosing. Each other. For now. For always.

FIN

Chapter Text

Law & Letters Special 1

To the Ends of the Earth

It started with takeout and a random thought.

It was a regular Friday night at Mark’s condo—both of them in sweats, eating Jollibee Chickenjoy straight from the bucket. The coffee table was a battlefield of grease-stained napkins, half-finished fries, and an alarming number of sauce packets, because Haechan had a terrible habit of wiping his fingers every five seconds only to grab another piece of chicken right after.

The TV was on, playing a random legal drama that neither of them was actually watching. Mark, ever the workaholic, kept making comments about how “that’s not how cross-examinations work,” while Haechan made it his personal mission to remind him how embarrassing it was to voluntarily watch more legal proceedings in his free time.

Then, out of nowhere—

"Let's go to Iceland."

Mark, mid-bite, almost choked on his chicken. He coughed, reaching for his drink as he turned to stare at Haechan. "What?"

Haechan, ever dramatic, waved his drumstick in the air like he was announcing a groundbreaking case decision. "Iceland. Punta tayo."

Mark put down his drink and gave him a long, suspicious look. "Don’t you hate the cold?"

Haechan shrugged. "Oo."

"So why Iceland?!"

"I want to see the Northern Lights, Attorney." He licked some gravy off his fingers, looking far too pleased with himself. "Aurora Borealis, love. Isa sa Seven Wonders of the World."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "I don't think it's part of the Seven Wonders."

Haechan pointed at him aggressively. "It is now. Kasi gusto kong makita."

Mark laughed, shaking his head. "Okay, but love. Iceland? Seryoso ka?"

"Oo nga."

"But you get cold easily? Kahit naka-aircon lang, you complain a lot na?"

"Ano bang connect, Mark?" Haechan sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes like Mark was the unreasonable one. "Hindi lang porket malamig dun, ibig sabihin ayaw ko na. Adventure ‘to."

Mark gave him a dubious look. "I thought you were not adventurous?"

"Huh?! Ako pa?!" Haechan gasped, clutching his chest like he was personally attacked. "Excuse me! Ako ang pinaka-adventurous na taong kilala mo!"

Mark smirked. "When we rode the roller coaster, you said you hated it."

"Unang-una, Mark, hindi yun adventure. Yun ay trauma."

Mark burst out laughing, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. "Love, you’re OA."

But as he calmed down, he noticed that Haechan’s expression was serious. He wasn’t just saying it for fun. He really, really wanted to go.

There was something about the way he was leaning forward, hands clasped together, eyes bright with the possibility. Mark knew this look—Haechan got it when he was arguing a point he truly believed in, when he was fighting for something he wanted. It was rare, but it was real.

Mark sighed, leaning back against the couch. "So you’re serious about this? Like, for real?"

Haechan nodded. "Wala namang dahilan para hindi, ‘di ba? Hindi na ako broke college student. We have jobs. May savings na ako. And you have your salary and generational wealth." He smirked, nudging Mark’s knee with his own. "Tapos, sino ba naman makakapagsabi na we can’t go to Iceland together?"

Mark watched him for a moment, taking in the excitement in his voice, the way his fingers drummed impatiently against his thigh, the way his lips twitched like he was waiting for Mark to say no just so he could argue his way into a yes.

Then Mark sighed again, softer this time. And smiled.

"Alright. Let’s go to Iceland."

Haechan froze for a second, like he wasn’t expecting Mark to actually agree. Then his grin exploded across his face, so wide and bright that it was almost blinding.

He looked like he just won a case. Or better yet, like he just won Mark over—again, and again, and again.

Mark barely had time to process what he’d just agreed to before Haechan was already grabbing his phone, tapping furiously.

“Wait, love, what—”

“Googling the best time to see the Northern Lights.” Haechan squinted at the screen. “Hmm. September to March daw. So we have, like, a whole window to plan.”

Mark leaned over, peering at his phone. “Babe, that’s half the year. That’s not a window, that’s a door.”

“Exactly,” Haechan said, smug. He popped another fry into his mouth before shoving his phone in Mark’s hands. “Tignan mo, ang ganda. Pano mo masasabing hindi ka interested?”

Mark hummed, scrolling through pictures. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but okay, fine—there was something kind of magical about it. The sky streaked in green and purple, like nature itself was showing off. He glanced at Haechan, who was watching him expectantly, practically vibrating in place.

Mark sighed, defeated. “Okay, it looks cool.”

Haechan beamed. “Exactly! See? You get it.”

“But,” Mark started, because of course there was a ‘but,’ “you do realize we need to plan, right? Flights, hotels, budgeting—”

“Ako na bahala,” Haechan interrupted, waving him off like he had everything figured out.

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Love, no offense, but you couldn’t even plan our grocery list properly last week.”

“Eh kasi naman, bakit pa tayo bibili ng vegetables kung may Jollibee?”

Mark groaned, pressing a hand to his face. “Hindi healthy yun!”

“Eh ano ngayon? Mas healthy ba ang stress? Kasi ako, stressed pag kumakain ng gulay.”

Mark stared at him, deadpan. “Iceland ba talaga gusto mo, or gusto mo lang akong pagurin sa buhay?”

Haechan grinned, nudging his knee with his foot. “Two birds, one stone.”

Mark shook his head, exasperated but fond. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re in love with me,” Haechan sing-songed, stealing a sip from Mark’s drink.

“Unfortunately,” Mark muttered, but he was already smiling.

For a while, they just sat there, the TV still playing in the background, forgotten. The scent of fried chicken lingered in the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of pineapple juice.

Then, softer this time—

“You really want to go?”

Haechan looked at him, eyes shining. “Yeah.”

Mark didn’t know why, but something about the way he said it made his chest ache a little. Like this wasn’t just about Iceland or the Northern Lights. Like it was about something bigger.

So he reached for Haechan’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

“Alright,” he murmured, squeezing lightly. “Let’s go to Iceland.”

Haechan’s smile was slow, warm, a little disbelieving. “Yeah?”

Mark nodded. “Yeah.”

And just like that, it was decided.

**

The moment Mark agreed, Haechan was on a mission. Not even five minutes had passed before he was back on his phone, pulling up flights, hotels, and an unnecessary amount of travel vlogs. He had three tabs open on YouTube alone—one about Icelandic food, one about what to pack for extreme cold, and one titled "Iceland: The Ultimate Travel Guide (YOU NEED TO WATCH THIS!!!)" in all caps.

Mark, meanwhile, was still finishing his Chickenjoy. "Love, when I said we should plan, I didn’t mean right now."

Haechan ignored him, typing furiously. "I just need to know how much everything costs. Para may ballpark tayo."

Mark sighed, grabbing a napkin to wipe his fingers. "I thought you said, and I quote—‘Ako na bahala.’"

"Oo nga."

"Then why do I feel like ako ang bahala in the end ?"

Haechan clicked his tongue, waving his hand dramatically. "Mark, babe, mahal ko—hindi kita pinilit sumama. You agreed. This is a partnership now."

Mark narrowed his eyes. "You said you’d handle it."

"And I am handling it!" Haechan turned his phone toward Mark, flashing the screen in his face. "Look! I already checked flights. Singapore Airlines may promo next month. May layover sa Singapore, pero at least di tayo direct flight, less nakakapagod."

Mark blinked. “Since when do you care about flight durations?”

"Since ikaw ang kasama ko. Di kita kayang tiisin nang 15 hours straight na masikip yung upuan."

Mark huffed out a laugh. "Wow. So out of love, gano’n?"

Haechan smirked. "Siyempre. Ayoko ring mahirapan sarili ko sa kakatiis sayo."

Mark groaned. "Love, you are so full of shit."

But despite himself, he leaned over anyway, peering at Haechan’s phone. It was already a mess—tabs on tabs of articles, comparison websites, and, for some reason, a Google search for “how cold is too cold for a Filipino” .

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Love, why do you have a tab open for ‘Icelandic Mythology: Trolls and Elves’?"

Haechan gasped, clutching his phone to his chest. "Wag mong basahin yan!"

Mark grinned. "Nahuli na kita, wala nang taguan—love, are you scared of elves?"

Haechan scowled. "Hindi ‘takot,’ more like… respect."

"Oh my God." Mark laughed, throwing his head back. "You are scared!"

"Hoy! Mark!" Haechan whined, kicking him lightly. "Ano ka ba, sa culture nila, real yung mga ‘yan! May nabasa ako na may mga locals na hindi nagcoconstruct ng buildings sa certain areas kasi may ‘hidden people’ daw dun."

Mark shook his head, absolutely delighted by this revelation. "So you want to go to Iceland, but you’re scared of encountering elves?"

"Not scared!" Haechan huffed, crossing his arms. "Nagpaplano lang ako in case may ma-encounter tayo. We have to respect the supernatural."

Mark’s grin was unstoppable. "Ikaw ang pinaka-adventurous na taong kilala ko," he mimicked from earlier.

"Shut up."

Mark snickered, but he let it go—for now. Instead, he reached for his own phone, pulling up his Notes app. "Alright, if we’re really doing this, let’s make a list."

Haechan perked up immediately. "Yes, love that energy. Sige, sige, anong kailangan natin?"

Mark started typing.  Things to Plan for Iceland Trip:

1. Flights - Look for promos (Singapore Airlines, layover options)
   
   
2. Hotel - Somewhere near city center, preferably heated kasi Haechan will complain if malamig masyado
   
   
3. Budget - Convert PHP to ISK (also, find out why their money looks like Monopoly money)
   
   
4. Clothes - Buy winter gear (coats, gloves, Haechan’s ten layers of thermals)
   
   
5. Activities - See Northern Lights, visit Blue Lagoon, explore Reykjavik, avoid elves respect elves
   
   
6. Food - Try Icelandic hot dogs, but absolutely not fermented shark
   
   

Haechan made a face. "Wait, bakit may fermented shark?"

Mark wiggled his eyebrows. "Local delicacy. Want to try it?"

Haechan gagged. "Tangina, no. Pag ako napilit mo dyan, babawi ako. Kakain ka rin ng dinuguan."

Mark paled. "Love, no."

"Love, yes."

Mark groaned dramatically, but deep down, he was having way too much fun. Because somehow, what started as a random, offhanded thought over takeout was actually happening.

He glanced at Haechan, still scrolling through travel articles, animatedly muttering about needing the right kind of coat. His hair was a mess from how many times he’d run his fingers through it, his eyes practically glowing with excitement.

And Mark—Mark was so in love. Shaking his head, he reached for his drink, taking a slow sip.

"Alright, love," he said, smirking. "Let's plan this trip."

Haechan grinned. "Hell yeah."

**

By the time they got through step three of the list, Mark was already questioning his life choices.

"Okay, for the budget," he started, rubbing his temple, "I did the conversion, and one Icelandic króna is around .38 pesos—"

Haechan, without missing a beat, gasped. "Huh?! Ang mura naman nun!"

Mark stared at him. "Love, no. .38 pesos per króna."

"…Ah."

Silence. Then—

"So mura nga?"

Mark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "No, Haechan. It means 1,000 ISK is around 380 PHP. Hindi siya mura. Their basic meal costs around 2,500 ISK, which is like—" He paused, doing quick mental math. "Around 950 pesos per meal."

Haechan choked on air. "Tangina. Ang mahal!"

Mark gave him a look. "Exactly! That’s why we need to set a budget properly."

"Wait, wait, 950 per meal?!" Haechan grabbed Mark’s phone and scrolled rapidly, like he could somehow argue with Google. "Di ba dapat mas mura since cold country sila? Mas fresh ang food, ganun?"

Mark crossed his arms. "Love, Iceland literally has to import most of their ingredients. The only fresh thing there is seafood and skyr."

Haechan blinked. "Ano yung skyr? Sounds like a new K-pop group."

Mark sighed. "It’s like Icelandic yogurt. It’s really good, actually—"

"I don’t trust yogurt," Haechan muttered, shaking his head. "May something shady sa kanya."

Mark rubbed his eyes. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"Nothing fermented should be that smooth!" Haechan argued. "Ano ‘to, deceptive dairy?!"

Mark just stared at him. He was dating an actual lunatic.

"Moving on," Mark muttered before Haechan could derail the conversation any further. "We have two options: go full budget mode and stick to grocery store meals and cheap eats or accept that we’re going to spend a lot on food."

Haechan exhaled, slumping back against the couch. "Putangina. I was not emotionally prepared for this financial crisis."

Mark snorted. "We’re literally not even there yet."

"Exactly," Haechan huffed. "Ano pa kaya pag nandoon na tayo?!"

Mark shook his head, scrolling through his phone again. "We’ll be fine. I mean, we have savings. We can just adjust our itinerary to fit our budget."

Haechan sighed dramatically. "Fine. Pero dapat may at least one fancy meal."

"Sure."

"And by fancy, I mean wag kang madamot, Mark."

Mark smirked. "Gano’n ba tayo kahirap na ako pa rin ang madamot kahit ikaw ang nagyaya?"

Haechan pointed at him. "EXACTLY. You’re the one with generational wealth!"

Mark rolled his eyes. "You have a solid job too, Mr Journalist."

"But I’m a poor journalist. You do labor law. Ikaw ang mas maraming pera!"

Mark threw his hands up. "Ano na, love? Gusto mo na lang ng equal distribution of wealth?"

Haechan grinned. "Yes, actually. Simulan natin sa’yo."

Mark snorted, shaking his head as he typed a new note:

7. FOOD - One fancy meal (Mark pays, apparently 🙄)

**

"Alright," Mark continued, "now for clothes."

Haechan perked up. "Ooh! Shopping!"

"Not just shopping," Mark corrected. "We need proper winter gear. Hindi pwedeng basta jacket lang. We need thermal layers, gloves, scarves, hats—"

Haechan made a face. "Wait. Kailangan ba talaga ng ganyan karami? Hindi ba overkill?"

Mark gave him a long, tired look. "Love, ikaw ‘to. You literally complain when the office aircon is too strong."

"Eh kasi naman," Haechan argued, "parang pang Arctic yung lamig sa office namin! Demonyo yung maintenance team dun!"

Mark groaned. "Haechan, we are going to the ACTUAL Arctic."

Silence. Then— "…Oh."

Mark stared at him, unimpressed. "Exactly."

Haechan huffed, grabbing his phone again. "Fine, fine. Let’s go shopping this weekend."

Mark smirked. "You mean, I go shopping while you complain about the cold inside the mall?"

"Wow. Unfair."

"Pero totoo?"

"…Shut up."

Mark snickered, adding to the list:

8. WINTER GEAR - Buy thermals, coats, gloves, scarves, etc. (prepare for Haechan’s complaints)

**

Mark leaned back, stretching his arms. "Alright. I think we covered everything."

Haechan yawned, resting his head on Mark’s shoulder. "Ang daming plano pala."

Mark chuckled, rubbing gentle circles on Haechan’s arm. "Iceland isn’t exactly a ‘wing it’ destination, love."

Haechan hummed, closing his eyes. "Doesn’t matter. As long as kasama kita."

Mark paused, heart stumbling over itself. Then he smiled, pressing a soft kiss to Haechan’s hair.

"Yeah," he murmured. "As long as we’re together."

And just like that, Iceland was officially happening.

**

Mark had mentally prepared himself for this. He knew that taking Haechan shopping for anything was never simple. He had witnessed it first hand—whether it was a quick grocery run that somehow turned into a deep philosophical debate about which brand of hotdog was superior or that one time they spent three hours in a sneaker store because Haechan couldn’t decide between two identical pairs of white shoes.

So yeah, he had expected chaos. But not like this.

"Mark," Haechan declared, holding up a beige trench coat in front of a mirror, "do I look like a French detective in a crime drama?"

Mark blinked. “Love. That is not even a winter coat."

Haechan ignored him. "Parang ang sosyal. If I wear this, mukhang may murder case akong tinatrabaho."

Mark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Love, we’re going to Iceland. Hindi Paris. You need something thicker."

Haechan huffed, putting it back with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. " Then he grabbed another one. "Ooh, this one is fuzzy!"

Mark turned and immediately grimaced. "Love, that is hot pink."

"Exactly! " Haechan grinned, already draping it over his shoulders. "Para akong may personal heater!"

Mark rubbed his temples. "Do you want to blend in or look like a lost K-pop idol?"

Haechan grinned wider. "Both."

Mark groaned, giving up on logic. After another hour of trying on coats, comparing gloves, and arguing about scarf lengths, they finally left the store with a decent haul:

✅ One thick (and reasonable ) winter coat for Haechan
✅ Thermal layers, gloves, scarves, and hats (which Mark personally picked because he didn’t trust Haechan’s judgment)
✅ Haechan’s new favorite fuzzy socks ( "They make me feel rich, Mark!" )