Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Brief outline for relationships, friendships and livingness

Hongjoong is studying music production. He’s in his third and final year.
Seonghwa is in fashion design. He’s in his third and final year.
Yunho is at a preforming arts school. He’s in his second year.
Yeosang is in law school. He’s in his second year.
San is studying business. He’s in his second year.
Mingi is at a preforming arts school. He’s in his second year.
Wooyoung is in culinary school. He’s in his second year.
Jongho is studying finance. He’s in his first year.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa are in an established relationship.
Yunho and Mingi are both oblivious to each others feelings.
Yeosang and Jongho are starting to form feelings for each other.
San and Wooyoung are thinking their feelings are one-sided.

San and Jongho are brothers.
Wooyoung and Yeosang are best friends.
Yunho and Mingi are best friends.

Seonghwa, Hongjoong, Yeosang and Wooyoung all live together.
Yunho, Mingi, San and Jongho all live together. Jongho having recently moved in.

For the sake of my sanity, they all got full ride scholarships that cover accommodation (to a certain amount and in specified student dorms) and a living/food stipend. They will get jobs later, I promise. (I didn't have a job until mid 2nd year at uni).

This one is going to be a long fic. With a sporadic uploading schedule. Let's Go.

The Beginning of Eight

The apartment was already warm with noise by the time Seonghwa slid the front door shut behind him. The living room glowed golden under the dim hanging lights. Someone was playing a mellow playlist from their phone, and the smell of garlic, pepper, and something suspiciously buttery filled the air.

“Joong-ah, I think he’s in one of his moods again,” Seonghwa said lightly as he toed off his shoes, nodding toward the kitchen where Wooyoung was pacing.

“No, I’m not,” Wooyoung snapped without looking up from the pot he was stirring. “I’m in my chef era. This is art. This is my midterm.”

Yeosang sat on the couch with a throw pillow clutched to his chest, clearly waiting for the chaos to blow over. “He’s been muttering to the carrots for twenty minutes.”

Hongjoong, wearing a soft black sweater that Seonghwa loved stealing, came out of the bedroom and offered his boyfriend a quick smile. “Let’s give him some space. It’s better if he works through it on his own.”

“I can hear you!” Wooyoung barked, waving his spatula like a sword. “And no one touches the risotto unless they want to lose a hand.”

Mingi chose that exact moment to poke his head in from the hallway. “Did you say risotto? Is it ready? I’m starving.”

“I just said don’t touch it—!”

Wooyoung nearly leapt over the island, like a feral cat, and Mingi yelped, darting back into the living room and crashing directly into Yunho, who caught him with practiced ease.

“Easy,” Yunho laughed, steadying them both. “He’s serious about this one. Remember the soufflé incident?”

“We don’t talk about the soufflé incident,” San deadpanned from the floor, where he was setting up makeshift place settings between the coffee table and and the couch. “My eyebrows still haven’t forgiven him.”

“I said don’t open the oven, and someone opened the oven,” Wooyoung hissed like it still haunted him in dreams. Feral cat indeed.

Jongho, the last to arrive, showed up with a small tray of drinks and a tired but content smile. “I brought sparkling water. Don’t ask me why, I just wanted bubbles, without the alcohol, or the sugar, I have a test in the morning.”

Hongjoong snorted “So you brought the fizzy equivalent of academic guilt. Nice.”

Yeosang scooted aside so Jongho could sit next to him, their shoulders almost brushing brushing. “You know Wooyoung’s going to comment on how it won’t pair with the food.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t show up with convenience store gimbap again.”

In the middle of all this, Seonghwa leaned against the counter, watching with a private smile. He felt Hongjoong sidle up beside him, their hands brushing until fingers laced together instinctively.

“You okay?” Seonghwa asked quietly, his voice low beneath the chatter.

“Yeah,” Hongjoong said, a small sigh escaping him. “It’s a good kind of chaos. Feels like home.”

Seonghwa turned to look at him, his expression softening. “It is home.”

Their home. Shared not just with Wooyoung’s culinary panic or Yeosang’s dry sarcasm, but with the lives of people they loved — tangled in each other’s schedules, always borrowing laundry soap or forgetting who bought the last roll of toilet paper. The kind of chaos that had music in it. That meant something.

“Alright, everyone shut up and sit down!” Wooyoung shouted triumphantly, holding up two gleaming platters like the winner of a food competition. “Dinner is served. If you don’t like it, lie to me.”

They gathered quickly, the floor a mess of crossed legs and mismatched bowls. Plates were passed around. Compliments flowed more easily than water, even if San made a face at the mushrooms and Jongho poked suspiciously at the sauce.

Wooyoung beamed anyway.

Wooyoung cracked open a can of sparkling water, raised it like a toast, and sniffed. “Mmm, nothing hits like emotionally stable soda. Thanks, Jongho—this really pairs well with repressed stress and mushroom slander.”

Jongho rolled his eyes but looked pleased anyway.

Later, when the food was mostly gone and the conversation drifted toward upcoming tests and post-graduation fears, Hongjoong found Seonghwa’s thigh under the blanket he’d pulled over them, and rested his hand there. Seonghwa didn’t look away from the group, but his fingers curled warmly over Hongjoong’s.

“We should do this more often,” Hongjoong murmured.

Seonghwa turned then, his voice quiet and steady. “We’re going to have a whole life of this.”

For a moment, the noise faded. And even in a room filled with  six other voices, it felt like there was only the two of them.

The dishes were mostly cleared — or at least pushed to the side with promises of “we’ll clean them later,” which everyone pretended to believe. The risotto had been a hit, Wooyoung was glowing, and Mingi was curled on the floor with his head in Yunho’s lap like he was in food coma recovery.

The lights had dimmed a little, someone had lit a candle that smelled like vanilla and something herbal, and the apartment had softened into that late-evening comfort where everyone was too full to move, too lazy to leave, and too content to end the night just yet.

Yeosang, of all people, was the one who said it.

“We should play truth or dare.”

San blinked at him. “Are we fourteen?”

“No, but we’re boring adults now, so I’m trying to help,” Yeosang said, lifting an eyebrow like it was a personal favor. “Unless you’d rather clean the dishes?”

Wooyoung immediately flopped onto the floor next to Jongho. “I’m in. This better be spicy.”

“Stone cold sober truth or dare,” Jongho muttered. “Can’t wait for someone to dare me to… drink a glass of milk.”

“It’s about the spirit of the thing,” Wooyoung said, poking him.

“I think this is cute,” Mingi mumbled from Yunho’s lap. “I’m too full to lie. I vote yes.”

“Fine,” Hongjoong said, pulling a pillow into his lap as he leaned against Seonghwa on the couch. “But no dares that require fire. Or running. Or glitter.”

“No promises,” Yeosang said smoothly.

They formed a loose circle — the coffee table pushed aside, the empty risotto dishes stacked haphazardly in the kitchen. The candle flickered between them like a ceremonial torch. Yunho took charge.

“I’ll start,” he said. “And I’ll go easy since we’re easing back into our childhoods here.”

His eyes scanned the circle and then landed on San. “Truth or dare?”

San stretched, cracking his knuckles like he was prepping for war. “Dare.”

“I dare you,” Yunho said, eyes gleaming, “to look Yeosang dead in the eye and ask if he believes in soulmates. But say it like you’re about to propose.”

San groaned but turned dramatically toward Yeosang, folding his hands over his chest. “Yeosang... do you—”

Yeosang didn’t even blink. “Only in tax fraud and group projects.”

The room burst into laughter. Jongho looked skyward like he was begging for patience.

The game spiraled from there.

Yeosang dared Wooyoung to describe his perfect romantic date — “real or fantasy,” which led to an unexpectedly soft confession about baking cinnamon rolls for someone who looked good in sweaters. Wooyoung immediately turned pink, eyes darting to San quickly and away again.

Jongho admitted under pressure that his first crush was his middle school math tutor, and San gave him a dramatic thumbs-up for being predictable. Yunho was dared to sing the chorus of a love song with eye contact. He picked Mingi and everyone booed when Mingi joined in and turned it into a duet.

It was Hongjoong, curled up beside Seonghwa, who eventually said, “Alright. My turn. Hwa?”

Seonghwa, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, looked up lazily. “Hmm?”

“Truth or dare?”

He smirked. “Truth.”

Hongjoong paused just long enough for everyone to look suspicious. “What’s one thing you haven’t told me yet, but want to?”

The room quieted — not in a bad way. Just in that instinctive, shared silence that fell when something real entered the space.

Seonghwa tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. “Not because I don’t want to tell you,” he said softly. “Just… it hasn’t come up, I guess.”

Hongjoong’s gaze was gentle. “That counts.”

Seonghwa nodded once, then said, “I saved the receipt from our first date. It’s in the back of my sketchbook.”

The group collectively let out an “Awwww,” while Hongjoong just blinked, caught between being touched and wrecked.

“You—what?”

“I was nervous,” Seonghwa admitted with a little laugh. “I thought if it went badly, I’d want to remember what not to do again. And then you smiled at me across that plastic table and I knew I wanted to remember everything instead.”

Hongjoong leaned forward, kissing his cheek. “You’re disgusting and perfect.”

“And you love me.”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong said, pulling him closer, “I really do.”

“Okay,” Wooyoung gagged playfully, tossing a napkin at them. “Can we please get back to making San do stupid things?”

“I’m not the one who cried during Your Name,” San shot back.

“EXCUSE ME—”

Chaos resumed. But under it, quiet affection hummed like background music — hands reaching for each other without thinking, eyes catching across the circle, comfort layered into every tease and challenge.

It was a school night. They had classes in the morning. But for now, they had this.

And it was enough.

The front door clicked shut behind Mingi and Yunho, who had taken a very sleepy San and an even sleepier Jongho with them. Yeosang had dragged Wooyoung into their shared room with promises of helping him write down recipe notes before he forgot every single measurement. (“I eyeballed it,” Wooyoung had wailed. “I am a vessel of instinct!”)

Now, the apartment was quiet. Dim. The candle had burned low. And the kitchen—

Was a war zone.

Plates stacked precariously beside the sink. Forks submerged in murky lukewarm water. Someone had left a single grain of rice on the stove like it was holding a candlelight vigil. A glass rolled dangerously close to the edge of the counter.

Seonghwa sighed. “This is our penance for feeding eight people.”

“No,” Hongjoong said, stretching his arms above his head with the groan of someone who'd fought hard and loved harder. “This is why God invented dishwashers. Which we tragically do not have.”

“Which is why you’re doing them,” Seonghwa replied sweetly.

Hongjoong blinked at him. “Excuse me? I cut the mushrooms. I massaged Wooyoung’s ego all night.”

“I lit the candle. I emotionally supported everyone in that truth or dare game.”

“I emotionally supported you,” Hongjoong countered, pointing dramatically. “That receipt thing? That was a direct attack on my heart. I deserve at least dish exemption.”

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes.

“We settle this the ancient way.”

Hongjoong lit up. “Rock, paper, scissors.”

They squared off like duelists, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the sink, brows furrowed, matching in intensity and absurdity. Seonghwa pulled his hair back into a loose tie like he was preparing for battle.

“One round,” he said. “No best of three.”

“Coward,” Hongjoong muttered.

“Cheater.”

“Sore loser.”

“Future loser.”

“Just rock-paper-scissors me already.”

They held out their fists, and in unison chanted:
“Rock… paper… scissors…”

Seonghwa threw paper.

Hongjoong threw scissors.

A beat of silence.

“NO!” Seonghwa cried, staggering back in mock devastation. “BETRAYAL! TREASON!”

Hongjoong did a little victory spin. “This is what strategy looks like. This is what genius is.”

“You always throw scissors first!”

“I knew you knew that!”

Wooyoung’s voice piped up again: “He always throws scissors first. You fell for it!”

Seonghwa groaned into a dish towel. “Fine. But I’m doing the washing, you dry.”

“No way,” Hongjoong said, grinning as he turned on the faucet. “Winner supervises. Loser works.”

“You’re drunk on power.”

“I’m drunk on love and the satisfaction of winning.”

Seonghwa tossed a sponge at him but it missed by a mile.

They moved around each other with ease, because of course Hongjoong helped — plates clinking, warm water running, soft laughter bubbling between half-hearted complaints. At one point, Seonghwa squirted a little dish soap onto Hongjoong’s hand “by accident,” and Hongjoong retaliated by flicking a drop of water at Seonghwa’s cheek.

Distantly, the low murmur of Yeosang and Wooyoung working through measurements filled the quiet. Something about cardamom and “Wooyoung, that’s not a real unit of time.” The apartment was alive, but peaceful. Settled.

By the time the last spoon was drying on the rack, Seonghwa and Hongjoong were leaning against the counter, hips touching, breathing easy.

“You know,” Seonghwa murmured, glancing at him sideways, “I was going to let you win.”

“You did.”

“You absolutely cheated.”

Hongjoong leaned in and kissed the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth. “You absolutely let me.”

Seonghwa turned to him fully, resting his forehead against Hongjoong’s. “I love you, you menace.”

Hongjoong smiled. “Love you more, dish boy.”

“Rude,” Seonghwa said, but he was smiling too.

The soft buzz of Seonghwa’s phone alarm stirred the room before the sun did. A sleepy groan followed, muffled into the pillow. It was set to vibrate, as always — loud alarms were a crime before 8 a.m., especially when your boyfriend could sleep like a stone through an earthquake.

Seonghwa reached for the phone blindly, turned off the alarm, and then rolled over with a heavy sigh.

Hongjoong was curled into him, arms loose around Seonghwa’s waist, cheek squished softly against his shoulder. His hair was a little chaotic — flattened in the back and curling up where it wanted — and he was breathing in that peaceful, quiet rhythm that made Seonghwa want to ignore class altogether and just stay like this forever.

Instead, he pressed a kiss to Hongjoong’s forehead. “Baby,” he whispered. “We have class.”

A groan. “I reject that reality.”

“You have lab. I have draping studio. We cannot skip both.”

Hongjoong sighed dramatically, then peeled one eye open. “Can’t we be reckless just once and run away to Busan?”

“Baby,” Seonghwa said, amused, “we have intro critiques today.”

“I hate intro critiques,” Hongjoong mumbled, flopping onto his back. “They make me defend chord progressions like I murdered someone.”

Seonghwa leaned over him, brushing hair off his forehead. “You can stay here while I shower. But if you’re not up by the time I’m out, I’m dragging you out of bed.”

“Threatening.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately,” Seonghwa smiled he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, warm steam trailing behind him and a towel slung low on his hips, Hongjoong was sitting on the bed blinking sleep from his eyes and clutching Seonghwa’s sweatshirt like a lifeline. He perked up when he saw just how low the towel was.

“I’m wearing this,” he said.

“That’s mine.”

“I’m wearing it.”

“...Fine.”

They fell into their quiet morning routine — tea for Seonghwa, coffee for Hongjoong, both made in their small galley kitchen where the toaster made vague threats of bursting into flames every time it popped.

Yeosang was already at the table, dressed, coffee in one hand and law case summaries in the other, looking like he hadn't slept but had somehow won the war anyway. He glanced up as they entered. He was just such a beautiful man.

“Morning,” he said, not looking away from the screen. “The toaster almost killed me again."

“It's possessed,” Hongjoong said solemnly, and then immediately yelped when the toaster popped behind him.

“Very scary,” Seonghwa muttered, pulling two mugs from the cabinet.

Wooyoung stumbled out of his room a few minutes later, wrapped in a hoodie three sizes too big, stolen from San no doubt, and clutching a banana like it had personally saved his life. His hair was a disaster, and he blinked blearily at the kitchen like it offended him.

“I’m not built for mornings,” he declared, flopping into a chair beside Yeosang, who hummed in agreement and passed him a corner of his toast.

“Your 9 a.m. chef lab says otherwise,” Yeosang replied.

“Chef lab is suffering,” Wooyoung said mournfully. “Yeosangie, I should’ve gone to business school.”

“Too late. You now know how to julienne, there is no going back after that.”

Their bags had been left by the door the night before — Three of them were the kind of people who liked being five minutes early but only ever managed it by preparing ten hours in advance. The other was Seonghwa. As they moved around each other with the quiet choreography of shared routines, Seonghwa smoothed his shirt collar in the hallway mirror while Hongjoong scribbled a reminder on his wrist in blue pen. Wooyoung raided Yeosang’s granola bar stash. Yeosang did not stop him.

Shoes on. Keys in hand. One last check.

Seonghwa reached for his water bottle on the counter — and paused when he saw the little note stuck to it in Hongjoong’s handwriting.

“Kill them with your design. Save me a seat in hell.”

He laughed, heart swelling, and turned to see Hongjoong watching him from the doorway with a smirk and toast in his mouth.

“You’re an idiot,” Seonghwa said fondly.

“You love that about me,” Hongjoong replied.

“Unfortunately,” Seonghwa echoed, stepping close and brushing crumbs from his cheek. “Tragically. Irrevocably.”

He kissed him once — slow and sweet, like a promise between early classes and late-night cuddles.

Wooyoung made a gagging noise behind them. “We get it, you’re in love.”

Yeosang sipped his coffee without looking up. “You were literally sitting in his lap during the movie last night.”

“Yeah, but that was artistic,” Wooyoung said.

Seonghwa rolled his eyes. Hongjoong just grinned wider.

Then the four of them filed out the door together, a little sleepy and a little chaotic.

At the other apartment, they were already awake, in that half-hearted, mostly vertical kind of way.

San’s alarm had gone off fifteen minutes ago, and he’d hit snooze twice before finally dragging himself into the hallway in mismatched socks and a shirt that may or may not have been Jongho’s. His hair was sticking up wildly on one side.

In the kitchen, Jongho stood by the stove making scrambled eggs with his usual precision, earbuds in, one eye on the pan and the other on the clock.

Mingi stumbled in next, blanket still draped around his shoulders, yawning as he beelined for the fridge. “Did we ever get more milk?” he mumbled, blinking at the empty shelf.

“No,” Jongho replied without looking. “You said you were going to get it after class and then went to the studio instead, and then we were at the Hyungs for dinner.”

“Right. That feels accurate.”

Yunho emerged from the shared room last, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from his shower. He looked more awake than the others — barely — and made a soft sound of greeting as he crossed to the cabinet for tea. He brushed shoulders with Mingi in the tight kitchen space, offering him a tired smile.

“Morning,” Mingi said, voice quiet.

“Hey,” Yunho replied.

San had migrated to the couch with his coffee and was half-watching the news with the volume low. “Someone remind me why we chose 9 a.m. classes again?”

“Because you didn’t want night labs,” Jongho called. “And because I warned you not to stack everything on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“I regret everything.”

Mingi grabbed a protein bar from the counter and unwrapped it slowly, eyes barely open. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday,” Yunho answered, glancing at his phone. “You’ve got practice at noon. I have theatre comp. San has that marketing group meeting.”

“And San,” Jongho added, sliding eggs onto a plate, “have your econ quiz.”

San groaned again.

There was a quiet rhythm to the way the apartment moved around itself — shoes shuffled by the door, books slid into bags, jackets shrugged on without much ceremony. The heater clanked once in protest as someone opened a window, and Yunho reached past Mingi to close it again with a soft laugh. “You’re going to freeze like that.”

Mingi just shrugged the blanket tighter around himself. “Worth it. Needed air.”

As Jongho filled his thermos and San gathered his things with exaggerated sighs, Yunho nudged Mingi gently. “You gonna wear real clothes today?”

Mingi gave him a lazy smile. “Eventually.”

“Laundry’s on the dryer,” Jongho said without missing a beat. “Folded. You’re welcome.”

“Maknae of the year,” San muttered as he stuffed a granola bar into his pocket.

Just before they all headed out, Yunho paused to stick a note to the fridge — a reminder for Mingi about the USB he’d need for the day.

Mingi noticed. He always noticed.

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” he said, quieter now, almost to himself.

Yunho shrugged. “Just want you to be ready.”

The corners of Mingi’s mouth twitched. “I usually forget.”

“I know.”

It was just a normal morning — keys jingling, shoes pulling on, backpacks hoisted over shoulders — but the easy rhythm of it all felt like something solid, something theirs.

They left together, door swinging shut behind them, the last notes of warmth trailing in their wake.

Chapter Text

The Shape of Us

The studio smelled like muslin and coffee — a blend of fabric starch, machine oil, and burnt espresso from the hallway vending machine that someone always insisted on drinking. Early sunlight streamed through the long windows, casting honey-gold shadows across the bolts of fabric and the stark white dress forms arranged in a half-circle.

Seonghwa stood quietly at his station, pinched between concentration and calm. He always arrived ten minutes early — it gave him time to breathe in the silence before the rustling of paper patterns and the thrum of industrial sewing machines started.

Today’s assignment: single-yard structural exploration.
One yard of muslin. One dress form. No scissors. No sketches.

Just the drape.

He chose Form 5 — slightly curved at the hips, longer in the torso — and pinned the edge of his muslin along the left shoulder seam, then let the rest fall freely.

It slipped downward like water.
Soft, fluid — a line from shoulder to knee in a slow arc.

He narrowed his eyes.

Some students rushed straight into pleats or complex folds. But Seonghwa… he studied. Watched. Let the fabric speak. The studio light kissed the muslin’s grain, illuminating faint diagonal pulls and natural tension where the weave wanted to twist.

There. A tension line across the waist, like the hint of a breath held too long.

He followed it.

His hands were deft, measured — thumbs flattening the fabric while his fingers eased it into a gathered fold, pinning loosely, tucking gently. The sound of the pin sliding into the muslin was soft, almost meditative. He let the fabric swing free over one hip, weighting it with a small clip. The drape now dipped, hung, and rose again at the back like a slow, breathless turn.

Someone in the corner cursed as their form tipped over. Seonghwa barely registered it.

He was somewhere else — in that in-between space where creation lives.

A curved gather at the back neckline caught his eye. It was unintentional, a result of the way he’d pulled the fabric forward — but now, with a slight twist, it mimicked the fall of hair. Like someone had just turned, spine exposed. Vulnerable. Graceful.

That’s it, he thought.

It reminded him of a photo he had taken once. Backlit, soft focus, Hongjoong half-dressed with one shoulder bare, laughing and reaching behind himself to pull his shirt up. The moment had been private. Intimate. Candid in the most beautiful way.

This silhouette had that same breathless softness — vulnerable but strong. Delicate in intention. Honest in shape.

“Seonghwa,” his professor said, passing behind him slowly. “This is… poetic.”

Seonghwa nodded once, eyes still focused on the fabric. “It’s a beginning.”

He unpinned, then repinned. Gently cinched the waist, let the ends fall into a soft asymmetric train behind. He reached for a ribbon — just one — and tied it loosely at the lower back, letting it dangle.

It was like sculpting air.

He stepped back, lips parted just slightly, and let himself admire the motion in stillness — how the folds caught the light, how the form looked almost like it had turned to whisper something. The lines weren’t perfect, not yet, but the intention was there.

And now the idea had bloomed.

He could see it — in silk. Or maybe a sheer organza layered over matte jersey. Structured at the waist but free at the shoulders. A backless drop. Silver threading.

His phone buzzed gently on the table beside him.

joong:
[9:52 AM] how’s it going, genius
[9:52 AM] am I winning in the creative boyfriend race yet

Seonghwa smiled, typing with clean fingertips:

hwa:
[9:53 AM] you’re lucky you already won

He set the phone down again, heart warm and steady, then returned to his form.

Hands in motion.
Fabric in fall.
Love in every line.

It was a little past noon when Hongjoong made it across campus, a tote bag slung over one shoulder and his black ballcap pulled low against the sun. The music production wing had been stifling all morning — cables and synths and not enough working fans — so stepping into the cooler air of the fashion building felt like a reward in itself.

He knew the way to the draping studio by heart. He’d walked it a dozen times over the years — with coffees, snacks, stolen kisses — but never once tired of watching Seonghwa at work. It was like slipping behind the curtain of a concert and seeing someone become the art they were trying to make.

He cracked the door open quietly.

The room was hushed, save for the occasional squeak of a stool, the soft clink of a pin tin being set down. Light filtered in from high windows, casting bright, angled slices across the studio. And there, at the far end, was Seonghwa — back turned, deep in focus, one hand at the waist of a form while the other adjusted a loose ribbon at the base of the spine.

Hongjoong’s breath caught.
The form was draped in cream muslin — pinned with intention, folds cascading like liquid, gathered softly at the shoulders and falling with asymmetrical grace. The fabric dipped low across the back, bare and exposed like an afterthought, or a secret shared only once.

It looked like movement. Like memory.
It looked… familiar.

He stepped closer, slow, reverent. The closer he got, the more certain he was — the high neckline echoing one of his old tees Seonghwa always stole, the waist a gentle cinch like the way Seonghwa hugged him from behind when he cooked. The ribbon at the base… he swore Seonghwa had once used it to tie his hair back during a particularly chaotic laundry day.

“Is this—” he started softly.

Seonghwa turned, startled — then smiled, tension easing from his shoulders.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Hongjoong gestured toward the form, gaze still locked on it. “Is this… me?”

A faint pink dusted Seonghwa’s cheekbones. He set down his pins and crossed to where Hongjoong stood.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” he admitted, “at first. But then I started adjusting the shoulders and it just… happened. The way the fabric falls — it reminded me of the way you lean against me in the morning. And how you turn when you’re thinking, like your whole body’s listening to your thoughts.”

Hongjoong’s throat went tight.

“I didn’t want to say it outright,” Seonghwa added, voice gentler now, “but… yes. It’s you. Or at least, how I see you. When you’re not trying to be seen.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flicked across the drape again — the curve of the form’s back, the softness of the lines, the honesty in the construction. There was no drama in it. No exaggeration.

Just warmth. Trust. Love.

“I don’t know how you do this,” he whispered.

Seonghwa’s hand slipped into his.

“You make music,” he said. “I do this. It’s the same thing — we just use different languages.”

Hongjoong squeezed his fingers, then turned into him slowly, pressing their foreheads together.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “And… weirdly intimate.”

“I know.”

“Does your professor know it’s inspired by your boyfriend being half-dressed and making instant ramen at midnight?”

Seonghwa laughed. “No, but maybe I’ll write that in the artist statement.”

Hongjoong grinned, then tipped his head for a kiss. It was brief but full of meaning — the kind you carry with you for the rest of the day.

When they pulled apart, Seonghwa whispered, “Stay a minute?”

Hongjoong nodded. “I brought snacks.”

They sat on the floor together, backs against the wall, shoes off and knees brushing. The form stood silently before them — not just a dress or a shape, but a moment frozen in fabric. A love letter in folds.

Hongjoong unwrapped a triangle kimbap and handed it over. “When you make the final version,” he said, “I want to see you in it, see you draped in me, the idea of me hugging your curves.”

“I will,” Seonghwa said, no hesitation.

The music production lab was cold — always a few degrees too cool, no matter the weather. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, and each desk was surrounded by a chaos of coiled cords, keyboards, and borrowed headphones that had seen better days. Screens glowed a soft blue under the lab’s haze, and the faint bleed of someone’s bass loop rattled out of an untethered pair of monitors nearby.

But Hongjoong wasn’t listening.

He sat at his usual spot in the back, one knee bouncing slightly, fingers hovering above his MIDI controller but not quite moving. The track in front of him was half built — rhythm foundation laid, a rough bassline sketched in — but the melody wouldn’t come.

Because his head was full of Seonghwa.

Not in the obvious way — not in the kiss, not in the hand-holding, not even in the soft way Seonghwa had looked at him as they sat on the floor together eating seaweed rice.

No, it was the way the muslin had caught the light.

It was the way his shape — something so ordinary — had been turned into art. That Seonghwa had looked at his back, his shoulders, the twist of his spine when he leaned into a laugh, and thought: this is worth honoring.

Hongjoong didn’t know what to do with that.
Except… try to write it down in his own way.

He adjusted the pitch mod on his keyboard and hit record.

The first note was long, wavering — a soft synthetic hum that felt like the breath right before a confession. He layered a second, then a third, letting them fall like draped threads across each other. A descending scale, not sad but tender, like the settling of fabric on warm skin. He changed the instrument sample to a brushed synth — something warmer, something slow.

A memory in melody.

He built it from the inside out, layering textures — subtle harmonies, airy pads, a distant echo of reverb that made the whole track feel like it was being played inside a quiet room with tall windows and someone watching you with the kind of love that didn’t need to be loud.

Across the room, his professor walked by and paused, brows lifting at the sound bleeding through Hongjoong’s headphones.

“New piece?” she asked.

He nodded, barely glancing up.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Feels like a love song.”

Hongjoong smiled faintly.

“It is,” he said.

She moved on, and Hongjoong let the track play back. The low synth curved exactly where Seonghwa’s fabric had folded. The echo aligned with the hush of their shared moment.

He didn’t need lyrics. He didn’t need to explain.
It was there. In every note.

The track wasn’t finished, not yet.
But it was enough.

The campus was unusually quiet for a Thursday, caught in that tense calm a few weeks before midterms. The trees had started to shed their leaves early, scattering gold and red along the sidewalk. The late afternoon light slanted low across the stone courtyard, and Yeosang was halfway through his iced Americano when he turned a corner near the business and finance wing — and nearly walked straight into someone.

“Oh—” he stepped back instinctively. “Sorry—”

Jongho blinked up at him, equally surprised. “Yeosang-hyung.”

Yeosang’s hand tightened slightly around his cup. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I just came out of a study session,” Jongho said, gesturing toward the building behind him. “One of my professors gave us practice questions for midterms. Thought I’d get ahead.”

Of course he did. Jongho always did.

Yeosang nodded, clearing his throat. “You’re really handling first year like a pro.”

Jongho smiled a little, faint and self-contained. “Thanks. I like it. The work makes sense. It’s… quiet, in my head, when I’m doing it.”

There was something in the way he said it — the kind of quiet you carve out for yourself when you’ve had too much of the other kind. Yeosang didn’t push. He just said, “I get that.”

A pause.

Jongho glanced away, then back. “You look tired.”

Yeosang let out a small breath, amused. “Law school’ll do that to you.”

“Don’t forget to eat,” Jongho said, with a touch of real concern beneath the casual tone. “San-hyung says you skip meals when you’re in study mode.”

Yeosang raised a brow. “You spying on me through your brother?”

“Something like that.” Jongho smiled, then hesitated. “Do you want to sit for a minute?”

Yeosang looked over to the low stone ledge near the courtyard’s edge. “Sure.”

They sat side by side, just close enough to feel the warmth of the other, both staring out at nothing in particular. The quiet between them was thoughtful, not strained — though neither quite knew how to fill it.

Yeosang sipped his drink. “I read that article you mentioned last week. The one about long-term market behavior and emotional investing?”

Jongho blinked. “You did?”

“Yeah. I liked it. You have a good eye for the nuance.”

Something shifted in Jongho’s posture — a quiet kind of pride he didn’t wear often. “Thanks. I used to think it was weird to be so into this stuff at my age.”

Yeosang gave him a look. “You’re nineteen. You’re already running circles around half the third-years.”

Jongho ducked his head a little, lips twitching. “Don’t let San hear you. He’ll say I’m growing up too fast.”

Yeosang hesitated. Then, softer: “Maybe you had to.”

Their eyes met — not long, not obvious. But Jongho’s gaze didn’t flinch, and Yeosang’s stayed a beat longer than it probably should have.

Jongho looked away first. “I should go. Mingi said he’d wait to order dinner until I got back.”

Yeosang nodded, standing too. “Of course.”

They started walking — but only for a few steps, until the path naturally split.

Yeosang stopped. “Your place’s that way.”

Jongho lingered where he was, caught in the pause. “Yeah. Right.”

Yeosang shifted his weight. “Be good to yourself, Jongho.”

Jongho gave him a small smile — not playful, not teasing, just sincere. “You too, hyung.”

And with that, they turned in opposite directions, footsteps carrying them away — but hearts lingering behind just a little longer than either would admit.

Jongho didn’t look back.

Not when the steps behind him slowed to match his pace.

Not when the wind tugged at his jacket like it wanted him to turn around.

Not even when he heard San’s voice, low and careful, break the silence behind him.

“Don’t freak,” San said, catching up to walk beside him. “But I’ve noticed how you look at Sangie.”

Jongho stiffened.

San glanced at him sideways, voice gentler now. “Do you like him?”

Jongho kept walking. “Why would you say that?”

“I’ve known you your whole life,” San said simply. “And I’ve known Yeosang for quite a number of years. The way you look at him… it’s different.”

Jongho didn’t answer. His grip tightened around the strap of his bag.

San continued, “I’m not mad. I’m not judging. I’m just—worried you’re sitting with all these feelings and thinking you don’t get to want something for yourself.” For a change hangs in the air between them.

They walked in silence for a few steps before Jongho stopped.

His voice came out rough. “He’s your best friend.”

“And you’re my brother,” San said. “My job is to protect you both. And if this — whatever this might be — could make you happy, then I want that. I want it for both of you.”

Jongho stood there a long moment, head bowed.

When he finally spoke, it came out like an unsteady confession.

“He’s so… effortlessly gorgeous. I get nervous just standing near him.” He let out a shaky laugh. “He’s breathtaking. And kind. And patient. And—he listens. He remembered something I said like two weeks ago and brought it up like it mattered.”

San stayed quiet.

“And he’s sassy in this dry, clever way. I like that.” Jongho’s mouth twisted slightly, not quite a smile. “It sneaks up on you.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “But what if it messes everything up? He’s your and Wooyoung-hyungs best friend. What if I ruin that?”

San reached out, resting a hand lightly on Jongho’s shoulder.

“You’re always putting everyone else first,” he said. “That’s who you are. But you deserve to be happy, baby bear.”

Jongho groaned. “You had to call me that.”

San grinned. “Of course. Some things are sacred.”

Jongho rolled his eyes but didn’t move away.

“Just… take your time,” San said. “Figure out what you want. And if what you want is Yeosang — then be honest. That’s all you can do.”

Jongho didn’t respond right away.

But after a few beats, he murmured, “Thanks, hyung.”

San bumped his shoulder. “Anytime.”

Seonghwa had just finished his studio lab for the day and was heading down the hill toward a little rice bowl spot tucked between a print shop and a laundromat when he spotted a familiar figure lingering near the entrance, staring at the posted menu like it might bite him.

“Yeosang?”

Yeosang turned, wide-eyed like he’d been caught mid-theft. “Oh. Hey, hyung.”

“You waiting on someone?”

Yeosang hesitated, then shook his head. “Nah. Just… hungry, I guess.”

Seonghwa smiled, soft and nonjudgmental. “Come on. I was going in anyway.”

They sat by the window with steaming bowls of bulgogi over rice, and Seonghwa offered to split a side of crispy kimchi pancakes, which Yeosang accepted without hesitation — not out of hunger, but for something to do with his hands.

The silence between them was easy at first. Familiar. Yeosang was a natural observer, and Seonghwa was a natural space-maker — someone who made quiet feel full instead of empty.

But a few bites in, Yeosang’s chopsticks paused midair.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

Seonghwa glanced up, chewing thoughtfully before nodding. “Of course.”

Yeosang set his chopsticks down and let out a breath that sounded like it had been waiting all week.

“I think I like one of my best friend’s younger brother.”

Seonghwa blinked, then smiled faintly — not surprised, just waiting. He’d seen the glances, the thoughtful looks. He’s been there, he knows what it is like.

“...You mean Jongho?”

Yeosang looked down at his tea, fingers curling slightly around the cup.

“He’s just…” Yeosang paused, pressing his lips together. “He’s always there. Steady in a way that makes you feel like the world isn’t going to fall apart. He helps me study like it’s nothing, shows up with coffee like he’s not doing me a favor. And then he laughs — that cute little giggle he does when he actually thinks something’s funny — and it just…”

His voice dropped. “And I like his smile. His real one, the gummy one he tries to hide. And the way his hair falls in his face when he’s reading, and he brushes it back without thinking. Or when he comes home from the gym and he’s still in that hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, and you realize just how strong he is — not just in the way he carries himself but… in everything.”

He stopped, cheeks tinged pink. “I sound ridiculous.”

Seonghwa smiled, soft with understanding. “You sound like someone who’s paying attention.”

Yeosang didn’t answer right away.

Seonghwa poured them both another cup of barley tea from the silver thermos on the table. “And?”

“And I can’t tell if it’s just who he is. Or if it’s… something else.”

“I think,” Seonghwa said softly, “that Jongho acts with intention. He’s quiet, but not vague. If he’s choosing to show up for you like that — not once, but over and over — it’s not an accident. That gummy smile you like? That’s not just for everyone you know”

Yeosang sat quietly for a moment, lips pressed together.

“I just… I don’t want to misread it. I don’t want to mess it up. I… He’s important.”

“You’re not misreading it,” Seonghwa said. “You’re noticing it. That’s different. Not nothing"

Yeosang’s gaze drifted out the window, shoulders a little looser now.

“No,” he said. “It’s not nothing.”

Seonghwa reached across the table and gently nudged Yeosang’s pancake toward him. “Then that’s your answer.”

Yeosang looked back at him, something unreadable in his eyes — like relief, or maybe the beginning of something brave.

“Thanks, hyung.”

Seonghwa smiled. “Anytime. And if you ever need someone to remind you you’re not imagining things… I’m around.”

Yeosang’s return smile was subtle but real.

“You always are.”

The sound of keys in the lock was enough to make Hongjoong glance up from  the couch.  The glow of his laptop screen painted his cheekbones in soft blue light, and the faint echo of synth strings played on loop in his headphones.

Seonghwa stepped in, scarf loose around his neck, cheeks pink from the wind. He looked tired but content — the kind of settled weariness that came from a day well lived.

“Hey,” Hongjoong said, tugging one side of his headphones off.

Seonghwa dropped his bag by the shoe rack and padded over in socked feet, leaning down to kiss the top of Hongjoong’s head.

“Hey. You ate?”

“Mmhm. Leftover japchae. There’s still some in the fridge.”

“Perfect.” Seonghwa toed off his shoes and dropped onto the couch with a soft grunt. “Ran into Yeosang today.”

“Oh?” Hongjoong looked over, curious.

“We got dinner. He's doing more study at the library then will come home. He looked a little… spun out. Said he’s been overthinking things with Jongho.”

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. “Things as in…?”

“Feelings,” Seonghwa said. “But here’s the surprising part — he actually said it. Out loud.”

Hongjoong blinked. “Yeosang?”

Seonghwa nodded, lips tugging up. “For once, he didn’t talk sideways. He just… said it. That he likes Jongho. That he’s been scared of misreading things, scared of messing it up, but he knows Jongho’s important to him.”

Hongjoong’s expression softened. “That’s a big step.”

“It really is,” Seonghwa said. “He’s usually so careful. But tonight felt different. Like he couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

He leaned back, exhaling slowly. “I told him he wasn’t misreading it. Just noticing what’s already there.”

Hongjoong pushed his chair back and came to sit beside him on the couch, pressing close until their thighs touched.

“He’s lucky to have you to talk to.”

Seonghwa rested his head lightly on Hongjoong’s shoulder. “I think we all are.”

A soft clatter came from the kitchen — the sound of a spoon tapping against ceramic, followed by the faint sizzle of something being reheated on the stove. Wooyoung’s voice drifted through the wall next, humming along to an old SHINee song that didn’t quite match the beat, but was charming all the same.

Seonghwa turned his head toward the sound, cheek still resting on Hongjoong’s shoulder. His eyes lingered on the way light from the hallway caught the edge of the counter — and the silhouette moving just beyond it.

“Now if only he,” Seonghwa murmured, gesturing with a tilt of his head toward the kitchen, “and San could be honest.”

Hongjoong followed his gaze, then snorted. “Seriously. They’re stuck like glue most of the time. It’s wild they aren’t together yet.”

“It’s past wild,” Seonghwa said. “It’s bordering on tragic.”

“Greek or Shakespearean?” Hongjoong teased.

“Definitely Shakespearean. There's longing. Miscommunication. Brooding. And at least one of them is probably journaling about it.”

“San.”

“Obviously San.”

They both chuckled, the warm kind of laugh that came easy after years of shared apartments, late-night talks, and watching love stories unfold right in front of them.

“They’re so scared,” Hongjoong said softly.

Seonghwa nodded. “I get it. But fear doesn’t stop it from being true.”

He exhaled slowly. “I think San doesn’t believe Wooyoung could ever actually like him like that. Not really.”

Hongjoong frowned. “Why?”

“Because Wooyoung’s like this with everyone,” Seonghwa said, voice low, as if speaking it aloud might give it too much weight. “He’s touchy. Affectionate. Loud with his love. San’s been watching him do that with all of us for years. And I think…” He hesitated. “I think he worries it’s one-sided. That Wooyoung’s never going to look at him and say, ‘Yes, you. You’re the one.’”

Hongjoong blinked. “That’s stupid.”

Seonghwa gave him a small smile. “You think everything’s stupid when it comes to love.”

“No, I think San is being specifically stupid,” Hongjoong clarified, sitting up a little straighter. “Wooyoung never lets anyone near him when he’s baking something complex. You’ve seen him — he’s like a little pastry gremlin. Tells everyone to get out of the kitchen, won’t let anyone touch the fridge, and God help you if you try to clean a dish while he’s in the zone.”

“Correct.”

“Except San.”

Seonghwa raised a brow, lips twitching.

“San’s allowed to stir sauces. San’s allowed to frost cupcakes. San is allowed to hover behind him and wrap his arms around his waist while he’s tempering chocolate. That’s basically a marriage proposal.”

Now Seonghwa was laughing, full and bright. “You’re not wrong.”

“I know I’m not wrong.”

They fell quiet again for a moment, listening to Wooyoung hum and clatter and mumble to himself from the kitchen.

“You know what else?” Hongjoong said. “When San’s had a bad day, it’s Wooyoung who always knows. Even if he says nothing. He just makes something warm and puts it in front of him like it’s no big deal.”

“And San doesn’t smile like that for anyone else,” Seonghwa added. “It’s subtle, but… it’s real. It’s soft.”

They looked at each other.

“We should lock them in the pantry,” Hongjoong said.

“I support it.”

“We’ll call it the ‘proofing stage.’ See if they rise under pressure.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, leaning back against the couch, but he was still smiling.

“I hope they get there,” he said quietly. “They’re good together.”

“They’re better together,” Hongjoong replied. “They just have to believe it.”

Chapter Text

Midterm Madness

SEONGHWA

In the soft light of early afternoon, Seonghwa sits at his desk, eyes flicking between the garment half-draped on a mannequin and the clutter of open textbooks and revision notes sprawled across the surface. Sunlight slips through the blinds in quiet strips, catching on the silver edge of his fabric shears and the soft pastel tabs marking key pages in his folders. His study space is organised with near-obsessive care—textile science notes stacked by week, design theory flashcards pinned in rows, and a rainbow of highlighters carefully worked through every reading.

On the corkboard above his desk, fabric swatches form a half-finished colour story. His garment—an experimental top with sculptural structure and delicate hand embroidery—hangs beside him on the rack. It’s for his midterm portfolio assessment, but he keeps second-guessing it. The brief asked for “sustainable transformation as a personal narrative,” and while he’s done the research and the technical drafting, it still feels… off. Like the message is there but buried beneath too much effort.

He studies with noise-cancelling headphones on, classical piano or lo-fi beats playing quietly in the background. His textbooks on sustainability and historical silhouettes are heavily annotated, colour-coded with references for the written midterm exams. He swaps between sketching, typing out short-answer responses, and running thread through fabric with a quiet, methodical rhythm.

At college, the pressure builds with each day closer to exams. In Design Studio II, the atmosphere shifts during midterm prep week. Professor Min walks the classroom slowly, observing students at their workbenches. She stops behind Seonghwa, who’s pinning a mock-up bodice to a dress form.

“Your technique’s precise,” she says, arms folded. “But the concept feels restrained. What’s holding you back?”

Seonghwa hesitates. “I’ve redrawn the silhouette three times. I just can’t tell if it’s saying what I want it to say.”

Professor Min nods. “Don’t over-explain in the design. Trust the silhouette. Trust yourself.”

Later, in Theory and History of Fashion, he waits after the lecture to check an essay outline. Professor Han looks up from her desk.

“You’re usually more confident by midterms,” she notes.

“I’m worried it sounds too shallow,” Seonghwa admits. “Like I understand the material, but it won’t come across properly.”

“You’re analytical,” she replies, firmly but not unkind. “Let that come through. You don’t need to sound clever—just clear.”

At home in the evenings, the lounge is dim, the telly humming with an old documentary on silent. Seonghwa stitches under a warm throw blanket, garment spread neatly over his lap. His fingers ache from backstitching. His notes for the written exams sit nearby in a binder, tabs sticking out at odd angles.

Hongjoong walks in with two mugs of tea, one balanced in each hand. He sets one down on the coffee table without a word and settles beside him, laptop open, half a dozen production tabs flickering across the screen.

“I’m going to bomb the design theory exam,” Seonghwa mumbles eventually.

“No, you’re not,” Hongjoong replies, not looking up.

“I barely finished the last unit, I keep mixing up the case studies, and my garment—”

“Looks like you,” Hongjoong says gently. “A bit tired. A bit too careful. But full of intent.”

Seonghwa huffs a dry laugh. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

“Doesn’t have to be. It’s true.”

Some nights, when the flat’s quiet except for the flicker of kitchen light, Wooyoung drifts through like a moth—hoodie half-zipped, snack in hand.

“You haven’t blinked since last Tuesday,” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. “Can I try that top on yet?”

“It’s not done.”

“You say that every time. Come on, let me be your muse.”

Seonghwa cracks a tired smile. “You’ll stretch the neckline.”

“My collarbones are a gift to the arts,” Wooyoung replies, dramatically flipping his hair before stealing a grape off Seonghwa’s plate.

Yeosang doesn’t say much but passes by the lounge now and then with a book in hand or a face mask on, offering quiet nods or the occasional, “Don’t forget to stretch your wrists.” He always notices when Seonghwa’s pushing too hard, and when the dishes pile up or the recycling overflows, Yeosang handles it silently—an unspoken gesture that says, I see you’re drowning a bit. I’ve got this part.

HONGJOONG

Hongjoong works in storms.

His corner of the lounge is always a mess—audio cables tangled across the floor, headphones half-hanging from his neck, scribbled lyric sheets tucked under empty mugs. His laptop stays open from morning till well past midnight, the glow of his DAW software painting his tired face as he tweaks the same track for the hundredth time.

The midterm brief is straightforward: a polished, three-minute composition exploring “identity through sound”. But Hongjoong can’t do straightforward. He’s on version 43 and counting. The chorus still slips away every time he gets close.

Most days, he disappears into the studio at college, layering samples, cutting loops, and ignoring his tutors’ well-meant comments—“Maybe simplify the mix?” or “Try scaling back the effects?” He smiles, nods, and adds another synth line the moment they leave.

At home, he floats between his desk and the couch. When he’s not hunched over a keyboard, he’s curled up in a blanket with his laptop balanced on his knees, headphones looped around his neck. Seonghwa sits across from him, hand-stitching sequins with the kind of precision Hongjoong wishes he could apply to his track. They rarely speak, but the silence is comforting. When Hongjoong sighs and mutters something under his breath, Seonghwa quietly replaces his cold tea with a fresh one.

Support comes from all sides. Wooyoung starts leaving snacks near his desk—mandarins, packets of chips, the occasional chocolate bar, all stacked like care packages from a chaotic flatmate with a big heart.

“Don’t starve before midterms,” he says, piling on a box of Pocky. “If you die, who’s gonna mix the backing track when Hwa finally walks the runway in that vampire trench coat?”

Yeosang keeps it quieter. He reminds Hongjoong when he’s left the laundry in too long. He reheats leftovers without being asked. One evening, he plugs in Hongjoong’s charger and simply says, “Your laptop was about to die. Like you.”

One night, it’s Yunho who messages him out of nowhere. A video arrives: Mingi and Yunho in their flat’s lounge, with Hongjoong’s track playing over speakers. Mingi is dramatically pretending to sob into a pillow while Yunho dances exaggeratedly to the beat, pulling stupid faces as the chorus loops.

The caption reads: Certified banger. Stop overthinking.

Hongjoong watches it twice, then puts his head in his hands and laughs properly for the first time all week.

But when all else fails, it’s Seonghwa who steps in.

Some nights, Hongjoong hears the sound of keys in the door at 1am and knows he’s been caught. Seonghwa strides in with his arms folded, looking like he hasn’t slept either.

“You need rest.”

“I’m so close,” Hongjoong says, eyes barely open.

“You said that last night.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You also meant it last time. Laptop. Off.”

Groaning dramatically, Hongjoong lets it shut down. He drags himself to the bathroom, muttering, “You’re bossier than my lecturer.”

Seonghwa just smiles faintly and hands him his toothbrush.“Good. At least when I boss you around, you moan about it in a different way.”

Hongjoong freezes, toothbrush halfway to his mouth, eyes wide as the words settle in.

“Seonghwa,” he says, voice cracking halfway through. “It’s midterms.”

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow, utterly unbothered. “So?”

Joong stares at him like he’s just been personally attacked by the love of his life and also maybe blessed. “You can’t just—say stuff like that—my brain’s already fried!”

Seonghwa leans in, presses a kiss just beneath Hongjoong’s ear, and whispers, “Then let me help you unwind.”

Hongjoong groans. “I’m never finishing this composition.”

YEOSANG

Yeosang has always been a straight-A student. Not because it comes easy, but because he refuses to let anything slide. His lecture notes are immaculate, his case briefs colour-coded, and his midterm prep is a rotation of outlines, flashcards, and practise essays timed to the minute.

This week, the pressure creeps in around the edges—three written exams, two mock client interviews, and a research assignment due all in the same stretch. He doesn’t say he’s stressed, but the tightness in his shoulders and the way he chews the inside of his cheek give him away.

He spreads out at the coffee table late into the night, laptop open, textbooks piled high, tabs and sticky notes like confetti around him. At some point past midnight, he nods off mid-sentence, pen still in hand.

Seonghwa finds him like that. He doesn’t wake him—just gently drapes a blanket over Yeosang’s shoulders and brushes the hair out of his eyes. A quiet gesture of love, familiar and soft.

Later, when Hongjoong notices Yeosang’s laptop still glowing, he makes sure the document is saved, caps his highlighters and pens, and dims the screen. “Goodnight, soldier,” he murmurs, before leaving a hot water bottle by his side.

Yeosang splits most of his serious study sessions between the college library and quiet cafés, usually with Jongho in tow. Different majors—law and finance—but compatible habits. Jongho brings spreadsheets and flashcards, Yeosang brings annotated case law and a highlighter for every shade of stress.

They rarely talk while studying, but the presence is grounding. Familiar. Reassuring.

Their legs brush under the table sometimes, knees bumping by accident. Neither says anything, but both go a little still after. Yeosang’s pen always stills in his hand for a moment too long.

Jongho offers to grab coffee and Yeosang nods, not trusting his voice just then.

When Jongho returns, there’s a chocolate biscuit balanced on top of his cup.

“Looked like you needed it,” he says, not quite meeting Yeosang’s eyes.

Yeosang eats it in tiny bites between note revisions, cheeks pink for reasons entirely unrelated to the sugar.

He tells himself it’s just the stress, the mental fatigue, the weight of upcoming midterms. But sometimes, when Jongho leans back to stretch, arms flexing under that worn black hoodie—when he runs a hand through his hair and frowns in concentration—Yeosang forgets what he was reading mid-sentence.

He doesn’t mean to stare. It just happens.

And the worst part? Jongho always looks so unbothered by it. Not in a dismissive way—more like he’s quietly comfortable being beside Yeosang, the same way he’s comfortable carrying everyone’s stress without complaint.

It’s the comfort that gets to Yeosang more than anything. That unshakeable calm. The way Jongho rests his chin in his hand when he’s thinking, gaze flicking over a set of numbers, brows drawn. The way he lets Yeosang finish every long-winded legal explanation without interrupting, just occasionally nodding like he understands enough.

And then there’s his smile. That gummy smile that appears so rarely and always feels like a reward when it does.

Yeosang’s heart gives a traitorous skip every time he sees it.

He doesn’t know what to do with all of it yet. He doesn’t even know if Jongho feels the same. But he knows one thing with absolute certainty:

If he’s falling—and he is—it’s happening slowly, gently, and all the more dangerously for it.

SAN

San is trying his best to keep it all balanced—his coursework and his time spent with Wooyoung.

He’s got two big written exams and a group presentation coming up, but every time he sits down to revise, his mind flickers to whether Wooyoung’s eaten or how long he’s been on his feet. So he ends up spending most evenings half-studying at the kitchen bench while Wooyoung tests sauces and plates trial dishes for his midterms. San calls it “emotional support duty.” What he doesn’t realise is that Wooyoung’s doing just as much for him.

While San outlines different business models, Wooyoung throws in questions between whisking and chopping:

“What’s the difference between a lean startup and bootstrapping again?”

“Wait, so why would someone go for a franchise over building their own brand?”

He doesn’t always get the concepts, but it doesn’t matter—San lights up when he explains, voice gaining momentum, hands sketching out supply chains in the air while flour dusts the countertops beside him. Explaining out loud helps it all click into place. He doesn’t realise how much Wooyoung’s retaining either—just enough to circle back with sharper questions the next night.

And still—San gets distracted.

It’s the way Wooyoung ties his hair back in a loose bun, arms lifting just enough to make the veins in his forearms stand out, fingers deft and confident as he winds the tie around. San tries not to think about those fingers and the things they do to food—and he definitely doesn’t think about what else those fingers could do if they weren’t holding a paring knife or a tasting spoon.

Or how Wooyoung bites his lower lip when he’s thinking hard, scribbling down notes with his apron askew and his brows drawn together in the prettiest frown San’s ever seen. His neck feels warm—his ears, too.

It’s a miracle he gets any studying done at all.

San grips his pen tighter and looks down at his notes, the words blurring a little at the edges.

He’ll never tell Wooyoung. Not because he doesn’t want to—he does, more than anything—but because he can’t. Because it wouldn’t make a difference. Because he’s not… enough.

Not for someone like Wooyoung.

Wooyoung, who lights up every room he walks into. Who makes people laugh without trying. Who gives everything without ever keeping score. Who cooks for eight people after spending twelve hours on his feet and still finds time to ask San how his day was.

Wooyoung, who deserves someone bright and whole and effortless. Someone who knows how to be soft without feeling like a liability. Someone who doesn’t flinch when people raise their voices. Someone who didn’t grow up learning to be useful first and everything else second.

San knows how to manage a business. He knows how to shoulder responsibility. He knows how to keep his brother safe, keep the group steady, keep his own needs buried so deep they barely make a sound. But what does that matter when he looks at Wooyoung and thinks, he’d never choose me?

Not when San’s already convinced he wouldn’t be enough, even if he did.

He clenches his jaw, shakes his head once—hard.

“Focus,” he mutters under his breath. “Shake it off. You’ve got midterms, not a death wish.”

Across the kitchen, Wooyoung looks up. “Hmm?”

San doesn’t look up. Doesn’t dare.

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just… thinking out loud.”

Wooyoung smiles at him, dimples carving into his cheeks, and for a second, San wants to cry.

Because it’s so easy to love him. And so impossible to think he ever could be loved back.

At home, in the flat he shares with Jongho, Yunho, and Mingi, things are quieter. Jongho’s made sure of it.

He doesn’t hover, just leaves the living room lamp on when San’s up late and sometimes slips a study snack onto the desk beside him. It’s not about saying anything—he knows how San gets before exams. San still studies like he has something to prove. All blame lies on their father for this.

Jongho makes space, stays up nearby with his own work, headphones in, offering a steady presence that lets San breathe.

Mingi and Yunho are gentler in their support—pulling him out for short walks when he starts to pace too much, stealing his phone when they catch him doomscrolling, and making sure he actually goes to bed before sunrise.

“You can’t ace an exam on four hours of sleep and spite,” Yunho tells him one night, tugging the laptop from his hands.

“I can try,” San says, already half yawning.

Mingi rolls his eyes, draping a hoodie over San’s head. “Yeah, well, we’re trying not to let you die this semester.”

San groans but lets himself be pushed toward his room. He’s tired, sure—but in the middle of all the pressure, he’s quietly grateful.

JONGHO

Jongho’s first ever college midterms come and go with far less chaos than he expected.

He prepped early, of course—study plans drawn up by the second week of the semester, his calendar colour-blocked with revision goals and assignment deadlines. He’s the kind of student who’d rather over-prepare than be caught off guard. Still, he was bracing himself for academic hell.

But… it’s not as hard as he thought.

The material makes sense, the lectures were clear, and he’s not too proud to ask questions when he needs to. His written exams are straightforward enough, and while one group project gave him a headache, it was more from chasing down lazy team members than the content itself.

What keeps him busiest isn’t the coursework—it’s his flat.

Even though he’s the youngest, Jongho naturally steps into the role of steady caretaker among San, Yunho, and Mingi. He makes sure the kitchen isn’t a disaster zone, that there’s enough milk in the fridge, and that San doesn’t forget to bring his laptop to class. Again.

“You’re too good to us,” Yunho says one evening as Jongho straightens the bookshelf no one but him ever touches.

San just wraps an arm around his shoulders and ruffles his hair. “That’s my baby bear brother,” he says, voice full of pride and affection.

Jongho huffs, swatting him away with a half-smile he doesn’t try too hard to hide.

He spends most of his study hours with Yeosang—technically a second-year law student, but brilliant and focused in a way that’s only intimidating if you’re not used to him. Jongho’s used to him. He likes him, in fact. A little too much.

They don’t talk about it—whatever this almost-thing is between them—but it simmers quietly in shared highlighters and gentle ribbing over whose notes are neater. Yeosang studies like he’s training for battle, but Jongho brings a calm that softens his edges.

They sit close, laptops open, books scattered between them at the library or a corner café. Their hands brush sometimes when they both reach for the same pen, and neither of them quite looks up when it happens. Jongho notices the way Yeosang’s ears flush pink though, and he feels it too—just under the skin.

He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. But as he watches Yeosang murmur legal definitions to himself, eyes narrowed and serious, Jongho can’t help thinking:

God, he’s beautiful. And I think I’m in trouble.

YUNHO & MINGI

Midterm week for Yunho and Mingi means solo performances, but they never go through anything alone.

Both are second-year performing arts majors with a focus in dance, which means they’ve practically taken over one of the studio rooms on campus. Music plays on repeat, footsteps echo against mirrors, sweat pooling at the edges of their backs as they run their pieces again and again. When one is dancing, the other watches—arms crossed, head tilted, offering notes with a soft voice and sharp eye.

“You lost your line in that last turn.”

“You’re off beat—listen to the music, not your feet.”

“That landing wasn’t bad, but you’ve done it cleaner. Again.”

It’s not criticism. It’s trust. They’ve been doing this for years.

They don’t have time for much else. Midterms loom like floodlights, burning too hot, too long. Every studio mirror reflects their exhaustion back at them. They eat from vending machines when Seonghwa doesn’t intercept them—usually during one of his short breaks between classes at the adjacent fashion building. He never stays long, just enough to press cold bottles of water into their hands and shove a packed sandwich at whoever’s closest.

“Eat this. Don’t argue,” he says, brushing their sweat-damp hair off their foreheads like a worried older brother.

“Thanks, hyung,” Mingi mumbles, sheepish, always surprised at how steady Seonghwa is.

Some nights, Yunho stays behind a little longer after practice, leaning against the studio mirror while Mingi runs through his routine one last time. It’s not about fixing anything by then—they’re both too fried for critique—but Yunho knows Mingi dances better when he knows someone’s watching. Especially someone who’s always been there.

When the music fades, Mingi breathes hard, sweat clinging to his shirt. He flops onto the floor with a groan and Yunho joins him, back pressed to the wood, knees bent just close enough to touch.

“You gonna pass out?” Yunho asks, voice light.

“Thinking about it,” Mingi says, eyelids fluttering shut. Then, quieter, “You always wait for me.”

Yunho nudges his foot. “Of course I do.”

They both fall silent, only the soft hum of the speaker still buzzing overhead.

Outside the studio one day, when Mingi’s tying his laces and Yunho’s stretching near the door, they catch the echo of a conversation passing by in the hall. A couple of other students, one whispering just loud enough to catch:

“Those two are so close. Honestly wouldn’t be shocked if they’re together.”

“Or if they don’t even realise they are,” the other laughs.

Mingi freezes with his fingers curled tight around a loop of his shoelace. He doesn’t look up. Yunho doesn’t say anything either, just stretches a little further, like he didn’t hear.

But later that night, when Mingi’s curled into Yunho’s side on the lounge floor, blanket kicked halfway down their legs, the words resurface. Neither of them mentions it. But Mingi can feel Yunho’s breathing, steady and warm at his back, and wonders if maybe it’s not that far-fetched. Or maybe it’s dangerous to think that way when everything is already so much and still not quite enough.

Midterm pressure doesn’t help. Mingi’s been forgetting his counts, messing up footwork he could do in his sleep. Yunho’s shoulders are tight from stress, and he’s barely been sleeping. When Yunho notices the shake in Mingi’s hands after a failed run, he doesn’t say anything—just presses close and counts the beats out loud while Mingi tries again. And again.

Later, when they’re sprawled across the floor back at the flat, some old choreography video looping in the background, Yunho’s the one rubbing the tension from Mingi’s shoulders. Mingi’s shirt rides up, skin warm beneath Yunho’s hands. Mingi sighs when Yunho hits just the right spot.

“God, that’s it—there,” he mumbles, nearly asleep.

“You sound like you’re dying,” Yunho says with a chuckle, voice quieter than before.

“Feels like it,” Mingi slurs. “Keep going.”

Yunho does. His thumb dips into the hollow beneath Mingi’s shoulder blade, and when Mingi makes a soft sound—breathy and content—Yunho has to look away. He keeps his eyes fixed on the TV, not on the way Mingi relaxes completely under his touch.

In the mornings, it’s Mingi tugging on Yunho’s hoodie strings to wake him up, leaning in too close, grinning against the shell of Yunho’s ear. “Rise and suffer, we’ve got practice—and a hot date with midterms,” he teases.

Yunho groans but doesn’t pull away. Not really. He never does.

Sometimes Yunho watches Mingi a beat too long. Sometimes Mingi lingers, his hand brushing Yunho’s just a little more deliberately than it should. And that night Yunho came home to find Mingi curled up on his bed instead of his own, there was no hesitation—just Yunho crawling in beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Didn’t wanna sleep alone,” Mingi said, already half-asleep.

Yunho didn’t ask why.

They may be dancing alone on stage come exam day, but neither of them gets there by themselves.

Their friendship is old, woven into muscle memory and late-night laughter, but lately it feels like they’re standing on a ledge they haven’t named. Holding something between their hands too carefully to admit it's even there.

It’s not weird. It’s never been weird.

But sometimes, when their fingers brush for no reason at all, Yunho wonders.

And sometimes, when Mingi finds himself staring at Yunho’s mouth instead of his words, he wonders, too.

WOOYOUNG

Wooyoung thrives under pressure—mostly. In the kitchen, he’s sharp and focused, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour and the occasional smear of sauce. Midterms mean one practical assessment and two written exams, but it’s the former that’s got his nerves wound tight.

The brief: plan, prep, and plate a three-course meal for the tutors, using seasonal ingredients and classical technique. No shortcuts. No fluff.

He sketches menus during breakfast, scribbles adjustments on the bus, and tests components at home until well past midnight. The others know to steer clear when he’s in full prep mode—Yeosang once reached for a spoon and nearly got his hand smacked away. (“That’s for the reduction!”)

At college, he moves with purpose, hair tied back, multitasking between stations. He jokes with classmates while searing scallops, but the moment his tutor leans over to inspect the sauce, he straightens, biting his lip as the verdict lands.

“Good consistency,” they say. “Could use more depth.”

Wooyoung nods. “I’ll fix it.”

Back at the flat, he uses every excuse to stay in the kitchen—refining his jus, baking off test tarts, adjusting temperatures until the custard sets just right. There’s always something cooling on the bench, a pot simmering on the stove, his notes open beside the sink.

He still feeds everyone. Between stress-testing his menu and keeping the others from burning toast, he’s always handing off plates with a grin.
“Tell me if it’s too salty. Or lie to me. I’m fragile.”

Hongjoong gets snacks stacked beside his laptop without asking. Yeosang’s coffee cup is always refilled when Wooyoung notices the level’s dropped. Seonghwa often finds something sweet waiting for him after long classes—choux puffs, chocolate-dipped shortbread, little acts of care that don’t need to be spoken.

But San—San is different.

San’s been around more lately, supposedly to study, but half the time he ends up in the kitchen anyway, reading over business notes at the table while Wooyoung works. He talks through theories and models out loud, and even when Wooyoung doesn’t fully get the terms, he asks questions just to keep him talking.

He says it’s to help San remember things better, and maybe it is.

But the truth is, Wooyoung just wants to listen to his voice.

And it’s getting harder to pretend it’s just background noise.

Because sometimes San puts his glasses on and pushes his fringe back and—God. Sometimes he stretches and the muscles in his back shift under that damn grey jumper he always wears and Wooyoung has to walk out of the room like he’s forgotten something, just to stop himself from doing something stupid.

The feelings have always been there—warm and reckless—but midterms have shoved them to the edge. Mostly. Until San smiles and those stupid dimples show up like punctuation marks in Wooyoung’s already-overwritten emotions.

One night, when the kitchen’s quiet and everyone else is asleep, Wooyoung’s elbow-deep in lemon curd and half-listening to San’s voice in his head, when he mutters under his breath:

“Dimples will be the cause of my failure.”

Unfortunately, Hongjoong hears it from the hallway. He doesn’t say anything until he’s curled up next to Seonghwa later that night, whispering, “Guess who’s spiralling.”

Seonghwa doesn’t even look up. “Wooyoung?”

“Mmhm. Blaming dimples this time.”

“I get it.”

“Hwa…”

And meanwhile, back on the couch, Wooyoung has collapsed, apron still on, finally too tired to pretend he’s unaffected.

“You’ve been on your feet for twelve hours,” San says, crouching to take off his slippers.

“Midterms,” Wooyoung mumbles.

“I know. But you still need sleep.”

“I’ll nap after I figure out the garnish.”

“No, you’ll nap now,” San insists, tugging him up with a fond roll of his eyes. “The scallops will still be there tomorrow.”

Wooyoung leans into him, exhausted but smiling.

“You say that like they aren’t fickle bastards.”

He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t need to.

But his heart is making it very hard to ignore.

It's the night before midterms and San is worried.

The apartment smelled like sugar, citrus zest, and something that had nearly burned twenty minutes ago but been heroically saved by a last-minute intervention involving a damp towel and San’s reflexes.

“Okay,” Wooyoung muttered, standing in front of the counter like a general preparing for war. “Batch five. This is it. This is the one. I can feel it in my frosting hand.”

“Is that a thing?” San asked from the couch, legs folded under him, cupcake carnage from previous attempts littering the coffee table.

“It is now,” Wooyoung declared, piping a perfect swirl onto the newest test cupcake. His apron was dusted in powdered sugar, his cheeks streaked with flour, and his hair was sticking up from where he’d shoved his hands into it out of frustration an hour ago. He looked like chaos personified.

San thought he looked beautiful.

He’d said as much earlier—joking, light-hearted, calling the flour in his hair “artistic.” Wooyoung had laughed, but it hadn’t stuck. Not the way San wanted it to. Not the way things stuck when you said them like you meant them.

Which he had.

He just didn’t think Wooyoung had heard it that way.

“I swear to God, if this one doesn’t set properly, I’m moving to the mountains and becoming a moss witch,” Wooyoung muttered, delicately placing the tray down.

“Can I come?” San asked, already halfway to standing to grab plates. “I’ll taste-test mushrooms and talk to birds.”

“You’ll miss Wi-Fi in a day.”

“Not if you’re there.”

Wooyoung froze for a split second. But San was already opening the fridge, pretending it hadn’t meant anything.

Which was the problem. It had.

Before Wooyoung could think too hard about that, the front door opened behind them.

“Smells like a bakery in here,” Seonghwa called, setting his keys down.

“We brought bubble tea,” Hongjoong added, slipping his shoes off with a practiced toe-tap. “And questions. So many questions.”

San peeked out from the kitchen “Good. You’re here. Save me.”

“San betrayed me!” Wooyoung shouted, half-dramatic and half-hysterical. “He said he’d support me emotionally but then he said batch three’s frosting was ‘a little grainy.’”

“It was grainy,” San pointed out. “You said you wanted honesty.”

“I wanted blind loyalty!”

Seonghwa leaned into the kitchen doorway, raising a brow. “Are those the strawberry matcha ones?”

“The soul of my baking career,” Wooyoung said solemnly, presenting them like offerings to royalty. “I need final judges. But be warned. If you don’t like them, I will cry and then blame San.”

“Standard,” San muttered, stepping back to let the others in.

Hongjoong accepted a cupcake without hesitation, already biting into it.

Seonghwa picked his up more delicately, examining the swirl like it might whisper state secrets.

Wooyoung watched them with the quiet intensity of a chef watching a Michelin critic. He didn't realize how tightly he was gripping the edge of the counter until San gently nudged his elbow.

“Breathe,” San whispered. “It’s amazing. You know it.”

Wooyoung didn’t answer. His ears were pink.

Hongjoong made a pleased noise. “Damn. That’s good.”

Seonghwa hummed around his bite, then swallowed. “One of the best things you’ve made. Frosting’s perfect. Balance is right.”

Wooyoung exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. “Really?”

Seonghwa nodded. “You’re getting scary good.”

“You mean that?” Wooyoung asked.

Seonghwa blinked at him, surprised by the urgency in his tone. “Of course I do.”

Wooyoung smiled, slow and blooming. He didn’t even notice San watching him, eyes soft.

After a beat, Hongjoong turned to Seonghwa. “You should say something wise and parental now.”

Seonghwa laughed. “I was going to say that if you ever want to know if someone really cares about you, see if they let you near them during a recipe like this. Wooyoung didn’t even let me in the kitchen when he was testing scones.”

“San’s the only one who gets to,” Hongjoong added casually, sipping his tea. 

Wooyoung went still. “It’s not—it’s not like that.”

San looked down at the tray in his hands, then up at Wooyoung. “Right. Just taste-testing.”

Wooyoung swallowed. “Exactly.”

Hongjoong and Seonghwa shared a glance, something subtle passing between them. They didn’t say anything.

Wooyoung stepped back toward the sink, clearing wrappers, washing dishes. Keeping himself busy

San watched him go, then forced himself to turn back to Seonghwa.

“You know how he is,” he said, voice a little too light. “Sweet with everyone. Hugs everyone. Tells everyone their hair looks good. He’s not—he doesn’t like me like that.”

Seonghwa tilted his head. “You really believe that?”

San’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t you?”

Seonghwa hesitated. Then, gently, “I think Wooyoung’s a lot of things. But careless with his affection isn’t one of them.”

San didn’t reply.

And behind him, Wooyoung paused with his hands in the soapy water, expression unreadable.

As cupcakes cooled on the counter and bubble tea slowly disappeared, the room filled with laughter and casual warmth again. But underneath it, that ache remained — small, quiet, heavy.

Love was a lot like baking: precise, tender, unpredictable. And sometimes, no matter how perfect the ingredients, you were still afraid to open the oven and see if it had risen.

Finally, it was midterms.

The air was soft with early spring warmth, the kind that hinted at cherry blossoms just on the verge of blooming. Hongjoong stood in the kitchen with two mismatched thermoses—one his, scuffed and stickered; one Seonghwa’s, pristine and pearl white. Both were filled with coffee made the way each of them liked: Hongjoong’s dark and punchy, Seonghwa’s mellowed with oat milk and a hint of cinnamon. They were meeting up with all the others before breaking off for their midterms or more study.

He turned as footsteps padded in behind him, and there was Seonghwa, sweater half on, sleep-flushed and slow-moving, his hair still messy from bed.

“You always look too good in the mornings,” Hongjoong said around a yawn, stepping closer to help pull the sweater down over Seonghwa’s back, hands lingering on his waist.

“I look like I fought my closet and lost,” Seonghwa mumbled, eyes barely open as he leaned into the touch.

“And I like you exactly like that.”

Hongjoong held out the thermos.

Seonghwa looked down at it, then up at him—eyes clear now, just for a moment. “You remembered the cinnamon?”

“I always remember the cinnamon,” Hongjoong said, quiet but certain.

Seonghwa leaned in until their foreheads touched, his breath warm between them. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispered, not meaning it as a complaint.

Hongjoong’s hand came up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the sleep-mussed hair there. He tugged Seonghwa in until their lips brushed—light at first, a ghost of a kiss. Then deeper. Slower. The kind of kiss that curled heat low in their stomachs.

“Good,” Hongjoong murmured against his mouth. “I want to.”

The thermos thunked gently against the countertop as Seonghwa set it down without looking, one hand braced against the counter, the other clutching at the hem of Hongjoong’s shirt like he needed something to hold onto.

“We are meeting th—” he began, but the words dissolved when Hongjoong’s mouth moved to his jaw, then to the spot just beneath his ear that made him tilt his head with a sigh.

“I know,” Hongjoong said, teeth grazing the skin lightly. “We have time.”

His hand slid up beneath the sweater, palm dragging across the bare skin of Seonghwa’s waist, lingering at the sharp dip of his ribs. Seonghwa shivered, exhaling something close to a whimper, the morning chill long forgotten.

“Joong,” he warned, but it came out too soft to carry any real resistance.

“Tell me to stop,” Hongjoong murmured against his collarbone, his voice rough now, frayed at the edges with want.

Seonghwa didn’t. Instead, he tipped his head back to give him more space, sweater collar falling askew. His fingers dug into Hongjoong’s arms, grounding himself.

The kitchen was awash in golden light, everything quiet except for their breathing and the soft, slow scrape of fabric and skin. Seonghwa gasped when Hongjoong pressed against him fully, letting him feel everything—how badly he wanted, how far past just coffee this morning had gone.

“Let me ruin you,” Hongjoong whispered. “Right here. Just for a minute.”

Seonghwa’s breath caught, his fingers tightening in the fabric of Hongjoong’s shirt. Then he kissed him—deep, open-mouthed, desperate. The kind of kiss that left no space between them, nothing to question. Only yes. Only please.

They moved in a blur, sweaters pushed up and off, flung onto the kitchen floor, pants dragged low, then kicked off, hands roaming with too much urgency to be gentle. Seonghwa let himself be guided back against the counter, thighs spreading to pull Hongjoong in closer, breath hitching when their hips met—bare skin on bare skin, the contact almost too much.

“Fuck,” Seonghwa gasped, head tipping back as Hongjoong rocked against him slowly, grinding in tight circles. “Joong, I—”

“I’ve got you,” Hongjoong murmured, lips brushing his jaw. “Always.”

He slicked his hand and put it between them, made sure it would be smooth, careful—even if everything else about this moment was messy and frantic. When he finally pushed in, slow and steady, Seonghwa clung to him with a strangled moan, the stretch familiar and burning in the best way. 

They moved together in shallow thrusts, bodies pressed close, breath mingling. There was no rhythm at first, just the overwhelming sensation of finally—of being filled, of being known. Seonghwa’s legs tightened around Hongjoong’s waist, dragging him in deeper, chasing the pressure, the fullness, the grounding heat of it all. Seonghwa doesn't remember when he had wrapped his legs around his waist. His head was just filled with Hongjoong and the feel of his cock inside him.

“Joong,” he breathed, voice high and wrecked, “don’t stop.”

Hongjoong didn’t. He wrapped one arm around Seonghwa’s waist and the other braced against the counter, thrusting harder now, deeper, hitting just right as Seonghwa bit down on his shoulder to keep from crying out.

They were tangled, sweat-slicked, panting into each other’s skin as the tension wound tighter. Seonghwa’s body trembled, his grip near bruising on Hongjoong’s back.

“Let go for me,” Hongjoong said, voice rough, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

And Seonghwa did—came with a gasp, clenching around him so tightly it pulled Hongjoong over the edge seconds later. He spilled inside him with a broken moan, hips jerking, head buried in Seonghwa’s neck as everything blurred.

For a long moment, they just breathed. Held each other. Let the weight of the morning sink in around them.

Eventually, Seonghwa let out a soft laugh, breathless and dazed. “We’re going to be so late.”

“Worth it,” Hongjoong murmured, still inside him, forehead resting against his.

They cleaned up in the quiet, touches lingering, small kisses passed back and forth like secrets. Seonghwa’s sweater stayed inside out. Hongjoong’s shirt was hopelessly wrinkled.

By the time they stepped outside to meet with everyone, Wooyoung and Yeosang were already leaning on the gate—Wooyoung bouncing slightly on his toes, a cupcake container clutched dramatically to his chest; Yeosang scrolling absently on his phone, his case brief tucked under one arm like a weapon.

Wooyoung looked up first, eyes narrowing as he clocked Seonghwa’s flushed cheeks and the way Hongjoong’s shirt was rumpled at the hem, like someone had tugged on it in a hurry.

He blinked once. Then again.

Then smirked.

“Well, someone started their morning spicy,” he drawled, stepping aside with an exaggerated bow. “Should we give you a minute to tuck your halo back in, Hwa? Or is this the new look—blissed out and wearing your boyfriend’s sin?”

Seonghwa shot him a sharp glare that had no real heat to it, tugging his sweater down and praying it wasn’t, in fact, inside out.

Yeosang didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Three minutes late,” he said coolly. “Two buttons undone. And Hwa’s ears are red.”

Hongjoong coughed. “You're insufferable.”

“And yet,” Yeosang said, dry as paper, “I arrived on time.”

Wooyoung just cackled, opening the cupcake box and handing one to Seonghwa with a wink. “Eat up, hyung. You’ll need your strength.”

Hongjoong grumbled something under his breath, but Seonghwa was too busy trying not to choke on both frosting and embarrassment.

Soon, footsteps approached—Yunho, Mingi, San, and Jongho appearing together at the end of the path, all in various stages of bleary-eyed determination. Yunho carried 5 water bottles and two packs of protein bars; Mingi wore mismatched socks and no one was brave enough to point it out yet; San had an iced coffee the size of his head, and Jongho looked like he’d been reviewing flashcards since dawn.

“Team Midterm has arrived,” Yunho declared as he walked in, shoulders squared like a soldier reporting for duty.

“Operation: Survive the Week,” Mingi added, flashing a peace sign—then immediately sneezing all over it.

“God, bless you,” Wooyoung said, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “That’s my one act of kindness for the day.”

“Your priorities are crooked,” San muttered.

“Shut up and take the bribe,” Wooyoung whispered, slipping a cupcake into San’s hoodie pouch.

San stared at him. “You realise this is how crimes start, right?”

Wooyoung grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I already look good in black.” San just snorts in response.

Yeosang looked up from his phone. “Do I get one?”

“You’re on thin ice after what you said about my chocolate ganache swirl.”

“I said it was bold,” Yeosang replied.

“That’s not a compliment!”

Jongho sighed and opened his tote. “Just put one in mine. If I’m going to pretend to like everyone today, I’ll need the backup.”

The group clustered near the front steps, the early sun warming stone and shoulders alike. Conversations spun outward—Yeosang quizzing Jongho with lazy half-interest, Mingi convincing Yunho to split a melon pan from the corner store, Wooyoung was swearing up and down that his new lemon curd batch was “better than therapy,” gesturing with a spoon like it was divine proof. San just gave him a long, unimpressed look—like he hadn’t spent half the night taste-testing every version and declaring, “almost” with a mouth full of sugar each time.

“Hey,”Hongjoong said quietly, glancing into his tote as they started walking. “There’s a cupcake in here... Woo? When?”

“When you are stupidly watching your boyfriend get flustered over the fact you fucked him senseless right before midterms" Wooyoung quipped, handing a cake to Yunho and Mingi, to for Mingi cause he's Princess.

"Can you blame me?" Hongjoong said shrugging, though his cheeks were pink, his eyes quickly flicked to San who was poking at his baby brother, and back to Woo, eyebrow raised, "it's good stress relief, you should try it." He laughed and ran away from woo who shrieked like a banshee and started chasing him.

As they crossed the quad—eight of them together, bundled in layers and stress and fondness—they were confident they could take on whatever these midterms would throw at them.

Chapter Text

The Calm

Jongho stepped out of the lecture hall and blinked against the soft spring sunlight. The campus was coming alive again—buds on trees, daffodils lining the walkways, and students sprawled on the grass pretending it wasn’t still a little too chilly to be comfortable.

He rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension that had lived there all week. The scent of fresh-cut grass and coffee drifted in the air as he spotted San waiting near the benches, smoothie in hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair like a crown of casual confidence.

Jongho made his way over.

“Well?” San asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Did you survive your first finance midterm?”

Jongho dropped onto the bench beside him with a quiet exhale. “It was... easier than I expected, actually.”

San blinked, clearly surprised. “Really?”

Jongho nodded. “Yeah. I studied a lot. I even caught the trick question on the last page.”

San let out a low whistle. “Look at you. Baby Bear’s getting cocky.”

Jongho smirked, just a little.

San slung an arm around his shoulders. “But don’t get too comfortable,” he added with a lopsided grin. “That was a soft launch. Finals are going to chew you up and spit you out.”

Jongho groaned and shrugged off his brother’s arm. “Thanks for the warning.”

San just laughed and stood up, stretching with a yawn. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go rescue Wooyoung before he melts down about plating again. He’s convinced he needs at least three options for tomorrow’s practical or he’s going to fail.”

Jongho snorted. “Doesn’t he already have five?”

“Exactly. And none of them are good enough, apparently,” San said, already walking backwards with a wave. “I’ll be home late—don’t burn out your brain in the library.”

Jongho watched him go, earbuds in, that same easy rhythm in his step like he had the world on a leash and didn’t mind if it tugged once in a while.

He could’ve just texted. Could’ve said “good luck” over breakfast. But no—San had waited for him. No reason given. No fuss made. Just showed up, like it was the most obvious thing to do.

Jongho didn’t say anything about it. He probably never would. But it stuck with him—warm and quiet, tucked deep behind his ribs.

He loved his hyung.

Not that he’d ever tell him that.

His phone buzzed.

Dad.

The shift came like a cold snap.

He stared at the name on the screen. For a second, he considered letting it ring out. Then he sighed and picked up.

“Hello?”

“Midterms done?” his father asked, like he hadn’t even bothered to remember the date.

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect your GPA to remain at a 4.0.”

Jongho sat up straighter. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ve been talking to the Hans. They’ll have an internship open soon. You’ll take it when it’s available. Don’t disappoint me.”

The call ended before Jongho could respond.

No “how did it go.” No “I’m proud of you.” Just orders. Just weight.

He stared at the phone, jaw clenching tight until the muscles jumped. His hand gripped the device hard enough to make it creak.

It was always him—not San—who carried this pressure. Always his grades, his prospects, his future laid out like a map someone else had drawn.

And he didn’t know why.

Neither did San.

And oh, how San tried. He tried—more than anyone saw. Tried to be seen, to be good enough, to make their father proud. To get even a look that meant something.

But that weight had never been his to bear. Somehow, it had landed squarely on Jongho’s shoulders instead.

All the hours he’d poured into studying. All the pride he’d secretly felt walking out of that exam hall—flattened with a few clipped sentences.

The spring breeze stirred the nearby cherry blossoms. Pale petals danced through the air like confetti for a celebration no one had planned.

He was proud of himself.

But right now, all he could feel was that familiar ache—the quiet burn of never being enough for the one person he kept trying to impress.

He stood slowly, shoving his phone deep into his pocket.

The library could wait.

He didn’t have a destination in mind—just needed to move, shake off the sharp edges his father’s voice had left behind. His steps carried him across the quad, the sounds of campus drifting around him: laughter in the distance, birdsong overhead, someone strumming a guitar badly near the student union.

He turned a corner near the law library just as someone stepped out of the doors.

Yeosang.

He spotted Jongho first, hesitating at the bottom of the steps. His eyes lingered a second longer than they should have. He saw the tightness in Jongho’s shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched like he was holding something in with both hands. Not just stress—he recognised it too easily to mistake it for anything else.

Pain. Controlled, quiet, and far too familiar.

“Jongho-ah?” Yeosang called gently, stepping down the last stair.

Jongho looked up, blinking like he hadn’t realised anyone was there. His expression softened at the sight of Yeosang, just slightly. “Oh—hyung. Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jongho said quickly, and then after a beat, amended, “Just… parental expectations.”

Yeosang gave a small hum of understanding. Not surprised. Not prodding. Just standing with him in that space.

“Ah,” he said softly. “I understand.”

There was no judgment in his voice. No awkward silence. Just calm—like the feeling of sinking into warm water after a long day.

Yeosang stepped closer and placed a hand on Jongho’s shoulder. It was light, careful, but grounded—like he was offering something Jongho didn’t have words for.

His hand lingered.

A beat longer than it needed to.

The touch was nothing dramatic. No hug, no theatrics. Just warmth, shared through fabric and skin and silence.

Jongho didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just let it settle.

And when Yeosang finally pulled his hand back, Jongho swore he could still feel it—heat blooming across his shoulder, then radiating through his chest, quiet and steady like a second heartbeat.

Yeosang gave him a small nod. “I’m heading to grab a drink before my last midterm. Want to come?”

Jongho considered it. He should go home. Study. Pretend the phone call didn’t bother him.

But he looked at Yeosang—really looked—and something in him just… unclenched.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

And as they fell into step beside each other, Jongho found himself walking a little lighter, the weight of the day no longer quite so heavy.

Not when Yeosang was next to him.

Wooyoung was collapsed face-down on the floor of his room, still in his kitchen whites, apron slung dramatically over the bedpost. His feet ached, his back was protesting, and his hair smelled vaguely of sugar and panic. But none of that compared to the tragedy he now furiously thumb-typed into the group chat.

Wooyoung:
[7:41 PM] It was whisked away before I could even take photos.
[7:41 PM] The lighting was PERFECT. The plate? IMMACULATE.
[7:42 PM] THE LIGHTING, GUYS.
[7:42 PM] The raspberry mille-feuille made Chef Im TEAR UP and now it’s gone. GONE.
[7:42 PM] I was a genius of pâtisserie. A culinary oracle. And now? A forgotten whisper in a commercial kitchen.

San:
[7:43 PM] also are you okay

Wooyoung:
[7:44 PM] Am I okay???
[7:44 PM] AM I OKAY????
[7:44 PM] I executed a flawless three-course seasonal menu using classical French technique under timed exam conditions
[7:44 PM] No shortcuts. No fluff. Just pure, unfiltered brilliance.
[7:45 PM] You should have SEEN the scallops.

Yunho:
[7:45 PM] Was it Chef Im who cried or was it one of the assistants again?

Wooyoung:
[7:46 PM] Chef Im. One visible tear.
[7:46 PM] Then she just walked away like she hadn’t been changed. Like she hadn’t witnessed a divine act of plating.

Wooyoung:
[7:47 PM] Starter: pan-seared scallops on spring pea purée, lemon beurre blanc, crispy pancetta
[7:47 PM] Main: herb-crusted lamb rack, duchesse potatoes, glazed heirloom carrots, rosemary jus
[7:48 PM] Dessert: raspberry mille-feuille, rose chantilly, pistachio crumble
[7:48 PM] I PEAKED. AND THERE’S NO PHOTO EVIDENCE. I’M AN ORAL TRADITION NOW.

Mingi:
[7:49 PM] 😭👏🔥👨‍🍳💔

Hongjoong:
[7:50 PM] Seonghwa says you’re a genius. He’s nodding silently. Like a proud hyung.

Wooyoung:
[7:51 PM] Tell him I love him
[7:51 PM] Tell him the scallops loved him too

He let his phone slide from his fingers and sighed dramatically into the floorboards. His legs ached. His wrists were sore. His soul was empty.

But his plating? Untouchable.

His phone buzzed mid-dramatic sprawl across his bedroom floor. He barely rolled onto his side before answering.

“Woo, you okay?” San’s voice was warm through the speaker, a soft balm.

“Yeah, Sannie,” Wooyoung sighed, already melting into the comfort of hearing him. “I just… left my soul in the kitchen.”

A pause. A shared breath. A quiet understanding that didn’t need words.

“I hope it was good enough,” he whispered.

“It was,” San said, firm and tender. “You’re amazing in the kitchen. Watching you work—it’s like watching someone dance. You know that, right?”

Wooyoung’s throat tightened. He stared at the ceiling, voice smaller. “I know. I just needed someone…”

He hesitated, breath caught.

“…you… to say it.”

Another pause, soft and full.

“I’ll say it as many times as you need.”

Wooyoung closed his eyes and let the silence stretch, letting himself believe it.

After they hung up, he rolled onto his stomach, propped his chin on the edge of his laptop, and opened a new email. His fingers flew over the keys, still a little jittery from adrenaline, exhaustion, and something unspoken that lingered after San’s voice.

==================

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Just a little post-midterms hello 💌

Hi Mum! Hi Dad!

I survived! 😭 Barely! (Kidding. Kind of. But not really.)

Midterms are officially DONE and my feet may never forgive me, but I had to write because—Mum—you would have loved the mille-feuille I made for my final practical. Raspberry, rose chantilly, pistachio crumble. Chef Im CRIED. (One single, cinematic tear. I may never recover.)

I’m back at the apartment now and lying on the floor like a dramatic poet, which you’ll be shocked to learn is a completely normal post-exam coping strategy. I swear it’s worked for generations of culinary students before me.

I wanted to send through a few simpler versions of the recipes from the practical—I adjusted the measurements and swapped out a few ingredients to make them more home-kitchen friendly. I think you'd be able to try the scallop starter too if you skip the beurre blanc and do a lemon-butter drizzle instead. Let me know how it goes if you make it? Would love to see your plating 😉

How’s hyung doing? I know he's busy with work, but tell him I say hi and not to be a stranger. Also, how’s our little maknae? Has he started kicking the football around again, or is he still obsessed with those dinosaur flashcards?

It’s been really full-on this semester—somehow even more than last year—but I’m still loving it. There's something magical about creating something from nothing, even when I burn my fingers and forget to eat and cry over puff pastry (again). I’m learning a lot. Growing. Getting better.

I miss you guys. Hope things are good at home. Please write when you can—I know you're busy.

Love you always,
Woo xx

==================

He re-read it, smiling at the emojis, the enthusiasm, the cheerful wrap-up.

Then he hit send.

No reply would come. Just like none had come after winter break. Or the last dozen emails. Or the one when he got shortlisted for the regional culinary showcase. Or when he won top marks in plating last semester.

He didn't blame them, not really. His older brother was three years ahead, with a high-profile corporate job and a steady girlfriend. His baby brother was the miracle child, born sixteen years later with fanfare and future potential. The light in everyone’s eyes.

Maybe he was just yelling into a void. Maybe that void wore his parents’ faces.

But he still wrote. Every time.

The bright, chatty middle child. Loud enough to cover the silence.

Forgotten, quietly. Slowly.

Wooyoung exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

At least the scallops had been perfect.

San was worried.

He always was. Midterms, finals, group presentations—anything graded tightened around his chest like a rubber band. He’d never told anyone just how anxious it made him. Not even Jongho, who knew him better than most. San had mastered hiding it under charm, under brightness, under too-loud laughs and exaggerated gestures.

But the waiting? Waiting for results was unbearable.

Second-year business school wasn’t like first year. It wasn’t just formulas or regurgitated theories anymore. It was logic and argument, and whether you could defend a position under pressure. San could study all night and still wonder if he'd used the wrong framework, if he’d mixed up market segments, if he’d completely misunderstood the essay question on cost leadership strategies.

He’d finished his last exam on Thursday.

On instinct, more than anything else, he had esnt a short message to his father that same evening. The way he always did.

==================

To: Choi Daeho <[email protected]>
From: Choi San [email protected]
Subject: Midterms completed

Midterms are done, appa.
I’ll let you know when the results come through.
Hope you’ve been well.

—San

==================

No reply came Friday.

None over the weekend either. Nothing even when he messaged Jongho a quiet good luck before his final finance paper Monday. Not a word on Tuesday.

He didn’t expect much—but there was always hope. A flicker of maybe.

Wednesday morning, a notification pinged at the top of his screen while he was halfway through messaging Woo asking about his practical.

He opened it.

==================

From: Choi Daeho <[email protected]>
To: Choi San [email protected]
Subject: Re: Midterms completed

Your results better not shame me again like last year.
I won’t have your name spoken with pity.
If you're serious about your future, prove it.
Don't waste your time. Or mine.

==================

San’s throat went dry. Last year he got all A’s except a single B.

He stared at it. Read it twice. Three times. Flinched a little on the third. Then he closed the email, locked his screen, and curled slightly into himself without meaning to.

He only noticed how tight his shoulders had become when Mingi looked up from the couch and raised an eyebrow in silent concern. San shook his head and smiled, gesturing toward the window. “Chilly,” he said.

It wasn’t.

The words from his father echoed. Not just these ones. All the others, the ones from birthdays and school reports and extra-curricular activities.

Is that the best you can do?

You call that leadership?

You’ll never be the smart one. At least try be a little bit useful.

Sometimes it didn’t even need to be words. That sneer. That disappointed look, lip curled as if anything less than perfection was a burden to be carried, not a son to be supported.

San used to wonder why. What was wrong with him? Was it because he cried more easily? Because he got too emotional in debates? Because he once said no to an economics tutor?

Was it because he wasn’t stoic like Jongho?

He still didn’t know.

But he did know this: Jongho never saw these emails. Never heard the worst of it. Never got the full force of that man’s disappointment at failed expectations.

And San made damn sure it stayed that way.

His little brother carried enough.

He wasn’t going to add to it.

San sighed and reached for his phone, needing—wanting—something to ground him. He opened their group chat. Wooyoung had been complaining earlier about his plating being “too powerful to be captured on camera,” and—

Ah. He was still going.

The texts made San smile. That chaotic, dramatic energy—he needed it tonight. He needed him tonight.

He hit call.

“Woo, you okay?”

“Yeah, Sannie,” came the tired voice on the other end, soft like late spring light. “I just left my soul in the kitchen. I hope it was good enough.”

San let out a breath. “It was,” he said. “You’re amazing in the kitchen.”

“I know,” Wooyoung said, then quieter, a whisper really. “I just needed someone… you… to say it.”

San swallowed.

“I’ll say it as many times as you need.”

There were a lot of things he couldn’t fix in his own life. A lot of things he couldn’t control.

But loving someone right?

That, he could do.

Seonghwa curled deeper under the covers, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other looped loosely around the sleeping weight beside him. It was a lazy spring morning, sunlight soft through the half-closed blinds, the breeze from the cracked window just enough to ruffle the edge of the blanket.

He was, for once, entirely still.

Design theory had been… good, he thought. As he wrote, the fog in his head had cleared, and ideas slotted into place like threads pulling taut in a stitch. He’d left the exam hall blinking in disbelief, his hands sore from writing but heart unexpectedly light.

And the garment—his piece—had been handed in three days ago. The conceptual top, sculptural in structure. The brief, “Sustainable transformation as a personal narrative,” had felt intimidating at first. But somewhere between the hours bent over sketches, the muslin trials, the redoing of seams, and the quiet tears at 3 a.m. when it all felt like too much—his story had taken shape.

He was proud of it. Quietly, deeply proud.

It was finished. He was finished. For now.

A rare thing in the chaotic tide that was third-year fashion design, where critiques came sharper than pins and burnout felt like a requirement. But for the next couple of weeks, he was free. And he'd decided to spend the first of those mornings doing absolutely nothing at all.

Well, not nothing.

He was curled around Hongjoong. Who, having finished his final project two days earlier, had finally crashed—properly. Deep, undisturbed sleep. No blinking up at the ceiling until dawn. No twisting headphone cords. No muttering about mixing issues or chord structures in his sleep.

Just Hongjoong. Breathing evenly. Skin warm beneath the worn, shared sheets.

Seonghwa pressed his nose into the crook of his neck, smiling softly.

Last night had been—well. Passionate.

Or at least as passionate as it could be with two flatmates sharing paper-thin walls, one of whom (Wooyoung) never remembered to plug in his headphones, and the other (Yeosang) had hyper-vigilant hearing from years of surviving in private school shared dorms.

They’d tried to be quiet. Really.

But Joong had a particular talent for keeping him that way.

Seonghwa flushed at the memory, biting back the smile that bloomed across his face unbidden. He could still feel the faint ache in his thighs, the imprint of calloused fingers on his hips. He’d buried his face into Joong’s shoulder more than once, lips bitten red as he’d tried to muffle his gasps.

It had been soft, too. Not rushed. Not just a release of tension after long weeks of deadlines. But loving, full of whispers, and the kind of eye contact that made his chest hurt.

He shifted slightly, gaze drifting over Joong’s face—his hyung’s lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth slack, brows finally unfurrowed.

“I love you,” he whispered.

He didn't expect a response. Hongjoong was still out cold.

Still, he said it. He always would.

He tucked the blanket closer around them, closed his eyes, and let himself drift, safe in the warmth of morning and the quiet between semesters.

Later that week, Seonghwa called home.

He propped his phone up on his desk, balancing it against a stack of sketchbooks and the edge of his pincushion. The video connected with a soft chime, and after a few rings, the screen flickered to life.

“Appa!”

His father was outside. Seonghwa recognised the garden instantly—the wooden trellis along the back wall, the crooked stepping stones they’d laid together three summers ago, the riot of early blooms poking up through soil they’d spent hours turning by hand.

And his father was wearing it. One of Seonghwa’s gardening aprons. Navy canvas with reinforced stitching, and pockets—so many pockets. It had been a birthday gift last year, stitched in the quiet lull after his first finals week, with his mother's old sewing kit beside him. Seonghwa felt a pang of warmth in his chest at the sight.

“You’re wearing it,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

His appa looked up from where he was gently tugging weeds out from between the herbs. “Of course I am. It’s got better pockets than anything I’ve ever bought. You really thought about everything.”

Seonghwa ducked his head shyly. “Well… I remembered you always losing your gloves.”

His appa laughed—a deep, contented sound—and wiped his hands on the apron before moving closer to the camera.

“So, how’s my genius son doing? Finished that... sculptural tree-thing you were making?”

Seonghwa laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Garment, Appa. But yes, it’s done. Submitted and out of my hands.”

“And?”

“And… I think it’s good. I hope it’s good.”

“It will be. You always were too modest for your own good.” His father’s expression softened. “Your eomma would be so proud of you.”

Seonghwa swallowed, the sudden ache in his throat catching him off guard. “She taught me to sew,” he said quietly.

“I know.” His father smiled gently. “She’d say you surpassed her years ago. Though she’d never admit it out loud.”

They were quiet for a moment. Just the sound of birdsong from the garden, and the distant hum of city life outside Seonghwa’s apartment window.

Then his appa perked up. “How’s Hongjoong? That boy always had dirt under his nails when he visited last time.”

Seonghwa’s smile turned fond. “He’s good. Really tired, but… we both are. He says your rosemary’s still the best he’s ever had.”

His father chuckled, preening slightly. “When are you coming home?”

“After this semester,” Seonghwa promised. “I’ll bring Joong with me. You know he likes your garden.”

“I’ll get the patio ready. Might even make some of that barley tea you both drained last time.”

“Deal.”

They talked a little longer. About classes, his noona (she was on a business trip for the next week), and the state of the tomato vines, and whether or not Seonghwa had remembered to get enough sleep this week. His father scolded him for skipping meals. Seonghwa rolled his eyes and promised he was eating more now that things had calmed down.

When they finally hung up, the warmth lingered. Like sunlight through gauze curtains, soft and steady. Seonghwa stayed at his desk a moment longer, fingers tracing the worn threads of the apron’s edge where it peeked from a drawer, heart full in the best way.

Somehow, the world felt a little less heavy.

The morning light bled gently through the thin curtains, hazy and golden, washing over the tangled sheets. Seonghwa was curled against him, warm and still, his breathing soft and even. After their night together—quiet, intense, full of whispered confessions muffled by the threat of thin apartment walls—Hongjoong had drifted off first, only for Seonghwa to wake a little earlier, murmur a few things about breakfast, and promptly fall back asleep in his arms.

Hongjoong stirred about thirty minutes later, blinking slowly as his phone buzzed against the nightstand.

He blinked against the morning light and reached over Seonghwa’s sleeping form to grab it.

1 New Message – Hyung 🐻
‘Got it. Listening now.’

Hongjoong grinned.

Joong
[9:14 AM] Be gentle, hyung. I’m emotionally compromised and still half naked.
[9:14 AM] I poured my entire soul and one (1) functioning brain cell into this.
[9:15 AM] Also I may have cried a little while mixing the bridge. Just a warning.

Hyung 🐻
[9:16 AM] Too late. I’m already tearing up, and I haven’t even hit play.
[9:16 AM] Why are you like this.

Joong
[9:17 AM] A direct result of being raised by a drama queen. (Looking at you.)
[9:17 AM] Also: your genes. Congratulations, you played yourself.
[9:18 AM] Anyway. Serious hat on. Do you like the layering at the 1:40 mark?
[9:18 AM] I tried to make it feel like falling into a memory but sexy.

Hyung 🐻
[9:19 AM] Sexy memory fall, noted.
[9:19 AM] It actually works. The contrast hits right after that soft synth drop—good tension release.
[9:20 AM] And the vocal layering? Tighter than your jeans in summer.

Hongjoong wheezed silently into the pillow, trying not to wake Seonghwa.

Joong
[9:20 AM] Hyung please. My jeans are a public safety hazard and we both know it.
[9:21 AM] That’s why I wear drop-crotch pants now. For society.

Hyung 🐻
[9:21 AM] You wear drop-crotch pants because you’re a fashion menace.
[9:21 AM] But. The song’s good, Joongie.
[9:22 AM] Really good.
[9:22 AM] It sounds like you found yourself in it a little.

The teasing paused.

Joong
[9:23 AM] I think I did.
[9:23 AM] It kind of… pulled itself out of me, you know?
[9:24 AM] Like it already existed and I just had to survive enough to hear it.

There was a small pause. Then:

Hyung 🐻
[9:25 AM] You’ve survived a lot, Joong.
[9:25 AM] And you’re still here. Still making beautiful things.
[9:26 AM] You were always meant to.

Hongjoong felt his throat tighten.

Joong
[9:26 AM] Don’t make me cry before 10am, hyung. I’m emotionally fragile. I’m wearing Seonghwa’s socks.
[9:26 AM] Everything is delicate.

Hyung 🐻
[9:27 AM] You are the sock now. Soft. Precious. Full of holes probably.

Joong
[9:27 AM] Wow.
[9:28 AM] How dare you slander my man's knitting. These socks are ART.
[9:28 AM] Anyway. Thanks, hyung. For listening. And for being around.
[9:29 AM] Even when I’m annoying.
[9:29 AM] Or overly dramatic.
[9:29 AM] Or both.

Hyung 🐻
[9:30 AM] I was around when you cried because you dropped your recorder in second grade.
[9:30 AM] Nothing scares me now.

Joong
[9:30 AM] That was a tragic moment and you know it.

Hyung 🐻
[9:30 AM] Love you, Joongie.

Joong
[9:31 AM] Love you too, hyung.

The name—Joongie—made something in him unclench.

It left Hongjoong smiling to himself, warmth spreading slow in his chest.

For a little while, Hongjoong wasn’t the one always watching over everyone else, always guiding, always organising. He wasn’t a producer, or a leader, or even one half of the emotional backbone of their makeshift family.

He was just a younger brother. Being fussed over, teased. Being heard.

It felt… nice.

Warmth pulsed in his chest. Not the kind Seonghwa left there (though that still lingered, tucked into the spaces behind his ribs), but something older. Quieter. A thread to his past, to the person who’d helped raise him after the crash. Who had picked up the pieces of a ten-year-old boy’s grief and said, We’ll be alright, kiddo.

Hongjoong looked over at Seonghwa, still peacefully asleep, the blanket tucked just under his chin. He reached out and brushed a bit of hair away from his forehead, affection blooming slow and sure.

He was a caretaker. Always had been.

But every now and then, it was good to be the one taken care of—even if just over text. Even if only for twenty minutes on a lazy spring morning.

He could carry the world again later.

For now, he was just Joongie. And that was enough.

Yunho and Mingi had always been a pair.

From meeting at elemetry school, to dance studios during highschool, to the cluttered kitchen of their shared college apartment, they’d moved through life like a rhythm and a beat—distinct, but made for each other. Wherever one went, the other followed. People had stopped asking why years ago. It just was.

Today had been a long one—midterm solos were no joke—but they’d both nailed it. Yunho’s instructor had called his stage presence “magnetic,” while Mingi’s sharp, fluid performance had earned him quiet awe and loud applause. They hadn’t even needed to say anything to know they were proud of each other. A shared glance across the performance hall, a bump of shoulders on the way out. It was enough.

They’d treated themselves to lunch and now, back at the apartment, had declared a well-earned movie night with San and Jongho.

It had taken ten minutes of half-hearted arguing before Yunho claimed victory.

"Again, hyung?" Jongho whined from the floor, flinging a piece of popcorn toward the couch.

Yunho just grinned. “It’s not my fault Spiderman: Homecoming is the cinematic event of our generation.”

“You said that last week,” San muttered, stretching out with a sigh.

Mingi, for his part, didn’t bother contributing to the argument. He was already shifting into place—his place—head on the armrest, long legs stretched out, and his upper body half across Yunho’s lap. It was instinctual at this point. No one questioned it, not even them.

Yunho didn’t flinch. Instead, he relaxed into it, one hand naturally coming to rest on Mingi’s waist, feeling the faint warmth of him even through the fabric of his sweatshirt. The contact grounded him. Mingi always did.

And Mingi felt it too—the subtle way Yunho's fingers curled just slightly, the comforting pressure that let him melt a little more into his best friend. He didn’t say anything, but his body registered every point of contact: Yunho’s hand against his ribs, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the occasional shift of his thigh beneath him. Safe. Familiar. Anchoring.

He could fall asleep here if he wanted to. He often did.

Halfway through the movie, Mingi’s phone buzzed across the coffee table.

With a groan, he made no move to get it, and Yunho—without even looking away from the screen—reached for it, handed it over without missing a beat.

“Eomma,” Mingi murmured after glancing at the screen. “Ah, and appa—oh. Yunho’s parents too.”

Yunho perked up at that, shifting slightly to sit more upright.

“They’re doing dinner again?” he asked.

“Seems like it,” Mingi said, answering the call. “Hey, eomma—hi, appa!”

A moment later he put it on speaker.

"Sweetheart!" came his mum’s voice, warm and delighted. "We were having our weekly dinner and wanted to check in on our boys."

“Our boys,” Yunho echoed with a laugh, leaning in so their faces could both be seen in the frame. “Hi eomma, hi appa!”

The warmth in his voice was genuine. Mingi’s parents had long ago folded Yunho into their family like one of their own. His own parents loved Mingi just as much. It was a mutual adoption of hearts.

San and Jongho used the opportunity to duck out—snack run and bathroom break, maybe. It gave Yunho and Mingi a rare moment to just exist in the cocoon of family voices and soft screenside affection.

“How are you both?” Yunho’s mum asked.

“Exhausted,” Mingi said, grinning wide. “But good. Midterms are done.”

“You’ve been eating properly?” Yunho’s appa added.

“Yes, appa,” they chorused, drawing laughter from the other end.

Then came a pause, light but pointed.

“You two look comfortable as always,” Mingi’s appa said with a quiet chuckle.

His eomma’s voice followed, softer, threaded with meaning. “It’s sweet. You fit so well together.”

Yunho caught it immediately—that tone. That intention. And it landed in his chest with the gentlest thud, like a question he wasn’t sure how to answer yet.

He glanced down at Mingi, whose grin hadn’t faltered. Oblivious, or maybe just not ready to process what had just been said.

Yunho was hyperaware now. Of the weight of Mingi’s body across his lap. Of the way his arm was pressed so close to Yunho’s torso. Of the warmth that seeped through layers of cotton and skin. The curve of his shoulder. The angle of his jaw, softened in the dim light of the TV. The quiet way he breathed when he was this content.

And Mingi... Mingi was aware too, even if he wasn’t saying it. He could feel the warmth of Yunho’s thigh beneath him, steady and real. He could feel the slight tension in Yunho’s hand still resting on his side. And he knew—somewhere in his chest—that this meant something. Had always meant something.

They finished the call with soft goodbyes and promises to eat more vegetables.

Yunho set the phone down and exhaled.

Mingi shifted—just enough to let his head slide from the armrest to Yunho’s shoulder, half-curled into his side now.

“You okay?” Yunho asked softly, not even thinking about it.

Mingi nodded, eyes still on the screen, but his voice was low. “Yeah. Just... warm.”

And Yunho smiled, heart thudding.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes on the screen but his thoughts entirely elsewhere. “Me too.”

No one ever asked how two men over six feet managed to fit so perfectly on that small, battered couch.

But somehow, they always made it work.

Maybe it wasn’t about the space.

Maybe it was about the closeness they never needed to explain.

Second year law was… intense. The cases were denser, the statutes longer, the expectations sharper. Constitutional Law, Tort Reform, Corporate Regulation—everything felt bigger, heavier, less forgiving. There were more cold calls in lectures, more moot court sessions, more moments where Yeosang had to think on his feet while feeling like he was standing on glass.

He liked law. He really did.

There was something thrilling about dissecting a case, finding the inconsistencies, the tiny hinge on which an entire argument could pivot. He loved constructing airtight logic, loved how language could become a weapon or a shield depending on how you wielded it.

But some days…

Some days the weight of why he was doing it pressed harder on his chest than any textbook ever could.

His parents—both high-powered attorneys—had never told him to become a lawyer. They hadn’t needed to. It had always been assumed. He was their only child, the golden one, the legacy. His father was known for his methodical precision in corporate law, his mother for her sharp-tongued brilliance in litigation. Together, they were a powerhouse. And Yeosang… well, Yeosang had been listening to arguments before he could tie his shoes.

He could still remember sitting cross-legged at his mother’s feet while she read out court transcripts like bedtime stories, her voice even and unwavering as she explained the difference between an objection on hearsay and one for relevance. At the time, it had made him feel special—like he was learning magic only adults knew.

Now?

Now, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever really had a choice. Law had been sewn into him, thread by thread, so slowly and subtly he hadn’t noticed the shape it was forming until it was already part of his skin.

And he was good at it. His professors liked him. He earned top marks. He could argue a point into the ground and then bring it back to life just to win again. But late at night, after hours of study, sometimes he’d catch his reflection in the dark screen of his laptop and wonder—

Would he have chosen this, if no one had chosen it for him first?

He didn’t have the answer. Not yet.

But he was still here. Still trying.

And maybe that meant something.

His midterm was over. The final page of his exam sat on top of the pile, neat and clean and marked with confidence he didn’t quite feel. He’d studied relentlessly, pouring himself into case law and statutory interpretation, but second-year law was brutal. Legal writing, administrative law, contracts—everything had sharpened into something heavier, more unforgiving than the first year.

Now, as he packed his things in the quiet law library, he realised he didn’t quite know how to relax. Not with a whole midterm break ahead. He hesitated at the idea of heading home, Woo was probably there.

They’d been friends since middle school—back when Wooyoung was all spark and impulse and Yeosang was reserved and cautious, the strange pairing that somehow just worked. They had stuck together through everything: school, awkward puberty years, even applying to the same university. Their bond was deep, woven in and out of years of inside jokes and silent understandings.

But lately…

Lately, there was a shift.

San.

San had joined them in the final years of high school, slotted into their friendship like he’d always been there. It was easy with San—he was warm, funny, and disarming, the kind of person who made even the most reluctant heart lower its guard. Yeosang liked him, truly. But he couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel the growing third wheel dynamic every time they were together.

San wasn’t just a friend to Wooyoung anymore. Not really. Wooyoung might not have admitted it, even to himself, but Yeosang could see it. The way Woo lit up when San walked in. The way San’s teasing shifted just slightly around him—more careful, more intimate.

He doubted either of them realised what they were doing.

He could see it a mile away, though. The pining. The nervous glances. The way Wooyoung sometimes didn’t know how to receive kindness—and the way San gave it anyway, always.

Yeosang sighed and adjusted his shoulder bag. Maybe he would go home. Maybe Woo was there alone, and maybe it was time someone talked to him about it. About San. About letting himself be wanted. Let himself be loved.

And maybe Yeosang could talk too.

Maybe he could bring up the way Jongho had looked at him outside the library. The soft but steady way his eyes had searched Yeosang’s face, the weight in his words, the way his shoulder had felt under Yeosang’s hand—a touch Yeosang could still feel even days later.

He didn’t know what it meant yet. Not exactly.

But it meant something.

And maybe it was time he started letting himself want things.

Chapter Text

One Last Steady Breath

Wooyoung was alone in the kitchen, barefoot and quiet for once. The afternoon sun warmed the counter as he sliced fresh fruit—apple, persimmon, and a few early-season strawberries he’d splurged on at the market. He wasn’t really hungry, not after the week he’d had, but this wasn’t for him.

It was Yeosang’s favourite mix.

He set the bowl down just as he heard the front door click open, the familiar creak of hinges, soft steps. He didn’t turn around.

“I was wondering if you were coming,” he said, voice light but carrying something beneath it.

Behind him, Yeosang replied quietly, “I wondered if I was too.”

Wooyoung finally turned, leaning his hip against the counter. “Why, Yeo?”

Yeosang stood in the doorway, bag still slung over his shoulder, unsure whether to drop it or hold on tighter. His voice was careful, as if every word had to be weighed before it left him.

“I just…” He stepped in, setting the bag down by the table, gaze flitting to the fruit bowl, then back to Wooyoung. “I feel like hanging out with you now mostly includes San. Not that I mind—I love him. He’s like a… cute little brother.”

Wooyoung blinked, already bristling, the hint of defence rising in his chest. Yeosang saw it—those wide eyes, that telltale twitch of his jaw—and softened even more.

“But,” he added, gentler, “I miss just you.”

There was a silence that stretched, not uncomfortable, but full.

Yeosang stepped closer, his voice dipping low, honest. “I see how you look at him, Woo. What’s going on?”

Wooyoung swallowed, eyes darting away like the floor suddenly held answers. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, fingertips white against the pale laminate.

“Nothing’s going on,” he said too quickly, too softly.

Yeosang didn’t push. He just waited, letting the question linger between them, letting Wooyoung sit in the safety of someone who knew him best.

Someone who always had.

Wooyoung stayed quiet for a long moment, chewing the inside of his cheek, still staring at the fruit like it might rearrange itself into a coherent thought. Then, softly—so softly Yeosang barely caught it—he started.

“San is like… the sun after a storm.”

His voice wavered, a little uneven, but Yeosang said nothing, just shifted slightly closer, arms crossed gently over his chest in quiet encouragement.

“He’s warm. Bright. He makes everything feel less sharp.” Wooyoung let out a slow breath, like it hurt to keep it in. “When I’m with him, it’s like the world softens. And I don’t… I don’t know what to do with that.”

He looked up, eyes glassy but steady. “I really like him, Yeosang.”

Yeosang didn’t flinch or blink or interrupt. Just kept holding that calm, steady space for him.

“I just…” Wooyoung laughed softly, bitter around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. Any of this. Like—what if he doesn’t like me that way? What if he’s just being kind? He’s kind to everyone, Yeo. And he could do so much better than—than me.”

He turned, leaning both elbows on the counter now, like the weight of his feelings was finally getting too heavy.

“I’m a mess, Yeo. You know that. And I’m scared.”

Yeosang’s brows knit, but he still didn’t speak. Not yet.

“I’m scared that the only reason I like him is because… he shows me affection. Real affection. And I don’t know if I know the difference.” His voice cracked at the edges now. “You know how I grew up, Sangie. You know what I got taught to expect. Bare minimums and shut doors.”

Yeosang’s chest tightened, but he still didn’t rush in. This was sacred ground. Fragile honesty that only someone like Wooyoung could offer.

“I don’t want to use him as a crutch,” Wooyoung whispered. “But I want him around. All the time. I want to make him laugh and hear him say my name and—” He stopped, pressing his palms to his eyes. “God, I sound pathetic.”

“No,” Yeosang said at last, stepping closer to place a hand over his back, firm and comforting. “You sound like someone who’s learning what it means to be loved.”

And that was what cracked Wooyoung completely.

He didn’t cry—not really. But he slumped just a little under Yeosang’s hand, grounding himself in the knowledge that even when he couldn’t find clarity, he wasn’t alone. Not in this. Not ever.

Yeosang kept his voice soft, letting Wooyoung take his time, giving him space to find his words. But when Woo finally went quiet, lost in the swirl of uncertainty, Yeosang spoke.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he said gently. “Just… listen. Trust my eyes or not, that’s up to you.”

Wooyoung didn’t look at him, but Yeosang could feel his attention sharpen, the tension in his shoulders holding just a bit tighter.

“I’m quiet. You know that. But I notice things. And San—”

He hesitated for half a breath, making sure his words landed softly.

“San is kind. Friendly. He’s affectionate with all of us, sure. But I’ve seen him with his business classmates too—at lunch, in the quad, around the library. He smiles, he laughs, he’s polite. That’s his baseline. That’s who he is.”

Yeosang glanced over and saw Wooyoung watching him now, eyes wary, guarded but listening.

“But when you walk into a room?” Yeosang gave a small smile. “It’s like someone turns the dial up on him. He moves—literally moves—towards you without thinking, like instinct. Like you’re the sun, and he’s leaning in to soak up the warmth.”

Wooyoung blinked, startled, lips parting slightly.

“There’s a smile,” Yeosang went on, “that he gives only to you. I mean that, Woo. I’ve seen it. It's not the one he uses when he’s joking with Jongho or being polite to the rest of us. It’s soft. It’s full. Like his chest is lighter just because you're nearby.”

He let that sit for a moment before adding, “And you don’t even realise how much he touches you, do you?”

Wooyoung blinked again, unsure.

“His hands are always on you—your shoulder, your back, your waist when you’re standing close. You sit together and he’s pressed up against your side like it’s nothing. But Woo… it is something.”

Yeosang’s voice grew even quieter, just a thread of sound now.

“I’ve known him the same amount of time. I’ve studied with him, eaten lunch with him, worked with him in the same shared spaces. And he doesn’t do that with anyone else. Not even me.”

Then, under his breath, he added, “He’s not the right Choi brother for th—”

“What was that?” Wooyoung asked, head tilting, brow raised.

Yeosang froze. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

“Nuh uh. Say it again, Sangie.”

Yeosang sighed, defeated. “I said he’s not the right Choi brother for that for me.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened before a slow, mischievous grin tugged at his lips. “So Jongho is?”

Yeosang flushed. “That’s not what I—”

“Oh my god, it is what you meant!” Woo gasped dramatically. “You like him! You like like him!”

Yeosang groaned, turning his face away. “I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

“You like my baby Jongho!” Wooyoung sang, full of mischief, poking him in the arm. “Should I tell him? I’m gonna tell him.”

“Wooyoung, I swear—”

“I mean, I did catch you staring at him over your mug last week like he was a spreadsheet you wanted to cross-examine.”

Yeosang smacked him lightly with a dish towel. “Shut up.”

But his blush didn’t go away. And Wooyoung’s grin only grew.

And then, softer, he added, “Thanks, Sangie. For seeing me.”

Yeosang looked at him and smiled. “Always.”

Later that night, after Yeosang had gone to his room and the apartment was quiet again, Wooyoung curled into the couch with a blanket and a half-eaten bowl of cut fruit. The soft hum of the fridge filled the silence, but his mind was louder—looping back to what Yeosang had said.

" Like you’re the sun, and he’s leaning in to soak up the warmth."

Wooyoung replayed the moments. The way San’s hand always found the small of his back when guiding him through crowds. How San settled beside him like it was natural, like it was home. How he always seemed to look first for Wooyoung’s reaction when he told a joke. The gentle touches. The quiet care.

He had always chalked it up to San being San—warm, sweet, tactile. But Yeosang wasn’t the kind to say things lightly. And he watched. He saw things others missed.

Wooyoung tightened the blanket around himself, cheeks warm.

Maybe San really did treat him differently. Maybe—just maybe—there was something there beyond friendship, buried in all that soft closeness.

He smiled, just a little, eyes fluttering shut.

Could he have hope?

Maybe. For the first time in a long time… maybe.

It was rare for Mingi to be without Yunho.

He wasn’t needy. Not exactly. He just… felt most like himself when Yunho was nearby. It had always been that way, since the day Yunho bounced up to him in Year Four with a toothy grin and bright eyes, asking if he wanted to race during lunch. Mingi had grunted a yes, lost the race, and somehow gained a best friend for life in the span of twenty minutes and one shared juice box.

So when Yunho had declined his offer for a midday run that Saturday, just muttering something about playing a few games and waving him off with a lazy smile, Mingi had gone—but he hadn’t liked it.

He needed the space to think. And when he needed to think, he ran.

The Han River was perfect for it. Long and winding, dotted with life. Kids on bikes, couples on picnic blankets, joggers and dogs and the scent of food trucks in the breeze. The familiar chaos grounded him as he pressed forward, sweat beading on his brow and thoughts tangled behind his ribs.

He finally slowed, pulling out his headphones and catching his breath near one of the quieter stretches of the path. His shirt clung to his back, damp with exertion, and his legs ached pleasantly from the effort.

That’s when he saw him—Seonghwa, seated alone on a sunlit bench, sketchbook in hand. His long legs were crossed neatly, a pencil dancing across the page with measured ease. He was wearing a light cardigan, sleeves pushed up, a breeze catching loose strands of his hair. The image of calm and poise. The kind of peace Mingi had always admired from afar.

Mingi stepped closer. “Hwa?”

Seonghwa looked up immediately, and his face broke into a warm smile that made something in Mingi loosen.

“Mingi,” he said fondly, like he’d been waiting for him. “You look flushed. Come, sit.”

Mingi sank onto the bench beside him, still catching his breath. For a while, they just watched the river and the people moving past, silence unbroken. Until Mingi spoke.

“You know, Yunho and I met when we were nine,” he began, voice quiet. “He was... sunshine. Too much energy, too loud, too friendly. I didn’t stand a chance. He decided we were going to be best friends, and I guess… that was that.”

Seonghwa hummed softly, pencil stilling.

“Our families got close. His parents treated me like another son. We were always together. Always.”

Mingi shifted, picking at a thread on his shorts. “Some girls from our department were studying near us during midterm prep week. I guess they saw us talking, laughing, whatever. One of them said, ‘Those two are so close, it wouldn’t surprise me if they were together.’”

He let out a soft, humourless laugh. “I pretended it was funny. But I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

He swallowed. “And the thing is, Hwa... I think they’re right. Not that we are together. But that it wouldn’t be surprising.”

A long pause.

Then, the words he’d never said aloud:

“I love him.”

Seonghwa slowly turned toward him, expression unreadable.

“I do. I love him so much it hurts sometimes. But I’m scared that if I tell him, I’ll lose him. What if it’s only me? What if I ruin what we have? Because I don’t know how to do life without him. He’s always been there. My constant. My comfort.”

His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know how to be just me if I lose Yuyu.”

The confession sat between them, fragile and heavy.

Seonghwa reached over and took Mingi’s hand, his fingers cool and steady against the warmth of Mingi’s own. He didn’t rush to speak. When he finally did, his voice was soft, steady, and full of the gentle depth that only Seonghwa seemed to carry.

“Mingi,” he murmured, “loving someone isn’t a weakness. Wanting to protect something beautiful isn’t something to feel ashamed of. It just means you care deeply.”

He brushed his thumb across Mingi’s knuckles.

“You and Yunho… you’ve always had something special. Even before I knew either of you well, I could see it. The way he looks for you in every room. The way your shoulders drop when he’s around, like just being near him lets you breathe easier.”

Mingi blinked, eyes stinging.

Seonghwa smiled, tender and knowing. “It’s okay to be scared. But don’t let fear convince you that silence is safer. Love deserves to be seen. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s complicated.”

He tilted his head. “And if you do decide to tell him—whether that’s tomorrow or a year from now—know this: you’re not risking nothing. But you’re also not alone. You have all of us. You have me.”

Mingi pressed his lips together, emotions catching in his throat.

“I don’t know what he’d say,” he whispered.

“Maybe you don’t,” Seonghwa said gently. “But I’ve seen the way he looks at you, too. And you’re worth the risk.”

Mingi smiled softly at Seonghwa.

"Come, have a Spa day with me, lets pamper ourselves, and maybe change this mop" Seonghwa laughed and messed with Mingi's hair.

"Ok Hwa"

[2:17PM – From Wooyoung]
puppy 🐶
come keep me company 😭
sannie’s with his bro doing who-knows-what
yeo told me my face was annoying (??? rude)
hwa said he’s having a ‘pamper date’ with mingi?? like full princess treatment
and joong… joong is like a fart in the wind. gone. nowhere. dead to us.

A quick response.

[2:19PM – From Yunho]
omg not the pamper date 😭😭
u mean hwa is painting mingi’s nails again and calling it “art therapy”
i’m logging off my game rn. be there in 10 🏃‍♂️💨
don’t cry too much or your annoying face will get puffier xx

Yunho took his time walking over, earbuds in, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The message from Wooyoung had been vague, chaotic, and typically dramatic—something about Seonghwa pampering Mingi, San being with his brother, and Hongjoong apparently vanishing into thin air. Still, Yunho didn’t hesitate. When Wooyoung asked, he came.

He let himself into the apartment with the spare key, calling softly, “Woo?”

No answer.

Then he stepped into the kitchen and stopped cold.

The entire counter was covered in food prep. A tray of sliced pork belly sat beside neatly halved soy-marinated eggs. Spring onions, garlic chips, and fresh noodles were portioned and ready, sauces lined up in an intimidating row. The scent of rendered fat and shoyu lingered in the air. It was methodical. It was calculated.

It was suspicious.

Yunho’s lips parted to call again, but before he could make a sound, a blur launched at him from the side.

“Puppy!” Wooyoung yelled, arms and legs wrapping around him like a human sloth.

“Jesus!” Yunho staggered but caught him, hands moving instinctively to support him under the thighs. “You’re going to make me pull something.”

Wooyoung laughed against Yunho’s shoulder before sliding down to the floor with the grace of someone who’d done this dozens of times. “You came!”

“You said you were alone and bored,” Yunho replied, glancing back at the kitchen. “Is that abura soba?”

“Mmhmm,” Wooyoung said proudly, brushing a few stray onion bits off his shirt. “To celebrate midterms. It’s your favourite.”

Yunho blinked, warmth blooming slowly in his chest. “Wait, you made all this... for me?”

“For us,” Wooyoung corrected, but his eyes sparkled. “I figured you might be feeling it. San’s off with Jongho, Yeo told me I was annoying, and Joong’s like a fart in the wind these days. So… comfort food.”

Yunho looked over the careful arrangement of ingredients again—every detail precise, thoughtful.

“Seonghwa decided to do his pamper thing with Mingi when he ran into him today,” Wooyoung added, leaning on the counter. “He told me. Unlike the others. Who never tell me anything.”

Yunho chuckled softly, touched in that deep, quiet way Wooyoung always managed to bring out of him.

“Of course you’d think of this,” he said, nudging Woo with his elbow. “Trust you to feed people when they’re too tired to realise they’re hungry.”

“Feeding people is my love language,” Wooyoung declared, already turning to grab chopsticks and bowls. “Sit down. I’m serving.”

Yunho did. Because when Wooyoung said he was serving comfort, he meant more than food.

Dinner was quiet at first, the kind of quiet that comes with being full and comfortable. Yunho twirled his noodles lazily around his chopsticks, savouring the rich, savoury flavour. Across the table, Wooyoung leaned on one elbow, eyes scanning Yunho’s face like he was trying to decide whether or not to speak.

“Hey, Yun,” Wooyoung said finally, voice softer than before. “How’s San at home?”

Yunho looked up. “At home?”

“Yeah. Like… outside of class and group stuff. Just… him.”

Wooyoung’s fingers picked at a frayed thread on his sleeve, and Yunho could see the tension there, like the words had been building behind his teeth for a while. “I trust Yeosang,” Woo added. “He sees things. But I guess I just… want to hear it from you too. You live with him.”

Yunho set his chopsticks down gently. “San’s… good. Quieter lately. More tired, maybe. But he talks about you a lot.”

Wooyoung blinked. “He does?”

“Yeah. Usually in passing, like, ‘Woo made this insane recipe today’ or ‘Woo called Yeosang a corporate gremlin again.’ But it’s always warm, you know? And when you text or call, he lights up.” Yunho paused. “He smiles without meaning to.”

Something in Wooyoung’s expression cracked open a little. His eyes dropped to the table, his hands curling loosely around his bowl. “That’s… kinda how Mingi is with you.”

Yunho looked up, surprised.

“When you aren’t together.” Wooyoung smiled faintly. “I notice things too.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Yunho exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. I’ve noticed. And I’ve heard things too. Back during midterm prep, some girls were chatting nearby—said something like ‘those two are so close, it wouldn’t surprise me if they were together.’ And then…”

He trailed off.

“What?” Wooyoung prompted.

“Our parents. During one of their joint family dinners they called us, my eomma joked that we fit so well together. It was subtle, but… they notice too.”

Yunho’s voice grew quiet, vulnerable in a way he rarely let show. “I want him, Woo. I’ve wanted him for a very, very long time.”

He looked at his hands, then back at Wooyoung with a helpless little laugh. “I think I’m just waiting for Mingi to catch up.”

Wooyoung didn’t speak right away. He just studied Yunho with the kind of gentle seriousness that few people ever saw from him.

Then he shook his head. “No, Yuyu. I think you need to make the first step here.”

Yunho blinked.

“You’ve always been his safe place,” Wooyoung said, voice low and sure. “But maybe now he needs a sign that he’s yours too. Something real. Something bold. Because he’ll follow, Yunho. But only if he knows it’s safe.”

Silence settled between them again, but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was full—of thought, of memory, of hope. And under it all, the steady pulse of something blooming.

Yunho nodded slowly. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

Wooyoung smiled. “Of course I am. Now finish your noodles before they go cold.”

Yunho laughed, and they both returned to their food—but something had shifted. Something had opened.

And neither of them were quite as alone in their feelings anymore.

By early evening, the apartment was buzzing.

San arrived first, dramatically flopping onto the couch. “You made abura soba and didn’t call me?”

“You were with your brother,” Wooyoung called from the kitchen without turning around. “Besides, it’s puppy’s favourite, not yours.”

Jongho and Yeosang wandered in next, eyeing the stacked dishes with varying levels of betrayal.

“Abura soba,” Jongho muttered. “And you didn’t save any?”

 With a flick of his wrist, he revealed a tray of mini fruit tarts. Golden shortcrust filled with silky vanilla custard, crowned with glazed strawberries, slices of mandarin, and glistening cubes of peach. A sprinkle of lime zest shimmered under the overhead lights.

“Don’t say I don’t love you losers.”

Hongjoong emerged from his room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Why does it smell like a whole bakery in here?” Wooyoung just laughed.

They all settled in the lounge, TV on in the background as they ate the tarts and chatted about what else they were going to do while the break was on.

Then the front door opened.

Seonghwa walked in, radiating post-spa-day calm in soft neutrals and dewy skin. “We’re back.”

And then Mingi stepped in behind him.

Conversation died.

His hair was newly cut—short at the sides, the longer top messily styled like he hadn’t even tried, but somehow looked too good. A black button-up hugged his broad shoulders, open just enough to show the glint of a silver chain. Grey trousers fit just right, cuffed at the ankle to reveal just a hint of skin above sleek sneakers. (A/N: Inception era Mingi hits different man)

He was glowing. Effortless and confident.

Yunho’s jaw dropped before he could stop it. “Oh fuck,” he breathed. “That’s so fucking hot.”

All heads whipped toward him.

Yunho didn’t notice. Couldn’t notice. His eyes were locked on Mingi like he was seeing him for the first time—no, like every carefully buried feeling had just exploded through the surface.

Wooyoung was watching Yunho closely. He didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. Just leaned in quietly and said, “Still think you’re waiting for him to catch up?”

That snapped something loose.

Yunho stood.

The room faded behind him.

He walked past Seonghwa, who had stepped into the lounge, and blinked in surprise. Mingi had just taken his shoes off when Yunho reached him, grabbed his wrist, and pushed him gently—but firmly—against the front door.

Mingi blinked. “Yunho—?”

Yunho's eyes were dark, unreadable, locked onto Mingi’s mouth. His voice was low. Rough.

“Stop me.”

He didn’t move, didn’t lean in. Just stood there, breathing heavy, staring at Mingi like he was everything.

Mingi’s breath hitched. Then, barely above a whisper: “No.”

The silence cracked open around them.

“Holy sh—” someone started behind them, followed by a slapping sound.

But Yunho didn’t hear it. Because in that moment, all he knew was that he wasn’t waiting anymore. That this—whatever this was between them—had always been fire waiting for a spark.

And now?

Now it burned.

Yunho barely registered the collective hush behind them—the way the group held their breath like the entire apartment had paused, suspended on a single moment.

Mingi hadn’t moved.

Yunho's fingers tightened slightly around Mingi’s wrist, grounding himself. The look on Mingi’s face was unguarded. Vulnerable. Not surprised, not scared. Just open, his lips parted, breath quick, his chest rising against Yunho’s.

“Princess," Yunho said his voice softer this time. Pleading. For what, he did not know.

Mingi didn’t say anything.

He reached up instead, hesitantly brushing his fingertips along Yunho’s jaw. That single touch sent something roaring through Yunho’s body.

And then Yunho was kissing him.

Slow at first. Testing, reverent. Like he couldn’t believe he was finally allowed. Their lips met with the heat of too-long-held tension, a mix of hesitation and hunger, softness and urgency. Mingi gasped into it—just enough—and Yunho tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

It wasn’t perfect. It was desperate and trembling and made Mingi’s fingers clutch at the front of Yunho’s shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Yunho's other hand slid to Mingi’s waist, anchoring him, holding him like he was afraid Mingi might vanish.

Mingi responded with a sound that was part whimper, part sigh—relief, release, the quiet echo of want.

This wasn’t a maybe. It wasn’t confusion or accidental affection.

It was a choice.

And Yunho kissed him like he had always known—always hoped—that if he ever got the chance, he wouldn’t hold back.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, Mingi let out a shaky breath.

“I’m not stopping you,” he whispered.

Yunho let out a breathless laugh, eyes closed, overwhelmed and undone. “Good. Because I don’t think I can stop.”

From the lounge, a single noise broke the stillness.

“Can we stay here tonight?” Jongho asked softly.

There was a quiet shuffle of agreement, the collective understanding hanging in the air like steam after a downpour—something private had broken open, and none of them were going to intrude.

Yunho blinked, finally pulling his gaze away from Mingi to glance toward the living room. Their friends—his family—sat in varying states of surprise and warmth, quiet in a way that said we’ve seen everything, and we’re still here.

Then he looked back at Mingi, heart still thrumming in his chest like a trapped bird.

Without a word, Yunho bent down and grabbed his shoes, tugging them on quickly, adrenaline still crackling under his skin.

“Byeee Yuyu. Minki. Be safe,” Wooyoung sing-songed from the couch, the smirk on his face barely concealing how fond his voice had turned.

“Don’t wait up,” Yunho called over his shoulder, hand already sliding into Mingi’s as he pulled him toward the door.

Mingi followed with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, the door clicking shut behind them.

The room fell quiet again.

Unbelieving of what they just witnessed but undeniably happy.

The door clicked shut behind Yunho and Mingi, leaving a hush in their wake.

Seonghwa, nestled comfortably on the couch beside Hongjoong, leaned his head back and sighed, serene and smug in equal measure. “My work here is done.”

From the rug, where Jongho had just begun gathering scattered throw pillows into a makeshift nest, a voice piped up: “Wait—what work?”

San blinked at him from where he’d been lying with his legs slung over the armrest, lifting his head in time to catch the way Seonghwa’s satisfied smile flickered into something more innocent. Too innocent.

Wooyoung sat up straighter, narrowing his eyes at Seonghwa suspiciously. “Hwa,” he said slowly, “did you plan that?”

Seonghwa didn’t answer. Hongjoong’s lips twitched.

“Wait—hang on,” Wooyoung gasped, turning his entire body to face the couple. “You and Joong? Was this, like… a long con? Was I part of a romantic setup?”

“I knew that sudden spa day was too convenient,” Yeosang added from his corner of the room, arms crossed and expression unimpressed. “You told me it was about stress relief.”

“It was, didn't realise it would be today, just soon,” Seonghwa said primly. “And it was also about helping Mingi realise he deserves to feel good in his own skin.”

Hongjoong patted his thigh. “You did great, love.”

Seonghwa preened. “Thank you.”

“You’re deflecting,” Wooyoung muttered, but there was no heat in it—just a sort of awed exasperation. “I’m living in a soap opera.”

“You love it,” Yeosang deadpanned.

Wooyoung grinned. “I do.”

“Anyway,” Seonghwa said, clapping his hands once to settle everyone. “Sleeping arrangements?”

“I vote not here,” San groaned, sitting up properly now and rubbing at his face. “This floor is trying to murder my spine.”

“Agreed,” Yeosang said, nudging him with a foot. “You’ve been lying there like a cat sunbathing.”

“I am a cat,” San said, batting his lashes dramatically.

“A cat who snores,” Wooyoung shot back.

“That’s Yeosang,” San and Jongho said in perfect unison.

Yeosang turned to Wooyoung with a betrayed look. “How dare you corrupt him.”

Hongjoong chuckled as he stood. “Alright, alright. Seonghwa and I are obviously in our room.”

“Obviously,” Seonghwa echoed with a serene smile. “I’ll grab spare bedding.”

“Yeo and I are in our usual room,” Wooyoung added, flopping lazily against Yeosang’s side again. “He says I kick, but he gets clingy when it’s cold.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!”

They kept bickering fondly as Seonghwa disappeared down the hall.

“So that leaves me and Jongho,” San said, stretching until his shoulders popped. “I’ll take the floor. Jongho gets the couch.”

“You don’t have to—” Jongho started, but San waved a hand.

“You’re a first year. I’ve got you.”

“That’s not a reason,” Jongho muttered, but he was already arranging a pillow at one end of the couch.

Yeosang’s eyes flicked to San’s back briefly before returning to the blanket Wooyoung had thrown over both of them. Something thoughtful passed across his face, but he said nothing.

By the time Seonghwa returned with neatly folded bedding and a stack of extra pillows, the rest of them had begun to settle, bodies sprawling on cushions, laughter softer now, full of that late-night warmth unique to people who felt like home.

As blankets were tucked and goodnights muttered, no one said it aloud—but they all felt it.

Something had shifted tonight.

Some hearts had cracked open a little wider.

Some futures had taken the smallest, boldest step forward.

And somewhere down the hall, Seonghwa smiled to himself again, satisfied.

Work done, indeed.

The night air hit them like a gasp the moment they stepped out of the apartment building—cool, sharp, and full of possibility.

Neither of them spoke at first. Yunho’s hand wrapped firmly around Mingi’s, grounding, steady. Mingi didn’t pull away.

The walk home was only ten minutes, maybe less, but it stretched before them like something sacred. They didn’t walk the main road. Instead, Yunho led them down quieter alleys, familiar from late-night convenience store runs and post-rehearsal shortcuts. The kind of silence that settled around them wasn’t awkward—it was charged. Electric.

Mingi’s fingers kept brushing against Yunho’s as they walked, and each touch sent sparks zipping down Yunho’s spine. The kiss in the apartment still burned on his lips, but this—this quiet ache, this suspended gravity—it made everything feel heavier. Deeper.

Halfway down a narrow lane, Yunho stopped.

Mingi almost bumped into him. “Yuyu—?”

Yunho turned, breath catching. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

Before Mingi could answer, Yunho kissed him again. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just full—of wonder, of want, of all the years they’d spent pretending. Mingi melted into it with a sound that made Yunho’s knees threaten to buckle.

They pulled apart only when a distant car turned onto the street behind them, its headlights dragging reality back around their ankles.

They started walking again—faster now, hands linked, hearts hammering.

By the time they reached their apartment, Yunho was fumbling with the keys, Mingi’s breath hot against the side of his neck. The door clicked open and shut in one motion, and then—

Silence.

Their shared room glowed faintly from the streetlight bleeding through the curtain. The familiar shapes of their desks, their music posters, their tangled sheets all seemed to hold their breath.

Yunho turned. Mingi stood a few feet away, chest rising and falling, hair tousled from wind and fingers and that kiss.

“You okay?” Yunho asked softly.

Mingi nodded. Then, after a moment, said, “It’s… I’ve never done this.”

Yunho’s expression softened instantly. He closed the space between them with slow, careful steps, his voice gentle when he spoke.

“Neither have I and we don’t have to. Not tonight.” He reached out, brushing his knuckles against Mingi’s cheek. “I’m just happy I didn’t royally fuck up, Min. I love you too much to lose you.”

Mingi’s breath hitched. “Yun…”

Yunho smiled, small and a little shaky. “I’ve been carrying this around for so long I forgot what it was like not to want you.” He looked down, hand falling to Mingi’s. “But I meant it when I said I’d wait. Even now. Especially now.”

Mingi’s fingers squeezed his. “I don’t want you to wait. I just… I need a second to breathe. You kind of turned my whole world inside out tonight.”

Yunho chuckled, the sound low and fond. “Yeah. You did the same to mine, if it helps.”

They stood there for a while, the quiet around them not empty, but full—of everything they hadn’t yet said and everything they now didn’t have to.

Then Yunho nudged Mingi gently toward the bed. “C’mon. Let’s just lie down. No pressure, okay?”

Mingi nodded, and they moved together like they always had—natural, wordless, like gravity knew how to hold them.

They settled under the blankets, limbs tangling without hesitation. Mingi curled into Yunho’s side, one arm draped across his waist, his cheek pressed against Yunho’s chest. Yunho rested his chin on Mingi’s head and let out a long, steady breath.

“I still can’t believe you kissed me back,” he murmured.

“I still can’t believe you said ‘princess,’” Mingi replied, voice muffled but smiling.

Yunho groaned, burying his face in Mingi’s hair. “I was possessed. Min that hair, those clothes, they should be fucking illegal”

Mingi’s laugh was warm against his skin, and for a moment everything in the world felt right.

“You know,” Mingi said softly, “I think… I’ve always known. About you. About this. But I was scared it was just something I wanted too much to be real.”

Yunho’s arms tightened around him. “It’s real. We’re real. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Mingi was quiet for a moment. Then: “Stay even if I get clingy?”

“I hope you get clingy,” Yunho replied, without hesitation. “I’ve got so much affection saved up for you it’s ridiculous.”

Mingi grinned, sleep already tugging at his eyelids. “Okay, good.”

Within minutes, his breathing evened out, soft and steady against Yunho’s chest.

Yunho stared at the ceiling, heart full to the point of ache. His hand found Mingi’s under the blanket and laced their fingers together.

For the first time in a long time, Yunho fell asleep with no doubt in his chest—just the quiet, steady rhythm of the boy he loved, asleep in his arms.

That night, rain started to fall steadily outside, blurring the city lights into soft pools of colour. Inside their quiet apartment, Seonghwa curled up against Hongjoong’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat grounding him. The day’s events still lingered in his mind—especially the moment Yunho had suddenly kissed Mingi, a flash of heat and vulnerability that had stunned everyone into silence.

“They’re changing,” Seonghwa murmured, voice low and thoughtful. “All of them. Yunho and Mingi… it was like watching something fragile and beautiful unfold in front of us. That kiss—it wasn’t just about desire. It was years of unspoken feelings crashing into the present.”

Hongjoong smiled softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from Seonghwa’s forehead. “You always notice the smallest things, don’t you?”

Seonghwa lifted his head, his gaze drifting to the rain streaking the window. “I have to. It’s how I learn who they really are, beneath the surface. Their fears, their hopes, the parts they hide even from themselves.”

Hongjoong’s fingers found Seonghwa’s, intertwining with a quiet promise. “I think I first knew I loved you when I realised I wanted to be seen by you—truly seen, without any masks or walls.”

Seonghwa met his eyes, feeling the weight of that moment, the deep connection that had quietly grown between them. “You always have been.”

The rain continued its gentle rhythm outside, wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth and tenderness. In that quiet space, with everything else fading away, love felt simple and real—an unspoken vow that whatever changes came, they would face them together.

Yeosang and Wooyoung lay in their beds in their room, the soft murmur of the apartment around them settling into a calm hush. The memory of Yunho and Mingi’s heated kiss earlier that day still hung between them, heavy and electric.

Wooyoung broke the silence first, voice low but warm. “I was talking to Yunho over abura soba today… about San, about feelings Yunho keeps hidden. Yunho’s been waiting for Mingi to catch up to how he feels, I told that he might need to take that first step, but I think with Hwa’s help, Mingi took it.”

Yeosang nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful. “I saw the way Yunho looked at Mingi when he walked in. Like he was standing on the edge of something, afraid to jump. Whatever you said to him before that kiss lit a fire in him.”

“I said to him he might not need to wait for Mingi to catch up.” Wooyoung smiled softly. “Maybe it’s not just Yunho who needed courage. Maybe we do too.”

Yeosang looked at him, a quiet honesty in his gaze. “Yeah. I’ve been holding back with Jongho. Afraid of what might happen if I don’t.”

Wooyoung’s expression softened. “We all have fears. But if Yunho and Mingi can find the strength to leap, maybe we can too.”

They shared a quiet moment, the weight of their own uncertainties mingling with hope.

“Love is scary,” Yeosang murmured, “but it’s worth the risk.”

Wooyoung looked over at Yeosang with a small smile on his face.“Here’s to finding courage — in others, and in ourselves.”

The city lights outside flickered softly, a silent witness to two friends quietly readying themselves for whatever comes next.

In the quiet of the living room, the rain tapped gently at the windows, steady and slow. A floor lamp cast a soft glow over the cushions they’d piled onto the couch, the mess of blankets already warm from the body heat shared between them.

San sat curled at one end, fingers twisting the fringe of the throw draped over his knees. Jongho was cleaning up in the nearby kitchenette, drying the last dish from the tart eating ealier. The silence had weight, but it was gentle.

“Do you ever get scared,” San asked suddenly, voice low, “that the way you feel about someone won’t be… enough?”

Jongho paused, his hands stilling over a tea towel. “Is this about Wooyoung?”

San hesitated. “Yes. And no.”

Jongho wiped his hands, walked over, and leaned on the arm of the couch. “You’re worried he wants something more?”

“I’m worried he’ll figure out I don’t know how to give it.”

Jongho watched him for a moment, then lowered himself to sit beside him. “Hyung… you’ve been taking care of me since I could crawl. You know how to love people. You just don’t always trust that it’s okay to show it fully, completely. You slip with Woo, you already know how”

San’s jaw tensed. His gaze fixed somewhere on the rug like it held answers he couldn’t reach.

“He sees you,” Jongho added softly. “All of you. That’s why you’re scared, isn’t it?”

San looked up, eyes red-rimmed but sharp. “I don’t want to be someone he loves until he realizes I’m too much.”

“You’re not too much,” Jongho said simply. “You’re worth it, hyung. And more than that—” he nudged San’s arm, “—you’re worthy of love."

"Don’t let him win in this Sannie." Talking about their Father. "Don’t let him take away more of you, of what you deserve”

San blinked fast, and his throat bobbed. “You’re not supposed to say things like that before bed, you little shit.”

Jongho snorted. “You started it.”

There was a beat. Then San added, more quietly, “I want that. What Yunho and Mingi had tonight. That kind of brave.”

Jongho nodded. “Then don’t run. Let him decide. He’s tougher than he looks.”

“So are you,” San whispered after a moment, the words thick.

Jongho shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, well… that’s probably Yeosang’s problem.”

That earned him a wet, shaky half-laugh. San leaned sideways until his head rested against Jongho’s shoulder, and Jongho tilted his head just slightly to rest against him in return. The storm outside rolled on, but inside, it was all steady breaths and unspoken understanding.

It was a Tuesday.

The living room was warm, glowing gold with the soft lamplight beside the couch. A mug of lukewarm tea sat forgotten next to the laundry pile, steam long faded. Hongjoong was folding socks into impossibly neat bundles, his usual methodical calm settling over the domestic quiet. The TV played a muted playlist, low visuals flickering in tandem with the rain tapping faintly at the windows.

At the dining table, Seonghwa sat hunched forward, his frame outlined in the glow of the light above. His sketchbook was open, the page filled with early ideas—a drape design, barely born, lines tracing over themselves like echoes. He worked slowly, pencil in hand, eyes half-lidded in focus as he imagined fabric folding like ocean waves, like breath, like memory.

His phone buzzed once. Then again.

He didn’t look immediately—just shifted the pencil slightly, adding a curl to the hem of a sleeve. But the name caught his eye when the screen lit a second time.

Noona <3.

His fingers stilled.

He reached for the phone automatically, his voice soft, almost shy. “Noona?”

But the line didn’t greet him. There was no teasing lilt, no half-joking scolding about how skinny he looked in his latest post, no asking if he was remembering to call their aunt on her birthday. None of the usual warmth.

Only a sound.

A breath—shallow, broken. Then a sob. Choked and raw.

His blood turned to ice.

“Byeol?” he whispered, all the air leaving his lungs. Hongjoong’s head snapped up, sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere.

On the other end, her voice cracked open.

“He’s gone, Hwa.”

Time fractured. The pencil clattered soundlessly to the floor. His hands went numb.

The rain outside seemed to hush.

“Appa’s gone.”

Chapter Text

Numbness Spreads

The words split the world in two.

Seonghwa stood frozen, phone clutched to his ear, eyes wide and blank. His lips parted, but no sound came out. The colour drained from his face all at once, like someone had reached through the screen and pulled the life out of him with those three words.

The sketchbook slid from his lap and hit the floor with a soft rustle of paper, pages spilling open. His pencil rolled off the table and landed near Hongjoong’s feet, unnoticed.

From the couch, Hongjoong looked up sharply. He caught only the barest glimpse of Seonghwa’s expression—frozen, unseeing, so unlike him—and stood in an instant, the socks forgotten in a half-folded pile.

“Hwa?”

Seonghwa blinked once. Twice. His breath hitched, chest rising in a shallow, stuttering rhythm.

“No. No, what—what do you mean—he—” His voice broke, stumbled, lost all shape. He reached for something that wasn’t there. His knees buckled before the sentence could finish.

Hongjoong was already there, crossing the room in two steps, arms open to catch him just as his legs gave out. Seonghwa collapsed against him, boneless and heavy, like the grief had severed his strings. The phone slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor, skidding under the table where neither of them could reach it.

Hongjoong lowered them both carefully to the rug, arms tight around Seonghwa’s shaking frame. He gathered him into his lap, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other curling protectively around his waist.

“Hwa. Hey. Hwa, baby, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

But there was nothing in response.

No sound. No sobs. Not even tears.

Just silence.

Seonghwa wasn’t moving. He sat slumped against Joong’s chest, trembling faintly, staring into nothing. His breath was shallow, lips slightly parted, eyes locked on some faraway place.

Hongjoong felt the panic creep in, quiet and cold, threading through his ribs like a vice.

He’s not reacting. He’s not even crying.

“Hwa,” he murmured again, softer now. “Please, baby. You’re okay. I’m right here. Just come back to me, alright? Just breathe with me.”

He rocked them gently, pressing his lips to Seonghwa’s hairline, to his temple, his cheek.

Still nothing.

It terrified him.

Hongjoong swallowed the fear and grounded himself in touch. One hand slipped beneath Seonghwa’s cardigan, splaying against his back, warm and firm. The other stroked through his hair in slow, soothing passes, untangling soft strands like he had done so many times before, when Seonghwa was stressed or tired or just needed to feel loved.

This was different. This wasn’t stress. This was the bottom falling out of someone’s world.

And Hongjoong didn’t know how to fix that.

So he didn’t try.

He didn’t tell him to calm down, or to cry.

He just stayed.

A steady presence. An anchor in the middle of the wreckage.

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispered, over and over like a mantra. “You’re not alone. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Minutes passed—maybe longer. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of the fridge and the muffled playlist still playing from the TV.

The phone remained untouched under the table. His own was on the kitchen counter, just out of reach. And he wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t risk letting go.

Yeosang and Wooyoung were out—gone for the evening, something about finding fried mandu and those candied grapes Wooyoung had been craving. They didn’t know what had just happened. They didn’t know Seonghwa’s world had just cracked open at the seams.

Hongjoong pressed his face to Seonghwa’s shoulder.

Hwa’s father.

His throat tightened.

He had liked Seonghwa’s father. A quiet man, full of gentle wit and patient hands. A man who had treated Joong with so much warmth and love. They used to text sometimes—pictures of the garden, recipes Hongjoong might like, comments on Seonghwa’s designs like a proud father-in-law in training.

He’d joked that Hongjooong was too skinny, too serious, and then sent him an old family remedy for stress headaches involving ginger and hot foot soaks.

It had felt… safe.

Like having a father again.

Hongjoong blinked hard and bit the inside of his cheek until the sting stopped the tears. He couldn’t cry. Not yet.

Seonghwa was still shaking.

“I love you,” he whispered against his skin. “So much, Hwa. I’m right here. You don’t have to say anything. Just stay with me. Just stay.”

He kept whispering until his voice gave out.

Until the door finally unlocked behind them with a quiet click.

A pause. The rustle of paper bags. A footstep.

Then—

“Hyung?”

Yeosang.

Something in it dropped, sharp and alert.

They had seen them.

Hongjoong didn’t look up.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t loosen his grip on Seonghwa even a little.

Because Seonghwa still hadn’t cried.

And Hongjoong couldn’t let go until he did.

The front door opened with a quiet click.

Yeosang stepped in first, juggling grocery bags and nudging the door wider for Wooyoung, who followed behind, mid-laugh, the echo of their light banter still warm in the air.

But the moment they crossed the threshold, the air changed.

"Hyung?"

The apartment wasn’t just quiet. It was hollow.

And then they saw them.

On the floor. Not the couch. Not a chair. Just—

Hongjoong on his knees, arms curled protectively around Seonghwa, who lay slumped against him like a ragdoll. One of Seonghwa’s hands hung limply by his side. The other was clenched into his own sleeve. His face was turned toward Hongjoong’s chest, eyes open but vacant. Mouth slightly parted. Breathing shallow and uneven.

Hongjoong’s cheek was pressed to the crown of his head. His hands kept moving, one running up and down Seonghwa’s back, the other shaking as it carded endlessly through his hair. His lips ghosted across his temple, murmuring soft things that broke under his breath.

Neither of them looked up.

Yeosang’s bags fell from his hands. Glass clinked. Something cracked.

Wooyoung made a small, choked sound. “Oh my god.”

He took one step forward, then froze.

It was too quiet. Too still.

They knew. They didn’t need to hear the words, they instinctively knew.

“Hwa’s… appa,” Yeosang whispered, like anything louder might shatter the space completely.

It landed like a punch to the chest.

Seonghwa didn’t move.

Wooyoung turned away, fumbled for his phone with shaking hands, already pressing San’s contact with numb fingers. His voice was barely there when the call connected.

“Woo?” San answered. “You guys home?”

“San,” Wooyoung said, and it wasn’t a voice, it was air. “You need to come. Now.”

“Why? What—?”

“Seonghwa. His appa.” The words came broken. “He’s gone.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then the line cut.

By the time they arrived, the light in the living room was dim and golden, a small lamp casting long shadows across the floor.

The scene hadn’t changed.

Hongjoong hadn’t moved from the ground. Seonghwa was still in his lap, crumpled inwards like his body had given up. His face was pale. Too pale.

His eyes didn’t track the door.

His fingers didn’t twitch.

It was like he was gone, just not all the way.

Hongjoong held him tighter. He didn’t look up, but his voice cracked out into the room as the others gathered.

“Hwa,” he whispered. “Love. They’re here.”

He kissed Seonghwa’s temple again, gentle and constant, like he could tether him with touch. “Your family is all here.”

San dropped to his knees across from them, hard enough that it made the floor shake. His hands curled into fists. His mouth trembled, but he didn’t cry. Not yet. He didn’t dare.

Mingi stood frozen in the doorway, a cardigan clutched to his chest — the cardigan Seonghwa always said reminded him of his father’s. He stared, then crossed the room slowly, laying it down beside them like an offering.

Yunho set a thermos of honey tea on the low table. His hands shook. His jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt.

Jongho came last. He said nothing, just sat on the floor beside Yeosang, eyes wide, wet, but unblinking.

No one touched them.

No one dared.

Because Seonghwa wasn’t crying.

He wasn’t sobbing or screaming or breaking down.

He was just… empty.

The kind of grief that doesn’t make noise. The kind that guts you from the inside and leaves nothing behind.

Hongjoong’s eyes were red. His face pale. But he didn’t shed a single tear. He wouldn’t. Not now. Not while the man he loved was falling apart in his arms.

He thought about the last time Seonghwa had spoken to his father. After his midterm. The way he’d smiled when he hung up the call, murmuring that his appa said he was proud of him. That he was planning on visiting in the summer break after their first semester finals.

And now… gone.

Just like that.

Hongjoong shut his eyes tight against the tears threatening to fall. Later, he told himself. You can grieve later. Right now, he needs you to be steady.

He pressed a kiss to Seonghwa’s temple again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Yeosang was trembling. He back against the wall, one hand over his mouth, like if he didn’t hold it shut he’d break. His other hand found Jonghos and clutched it tightly.

Wooyoung finally sank to his knees, palms pressed together like a prayer, eyes locked on Seonghwa.

Nobody knew what to do.

Because they all loved Seonghwa’s father.

He had been theirs, too.

He’d sent jam in carefully bubble-wrapped jars. Pickled radish in reused kimchi tubs. Recipes scrawled in old handwriting with too many smiley faces.

He’d called them Seonghwa’s baby chicks. Told Seonghwa he was proud to take care of them.

And now…

The grief didn’t hit all at once.

It rolled through the room in slow, suffocating waves.

But still, no one moved. No one broke the silence.

They just stayed. Stayed on the floor. Around him. For him.

Because he was family.

And now, his whole world had fallen in.

And they would not let him fall alone.

Appa’s gone.

The words echoed.

Dull and heavy. Blunt like a hammer.

Thin like a thread.

Repeating.

Appa’s gone.

He was still sitting—no, he was on the floor. Had he fallen? He didn’t remember. His knees didn’t ache. His back didn’t register the ground. He felt nothing. His limbs were fog.

Somewhere, far away, he thought his phone had slid across the hardwood, spinning from his hand as the weight of the world cracked through his spine. That seemed like a long time ago. Or a second. Or yesterday. Or never.

Appa’s gone.

His mind didn’t know what to do with the sentence. It looped the sound like a song fragment he didn’t know the words to, only that it lived deep in his bones and hurt to hear.

He blinked. Or thought he did. Everything was hazy, gold-lit and too quiet. The voices around him were cotton-thick, like underwater sound. He didn’t register the lamp or the stillness or the tremble in the hands that held him.

He was floating. Or maybe he was sinking. He couldn’t tell the difference.

When had he last breathed?

He tried.

His ribs didn’t move.

Why breathe?

What for?

He stared ahead, at nothing, the world bending like melted glass.

Appa’s gone.

His father—his Appa—had just sent him a photo just this week. He’d been standing by the garden, face half-shadowed, hand holding up a half-ripe persimmon, captioned:

"When you come home, we’ll pick the good ones. I’ll scare the birds off with those ribbon scraps again. Bring me more, I’m running out!"

The ribbons. From the hem of one of Hwa’s failed designs. Appa had laughed so loud on the phone. Said he didn’t care if the neighbours thought he was odd. Said he’d be waiting.

He said he’d be waiting.

Appa’s gone.

As he’d started to collapse, he remembered hearing it. A word. No, two.

Whispered through the phone before it had slipped from his grasp, or maybe from Noona’s mouth, or maybe just from his own unraveling mind:

“Brain aneurysm.”

He didn't know what that meant. He knew what it was, but the words refused to process. They thudded like fists against a locked door in his chest.

Brain aneurysm. Brain aneurysm. Brain aneurysm.

He didn't know if his heart was beating. He couldn't feel his hands.

Couldn’t feel Hongjoong.

Couldn’t feel the floor.

Just the words.

The weightless fall.

The absence.

The impossible, suffocating absence.

Appa’s gone.

His father. Who sent him hand-written jokes in the margins of recipe cards. Who called Hongjoong “my other son” and made a point of mailing him his own batch of preserved plums.

Who once told Mingi to stop calling him ‘ajusshi’ because “I’m everyone’s Appa now, haven’t you heard?”

Who always ended calls with “Tell our chicks to eat well.”

Gone.

And Seonghwa couldn’t even cry.

Tears belonged to the body. His body was elsewhere. Or gone with him.

The voices around him, even Joong’s—quiet, broken, loving—were fading. Nothing was touching him. Not really.

And maybe that was good.

Because if he came back into his body, he would break.

So he stayed there, sunk, not breathing, not moving, not understanding.

Appa’s gone.

The words spiraled, a mantra with no shape. He didn’t know how long he’d been repeating it—silently? aloud? He didn’t know where the time had gone. If it was still moving. If he was still moving.

His body was still unmoored, distant. Floating, maybe. Or drowning. He couldn’t feel where his skin began or ended.

Nothing registered. Not the floor beneath him. Not the hands that held him steady, strong, gentle through the fog.

Not even the ache.

Until—

A voice.

Soft. Frayed at the edges. Familiar.

“Hwa, love... we’re all here. Your family’s here.”

Something pierced through.

That voice. That voice.

Hongjoong. His love, his light.

The world wobbled on its axis. The numb held on stubbornly, but that voice cracked the shell.

Seonghwa’s breath dragged in sharp, raw. Pain. A flicker. A sound in his own throat, hoarse and broken like rusted metal.

His lips moved before he knew it. Louder than he meant to, the sound like it had been clawing its way up from inside his ribs.

“Joongie.”

The name hit the air and shocked them both.

It didn’t sound right—too loud in his ears, too cracked, like it had been wept a thousand times already.

“Joongie…” He tried again, more desperate now, like if he said it enough the world would rewind. That this moment would snap in half and reveal itself as a bad dream.

He turned, clutching at Hongjoong’s shirt with trembling, bone-tight fists. It hurt. It hurt, his fingers digging like they were trying to anchor him to reality. To Joongie. To anything.

His head fell against Hongjoong’s chest. His body wracked now, breath hitching in broken sobs that finally—finally—burst through the dam.

“Appa…” His voice cracked again. “Appa…”

“I know, Hwa.” Hongjoong's arms were already around him, fierce and sheltering and shaking with held-back grief. He pressed kisses to Seonghwa’s temple, to his hair, his shoulder, whispering over and over through clenched teeth and the sting behind his eyes. “I know. I know. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Seonghwa sobbed then—truly sobbed—like the earth had split.

And Hongjoong held him tighter, because it had.

When the name left Seonghwa’s lips—cracked and splintered and real—Hongjoong froze.

Joongie.

It hit like a tremor under the skin, dragging him out of his own blurred shock.

Joongie… Appa…

The sounds weren’t words anymore. They were the shattered pieces of Seonghwa’s grief, sharp-edged and echoing. Hongjoong had been holding him the whole time—arms around his body, whispering soft, steady things with a voice that shook more than he wanted to admit—but this…

This broke him.

Not in a way that made him falter. In a way that dug his feet in deeper, anchored him right where Seonghwa needed him to be. It made his chest ache with helpless love. It made his heart tear a little more open, because Seonghwa’s world had collapsed and now he was falling through the cracks of it.

And Hongjoong could only catch him with hands too small for the task.

The boys were still and silent around them, watching it all unfold.

Seonghwa sobbed like it hurt to breathe. Hongjoong just held him tighter, kissed his temple again and again, murmuring, “I know. I know. I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you.”

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time twisted in moments like this.

The others didn't speak. Didn’t move. They just watched, helpless and quiet, as Seonghwa sobbed himself into exhaustion. The sound of it was unbearable—like something inside him was breaking anew with every breath, like even the silence between the sobs was too loud.

And then… eventually…

Stillness.

It wasn’t peace. It was the slow, bone-heavy weight of grief settling into the body.

His chest still hitched sometimes. His fingers clutched Hongjoong’s shirt with half-limp hands. But Seonghwa was no longer sobbing.

He was just quiet.

“...I need to call Byeol,” he whispered. The words were thick, sticky, hoarse.

Hongjoong blinked through the wet blur in his eyes. He looked torn. “Baby, you don’t have to—”

“I need to.” Seonghwa’s voice wavered, but it held. 

Hongjoong swallowed hard. “I'll do it love.”

But his arms didn’t let go right away. He didn’t move until San and Wooyoung crouched down together, gentle like whispers. They didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Hongjoong let them help—not because he wanted to move, but because Seonghwa needed someone to stay holding him. Seonghwa didn't protest. Too exhausted. 

San shifted to sit against the couch, legs stretched out, grounding and warm. He held Seonghwa against him like a brother, solid and silent.

Wooyoung knelt beside them and gently replaced Hongjoong’s hands with his own, one steady hand resting at Seonghwa’s back, where Hongjoong’s hand had been, a quiet reassurance that hadn’t changed.

Mingi settled on Seonghwa’s other side. He said nothing—just sat close enough that Seonghwa would feel the comfort of him there.

Yeosang had already disappeared down the hall. When he returned, it was with the soft navy blanket from Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s bed. He unfolded it with quiet care and draped it over Seonghwa’s shoulders and back, tucking it gently around him. Wooyoung's hand was back over the blanket, rubbing circles again.

Yunho stood still near the window, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw locked in a hard line, eyes red. Jongho stood near the couch arm, unmoving. His hands were fisted at his sides.

Neither said a word. Neither needed to.

Silent sentinels. Watching. Guarding.

Family.

Hongjoong stayed crouched where he was for a moment, just… breathing. Just looking at Seonghwa now that he was in the arms of people who loved him too.

He let his breath go—trembling. A few tears slipped free, silent as they traced down his cheeks.

But then he steeled himself.

He had to be strong.

There would be time to fall apart later.

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jumper and reached under the small table where the phone had fallen.

Five missed calls. Ten unread messages.

Byeol.

He dialled.

It rang once. Then—

“Hwa?” Her barely audible.

Hongjoong’s own voice stayed soft. Steady. “Noona.”

“Joongie?” Her voice cracked. She had clearly been crying.

There was silence. Then she asked, voice shaking, “How… how is he?”

Hongjoong shut his eyes. “We lost him for a bit,” he said quietly. “He scared me.”

She broke again on the other end. He could hear it. The soft inhale, the hiccup of breath.

“I found him,” she whispered. “I got home early. He was in the kitchen, near the sink. I thought he’d just dozed off.” Her voice splintered. “He was… he was already gone.”

“Do they know…?” Hongjoong asked, question breaking off.

“Brain aneurysm. They said it was instant. He wouldn’t have felt pain.”

“God,” Hongjoong breathed, head falling back slightly. “Noona, I’m so sorry.”

“We were going to have dinner that night. I told him I’d bring home tteokgalbi.” She gave a weak, broken laugh that turned to a sob.

“I’m going to handle everything on this end,” Hongjoong said gently, steadying her with every word. “Travel, accommodation, food—whatever Hwa and I and the others need to do. I’ll sort it.”

There was a pause.

“Stay here,” Byeol said, her voice trembling but clear. “All of you. All eight.”

“All of us?” Hongjoong echoed, blinking.

“He would’ve wanted it,” she said. “He always called you his baby chicks too. All of you. He loved you like sons. You made him laugh. You made him proud.”

Hongjoong pressed a hand to his eyes. “Thank you, noona.”

She exhaled. “Thank you. For taking care of him. He’ll need you.”

Hongjoong glanced toward the small pile of blankets and arms and quiet breath on the floor. Toward Seonghwa, finally still, finally resting, surrounded by family.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Small Steps Forward

The boys move like clockwork, quietly orbiting around Seonghwa.

They’ve settled him on the couch, tucked in with his hoodie zipped up to his chin. San sits on the floor beside him, shoulder lightly pressed to the edge of the cushion, one hand resting on Seonghwa’s knee, thumb stroking slow circles over the fabric. Seonghwa sleeps, but restlessly—each breath shallow, uneven, as if even in dreams he’s bracing for something.

In the kitchen, Wooyoung works in silence. The clock reads nearly 2 a.m., but he’s focused, using everything in their fridge to prepare meals for the road. Rice steams in the cooker. Strips of marinated meat sizzle in a pan. Egg rolls are sliced with clinical precision. He lines up lunchboxes like offerings—each one neatly packed with care. It’s something he can control. Something tangible he can give, when words won’t do. Snacks go in ziplock bags: cut fruit, dried seaweed, honey biscuits. Thermoses for tea. Cans of coffee. The kitchen smells like warmth, even as grief hangs thick in the air.

At the dining table, Jongho and Yeosang sit shoulder to shoulder, phones out, notes open between them.

“First train gets in around ten,” Jongho says, scanning a schedule. “But it stops two towns over from Seonghwa’s family home. We’d need a transfer and a taxi.”

Yeosang shakes his head. “Too much. He’ll be exhausted.”

Jongho sighs. “Right. Plus we’d be scattered on the way back. The van gives us more time. More space.”

Yeosang nods slowly. “We can leave when we’re ready. No strangers. No rushing.”

They exchange a glance. The decision makes itself.

“Van,” Jongho says firmly. “Eight-seater. Enough room for all of us and luggage.”

“I’ll book it now,” Yeosang says, already opening the rental app. “I’ll put my licence down. Pick-up at seven-thirty?”

“Yeah. I’ll drive first—get us out of the city early. You can take over after the rest stop.”

Yeosang meets his eyes and nods. “We’ll keep it smooth.”

Jongho lets out a breath and stands. “I’ll crash for a bit. Wake me if anything changes.”

“I will. Take my bed”

As Jongho disappears into Yeosangs and Wooyoungs room, Yeosang finalises the reservation—eight-seater van, automatic, prepaid toll pass, full tank on pickup. His hands shake only slightly when he sets the phone down.

The front door creaks open.

Yunho steps inside first, hoodie tugged low, hair damp from mist. Mingi follows with armfuls of packed bags—his, Yunho’s, Jongho’s, and San’s. Their walk back had been silent but solid, their steps in sync, sharing the weight of what couldn’t be said aloud.

Wooyoung meets them in the kitchen, pressing two neatly wrapped rice balls and bottles of water into their hands. “Eat. No arguments,” he says softly, without looking up from the final lunchbox he’s sealing.

They obey. Yunho sinks into one of the kitchen stools. Mingi leans against the counter. They eat slowly, almost mechanically, grateful for the warm food, for something tangible to hold onto. When they’re done, they clean up wordlessly.

"Take our room" Hongjoong whispers. They nod, too tired to fight and with heavy limbs and heavier hearts, they retreat to Hongjoong and Seognghwas room, collapsing into rest.

Hongjoong waits until they’re settled before he moves to the couch. San rises quietly, letting him take his place. Seonghwa stirs faintly at the shift in touch, but doesn’t wake. Hongjoong climbs behind him, curling protectively around his back, one hand resting gently over Seonghwa’s ribs like a barrier against the world.

"I've got everything, you just rest" He presses one last kiss to the nape of Seonghwa's neck. His breath slows, syncing with Seonghwa’s uneven one. Sleep comes, finally—thin and fragile, but enough.

Yeosang pads softly into the hallway and into his room, where Jongho is already sprawled across Yeosang's bed, deep asleep.

He carefully clumbers in next to him and settles against his side. It’s just about comfort—needing someone close. Needing to not be alone.

In the kitchen, Wooyoung finally stops moving. His hands tremble as he sets the last box aside. He turns and sees San sitting alone on the floor, knees tucked up to his chest, staring blankly at the edge of the rug.

Wordless, Wooyoung crosses the space, tugs San up by the wrist, and leads him gently to his bed. Jongho and Yeosang are curled up, finally resting.

San doesn't resist. He lets himself be pushed under the covers.

Then Wooyoung crawls in after him—fully clothed, cold feet pressed to warm legs—and curls up on his side, face tucked into San’s shoulder. His shoulders shake in silence. San doesn’t speak. Just slides an arm around him and lets him cry.

And across the flat, the night holds them all.

A soft click breaks the stillness.

Seonghwa stirs, eyes blinking open just as the front door latches shut again. For a moment, he lies still—his body stiff, awkwardly curled on the couch. There’s warmth at his back, an arm around his waist, the familiar weight of someone breathing close.

Hongjoong.

They must have fallen asleep like this, tangled together.

Then it hits him.

Not a memory, but a fact, raw and cold and unmoving. Byeol’s voice, uneven over the phone. “Hwa… he’s gone.”

Seonghwa lets out a low, pained sound before he can stop it—more breath than voice, more wound than word.

Behind him, Hongjoong stirs.

“Seonghwa?”

His voice is quiet, hoarse with sleep. He shifts, propping himself up, already reaching. But when he looks at Seonghwa, something stops him.

Seonghwa doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t speak.

He just stares at the opposite wall, face blank, muscles slack like something vital has drained right out of him.

Hongjoong’s hand hesitates before settling gently on Seonghwa’s side. “Hwa?”

There’s a pause. A heartbeat. Two.

“I remembered,” Seonghwa says, voice flat, almost too quiet. “That he’s gone.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t blink.

“I thought it was a dream when I first woke up.”

Then nothing.

Hongjoong shifts closer, slipping his arms around him carefully. “You don’t have to talk,” he says, soft and steady. “Just stay right here. I’ve got you.”

Seonghwa doesn’t respond. Doesn’t resist.

He just lets himself be held—still, silent, untethered.

The grief is there, a hollow ache behind his ribs, but distant. Dull. Like it’s happening somewhere else. Like maybe, if he stays still long enough, it won’t reach him.

Hongjoong presses a kiss to the crown of his head, tightening his arms just slightly.

And Seonghwa lets it happen, breathing in slow, numb silence.

One by one, the others begin to emerge from the bedrooms, the soft shuffling of socked feet and the muted thud of doors opening breaking the silence of the early morning.

Their movements are quiet, almost reverent. There’s no laughter. No sleepy complaints. Just the weight of what the day means pressing down on all of them like damp air before a storm.

Jongho appears first, already dressed, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his phone in his hand. He pauses when he sees Seonghwa curled up small on the couch, still draped in the hoodie Hongjoong had found for him hours earlier. His face is slack with exhaustion, his eyes open but distant.

Mingi and Yunho follow not long after, their steps in sync, hair mussed, arms brushing lightly. They don’t speak. They don’t need to.

San leans against the hallway wall, rubbing at his eyes. Wooyoung has already disappeared into the kitchen, the soft clatter of pans and the quiet hum of the stove the only indication of his presence.

It’s Jongho who moves first. Always Jongho when it really matters.

He crosses the living room in three sure steps and sinks to his knees in front of Seonghwa, his bag dropping beside him with a soft thud. He doesn’t speak right away. Just reaches out and lays a careful hand on Seonghwa’s, thumb brushing across knuckles gone pale from how tightly he’s curled his fingers.

“Hyung,” Jongho says quietly, voice steady despite how tired he looks. “Yeosang’s gone to collect the van. Eight-seater. He should be back soon.”

Seonghwa’s eyes blink, slow and heavy. It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

Then—“…Van?”

Jongho nods. “Yeah. We’re going.”

“…Go?” the word leaves his mouth like it doesn’t belong to him. Like it’s something fragile he’s afraid to break.

Hongjoong’s voice answers from behind him, soft but sure. “We’re taking you home.”

Seonghwa turns slightly, finding him standing near the arm of the couch, when had he stood up? His face drawn but kind, eyes full of something between grief and fierce resolve.

“You don’t have to do anything, love,” Hongjoong continues. “Just let us look after you. That’s all you need to do.”

There’s no resistance left in Seonghwa. No strength, either. Just a slow, numb nod.

He doesn’t ask who packed for him. Doesn’t ask if anyone told his sister they’re coming. He trusts them—they know.

Coming from the kitchen, Wooyoung sets a tray down on the coffee table. Simple, comforting: a little white rice, a soft-boiled egg, apple slices arranged in neat fans. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t linger. Just gives Seonghwa’s shoulder a gentle squeeze in passing and returns to washing the few dishes they have left.

Seonghwa reaches for the spoon. He takes a few bites. Picks at the rice. Nibbles on an apple slice. No one asks him to eat more.

Then Hongjoong steps in again.

“Come on,” he murmurs, extending a hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Just a quick shower. I’ll be right there with you.”

Seonghwa hesitates—but only for a second. Then his fingers curl around Hongjoong’s.

The walk to the bathroom feels longer than it is. Hongjoong doesn’t rush him. Just holds him steady, palm warm against his lower back.

Inside, he turns on the water, waits until the steam starts to rise, then gently peels away the hoodie, the shirt, the sleep-sweaty layers clinging to Seonghwa’s skin.

“I’ll help you, alright?” he says softly. “Just say the word if you want me to stop.”

But Seonghwa doesn’t stop him.

He stands under the spray, eyes closed as Hongjoong gently washes his hair. The scent of their shared citrus shampoo fills the small room, grounding. Familiar.

The water slips over his shoulders like silence, and he lets it carry away the heaviness clinging to his limbs.

When it’s over, Hongjoong wraps him in towels, patting him dry with soft hands. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t talk unless Seonghwa wavers—then the words are always the same.

“I’ve got you.”

“You don’t have to carry this alone.”

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” he murmurs. “You’re allowed to feel nothing. Or everything. Or both.”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer, but his eyes stay on Hongjoong.

“Just breathe. That’s enough.”

He helps him into soft grey trackpants, an oversized crewneck and Hongjoongs favourite hoodie. Comfortable, warm. Clothes that smell like home.

Back in the lounge, the others don’t look up right away—but the air shifts when they see Seonghwa reappear.

He looks fragile in the way grieving people do. Like his body is here, but the rest of him is drifting somewhere else. But he’s upright. Clean. Alive.

That’s enough for now.

Hongjoong settles him back onto the couch, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, one arm looping instinctively around Seonghwa’s waist. Holding him close. Holding him steady.

No one says anything loud. No one cries.

They just keep moving around him like a current, steady and protective, as they prepare to carry him through whatever comes next.

Wooyoung couldn’t breathe in that room anymore.

The quiet had become too loud—the kind that settles deep into your bones and makes your skin feel too tight, too fragile. Every soft sound seemed to echo: the gentle clink of chopsticks against untouched bowls, the near-silent rasp of Hongjoong whispering to Seonghwa as he helped him dress, the rustle of someone zipping a bag in the hallway.

And Seonghwa himself—hollowed out, adrift, eyes empty even as he sat wrapped in blankets. He hadn’t said a word since the night before. Not really. Not even when Hongjoong knelt in front of him and kissed the back of his hand.

He just… existed.

And Wooyoung couldn’t do it. Not right now.

He stood abruptly, heart thudding with guilt before his feet had even carried him out of the room. He didn’t want anyone to notice—not Seonghwa. Especially not Hongjoong. He slipped through the flat like a shadow, barely daring to breathe until he shut the door of his bedroom behind him.

Then he just stood there.

He didn’t turn the light on. Couldn’t stomach artificial brightness. The room was dim with the early morning greys of a sun not yet risen, sky painted in the muted colours of grief. He crossed to the window and pressed one palm flat against the cold glass. His other hand clutched the hem of his hoodie, twisting it tightly into his fist.

Outside, the world was moving like nothing had changed.

A woman jogged past with headphones in, breath misting. A delivery van trundled up the street. A cyclist, half-asleep, yawned into their scarf at the intersection. Birds chirped in the trees along the footpath, indifferent and blithe.

And Wooyoung hated it.

Because inside this apartment, time had collapsed. Shattered. The moment Byeol’s voice had cracked down the phone line—it was like the universe had paused to mourn with them. But now the world was pretending again, pretending nothing had happened.

How was everything still going?

Didn’t it know Seonghwa’s father had died?

Didn’t it know Seonghwa had stopped speaking?

Didn’t it care?

The door opened behind him with a soft creak.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He heard the quiet shuffle of feet—hesitant, gentle. San was never loud, but now his presence felt even more careful, like he didn’t want to scare a wounded animal into flight. He stopped a few steps into the room.

“Woo?” San’s voice was a whisper. A hand reaching out through the dark.

Wooyoung didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. He was holding himself together with nothing but tension, and if he turned, he would fall apart.

“He…” Wooyoung’s voice cracked. “He looks so lost.”

The words came out hoarse. Fragile.

“So small.”

He pressed his forehead against the window.

“San…” he whispered, almost like a confession. “Have we lost him?”

There was silence for a breath. Then another.

And then San moved.

Not with words. Not with empty reassurances. Just quiet steps across the floor, arms that wrapped around Wooyoung’s waist from behind, slowly but firmly. He pulled Wooyoung back against him, fitting their bodies together in a way that had become second nature. He pressed his chest to Wooyoung’s back, chin settling on his shoulder, breath warm against the side of his neck.

Wooyoung closed his eyes. Let himself lean back, just a little.

San’s hold tightened.

“He has Hongjoong,” San said softly. His voice was steady, calm, and real. “He has us.”

Wooyoung exhaled shakily, shoulders jerking on the inhale.

“He might be lost right now,” San continued, pressing his nose into the curve of Wooyoung’s neck, “but only temporarily. We’ll guide him home again. Together.”

He paused.

“He just needs time. Space. Love.”

Another breath. Wooyoung turned his face slightly, his cheek brushing San’s.

“…We can give him that,” he murmured, almost like a promise.

San nodded, arms never loosening, grounding them both.

Wooyoung’s hands finally moved—shaking fingers reaching up to clutch at San’s forearms where they circled his middle. And then his shoulders began to tremble. Just once. Then again. And again.

He didn’t sob. Didn’t wail. But the tears came freely, streaming down his cheeks in silence. His body shook with them, quiet and cracked open, pressed so tightly against San it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

San didn’t say anything else.

He just held him.

And outside, the city kept going. Unaware. Unchanged.

But inside this room, two boys stood at a window and clung to each other in the aftermath of grief.

And through the silence, they kept a promise:
They would guide Seonghwa home.

Yeosang pulled the van into the small car park, the engine humming low—the quiet click of his blinker unnaturally loud in the early morning hush. His hands trembled faintly on the wheel, adrenaline from responsibility mixing with the sharp ache of seeing Seonghwa like that—fragmented, absent. He sat there for a moment, letting the engine idle. Took a deep breath that rattled in his chest. Then another. Then he turned the keys, silencing the hum, and sent a short message to Jongho:

Yeosang:
[7:41 AM] I'm here.

Sliding out of the driver’s seat, he squared his shoulders and headed up the stairs. His fingers were still cold, nerves taut beneath his skin, but he’d done what was needed—just like they all were. Just like they always would, for Seonghwa.

When he stepped into the flat, the air felt thick. He glanced around, taking in the changed scene. Seonghwa had been helped into different clothes—comfortable trackpants, a hoodie that looked like one of Hongjoong’s. His hair was still damp at the edges. He wasn’t speaking, but he was upright. That felt like a small miracle.

San and Wooyoung weren’t there.

Yeosang’s brow furrowed slightly, but he moved quietly through the apartment, instincts tugging him toward his own bedroom. Sure enough, the door was cracked open. He hesitated, then leaned gently around the frame.

San was standing still, arms wrapped tightly around Wooyoung from behind, chin pressed to his shoulder. Wooyoung’s shoulders trembled in silence, tears tracking down his cheeks even as his face stayed turned toward the window.

Yeosang’s heart cracked open a little at the sight.

He didn’t say anything.

He stepped away.

The kitchen was quiet as he returned, the soft shuffle of Hongjoong coaxing Seonghwa toward the door drifting in from the hall. On the counter, a plate had been set aside. Yeosang blinked at it—neatly arranged, still warm. For him.

He hadn’t realised how hungry he wasn’t until he took a bite.

He ate quickly, without really tasting it. Just enough to settle the lightheadedness and fuel the next stretch of responsibility. The lunchboxes were already lined up, neatly packed and labelled in Wooyoung’s handwriting. Yeosang wiped his hands on a towel and began organising them into bags for transport.

Footsteps approached—Jongho, quiet and steady.

The younger boy didn’t say much, just gave Yeosang a small nod and began helping lift the heavier containers, going down to fit them into the van's storage compartment like puzzle pieces. Yeosang glanced at him as he left. Even in his silence, Jongho radiated purpose. Calm under pressure. Just like his brother.

Meanwhile, Yunho and Mingi emerged from the hallway, arms laden with bags—backpacks, duffels, small overnight kits. Mingi had even remembered blankets. They worked in tandem, barely needing to speak. Yunho opened the van’s boot while Mingi directed him with a tilt of his chin and a small hand gesture.

Inside, Hongjoong was crouched by the entryway, gently helping Seonghwa into his shoes. He spoke in low, soothing tones, his hands steady. Seonghwa moved like his limbs weren’t quite his—deliberate, distant, but still moving. That, more than anything, reassured them all. He was still here. Just… buried deep beneath the weight of it all.

Wooyoung and San re-emerged, the bedroom door closing softly behind them. Wooyoung’s eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks slightly flushed, but he had composed himself. San hovered at his shoulder, a quiet but solid presence. Without being asked, they headed to the kitchen, helping Yeosang finish packing the last of the food.

No one was loud. No one asked questions. There was only motion and purpose.

Soon, everything was ready.

Jongho climbed into the driver’s seat, glancing over his shoulder once to make sure the others were settled. Yeosang took the passenger side, his phone open with directions to Seonghwa’s family home already queued up.

By mutual understanding, the back row had been cleared for Seonghwa. Yunho climbed in first and scooted to the far side, then gently helped Seonghwa settle beside him. Hongjoong followed, positioning himself on Seonghwa's other side, his arm already curling around Seonghwa’s shoulder.

The middle row held Mingi near the window, Wooyoung in the centre, and San beside the sliding door. None of them said much as they adjusted their seatbelts and tucked blankets around lunchboxes and bags. Mingi gave Wooyoung a quiet squeeze on the arm. San reached over to close the door.

The van was full of warmth, silence, and the low hum of shared grief.

And then, Jongho turned the key.

The engine started.

And they began the journey—not just toward Seonghwa’s childhood home, but toward the long, slow path of healing.

The journey is wrapped in stillness.

The hum of the tyres on the motorway, the occasional soft exhale from one of the boys sleeping, the creak of a seatbelt when someone shifts — that’s all that fills the silence. No music. No conversation. Just presence.

Jongho drives steadily, fingers light on the wheel, gaze fixed forward. Beside him, Yeosang sits quietly, hands folded in his lap, his eyes on the road but his mind elsewhere. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. It’s enough to be the ones holding the wheel right now — to give the others a moment of peace, a moment of stillness to rest in.

In the middle row, Wooyoung's head rests on San’s shoulder. Mingi’s legs are tspread out in front of him, cheek pressed to the window, his hand occasionally twitching in sleep. In the back, Seonghwa is curled slightly inward, his head resting on Hongjoong’s chest. Yunho is beside them, one long arm draped protectively over Seonghwa’s legs, his face tilted down but his eyes closed.

No one stirs for hours.

Eventually, Yeosang lifts his phone and shows Jongho the next rest stop approaching. Jongho gives a small nod and signals. They pull into the lot slowly, tyres crunching gravel. The sudden absence of motion causes a few murmurs, shifting limbs, blinking eyes.

Hongjoong is the first to speak. “Stretch time,” he says gently, voice hoarse from silence. No one argues.

One by one, they clamber out. There’s a picnic bench under a tree, surrounded by bursts of wildflowers and long patches of dew-damp grass. The air is crisp and fresh — late spring beginning to hint at early summer. Seonghwa steps out slowly, guided wordlessly by Hongjoong and Yunho. He walks a few feet away and stands still, eyes closed, letting the sunlight warm his face.

It doesn’t melt the ache.

But it softens it, slightly. Like a hand smoothing over a wrinkle it can’t quite press flat.

Wooyoung opens the back of the van and starts handing out food — carefully wrapped boxes filled with care and instinct. A slice of fruit here. Something sweet tucked in there. He doesn't say anything, just presses the meals into hands that reach for them, then turns to Seonghwa last.

He hesitates, but Seonghwa takes the box from him with both hands. He sits at the edge of the bench and opens it. The food looks beautiful — of course it does. Wooyoung always made meals with love, especially for the ones he loved most.

But Seonghwa can’t taste it.

Each bite is texture and temperature. Familiar, but distant. It’s like eating in a dream. Still, he eats more than he had at breakfast. Enough for Wooyoung to watch him closely, eyes glinting, before he steps close and presses a soft kiss to the top of Seonghwa’s head.

“Thank you,” Seonghwa murmurs, barely above a whisper.

Wooyoung doesn’t reply. He just squeezes his shoulder gently, then moves to start cleaning up. San joins him, nudging him lightly with his elbow. Mingi takes their trash. Jongho does one more check of the van, stretching his arms above his head with a small groan. Yunho and Hongjoong help Seonghwa to his feet again.

Jongho presses the keys into Yeosangs hand as they pass each other, his hand lingering a little bit longer, the pressure a comfort. They don’t speak, but there’s an understanding in the way Yeosang squeezes his hand in return.

Everyone loads back in.

This time, Yeosang takes the driver’s seat. Jongho settles beside him, finally letting his eyes drift shut with a sigh. San helps fold up the blankets again. Wooyoung curls up next to him, quieter now. The back row looks the same — Seonghwa pressed between Hongjoong and Yunho, his expression distant, but his breathing even.

The engine starts once more.

And they continue on.

Hongjoong rests his cheek against the top of Seonghwa’s head, the soft scent of his shampoo still clinging to his hair despite the hours that had passed. The gentle motion of the van rocks them both slightly, and Seonghwa doesn’t stir. His body is pliant, slack in the way grief sometimes demands — too heavy to hold up, too quiet to reach out.

Hongjoong watches him.

His hand, cradling Seonghwa’s, stays still. Their fingers aren’t fully interlaced — Seonghwa hasn’t had the strength to hold on — but Hongjoong’s palm remains a steady anchor beneath his.

There is a weight pressing against Hongjoong’s ribs. Not the heaviness of grief — not his own, at least — but the responsibility of love. Of being the one Seonghwa trusts enough to fall apart beside. Of knowing how Seonghwa breathes when he’s asleep and when he’s just pretending to be. Of recognising the quiet signs of overwhelm, of shut-down, of a heart retreating inward in an effort to survive.

And Hongjoong is doing his best.

He didn’t cry last night. He didn’t let himself. He needed to be the one who could lift the pieces. He had packed the bags. He had kept his voice calm. He had held Seonghwa’s face gently in the shower while washing the shampoo from his hair, whispering things like “I’ve got you” and “I’m here” and “You’re not alone, love.”

He had not allowed himself to shatter — not yet.

Now, in the quiet lull of the drive, he lets his eyes close briefly, just long enough to feel the full ache behind them. It isn’t exhaustion. It’s pressure. It’s the feeling of having too many feelings at once, and nowhere to put them except into action. Into love. Into steadiness.

Because he loves Seonghwa. So completely. So achingly. It makes everything else dim by comparison.

Hongjoong had once written a line in a song — “I’ll hold the sky up if you need to fall.” It hadn’t made the final cut. But it was true. He would hold up galaxies if Seonghwa needed the room to collapse.

He presses a soft kiss to the crown of Seonghwa’s head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers again, too soft for anyone to hear but himself. “For as long as you need.”

He doesn’t know what waits at the end of this journey — what grief will look like tomorrow, or next week. But he knows this: he will still be here. Steady. Present. In love.

Whatever Seonghwa needs, Hongjoong will find a way to give it.

Even if it breaks him quietly, behind closed doors.

Even if it takes everything.

Yunho 🐶
[10:42 AM] hey... you holding up okay?

Mingi 🐥
[10:43 AM] trying to be
[10:43 AM] but it’s so hard seeing Seonghwa-hyung like that... so quiet, like he’s just... gone inside himself.
you?

Yunho 🐶
[10:44 AM] i feel the same
[10:44 AM]. and then there’s joongie...
[10:44 AM] he looks so strong but there’s this weight in his eyes
[10:44 AM] like he’s carrying everything all at once and it’s crushing him inside

Mingi 🐥
[10:46 AM] yeah
[10:46 AM] Hongjoong’s been like that since last night
[10:46 AM] never even took a breath for himself
[10:46 AM] he’s always been the one who holds us together
[10:46 AM] but this time... it’s different
[10:46 AM] it’s like he’s holding hwa too
[10:46 AM] and I’m scared he won’t be able to keep holding on much longer

Yunho 🐶
[10:48 AM] me too
[10:48 AM] he never asks for help
[10:48 AM] he never shows when he’s tired or hurting
[10:48 AM] he just puts on that brave face for Seonghwa and all of us
[10:48 AM] but we can’t let him carry this alone

Mingi 🐥
[10:50 AM] i wish there was something more i could do
[10:50 AM] but i don’t want to overwhelm him either
[10:50 AM] he’s already doing so much

Yunho 🐶
[10:52 AM] we have to remind ourselves to step in
[10:52 AM] to take some of the weight off his shoulders
[10:53 AM] even if he pushes us away
[10:53 AM] because right now, Hongjoong needs us
[10:53 AM] as much as Seonghwa does

Mingi 🐥
[10:54 AM] yeah
[10:54 AM] we can’t let Hongjoong disappear under all this
[10:55 AM] we need to be his strength when he’s too tired to stand

Yunho 🐶
[10:55 AM] we will
[10:56 AM] we’ll share the load, every bit of it
[10:56 AM] so he doesn’t have to break
[10:56 AM] and so Seonghwa can heal surrounded by love
[10:56 AM] not silence

Mingi 🐥
[10:58 AM] exactly
[10:58 AM] we’ll be here
[10:58 AM] watching each other
[10:58 AM] holding each other up
[10:59 AM] making sure none of us falls apart

Yunho 🐶
[11:00 AM] you and me
[11:00 AM] we’ve got this
[11:00 AM] for all of them
[11:00 AM] for Hwa and Joongie

Mingi 🐥
[11:02 AM] always
[11:02 AM] no matter what
[11:02 AM] we’re all they have right now

Yunho 🐶
[11:03 AM] ride or die, for life
[11:03 AM] i love you, Princess

Mingi 🐥
[11:04 AM] love you too, Yuyu.

Hongjoong unlocks his phone, the brightness of the screen reflecting briefly in his tired eyes. His fingers move with slow purpose as he opens his messages.

Hongjoong:
[12:04 PM] Byeol, we're about 10 minutes away.

He doesn’t expect a reply right away. The signal is spotty, and she’s probably pacing by the front window already. He lets the phone rest in his lap as he turns toward the person beside him—Seonghwa.

Seonghwa is leaning slightly against him now, head resting on Hongjoong’s shoulder, body slouched with the kind of heaviness that doesn’t come from sleep—it comes from grief. From everything being too much.

The others are awake, but quiet. The hum of the road and the soft rustle of clothing are the only sounds. Even the air feels respectful of the moment.

Hongjoong watches Seonghwa for a moment. His love's face is peaceful in a painful way—expression slack, gaze distant behind closed lids. He hasn't spoken much all morning, only nodding when needed, only moving when prompted with care.

Gently, Hongjoong raises a hand and brushes Seonghwa’s hair back from his forehead.

“Baby,” he whispers, voice soft enough to be mistaken for the wind, “we’re almost there. Ten more minutes.”

Seonghwa stirs. He doesn’t jerk awake or startle—just opens his eyes slowly, like resurfacing from a deep ocean. His gaze drifts from Hongjoong’s face to the window, where Yunho watches quietly with a small, worried smile.

Seonghwa doesn't say anything. His shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath. Numbness, but not the same as yesterday. This one’s gentler, but still rooted in something hollow.

“You’re doing so well,” Hongjoong murmurs, his hand resting on Seonghwa’s knee. “You don’t have to do anything today. Just let us take care of you.”

In the middle row, Mingi has leaned slightly toward the window, gazing out at the wide fields rolling by. He glances sideways to Wooyoung, who sits beside him—shoulders tight, hands in his lap. Wooyoung gives him a quick look, then reaches across and lightly touches San’s arm. San, seated by the opposite window, glances down at the hand on his sleeve and nods once, silent understanding passing between them.

Up front, Yeosang drives with steady focus, his hands calm on the wheel. He’s quiet, but alert, guiding them down the last stretch of highway. Jongho sits in the passenger seat beside him, occasionally checking the GPS and sending silent updates to Yeosang with a look or a small gesture.

No one speaks loudly. They don’t need to. Their presence says everything.

Seonghwa finally blinks and lowers his gaze. He doesn’t move much, but he shifts just enough to lean more fully into Hongjoong’s side. Hongjoong responds instantly—an arm wrapped around his waist, lips pressing to Seonghwa’s temple in a kiss that asks for nothing but gives everything.

Behind them, Yunho rests his chin in his hand, watching out the window. He’s never felt more helpless—but he also knows this: they’re together. That’s all that matters right now.

Nine minutes later the van rolled to a quiet stop at the end of the long, gravel driveway, dust curling behind them in the soft morning light. Yeosang cut the engine, and the silence that followed felt heavy — not oppressive, but reverent. The kind of quiet that blanketed everything after something sacred had been lost.

For a long moment, no one moved. The house stood ahead, familiar in the way old photographs feel — edges softened by time, steeped in memory. It was still, the curtains undisturbed, the garden gently overgrown. The place Seonghwa had once run barefoot through summer grass, where his laughter had once echoed against the old wooden fence.

Jongho opened the passenger door first, stretching silently before turning to help with the boxes in the back. Mingi followed next, rubbing at his eyes as he slipped out behind San. Wooyoung emerged quietly, arms folded across his chest, gaze fixed on the house like it might dissolve if he looked away.

Yunho rounded the van slowly, quiet in both footsteps and presence. He looked over the home with a furrowed brow, then toward Seonghwa with a barely contained ache. His tall frame moved instinctively to the side of the van where Hongjoong was helping Seonghwa sit upright, but he didn’t interrupt. He hovered close, as if offering support simply by being near.

“Hwa,” Hongjoong whispered, voice low, soft, full of a love so deep it hurt. “We’re here, love. Take your time.”

Seonghwa blinked slowly, as though the words took a while to reach him through the fog in his mind. His movements were sluggish — not from physical pain, but from the weight of everything that now lived inside his chest. He didn’t speak, didn’t resist, but allowed Hongjoong to guide him carefully from the van, one arm around his waist, the other steadying his shoulder.

The others stepped back, giving them space. All eyes were on Seonghwa, but no one said a word.

And then the front door opened.

Byeol appeared, framed by the doorway — dishevelled, pale, her eyes swollen and raw from crying. She wore an old cardigan thrown hastily over pyjamas, as if she'd been unable to care about anything except getting to the door in time. Her knuckles were white where they gripped the frame. She hadn’t even put shoes on.

Her eyes swept over them all — the seven boys, young and tired, lined up like quiet sentinels — and then found him.

Her brother.

Byeol took one shaky step off the porch, then another, her lips parting but no sound coming out until her breath hitched hard in her chest.

“HwaHwa.”

The nickname landed like a stone in still water.

Seonghwa froze mid-step. Something inside him cracked — not open, not broken, but shifted. His eyes lifted slowly. They found hers.

“…Noona,” he said, barely more than a whisper, raw and stunned.

And then he was moving — stumbling out of Hongjoong’s careful hold, legs unsteady, steps uneven. His breath caught like a sob that never quite made it out.

Byeol met him halfway.

She dropped to her knees just as Seonghwa reached her. His legs gave out a moment later, and they folded together into the earth — not falling, not collapsing, but sinking. Byeol’s arms wrapped around him like she’d been waiting a lifetime to hold him again, like if she held him tightly enough she could shield him from the reality neither of them could outrun.

Seonghwa didn’t cry.

But his shoulders trembled with violent, shuddering waves — not sound, not voice, just motion. Like his body didn’t know what else to do.

Byeol cradled his head against her shoulder and pressed trembling kisses into his hair.

“I’m here,” she whispered, over and over again. “I’ve got you, baby. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Behind them, Hongjoong stood still. His hands had fallen to his sides, his eyes fixed on Seonghwa. His throat worked like he was swallowing something too sharp to speak around. He didn’t move forward, didn’t intrude — he just watched, full of silent ache and unbearable tenderness. This moment belonged to them.

Yunho stepped quietly to his side. Not too close, not too far. He didn’t speak, but the way his gaze flickered between Seonghwa and Byeol, and then to Hongjoong, said everything. He reached out and gently touched Hongjoong’s shoulder — a grounding, silent reminder: You’re not alone in this.

Hongjoong exhaled shakily and nodded once, grateful for Yunho’s presence.

Jongho stood by the van, bags forgotten in his hands. Mingi’s jaw clenched as he looked away, blinking hard. Wooyoung had a hand covering his mouth, fingers pressed hard against trembling lips. San’s arm slid carefully around his waist, anchoring him.

Yeosang didn’t speak. He gently closed the boot and turned to look out toward the trees, giving them all a moment.

A quiet creak came from the front door again, and a tall man stepped out onto the porch — calm, composed, his expression one of gentle concern. His dark hair was pushed back neatly, sleeves rolled to the elbows of his knit jumper, and though he said nothing at first, his eyes swept across the boys with soft, observant kindness.

“Come in, please,” he said after a beat, voice low and warm. “You must be tired.”

There was a pause. He stepped closer, gaze drifting from Seonghwa crumpled against Byeol’s chest to the cluster of the others still standing by the van, unsure if they should move.

“I’m Taehwan,” he added, as if offering something that might anchor them. “Byeol’s partner.”

Wooyoung gave a small bow, followed by San and Mingi, and then Yunho with a murmur of greeting. Jongho gave a tight, respectful nod. Yeosang lingered for a moment before giving a soft “Nice to meet you” and adjusting the bag on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Taehwan said, his eyes full as he looked over them. “For bringing him. She’s been so worried. They are really close.”

The words hung in the air like a held breath.

The boys nodded quietly, emotion catching at their throats. There wasn’t much to say to that. They all knew. They’d seen it — the way Seonghwa softened when he spoke of Byeol, how his voice always carried a different note when talking about childhood memories, about how she used to sing him lullabies when he couldn’t sleep.

“Come,” Taehwan said again, gently ushering them toward the house. “Let’s give them a moment. I’ve set up the guest rooms. We’ll bring in the bags after. There’s tea on the stove.”

Mingi stepped forward first, tugging Wooyoung’s sleeve lightly. San followed close behind, hand still resting on Woo’s back. Jongho and Yeosang carried a few of the lighter bags. Yunho lingered just a moment longer, glancing back toward Hongjoong — who hadn’t moved.

He was still standing a few feet away, near the van, eyes locked on Seonghwa.

Yunho caught Taehwan’s gaze and tilted his head toward the older boy.

“He’ll come in soon,” Taehwan said softly, understanding without needing the words. “Let him stay with them a bit longer.”

Yunho nodded, trusting him.

One by one, they followed Taehwan into the house, the door swinging gently closed behind them.

Outside, under the soft warmth of the spring sun, Seonghwa still trembled in his sister’s arms — not crying, not speaking, just shaking. Byeol held him like she’d never let go. And Hongjoong stayed nearby, eyes never leaving him, ready to step in whenever he was needed.

He wasn’t rushing this. He knew Seonghwa would come to him when he could.

The others disappeared inside one by one, the soft clatter of shoes at the doorway followed by the gentle hush of a house adjusting to grief. The door swung shut with a final sigh, and Hongjoong remained where he stood — still, like a statue carved by heartbreak, shadow stretching long over the driveway.

He watched them.

Byeol cradled Seonghwa like he was still small, like the world hadn’t pulled them into adulthood and torn pieces away. Her fingers trembled where they threaded through his hair, and her lips pressed against his temple as if that alone could make this real — could stitch him back together. But Seonghwa didn’t respond, not in the way one might expect. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t talking.

He was… empty.

His shoulders jerked now and then, an echo of sobs that never came. His face was blank. And Hongjoong couldn’t look away.

He wanted to move. God, he wanted to move — to kneel down beside them, to take Seonghwa’s hands, to do something. But his body wouldn’t listen. His legs were like stone. His chest ached with the pressure of everything he hadn’t cried yet.

Because if he broke, who would hold Seonghwa?

And wasn’t that the weight he’d already chosen to bear?

The weight he would carry, again and again and again.

He blinked, and in the space between one breath and the next, Seonghwa moved.

It was small. Barely more than a twitch. But Hongjoong saw it.

Seonghwa’s hand — cold and shaking — left Byeol’s sleeve and reached blindly out to the side, fingers twitching in the air like they were searching. Like something in him, buried deep beneath the numbness, had remembered.

Hongjoong stepped forward.

Byeol felt it too. She loosened her grip just enough for him to kneel down beside them, eyes brimming as she leaned her forehead against Seonghwa’s once more. “He needs you,” she whispered.

And Hongjoong didn’t say anything. He just reached out, slowly, gently, until his hand found Seonghwa’s and curled around it.

That was when Seonghwa’s eyes opened — glassy, unfocused, but still aware. Just barely. A flicker of something behind the fog.

“Joong,” he rasped, hoarse from disuse.

Hongjoong sucked in a breath so sharp it hurt. “I’m here,” he said, voice breaking as he leaned in, their foreheads touching. “I’ve got you, my love. I’m right here.”

Seonghwa’s body slumped toward him, abandoning even the illusion of strength. He didn’t sob. He didn’t say another word. But he leaned fully into Hongjoong’s arms, face hidden in the crook of his neck, hands clutching at the fabric of his jumper like it was the only thing anchoring him.

And maybe it was.

Hongjoong held him.

He wrapped his arms around him and tucked him in close and let the weight settle. He could feel Byeol still beside them, her hand never leaving Seonghwa’s back, her grief interwoven with theirs — but this moment now was his to carry.

Hongjoong closed his eyes, swallowed back the tears threatening to spill, and pressed a kiss into Seonghwa’s hair.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again.

As many times as it took.

As long as he needed.

It was like drowning.

Not in water — not in anything that could be fought with limbs or lungs — but in something slow, thick, invisible. Grief crept in like a tide at night. It didn’t crash. It didn’t roar. It seeped. Quiet and steady. Relentless.

Seonghwa floated beneath it.

He couldn’t remember standing. Couldn’t remember being guided out of the van, or Byeol’s voice, or her arms around him. He was aware only of the pressure behind his eyes, the taste of metal in his mouth, the way the world seemed to muffle itself — like everything was happening behind glass.

It didn’t hurt. Not exactly.

Pain would have been something. Sharp, bright, real.

This was nothing. A hum. A buzz. A long, endless silence in his chest.

He was aware of the sky, pale and spring-soft. A bird called, and he didn’t flinch. Byeol said something — his name, maybe, a name from childhood that hadn’t touched his ears in years — but it rolled off him like rain on glass.

He knew she was there. He knew someone was speaking. He knew, somewhere in the house, the others were moving. Breathing. Waiting.

He just couldn’t feel it.

He was still drowning.

Then — fingers. Warm, careful. Curling around his own.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t sudden.

It was familiar.

That touch had steadied him in storms before. That voice — that presence — had called him home more times than he could count. And something about that presence, even now, tugged gently on the thread inside him that hadn't fully frayed.

His name.

Soft. Frayed at the edges with emotion.

“Joong.”

His voice didn’t sound like his own. He wasn’t even sure he’d meant to say it. But the moment it passed his lips, something inside him cracked — just enough to let in air. Just enough to let him surface.

Warmth gathered around him. Arms. A scent he knew so well it was almost part of him. Steady hands cradled his head, cradled his heart, pulled him in.

“I’m here,” Hongjoong whispered, close enough that his breath warmed Seonghwa’s cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Seonghwa let himself lean. Let the numbness fold inward. He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak again. But he let himself be held.

For now, that was enough.

Because even if the tide hadn’t receded, even if the ache was still waiting beneath the surface… he’d surfaced.

He wasn’t alone.

And maybe — just maybe — he wouldn’t drown this time.

With Byeol’s help, they eased Seonghwa back to his feet. His legs wobbled beneath him, strength drained and unreliable, his weight leaning more into Hongjoong’s side than he probably realised. His eyes were open, but distant — like he was still standing somewhere between memory and the void.

“Come on, Hwa,” Byeol whispered, brushing his fringe out of his eyes with a trembling hand. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Hongjoong simply nodded and shifted, one arm wrapping behind Seonghwa’s knees, the other anchoring around his back. He lifted him in a single, fluid motion — not because Seonghwa was helpless, but because he looked so tired. Because even standing seemed to be a betrayal of how much had been taken from him.

Byeol led the way, holding the door open. The others were inside already, quiet, subdued, scattered throughout the house but keeping close. A hush fell over the living room as Hongjoong stepped in, carrying Seonghwa as carefully as if he were made of glass. He lowered him onto the couch, crouching in front of him for a beat, brushing his thumb along the side of his knee, grounding him.

“Hwa,” he murmured, “I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

Seonghwa blinked slowly, gaze drifting toward Hongjoong, then down again. He didn’t answer, but his hand gripped Hongjoong’s sleeve.

That was enough.

Byeol reappeared a moment later with a warm cup of barley tea, placing it on the coffee table in front of them. Then, gently, she sat beside Hongjoong and rested a hand on his arm.

“We’ve made the call to the sangju-jang,” she began quietly, referring to the head mourner who would guide the family through the process. “The binso — the mourning room — will be prepared at the local funeral hall. We’ll go tomorrow morning to set up the portrait and pay our respects before others arrive.”

She glanced at Seonghwa, voice softening even further.

“It’ll be a small gathering. Appa didn’t want anything elaborate. Just close family, and a few friends. We’ve let the temple know. The sangyeo will help us wash and dress him, and they’ll do the rites.”

Hongjoong nodded, listening intently, even as he kept a watchful eye on Seonghwa. He knew most of this — had read up quietly when the news first came, trying to prepare — but hearing it from Byeol made it real. Grounded. Immediate.

“We’ll light the incense,” Byeol continued, “and take turns keeping vigil. You and I will wear black, of course. Seonghwa too, when he’s ready.”

At that, Hongjoong looked to Seonghwa again. His eyes were half-lidded, breathing even but shallow. It was hard to tell if he was hearing any of it, but his hand still held Hongjoong’s sleeve.

“I’ll take care of the details,” Byeol promised. “You just… take care of him.”

Hongjoong let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“I will.”

And he would. For as long as it took. Through the rituals, through the quiet nights and the heavy mornings. Through the aching silence Seonghwa now lived in.

The house was quiet, wrapped in the muffled stillness of mourning. Hongjoong eased the door to Seonghwa’s childhood bedroom shut with careful fingers. Inside, Seonghwa lay curled under the blankets, not asleep—he hadn’t truly slept since the call came—but resting, eyes closed, face blank. Hongjoong didn’t know if it was rest or retreat. Still, he left the room, every step away from Seonghwa feeling like a betrayal.

He descended the stairs slowly, his limbs heavy, jaw tight, and thoughts loud. He meant only to fetch his watch from the kitchen counter.

But Byeol was there.

She stood near the sink, hands wrapped around a mug of untouched tea, her shoulders drawn in and tired. She turned when she heard him enter.

“You should sit down,” she said gently, taking in the dark hollows beneath his eyes, the stiffness in his spine.

“I was just getting my watch,” he replied, grabbing it from the counter. His hand hovered on the edge a moment longer than necessary. His gaze drifted upward, toward the ceiling and the man behind that door.

“Is he... sleeping?” Byeol asked carefully.

Hongjoong shook his head. “No. Just lying there. Not speaking. Not really present. He’s… here, but not.”

Byeol looked down into her mug, then back up at him. “He was always Appa’s shadow growing up. Not in a bad way. Just… close. Gentle like him. He listened when no one else noticed, and Appa always saw that in him.”

Hongjoong’s throat tightened, and he stared at the watch in his hand like it could ground him. “He hasn’t spoken to me much,” he said. “He doesn’t push me away, but he’s so far gone. I don’t know how to reach him.”

Byeol moved closer. She had been watching him for days now—watching how still he stood, how measured every move had become. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours. He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t let himself.

“Hongjoong,” she said softly, “you’re only twenty-one. You don’t have to carry all of this on your own.”

His eyes flicked to hers, reddened and rimmed with exhaustion. “If I break,” he murmured, “what use am I as a partner? If I fall apart now… I’m scared I’ll be even further from him. I’m scared he won’t come back.”

Byeol’s expression softened. “It doesn’t make you weak to feel. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed him. Holding it all in doesn’t protect him—just like losing it doesn’t mean you love him any less.”

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. His voice cracked. “I can’t do nothing, Byeol. I’m watching him disappear and I can’t—” His voice choked off, his chest heaving.

Byeol reached for him without hesitation and pulled him into her arms. He went stiff at first, then collapsed into her, burying his face in her shoulder.

“I don’t want to lose him to this,” he whispered, voice breaking.

“You won’t,” she murmured. “He’s hurting, but he’s still Seonghwa. And you don’t have to go through this alone. Let us carry some of the weight too.”

For the first time in days, Hongjoong let himself cry—quiet, gut-deep sobs that had been clawing their way up from inside him since that first shattering phone call. He cried not just for his love, but for the helplessness, for the fear, for the aching need to bring Seonghwa back and not knowing how.

Byeol held him, rocking them slightly in the dim kitchen, the warmth of the tea between them untouched. A quiet reminder: grief shared did not mean grief lessened—but maybe, just maybe, it meant none of them had to face it alone.

The kitchen was dim, lit only by the morning light seeping in through the sheer curtains. Hongjoong still stood in Byeol’s arms, shoulders trembling from the storm he’d finally allowed to break through.

“I don’t want to lose him to this,” he had said. And he meant it with every fragile, terrified piece of his soul.

Byeol rubbed his back, quiet and steady. “You won’t,” she whispered again, not as a promise, but as a lifeline.

Neither of them noticed the figure standing just beyond the hallway.

Seonghwa hadn’t meant to follow. He didn’t even realise he had until he was already halfway down the stairs, silent in socked feet, moving like a shadow clinging to light. The quiet hum of voices had pulled him in, and something—some barely-formed tether of instinct or memory or love—kept him moving until he stood just outside the kitchen, around the corner, unseen.

And he heard everything.

He heard Hongjoong’s voice crack like glass underfoot. He heard him confess his fear, his helplessness. The weight he was carrying. The way he was breaking, all because of him.

And Seonghwa… froze.

Something inside him lurched violently—like a stone dropped into a lake of still water. The fog he’d been floating in for days rippled.

Hongjoong wasn’t just supporting him.

He was unraveling.

Because of how much he loved him.

Because he couldn’t bear to lose him.

Because he was trying to be everything, even as it hollowed him out from the inside.

Seonghwa turned on quiet feet and walked away—through the hallway, through the back door, past the shed, until the garden opened up around him.

Their garden.

His and Appa’s.

The spring wind stirred the grass, and the late sun filtered down through the branches of the persimmon tree they’d planted together when Seonghwa was ten. And there, dancing from the posts, were the faded, sun-bleached ribbons—his ribbons, remnants of failed designs, uneven lengths and frayed silk edges fluttering like ghosts in the breeze. Appa had insisted on using them to scare away the birds. “They’re beautiful,” he’d said. “Just because they didn’t make the final cut doesn’t mean they don’t have value.”

The ache surged suddenly, violently. His knees buckled.

Seonghwa dropped into the grass, hands catching clumsily against the soft earth. His breath hitched—once, twice—and then the dam cracked.

And everything came pouring out.

A scream tore from his throat—raw and furious and anguished. He pressed his palms to the ground like he could hold himself together, but it didn’t matter. It was already spilling out: the pain, the disbelief, the fear, the anger, the love. His voice filled the garden like a wail caught between worlds.

“Appa—!” The name burst from his mouth like it had been buried under stone. “You were supposed to stay—you were supposed to stay—!”

The ribbons fluttered overhead like they were answering.

He sobbed into the soil. Loud. Messy. Choking on breath and spit and grief. His body shook, curled into itself, cracked open after days of silence. He hadn’t even known he could make these kinds of sounds. Not until they were already echoing back at him.

Behind him, the screen door slammed open.

“Seonghwa!”

Hongjoong.

Seonghwa didn’t have to turn—he felt him, felt the rush of air and footsteps and arms wrapping around him like a shield. He let himself be gathered, clung to him as if Hongjoong were the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.

Hongjoong held him as tightly as he could, tears streaming down his own cheeks again, face pressed into Seonghwa’s shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. Over and over. “I’ve got you.”

The house had stirred. A light switched on upstairs. A floorboard creaked. But no one came outside.

The others stood at the windows or at the top of the staircase, hearts breaking but unmoving. Wooyoung’s hands were balled into fists against his mouth. Yunho’s eyes were glassy. Mingi had his arm around him. Jongho leaned into Yeosang’s side, silent, stricken. San was already crying. Byeol stood in the doorway, hand to her heart, her partner a steady sentinal behind her.

But they didn’t move.

Because Seonghwa was finally feeling.

Finally breaking.

And it was the most painful, beautiful sound in the world.

Chapter Text

Standing Strong

The garden was still ringing with the echo of Seonghwa’s cries.

The sky above them was painted in the tentative blue-grey of early morning, soft gold bleeding over the horizon. The hush before the world stirred.

But here, in Appa’s garden, the world had already cracked open.

Seonghwa was crumpled against Hongjoong’s chest, his body trembling violently, raw sobs tearing out of him as though they'd been trapped for too long—rotting in the silence of sleepless nights and too-careful words. Each inhale shuddered like it hurt, like he was dragging splinters through his lungs just to breathe.

And Hongjoong held him like he could anchor him to life.

Knees soaked in dew, arms wrapped around Seonghwa’s shaking frame, one hand buried in the back of his sweatshirt, the other clutching the nape of his neck. His own cheeks were streaked with tears, but he didn’t care. His voice cracked and rasped and broke as he whispered again and again—

“I’ve got you, my star. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby. I’m right here.”

Seonghwa couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

But he didn’t pull away.

He clung, not like someone desperate, but like someone finally allowed to feel. To fall. To not be strong.

Behind them, the screen door creaked.

From the porch, the others had frozen when they’d heard that sound—the cry that ripped through the morning calm like thunder. No one moved at first, stunned into stillness by the rawness of it.

But then San stepped off the porch barefoot, moving across the damp grass without a word. He didn’t speak. Just lowered himself into a crouch nearby, hands on his knees, head bowed in respect.

Wooyoung came next, face blotchy and wet, his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. He sat beside San and leaned into him without thinking, needing the contact, needing the grounding.

Yunho and Mingi followed, arm in arm. Mingi’s eyes were wide and glassy, Yunho’s jaw clenched. They settled on the other side of the garden, close but not too close.

Then Jongho came out with Yeosang, the two moving in tandem. Jongho carried a blanket and draped it over Wooyoung and San. Yeosang said nothing, only reached to touch San’s shoulder before sitting beside him.

No one said Seonghwa’s name. No one touched him.

They knew he’d come to them when he was ready.

So they made space.

A silent, sacred circle around him and Hongjoong. Not intruding. Just present. Just bearing witness.

Eventually, the cries slowed—not because the grief was done, but because Seonghwa had nothing left to give. He was spent, shoulders heaving with shallow breaths, head still pressed to Hongjoong’s chest. The early light glinted off the tear tracks down his face. He didn’t lift his head. Didn’t speak.

But he was here.

It was San who finally broke the silence, his voice hoarse and low. “You scared me, hyung.”

Seonghwa shifted slightly, a twitch more than a nod.

“You’ve been so quiet,” Wooyoung added, tears still streaming, his voice watery. “I didn’t know how to help. I didn’t know if we were losing you too.”

A long pause. A shaky breath.

“You weren’t,” Seonghwa rasped, barely more than a whisper. “I was just… somewhere else.”

Yunho leaned forward, voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to be there alone anymore.”

“We’re with you,” Mingi said softly, his hand brushing against Yunho’s.

“You’re allowed to feel all of it,” Yeosang added gently. “You don’t have to protect us from it.”

Seonghwa finally lifted his head, slow and uncertain, like the weight of it had tripled. His eyes were red, puffy, exhausted—but they looked. They saw.

Them.

His family.

His circle. His constant.

He reached out, almost blindly, and Jongho was there in an instant, warm fingers wrapping around his hand.

That simple touch broke whatever wall was left.

Wooyoung leaned into him next, arms sliding around his waist, holding him like he was something precious that might still slip through their fingers. Mingi joined him, pressing his forehead gently against Seonghwa’s shoulder.

Yunho wrapped an arm around both their backs. San reached out, resting his palm flat between Seonghwa’s shoulder blades. Yeosang edged forward to rest his head against Seonghwa’s, the touch feather-light.

A knot of bodies, hearts, and hands—messy, quiet, real.

“I miss him so much,” Seonghwa whispered. His voice cracked again, more broken than it had been. “I keep trying to… but it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop.”

Hongjoong leaned in, hand gently guiding Seonghwa’s chin up again, eyes glistening as he held his gaze.

“I know, my star,” he said, and his voice broke too. “I know. I miss him too.”

Seonghwa leaned into him again. Not collapsing—connecting. Holding on.

And the others didn’t let go.

They stayed like that, folded around each other in the chilled morning air, bathed in golden light. The garden smelled of wet soil and lavender and grass. Of memory. Of love.

Eventually, Byeol came out in a thick cardigan, arms full of blankets. Her eyes were wet, but her movements were steady as she walked barefoot through the grass, laying each one around the group, tucking in shoulders, brushing back hair, anchoring them in comfort.

They stayed even after the sun rose fully. Even after the birds began to sing. Even as the world began again.

Because for a little while, in that garden, time belonged to them.

To grief. To healing.
To family.

The house was quiet in the way only deep grief could make it.

No music. No movement upstairs. Just the occasional murmur of the wind brushing against the windows and the soft creak of wood as the house settled under the weight of stillness.

Seonghwa and Hongjoong were asleep.

They needed it.

Everyone knew it.

Hongjoong had barely let himself close his eyes since the call came. And Seonghwa… Seonghwa had only just started breathing again.

The six of them sat sprawled across the lounge, in varying stages of exhaustion. Blankets draped across shoulders. Hands curled around mugs that had long gone cold. A candle flickered gently on the coffee table, its scent — something fresh, something warm — a quiet attempt to soothe.

Mingi was curled into Yunho’s side, his legs tucked up, head resting on Yunho’s chest. Yunho had one arm around him, his other hand absently running through Mingi’s hair. The movement wasn’t conscious — it was grounding.

“Joongie’s worn out,” Yunho said softly. “I saw the way his hands were shaking earlier. Not from cold.”

“He’s forgotten to ask for help again,” Yeosang murmured, curled up in the armchair with Jongho pressed quietly beside him. Their shoulders touched, not by accident.

“He never does ask,” San added, from where he sat on the rug, back against the couch. Wooyoung was next to him, their thighs touching, hands linked. “He just keeps giving. To all of us. To Seonghwa-hyung. Until he breaks.”

“Let’s just keep quietly being here,” Wooyoung said, his voice hoarse. “For both of them.”

A pause settled over the room. It didn’t feel like silence. It felt like reverence. Like the space deserved the quiet.

“I hated hearing Seonghwa-hyung cry like that,” Mingi whispered. “I didn’t know it could sound like that. Like… like his soul was tearing apart.”

“It hurt,” Jongho agreed. “It hurt us.”

Yeosang’s fingers flexed slightly against Jongho’s knee. “I think that’s part of love. When they break, we bleed.”

They all nodded.

“I’ve never had that with my father,” San said. The words fell heavy. He didn’t look up. “Not really. It was all rules. Pressure. Distance.” He glances at Jongho, who nods in agreement.

Wooyoung was quiet for a moment, then he looked at the floor, lips trembling slightly.

“I am the middle child,” he said softly. “Always in between. Not enough of a problem to fix, not special enough to praise. Just… forgotten. But Seonghwa’s appa—he looked at me like I mattered. Like I was seen.”

His voice cracked, just once.

“I didn’t know how much I needed that until I had it.”

Yunho reached out, and Wooyoung didn’t resist when he was pulled gently into a side hug. San squeezed his hand tighter.

“He called us his chicks,” Yunho said, a tired smile flickering on his lips. “Do you remember that?”

Everyone nodded. Soft laughter, broken by the weight in their chests.

“He made us feel welcome,” Mingi whispered. “Like we belonged just by being near Seonghwa.”

“Like we were family,” Yeosang added.

Jongho looked down at his hands, then over at Yeosang — the glance lingered. “We are.”

That quiet pause returned.

Then San looked at the group. “We should talk about how we’re feeling, too. Not just… hold it all in until it eats us.”

“We owe that to them,” Wooyoung murmured. “To each other.”

Yunho nodded. “I’ve been scared. Ever since the funeral arrangements started. Scared that Hwa might not come back from where he went in his head. That Joongie might collapse trying to pull him back.”

“I’ve been angry,” Mingi said. “At death. At the universe. At myself, for not knowing how to help.”

“I’ve been aching,” Yeosang said. “For them. For us.”

San looked down at his hand, still wrapped in Wooyoung’s. “And you?”

Wooyoung leaned his head on San’s shoulder, breath trembling. “I’ve been lonely in places I didn’t know could be lonely.”

San tightened his grip, silently promising he wouldn’t let go.

Yeosang shifted, almost unconsciously, until Jongho’s head rested gently against his. The younger didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in closer.

Something was still blooming there — not quite spoken, not quite hidden. Just becoming.

“I think,” Yunho said softly, looking around at all of them, “we’re all holding pieces of the same grief. If we keep passing those pieces around… maybe none of us will have to carry too much at once.”

They didn’t reply with words.

Just soft touches. Gentle nods. The kind of understanding that needed no translation.

Upstairs, Seonghwa slept. Curled against Hongjoong, who hadn’t moved since lying down beside him.

And downstairs, the rest of their little universe held steady — wounded, but still glowing. Not whole. Not yet.

It was well past midnight when the last dish had been dried and set aside, when the quiet finally settled over the house like a heavy quilt.

But Seonghwa and Hongjoong were still awake.

They lay side by side on the mattress set up in Seonghwa’s childhood room. The walls still bore posters and fashion moodboards, and his bookcase was filled with knick-knacks and trinkets from over the years.

Seonghwa was on his back, staring at the ceiling. His fingers were tangled with Hongjoong’s, palm-to-palm, tight like a lifeline.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up and this won’t be real,” he said quietly. Finally finding the voice to speak his thoughts..

Hongjoong didn’t answer right away. He turned his head on the pillow to look at him. “You don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

“I’m not,” Seonghwa whispered. “It’s just… every time I blink, I see his face. And it doesn’t feel like remembering. It feels like missing. Like I’ve already been missing him for years and didn’t notice until now.”

He choked on the last word.

Hongjoong sat up without letting go of his hand. He cradled the back of Seonghwa’s head and let him press his face into his lap, where his sweater was still warm from the dryer earlier that evening.

“You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”

“I’m so tired,” Seonghwa said into the fabric.

“I know.”

“I want him back.”

“I know.”

Hongjoong’s hand slid slowly through his hair, steady and soft, like he could soothe the ache through skin alone. And Seonghwa cried again—raw and exhausted, every tear heavier than the last, until he fell asleep like that. Tucked against the one person who knew his heart best.

A few hours later, Seonghwa woke.

The house was hushed. A chorus of sleeping breaths, the occasional cough, the shift of weight on a floorboard. Hongjoong was still beside him, fast asleep this time, one hand curled around Seonghwa’s wrist like he’d meant to keep him grounded, even in dreams.

Seonghwa looked at him.

Tears slid silently down his face.

You stayed, he thought.

Not just tonight. But for everything. From the moment they met. Through the years. Through his dreams. Through his worst nightmare now, too.

You stayed.

And that, for just a moment, was enough to breathe through the grief.

Seonghwa was asleep, his breathing slow but restless, body still curled inward. Hongjoong hadn’t left his side until his chest stopped hitching, until the weight of grief gave way to exhaustion. He slept a little through the night and woke often to make sure Seonghwa was still there.

Now, he stood just outside the bedroom, back pressed against the wall, eyes fixed on the closed door, have a small moment for himself. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, as if he could hold himself together by sheer force. He didn’t notice Byeol watching him for a long moment, the quiet in her gaze louder than anything.

She held something in her hands.

A small, battered notebook — leatherbound, the corners soft and rounded with age. A red ribbon poked out of the top, and a few folded pages were visible inside.

“He carried this with him everywhere,” Byeol said softly, voice careful in the hush of the hallway. “Even when it got too worn to write in. I found it in his coat pocket when I… when I packed his things.”

Hongjoong’s eyes dropped to the notebook. His brow furrowed.

Byeol took a breath. “It’s full of little things. Memories. Thoughts. Things Hwa said when he was little. Some letters. He never showed anyone. Not even me.”

She stepped closer, holding it out.

“I want you to give it to him. When he’s ready.”

Hongjoong didn’t reach for it at first. He looked at her, eyes glassy, as if afraid the weight of it might break something inside him.

“You love him,” Byeol said gently, not as a question, but as a truth.

He swallowed hard. “He’s the air I breathe.”

Her expression softened with something like relief. She pressed the notebook into his hands.

“Then you’ll know when the time is right.”

Hongjoong’s fingers closed around it. It was warm, almost pulsing with memory, and heavier than it looked.

“Thank you,” he said, voice breaking. “I just— I don’t know how to bring him back.”

Byeol reached out and touched his arm. “You don’t have to. You just have to stay. Love doesn’t fix grief, Joongie… it just makes the weight bearable.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His breath hitched. The silence trembled between them.

Then Byeol opened her arms.

And Hongjoong didn’t hesitate.

He collapsed into the embrace, face pressed into her shoulder as the tears finally fell. Silent at first, then shaking, his arms clinging to her like the world was slipping beneath his feet.

“I don’t want to lose him to his grief,” Hongjoong whispered.

They stood there in the hallway, wrapped in silence and the faint scent of morning dew wafting in through the open window. The air still held the rawness of recent cries and the softness of first light.

Hongjoong’s arms loosened around Byeol, but he didn’t let go completely. Not yet.

Byeol pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “You won’t,” she said gently. “He’s coming back, slowly. Yesterday morning in the garden? That was the beginning. His heart finally broke open enough to start healing.”

Hongjoong blinked hard, his jaw tight. He still held the small, weathered notebook against his chest.

“But grief doesn’t end there,” Byeol continued. “It isn’t a single storm. It’s tide after tide, and some days he’ll seem fine until the sea pulls him under again.”

She cupped his cheek briefly, thumb brushing beneath one tear-wet eye.

“You know this already, don’t you?”

He nodded. “I do. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.”

“No,” she murmured, “it doesn’t. But it means you won’t be surprised when the waves come. Be his lighthouse, Joongie. Anchor him when the water rises, be a constant light during the storm and the storms to come.”

Her voice softened, but her gaze turned firm.

“But don’t forget—every lighthouse needs land to stand on. You have to have people who will hold you steady too.”

She tilted her head slightly, toward the muffled sounds drifting up from the kitchen below — laughter barely returning, the clink of mugs, quiet conversations between their friends who were doing their best to hold together a house bent under grief.

“Those boys downstairs?” she said, nodding. “Make sure you lean on them. Let them hold you up when you feel like crumpling. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Hongjoong looked toward the stairwell. His eyes shone. “I forget, sometimes. That I’m not alone.”

Byeol gave him a small smile. “That’s why I’m reminding you.”

Her hand came to rest on the notebook still cradled against his heart. “Give this to him when you feel the moment’s right. Maybe when the next wave comes.”

He nodded, slowly. “Thank you. For trusting me with this. With him.”

“I’ve trusted you with him for years,” she said with a faint smile. “That’s not going to change now.”

“You’ve already done more for my baby brother than I can put into words,” she said. “You held him when he broke. You made the calls. You packed the bags. You walked him through every breath he couldn’t take alone. That’s strength, Joong. And love.”

Her voice wavered, but she kept going.

“Yesterday, I watched you cry for his pain—not in private, not ashamed. You sat in our kitchen and wept like he was your own flesh. And in that moment, I realized something.”

She stepped forward again and placed her hands gently on his shoulders.

“You are his own. You’re part of us. Just as much as I am. Just as much as his father was.”

And with that, she turned to head back downstairs, her footsteps light.

Hongjoong lingered, eyes drifting to the door behind him. Beyond it, Seonghwa was sleeping — not peacefully, but resting. And for now, that was enough.

He looked down at the notebook again, ran his thumb across the cracked spine.

Grief wasn’t done. But neither were they.

And when the next wave came, he’d be ready to meet it — hand in hand with the boy who was slowly finding his way back to the shore.

Bags were packed. Dishes washed and stacked. The little things that signaled a departure had begun to fall into place. But no one moved quickly.

There was a solemn quiet to the house as they moved through it, gentle in the way they closed doors and folded blankets. Like raising their voices might undo the fragile healing that had begun in the garden.

Classes started in a few days.

None of them had looked at their midterm results. None of them cared.

Byeol stood on the porch as they began bringing bags out. Her arms were folded across her chest, not from the cold, but from the way her heart was already beginning to ache.

“Thank you,” she said, voice low but steady. “Thank you for coming. For being here. For taking care of my baby brother.”

“Byeol-noona…” Hongjoong started, but she held up a hand.

“You don’t know what it meant to have you all here,” she continued, eyes already glassy. “He wasn’t alone. I wasn’t alone. You helped us hold him up when I couldn’t anymore.”

She stepped forward and hugged each of them—tight and grateful.

Yunho hugged her like he meant it. Mingi kissed her cheek and made her promise to call if she ever needed anything. San, awkward but warm, squeezed her close. Wooyoung sniffled and wiped his eyes on her shoulder. Yeosang bowed first, respectfully, before accepting her embrace with surprising gentleness.

And even Jongho, quiet and usually hesitant, opened his arms for her.

She all but collapsed into them, and he held her steady.

Seonghwa stayed with her after the others filtered toward the van. They sat on the porch steps for a while, knees brushing, neither speaking for a long time.

When he finally looked at her, his expression was tired—but clear in a way it hadn’t been in days.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “Any of it.”

Byeol reached out and wrapped his hand in hers.

“You don’t have to know, Hwahwa. You just have to let people help you figure it out.”

He blinked back tears. “I feel like I’m learning how to breathe again.”

“You are.” She smiled softly. “But you’re not doing it alone. You’ve got a great family there. I watched them. How they love you. How they see you.”

He looked down at their hands.

“They want to help you carry this,” she said gently. “Let them. Let me.”

He nodded slowly.

And when he stood to leave, she pulled him into one more hug. Neither of them let go for a long while.

At the van, Yunho and Mingi were already loading up the last of the bags. This time, they said they’d share the driving.

“Fair’s fair,” Mingi mumbled, patting the passenger seat.

“Just don’t make me listen to sad ballads the whole way,” Yunho muttered.

“No promises.”

Seonghwa and Hongjoong climbed into the middle row, shoulders pressed together. It wasn’t silence that sat between them this time—but comfort. Yeosang slid in next to them.

Jongho slid into the back row first. San and Wooyoung slotted in last, legs tangled, heads leaning against each other as they got comfortable.

The engine hummed to life. The gate clicked softly behind them as they rolled out onto the road that wound between the trees.

Seonghwa looked out the window.

There were still pieces of him scattered in the garden, in the porch steps, in the faded smell of his father’s aftershave that lingered on the scarf tucked in his bag. Grief still clung to him—but not like it had before. It no longer strangled.

It breathed with him now.

He looked to Hongjoong, who was already half-asleep against his shoulder, and then toward the back where soft laughter was starting to rise—Wooyoung whining about snacks, Jongho teasing him under his breath, San, pretending not to smile.

Seonghwa closed his eyes.

He didn’t know when the next wave would hit. But for the first time since that awful call, he felt present. Anchored.

Maybe—just maybe—he was going to be okay.

And when he wasn’t?

He had people who would help him find the way back.

The van pulled into the familiar street  mid afternoon. Clouds had rolled in over the course of the morning, softening the sunlight into a gentle grey. It cast the apartment building in muted hues — not gloomy, just quiet. Like the air was holding its breath.

The engine hummed low for a moment longer before Yunho shifted it into park and cut it off. The silence that followed was thick with the knowledge that their time away was over. The house, the garden, the grief that had torn them open — they were behind them now. Not forgotten. Never that. But no longer where they stood.

“Alright,” Yunho said softly, turning in the driver’s seat. “This is your stop.”

Wooyoung stirred first, blinking sleep from his eyes. Yeosang straightened in the back beside him, brushing imaginary lint from his jeans. San leaned his head briefly against Jongho’s shoulder before lifting it. Mingi had been quietly playing with Yunho’s fingers in the front passenger seat, and now squeezed them once before turning around.

Hongjoong, sitting in the middle row beside Seonghwa, looked back at the others. “We’ll see you soon.”

Seonghwa didn’t say anything at first. He was watching the building through the window, like he was trying to remember how it had felt before everything happened. Before the call. Before the weight of grief had wrapped around his chest like a vice.

Then he looked back, met each of their eyes.

“I’ll see you at soon.” he said quietly.

“Text when you’re settled,” Jongho murmured.

“You always say that like we won’t,” Wooyoung replied, managing a small, wobbly grin. “We will.”

Jongho shifted forward, and without hesitation, he reached over the seat to touch Seonghwa’s arm.

“I’m proud of you,” he said gently. “You came back.”

Seonghwa’s throat worked. “I’m trying.”

“That’s enough,” San said, his voice thick.

Mingi leaned over the seat to hug Seonghwa from behind, arms tight. “You’re not alone.”

Yunho turned to Hongjoong. “Take care of yourself too, hyung.”

Hongjoong smiled, soft and worn. “I will.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

When the sliding door opened and the four of them stepped out, there were no dramatic goodbyes. Just long, lingering hugs, fingers squeezed, backs touched. It was the kind of farewell that said: this isn’t a goodbye, just a pause. We’ll see you soon. We’ll hold each other again.

As the van pulled away, Seonghwa stood still for a moment on the footpath, watching it go. Hongjoong gently placed a hand on the small of his back, a silent nudge forward.

They climbed the stairs slowly. The door opened with a familiar click.

And just like that, they were home.

The apartment was still and dust-soft, the kind of quiet that only comes from absence. The air inside was stale with disuse, and the scent of their lives before the trip lingered faintly — laundry detergent, old candles, the faint tang of Hongjoong’s cologne.

Shoes came off in practiced motions. Bags were set down by the wall. The windows were cracked open, letting in the smell of the city.

Hongjoong moved through the apartment like a man returning from battle — slow, methodical, exhausted. He checked the diffuser, the fridge, the stack of unopened mail on the bench. His shoulders drooped more with every step, not with sadness, but with the kind of tiredness that sinks into your bones after carrying something too heavy for too long.

Wooyoung and Yeosang slipped into routine without thinking — kettle on, laundry gathered, bins checked. They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to.

And Seonghwa stood in the middle of the living room, turning slowly in place, eyes on the quiet objects of home. His eyes lingered on the couch, the art Hongjoong had hung last month, the blanket Yeosang kept folded too precisely. Home.

Then, softly, almost too softly to hear over the sound of the boiling kettle, he called out:

“Wooyoung… Yeosang?”

They looked up instantly.

Seonghwa opened his arms.

And of course—they crossed the room without hesitation.

Wooyoung collided into him first, arms around his waist, his cheek pressed into Seonghwa’s chest. Yeosang followed a heartbeat later, looping his arms around Seonghwa’s shoulders with gentler precision, but just as tightly.

Seonghwa wrapped them both up, holding them like lifelines. His eyes slipped shut as he rested his head on Yeosang’s shoulder, his other hand cradling the back of Wooyoung’s neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For your care. Your patience. For loving me. For looking after Joong when I… couldn’t.”

His voice wavered. “I’m sorry I lost myself. That you had to see me like—”

“No,” Wooyoung interrupted, firm but tender, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Don’t apologise.”

His voice cracked. “Hyung, I’d rather see you fall apart in front of us than pretend you’re okay and shut us out. I’d rather be there for the hard parts than have you suffer alone.”

Yeosang nodded, quiet tears in his eyes. “You made space for all of us. It’s our turn now. You don’t owe us perfection. You just… owe yourself the same love you give so freely.”

Seonghwa’s breath hitched as he pulled them tighter.

Across the room, Hongjoong leaned against the doorframe, arms folded loosely, his expression unreadable—but his eyes glistened. He watched as the people he loved leaned on each other. As Seonghwa allowed himself to be held. As the apartment filled again with warmth.

The exhaustion in his shoulders didn’t lift, but something else did. A pressure that had lived behind his ribs for days, weeks, maybe even longer.

Seonghwa was coming back.

It would be slow. Uneven. There would be bad days, darker ones even. But the garden had cracked something open. And now—he was letting the light in.

They were home.

And they weren’t alone.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings, casting long golden streaks across the pavement as the boys made their way home on foot. The van had been returned, the keys dropped off, and now it was just the four of them, slipping into the rhythm of the city again.

Mingi and Yunho walked slightly ahead, fingers linked comfortably, not saying much. They didn’t need to. Every once in a while, Mingi would lean into Yunho’s shoulder, and Yunho would glance over and smile, eyes crinkling like sunshine caught in glass. After the intensity of the last few days, their touch was light and grounding. There, but not overwhelming.

Behind them, San and Jongho walked slower, not out of fatigue, but out of something quieter — a shared need to let the air settle around them.

They didn’t talk at first.

The rustle of trees lining the street filled the quiet between them, along with the hum of traffic further off and the distant bark of a dog. It wasn’t until Jongho’s phone buzzed in his pocket that the moment broke.

He pulled it out, already expecting something unpleasant. His face twisted as he unlocked it.

A single message from their father.

Father
[3:17 PM] Where are your results? Midterms were last week. You should have told me already.

Jongho stared at it. No greeting. No how are you? Just an expectation. A demand wrapped in silence. He didn’t even feel surprised anymore.

He locked the screen again without replying and tucked the phone back in his jacket.

“Appa?” San asked quietly, glancing over, seeing Jongho’s face.

Jongho nodded, eyes forward, jaw clenched. “Midterm results.”

“Ah.”

San didn’t ask what the message said. He didn’t need to.

“Did you…?” Jongho trailed off, not really sure what he was asking. Maybe hoping. Maybe bracing.

San took his phone out, flicked it on. No notifications. No messages. Just the usual apps glowing softly in the early evening light.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Jongho hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently squeezed San’s shoulder. It wasn’t much. But it was something. A reminder. I see you. I’m still here.

San smiled at him, small and honest. “Thanks.”

Up ahead, Yunho slowed slightly so they could catch up. “You two okay?”

Jongho shrugged. “As okay as we can be. Just… processing.”

Mingi tilted his head toward them, thoughtful. “We’ve got a lot waiting for us, huh?”

San huffed a soft laugh. “College starts next week. I haven’t even opened my email.”

“Same,” Jongho said. “I think Yeosang’ll make us all sit down and check together.”

“Probably with colour-coded study timetables,” Mingi added with a grin. “And a lecture on time management.”

“Honestly, I miss that.” Yunho chuckled.

They walked a few more paces in silence, the air cooling gently around them.

“I think I’m scared,” San admitted after a moment. “Not just about exams or anything. Just… about going back to normal when nothing feels normal.”

Mingi looked over his shoulder. “You don’t have to pretend everything’s okay.”

“We don’t have to pretend at all,” Yunho said. “We just have to keep going. Even slowly. Even messily.”

Jongho let that settle in his chest, heavy and warm.

“I’m gonna be thinking about Seonghwa-hyung a lot,” he said softly. “I know he’s got Joong-hyung and the others, but I just… I want to make sure he knows we’re here too.”

“He does,” Yunho said. “But we’ll remind him. As many times as he needs.”

“And Hongjoong too,” Mingi added. “He carries more than he says.”

There was a pause — the kind that came when everyone agreed, when there wasn’t much more to say, but no one minded the silence.

Then San spoke again, half-murmuring, “It would be easier if we all just lived together.”

It was offhand, casual — but it hit the air with a strange kind of weight.

Mingi and Yunho both glanced back, blinking.

Jongho gave a sharp little hum, amused. “You just want to be closer to Wooyoung.”

San sputtered, nearly tripping over a raised bit of pavement. “What—! I—no, I didn’t—”

Yunho burst out laughing, head tipped back, and Mingi doubled over, doing his silent shaking laugh. Even Jongho grinned, smug and satisfied with himself.

“I meant for logistics,” San insisted, voice going high-pitched with fake indignation. “Like—easier to check in on people! Cooking rotations! Emotional support!”

“Sure, sure,” Mingi teased. “Totally not about someone in a too-tight apron.”

“I will leave,” San said dramatically. “I will walk into traffic.”

But he was smiling — they all were. The tension that had knotted itself through the last few days was loosening, bit by bit, letting them be just four university boys again, walking home with the weight of the world slightly lifted.

Jongho looked ahead again, thoughtful now, the spark of an idea flickering behind his eyes.

Maybe San had a point.

But he didn’t say anything more — not yet.

Instead, they turned the corner toward home, the apartment building just coming into view, and they let themselves be held by the soft promise of the evening: that they were still here, still together, and that maybe things would get easier.

Or maybe they’d just keep making them easier — one shared laugh, one teasing nudge, one future dream at a time.

That evening, the apartment was calm. The kind of calm that felt earned.

Soft music drifted from someone’s bedroom — probably Yeosang’s playlist — and the scent of garlic and soy was slowly filling the kitchen.

Wooyoung was stirring something on the stove when Seonghwa padded in, sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly damp from a shower. He moved a little slower than usual, a little more deliberate, but there was clarity in his eyes again.

“I’m helping,” he said simply, stepping in beside Wooyoung and taking a second spoon without asking.

Wooyoung blinked, then grinned. “You’re a brave man. You know how particular I am about kitchen control.”

Seonghwa raised a brow. “Have you met me?”

Wooyoung laughed, light and bright. “Touché.”

They worked in rhythm, quietly chatting as they moved around each other like they had a hundred times before. It wasn’t about productivity — it was about presence. About standing side by side and making something warm and nourishing and real.

At one point, Wooyoung snapped a quick picture of Seonghwa slicing spring onions, then immediately sent it to the group chat with no caption.

Moments later, a series of hearts and exclamation marks exploded in reply.

Yeosang: 🧎🏻‍♂️

Mingi: HWA IN THE KITCHEN AGAIN 😭💛

San: is this healing? is this hope?

Jongho: cries in rice cooker

Seonghwa only rolled his eyes fondly when he saw it.

After dinner, he passed by the laundry basket where Yeosang was frowning at a mangled hoodie, halfway through folding.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Seonghwa said flatly.

Yeosang didn’t even look up. “Do I look like I care?”

Seonghwa sighed — and then took the hoodie, redid it in two swift motions, and settled on the floor to finish the pile.

Wooyoung looked over from the couch, grinning. “God, it’s good to have you back.”

Seonghwa didn’t answer, but there was the soft curve of a smile on his face as he lined up the sleeves just so.

Eventually, night folded itself around the apartment like a gentle blanket. Lights dimmed, doors closed, and Seonghwa found his way to their room — to his room, their room — where Hongjoong was already tucked into bed, reading something on his tablet.

Seonghwa slid in beside him, quiet and slow, pressing in close until they shared the same breath.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice fragile and real.

Hongjoong turned to him, eyes already glassy. “Hwa—”

“I see you,” Seonghwa said. “I see how tired you are. I know I haven’t made it easy. I know I’ve been… somewhere else. I’m not better. Not yet. Maybe not for a while. But I’m not numb. And I’m here.”

He reached out, cupped Hongjoong’s jaw, thumb brushing along the skin just beneath his eye. “You saved me, Joongie. Them too, all of them. But it was your voice I heard. It was you that pulled me back when I was so far down I couldn’t feel the ground.”

He leaned in then, kissed him — the first kiss in days. Not soft. Not perfect. But real.

Hongjoong made a quiet sound, one that cracked around the edges, and kissed him back. With everything in him. With fear and hope and love so deep it nearly hurt.

They broke apart only when breath demanded it.

“I was so scared,” Hongjoong whispered. “That I’d lose you while trying to hold you together.”

“You won’t,” Seonghwa said, forehead pressed to his. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

Expectations

The next morning dawned later than usual for Seonghwa and Hongjoong. After days of restlessness and emotional exhaustion, their bodies had finally given in to sleep—deep, dreamless, and needed. The apartment was quiet when Seonghwa cracked open his bedroom door, stretching stiff limbs and blinking against the soft morning light. Hongjoong was a step behind him, hair a mess, sweater hanging loosely off one shoulder.

They both paused at the sight before them.

The boys were already there.

Wooyoung was setting plates down on the coffee table—pajeon, fruit, leftover japchae, even toast. Jongho had his laptop balanced on one knee, Yeosang scrolling through something beside him. Mingi and Yunho were sprawled out on cushions, San flipping through a study planner as he sipped from a tall glass of juice.

“You’re late,” Wooyoung grinned, without turning. “But we saved you food.”

Hongjoong smiled softly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Thanks.”

Seonghwa blinked, overwhelmed by the calm normality of it. Their home. Their family.

“Midterm check-in,” Jongho explained, voice calm and cool. “We figured we’d do it together. Might as well suffer as a unit.”

“And celebrate,” Yeosang added pointedly.

Seonghwa settled cross-legged onto the floor, accepting a plate from Wooyoung with a grateful look. Hongjoong joined him, warm thigh brushing his, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

“Alright, maknae first,” Yunho declared.

Jongho clicked. And smirked.

“Perfect score on accounting. Finance professor left a comment that I was the only one to properly identify the compound return error in the bonus section.”

Wooyoung groaned and flopped onto the couch. “You're so annoying, how are you good at everything.”

“Genetics,” Jongho shrugged.

Yeosang went next. “Law midterm—91, 94, 96. Professor Park said my analytical structure has matured a lot.”

“I could have told them that,” San muttered proudly.

Yunho and Mingi pulled theirs up together. “Passed all,” Yunho said. “They liked my group choreography best, just said my solo lacked impact.”

“Same for me,” Mingi added. “Some notes on technique. But it’s fixable.”

“Very fixable,” Yunho echoed.

Hongjoong checked his next. “Pass. They liked my transitions, not my falsetto. Fair.”

He leaned back, feeling the smallest bit lighter. He’d worried, after all the emotional weight of the trip.

Seonghwa hesitated—but opened his email. He scrolled quietly, lips parting as his eyes scanned.

“I passed,” he said softly. “My garment—they said it was expressive and conceptually strong.”

There was more. He clicked a second email and read slowly. His eyes shimmered.

“One of my professors said… they’d cleared me for a lighter workload in the first week. They wanted me to know that grief isn't something I need to rush past.”

The others all nodded, quiet and present.

Wooyoung was next. “Highest mark in the class,” he said with a shrug, but his ears were pink. “Chef Im called my midterm ‘a layered, emotional experience with confident seasoning and knife work.’”

Mingi whooped. “You’re a layered emotional experience, alright.”

Everyone laughed.

Then San opened his laptop.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the screen, unmoving. The others were still talking, Jongho was peeling a mandarin with quiet focus, and Wooyoung was reaching for a second plate of dumplings when he paused, eyes flicking toward San.

It was subtle—barely a shift—but he saw it. The way San’s jaw tightened for a second. The way his thumb hovered over the trackpad like he was stalling. Then came the quiet, a breath drawn too carefully.

“All As,” San said at last, almost absently. “Except one B.”

It was casual, nearly dismissive. But Wooyoung wasn’t fooled. He turned, studying him closely for a beat before nudging in beside him without hesitation. He slung an arm around San’s shoulders and leaned in.

“Are you kidding?” he said with a grin. “If I even touched a business course, it would self-destruct on principle. You’re incredible, Sannie. I’m so, so proud of you.”

San blinked, caught off guard—but something in his chest loosened at the words. The warmth of Wooyoung’s arms, the certainty in his voice, the way he didn’t ask or press—was just there for him.

He let out a breath. “Thanks,” he murmured, voice rough with something unsaid. “Really.”

Across the room, Jongho’s eyes lifted. He’d seen the way his hyung flinched at the B. He knew exactly why.

He hadn’t said anything. Not yesterday, when he saw San’s face fall after  not recieving any messages from their father. Not when San tried to hide it with a joke, or when he busied himself helping Wooyoung pack snacks for today. But Jongho had noticed everything.

And now, watching San melt a little under Wooyoung’s arms, watching him smile—just a bit, just enough—Jongho felt something twist in his chest. Gratitude.

Because Wooyoung didn’t need to know the reason. He just knew how to love San in all the ways that mattered. Now if only they told each other that.

Jongho reached for his phone. There was still a message left unread from the day before, the one from their father, demanding to know his midterm results.

He opened it. Typed without hesitation.

Jongho:
Passed all. Top marks.

Then he put his phone facedown on the table and looked back at San and Wooyoung, now bickering playfully about whether San deserved a celebratory cake or a business-themed punishment dinner.

Jongho smiled to himself, quietly.

For now, this was enough.

Jongho’s phone buzzed again, the sharp vibration loud in the lull between conversations. He flipped it over with a flick of his fingers, already knowing who it was.

Father:
As you should. Tonight. 6PM at Cheongdam Blanc. Dress nice. Don’t be late.

That was it.

No well done, no how are you, and—Jongho glanced instinctively to the side—nothing about San. No message, no inquiry. Just the usual cold demand, polished and dressed up in five-star expectation.

His fist clenched around the phone.

He glanced toward San, who was currently trying (and failing) to escape Wooyoung’s enthusiastic cuddles as the energetic boy babbled about baking a “you-beat-my-grades” cake. His hyung’s laughter rang out, soft and genuine, lighting up his whole face for the first time in days.

But there was no message on San’s phone. No summons. No recognition. Of course.

Jongho gritted his teeth, willing his heart to slow down. He was angry—so many kinds of angry—but more than that, he was tired. Tired of the way their father never saw San unless it was to criticise him, tired of pretending it didn’t eat him alive too.

He swallowed the fire and breathed.

Across the room, Mingi had somehow coaxed Yeosang into a ridiculous little dance to a commercial jingle playing from someone's phone. Yeosang was pink in the ears, trying to maintain some dignity, but his protests were weak—and there was real laughter bubbling out of him, unguarded and free.

Jongho’s gaze softened. That sound—real and warm—had become a lifeline for him lately.

And it made his next move feel certain.

He turned back to his laptop and opened a folder tucked discreetly between assignments. Inside: spreadsheets, rent estimates, shared utilities breakdowns, floor plans. He’d started it late last night, after the others had gone to bed, when the apartment had felt too quiet and his mind too full.

San’s throwaway comment—“it would be easier if we all lived together”—had rooted itself deep in Jongho’s chest.

Because... he wanted that too.

He missed the noise. The calm. The soft chaos of all of them existing in shared space—the way Mingi never shut cupboard doors, or the way Seonghwa hummed when he folded towels, or how San made everyone coffee even when they didn’t ask. The comfort of Hongjoong’s piano in the background, the safety of Yeosang falling asleep on the couch again. He missed it all.

So he’d started looking.

Four-bedroom would be tight, five ideal. Six would be magic.

He adjusted a figure in the spreadsheet. Being a finance major had its perks. If anyone could make it viable, he could.

But before he said anything to the others—especially San—he wanted to speak to Hongjoong. Quietly. Privately. Because Joong wasn’t just the de facto leader of their mismatched group—he was the one who carried hearts with such careful, deliberate hands. He’d know how to help Jongho bring this dream to life.

A new message blinked across his screen, something from their student portal. Jongho ignored it.

Instead, he looked across the room again—at Mingi spinning Yeosang like a dance show finalist, at San now dragging Wooyoung into a dramatic bow to the imaginary crowd, at Seonghwa and Hongjoong curled up quietly on the couch, watching it all.

This was what home was supposed to feel like.

And maybe, just maybe, he could make it theirs.

Hongjoong stood up from the couch with a soft stretch, murmuring something about needing water and a moment to breathe. He padded toward the hallway, rubbing the tired from his eyes and not expecting footsteps to follow.

But they did.

Jongho trailed behind, laptop tucked neatly under one arm, his expression unreadable—but focused.

“Hyung?” he asked, voice low so the others wouldn’t hear. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Hongjoong blinked, eyebrows lifting. He nodded and gestured toward the small study nook just off the hall. “Of course.”

Once inside, Jongho sat down at the edge of the armchair, placing the laptop carefully on the desk and opening it. “It’s... kind of a proposal.”

That got Hongjoong’s full attention.

Jongho turned the screen toward him. “I’ve been working on this since last night. San said something on the walk home—and it stuck with me. About all of us living together.”

He tapped through a few tabs—neatly labelled spreadsheets, comparison charts, budget outlines. “So I started running the numbers. On rent, shared expenses, utilities. Nothing fancy. Just... something near campus. A proper apartment, or maybe even a small house, if we get lucky.”

Hongjoong’s brows furrowed, not in worry but in concentration. He watched silently as Jongho continued, his voice steady but soft.

“I know we’re all on scholarships. And I don’t know everyone’s exact arrangement—but I know my accommodation allowance and stipend. If we’re smart, and we split things well, it could work. We could make it work.”

He hesitated, then added, “We wouldn’t be asking anyone to pay more. Just... using what we already get, but combining it.”

Hongjoong looked up at him then, eyes filled with something unreadable—but warm.

Jongho’s ears flushed red, but he kept going. “I—look. We’d all been staying at Seonghwa-hyung’s family home, and now that we’re back, I can already feel the quiet. And I don’t think he should be alone. None of us want that. We care about him. A lot.”

He hesitated again, and then—with a small, almost embarrassed smile—he added quietly, “And... I like the idea of living with Yeosang. And Wooyoung. And you. And Seonghwa-hyung.”

He looked down. “It felt like home, hyung.”

There was a long pause.

Hongjoong didn’t speak right away. He reached out, slowly pulling the laptop a little closer so he could better read the spreadsheet. He nodded once, then twice, quiet as he let it sink in.

Then he smiled, small and proud.

“You really are a finance major,” he murmured, voice warm with something between amusement and affection.

Jongho huffed out a laugh.

“I think this could work,” Hongjoong said, gently. “But more than that... I think you’re right. About Seonghwa. And about all of us. We’ve already been living like family. Maybe it’s time we made that real.”

Jongho looked up again. His eyes were hopeful now, a quiet light behind them.

Hongjoong clapped a gentle hand to his shoulder.

“Let’s talk to Hwa soon,” he said. “Together.”

Jongho nodded. “Okay.”

And then, for the first time that day, the tension in his chest loosened. Because it didn’t feel like a maybe anymore.

By late afternoon, the mood in the apartment had settled into something warm and buzzing—still lit by the quiet pride of their midterm results. Yunho and Mingi were rewatching one of their solo pieces on Mingi’s laptop, throwing commentary back and forth, while Wooyoung puttered in the kitchen again, reheating leftovers and slicing up fruit he claimed was for everyone but mostly piled onto Seonghwa’s plate. Hongjoong had disappeared into the spare room with his headphones, mixing something low and steady.

Yeosang was halfway through organising a small stack of law readings when Jongho stood up from the couch, stretching with a low groan, grabbing his laptop.

“I’ve gotta go get ready,” he said, checking the time—4:30 p.m.

“Date?” Mingi called without looking up.

Jongho didn’t answer that. Just slipped out the door with a low grunt and a shake of his head.

An hour passed, the light slanting golden across the living room floor. San had curled up in one corner of the couch with a drink in hand, eyes a little tired but proud in that quiet way he always was when Jongho did well. No one mentioned his results again, but the air was still soft with the shared relief of passing through another storm together.

At exactly 5:30, the door opened again.

“Forgot my phone,” Jongho said, voice calm.

But when he stepped inside, conversation stopped.

Even Hongjoong poked his head out from the spare room.

Jongho was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, sharp enough to look like he’d walked out of a corporate photoshoot. His shirt, a deep navy, was buttoned to the collar. His hair was styled back, sleek and intentional. His shoes were polished, his watch perfectly in place.

Mingi let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Okay, Mr. CEO. Are you buying out a company or someone’s heart?”

“Do we need to roll out a red carpet?” Wooyoung teased, grinning. “What kind of date needs a whole boardroom aesthetic?”

Even Yunho laughed, nudging San with his elbow. “He looks better than you did for your scholarship interview.”

Yeosang hadn’t said a word.

He couldn’t.

He stared, too aware of how fast his heart was beating. Jongho looked… breathtaking. Like every sharp edge of him had been polished and set on display. The sleeves clung to his arms just right. His jawline was cut like marble. And that suit—Yeosang swallowed, unable to pull his gaze away.

But then Jongho spoke.

“I wish it were a date.”

The teasing died down. A few of them blinked, eyebrows raised.

Jongho hesitated. Then let out a quiet sigh and said it simply:

“It’s… Appa.”

The word landed hard.

And San—San sat frozen, hand on his cup, eyes fixed on the table in front of him.

He’d emailed his results. All As. One B, in that brutal strategy case study most of the class had complained about. Still better than he’d expected. Still something he’d hoped—

But his inbox had stayed empty. No reply. No congratulations. Nothing.

His lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tight. The faintest crease appeared between his brows, but he didn’t move.

Shame sat like a brick in his stomach.

And across the room, Yeosang watched the light fade from San’s eyes and hated that he recognised the look.

Jongho, unaware of the small collapse he’d triggered, stepped forward to grab his phone from the coffee table. As he turned to leave, he caught San’s expression.

He hesitated. Just briefly.

But said nothing.

The door clicked shut again at 5:33.

Yeosang was still staring at it long after he was gone.

Jongho stepped out of the taxi in front of Cheongdam Blanc, the kind of sleek, upscale French fusion restaurant where every table had a view and every meal came with the expectation of performance. He straightened his jacket, muttering a sharp curse under his breath.

"Fucking hell."

He was five minutes early. Of course he was. Just as he was raised to be.

The air was cool and crisp, and as he pushed open the polished glass doors, he squared his shoulders, forcing every emotion down and locking it behind the smooth mask he’d spent years perfecting.

His father was already there. Of course he was.

Seated in a private dining room near the back, his father rose as Jongho approached, giving him a once-over with critical eyes that found no reason to comment. Beside him stood Mr. Han, one of his father’s business contacts, and across from them, a girl—his daughter, by the looks of her. Around Jongho’s age, maybe younger. Perfectly made up, posture sharp in a cream-coloured blazer.

Jongho stiffened for only a fraction of a second before bowing politely. “Good evening, Father. Mr. Han. Miss. Han”

The first course arrived before Jongho had fully settled into the high-backed chair: a delicate amuse-bouche set in the centre of a curved porcelain spoon—quail egg, truffle, a touch of caviar. He ate it silently. His father launched into conversation with Mr. Han as though Jongho weren’t there, praising Jongho’s record, his work ethic, his projected career trajectory as though he were listing out specs for a particularly promising investment.

Across the table, the girl smiled at him. “I’m Han Jiwon,” she offered after a pause, voice smooth but tentative, “final-year economics. Ewha.”

“Choi Jongho. First-year finance.”

He didn’t ask about her grades. He didn’t ask about her hobbies or where she wanted to intern or how she felt about being paraded like this.

He kept his expression unreadable, his movements careful and composed. But he felt it—the tightening in his chest, the low burn behind his eyes that had nothing to do with the wasabi hidden under the tuna sashimi of the second course.

Jiwon made an effort, he’d give her that. She asked about his classes, what he thought of the market forecast, whether he preferred investment or advisory work. Her voice had a pleasant lilt to it. She was pretty in a polished, intentional way—elegant hair twisted back with a pearl pin, lips a soft pink, smile always at the ready.

He gave her polite, brief replies. The conversation staggered on, dragged more by her willingness to fill silences than any shared interest.

By the time the third course arrived—abalone in beef broth with truffle oil—his father was talking about him as if he were a résumé rather than a son.

“His professors say he’s professional, consistent. Very respectful. That’s hard to come by in young people these days.”

Jongho stared at his soup for a beat too long before taking a bite. The flavour was muted on his tongue, his stomach already starting to curl.

He thought of Yeosang.

The way his sharp sarcasm softened around Jongho. How his eyes flickered away when he was flustered. The laugh he gave when Mingi spun him unexpectedly across the floor that morning, hair catching the light as he stumbled, smiling without even realising.

Yeosang, who burned bright when he was passionate and who glowed quietly when he was calm. Who wore beauty like it didn’t belong to him, even though it did.

Jiwon asked him if he liked jazz.

“I like silence,” he answered truthfully.

She laughed, thinking it was a joke. “You’re very serious.”

He didn’t correct her.

The fourth course was wagyu with smoked soy and black garlic. Jiwon cut hers delicately and asked if he travelled often. Jongho replied that he didn’t have time, though he was curious about Jeju. It wasn’t a lie.

She smiled again. “Maybe we’ll go sometime.”

He gave a small, noncommittal nod, chased by a sip of still water.

Yeosang would hate this kind of place, he realised.

Too fancy, too performative. No room to breathe, no room to pause.

The fifth course was dessert—yuzu mousse with white chocolate. It was beautiful, plated with edible flowers. Jongho barely touched it. He didn't like sweet things. No that's not true, he only like sweet things made by Wooyoung. His family.

Then, finally, at long last, his father stood. Mr. Han mirrored the movement.

“We’ll let you two talk,” his father said smoothly, placing a warm hand on Jongho’s shoulder that made his skin crawl. “Get to know each other.”

He shared a look with Mr. Han. Jiwon’s gaze lowered, demure.

As they walked off, Jongho stared at the empty chairs where they had sat.

This—this—was his reward for passing midterms with top marks. Not a congratulations. Not a you’ve done well. Just more expectations. More control. More pushing.

He looked at Jiwon again. She was smiling softly, sipping her tea, watching him.

He didn’t hate her.

She seemed kind enough, genuinely curious.

But Yeosang was more beautiful. More interesting. More real.

And not a damn part of this dinner tasted as good as that grilled mackerel Wooyoung had made just this morning.

They were walking out together, the night air cooler now, a soft breeze tugging at the hem of Jongho’s shirt. The street outside the restaurant was bathed in the gold of streetlamps and car headlights, the sounds of cutlery and conversation spilling faintly from other windows above.

He saw them just as they passed the corner—two men, maybe in their twenties, laughing together near a parked scooter. One of them leaned in, gentle and natural, brushing a kiss to the other's cheek. It was brief, quiet, utterly unselfconscious.

Jongho’s heart ached—warm, raw. He thought of Hongjoong’s hand resting on Seonghwa’s knee during movie nights. Of how Mingi had started instinctively leaning into Yunho when they walked too closely. The way Seonghwa softened when Hongjoong entered the room, the way  Yunho's entire posture had changed now that he wasn't holding back.

And just as the edges of a smile tugged at Jongho’s lips—

“Disgusting,” his father muttered beside him, barely a whisper but sharp like a blade. “Figures. This city.”

It landed like ice in Jongho’s spine. His blood ran cold.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to.

They walked a few more metres before he stopped abruptly. “I’ll take the subway from here,” Jongho said flatly, turning without waiting for permission.

His father called his name once—sharp, annoyed. Jongho didn’t answer. Didn’t look back.

As soon as he rounded the corner, he undid the top button of his shirt. It felt too tight. He tugged his tie loose with one hand, slinging his jacket over his arm with the other, jaw set like stone.

His phone buzzed.

San:
still at woo’s if ur coming. He cooked too much food again.

Good. He needed to be somewhere real. Somewhere his.

Jongho stalked through the streets, footsteps quick, mind racing, fury blooming in his chest like an unstoppable fire. That dinner hadn’t been a celebration—it had been a transaction., an ambush. A résumé review. A life written in someone else’s ink.

An internship he never asked for. A job that would lock him in. A marriage arrangement, neatly tied up with a final course of mousse and tea.

Where in that did he exist?

Where was his choice? His love?

The weight of expectations pressed against his shoulders again, heavier than his tailored coat, than the five-course meal sitting uneaten in his stomach. For a moment, he could hardly breathe.

But he kept walking.

He thought of Yeosang, and that smile he gave only when no one else was looking. Of the way he’d stayed quiet that morning, watching Jongho with something unreadable in his eyes.

Jongho’s throat tightened.

He didn’t want that life his father kept painting in front of him like it was a gift. He didn’t want a future shaped like a cage.

He wanted Yeosang.

He wanted their little chaotic family. The laughter, the mess, the quiet late-night ramen talks, and the teasing, and the grief they’d started to learn how to hold for one another.

He wanted them.

And maybe, he was starting to realise—he could want that loudly. Not just in thought.

But he was too angry to be around them, didn’t want his mood to affect them, especially Seonghwa who lost his father and was still grieving. He didn’t want to bring his family drama into that space.

Not today.

San’s phone buzzed at 7:53 p.m.

Jongho:
going home

That was all it said. No punctuation. No emojis. Not even Jongho’s usual dry sarcasm tucked at the end.

San frowned at the screen, his stomach turning slightly. He reread it twice. Going home. Not coming to Woo’s. Not see you soon. Just—going home.

The words weren’t harsh, but they carried weight. More than that, they carried distance.

Something had happened.

He didn’t respond right away. Didn’t need to. He just sat back on the couch, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. His fingers tightened slightly around his phone.

Wooyoung noticed the shift immediately from the kitchen island. “Sannie?” he asked, setting down the spoon he'd been licking peanut butter from.

San glanced up. “He’s not coming here,” he said simply.

“Jongho?”

San nodded. “He said he’s going home.”

A quiet settled between them. Wooyoung opened his mouth, then closed it again. They both knew what home meant. The apartment with Mingi and Yunho. 

But now Jongho was returning to it alone, after a dinner they all had a bad feeling about.

San looked at his phone again, expression unreadable, then slipped it face-down on the couch cushion beside him.

He didn’t say it out loud—he didn’t need to. Appa did something. He knew it. Jongho’s silences always spoke louder than his words. And this one echoed.

Yeosang noticed it all.

He had always been good at watching. At piecing things together from fragments—the edge of a voice, the weight of a glance, the way someone’s shoulders tilted just slightly out of rhythm with their words.

So he noticed when San’s phone buzzed and San stilled. When his thumb hovered, hesitated. When he didn’t reply.

He noticed when Wooyoung asked “Sannie?” in that soft, worried tone that he rarely used unless something truly felt wrong.

And he noticed the subtle shift in the room when San said, “He said he’s going home.”

Yeosang didn’t speak. He only blinked, eyes sharp behind his usual calm. “Home” was the apartment he shared with San, Mingi, and Yunho. Not here, not the place where the rest of them were still gathered, where Jongho had spent nearly the entire day smiling—softly, genuinely—for the first time in weeks.

He shouldn’t have been gone like this. Not like this.

Yeosang’s gaze flicked to the time: 7:57 p.m.

He thought about the way Jongho’s voice had caught a little earlier when he’d said who he was meeting. About how stiff he’d looked in his suit.

He thought about the messages he didn’t see Jongho respond to. The quiet moments he’d spent lately watching the others from the edges of the room, brow furrowed like he was carrying a weight he didn’t know how to set down.

He’d seen Jongho watching the group earlier—Mingi dancing with Yunho, Hongjoong and Seonghwa talking quietly with heads bowed, Wooyoung humming in the kitchen—and the way his expression had softened. Longing. Distant. Then hardened again, like he was preparing himself for something he didn’t want.

And now he was gone.

Yeosang looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap.

Something had happened. Something heavy.

And though he didn’t know the shape of it yet, he knew one thing for sure.

Jongho was hurting.

And Yeosang was going to be there when he was ready to let someone in.

Even if he had to wait in silence.

Even if he had to break his own heart just to keep Jongho from breaking alone.

The break ended, and with it, any illusion of rest.

They were thrown back into classes—assignments, readings, group projects, presentations. Deadlines lined up like dominoes, ready to fall. Everyone moved forward, because that’s what they had to do. Even when something inside hadn’t quite reset.

Jongho didn’t mention the dinner. Not to anyone. Not even to San.

He simply moved through the week with quiet focus, back straight, jaw set, eyes shadowed with something he wouldn’t name. He smiled when spoken to, joined conversations when prompted, but never lingered. The weight on his shoulders sat heavy and silent.

San didn’t ask.

Not because he didn’t care. He cared too much. But he could guess the shape of the hurt. He’d seen it before. Felt it in himself.

Their father had said or done something—again. And once again, San had been left out of the equation entirely. Not even a mention. Not a word. Not a nod to his grades, which had been good. Not a message, not a call. Nothing.

Again. Again, again, again.

And still, he never resented Jongho. Not once. He knew the pressure his younger brother lived under, the expectations that carved lines into his face that didn’t belong to someone so young.

If he could take some of it, he would. Gladly.

But instead, they settled into the rhythm they knew best. A quiet dance of survival. Seeing each other in the mornings, passing by between classes, nodding wordlessly when one came home from a late study session or long lecture. It wasn’t closeness, not really. But it wasn’t distance, either. It was something only brothers could understand.

They also kept a cautious eye on Seonghwa, who seemed—for now—to be treading water above the surface. A tentative peace had settled around him. He still moved slower, softer. His smiles came quieter, eyes heavier, but they were there.

Hongjoong often updated the group chat in the mornings—short, coded messages that didn’t spell things out but were always understood.

Hongjoong:
Hwa’s staying in bed today. Not a bad day, just a quiet one. I’ve got lab.

The message popped up just as Jongho was packing his bag. His eyes flicked to it, then back to the toaster.

Mingi:
I’ve got the morning off. I’ll go. Bring toast and those strawberry things he likes.

Jongho:
Afternoon free. I’ll check in after lunch if he’s still down.

There was no further conversation. Just two small hearts—one from Hongjoong, another from Wooyoung—under the messages.

Even living in two apartments, separated by a few city blocks and bus rides, they were always orbiting each other. Always reaching out with small acts of care. A shared silence threaded between them, not from distance but from knowing.

In this strange, pieced-together family of theirs, love moved in the quiet. And they carried it, each in their own way.

It’s a quiet study session, the kind where papers rustle and the only sound is the light tapping of keys and the occasional sigh. Seonghwa’s “stay in bed” day had ended with soft tea and a whispered thank you. Hongjoong had walked Mingi to the door, and Yeosang had stayed behind just long enough to catch Jongho’s eye with a subtle, “You still up for tonight?”

So now they sat together in Yeosang’s room, legs folded, laptops open, books spread between them. The atmosphere was calm—familiar. Until Jongho’s phone buzzed.

The screen lit up. He didn’t move to check it, eyes still scanning a finance article. But Yeosang, glancing up mid-highlight, caught the preview before the screen dimmed again.

Han Jiwon:
I had fun getting to know you last…

The world didn’t stop. The ceiling didn’t collapse. But something in Yeosang stilled.

He blinked once, twice, then turned his eyes back to his textbook, suddenly too aware of how his heart had started beating faster. Last...? Last night?

It had to be connected to that dinner. The one Jongho had left for, dressed to the nines, saying only one word: “Appa.”

Yeosang had watched San tense up. Had seen the quiet shame ripple through both brothers in the hours that followed. So then… who was Han jiwon?

No, Yeosang thought, even as his stomach curled tight. No, Jongho wouldn’t...

But the doubt crept in like smoke under a door. Jongho had pulled away lately. Not noticeably to most—but Yeosang noticed. Less teasing, fewer shared glances, no late-night messages like before. He didn’t sit next to him anymore unless prompted. He hadn’t brought up the dinner. Or anything.

Yeosang overthought it, of course. He always did. Especially when it came to people he cared about.

Especially when it came to Jongho.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything. He told himself Jongho was allowed to know other people. To talk to whoever he wanted. That he had never said anything. Never confessed.

But the words he never said sat in his chest like stones.

So, he kept his tone polite, even fond, when they packed up for the night. He offered Jongho a soft smile. Then, over the next few days, he did what he thought was best.

He stepped back.

Buried himself in second-year law. Took on extra mock trials. Signed up for two new study groups. Attended seminars he didn’t strictly need to. He said no to weekend meals, claimed deadlines and fatigue. He was still kind. Still present. But just enough.

Because maybe... Jongho had found someone else.

And Yeosang—fool that he was—had never told him he wanted to be the one.

Jongho didn’t notice the message until he finally shut the door behind him and slid down against it, the quiet click echoing in the still apartment. His shoulders were heavy, shirt collar loose and damp with sweat from the tension of the day. His shoes sat carelessly tossed by the door. For a long moment, he just breathed shallowly, trying to shake off the weight pressing on his chest. He maked his way into his and San’s shared room. San was still out.

His phone buzzed sharply in his pocket, jolting him out of the haze. He pulled it out, eyes immediately catching the notification: an Han Jiwon. They’d had to sxchange numbers under the watchful eyes of their fathers. He hesitated before opening it.

Han Jiwon:
I had fun getting to know you last week. Our fathers would like us to have regular meetings. When would be a good time to organise this?

The words blurred before his eyes. His fingers tightened on the phone until the screen almost cracked.

“Jiwon,” he muttered bitterly, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. Jiwon. The girl from the dinner, with the polite smile that hadn’t quite reached her eyes. Not cruel. Not angry. Just... trapped, like him.

He cursed under his breath and threw the phone onto the bed with a hard thud. His breath hitched.

How the hell am I supposed to get out of this?

The fury inside him was relentless — a cold fire coiling tight in his chest, making it hard to breathe. It wasn’t just the message. It was everything that led to it — the dinner where his father paraded him like a prize, the vague threats hidden in compliments, the expectation that Jongho’s future was already mapped out without him.

He sank into the desk chair, hands shaking as he pulled his head down between his arms, pressing into the rough wood. The silence wrapped around him like a suffocating cloak.

Then, his bedroom door creaked open.

“Baby bear?”

San’s voice was soft, tentative — full of care and worry. It was a nickname Jongho hadn’t heard in a while, but it immediately made something inside him unravel.

Jongho didn’t answer. He stayed bent forward, but felt San’s presence, close and steady.

“Talk to me,” San said quietly, settling beside him.

And suddenly, the dam broke.

Jongho’s words tumbled out in a rush — the forced dinner, the smug look on his father’s face, the internship that was a done deal before he even spoke, the insinuations that Jiwon was more than just a business alliance. The stifling weight of expectations that strangled every choice he wanted to make.

“I could read it, San,” Jongho said, voice raw. “Like a script someone else wrote for me. This isn’t just a job. It’s a life I don’t want — a wife I don’t want, kids I don’t want. It’s all planned out. For them, not for me.”

San listened without interruption, fingers threading gently through Jongho’s hair, grounding him.

Jongho’s voice cracked. “I’m so sick of it. I’m sick of being told what to do, what to wear, who to be. They think they own me — but I’m not theirs.”

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making words catch.

“I don’t even like kids,” he confessed, the admission raw and vulnerable.

San nodded, eyes soft, understanding something deeper beneath the anger.

“I want... I want a life that’s mine,” Jongho whispered, voice barely audible now. “I want to choose who I love, what I do. I want... I want Yeosang.”

His breath hitched. The truth hung between them, fragile but undeniable.

San’s arms tightened around him, steady and warm. No words were needed. Just the quiet strength of someone who gets it, who holds you when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

San kneeled beside Jongho on the floor, the room quiet except for their breathing. Jongho’s confession still hung heavily between them, and San could see the pain behind those guarded eyes.

He reached out, placing a steady hand on Jongho’s shoulder, his voice low but firm, the way an older brother’s should be.

“Jjongie,” he began softly, “I know you feel like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. The expectations, the pressure — it’s crushing. But none of that matters. Not really.”

Jongho looked up, searching San’s face for the truth in his words.

“What matters is you.”

San’s grip tightened just a little. “Remember what you told me weeks ago? ‘Don’t let him take something from you that makes you happy.’ You said that, baby bear.”

A small, vulnerable smile cracked Jongho’s lips.

San continued, “Yeosang makes you happy.”

Jongho’s cheeks flushed, but San didn’t back down.

“It’s time to be brave. Take what you want, Jjongie.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “You tell me I deserve love.”

He paused, watching Jongho’s eyes soften.

“Well, you do too. You deserve that love just as much.”

San squeezed his shoulder gently, a silent promise in the quiet between them.

Wooyoung stirred the pot gently, the aroma of simmering broth filling the warm kitchen. He glanced over at Hongjoong, who was seated at the counter with his laptop open, fingers lightly tapping the keys as he worked on his group project. The soft hum of the refrigerator and the clinking of utensils created a quiet rhythm around them.

In the living room nearby, Seonghwa sat cross-legged with his sketchbook open on his lap. His pencil hovered hesitantly over the blank page, eyes clouded with frustration. Hongjoong’s gaze drifted toward him, and his expression softened — he saw the weight of pressure and doubt in Seonghwa’s posture, a silent struggle to find inspiration amidst the chaos.

Wooyoung sighed, breaking the silence. “It’s been so weird, hyung. Jongho and Yeosang... they’ve been pulling away. Almost three weeks now, barely talking. Sangie won’t open up to me, and Jongho’s the same. It’s like they’re carrying something heavy inside, but neither of them says a word.”

Hongjoong nodded slowly, eyes still on Seonghwa for a moment before returning to Wooyoung. “Yeah, I’ve noticed too. They’re shutting down, closing off. It’s hard when people you care about start to pull away like that.”

Wooyoung frowned, voice low. “We promised each other to be honest, to talk through stuff... but they’re just... doing this instead. It feels like we’re losing them.”

Hongjoong gave a small, understanding smile, closing his laptop and resting his hands on the counter. “Sometimes, Woo, feelings need time. Time to be sorted out, understood—not everyone can just say what’s on their mind right away. Like you with San-ah...” His voice softened, eyes gentle but firm. “I know you’ve been scared to take that step.”

Wooyoung looked down at the stirring spoon in his hand, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah... I guess I’m just scared.”

Hongjoong reached out and lightly touched Wooyoung’s arm. “That’s okay. Maybe they’re scared too. Taking that step, telling someone how you feel — it’s one of the hardest things to do.”

Seonghwa’s voice cut softly through the quiet hum of the kitchen. “I think Jongho’s got external pressures too. Something must’ve happened at that dinner with his father. We all know how much their dad expects—how heavy that burden is.” He glanced over at Wooyoung and Hongjoong, his tone steady but thoughtful. “San’s strong. He’ll get through to Jongho eventually. But Woo...” He hesitated, then added carefully, “you might not want to push with Yeosang. You know how he gets... stuck in his head.”

He set his pencil down on the sketchbook, a faint sigh escaping him. “I can’t seem to think of what to sketch or draw. It’s frustrating.” His eyes lingered on the blank page, the weight of creative block as heavy as the tension between their friends.

Later that week found Seonghwa stood in the middle of the living room, the apartment dim around him. The shadows were long, stretching like fingers across the furniture. His portfolio bag sat by the door, abandoned. The sketch he’d tried to complete in class was stuffed haphazardly inside.

He hadn’t been able to focus. The lines blurred. His fingers wouldn’t follow the shapes in his head. Drapery, normally his peace, felt like fabric slipping through his grasp.

He was unraveling.

He sat heavily on the couch, head bowed. His hands itched with something unspoken—grief still raw, frustration souring his stomach. He hadn’t even realized he’d opened Joong’s laptop, hadn’t meant to pull up the project files labeled with little hearts in the filenames. But his hand moved like it was looking for something he didn’t know he’d lost.

The track began to play.

It wasn’t polished. There were missing layers, some verses only hummed, some parts silent—awaiting inspiration, awaiting him. But it was unmistakably his Joong.

It was soft piano, notes folding into each other like a lullaby trying not to cry. A gentle beat followed, heartbeat-steady. And then a voice, quiet and low:

“When the world goes quiet,
I still hear you breathing,
A thread of gold through all this grey…”

Seonghwa’s chest caved in.

His breath hitched as he closed his eyes, letting the music pour over him like fabric over a frame. It wasn’t finished—but it was enough. It was Hongjoongs way of reaching for him, of holding him without touch. And as he curled forward, pressing a hand over his mouth to stifle the sob that broke through, he felt it—that steady, grounding presence. A love that never rushed him, never expected anything other than what he could give.

The song played on.

Each note like a stitch, pulling him back together.

Grief didn’t go away. But in this—this unfinished melody wrapped in memory and intention—he felt something settle.

He was loved. Still held. Even in the unraveling.

That night the apartment was quiet, wrapped in the hush that came only when the world was done asking things of them. Yeosang was somewhere, while Wooyoung had actually turned in early. And here, in the soft lamplight of the living room, Seonghwa sat on the edge of the couch, wrapped in one of Honjoong’s old hoodies, sleeves stretched past his hands like he needed the extra warmth.

Hongjoong was across from him, one leg tucked beneath the other on the opposite side of the couch, still in his jeans from the day, hair soft and falling over his brow. There was something so familiar in the way he sat—tired, but open. Always open to him.

Neither spoke for a while. Not because they didn’t have anything to say—but because this silence was the kind that breathed. The kind they’d earned.

Finally, Seonghwa whispered, “I listened to the song.”

Hongjoong looked up, eyes catching the light. He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head a little, a small smile pressing at the corners of his mouth.

“It wasn’t finished,” Seonghwa went on, fingers pulling at the cuffs. “But it didn’t need to be. It’s the most… you thing I’ve ever heard.”

Hongjoong exhaled quietly, gaze softening. “I didn’t mean for you to find it like that. But I’m glad you did.”

Seonghwa looked down at his lap, voice smaller now. “I was falling apart. Everything felt too heavy. I was trying to be okay because I didn’t know how not to be, but I—”

His breath caught, shoulders trembling. Hongjoong shifted instantly, moving closer on instinct, not touching but there.

“I felt like I couldn’t breathe,” Seonghwa continued, eyes glassy. “And then I heard your voice. And it… I don’t know. It tethered me.”

Hongjoong’s hand reached out slowly, letting his fingers graze Seonghwa’s. “You don’t have to be okay all the time. Not with me.”

Seonghwa blinked, and the tears started to fall in earnest now—quiet, steady. He leaned into Hongjoong’s touch without thinking, their hands linking, and when he looked up again, his voice shook.

“You’ve taken care of everything. Me. My family. You even called Noona back when I couldn’t speak.” A beat. “You’ve always done that. Always carried the weight when I couldn't.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened just slightly, eyes shining now too. “Because I love you. That’s not something I do out of obligation. That’s my choice. Every time.”

Seonghwa’s heart felt like it might crack open.

“I don’t know who I’d be without you,” he whispered.

Hongjoong finally moved, pulling Seonghwa forward until he was in his arms, wrapping around him like a promise. He held him close, cheek against Seonghwa’s temple, speaking low against his skin.

“You don’t ever have to find out. I’m here. No matter what happens, no matter how messy or hard or quiet things get—I'm here.”

Seonghwa didn’t answer right away. He just clung tighter, the hoodie sleeves damp with tears now, his breath catching on every inhale.

When he finally pulled back enough to look Hongjoong in the face, his hands cradled his jaw gently.

“I love you so much,” he said, voice barely a breath. “I don’t know how my heart still fits in my chest.”

Hongjoong smiled, eyes brimming. “I think that’s what the song was trying to say.”

Seonghwa gave a watery laugh, resting their foreheads together.

 Yunho thought that this half of the semester was moving in a weird way, not slow, not fast, but like a fog was clinging to them all. They were almost a month in to this half of the semester and it also felt like they were still in the break. Since they got back from Seonghwa’s home the mood in the group has been off. He didn’t know what to do. He stood with his arms crossed as he watched Mingi run through another practice in the studio.

The space smelled faintly of sweat and wood polish, the floor scuffed from hours of movement. Yunho stretched his arms above his head, while Mingi flopped back dramatically on the floor like a dying man.

“Yun,” Mingi groaned, eyes shut. “My soul left my body halfway through that turn.”

Yunho snorted, walking over to nudge his foot against Mingi’s thigh. “You say that every time we do floorwork.”

“That’s because it’s always true.” Mingi opened one eye, then the other, catching Yunho’s gaze. “You okay?”

Yunho looked surprised. “Yeah?”

Mingi sat up slowly, brushing sweat-damp hair off his forehead. “You’ve been a little quiet. About everything.”

Yunho hesitated. Then, “There’s a lot going on.”

Mingi nodded, glancing around the empty room. “Feels like everyone’s hearts are running full speed lately. San’s all weird and intense, Woo’s anxious, Hwa’s been through hell, and Joong’s hanging by threads of music and love.”

Yunho gave a tired smile. “You left out Yeosang and Jongho.”

“Since that dinner Jongho had with his dad he’s been holding back and now Yeosang is just not around, as Woo would say, gone, like a fart in the wind.”

That made Yunho laugh, finally sitting next to him. They both leaned against the mirror, shoulders brushing. It was a comfortable silence for a minute.

“I. hope they sort everything out soon. They are good for each other. I just have no idea what happened at that dinner to cause Jongho to close himself off, you’ve seen him at home. San has no clue, but he doesn’t want to push his brother.” Mingi hummed in agreement, his hand making its way to Yunho’s and interlocking their fingers.

“I’ve been thinking about how lucky we are,” Yunho said again, minutes later. “To have this. Each other. All of them.”

Mingi’s voice dropped, sincere. “Yeah. Me too.”

Jongho had been watching Yeosang pull away for weeks now, and it was tearing him up inside. At first, it was just little things — missed texts, dodged eye contact, shorter answers. But now, Yeosang seemed almost to vanish whenever Jongho tried to catch him. Yunho hadn’t seen him. Mingi hadn’t seen him. Even Wooyoung admitted he barely caught a glimpse of Yeosang in the past couple of weeks — always buried in study groups, lectures, or somewhere Jongho wasn’t.

It had been nearly a month since that miserable dinner Jongho had with his father and the Han family. The memory still stung — the forced smiles, the cold expectations, the talk of internships, the subtle hints at marriages, and corporate takeovers. And then that message, the one from Han Jiwon, which he never replied to.

He frowned and pulled his phone from his pocket and opened his messages, he looked at the time it was sent. The notification must had arrived right when he was sitting beside Yeosang, their books open but their minds miles apart. He’d read it when he got home, but if Yeosang had looked down when the message came through…

The message preview always showed just the first line: “I had fun with getting to know you last…”

Jongho’s blood ran cold. 

Yeosang thinks I met someone.

The thought slammed into him like a blow, twisting into sharp, painful knots. Of course Yeosang would think that — Jongho had no explanation for the message, hadn’t told him a thing about the dinner. The silence, the distance, the coldness: all of it feeding into the misunderstanding. And he had started it by being in his fucking head.

A furious heat bubbled up inside him. He couldn’t let this fester. He had to clear it up, had to tell Yeosang the truth — no one else, no arranged meetings, no girls.

Determined, Jongho searched everywhere. The law library, the student commons, lecture halls — but Yeosang was nowhere to be found. Wooyoung said he hadn’t seen Yeosang at the apartment recently either. Jongho sent messages that went unanswered, and the frustration tightened around his chest like a vice.

Just as he was about to give up hope for the day, he heard it: a voice, deep and familiar, like hot chocolate on a cold day.

Yeosang.

Jongho’s eyes snapped up and there he was, stepping out of a nearby shop. Jongho’s heart pounded — this was his chance.

Without hesitation, he strode over, grabbed Yeosang’s arm firmly but not roughly, and pulled him aside to the quietest corner he could find. His jaw was clenched tight, his voice low but steady.

“We need to talk. Now.”

Yeosang felt the sudden grip on his arm before he even saw who it was. The touch was firm but not harsh, pulling him gently but decisively toward a quieter corner away from the bustling street. His heart tightened in hesitation, and when his eyes finally met Jongho’s, he tensed instinctively.

Jongho looked different — determined, focused, a flicker of anger in his eyes that somehow made his expression even more magnetic. Yeosang’s breath hitched, a small, involuntary ache blossoming inside him at how alive Jongho seemed, how raw and real. But then Jongho’s voice broke through, low and urgent.

“We need to talk. Now.”

Yeosang’s heart skipped. The words were heavy, almost like a warning, and an icy dread spread through him. He wasn’t ready — not for whatever storm Jongho was bringing with him. He had tried so hard to put distance between them, to bury these feelings beneath layers of study, routine, and silence. To convince himself that stepping back, avoiding Jongho, would dull the ache. But now, here he was — face to face, no escape — and the truth settled like a stone in his chest: he couldn’t run from this anymore.

His head snapped up as Jongho began to speak, words rushing out fast, urgent, as if to say everything before Yeosang could slip away.

“That dinner... it was an ambush,” Jongho said, voice tight, hurt sharpening each word. “They laid out this whole new script for my life, told me I had to follow it — new internship, a job after graduation, and then…” His voice dropped, softer but loaded with weight. “…a wife.”

Yeosang’s breath caught. The bitterness in Jongho’s tone was so real it cut through the noise around them.

“And that text,” Jongho continued, his gaze never leaving Yeosang’s, “that god-awful text. I see it whenever I close my eyes.”

Yeosang’s mind flashed back to the cruel message, the cold expectations hidden in polite words. He could feel the sting all over again.

“I don’t want a wife,” Jongho said, voice breaking with raw honesty. He swallowed hard, took a slow, deep breath, and then—looking Yeosang straight in the eyes—he whispered, trembling with a mix of desperation and hope,

“I want you.”

Chapter Text

Sailing Ships

Yeosang could hardly breathe.

Jongho’s words were pouring out like a dam breaking — wild, aching, honest. He looked as if the weight of the last few weeks was finally too much to bear, and it had cracked him open in the best and worst way. His jaw was clenched like he was trying not to cry, fists tight at his sides, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were pleading. Raw. Red-rimmed from holding everything in too long.

“I want you, Yeosang.”

It wasn’t just a confession. It was a declaration. A surrender.

“I’m sorry I pulled away,” Jongho said, voice tight, almost strangled. “I got in my head. I didn't mean to—fuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to hurt you. I just… I don’t know how to get out of this thing my father is trying to pull me into. The internship, the job, the arranged dates—it’s all so fucking heavy.”

He laughed, bitter and broken. “But I don’t want him to keep taking from me. Not again. Not this time.”

His eyes locked onto Yeosang’s, steady and trembling all at once.

“I want to choose. And I choose you.”

Yeosang’s breath hitched sharply.

“You are everything,” Jongho whispered. “You get me. You get the silence and you don’t ask for sound. You’re… you’re the port in the storm. The past few weeks without you near… they’ve been hard. Too hard. I missed your presence, your voice. I even missed the way you go quiet. Because, without you… quiet is too loud.”

His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to say it the right way. I keep things to myself. I don’t—don’t do this. But I had to. Because if I don’t tell you exactly how I feel, I’ll lose you before I ever really had you. And I can’t—Yeosang, I can’t—”

His voice faltered.

“I almost did.”

The last part was a whisper. Vulnerable. Honest.

Yeosang stood frozen, throat thick with unshed emotion. Because this? This was not just a boy confessing love. This was someone baring his soul, handing over the most fragile, hidden parts of himself like an offering. And God, Yeosang had been ready to walk away thinking Jongho had already chosen someone else.

But he hadn’t.

He had chosen him.

Yeosang’s voice shook as he began to speak.

“I thought you had found someone else,” he said, barely more than a breath. Jongho’s chest tightened instantly, and he parted his lips to respond, but Yeosang’s hand was already moving—hesitating, then lifting—to brush gentle, trembling fingers along the line of his jaw. Jongho’s breath hitched at the touch, eyes wide and soft, not daring to move.

“I thought you’d chosen someone else,” Yeosang continued, his voice growing more frayed with each word. “We were close, and then… you pulled away. You didn’t talk to San. You didn’t talk to me. And I assumed. I let it get to me. I thought… maybe there was someone else. Someone from that dinner. Someone your father had in mind for you.”

Jongho’s stomach dropped. He could feel the tension in Yeosang’s hand, the way his fingers lingered on his skin but didn’t quite settle. His own hand slowly reached up, hovering near Yeosang’s waist, not quite touching yet—like he didn’t want to break the moment.

“I tried to bury it,” Yeosang whispered, blinking rapidly. “These feelings. I thought if you’d chosen someone else, I could shut them down. Be mature about it. But I couldn’t. No matter how hard I tried. Even when I stayed away, even when I didn’t respond, even when I threw myself into law classes and study groups and—God—I couldn’t.”

His voice cracked. Jongho’s throat tightened, lips parted, aching to say something, but Yeosang just kept going, as if he wouldn’t be able to if he stopped.

“Jongho… I want you.”

The confession hit Jongho like a wave—his breath caught in his throat, heart hammering so loud he swore Yeosang could hear it.

“When you walked into the room the other week in that suit,” Yeosang said, smiling faintly through the emotion, “I almost pulled a Yunho. I almost kissed you right there in front of everyone. I couldn’t think. You looked so good and I just… I just wanted to be near you.”

Jongho’s free hand found Yeosang’s now, threading their fingers together. It grounded him, gave him something to hold on to as Yeosang spoke his truth.

“I love your smile,” Yeosang said, voice softer now. “That stupid, beautiful, gummy smile. And your strength—your real strength. Not just the way you can carry anything or lift half the kitchen by yourself,” he laughed, wet and trembling, “but how you carry us. How you were calm when everything else was falling apart. You were always there. You’re always there. For everyone. For me.”

He stepped even closer now, until their foreheads nearly touched. Jongho’s breath hitched again, this time from the closeness, the rawness in Yeosang’s voice, in his eyes.

“And God,” Yeosang whispered, “I want you too.”

Jongho felt something inside him shatter—and rebuild itself in the same breath.

His voice was rough when he finally spoke. “Can I kiss you?”

Yeosang didn’t say anything. He just nodded, barely once, but it was enough.

Jongho surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t unsure. It was desperate and warm, trembling with everything that had gone unsaid for too long. Jongho’s hand rose to Yeosang’s cheek, holding him steady, as Yeosang melted into him like the last piece of a puzzle sliding into place.

They kissed like they’d been holding their breath for weeks—and finally, finally, could breathe again.

They pulled back slowly, breath mingling in the space between them. Yeosang let out a laugh—small at first, but then it grew, a bright sound bursting from somewhere deep in his chest. It was happiness, unfiltered and raw. The kind that made his eyes crinkle and his shoulders loosen for the first time in weeks.

Jongho grinned at him, still close, still steady.

They talked quietly for a while longer, voices dipping and curling around each other like they were relearning the shape of closeness. Then, without needing to say it aloud, they started the short walk back to Yeosang’s apartment. Side by side. Fingers brushing once, twice—until Jongho just took his hand properly, folding their palms together like it had always been meant to fit that way.

At the apartment, the door creaked open to reveal Hongjoong mid-step, about to head out. He paused when he saw them, his gaze falling to their joined hands. A soft smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t say anything—just reached out to ruffle Jongho’s hair and then Yeosang’s, affectionate and wordless. Then he slipped past them and was gone.

Inside, the apartment was warm and still. Familiar. They drifted to the living room like muscle memory, dropping their bags and curling up on the couch, bodies angled toward each other, shoulders pressed close.

Yeosang opened his laptop, papers rustling around them. “Law this semester’s been…” He hesitated, then sighed. “Brutal.”

Jongho hummed sympathetically but shrugged. “Honestly? I’m kind of looking forward to finals.”

Yeosang blinked. “You what?”

“I hope next semester’s even tougher,” Jongho added with a straight face, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

Yeosang turned to stare at him like he’d grown a second head. “Are you broken?”

Jongho burst out laughing, head thrown back against the couch cushion. It was the full laugh—his real one—the one that made his eyes disappear and showed every single tooth, his trademark gummy smile stealing all the air from the room.

Yeosang watched him, heart stuttering. He wanted to say something. He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed him.

Softly, then again. And again.

Jongho’s laughter quieted into a hum as he kissed back, smiling into it, letting Yeosang hold his face and press their foreheads together in between. The world around them dulled to nothing but the warmth between them, steady and sweet and sure.

They were still curled up on the couch, Yeosang half in Jongho’s lap at this point, the room filled with the kind of quiet that only exists after a kiss you’ve waited too long for. Yeosang was grinning against Jongho’s temple, dropping another kiss there just because he could, when the front door swung open with the kind of force usually reserved for police raids or the discovery of a new skincare discount.

A screech echoed down the hall.

“YAAAAH!”

Wooyoung stood frozen in the doorway, arms stacked precariously with at least six containers of what looked like various savoury delights, steam still curling from the topmost lids. His eyes went wide—cartoonishly so—as he took in the scene: Yeosang, looking entirely too smug, and Jongho, blushing so hard his ears could have powered a small toaster.

Behind him, San blinked once, then smirked. “Well. Took you long enough,” he muttered, nudging Wooyoung in with an elbow.

But Wooyoung wasn’t moving.

Not until he gasped. Loudly. Dramatically.

And then, with all the grace of a culinary tornado, he marched to the kitchen, slammed the containers down (causing one lid to skitter halfway off), and stomped back into the living room like a man on a mission.

“I’M your best friend,” he said, jabbing a finger toward Yeosang’s chest. “And you didn’t tell me?! ME? Of all people?!”

Yeosang raised a single eyebrow, utterly unbothered. “I’m aware.”

“I had to see it with my own two eyes— after balancing braised tofu and spicy squid on public transport!”

Yeosang leaned back against the couch, crossed his legs, and tilted his head. “Oh, was that difficult for you?”

“Yeosang—!”

“It literally just happened like—what, an hour ago?” Yeosang said, turning to Jongho for confirmation. Jongho made a noise that might’ve been a yes, though it was muffled by the way his face was currently buried in both hands. “I was a little… distracted, Woo.”

“Distracted—?”

“I mean,” Yeosang continued, matter-of-fact, “have you seen those lips? They are very soft. I was occupied. With priorities.”

Jongho audibly squeaked.

Wooyoung looked like he’d been slapped. “I cannot believe this betrayal.”

Yeosang gave him a slow, satisfied blink. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Wooyoung stared. Then, with a noise of utter defeat, he threw his hands up—but it didn’t last long. His mouth quirked, and before either of them could blink, he leaned down and dropped a kiss to the top of Yeosang’s head, then Jongho’s.

“Thank god,” he sighed, plopping dramatically next to Yeosang with the weight of a long-suffering soul. “The tension was killing me. It even made a soufflé collapse last week. Sink in angst, Yeosang. Do you understand how emotionally unstable a dessert has to be to do that?”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Yeosang said, flipping open his textbook like he hadn’t just broadcast Jongho’s lips as a national treasure.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” Wooyoung grumbled.

San wandered in, finally stealing one of the containers and a fork. He gave Jongho a pointed look and a small nod, like he was proud but also unsurprised. “Glad you finally said something,” he murmured.

Jongho, still pink, just nodded shyly and tightened his grip on Yeosang’s hand beneath the throw blanket.

Yeosang leaned in again, whispering something that made Jongho laugh despite himself.

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “Gross.”

Yeosang turned to him, expression bright and deadly. “Better get used to it. We’ve got missed time to make up for. Expect hand-holding, soft smiles, and forehead kisses at all hours.”

“I will sabotage your morning coffee,” Wooyoung declared.

“I drink tea,” Yeosang replied without missing a beat.

Wooyoung gasped again. “You monster.”

Jongho could only laugh—and Yeosang kissed his cheek in reward.

Group Chat: 🌈 Eightfold Chaos

Wooyoung:
breaking news
yeosang and jongho were sucking face on the couch.
like. hands in hair.
sucking. face.

Mingi:
👀👀👀
😗💋😚💋😏

Yunho:
YAAAAAAY 😘💞💞💞💞💋💋💋💋
finally omg
👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏

Seonghwa:
That’s all they better have done.
But… I’m glad you talked, Yeosang.
Whatever the last few weeks were—it was hard to watch.
I’ll be home soon.

Hongjoong:
Wait what.
Did I miss something???
[edited] oh no I saw the hands. thought they had just made up
I should’ve known 😮‍💨

Wooyoung:
they were linked.
like emotionally. and physically. and maybe spiritually.
anyway
Jongho looked like he was gonna combust

Yeosang:
Bold of you to act like you’re not the one who kissed both of us on the head and called us cute.

Wooyoung:
i contain multitudes.

Jongho:
[read at 6:47pm]
no reply

San:
He hasn’t recovered yet 😂😂😂

Wooyoung:
Speaking of which.
Yunho. Mingi. Come over.
I made too much food again in class.
(Jongho and Yeosang’s scandalous revelation ruined my plating.)

Yunho:
say no more 🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️

Mingi:
Do I get to kiss someone too or
is this just a "watch the couple be cute and suffer" dinner?

Wooyoung:
You can kiss Yunho.
Or the soy-braised chicken.
Both are excellent options.

Yeosang:
If you kiss on my couch I’m charging you rent.

Jongho:
typing...
...
stopped typing

Hongjoong:
I’m taking a screenshot of this thread and saving it for the wedding slideshow.

Wooyoung:
I’ll cater the wedding.
With soufflés.
That don’t collapse from repressed longing.

The studio was quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric and the distant hum of the city outside. Seonghwa sat alone at his drafting table, the dim overhead lights casting long shadows over the scattered sketches and half-finished muslin forms. His fingers traced the outline of the dress form again and again, but the shape never quite felt right. The curves were off, the lines too harsh, and no matter how many times he tried, the vision he had in his mind refused to translate onto the fabric.

His chest felt tight, and his mind, heavy with grief, weighed down every movement. The absence of his mother, and more recently his father, left an ache he couldn’t seem to stitch into his designs. Instead, it just tangled inside him like a knot he didn’t know how to loosen.

The late hour deepened the silence, making the studio feel vast and lonely.

Just then, a soft voice broke the stillness.

“Seonghwa?”

He looked up to see his professor standing at the doorway, her presence calm but steady. She stepped inside, setting down her bag gently.

“You’re still here.”

He managed a small, tired smile.

“I’m… struggling with the form. And everything else,” he admitted, voice low. “I can’t seem to get it right.”

She nodded, coming closer and resting a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Grief is a difficult pattern to work with,” she said gently. “It’s messy and unpredictable. But it doesn’t mean you’re failing.”

Seonghwa looked down, ashamed of how much he’d let it get to him.

“You’re carrying a lot,” she continued. “And it’s okay to struggle. It’s okay to not have all the answers right now. Sometimes, the process isn’t about perfection but about understanding what you’re holding inside.”

She paused, looking thoughtfully at the sketches pinned on his board.

“Your designs don’t have to be flawless to be meaningful. In fact, sometimes the imperfections tell the most honest stories.”

Seonghwa let out a shaky breath.

“Use that grief,” she said softly, “don’t hold onto it. Channel it into your work, but don’t let it weigh you down. Let it become part of your process — something that moves through you, not traps you.”

She smiled warmly, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back.

“I believe in your strength, Seonghwa. And in your vision. But above all, believe in your own kindness toward yourself.”

With that, she quietly left the studio, leaving Seonghwa to sit with her words. Slowly, he reached for his pencil, and as the minutes passed, the lines on his paper began to shift — less rigid, more fluid — and something new, something real, started to take shape.

The hallway outside the design studio was empty, lit only by strips of ceiling lights that buzzed softly, as if even the building itself was getting ready to sleep.

Hongjoong stood at the open door, breath held, watching.

Seonghwa didn’t notice him. He was hunched slightly over the table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, pencil scratching softly against paper. His movements weren’t frantic, nor hesitant — they were deliberate. Focused. His brow furrowed just a little, his lips parted in thought, the corner of his mouth twitching with each adjustment he made to the sketch.

There was no sign of the lost expression Hongjoong had memorised in the weeks following the funeral.

He let out a slow breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Some of the weight slipped from his shoulders.

Wooyoung’s message had been simple:
He never came home for dinner. He said he would be home soon, that was 3 hours ago.

Hongjoong didn’t even reply — he just grabbed his keys, luckily he’d been at the music studio, not far from Seonghwa.

Since they’d come back after the funeral, Hongjoong had been watching. Silently. Carefully. He noticed the way Seonghwa clung to routine but seemed to drift through it like a ghost. How he kept the apartment spotless, how his meals were regular, how he smiled just enough — but never reached his eyes.

Grief had hollowed him out in quiet, elegant ways.

But this — this was different.

There was a spark in him now. Not fire, not yet, but intention.

Hongjoong stayed in the doorway a moment longer, letting Seonghwa finish the line he was working on before clearing his throat gently.

Seonghwa turned, surprise flickering across his face — quickly replaced by something softer.

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse but warm. “What time is it?”

“Late enough that Wooyoung threatened to drag you home by the ankles,” Hongjoong replied, stepping inside with a small smile. “He made too much food again.  When you didn’t come home like you said, he texted me because apparently I’m ‘more responsible’ now.”

Seonghwa huffed a laugh, setting down his pencil. “I lost track of time.”

“I figured,” Hongjoong said. He crossed the room, stopping just short of touching him, giving Seonghwa space to lean in if he wanted to — and when he did, Hongjoong rested a hand gently on his back. “You okay?”

A pause. Then a nod. “Better,” Seonghwa said. “My professor came by. She talked to me.”

Hongjoong hummed, his thumb brushing over the fabric of Seonghwa’s shirt.

“I saw,” he said quietly, eyes drifting to the sketch. “You’ve got that determined look again.”

Seonghwa blinked at him.

“It’s your I’m going to win this battle with fabric even if it kills me face,” Hongjoong clarified. “I haven’t seen it in weeks.”

Seonghwa gave him a small smile, tired but real.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

They stood like that for a while, quiet settling between them like a second skin. It wasn’t heavy anymore. Just familiar.

And Hongjoong thought, not for the first time, about Jongho’s quiet suggestion the day they looked at the midterm results — how he’d said they should all move in together, maybe after finals, into one shared space. One home. No more separate apartments. No more gaps between them.

“Like a real family,” Jongho had said, eyes lowered but voice steady.

At the time, Hongjoong hadn’t known if Seonghwa could carry that much closeness again, not so soon after so much loss.

But looking at him now — sleeves rolled up, heart in his work, grief in his shoulders but not consuming him — Hongjoong thought maybe… maybe they were ready.

He would talk to him about it.

Soon.

But for now, he just leaned in and pressed a kiss to Seonghwa’s temple, careful and quiet.

“Come home,” he whispered. “I’ll carry your bag.”

Seonghwa gave a sleepy nod, standing to gather his things. And when they walked out of the studio together, side by side, it was with the kind of closeness that felt like the start of something new.

They sat on the rooftop just outside the apartment window, knees brushing under the shared blanket, the city stretching wide and soft beneath them. The mug in Yeosang’s hands had gone lukewarm, but he wasn’t moving. Wooyoung had dragged him up here with the excuse of needing “air and post-kiss debriefing,” which, in Yeosang’s experience, usually meant emotional chaos disguised as casual gossip.

He hadn’t expected it to feel this… peaceful.

Eventually, Wooyoung said softly, “I’m really happy for you, I mean that.”

Yeosang glanced at him, eyes warm. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, fingers tightening slightly around his mug.

“There was a… misunderstanding between us. Me and Jongho. Some things we both assumed, and I wasn’t really talking about any of it. But we sorted it out today.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Wooyoung offered.

“I know. But I want to.” Yeosang looked out at the skyline. “I wasn’t being honest with myself, and I kept pulling away. Hiding. Jongho… he’s the one who stepped forward. If he hadn’t, I’d still be running.”

He blushed again, the pink curling into his cheeks in a way that made Wooyoung grin even harder.

“To say it out loud,” Yeosang went on, voice quiet. “To tell the person you want that you want them… it’s terrifying. But it’s also— kind of magical. And the kissing doesn’t hurt either.”

“That’s so unfair,” Wooyoung muttered into his mug. “You get poetic and kissed. Meanwhile I’m here having a full-blown crisis about my feelings for San.”

Yeosang raised a brow. “Still?”

Wooyoung groaned. “Yes. It’s— look, I love him, okay? I do. And that’s horrifying. He’s… him. Thoughtful and oblivious and kind and very, very hot. And I keep thinking maybe he wants something too but— I don’t know. I’m scared.”

Yeosang was quiet a moment before squeezing his wrist under the blanket.

“I get it. I was scared too. But if I’ve learned anything tonight… it’s that fear doesn’t go away just because you want it to. Sometimes you have to act while your hands are still shaking.”

Wooyoung stared at him.

“And you said I was poetic.”

Yeosang smirked. “Yeah, well. I have been kissed now. Changes a man.”

Wooyoung barked out a laugh, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes. “God, I love you.”

Yeosang leaned his head against Wooyoung’s. “I love you too.”

And there, under the night sky and above the soft hum of city noise, two best friends held each other steady — one finally brave, the other getting there — and for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel quite so far away.

They were sitting on the edge of their apartment’s tiny balcony, legs stretched out, city breeze brushing through their hair. It was quiet — late enough that the streets had quieted, but early enough that neither of them felt like sleeping. San passed Jongho a soda from the small fridge they kept out there and leaned back against the railing, eyes on the stars barely visible above the city lights.

“I’m proud of you,” San said suddenly, nudging Jongho’s knee with his own.

Jongho glanced over, startled.

“For being brave,” San clarified, smile soft and crooked. He reached over to ruffle his younger brother’s hair, the way he used to when they were kids. Jongho ducked away, swatting at his hand, but he was smiling too.

“It wasn’t easy,” Jongho admitted after a beat. “But it felt… right. I didn’t want to keep running from it.”

“You talked to him? Properly?” San asked, tone turning gentle.

Jongho nodded. “Yeah. I told him everything. About why I pulled away. About dinner, the texts…”

San blinked. “Wait, texts?”

Jongho paused, lips tugging into a grimace. “Yeah. That girl Dad’s trying to set me up with? She messaged me. I didn’t reply. But Yeosang saw the preview. And he thought… he thought I’d found someone else.”

San’s expression darkened. “That idiot.”

“Not his fault,” Jongho said quickly. “I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t notice how quiet he’d gotten, how far away he felt. I was so stuck in my own head, Sannie. I thought I was protecting him. But really, I just made him feel alone.”

San didn’t answer right away. He just reached out and clasped Jongho’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze — grounding.

“You figured it out,” San finally said. “You talked. That’s what matters.”

Jongho nodded. Then looked at him, really looked.

“It’s your turn now.”

San blinked. “Huh?”

“It’s time for you to be brave,” Jongho said quietly. “We’ve talked about this, you are enough, you like him, if not love him. You light up around him, no one else.”

San didn’t respond, but the tips of his ears turned pink.

“I know you’re scared,” Jongho went on, softer now. “So was I. But saying it out loud — admitting you want something — it doesn’t make you weak. It makes you honest.”

San rubbed at the back of his neck, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“He’s just… he’s Wooyoung,” he said, helpless. “Loud, bright, beautiful Wooyoung. He’s everything. And I’m—”

“Someone who loves him,” Jongho finished. “And I think he might be waiting for you.”

San stared at his little brother for a moment, then let out a soft laugh, ruffling his hair again with more affection than annoyance this time.

“When did you get so wise?”

Jongho smirked. “Since I kissed Kang Yeosang.”

San choked. “Okay, you’re banned from hanging out with Wooyoung alone from now on.”

Jongho just laughed, and they sat there a while longer — not talking about their father, not yet — but about everything else, the world humming just softly enough to feel like it might be listening.

The apartment was mostly quiet when Seonghwa stepped through the door, the distant hum of the dehumidifier the only sound accompanying his arrival. His bag slipped from his shoulder, landing with a soft thud near the entryway. He toed off his shoes, fingertips brushing the wall for balance, and let out a tired breath.

His body ached. From the hours in the studio, from the lingering weight of grief. From holding himself too tightly for too long.

He didn’t call out. He didn’t need to.

Soft footsteps echoed down the hallway. Then, light spilled into the living room as Hongjoong appeared, backlit and haloed by the golden warmth of their bedroom.

He was towel-drying his hair, the strands mussed and damp, falling over his forehead. His pajama shirt hung open, the fabric clinging in places to damp skin. The pants rode low on his hips, exposing the gentle lines of his abdomen, the dip just beneath his ribs, the curve of his waist.

Seonghwa froze.

His breath caught without warning — sharp, immediate. Like being struck clean through the chest.

Because something surfaced then. Something he hadn’t realised he’d buried beneath the stress, the ache, the loss.

Need.

Not just want. Not just desire.

Need. Raw and visceral and helpless. For him. For Hongjoong.

This man who had waited. Who had held him without question. Who’d tiptoed around his grief without ever making him feel broken. Who’d listened to silence and never once asked for more than what Seonghwa could give.

And now, here he was.

Glowing in the soft light of home. Quiet, tired, beautiful.

Seonghwa’s heart squeezed painfully tight in his chest. His fingers trembled slightly where they curled around the edge of his coat.

Hongjoong looked up then, catching his gaze. His hands paused mid-motion with the towel still half-draped over his head.

They stared at each other — the space between them buzzing with all the words they hadn’t said lately. All the touches they’d held back. All the nights they’d laid side by side, too close and somehow still oceans apart.

Seonghwa stepped forward.

“Bedroom, now” His voice was low, dripping with need. Hongjoong stepped back to the bedroom as Seonghwa brushed past him, fingers trailed along his abdomen as he went. He turned around and locked eyes with Hongjoong.

The quiet click of the door behind him barely registered as Hongjoong’s eyes stayed locked onto Seonghwa’s. The soft light of the apartment haloed him, damp hair sticking to his forehead. His low pants slipped just enough to hint at the curve of his hips, the proof of his desire pressing against the front.

Without hesitation, Hongjoong closed the small distance between them, hands strong yet gentle as they gripped Seonghwa’s waist, pulling him flush against his body. Their breaths mingled, shallow and quick, as his mouth claimed Seonghwa’s in a kiss that was both fierce and familiar. Tongues danced, teeth nipped lightly, and the hunger in Hongjoong’s kiss spoke of every lonely night and restless day since they last touched.

He eased Seonghwa down onto the bed, hands roaming with reverence, peeling away layers of fabric until bare skin pressed against bare skin. The scent of their shared warmth filled the room, a mix of soap, sweat, and something uniquely theirs.

Hongjoong’s lips trailed from Seonghwa’s mouth down his jawline, leaving a path of fire as he kissed, nipped, and whispered against his skin. His hands explored the dips and curves with familiarity and awe, memorising every contour, every shiver elicited by his touch.

Seonghwa’s hands threaded through Hongjoong’s damp hair, pulling him closer, grounding them both. The tension between them pulsed like a live wire, their bodies pressing and moving in perfect rhythm. Hongjoong’s hips shifted, pressing firmly but carefully, a silent plea for permission in the way his eyes searched Seonghwa’s.

When Seonghwa nodded, breath hitching, Hongjoong prepared him softly, slowly then moved fully, the slow, deliberate connection sending waves of heat and relief crashing through them both. Their bodies rocked together, slick and warm, each movement an unspoken vow — to heal, to love, to never let go.

Hongjoong’s breath hitched as he leaned down to kiss the hollow of Seonghwa’s throat, whispering his name like a prayer. Seonghwa arched into him, a soft gasp escaping as their pace deepened, urgency folding into something tender and raw.

When the moment broke, their breaths mingling in a heavy silence, Hongjoong remained atop Seonghwa, fingers tracing calming circles along his back and sides. The fire of passion softened to a steady warmth, their hearts slowing to the same gentle beat.

Seonghwa lifted his head slightly, eyes shimmering with gratitude and something like awe.

“You’re beautiful,” Seonghwa whispered. His voice cracked around the edges.

Hongjoong’s eyes softened, lashes lowering. “You haven’t looked at me like that in a while.”

“I know,” Seonghwa said, guilt and longing laced in his breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.”

“But I want to,” Seonghwa said, pulling him closer still. “I forgot how to look. How to see you. And now I can’t stop.”

 “I’m sorry for the distance,” he murmured.

Hongjoong brushed a stray lock of hair from his face, voice low and certain. “You never pushed me away. I stayed because I love you. Always.”

They lay wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside forgotten, finding solace and strength in the quiet aftermath — the unspoken promise that no matter what, they would face it all together.

Yunho was sprawled across the couch like a cat in the sun, phone in hand, lazily scrolling. From the kitchen table came the soft sound of sneakers against hardwood, Mingi half-standing, half-sitting as he replayed a choreography video on his laptop for the fifth time, mouthing counts under his breath. At the other end of the table, Jongho was hunched over his laptop, brow furrowed, muttering finance terms none of them understood.

It was a typical late afternoon — until the front door burst open.

San stumbled in, arms overflowing with grocery bags. He kicked the door shut behind him with a grunt. “Help me—!”

His voice pitched just a little too high, too urgent, the sound of someone on the edge. All three looked up immediately. Yunho sat up straighter, Mingi paused mid-step, and Jongho actually took his earbuds out.

San stood in the entryway like he’d just been chased down the street, chest heaving, bags of vegetables, noodles, sauces, and what looked like way too much garlic clutched to his chest.

“I said I’d get dinner for Woo,” he blurted, eyes wide, panicked. “His favourite. That beef and soy thing with the sweet glaze and the sesame and—”

“Bulgogi,” Jongho supplied, peering at the mess. Then, with a slow lift of one eyebrow: “Is this… you being brave, hyung?”

San nodded so hard he nearly dislodged his own hat. “Yes. Yes, this is me being brave.”

Yunho was already off the couch and helping to relieve him of a few bags before he could drop them. “Okay, okay, let’s breathe. You didn’t climb Everest, it’s just dinner.”

San shot him a look, deeply offended. “It’s not just dinner. It’s for Wooyoung. I invited him over to study after class, but—” He gestured wildly to the grocery bags. “—this is the surprise. The food. That I’m making. Me.”

“I’m terrified already,” Mingi murmured, still half-focused on his screen.

“I’ve cooked before,” San continued, ignoring him, “but this feels different. There’s this… this added pressure now, because—because it’s him. Because it’s Woo. And he’s in culinary school. And he’s amazing. And he’s… him.”

There was a pause. Mingi looked up.

“It’s Woo,” he said, utterly unhelpful.

San dropped a bag on the counter and pointed at him, exasperated. “Exactly!”

Yunho laughed softly and reached for the vegetables. “You’re doing great, Sannie.”

“No, I’m doing unhinged,” San muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Do you think I should make banchan? Is that too much? Or not enough? Oh god, do you think he’ll judge my knife cuts? What if I overcook the beef? What if the rice comes out gummy? What if I—”

“Hyung can’t stop when he’s very nervous,” Jongho said, not looking up from his laptop. “He once spiralled over instant ramen.”

San threw a dishtowel at him. Missed.

Yunho turned, resting his hip against the counter. “Okay, real question: why does this feel different to you?”

San hesitated, breath catching like a hitch in a song.

“…Because it’s Wooyoung,” he said again, softer now. “Because… he’s—he’s so alive, you know? He’s got this energy that just… pours out of him. When he smiles—he has this smile that lights up rooms, and when he laughs it’s like this full-body thing, like the joy’s too big to hold in.”

Mingi had actually stopped moving now. Jongho was watching quietly, no teasing in his eyes. They had all seen that he loved Wooyoung, before he even knew, only Jongho has heard him speak this way about him.

“And when he cooks?” San’s voice dropped into something tender, reverent. “He gets this look—completely focused, brow furrowed, hair tied up but falling out, flour on his cheek. He doesn’t even know people are watching him when he’s in the zone. And he talks about food like it’s this love letter to life. I think—” he paused, hands curling lightly at his sides. “I think I fell for him the first time he explained how caramelisation worked. Back when we were in high school.”

Jongho blinked. “That’s… extremely on brand for you, actually.”

“I love him,” San said, a little breathlessly, as if admitting it aloud had sent a rush through his system. “It’s terrifying.”

“No,” Yunho said gently, “it’s honest.”

Mingi leaned against the table, his usual grin softening. “He’s going to love whatever you make, you know. Because it’s from you.”

San opened his mouth, closed it again, clearly overwhelmed. Then, in a rush: “I’m still making backup ramen. Just in case.”

“You’re a coward,” Jongho sighed.

“I’m a romantic,” San corrected, dramatic as ever.

Yunho clapped him on the back, guiding him toward the sink. “Come on, Romantic man. Let’s get you chopping onions like a pro.”

Mingi grinned. “Don’t cry. That’s for later. When he kisses you.”

San immediately dropped the onions. “YOU THINK HE WILL?”

Jongho groaned and reached for his earbuds again. “It’s going to be a long night.”

Jongho angled his phone just right and tapped the shutter.

San was completely oblivious — focused entirely on the cutting board, brows drawn in concentration, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he carefully sliced the beef into thin, even strips. His sleeves were rolled up, hair clipped back messily, and there was an actual crease of worry in his forehead as he muttered about “balance of sweetness and saltiness.”

Satisfied, Jongho sent the photo off to Yeosang with a caption:

Hyung is cooking Woo’s favourite dish. He’s going to either confess tonight or combust. My vote is on the latter.

At the law library, Yeosang was deep in case notes, highlighter capped between his teeth, when his phone buzzed. He glanced down, saw the message — and promptly let out a laugh far too loud for the fifth floor.

Heads turned. Someone shushed him.

Yeosang just grinned, typing back quickly:

Finally. I was worried we’d have to stage an intervention via dessert menu.

Then, after a moment of hesitation (which he did not acknowledge), he forwarded the message — picture and all — to Seonghwa and Hongjoong, adding:

The final couple might be getting together at last.

He leaned back, tapping his pen against his temple as he looked at the photo again.

It was strange — comforting — how natural it felt to share it with the others now. Their little circle. Their strange, chaotic, found-family of stressed uni students and overly invested best friends.

They’d all seen it, after all. San’s lingering stares, Wooyoung’s theatrically casual touches. The tension that hung in the room whenever either of them walked in late, with some excuse that wasn’t quite a lie but wasn’t quite the truth either.

And most of them had had words — little nudges, quiet check-ins. Seonghwa reminding Wooyoung that fear wasn’t failure. Hongjoong telling San to stop thinking so much and feel. Mingi threatening to write a musical about it if they didn’t kiss soon.

Yeosang smiled down at his phone.

Let them have this moment. Let it be clumsy and real and full of heart — like everything else about them.

He turned back to his textbook, a little more at peace than before, even if his study load wasn’t.

The campus café was tucked behind the architecture block, slightly hidden by overgrown hedges and a few too many student flyers on the windows. But it served strong espresso, and most importantly, it was quiet.

Seonghwa stirred a dash of oat milk into his long black, watching the ripple pattern with absent focus. Across from him, Hongjoong was nursing his usual flat white, half-listening as Seonghwa softly muttered about hem lines and needing to redraft one of his forms again.

The mid-afternoon sunlight spilled golden across their table, catching in the soft curve of Hongjoong’s cheek and the chain around his neck. His eyes were tired, but warm — always warm when they landed on Seonghwa.

And then his phone buzzed.

He checked it, thumb pausing over the screen. “It’s from Yeosang.”

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow as Hongjoong opened it. A beat of silence, then a quiet chuckle.

“What?” Seonghwa asked, curious.

Hongjoong turned the phone toward him.

The photo was grainy, clearly snapped in a hurry, but unmistakable: San in his kitchen, hyper-focused, sleeves rolled up, slicing beef with the intensity of a final exam.

The caption read:
Hyung is cooking Woo’s favourite dish. He’s going to either confess tonight or combust. My vote is on the latter.

Underneath, Yeosang had added:

The final couple might be getting together at last.

Seonghwa let out a soft laugh, fingers curling around his coffee cup. “About time.”

“They’ve been dancing around each other for so long,” Hongjoong murmured, scrolling back to look at the photo again. “It’s kind of perfect, though. Of course San’s grand romantic gesture is cooking. And of course he’s spiralling over it.”

Seonghwa nodded, a fond smile creeping across his face. “Wooyoung’s going to cry, isn’t he?”

Hongjoong glanced up, eyes glinting. “Only after yelling at San for under-seasoning the broth.”

That made Seonghwa snort, leaning back in his chair. “I hope someone films it. We deserve to witness the chaos.”

There was a pause, the moment stretching soft and warm between them. Then Hongjoong said, voice low but certain, “I think they’re going to be really good together. Messy. Loud. But good.”

Seonghwa reached across the table, covering Hongjoong’s hand with his own. “Like us?”

Hongjoong’s smile turned slow, adoring. “Exactly like us.”

A soft buzz broke the moment — a reminder on Hongjoong’s phone. “Ugh. I have class in ten.”

Seonghwa squeezed his hand before letting go. “Go. I’ll bring pastries home.”

“You’re enabling me.”

“Only a little.”

Hongjoong stood, brushing a kiss over Seonghwa’s cheek before grabbing his bag. “Tell them to text me if they kiss.”

Seonghwa was already pulling out his phone, typing into a group chat (without San and Wooyoung).

Seonghwa:
Someone better take a photo of the crying and the kissing. No photo means it didn’t happen.

Wooyoung had planned to arrive at six. Six-thirty, maybe, if he stopped for coffee. But when his last class of the day was abruptly cancelled—professor sick, assignment still due next week—he figured, why not surprise San?

The door to San and Jongho’s apartment swung open with a dramatic flourish as Wooyoung burst in, calling out brightly, “Sannie! I’m he—”

“Shit!”

The sound cut through the apartment like a slap. Silence fell for a beat — then a sharp, pained intake of breath followed by another hiss of cursing.

Wooyoung’s eyes widened. The air was thick with the scent of sesame oil and garlic, something rich and umami cooking low on the stove. But he didn’t stop to admire it. His heart leapt to his throat as he ran toward the sound of San’s voice.

He rounded the corner into the kitchen just in time to see San clutching his left hand, red dripping steadily between his fingers into the stainless steel sink.

“San—!”

At the same time, doors flung open all around them.

“What the hell?!” Yunho shouted, hair wild, as he and Mingi tumbled out of their room.

Jongho came skidding around the corner a moment later. “Did something catch fire—?” He stopped short. “Why is Wooyoung here early?”

But Wooyoung wasn’t listening. He was already at San’s side, eyes wide and apologetic as he reached out instinctively, voice low and sharp from habit. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” San muttered, not looking it in the slightest.

“You’re bleeding,” Wooyoung shot back, gently trying to pull San’s hand away from where he was pressing it into his shirt. “Sannie, please.”

San relented. Slowly, Wooyoung peeled his fingers apart.

Blood had welled up thickly along the pad of San’s palm, just below the base of his thumb. A sharp, clean slice — too clean. Wooyoung recognised the type instantly: chef's knife. Slipped. Not too deep, but still bleeding too much.

His hands moved without thinking, grabbing the clean dish towel from the counter, applying pressure with practiced confidence.

“It’s not too bad,” he muttered more to himself than anyone else. “Not gaping. No exposed tissue. Not gushing. You’ll live.”

Mingi made a small noise from where he hovered near the kitchen island. “That’s… comforting?”

Wooyoung ignored him, focused entirely on San.

“Okay,” he said briskly. “We need to rinse this properly. Then antiseptic. Then a wrap. You probably won’t even need a plaster if we bandage it right.”

San winced as Wooyoung adjusted the towel, pressing a little firmer. Blood had already started to soak through.

“Bathroom,” Jongho said, already pivoting on his heel. “I’ve got the first aid kit.”

Wooyoung nodded once. “Towels too. I need something clean to dry with after rinsing.”

San moved stiffly beside him, slightly dazed — not from blood loss, but from the suddenness of everything. His face was flushed, mouth tight, jaw working like he was chewing over a dozen things at once. The tension in his shoulders made Wooyoung ache.

He softened a little.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly as they walked toward the bathroom. “I made you jump, didn’t I?”

San didn’t say anything for a second. Then, under his breath, “You really flung the door open.”

Wooyoung huffed a laugh, shaky. “Yeah. I’ll… knock next time.”

In the kitchen, Yunho hovered over the stove, checking the marinating beef and prepped vegetables with the wary awe of someone who’d just realised his friend had been attempting something ambitious.

Back in the bathroom, Wooyoung eased San’s hand under the cold tap. San winced but said nothing, jaw clenched tight as the water ran pink.

“Hang in there,” Wooyoung murmured. “We’ll get it cleaned up and wrapped. Then you’re sitting down and not moving. Understand?”

San made a noncommittal grunt. But Wooyoung saw it — the way his eyes softened under the fluorescent light, the way his free hand brushed the edge of the counter, grounding himself.

And for a moment, in the midst of blood and adrenaline and garlic-scented air, Wooyoung was simply here, doing what he’d been trained to do, and doing it for someone he—

He cleared his throat.

“Okay. Clean towel. Pressure. Then antiseptic,” he said briskly.

Behind them, Jongho returned with the first aid kit.

And as Wooyoung reached for the gauze, one thing was clear: the dinner plans were about to change, but San wasn’t getting out of eating — or being cared for — that easily.

By the time San was cleaned and bandaged and firmly barred from touching any more knives, Wooyoung finally turned his attention back to the kitchen.

He hadn’t had a moment to look properly before—his focus had been entirely on San’s bleeding hand, on adrenaline and guilt—but now, with the storm passed, he took it in.

And froze.

Everything on the counter was arranged meticulously. The scent hit first—sweet and savoury, with just the faintest trace of sesame oil and pear—and his breath caught in his throat.

There, in a mixing bowl, were thin slices of beef glistening in marinade. On the cutting board, julienned carrots, scallions, mushrooms, onion—cut at a bias, the way he liked it. The pan on the stove was just beginning to warm, not too hot, perfectly timed. There was even a side dish of seasoned spinach waiting to be served.

Bulgogi.

Not just bulgogi.

His bulgogi. Made the way he made it when he needed comfort. When he was missing home. When his bones felt too heavy or too hollow. This wasn’t the easy kind with a packet. This was pear-blended, garlic-minced, hands-in-the-bowl comfort food.

His stomach fluttered—but not because he was hungry.

It was the gesture.

The intimacy of it.

No one had ever done this for him.

Wooyoung was used to doing things for people. Being the one who brought light, who filled the silence with laughter and sugar and spice, who cooked and teased and coaxed others to open up. He was the one with the big personality and bigger heart, whose needs often got overlooked because he was just… there. Reliable. Loud. Fine.

He wasn’t used to being considered in this way. Not deeply. Not intentionally.

But San—sweet, loyal, gentle San—had considered everything.

Every step.

Every flavour.

Every part of this screamed effort. Care.

For him.

Wooyoung blinked hard, heat stinging the backs of his eyes.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had tried to make him feel cared for without him asking. Not just included. Not just acknowledged. But known. Seen. Fed, not just with food but with affection that required time and attention.

He looked over his shoulder.

San sat on the stool, pouting, his bandaged hand cradled against his chest like it was the only thing keeping him from folding in on himself. He wasn’t looking at Wooyoung now. Just at the counter, a little heartbroken.

“You were making this,” Wooyoung said softly. “For me.”

San nodded without meeting his eyes. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I’d planned it all out.”

“You remembered every step,” Wooyoung said, voice nearly a whisper now. “Even the pear. You blended a pear, didn’t you?”

“I wanted it to taste like yours,” San muttered, a bit bashful.

That did it.

Hope cracked open in Wooyoung’s chest—raw and new and terrifying.

He hadn’t let himself hope like this. Not with San. Not truly. Not beyond the soft, lingering looks, the brushes of hands, the loaded pauses. He loved him, yes. Deeply. Stupidly. But that love had been caged, folded neatly into corners of their shared days.

This… this was something different.

This was someone choosing him first.

He turned back to the bench, blinking fast and willing his hands not to shake as he took over. The pan was hot now. He tossed in the beef, watched it hiss and curl, the sugars caramelising almost instantly. The scent wrapped around him like an embrace.

San shifted behind him.

“I didn’t get to finish it,” he said, softly.

“You did enough,” Wooyoung murmured. “You did so much.”

He didn’t say this means everything to me. He didn’t have to.

Behind him, San said nothing. But when Wooyoung turned his head slightly, he saw the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of San’s mouth. Soft. Hopeful. Almost shy.

And Wooyoung—heart hammering, throat tight—let himself feel it.

The want.

The hope.

The realisation that this wasn’t just a meal. This was a confession. A trembling, unspoken truth written in marinated beef and careful slices. And Wooyoung? He was finally ready to read it.

Group Chat: The Not-So-Subtle Love Watch 🕵️ ‍♂️
(Members: Jongho, Yunho, Mingi, Yeosang, Seonghwa, Hongjoong)

Jongho:

🧍‍♂️💔 mission failure. woo showed up early. scared san. knife incident. chaos.
[image attachment: a slightly blurry shot of San at the kitchen table, chin in his good hand, lips jutting out in a dramatic pout while Wooyoung moves confidently in the background, checking the pan and mumbling about oil temperature.]

Mingi:
bro looks like a kicked puppy

Yeosang:
tragic. we almost had romance. now it's just pout soup.

Yunho:
hey now.
San was doing amazing. Like. Really amazing.
He made everything from scratch. Woo’s gonna melt once the food hits the pan.

Seonghwa:
he already is melting, isn’t he?

Hongjoong:
give it time.

In the hallway just outside the kitchen, three heads were stacked awkwardly around the doorway.

Mingi had crouched low, phone halfway out of his pocket like he couldn’t decide whether to snap a photo or film a documentary. Yunho was peeking over his shoulder, trying and failing to hold in a grin. Jongho stood a bit to the side, arms folded, looking like this was the most emotionally satisfying drama he'd ever witnessed—and he'd seen all of Yeosang’s courtroom K-dramas.

“I know we said mission failure,” Mingi whispered, “but I think we need to revise.”

Yunho hummed. “Technically still a failure. The surprise was ruined. San bled.”

“But,” Jongho cut in, tilting his head as he discreetly raised his phone, “I think we’re heading toward emotional redemption.”

He snapped the photo just as Wooyoung, standing at the stove with chopsticks in hand, turned slightly to glance at San. The angle caught it all—the soft warmth in Wooyoung’s eyes, the way he looked like he was seeing something precious; San, bandaged hand resting on the counter, his pout still firmly in place. They weren’t speaking, but the air between them was tender and close, like everything else in the room had fallen away.

Jongho uploaded the photo into the group chat, captioning it simply:

San is pouting at his bandaged hand and Woo is looking at him like he hung the stars.
I think, after 2 books and 20 chapters, this slowburn might finally be at an end.

Yeosang:
And not a moment too soon. I was about to start charging emotional rent.

Seonghwa:
Glad it’s happening. But if they don’t kiss by dessert I’m going in with a cattle prod.

Hongjoong:
Leave them alone. Let the food do the flirting.

Mingi:
Do we still get to eat the leftovers though?? Asking for science.

Yunho:
San looks like he's gonna cry. Woo looks like he's gonna kiss him. The stove looks like it's gonna burn. Should we interfere?

Jongho:
No. Let them simmer. Literally and emotionally.

They stepped back from the doorway as quietly as they could, Yunho pulling Mingi by the collar and Jongho giving one last look over his shoulder, a soft little smile tugging at his lips.

It wasn’t the night san had planned—but maybe, just maybe, it was turning into the one San and Wooyoung needed.

The table was a quiet affair, lit by the soft kitchen light and the golden sheen of the bulgogi. The scent filled the apartment—rich, comforting, slightly sweet from the marinade caramelising around the edges of the meat. There was rice, some simply dressed greens, a bottle of cider between them. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm. Intimate. The kind of meal that said I thought about you.

San kept sneaking glances as Wooyoung took his first bite. His bandaged hand rested awkwardly on the table while the other gripped his chopsticks a little too tightly.

Wooyoung chewed slowly, then stilled.

San’s stomach sank. “Too salty?”

Wooyoung looked up sharply, eyes wide. “San.”

“What?”

“This is—” He put the chopsticks down with exaggerated care, shaking his head as if trying to compute it. “It’s really good.”

San blinked, caught off guard. “Like... good-good or polite-good?”

“Like if I paid for this in a restaurant, I’d want to meet the chef and shake his hand. Then probably try to steal a few of his techniques.”

San’s ears went hot. “I mean, I had help.”

“You did all this.” Wooyoung’s voice was softer now, almost a whisper. “You picked the cut of beef. You marinated it. You even prepped sides.”

He looked down at his bowl, then back at San. “You cooked for me.”

There was something in his voice. Not disbelief, exactly. Just the kind of quiet, stunned appreciation that made San want to shrink into himself and puff up with pride at the same time.

“I just… wanted to. Thought you’d like it.” San’s voice was barely audible.

“I love it.”

San’s head jerked up.

Wooyoung smiled, but there was a thin film of emotion shimmering in his eyes. “I make this for other people. Always have. Back home, at school. It’s a dish I give when I love someone.”

San’s mouth parted slightly, startled.

“No one’s ever really made it for me before.”

“Oh.” The word escaped San like a breath. “Well. Then I’ll make it again. For real, I mean. Without trying to chop off my hand next time.”

Wooyoung laughed, nose scrunching. “Please do. That part of the night I could do without.”

The moment slipped into quiet again, but the kind of quiet that hummed. They kept eating, slower now. Tasting. Savouring. The kind of meal where words weren’t necessary but glances were loud.

Then San shifted in his seat. His knee brushed against Wooyoung’s under the table.

He didn’t pull away.

Wooyoung’s chopsticks slowed mid-air. He glanced down, then up.

San was watching him.

There was something about the way San looked at him now that stole the breath straight from Wooyoung’s lungs.

Gone was the pout. The nerves. The self-deprecating jokes. In their place: something raw and steady. A gaze that burned—not loudly, not dramatically—but with a quiet, undistracted intensity.

San’s mouth was parted slightly, breathing evenly. His shoulders weren’t hunched anymore. He wasn’t hiding.

Wooyoung felt his pulse rise sharply.

He’d seen that look before—on Mingi’s face when Yunho danced without even realising it, when Seonghwa tucked Hongjoong into his side during late-night writing sprees, when Jongho laughed and Yeosang’s entire body turned toward the sound like it was gravity.

He’d just never been on the receiving end of it.

And never from San.

San, who was so loud and so careful all at once. Who could go on rambling tangents about café design theory and then get flustered when someone complimented his handwriting. San, who had always looked at Wooyoung with something soft—but now, now it was different.

Now he was looking into him.

Wooyoung’s fingers trembled slightly as he set his chopsticks down. “San…?”

San didn’t speak, just held his gaze.

Inside, San was clinging to a single thought. A quiet mantra he’d been repeating all night, each time his courage threatened to falter:

You are enough. Be brave. Be brave.

And this—this was his brave face.

Wooyoung inhaled shakily, feeling something expand inside his chest. Like hope. But louder.

He wasn’t sure what San would say next. But suddenly, he wanted to hear it all.

The kitchen had gone quiet except for the soft hum of the lights overhead and the faint tapping of Wooyoung’s thumb against the rim of his glass.

Dinner was half-eaten, chopsticks resting haphazardly on the edge of their plates. Neither of them seemed to notice.

San’s leg was pressed against Wooyoung’s under the table. It had started as an accident—just a shift, a lean—but now, it felt like a lifeline. Wooyoung hadn’t pulled away. And San… he didn’t want to anymore.

Wooyoung was looking at him like he was waiting.

Like he knew.

San let out a breath, slow and deliberate, but it still trembled.

“I’m in love with you, Wooyoung.”

The words cracked something open between them. The air thickened, electric. Wooyoung froze, lips parting in silent shock. He didn’t speak—but he didn’t move away either.

San stared down at his own hands. He couldn’t bear to meet Wooyoung’s eyes just yet.

“I have been. For a while,” he said softly. “Maybe since first year. Maybe even before that. I just—” his voice faltered, “I didn’t know what to do with it.”

His fingers curled slightly against the tabletop.

“I kept thinking, what if I say it out loud and ruin everything? What if I’m not what you need? What if I can’t be?”

He glanced up briefly. Wooyoung’s eyes were locked on him, shimmering with something unreadable.

“I don’t know if I ever learned how to love someone properly,” San confessed, the words tumbling out now, urgent and raw. “But you—you’ve been teaching me without even realising it.”

He huffed a soft, shaky laugh.

“I started falling when you gave me your umbrella on that rainy day. You were soaked through by the time you got back. I found your socks in the sink because you were wringing them out.”

He smiled at the memory, tender and faraway.

“And then I watched you spin around your kitchen like it was a stage, humming as you cooked, adding pinches of spice like you were painting. You looked so alive.”

His throat tightened. “I fell harder when you remembered how I liked my tea, even though I never said it out loud. When you brought me food the week I was sick. When you sat with me during exam season, even though I was a mess and kept snapping at everyone.”

He paused, finally lifting his gaze. “When you look at people, Woo… you see them. Really see them. And somehow… you still love them.”

Wooyoung’s breath caught.

San’s voice softened, cracked open with wonder and fear and something close to awe.

“I didn’t know someone could make the world feel so bright. But you do. You do that, just by existing.”

A beat of silence passed. Then San added, with trembling sincerity:

“I know I’m messy. I overthink, I shut down, I get scared. But with you, I want to try. I want to learn. I want to love the way you love—loudly, honestly, completely. I want to give you everything, even if I’m still figuring out how.”

A pause. A breath. A prayer in his chest.

“I’m in love with you, Jung Wooyoung. And if you’ll let me… I want to love you better every day.”

Wooyoung’s breath hitched sharply, his heart pounding hard enough he was sure San could hear it. The quiet kitchen seemed to shrink around them, every moment stretching and folding in on itself like something sacred. His hands, which had been nervously fidgeting with the edge of the table, now reached out on their own, trembling slightly as they lifted to brush a stray strand of hair from San’s forehead.

His fingertips lingered, warm and gentle, as his gaze searched San’s eyes — so open, so vulnerable.

Without thinking, Wooyoung closed the distance between them, their lips meeting in a soft, desperate kiss that carried years of unsaid feelings, fears, and hope. It was messy and perfect all at once — a balm to the ache that had been building for so long.

When they pulled apart, Wooyoung’s cheeks flushed a deep rose, and a small, shy smile curved his lips.

“I never thought someone like you could love someone like me,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “We’ve known each other since high school — through all the awkward moments and dumb jokes. I’ve always been loud, a bit of a mess, and I guess... I didn’t really know how to receive love. I was always the one trying to give it, but...”

He swallowed hard, searching San’s face for a sign, any sign that he was understood.

“But oh, how I love you.”

His eyes softened, crinkling with warmth.

“I fell for you the first time you ruffled my hair in highschool— you were just messing around, but it felt like you were really looking out for me, like I mattered. That smile of yours… the one that brightens even my worst days, even when I’m a mess and think nobody’s watching.”

Wooyoung laughed softly, voice catching on the memories.

“And those damn dimples,” he added with a playful grin. “Seriously, they should be illegal. Every time you smile like that, I forget how to breathe.”

His hand tightened around San’s with a gentle squeeze.

“You made me want to be better, to open up even when it’s hard. You’ve been my calm in the chaos, the one who sees me when I don’t even see myself.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper.

“I love you, San. I’m so glad you said it first — I was scared I’d never hear those words from you.”

Wooyoung’s words hung in the air between them, warm and raw. San’s chest tightened, eyes glistening with the faintest sheen of tears—tears born not of sadness, but of a beautiful relief, of a hope finally spoken aloud.

Wooyoung brushed his thumb gently over the back of San’s hand, the steady rhythm grounding them both. His gaze traced every small line and curve of San’s face, memorising it as if for the first time, even though they’d shared years of memories.

“I’ve thought about this moment for so long,” Wooyoung admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “How I’d tell you, how you’d say it back... but none of it felt real until now. Being with you—after all this time—it’s like coming home.”

San’s breath hitched, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He moved a little closer, his leg brushing against Wooyoung’s under the table. The simple contact sent a spark of warmth up both their spines.

Wooyoung swallowed hard, heart hammering wildly in his chest. His hands moved to cradle San’s face, thumbs tracing slow circles over his cheekbones. The quiet intimacy made the world outside the kitchen fade into nothingness.

“You make me want to be brave,” San whispered, voice shaking slightly but steady. “You’ve always been brave in ways I’m still learning. Loving you, this—it’s terrifying. But I’m ready, if you are.”

Wooyoung leaned in, their foreheads touching softly, breaths mingling in the shared space.

“I’m more than ready,” he promised, voice thick with emotion. “You’ve shown me how to love, San. And how to let myself be loved.”

His lips found San’s again, slow and tender at first, then deepening with a fierce hunger born of years of longing and fear finally giving way.

Their hands tangled, bodies inching closer, drawing strength and comfort from each other in a quiet, sacred embrace.

For the first time, the years of hidden feelings, the stolen glances, the silent hopes—they all spilled free, washing over them in a tide of love, trust, and endless possibility.

And as they sat there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the future no longer seemed so daunting. Together, they could face anything.

Back in the hallway, just out of sight from the kitchen, Yunho, Mingi, and Jongho were huddled close, barely breathing as they watched San and Wooyoung’s soft, emotional conversation unfold. San's voice trembled with honesty. Wooyoung looked like the air had been knocked out of him. Then—quietly, sweetly—they leaned into each other, eyes locked, the moment blooming between them.

Jongho, lips parted in silent awe, whispered, “This is it. This is the moment.”

Mingi’s mouth curved into the softest smile. “They’re actually doing it.”

Yunho, eyes wide and sparkling, pulled out his phone. “We can’t keep this to ourselves.”

He tapped quickly, fingers dancing over the screen as he started a group video call. Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and Yeosang answered almost instantly, their faces appearing on-screen.

“What’s going on?” Hongjoong asked, brows furrowed.

“Shhh,” Yunho whispered. “Just watch.”

Mingi angled the phone so the three on the call could see through the slightly ajar kitchen door. On the screen, they watched San take Wooyoung’s hand in both of his, expression trembling with fear and love. His confession—years in the making—spilled out, soft and reverent. Wooyoung’s response came with shining eyes, his voice thick with emotion.

And then—finally—they kissed.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. It was real. Lingering. Slow. All the years of affection and hesitation melting into a single breathless moment.

On the screen, Yeosang gasped softly. Hongjoong’s mouth dropped open, then tugged into a grin. Seonghwa pressed his hands to his chest.

“Oh my god,” Yeosang whispered. “It happened.”

“They’re kissing,” Hongjoong said, eyes shining. “They’re actually—”

“Kissing,” Seonghwa finished, emotional and breathless. “And we got to see it.”

Jongho turned the phone toward them, letting their friends on the other side see the three of them beaming like proud parents. Then he turned it back to the kitchen, right as Wooyoung laughed softly and leaned his forehead against San’s.

The whole group sat in silence, scattered across the apartment and on phone screens, hearts full as the moment played out.

San and Wooyoung didn’t even know they had an audience yet. They were lost in each other—finally.

San was still reeling from the softness of Wooyoung’s lips, head light and heart thudding, when he noticed something shift.

Wooyoung had gone completely still in his arms.

The kitchen, golden with soft overhead light and fragrant with soy, sesame, and garlic, suddenly felt too quiet. Suspiciously quiet.

“San,” Wooyoung said lowly, his tone suddenly sharp.

San blinked, disoriented. “Hmm?”

“Why is Yunho holding his phone like that—wait—” Wooyoung squinted over San’s shoulder. “Is he FaceTiming someone?!”

San turned just in time to catch Yunho awkwardly ducking, phone angled upward like a raccoon caught pilfering snacks. On the screen, unmistakably, were Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and Yeosang, all crammed onto a single bed in someone's room, wide-eyed and shamelessly watching.

“Oh. My. GOD.”

Wooyoung’s shriek cracked through the apartment.

Mingi flinched. Jongho nearly choked on laughter. Yunho attempted to disappear behind Mingi, but Wooyoung was already on the move, cheeks flushed and storming toward the trio like divine wrath in fuzzy socks.

“ARE YOU—ACTUALLY—FILMING US?!”

Jongho lifted his free hand like a white flag. “Not filming! Just a group call! For emotional support!”

“FOR WHO?!”

San, frozen behind the kitchen counter, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else — preferably under a rock or inside a locked pantry. His hands hovered awkwardly, like even they didn’t know what to do anymore.

On the phone screen, Seonghwa was breathless from laughter, clinging to Hongjoong, who had his face pressed to his hand in barely contained mirth. Yeosang, sipping from a mug, offered a bright wave. “Hi Wooyoung. You looked great just now.”

“YOU GUYS—” Wooyoung turned back to San, scandalised. “Did you know?!”

San winced. “Not… exactly?”

“San.”

He looked truly apologetic. “I didn’t tell them anything. I just... freaked out. Right before you came. I started spiralling and they talked me down. Helped me finish prepping, double-checked everything. I didn’t know they were calling in the others!”

He turned to glare at Yunho. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Yunho gave a shrug and a smile far too innocent to be believable.

“Yunho and I were in the trenches with him,” Mingi added, helpfully. “He was going to cancel dinner at least four times. I caught him googling if soup could be romantic.”

“It was one tab!”

“You were emotionally compromised,” Yunho said solemnly.

“You weren’t supposed to show them!” San snapped.

“They would’ve found out eventually,” Jongho muttered. “Might as well see the kiss in high def.”

Wooyoung looked like he was going to combust. “I thought this was just—us! I thought it was real!”

“It was!” San said quickly. “It is! I didn’t know they were watching—I swear, Wooyoung.”

On the screen, Hongjoong wheezed. “This is better than anything on Netflix.”

Yeosang tapped his mug to the camera. “Slowburn Café: Season Finale.”

Seonghwa, still giggling, finally spoke through his laughter. “Alright, alright. We’ve invaded their moment long enough. Let’s go.”

With a reluctant wave, Yunho reached forward and tapped to end the call. The screen went dark. The three made their escape.

The silence that followed was sharp with tension — and embarrassment.

“Seonghwa was laughing. He laughed. I’d forgotten what it sounded like.” There was awe in Wooyoungs voice for a moment before he shook himself.

Wooyoung turned slowly back to San, arms crossed, his brows still drawn, though the anger had bled into something more flustered.

“You panicked.”

San nodded, sheepish. “Yeah.”

“And your brilliant response was to rope in your apartment?”

“They were already here,” San mumbled. “And I kind of… begged?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.”

Wooyoung stepped closer, arms uncrossing now. “But also kind of a dorky romantic.”

San blinked. “Really?”

“You cooked bulgogi for me, San.”

San ducked his head. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No!” Wooyoung said quickly, softer now. “No one’s ever done that. Not for me.”

He let out a slow breath, brushing his thumb along San’s wrist. “When I realized what you were cooking, I almost cried. I didn’t. Because I’m a professional. But almost.”

San’s mouth parted slightly, heart aching.

Wooyoung looked up at him, eyes warm. “You didn’t need to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” San said. “You’ve done so much for me, Wooyoung. You’re always giving, always loving everyone so loudly. I wanted to try and give something back. To show you.”

There was a long pause.

Then, Wooyoung leaned in again, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re mine now, right?”

San nodded. “Have been. Since high school, probably.”

Wooyoung’s smile turned bright and watery all at once. “Took you long enough.”

Then he pulled San back into his arms.

And this time — no screens, no witnesses, no interruptions — the kiss they shared was theirs alone, sealed in the warmth of home and the slow, steady thrum of something finally, finally beginning.

Chapter Text

The Truth Comes Out

The late afternoon sun spilled through the wide windows of their apartment, casting long golden shadows across the bare floor. The furniture had been pushed aside, leaving just enough space for Mingi to move freely. His shirt was discarded somewhere on the couch, skin glistening with sweat, every muscle taut and alive as he rehearsed the choreography Yunho had painstakingly crafted.

Mingi flowed through the sequence, fluid and precise, but his footwork stumbled slightly on one tricky beat. Yunho stood a few feet away, arms crossed, brows furrowed with concentration. The routine should have been second nature by now, but this one part kept tripping both of them up.

Yunho’s eyes tracked Mingi’s movements intently, studying the shifting lines of his body—the curve of his hips, the flex of his calves, the way his torso twisted with each step. The heat radiating off Mingi’s skin was tangible, and the subtle scent of sweat and something uniquely Mingi filled the air.

“It’s this part,” Yunho said quietly, stepping closer, voice low. “Your foot’s hitting the floor too early. You need to delay it, just a fraction, to catch the beat properly.”

Mingi paused, catching his breath, chest rising and falling. Yunho moved behind him, and without thinking, his hand settled on Mingi’s waist. The touch was light, but the warmth of Yunho’s palm seared through Mingi’s skin.

Yunho’s fingers traced a gentle path along the curve of Mingi’s side, adjusting the angle of his hips, trying to perfect the line.

Mingi’s body responded immediately—muscles tightening, breath catching in a soft, almost involuntary whimper. The feel of Yunho’s hands, firm yet tender, grounding him, yet setting his nerves alight, was overwhelming.

Yunho’s own breath hitched, his pulse quickening. He was trying to focus on the choreography, on the precise timing, but every time his fingers brushed Mingi’s sweat-damp skin, every time his palm pressed lightly against Mingi’s ribs, the world tilted dangerously.

He could feel the slight tremble beneath his hand, the way Mingi’s muscles flexed and relaxed, and it was almost too much. His eyes flicked away for a moment, fighting the growing heat in his chest. He’d spent so long building up to this, and yet the nearness—the intimacy of guiding Mingi’s body so closely—was intoxicating.

“Feel it here,” Yunho murmured, voice rougher than intended as he adjusted Mingi’s hips again. “Slow it down just a bit.”

Mingi nodded, swallowing hard, cheeks flushed pink. The choreography blurred as his mind scattered, overwhelmed by the brush of Yunho’s breath, the weight of his hand, the silent electricity crackling between them.

Yunho stepped back reluctantly, eyes dark with unspoken desire, but his voice softened. “Again. From the top. But focus on this moment—right here.”

Mingi inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, while Yunho fought to regain control of his racing heart. The dance was supposed to be about movement, rhythm, and precision—but now, it was about the simmering need and quiet longing they had both kept hidden for so long.

They restarted the routine, Mingi picking up from the top, trying to ignore the burning awareness still humming under his skin. Yunho circled him slowly, every movement purposeful, eyes sharp but unreadable.

The beat dropped.

Mingi moved—one turn, two steps, a sweep of his arm—and then his foot caught slightly on the damp floor. He slipped forward with a quiet gasp.

Yunho caught him instantly.

One arm wrapped firmly around Mingi’s waist, the other bracing his back, pulling him tight against his chest. The impact wasn’t harsh—more like a rush of motion stopped short—but it left them tangled, breathless, hearts racing in sync.

Mingi’s bare chest pressed against Yunho’s shirt, sweat-slicked skin searing through the cotton. Yunho’s hand splayed wide over the small of his back, muscles tensing under his touch. The room was silent save for their breathing and the dull thud of Mingi’s heart in his ears.

Mingi looked up.

And everything in him stilled.

Yunho was already staring at him—eyes wide and dark and so full of something hungry, something hot and dangerous, something that curled deep in Mingi’s gut. There was no mistaking it, no room to pretend they didn’t both feel it.

“Yunho,” Mingi whispered. His voice was low, rougher than usual, vibrating with restraint and something desperate. “I—”

Yunho’s jaw flexed, and a low groan escaped him, quiet and raw. “Min,” he breathed, eyes dipping to Mingi’s lips and back. “Fuck.”

They had been careful. Slow. They’d talked, touched, kissed until their lips were raw. But they hadn’t crossed this line—not yet. It had been mutual, intentional. A slow build. A respectful holding back.

But now, with Mingi flush against him, trembling and burning and looking at him like that...

Something cracked.

Yunho’s fingers dug into Mingi’s back, pulling him impossibly closer. Mingi’s breath hitched, his hand finding Yunho’s shoulder, gripping tight. His legs were shaky from dancing, but the weakness he felt now had nothing to do with movement.

“I can’t—” Mingi started, then stopped, voice breaking as Yunho’s nose brushed his cheek, lips ghosting over the curve of his jaw.

“You don’t have to,” Yunho murmured, tone a promise and a plea all at once. “Just tell me what you want.”

Mingi closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, the hunger had settled into something molten and certain.

“You,” he said simply. “I want you.”

Mingi swallowed, eyes searching Yunho’s. He could feel every inch of contact between them: the press of Yunho’s palm at his bare side, the way his breath skated over Mingi’s damp cheek, the fluttering rhythm of his heart. Mingi licked his lips, nervous and suddenly bold.

“I don’t want to keep waiting,” he murmured.

Yunho stilled.

“You—” he started, voice hoarse. “Are you sure?”

Mingi nodded, slow and purposeful. “I’ve been sure for a while. But I wanted to be ready. I wanted us to be ready. And I wanted... to know that it meant something.”

Yunho’s hand came up to cup Mingi’s jaw, thumb brushing gently along his cheek. “It means everything. You do. I would’ve waited as long as you needed.”

“I know,” Mingi whispered, leaning into the touch. “That’s why I’m ready.”

The kiss wasn’t urgent—it was reverent. A gentle meeting of lips, tender and grounding, like a key in the right lock. Mingi breathed into it, clinging to the moment, to the security of Yunho’s embrace and the overwhelming flood of emotion behind it.

When they finally pulled back, their foreheads met. Their eyes closed. The world around them dissolved into the hum of their hearts beating in tandem.

Yunho’s voice was barely audible. “Come with me?”

Mingi nodded again.

They moved through the apartment like shadows dancing in twilight—quiet and intertwined. The bedroom door closed behind them with a soft click, and Yunho reached for him again, thumbs brushing delicately along Mingi’s hips before leaning in for another kiss. This one deeper, a little more desperate, as if the dam had finally cracked.

Clothes were shed in increments, not torn away, but explored. Every inch of skin revealed was met with care: a kiss to the shoulder, a lingering brush of knuckles across ribs, the sweep of a hand up a spine. Mingi’s breath hitched with every new touch, with every place Yunho worshipped like he was learning him by heart.

Their bodies aligned like two halves of the same breath. The room was warm, dimly lit, the windows cracked just enough to let in the soft sounds of summer—the distant call of cicadas, the whisper of wind in the trees. It all faded when Yunho laid Mingi down with the gentlest pressure.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” Yunho whispered. “Tell me everything.”

“I will,” Mingi promised, voice thick with feeling. “But I want all of this. With you.”

Their hands didn’t rush. They learned the shape of each other, the language of soft gasps and tender sighs. Mingi’s fingers trailed down Yunho’s back, nails dragging lightly, memorising muscle and movement. Yunho kissed every part of him he could reach—along his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, the crease where his smile usually bloomed.

And when they finally came together, it wasn’t fire—it was gravity. A slow, aching pull toward something that had always been waiting beneath the surface. They moved with the kind of intimacy that comes from knowing someone for years, from late-night talks and shared silences, from laughter and vulnerability.

Afterwards, Mingi was curled into Yunho’s chest, cheek resting above his heart, breathing evening out. The room smelled of skin and sweat, but it also smelled like comfort. Like belonging.

“Was it everything you thought?” Yunho asked softly, brushing damp strands of hair from Mingi’s forehead.

Mingi smiled. “It was more.”

Yunho pulled him closer, kissing the crown of his head.

“I’ve never felt loved like this before,” Mingi admitted after a moment, his voice so quiet it nearly got lost in the sheets.

“You’ve always been worthy of it,” Yunho murmured. “Every part of you. Always.”

Mingi tightened his hold. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Yunho whispered, arms wrapped around him like a vow.

And in the stillness that followed, with the moonlight slipping gently through the curtains, they fell asleep—hearts steady, bodies tangled, and souls quietly, irrevocably intertwined.

It was late. Not the glamorous kind of late where the world seemed dipped in silver and possibilities, but the bone-deep, fluorescent hum of studio lights at 1:17 a.m.—the kind of hour where even breathing felt heavier.

Hongjoong sat in his corner of their apartment, headphones crooked around his neck, one speaker tilted just enough to catch the layers of sound bleeding from his laptop screen. His DAW blinked steadily, an unfinished mix looping softly. A synth that felt too hollow, a bassline that didn’t quite settle. He’d rewritten this track three times and was still no closer to being satisfied.

He pressed spacebar. Let it play again.

It wasn’t bad. That was the worst part—it wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t right, either.

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, thumb and forefinger rubbing at his brow where a tension headache had taken root hours ago. The problem wasn’t just the song. It was the deadline coming up for his group project. It was the weight of holding everything together. It was—

A quiet exhale. He closed his eyes.

He thought of Seonghwa.

Seonghwa, curled in on himself on the couch just a few weeks ago, trying to apologise for not being okay. Seonghwa, whose father’s absence had opened an old wound so quietly it almost looked like it hadn’t bled—until it did. Until it soaked through the seams.

There had been too many nights when Hongjoong had lain awake, pretending to sleep because Seonghwa needed the silence more than the sound of questions. And he had sat, like now, at his computer, trying to will melody into meaning, trying to give shape to something he couldn’t name. Sometimes he played something he liked. Sometimes it made him cry.

Not loudly. Just enough to let the weight shift. Just enough to survive it.

He reached for his phone, thumb hovering. No unread messages. No one else awake.

A moment passed.

Then another.

He hit play again.

This time, he added a soft pad underneath the lead. Just a shimmer, nothing too present. Like breath on skin. He adjusted the pitch slightly, layered in a chord that sounded more like dusk than daylight. Better.

But his hands didn’t move after that. They just hovered over the keyboard, still.

In the quiet, the grief he’d tucked away began to nudge forward again. Not his own, exactly. But adjacent. Close enough to press into the edges of his ribs.

He loved Seonghwa. So much that it didn’t need to be said anymore, only proven—in the gentle folding of laundry, in setting tea beside fabric patterns, in holding him after silent phone calls. But he hadn’t always known how to hold space for pain that large. He had watched Seonghwa retreat into his own quiet, and had felt helpless trying to find the line between comfort and smothering.

He hadn’t written a full track since the funeral. Not really.

And he was behind.

And this group project was due in two weeks.

And finals were looming.

And—

His breath shuddered.

Hongjoong finally sat back and let the mix loop again, over and over, until it stopped being music and started being noise. He stared at the waveforms like they could answer questions he didn’t have the words for.

He’d always been good at leading. At organising. At seeing the big picture. But tonight, the picture felt too big. Like he was a single thread trying to keep the whole thing from unraveling.

A light flicked on down the hall. Quiet steps.

He turned instinctively—just enough to see Seonghwa’s soft silhouette in the doorway, sleep-mussed and blinking.

“Joong?” his voice was rough with sleep.

“I’m okay,” Hongjoong said reflexively.

Seonghwa frowned. He padded over, crouching beside the chair instead of sitting. He didn’t say anything for a moment—just rested a hand gently on Hongjoong’s knee.

Hongjoong looked down.

And broke a little.

“I’m trying,” he whispered. “I’m trying to stay on top of everything. I’m trying to be enough. For you. For the music. For—” His voice cracked. “—for all of it.”

Seonghwa didn’t interrupt. Just nodded slowly. “You are,” he said softly.

Hongjoong gave a weak laugh. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“You are.” Seonghwa leaned his head against Hongjoong’s leg. “You’ve held so much for me these past few months. It’s okay if you fall apart for a while. I’ll hold you too, you know.”

Something broke properly then. Not in a loud way. Just a quiet cracking at the edges.

Hongjoong reached down, threading his fingers into Seonghwa’s hair.

“I don’t want to let you down.”

“You never could.”

They stayed there like that for a while—tangled in the glow of the laptop screen and the quiet pulse of music that still didn’t feel finished, but maybe didn’t have to be tonight.

Eventually, Seonghwa tugged gently at his hand. “Come to bed?”

“In a minute.”

“You said that two hours ago.”

Hongjoong huffed. “Yeah. Okay.”

He saved the file. Closed the laptop.

The mix could wait. His project could wait. Grief didn’t move on a schedule, and neither did healing.

But love—steady, patient, unconditional—was here, crouched beside him, with sleep-warm hands and a quiet smile.

And tonight, that would be enough.

It was mid-morning when Yunho’s phone buzzed with a new message from Seonghwa.
Not the group chat. Just a quiet one-on-one.

Seonghwa:
hey. can i ask you and mingi for a favour?

Yunho:
always. what’s up?

Seonghwa:
it’s hongjoong.
after last night… well. this morning.
he broke down. not all at once. but like it’d been waiting to spill for weeks.
he’s not sleeping. not really eating. he’s behind on things and beating himself up for it.
he’s in his own head too much and…
he trusts you both. as artists. and as people.
maybe he just needs different voices for a while.
maybe a change of scenery.

The message hung in the air, weighted with love and quiet worry.

Yunho replied almost immediately.

Yunho:
say no more. we’ll be there in 30.
tell him we need him to consult on a beat drop or something. we’ll make it lowkey.

Mingi chimed in just moments later, already tying his hair up and reaching for his hoodie.

Mingi:
time for a kidnapping. soft style.

When Hongjoong opened the front door, he looked rumpled—t-shirt half-tucked, hair a little wild, and under his eyes, faint shadows that hadn’t been there a month ago. He blinked at Yunho and Mingi standing on the doorstep.

Yunho grinned and held up a travel mug. “We come bearing coffee and demands.”

“Demands?” Hongjoong echoed suspiciously.

“Yup,” Mingi said, slipping past him. “We’re stealing you. Producer-napping. Let’s go.”

“I—what?”

Yunho wrapped an arm around Hongjoong’s shoulders. “Come on, hyung. You’ve been locked in that corner of the apartment for days. You need fresh air. Or at least, fresher walls.”

“I have work to—”

“Exactly,” Mingi said from the hallway. “Bring your laptop. We’re giving you a different audience.”

Their apartment was bright, window cracked open to let in the soft hum of summer heat and the distant bark of dogs on the street. The furniture had been pushed around to make space for choreography practice, but today the centre of attention was the small speaker Mingi plugged into, waiting for Hongjoong’s USB.

Hongjoong sat cross-legged on the couch, guarded but slowly thawing under the unspoken familiarity that always existed between the three of them.

“You want feedback, or just vibes?” Yunho asked, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the wall.

“...Both,” Hongjoong admitted.

“Then hit play, hyung.”

The first track trickled out into the room—one of the mixes he’d been working on for the group project. A late summer mood, somewhere between mellow groove and driving beat. It was close, but not quite right.

Mingi tilted his head. “I like the texture of the synth. But it’s maybe sitting a little too loud in the second chorus?”

“And I’d give the kick a little more body,” Yunho added. “It sounds a bit hollow after the bridge. If you EQ the mid-lows just right, it’ll hold the movement better.”

Hongjoong blinked. He adjusted the levels. Played it back.

Better.

Another track. More feedback.

And slowly, something unknotted inside him. Not because they fixed the song—he could’ve done that himself eventually—but because their input came with warmth. With laughter. With no expectation other than “We’re here.”

Yunho finally flopped onto the couch beside him and nudged his shoulder. “You’ve been keeping too much in your head again.”

Hongjoong gave a breath of a laugh. “How could you tell?”

“Because you do that thing,” Mingi said, plopping onto the floor across from them. “Where you self-isolate and stop asking for help because you don’t want to burden anyone. But hyung—”

“You can’t hold all this alone,” Yunho said gently. “You have all of us.”

Hongjoong stared at them.

And for a long moment, didn’t say anything.

Then—softly, like exhaling something he hadn’t realised he was holding:

“I’ve just been… trying so hard to keep it together. For the group project. For finals. For Seonghwa.”

“And who’s keeping it together for you?” Mingi asked.

Another beat of silence.

Hongjoong looked down. His fingers curled in the hem of his jumper. “I didn’t want to make it heavier for anyone else.”

“Too late,” Yunho teased, bumping his shoulder again. “We’re already in it, hyung. This whole thing. Every messy, brilliant, exhausting, beautiful part.”

Mingi nodded. “We want the good parts and the hard ones. That’s what being your people means.”

Hongjoong’s throat tightened. He looked away, blinking fast.

“I—thank you.”

“No thanks needed,” Yunho murmured. “We just want you okay. Or close enough to okay that you can remember the music’s supposed to feel good too.”

Mingi stretched his legs out, tapping the speaker with his toe. “Now… what’s this other track you’ve been hiding?”

Hongjoong laughed, shakily. “I wasn’t hiding it.”

Yunho grinned. “Then you won’t mind sharing.”

And as the next track started—still unpolished, still uncertain, but undeniably him—Hongjoong leaned back against the couch cushions. He was still tired. Still behind. Still grieving, in some quiet, complicated way.

But here, with Mingi humming softly along and Yunho tapping out rhythm on his thigh, the weight felt less sharp.

He wasn’t holding it alone anymore.

Later that afternoon, once Hongjoong was back home and buried under his headphones again — less curled in on himself now, more present — Seonghwa’s phone buzzed with a message.

It was a photo.

Hongjoong, sitting on the floor between Yunho and Mingi, shoulder pressed lightly to Yunho’s side, Mingi in mid-gesture, grinning.
A speaker on the ground. The soft blur of the paused track on screen.

Yunho:
we didn’t fix everything
but he smiled today
properly

Seonghwa’s reply came quickly. Typing, deleting. Typing again. Then finally:

Seonghwa:
thank you
for not treating him like he’s fragile
for being gentle
and real
and making him feel like he can breathe

Mingi:
we love him too, hwa. he’s family.

Yunho:
always.
and we’ll keep an eye on him, even if he forgets to ask.
you don’t have to carry him alone.

It took a long time for Seonghwa to type his reply.

Seonghwa:
thank you for carrying me too

No one said anything more. But Yunho liked the message. Mingi sent a soft heart emoji. It was enough.

It was well past midnight when Seonghwa padded quietly into the living room, half-expecting to find Hongjoong still awake, still hunched over his laptop or tangled in headphone cords.

Instead, he found the producer curled sideways on the couch, arms folded beneath his cheek, music still faintly playing from the speaker. The light from the screen cast soft shadows over his face — not tense this time, not drawn, just quiet.

Seonghwa moved gently, lifting the blanket draped over the armrest and laying it across Hongjoong’s shoulders.

He was about to step away when—

“Don’t go.”

The words were slurred, half-asleep.

“I’m not,” Seonghwa murmured, settling down on the edge of the couch, careful. “I just didn’t want to wake you.”

Hongjoong’s hand found his wrist in the dark. “You’re allowed to wake me.”

“I didn’t want to pull you out of peace.”

At that, Hongjoong opened his eyes. They were tired, rimmed red, but open — here.

“I wasn’t peaceful,” he said softly. “Just... still.”

Seonghwa brushed his fingers over his partner’s temple, brushing his hair back.

“You’re allowed to not be okay,” he whispered. “I wish you’d said something earlier.”

“I didn’t know how.” Hongjoong swallowed. “You’re still putting yourself back together too.”

Seonghwa leaned in, forehead gently meeting Hongjoong’s. “Then we do it together. Broken pieces and all.”

Silence, thick but gentle.

Then Hongjoong spoke, voice low.

“Mingi and Yunho helped.”

“I know.”

“They didn’t push. Just… listened. Gave feedback. Told me to eat. Let me ramble.”

“You trust them.”

“I do.”

Seonghwa smiled faintly. “So do I.”

He slid down beside him, careful not to jostle too hard. Hongjoong shifted so their limbs tangled — knees brushing, hands lightly linked.

For a long time, they didn’t speak.

Just the soft lull of music, the weight of quiet bodies in the dark, the soft shared breath of people who’d weathered too much together to fall apart now.

Finally, Hongjoong whispered, so quietly Seonghwa almost missed it:

“I love you. Even when I’m a mess.”

Seonghwa squeezed his hand. “Especially then.”

The knock echoed through the apartment, sharp against the late afternoon quiet.

San moved first, wiping his hands on his joggers as he crossed the hall, expecting a neighbour or a delivery. Jongho and Yeosang were still in the living room, legs folded together on the floor, half-buried in case studies and finance spreadsheets.

When San opened the door, the girl standing on the other side — straight-backed, neatly dressed, her bag heavy with textbooks. She wore purpose like perfume.

“I’m looking for Choi Jongho,” she said.

San didn’t blink. His tone dropped lower. “Why are you looking for my little brother?”

She paused. Her lips parted slightly. “Your… brother?”

San held her gaze. “Yes,” he said. “I’m Choi San.”

Something unreadable flickered across her face. Surprise, mostly. Confusion. And something like embarrassment.

She hadn’t known. Their father hadn’t told her. Of course he hadn’t.

Behind him, Jongho’s voice was quiet but clear as he stepped into the doorway. “It’s fine, hyung.”

San didn’t move away, but he stepped just slightly to the side, enough to let Jongho face her directly.

Jiwon looked up. “You didn’t reply to my texts.”

There it was — the shift. San caught the way Jongho’s shoulders straightened, the tension pulling tight across his frame. His politeness thinned at the edges.

“Was there a reason I should have?” Jongho asked, voice flat.

“Our fathers thought—”

“Yes. Our fathers.” He cut in smoothly, tone still even, but clipped. “Not you. Not me.”

Jiwon hesitated. “It doesn’t have to be a bad idea. I came to study—”

“I’m not interested, Jiwon.”

There was no bite to his voice, no raised tone. Just steel. Quiet, resolute steel.

“Not now,” Jongho continued. “Not in a year. Not ever.”

A silence hung between them. San watched Jiwon’s expression flicker with the desire to argue, to rationalise, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. Not with that kind of certainty staring back at her.

Behind them, Yeosang shifted from his place in the living room, now standing just in view, calm but present — another unspoken shield.

Jongho glanced at his brother, then to Yeosang, and gently gestured behind him. “I already have everything I need.”

He wasn’t cruel about it. He wasn’t even cold. Just done.

Jiwon seemed to understand, finally. Her posture stiffened again, and she gave a small, stiff nod before turning on her heel. She walked down the hallway without another word.

San closed the door behind her with a click, the sound final.

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Then San said quietly, “He didn’t tell her about me.”

“No,” Jongho replied, eyes on the floor. “He wouldn’t.”

Yeosang crossed the room to rest a hand lightly on Jongho’s shoulder. “You handled that well.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” Jongho let out a slow breath, then looked to San. “Thanks for answering the door.”

San gave him a small nod. “Always.”

For a moment, the silence held — heavy and taut like a string pulled too tight.

Then Jongho exhaled sharply and scrubbed a hand over his face. “In the middle of finals prep. Fucking hell.”

His voice cracked a little on the edge of exhaustion. Anger simmered low beneath it, restrained but palpable. Not rage — not anymore — just the kind of tired fury that came from the slow erosion of dignity, from being made into someone else's pawn again and again.

Yeosang didn’t say anything right away. He stepped even closer instead, reaching for Jongho’s hand. He didn’t pull or squeeze, just touched — a quiet grounding.

Jongho glanced at him, eyes still stormy but softening.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Jongho murmured.

Yeosang tilted his head. “I’m not.”

Jongho blinked.

“I like learning all sides of you,” Yeosang continued, tone even but warm. “And besides — seeing you all firm and commanding like that? Honestly…” He gave a tiny shrug, lips quirking. “It was hot.”

Jongho groaned into his hands, cheeks flushed. “Please, Yeosang. San is literally right there.”

San, who was now standing with his arms crossed by the door, arched an eyebrow and snorted. “I’m traumatised, actually. My ears are bleeding.”

Yeosang just laughed, low and unbothered. “Sorry, Sannie.”

“No you’re not.”

“Not even a little.”

Jongho leaned back against the wall and let his head thunk gently against it. “I can’t believe he gave her our address.”

“Text him later,” San said, voice quiet but resolute. “Or don’t. Either way, don’t let this ruin your night.”

“Already tried to ruin my week,” Jongho muttered, rubbing his temples. “The audacity.”

Yeosang gave his hand a proper squeeze this time. “Come back to the spreadsheets. We’re almost done for today.”

Jongho nodded slowly, letting himself follow Yeosang’s pull.

San watched them return to the living room floor — Jongho’s anger still lingering at the edges, but dulled now by the calm presence beside him. Yeosang settled back with his papers, legs brushing Jongho’s again, quiet and steady like always.

San exhaled through his nose, tension easing from his shoulders as he walked back over and dropped to the carpet with them.

“Let’s get you through finals first,” San said. “We can dismantle the patriarchy after.”

Yeosang snorted. “Spoken like a true older brother.”

Jongho just leaned slightly into Yeosang’s side, jaw tight but eyes grateful.

They were back on the floor, legs pressed together, papers scattered between them like fallen leaves. The remnants of tension still clung to Jongho’s shoulders — not as tightly as before, but enough that Yeosang noticed it in the way Jongho tapped his pen, the slight twitch in his jaw every time the earlier scene replayed in his head.

Yeosang wasn’t focused on the case study anymore. Not really. His eyes kept drifting sideways, drawn to the calm that Jongho was trying to rebuild — the deliberate neatness of his notes, the controlled rhythm of his breath, the steel beneath his quiet words earlier.

There had always been something compelling about Jongho’s mind. His steadiness. His drive.

But the way he’d stood his ground at the door, firm and unshaking, his voice cold and clear — “Not now, not in a year. Not ever.”

God.

Yeosang didn’t even realise he’d moved until he was leaning in. Until he was close enough to feel the warmth of Jongho’s skin. Until he kissed him — a soft, stolen press of lips against lips. No warning. Just the sudden, irresistible pull of wanting him.

Jongho froze.

Then blinked.

Yeosang pulled back slightly, breath unsteady. His voice was quiet, almost sheepish. “Sorry. That was… impulsive.”

Jongho was still staring at him. His lips parted, the faintest blush rising in his cheeks, but there was no anger there. No discomfort. Just… surprise. And maybe something else. Something warmer.

“You were…” Yeosang started, then stopped, exhaling with a light laugh. “You were really hot back there.”

Jongho blinked again, this time slower. “Yeosang.”

“Hm?”

“Maybe warn me next time you decide to devour me mid-tax code?”

Yeosang grinned, eyes gleaming. “Where’s the fun in that?”

From the armchair, San groaned loudly, dragging a cushion over his head. “Please. I already have to live with the sounds Wooyoung makes when I do the dishes too gently. I don’t need my baby brother seducing lawyers with legislation.”

Jongho muttered, “I’m not seducing anyone.”

Yeosang shrugged, flipping the page. “It’s okay. I’m already seduced.”

The tension finally broke — laughter, soft and close and shared — and though they turned back to the spreadsheets, Jongho leaned a little closer this time.

And Yeosang didn’t move away.

The apartment was quiet that night — the kind of quiet that pressed in around the edges. Yeosang had already left with a soft goodnight and a lingering touch to Jongho’s shoulder, promising to see him early for their study session tomorrow. San was in his room with headphones on, humming along to some gym playlist as he reviewed notes. Mingi and Yunho were out for a late-night walk, talking choreography, stargazing, or maybe just giving the space some room to breathe.

Jongho sat at the kitchen table alone, spreadsheets and finance textbooks spread around him like armour he was trying to crawl back into.

His phone buzzed.

He didn’t need to check the name. The tone of the vibration was enough — not from anyone saved in his favourites, no group chat buzz or Yeosang’s emoji spam. Just sharp. Clinical.

He flipped the phone over anyway.

Father:
We will talk after finals

That was all it said. But it sat there like lead in his chest.

Jongho swallowed, his jaw tightening as he stared at the words. five short words — no punctuation, no warmth — and yet it felt like a verdict.

He’d done it. He’d said no. Politely. Firmly. But undeniably, he had said no.

No to the plan. No to the pressure. No to Han Jiwon.

And for the first time, he felt the weight of that decision not as theory or future possibility, but as something real. Something that would come back to him, like a storm gathering just out of view.

His hand closed slowly around the phone, knuckles whitening.

A chair scraped gently as San walked into the room, rubbing at the back of his neck, his expression tired but present. He glanced at the phone still face-up on the table. Read the name. Didn’t ask.

Jongho didn’t offer, either.

After a moment, San just reached over and set a small glass of water down in front of him.

“Get some rest soon,” he said quietly. “We both need our brains working tomorrow.”

Jongho nodded.

The phone buzzed again, but he didn’t look.

He just reached for the water, took a steady sip, and tried to breathe through the crack forming in his ribs — the pressure of doing what was right for himself, even if it meant walking into a storm alone.

But he wasn’t alone.

Not really.

And that thought — fragile and faint as it was — helped him make it through another night.

The café was quiet in the early evening light a few days later, a mellow hum of conversation drifting over from the front counter. Hongjoong had picked the table in the corner, the one slightly hidden behind a column, and when Seonghwa arrived, Jongho was already seated beside him, a laptop open between them.

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow, setting his iced tea down as he slid into the seat across from them. “What’s this? A secret meeting?”

Jongho looked up, managing a small smile. “Kind of.”

“It’s something we’ve been talking about,” Hongjoong said, glancing at Jongho before continuing. “Just the two of us. We wanted to bring you in first.”

Seonghwa blinked, curiosity piqued. “Okay. Hit me.”

Hongjoong leaned forward, elbows on the table. “We’ve been thinking… what if we all moved in together? One place. All eight of us.”

Seonghwa stared at them.

Jongho rushed in to clarify. “Not right away. But we’re all couples now — four rooms between us. Maybe a fifth or sixth room for space. A studio. A little dance room.”

Hongjoong nodded. “Nothing’s decided. We just want to explore it. See if it’s viable.”

Seonghwa still looked a little stunned. “That’s… a big thing. Eight of us. Sharing space.”

“We’re already halfway there, just split between two apartments,” Jongho said. “It’s a big change, but it could be a good one.”

There was a brief pause. Then Jongho hesitated — visibly so — fingers tapping against the edge of his laptop.

“There’s something else,” he said quietly, glancing between the two. “Something I haven’t told anyone.”

Seonghwa leaned in slightly. “What is it?”

“When I was younger… maybe around ten or eleven, my father started giving me a monthly allowance. Not a big one at first. But consistent.” Jongho's voice was steady, but there was something careful about the way he said it, as though testing each word before letting it land. “He wanted me to learn how to handle money. I think he hoped I’d start acting like a little heir or something.”

He gave a dry, humourless laugh.

“When I got a bit older, I started saving. Then investing. Small things, at first. Mutual funds. ETFs. Later, stocks. I didn’t really know what I was doing at the time — but I learned. I read. Watched. Paid attention.”

Seonghwa and Hongjoong were silent, both watching him closely now.

Jongho’s fingers curled slightly around the coffee cup in front of him. “When I got into finance, it all made more sense. Everything started growing. Slowly. But enough that it mattered.”

He took a breath.

“I’ve built up a fair bit. Enough that if we did move in together, and money became a problem — I could help. Cover deposits. Bridge gaps. Not forever, but… enough to give us a start.”

“You’ve been doing all of this on your own?” Seonghwa asked gently.

Jongho nodded, gaze lowered. “Yeah.”

“Does San know?” Hongjoong asked.

Something subtle shifted in Jongho’s expression. Not regret, exactly, but a complicated tangle of emotion. “No. I don’t think so. I don’t think he ever got the allowance like I did. He is frugal when it comes to spending. And I never really brought it up.”

His voice dropped slightly. “It didn’t seem fair.”

Seonghwa exhaled slowly. “That’s a lot, Jongho.”

“I started investing more,” Jongho added after a beat, “when San said he wanted to open a café someday. I thought… maybe I could help. When the time comes. Quietly. Not with strings.”

He looked up then, and something about the way he said it made both older boys go still.

“I don’t want him to think he owes me anything. I just want him to have something for himself. Something no one can take away from him.”

There was a pause — thick with unspoken things. Hongjoong was the first to speak.

“That’s the kindest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jongho shrugged, but the tips of his ears were pink.

Seonghwa finally sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Alright. So you’ve thought this through.”

“Some of it,” Jongho said. “I even bookmarked a few listings. Want to see?”

“Okay,” Seonghwa said finally, exhaling. “Let’s talk logistics.”

Jongho turned the laptop around, showing them four bookmarked listings. One was a split-level loft with six bedrooms and an airy shared space. Another had a small backyard, a huge bonus in the city. A third was in a quieter neighbourhood but had soundproofed walls — perfect for rehearsals and music production. The fourth had two spare rooms on opposite ends of the flat, ideal for dance and music studios.

“This one’s got two bathrooms, which would be a war zone,” Seonghwa pointed out, pointing at the second. “But this one—” he tapped the fourth listing “—this one has three full baths. That’s rare.”

“We’ll also need a really good kitchen,” Hongjoong added, deadpan. “Otherwise Wooyoung will riot.”

Jongho snorted. “He’ll haunt us forever with burnt sugar and crushed dreams.”

“I can already hear him complaining,” Seonghwa laughed. “‘I am not cooking on this peasant stove.’”

They dissolved into chuckles, the heaviness of the conversation briefly lightened by the imagined melodrama of their resident chef.

Hongjoong cleared his throat. “So we agree? If something pops up — something that fits everything — we move fast?”

Jongho nodded. “Absolutely. I’ve got email alerts set.”

“Same,” Hongjoong added.

Seonghwa tapped the table thoughtfully, then gave a small smile. “Alright. I’m in.”

There was a sense of relief that swept the table, something quiet but shared.

“Oh,” Jongho said suddenly, “and — not to forget — Yeosang’s birthday’s the first day of summer break.”

Hongjoong blinked. “You’re right.”

“We should plan something,” Seonghwa said. “A proper celebration.”

“Maybe in a new place,” Jongho said, hopeful.

They looked at each other — eight futures slowly starting to take shape, built not by inheritance or obligation, but by choice.

By love. By family. By dream.

Finals week arrived with the weight of everything that had come before it — and for once, even the late sunsets of early summer couldn’t soften the exhaustion hanging in the air.

In the flat shared by Jongho, San, Yunho, and Mingi, the energy was wired tight.

Jongho kept his usual calm exterior, textbooks tabbed and timetables colour-coded, but even he wasn’t immune to the tension. He worked late into the night, spreadsheets open, soft music playing in the background as he tutored San on business finance formulas one minute and reviewed his own consulting case studies the next. His workload didn’t intimidate him — not after everything they’d weathered this semester — but it was relentless.

San had thrown himself into gym visits with a kind of fury. His final papers loomed over him like a judge waiting to deliver a verdict. He was proud of how far he’d come — how far they’d all come — but still, the pressure mounted. He didn’t want to let anyone down. Not Wooyoung, not Jongho, not himself. So, he worked. Lifted. Ran. Breathed through the tightness in his chest. Sometimes, Jongho joined him in silence, and those evenings were easier.

Yunho was in the centre of his own storm — not emotional this time, but creative. His final choreography had taken weeks to shape, and though the bones of it were strong, something about the footwork had nagged at him. He practiced endlessly in their rearranged living room, music echoing off the walls, pausing only when Mingi pulled him aside with a soft, “Hyung, try watching me go through it once more.”

It worked. Slowly, surely, the routine came together — and Yunho started to see it clearly. He still fretted over each beat, each gesture, but there was something solid under his feet now. He didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore.

Mingi’s final group performance was already sharp, his lines fluid, expression alive with intensity. He was ready. But that didn’t mean he stopped showing up for Yunho — for any of them. He moved between choreographing, helping San brainstorm café concepts for a future business plan, and bringing Jongho quiet snacks when he worked late, always noticing when someone needed a breather.

Across town, in the flat shared by Yeosang, Wooyoung, Hongjoong, and Seonghwa, the atmosphere was different — slower, but no less dense.

Wooyoung had taken to baking like it was an Olympic sport. Matcha cream puffs filled with silky custard, black sesame shortbread cut into stars, mochi brownies with just the right chew. San or Yeosang always went home with a tin or tray, and no one asked how many hours of sleep he was sacrificing. This was how he coped. How he gave love. His culinary finals were close, and though his hands were steady in the kitchen, his heart fluttered with nerves.

Seonghwa was exhausted in a different way. This semester had drained him. The grief was still a shadow, always present, and though he had poured himself into his final garments — pieces stitched with love, memory, and pain — there were moments when the thread trembled in his hands. Still, he kept going. For Hongjoong. For himself.

And for the others, who never let him fall too far.

Hongjoong had finished most of his deadlines early, after Yunho and Mingi had all but kidnapped him to help. He still had group projects, but his main compositions were submitted, polished and confident. The soundscape he created held weight and warmth. He was proud of it — proud because it had been hard. Because he hadn’t been sure he could do it.

Now, he turned his focus to supporting the others. Making sure Seonghwa had tea while he sewed, distracting Wooyoung from obsessing over plating angles, texting Jongho to check in without smothering him. He was tired, but not empty.

Yeosang, always more internal, had grown quieter as the week wore on. His legal finals loomed like spectres: case study analyses, rapid-fire logic, application of precedent. He studied curled on the sofa, highlighters strewn around him, expression unreadable. But underneath the stillness was a storm.

He was good at this. He knew it. But the question he couldn’t shake — do I want this? — stayed lodged in his chest like a splinter. He hadn’t told anyone yet. Not properly. Except maybe Jongho, in pieces.

They were all fraying, all stretching themselves thin, but in different ways. And yet, none of them were alone.

Wooyoung left treats out without asking. Yunho handed over sweat-slicked choreo notes to Mingi with a quiet, “Tell me what’s off.” Jongho dropped off energy drinks in Seonghwa’s sewing nook. Hongjoong texted Yeosang a silly meme about law school and got a rare smile in return. San returned home to a post-it on his pillow: You’re doing better than you think — don’t give up yet.

Finals were cruel. But so were expectations, grief, and fear of the future.

[Group Chat: Operation Yeosang]

Wooyoung:
I'm making like 3 types of fried chicken. that’ll be all yeosang wants to eat, guaranteed 🍗

San:
no arguments here. he’s obsessed with it

Mingi:
haha yeap. classic yeosang.
but what about dessert? i want to try making that lemon honey drizzle cake i found. it looks so good

Jongho:
lemon honey drizzle cake sounds amazing. count me in for taste testing

Seonghwa:
ooo i love that idea! something sweet but fresh
also — what about gifts? yeosang doesn’t really ask for much, does he?

Jongho:
he won’t want a gift, honestly. just wants to spend time with us. that’s always been true

Hongjoong:
agreed. he’s way more about the moments than stuff

Seonghwa:
so maybe we do something low key? like a mini home spa day or evening?
snacks, movies, facemasks, that sort of thing

Wooyoung:
yes! facemasks and snacks and bubbles (the bath kind, not champagne)
he and we deserve it

Mingi:
bubbles too? love it
i can bring some herbal tea and cucumber slices for the eyes

San:
sounds perfect
i’ll sort some playlist vibes — chill but upbeat

Jongho:
count me in for organising movies and snacks
maybe a cozy watch party

Hongjoong:
this is shaping up to be the perfect birthday for him
all about comfort and care

Seonghwa:
yeosang is going to love it
we just need to keep it a secret until the day

Wooyoung:
deal. secret mission: make yeosang’s birthday the best lowkey celebration ever 🎉

Later that evening, Jongho sat alone at his desk, the soft light from his desk lamp casting warm shadows across the room. His laptop screen glowed with rows of silver chains and pendants, most too ornate or impersonal for what he had in mind. He didn’t want flashy. He wanted right.

He scrolled, quietly, thoughtfully — until something made his hand still.

A delicate silver necklace. Hanging from it, a small, finely crafted Mugunghwa flower — the petals soft and slightly curved, like it had been caught mid-bloom. It was understated, elegant, but carried a weight in its meaning.

Resilience. Endurance. Quiet strength.

Jongho blinked, a gentle breath leaving him. Yeosang.

He thought of how Yeosang never bragged about how hard he worked, how he held himself together even after difficult exams, or how much pressure he quietly carried from his family’s legacy. And still — he was gentle. Sharp. Loving. Stubborn. Everything.

“This is perfect,” Jongho murmured to himself.

He clicked Add to Cart, heart thudding lightly in his chest. He didn’t expect Yeosang to wear it all the time. Maybe he wouldn’t wear it at all. That wasn’t the point. The point was that Jongho had seen something — beautiful and strong and rare — and thought only of him.

As he closed the browser and sat back in his chair, the quiet of the apartment wrapped around him. The others were out or tucked in their own corners, but Jongho sat in the stillness for a moment longer.

The Mugunghwa. The national flower of Korea. A symbol of enduring love and steadfastness.

It felt right.

Yeosang had always been that for him — even before Jongho realised it.

Finals were over.

Done. Submitted. Slammed shut and left to rot behind them like a bad group project.

And with the last exam handed in, final performance danced, portfolios turned over, and presentations endured, the eight of them collapsed into Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s apartment like the world was finally letting them breathe.

It was chaos — quiet chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Bags dropped at the door, jackets half-hung on hooks, shoes kicked off in uneven piles. Someone groaned. Someone flopped. Someone else sank into the floor and didn’t move for ten minutes.

San dropped onto the couch with a loud exhale, arms spread wide like he was about to ascend. “If anyone says the words ‘business model canvas’ in the next month, I swear to god—”

“You’ll jump out the window, yeah, yeah,” Mingi said, face down on the carpet. “We’ve heard. You’re very dramatic.”

“You’re just jealous because my stress had structure,” San muttered, to no one in particular.

A chorus of tired chuckles answered him. No one had the energy to tease properly. Not yet.

Jongho was curled up at the far end of the couch, sipping a cold drink Seonghwa had passed him on arrival. His fingers curled gently around the glass. “You worked hard, hyung,” he said quietly to San. “You did well.”

San shot him a grateful look, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Is everyone alive?” Yunho’s voice carried from the kitchen, where he was trying to make room in the fridge. “Because Wooyoung’s baking took up, like, half the space.”

From the opposite corner of the apartment, Wooyoung peeked out of the kitchen, holding a mixing spoon like a wand. “Excuse you, that’s stress relief in the form of lemon tarts, honeycomb shortbread, and spiced chocolate brownies.”

“And the chicken,” Yunho added, opening a container and inhaling. “He’s been marinating the chicken for hours.”

“Because it’s Yeosang,” Wooyoung said simply. “And he deserves perfect chicken.”

The others made soft sounds of agreement, nodding like this was fact — which, in this group, it absolutely was.

Yeosang, who was sitting cross-legged near the coffee table with his laptop open, didn’t even register the exchange. He was too busy checking and rechecking the upload confirmation for his last case analysis. His brows were furrowed in focus, shoulders still tense from days of constant pressure.

He hadn’t noticed the extra snacks sneaking into the cupboards.

He hadn’t noticed the fluffy new towels and bath products in Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s wardrobe.

He hadn’t noticed that Wooyoung — loud, nosy, irrepressible Wooyoung — had been unusually quiet anytime someone so much as mentioned dates or plans.

And he definitely hadn’t noticed that every single one of them was hiding something behind their exhaustion. A secret. A plan.

Tomorrow was Yeosang’s birthday. The first day of summer break. The reason Wooyoung had been experimenting with glazes at 2am and why Seonghwa had made a spreadsheet titled “Spa Night But Gay.”

And Yeosang had no idea.

Jongho knew.

He knew about the pastel robes tucked into Hongjoong’s wardrobe. He knew about the hidden drawer of sheet masks and tea lights. He knew Seonghwa had booked a bath bomb haul as a “mental health necessity.”

He also knew Yeosang. Knew that he wouldn’t want some huge party, or a pile of extravagant gifts.

“He won’t want a present,” Jongho had said in their secret group chat, voice firm. “Just to spend time with us. That’s all he ever wants.”

But still, Jongho had found something — something personal, something quiet. He didn’t say anything yet. It could wait.

For now, they were tired. Every one of them. Muscles aching, minds fuzzy, nerves still buzzing from the week that had been.

But they were together.

And beneath the exhaustion, there was a spark — soft but growing — of something excited and good.

Tomorrow, Yeosang would wake up to the kind of love that made even a quiet boy pause.

But tonight? Tonight was for limbs tangled across the couch, mismatched mugs of tea, someone putting on a movie they’d all fall asleep to halfway through.

It was for Wooyoung quietly whispering to himself, twenty-four hours till perfect fried chicken.

It was for Yunho handing out leftover cookies like they were gold.

It was for Hongjoong leaning into Seonghwa’s side, and Mingi sleepily kicking Yunho’s leg with affection.

And it was for Jongho, watching Yeosang with tired, fond eyes, already looking forward to the way he’d smile when he saw what they’d planned.

The sun hadn’t even begun to rise when the front door of the apartment clicked open with a quiet snick.

Jongho stepped in first, barefoot and careful, holding a covered tray in both hands. Mingi followed, his arms full of juice bottles and neatly stacked paper cups. Behind them, Yunho and San came in last, balancing a large cooler and a small box of flowers Wooyoung had insisted on. All four moved with the silent coordination of people on a mission.

Seonghwa was already in the kitchen, hair tied back and apron on, arranging cut fruit on a platter with the precision of a jeweller setting stones. “You're early,” he whispered, grinning. “Perfect.”

Hongjoong emerged from the hallway, sleeves rolled up and cheeks slightly flushed from blowing up balloons. “Living room’s nearly ready. Wooyoung’s doing final dessert checks.”

The apartment buzzed with quiet excitement, the kind that came from shared purpose — not loud or chaotic, but full of love.

They transformed the living room while the sky outside was still slate-blue and streaked with the earliest hints of morning light. Blankets and cushions were piled into a makeshift nest. A projector sat waiting on the console, already loaded with Yeosang’s favourite feel-good films. A low table was set up buffet-style: fruit, warm pastries, breakfast dumplings, small savouries, and Mingi’s attempt at a, lemon honey drizzle cake, with its edges still just the slightest bit warm.

Everything was in place.

A birthday spent exactly the way Yeosang would want it — no surprises that made him the centre of attention, no demands or expectations, just thoughtful detail, good food, and all the people who loved him.

He'd get first pick of everything. Bath or shower. Movie order. Where to sit. What scent to burn in the diffuser. What music to play while they ate. Nothing over the top, nothing loud. Just Yeosang, held gently in the centre of a day crafted for him.

“Robes,” Seonghwa said with a soft clap, stepping over to the hallway with a stack of folded pastels.

Matching, oversized, fluffy things — mostly creams and greys with the occasional pink or blue in soft embroidery. Mingi had burst out laughing when he saw his name on one. San pretended to complain that his was too pink while slipping it on with a grin.

They all turned, quieting, when Yeosang’s door creaked open.

He padded out slowly, in shorts and a soft T-shirt, rubbing one eye. His hair was a soft, sleepy mess. “Why are you all—”

He stopped.

Eyes wide, still blinking in sleep, he took in the whole room — the food, the blankets, the soft lights, the robes, the gentle music playing. The smiles.

He froze.

Then looked at them again, gaze skating over every little detail — the lemon cake, the rose tea steaming faintly on the counter, the bubble bath bottles in the corner. The projector already queued to the nature documentary he watched when he needed to calm down.

“You didn’t…”

“We did,” Seonghwa said gently.

“For you,” Wooyoung added, holding out one of the robes with both hands.

Yeosang took it, speechless. Then turned it over — and choked on a laugh.

Stitched in neat, careful thread across the left chest: World’s Best Maltese.

He groaned, covering his face as his ears turned bright pink. “You guys are the worst.”

“You love it,” Wooyoung beamed.

“I hate you,” Yeosang mumbled, clutching the robe to his chest like it was sacred. “I hate that you all know me this well.”

“Don’t lie, you’re touched,” Hongjoong teased.

“I’m not crying,” Yeosang sniffed, not even remotely crying, but overwhelmed in the kind of way that made his voice wobble.

“Bath first?” Seonghwa asked softly, stepping closer. “Or food first? You get to pick.”

Yeosang looked around at them — Jongho already curled up in a corner, waiting patiently; Mingi and Yunho leaning against each other, half-asleep but smiling; San rubbing at his neck, already wearing his robe; Seonghwa and Hongjoong beside him, calm and steady; and Wooyoung, practically vibrating with joy.

“…Food,” he said at last. “Then bath. Then a nap.”

“And then spa,” Wooyoung said, offering his arm like a royal attendant. “With bubbles.”

Yeosang accepted it, slipping his robe on as he did. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“You love us,” Jongho said without looking up from where he was pouring juice into paper cups.

Yeosang didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

The look on his face said everything.

The morning sunlight crept in slow and warm, casting golden lines across the cushions and blankets as everyone slowly sank into the kind of peace they hadn’t allowed themselves during finals week.

Breakfast was a casual, easy affair. They lounged on the floor and couch in varying degrees of robe-wrapped comfort, trading sleepy jokes and bites of flaky pastries. Yeosang picked through the offerings with a surprised little hum every time he noticed something small and intentional — lemon-ginger tea, the exact kind he brewed when his throat hurt, perfectly sliced strawberries, and someone (he was guessing Jongho) had even peeled his mandarin for him.

“Mingi,” Seonghwa scolded lightly as the taller boy popped another grape into his mouth while Yunho tried to brush crumbs off his robe.

“What?” Mingi blinked, already going for another one. “I’m fuelling up for the spa.”

“You’re literally lying down.”

“Spa takes emotional energy,” Mingi argued, draping himself dramatically over Yunho, who just rolled his eyes and handed him another croissant.

Yeosang was quiet, but not distant. He picked at his food and smiled around the rim of his tea cup, letting it all soak in — the laughter, the easy love that floated around them like steam rising off the tea. It wasn’t loud or wild. It was better. It was… theirs.

They watched half a movie before Seonghwa nudged Yeosang with his foot. “Bath time. You said bath.”

“Fine,” Yeosang sighed, stretching like a cat and allowing himself to be pulled up by Wooyoung, who was already bouncing with excitement.

The bathroom was set up like something out of a spa magazine — candles flickering, soft towels warming on a rack, and the water already drawn and glinting with a hint of oil and bubbles.

Yeosang didn’t say anything, but he lingered in the doorway for a moment. Seonghwa saw the look in his eyes and smiled.

“Take your time,” he said gently.

When Yeosang emerged later, robe snug and skin flushed warm from the bath, the group was ready with their next plan. Face masks.

“Alright, everyone pick a colour!” Wooyoung announced, holding up small jars of neatly labelled skincare.

Yeosang was immediately handed one by Hongjoong. “This one’s yours. Tea tree.”

“Of course it is,” Yeosang muttered fondly.

They paired off instinctively — Mingi and Yunho collapsed back against a beanbag while Mingi carefully dabbed on Yunho’s mask, going overboard with a heart shape drawn on his cheek. Yunho retaliated by applying Mingi’s with the gentleness of a mother icing a child’s knee.

Seonghwa knelt in front of Hongjoong, brushing on the cool cream with careful strokes, while Jongho held Yeosang’s chin and smiled softly. “Still with me?”

Yeosang nodded once, eyes fluttering shut as Jongho painted the mask on, his fingers steady, warm.

From somewhere behind them: “Mingi, stop eating the cucumber!”

“It’s food! Why are we wasting it!”

“It’s for your eyes, not your mouth—”

“I have eyes. I can see it’s delicious.”

Laughter rose around them again, light and unbothered. Yeosang’s lips twitched.

It was perfect. Not because it was planned to the second — but because it wasn’t. Because it fit. Like it had been shaped by their hands, their quirks, their warmth.

Yeosang settled in beside Jongho after his mask was on, resting his head on the younger boy’s shoulder, letting his eyes drift closed.

He felt it in the way San had dozed off with his head on Mingi’s thigh. In the way Hongjoong leaned against Seonghwa now, soft and still. In the slow, quiet breathing of the room around him.

Love.

Not loud declarations or public posts. Just… this. People choosing to know you. And staying.

He noticed something else too — Seonghwa, tucked under Hongjoong’s arm, looked lighter. Less like he was holding something back. That gentled Yeosang’s heart even more. This hadn’t just been a day for him. It was for all of them.

Later, after the masks had been wiped off with warm towels and their skin smelled of green tea and rosewater, Yeosang had curled up in the giant cushion pile beside Jongho and dozed again. His body slack and warm, his breathing slow.

When he woke, the apartment smelled incredible.

He blinked against the soft light of the late afternoon and lifted his head slightly. Jongho’s arm was still around him.

“…Is that chicken?”

Wooyoung’s voice floated over from the kitchen. “Of course. Three kinds. Soy garlic, honey butter, and gochujang glaze.”

There was a pause. Then a quiet scoff. “What, like I wouldn’t serve fried chicken to my best friend?”

Yeosang let out a quiet huff of laughter, eyes crinkling as Jongho reached over and pushed his hair back gently.

“You okay?” Jongho asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Yeosang nodded, something soft and blooming in his chest.

“I’m happy,” he murmured, honestly.

Jongho smiled. “Good.”

Because that’s what today had been about.

Making Yeosang feel known. Loved. And very, very happy.

The apartment had settled into a comforting hush. Warm light filtered from under the doorframes, the TV in the living room still playing something quiet and familiar, background noise to the slow fade of an afternoon turned evening. Everyone else had drifted off in various corners — blankets wrapped around tired limbs, empty teacups and leftover snacks left where they fell.

Yeosang stirred gently where he was curled with Jongho on the couch, still warm from his bath, Jongho’s arms a familiar circle of safety around him. Jongho leaned close, his voice quiet and low. “Come with me for a minute?”

Yeosang blinked sleepily, nodding.

Jongho led him to his shared bedroom — the one Yeosang had split down the middle with Wooyoung since the start of the year. The fairy lights above the bed were on, soft and golden, and someone had tucked the blankets neatly after Yeosang’s nap.

There, sitting carefully placed on Yeosang’s pillow, was a small velvet box.

Yeosang looked at it, then back at Jongho. “What is it?”

Jongho picked it up, thumb running over the edge. “I know you said you didn’t want anything,” he said. “Just time with all of us. But… I still wanted to give you something. From me.”

He opened the box, slow and careful.

Inside lay a fine silver chain, delicate and subtle — the centrepiece a small charm: a Mugunghwa, Korea’s national flower. Its petals were finely crafted, enamelled in a soft blush pink with tiny silver detailing along each edge. In the middle, a single pale gem sparkled.

Yeosang’s breath caught. “It’s…” he reached out, brushing one fingertip over it. “My favourite flower.”

“You told me once,” Jongho said quietly. “And I remembered.”

Yeosang looked up at him. His expression had shifted — soft, astonished, eyes shining. “You always remember.”

“May I?” Jongho asked, lifting the necklace slightly.

Yeosang turned without a word, brushing his hair away from the back of his neck. Jongho stepped in close, fitting the chain around him with gentle fingers, the clasp clicking softly. His fingers lingered on Yeosang’s shoulders, a warm and grounding weight.

Then, Jongho leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the nape of Yeosang’s neck.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

Yeosang let out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. His hand came up to touch the pendant where it rested just above his heart. Then he turned, slowly, so the charm caught the fairy light and glimmered against his skin.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, though his voice was barely a whisper. “This is… more than I could’ve imagined.”

Jongho shook his head, his smile gentle. “It’s not. It’s just… exactly you.”

Yeosang’s laugh was soft, caught between breath and affection. “I love it.”

Jongho took one slow step forward. “I love you.”

And then, quietly, Yeosang kissed him — soft and sure, like the kind of answer that didn’t need to be said aloud.

When they pulled apart, Jongho rested their foreheads together.

“Happy birthday,” he murmured.

Yeosang’s voice was warm. “It really is.”

And as they sank onto the edge of the bed, the weight of the day trailing off behind them, the soft golden light catching on the silver around Yeosang’s neck, it felt like something new had bloomed.

Not just a flower — but something real, and growing.

They were still in Yeosang and Wooyoung’s room, quiet wrapped around them like a blanket. The necklace glinted gently on Yeosang’s chest, and Jongho still wore the lingering softness of their kiss on his lips.

Until the knock.

It was a firm rap — not rushed, but not casual either. The door creaked open and San stepped inside, not bothering to wait.

Jongho looked up, immediately tense. San’s expression was grim. He held Jongho’s phone in his hand.

“Jongho,” he said, voice low. “It’s… him.”

Jongho sat up straighter. “What?”

“He’s rung twice already.” San held out the phone. The screen still glowed. Father. The name stared back at them, sharp and cold.

Jongho exhaled, tight. “Yeosang…”

“I’ll go.” He didn’t argue, just touched Jongho’s shoulder on the way out. His palm lingered, warm and steady.

San crossed the room and sat beside his brother on the edge of the bed. Jongho accepted the phone with hesitant fingers and put it on speaker.

The voice came through sharp and biting.

“Ignoring me now, are you? Don’t get too comfortable playing house. You’ve embarrassed me. The Hans are questioning your upbringing. You’ll fix this.”

“Appa, I—”

“You will do the summer internship. It’s been arranged. You will continue to see Han Jiwon. This isn’t about what you want.” His voice grew colder. “You were raised to understand duty. You will not embarrass me.”

San couldn’t keep silent.

“You do realise he just finished exams?” he cut in, voice flat with disbelief. “You didn’t even ask how he’s doing—just jumped straight to controlling him. He’s your son, not your employee.”

A long pause.

Then, like poison:

“You dare speak to me about parenthood?” the voice hissed. “You’ve brought me nothing but shame. You’ve been a burden since the day you arrived.”

Jongho flinched.

San’s jaw locked. His voice dropped lower.

“Why is he the one who gets every ounce of pressure? Why’s he the one you push to be perfect? Why not me?”

A long pause. The kind that sucked the air from the room.

Then:

“Because he’s mine.”

Jongho's stomach twisted. San didn’t move.

The voice continued, relentless:

“You’re not my son. You were born of your mother’s shame. I raised you out of obligation. I stayed for your mother. For Jongho. San was her mistake. And I will not waste another moment pretending. You are no longer a Choi, boy.”

The line went dead.

Neither of them moved.

The phone slipped from Jongho’s fingers onto the bed. San sat forward, elbows on his knees, face hollow with disbelief.

Jongho stared at the wall. His breathing was too shallow. Too sharp.

The silence was broken only by the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.

Chapter Text

Finding Home

San was staring at the phone like it had grown fangs. His fingers trembled, but his jaw remained set.

“I’m not—” he rasped. “I’m not even—”

“Hyung…” Jongho’s voice cracked.

San looked at him. Really looked. His baby bear. His little brother. Not fully by blood now, apparently.

But by everything that had ever mattered.

“You’re still my brother,” Jongho said with everything he had. “I don’t care. I don’t care. You’ve always been my brother.”

San’s lips parted. Trembled. “You shouldn’t have to say that to me.”

“You shouldn’t have had to hear that from him,” Jongho said.

San let out that sharp, broken breath that turned into a sob—Jongho grabbed him and pulled him in, holding tight, anchoring them both. Then he went quiet. 

That’s when they noticed the bedroom door open a few inches.

That’s when they saw the others standing there. Still. Silent. Watching.

Not intruding. But there.

Wooyoung’s eyes were shining. He took a step forward—then another—and stopped just in front of San.

He didn’t say anything.

He just touched San’s back, a quiet, steady warmth. And San leaned back into it without even thinking.

“I’m still here,” Wooyoung said, so soft it might’ve broken hearts.

San turned, eyes glassy and dazed. “Did..Did?” He tried to speak by stopped, eyes dulling more.

“All of it,” Wooyoung said, voice tight but sure. “And none of it changes anything.”

Hongjoong stepped into the room too, Seonghwa close behind.

No one asked for permission.

No one gave speeches.

They just moved toward the Choi brothers like gravity itself had shifted, surrounding them in quiet strength.

A chosen family, wrapping around the broken pieces.

The group didn’t speak at first.

Not because there was nothing to say—no, the silence was full. Full of what they wanted to say. Full of fury for what had been said, heartbreak for how it had landed, and a deep, unwavering love for the boys sitting shell-shocked in the bedroom.

San still hadn’t fully turned around, as if moving too much might make it all real.

But Wooyoung was still there. His hand still pressed to the middle of San’s back, gentle and grounding.

Yeosang was the next to approach, slow and careful. He reached out, arm wrapping around Jongho, pressing a light kiss against his head.

“You’re not alone,” he said simply.

Mingi passed Yunho his mug and stepped forward next, arms crossing and uncrossing as if he wanted to punch the wall but settled on a frustrated exhale.

“That man…” Mingi shook his head. “He doesn’t deserve you. Either of you.”

“Doesn’t deserve to call you his sons,” Yunho added from behind, voice low but solid.

Jongho looked at them—at the people he’d fought so hard not to burden, who had just heard everything. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

He didn’t need them.

Seonghwa, ever soft and sure, reached out and cupped Jongho’s cheek with one hand. “You are good,” he said. “You are enough. You have always been enough.”

San sank down further into Jongho. Arms tight around him like that’s what will keep him together.

Jongho hugged him tighter. Fell into him more like gravity insisted on it.

And then the group gathered in.

It was Hongjoong who moved last—quiet, purposeful. He didn’t say much. Just lowered himself beside San, letting his shoulder press against San’s while Seonghwa sat on Jongho’s other side and offered him the comfort of silence.

Wooyoung cupped San’s face with both hands.

“I don’t care what he said,” he whispered. “You’re mine. You always were.”

San didn’t respond with words. He moved in Jongho’s arms, grabbing onto Wooyoung.

He leaned in, forehead to forehead, eyes closing as his hands gripped Wooyoung’s wrists like a lifeline.

And the others stayed.

They stayed in Yeosang and Wooyoung's room, knees to knees, arms brushing, chests shaking.

Together.

Much later, when they had finally made it home and the world had gone quiet again, San and Jongho lay side by side on San’s bed. Jongho had migrated there after his shower and hadn’t left.

The room was dimly lit, the overhead lights off, just a soft glow from the corner lamp. Outside, the city continued without them. Inside, time had slowed.

“I thought he was harsh,” Jongho said into the silence. “But I didn’t know he was capable of saying that.”

San was staring at the ceiling, trying to find his words. “I always had a feeling. Like I wasn’t quite… right in his eyes. But I thought I just wasn’t good enough.”

“You were never the problem.”

San turned his head. he stops himself from saying more. Jongho’s eyes were glassy again, jaw tense.

“But you—” San swallowed. “You’ve always been his golden boy. You took the pressure, the expectations when I-”

“Don’t.” Jongho’s voice cracked.

“I’m sorry,” San whispered. “I’m so, so sorry you had to carry that for so long. And I burdened you because I exist.”

“Don't ever say that. San! I don’t regret a single second of having you in my life,” Jongho said firmly. “You’re the only reason I made it through some of those years. Do you understand?”

San blinked fast. “But he said—”

“He’s a bitter, angry man who doesn’t know how to love without conditions. You do. And you loved me—not because you had to, but because you chose to. That makes you more of a brother than he’ll ever be a father.”

San’s chest trembled. “I keep replaying it. Over and over. Like I’m trying to find something in his voice that proves it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t,” Jongho said quietly.

The honesty hurt, but it helped too.

They lay there a while longer. San wondering if he should say more, because there is more, so much more that he hasn't said, so much more that he is carrying, baring it to no one.

Jongho eventually shifted closer and laid his head on San’s shoulder like he used to when they were kids. San reached up and ruffled his hair.

“I’m scared,” San said softly. “Of what this changes. Of who I even am now.”

Jongho didn’t lift his head.

“You’re my brother. That’s who you are.”

Finally did San cry. For the person he tried to be, the person he thought he was and for the person he didn't even know anymore...himself.

The apartment had grown quiet.

Dinner had long since passed, the faint scent of fried chicken lingering like a comforting ghost. The laughter from earlier—soft, worn around the edges—had faded into something gentler.

Yeosang was curled on the couch, robe still loosely tied around his waist, his fingers absently playing with the small pendant resting against his chest. The delicate Mugunghwa glinted softly in the low light, petals catching a glimmer from the nearby lamp.

Wooyoung dropped beside him with a quiet thump, offering him a steaming cup of honey ginger tea. “Still warm,” he said softly, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched.

“Thanks,” Yeosang murmured.

For a while, they didn’t speak. The silence was peaceful, but not empty.

Then, Yeosang spoke, eyes still on the pendant. “He texted me.”

Wooyoung blinked. “hmm?”

Yeosang shook his head. “Jongho.” He turned the phone slightly so Wooyoung could see the message.

Jongho:
I’m sorry I ruined your birthday.

Wooyoung sighed, head tilting back against the cushion. “God. That boy.”

Yeosang smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked down again, brushing his thumb gently over the flower. “He didn’t ruin anything.”

Wooyoung turned to him. “You should tell him that.”

“I will,” Yeosang said quietly. Then, after a pause, “It was never about the plans or the food. Not really. I mean, it was beautiful and I’ll remember it forever—but it was about all of us being here. Together.”

He glanced over, his gaze suddenly sharper. “But I am sorry his father is such a controlling, manipulative asshole.”

Wooyoung let out a humourless laugh. “Yeah. That.” He leaned his head on Yeosang’s shoulder. “San didn’t deserve to hear that. Neither did Jongho. Not ever.”

Yeosang nodded, jaw tightening slightly. “I keep thinking about San. The way he looked after the call—like everything he thought he knew about himself had been flipped on its head.”

“He was so quiet,” Wooyoung whispered. “He let me hold him, but he wasn’t really there.”

“He will be,” Yeosang said softly. “They both will. It’ll take time. But they have us. And that means something.”

Wooyoung nodded against him.

Yeosang looked down again at his phone, then started typing.

Yeosang:
You didn’t ruin anything. Thank you for making today so special, even when you were carrying something so heavy. I’m glad it was today, because it meant you didn’t go through it alone.

A pause.

Yeosang:
Also, the necklace is beautiful. It means more than I can say.

He hit send and tucked the phone away, fingers brushing over the pendant again.

Wooyoung nudged him lightly. “You’re a good softie.”

Yeosang chuckled. “Takes one to know one.”

And in the quiet that followed, wrapped in lamplight and memory and the quiet hum of late-night comfort, the weight of the day began to settle—still heavy, but no longer unbearable.

They had each other. And tomorrow, they’d start again. Together.

Yunho sat on the living room floor, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands resting over his stomach. The distant hum of someone cleaning in the kitchen echoed faintly. Mingi, curled against his side, head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, gave a slow sigh.

“Everything feels…” Mingi paused, searching, “…shifted.”

Yunho nodded. “Yeah.”

They didn’t need to say names. They didn’t need to list the events. The phone call. The cracked doorway. The way Jongho’s voice hadn’t broken until after the line went dead.

“It wasn’t just what he said,” Mingi murmured. “It’s what it left behind. The silence. The guilt. The way San looked at Jongho—like he wanted to tear the sky apart for him.”

Yunho exhaled slowly. “And still… still Jongho tried to stand taller. Be stronger. Like it was his fault that San had to hear that.”

“He’s always done that,” Mingi whispered, voice soft with sorrow. “Taken the fall. Been the good one. Because someone told him he had to be.”

Yunho’s jaw clenched. “Their dad—”

“Not their dad,” Mingi corrected, quiet but firm. “Not after that. Not after saying San isn’t his son. That’s not a father.”

Yunho didn’t reply at first. He just reached for Mingi’s hand and laced their fingers together. His voice, when it came, was low and firm.

“Joong is their father.”

Mingi blinked, then turned to him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Yunho nodded. “The way he stepped up. The way he held Jongho when he finally cried. The way he let San just breathe. You don’t need blood to be a parent. You need presence. Love.”

Mingi’s voice trembled. “He didn’t even hesitate. He just was there.”

“Like he always is.”

Silence again. But not empty.

Mingi leaned into Yunho’s chest, whispering into the soft cotton of his shirt. “He’s all of our anchor, you know. Even when he’s hurting. He’s the one who holds us.”

Yunho kissed the crown of Mingi’s hair. “And we hold him right back.”

The apartment was still. The quiet kind that only comes in the early hours of morning, when the world hadn’t quite stirred yet, and the memory of the night before still lingered like smoke in the corners.

Seonghwa stood by the window, fingers cradling a mug of lukewarm tea he’d forgotten to drink. The city was waking beyond the glass—soft lights, a distant bus, the promise of summer almost visible in the haze.

Behind him, Hongjoong was perched on the edge of the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through listings again. But his eyes weren’t focused. Not really.

“That call,” Seonghwa said softly, not turning. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Hongjoong set the phone down, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Me either.”

Seonghwa exhaled slowly. “I always knew their father was strict. Cold, maybe. But that—” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “That wasn’t just cold. That was cruel.”

He finally turned, eyes catching Hongjoong’s. “No wonder San loved my father so much.”

Hongjoong stood and crossed the room. He didn’t say anything, just touched Seonghwa’s hand, grounding him.

Seonghwa gave a small, sad smile. “I was so lucky, Joong. I had parents who knew how to love. I never once wondered if I mattered. I never had to earn my place.”

Hongjoong’s thumb brushed over Seonghwa’s wrist. “And now you get to make that space for others. With me.”

There was a beat of silence.

“We’re doing this,” Seonghwa said, voice firmer now. “The move. All of us. We make this house, this home. No one else gets to feel like that again. Not San. Not Jongho. Not any of them.”

Hongjoong nodded. “I’ve already widened the search. I’m not stopping until we find the right one.”

“I don’t care if it’s a bit further from campus,” Seonghwa added. “As long as we can walk, or bus, or crawl if we have to—so long as it’s ours.”

Hongjoong smirked gently, tugging Seonghwa closer, arms looping around his waist. “You’ll crawl for this?”

“I’d carry them all on my back if I had to.”

Hongjoong chuckled, forehead resting against Seonghwa’s. “Good. Because I think we might have found it.”

Seonghwa’s brow arched. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. A little further out, like we thought. But big kitchen, extra rooms—” He stepped away to grab his phone, pulling up the listing. “We could use one for a dance studio. Another for music. Open living room. Balcony. It’s older, but solid bones. And the rent’s decent, especially split between eight.”

Seonghwa took the phone, scrolling slowly.

It wasn’t flashy. But it was warm. Wood floors, lots of natural light. A long hallway perfect for racing or collapsing in after a bad day. A kitchen that could actually hold them all.

It looked like home.

“I love it,” he whispered.

Hongjoong smiled. “Then let’s go see it. Today.”

Seonghwa nodded, determination glowing beneath his tired eyes. “Let’s bring them home."

When Seonghwa messaged everyone to meet up mid-morning, there was mild grumbling—mostly from Wooyoung, who had been mid-batch of experimental muffins—but they came. Sleepy, curious, in various stages of half-combed hair and mismatched shoes, they trickled into the shared living room one by one.

Jongho and San arrived last. San stayed a little behind the rest, hoodie half-zipped and quiet in a way that wasn’t usual. His posture still had a curled-in protectiveness to it. Jongho hovered close—never hovering over, just with—his presence a small, grounding weight.

Yeosang had taken a spot on the arm of the couch beside him, and Mingi was sprawled between Yunho’s legs on the rug. The whole group felt… unsteady. Tender. They were trying.

So when Hongjoong finally clapped his hands, a little too brightly, and said, “Okay! Everyone up. Family outing,” the room blinked at him.

“Family outing?” Yeosang echoed, one brow raised.

“Yep. So behave,” Hongjoong added with a pointed but playful look.

Yunho snorted. “Okay, Appa. Whatever you say.”

Laughter bubbled up in small waves—relieved, light, grateful. Even San cracked the smallest hint of a smile, eyes still shaded but his mouth twitching at the corners.

Hongjoong and Seonghwa ushered them out and onto the bus. “It’s only twenty minutes,” Seonghwa said. “You can bike or walk if you're really feeling it. There’s a few shortcut paths. Easy rides.”

Yunho mumbled something about “shortcuts and sore calves” and Mingi kept asking if it was brunch-related. Still, curiosity grew as the bus moved further and further from their usual haunts near campus.

When they got off and found themselves standing outside a quiet, tree-lined street with an older two-storey house at the end of it, confusion bloomed.

“Wait,” Jongho said, looking around. “This is outside the zone we were looking in.”

The rest of the boys looked at each other, then at Hongjoong and Seonghwa.

“Why are we—” Mingi started.

And then they saw the real estate agent waiting at the gate, clipboard in hand.

The penny dropped.

“Are we…” Yeosang paused, voice quiet. “Are we looking for all eight of us?”

Seonghwa and Hongjoong didn’t say anything. They just nodded.

There was a breath of silence.

And then Wooyoung shrieked.

“THE KITCHEN!” he cried as they stepped through the front door and he caught sight of it through the wide archway to the left. “OH MY GOD—YOU GUYS.”

The kitchen was a culinary student’s dream. A wide central island made of pale stone, soft under-glow lighting beneath the benches. There were multiple deep drawers, an entire wall of pantry space, double ovens, and a gas stovetop with six burners. A professional-grade range hood crowned the space, and there was a large farmhouse sink below a window that overlooked the back garden.

“I could kiss whoever designed this,” Wooyoung declared. “I could live in this kitchen.”

“Please don’t,” Yeosang muttered.

They toured the rest of the house with growing excitement and disbelief. The open living space was sun-drenched, with old wooden floors and high ceilings. A sliding door led out to a narrow patio and garden. There was one bedroom on the ground floor that was already cleared and open—Hongjoong explained it would be perfect for a dance studio. There was a bathroom nearby, too.

Upstairs, there were five bedroom and four of them were spaced out evenly, each with its own balcony and shared access to a second, larger communal bathroom. There was also a smaller ensuite in the master bedroom that was the biggest bedroom upstairs.

Jongho, who’d been quiet until now, pulled out his phone. He tapped into the listing—Seonghwa had sent him the link the night before—and started doing quick calculations.

He frowned.

Then blinked.

Then looked up. “It’s within the budget I planned for.”

“You planned a budget?” Yunho said.

“Of course he did,” San muttered beside him. “He’s Jongho.”

“But for all eight of us?” Mingi blinked.

Jongho hesitated, then looked around. San. Yeosang. Mingi, Yunho. Wooyoung. And across the space, Hongjoong and Seonghwa. All of them.

“…Yeah,” he said. “For all of us.”

The air shifted. The kind of silence that happens when something big falls into place.

Home wasn’t just where they stayed. Home was where they chose to stay. Together.

The real estate agent stood quietly by the front door, clipboard hugged to her chest, her usual practiced smile softening into something more genuine—curious, even fond. She’d shown this listing to dozens of families before. Couples with toddlers. Retired pairs. A woman who wanted to run yoga retreats and complained the garden was too narrow. None of them had lasted more than twenty minutes before picking the place apart.

The windows don’t face the morning light.

It’s too old-fashioned.

This kitchen won’t hold everything.

Too many stairs.

But these kids—these eight university students—were wandering through the space like they’d discovered something magical. Their fingers trailed along wooden banisters, eyes lit up at window seats and the way sunlight spilled through the back archway. They opened cupboards like they’d found treasure.

The one with a long black hair tied into a loose ponytail had shrieked when he saw the kitchen. He hadn’t stopped beaming since. The one in the leather jacket—the quiet one with sharp eyes—had gently tested the cabinet doors and run a hand across the countertop with reverence.

They noticed the things no one else had cared about.

They fit here.

The agent watched with a strange ache in her chest as one of them clapped their hands.

“Okay,” Yunho said, sweeping an arm out dramatically. “Master bedroom goes to Eomma and Appa. Obviously.”

There were nods all around.

Seonghwa turned pink. “Wait—who decided that?”

“You’re literally holding Hongjoong’s hand right now,” Wooyoung pointed out. “Plus, I refuse to hear any arguments. You two get the big room.”

“And the ensuite,” added Mingi.

“Fair,” Seonghwa muttered.

“Now,” Hongjoong said with mock formality, “for the matter of the remaining five rooms.”

“We only need three more,” Jongho said. His voice was quiet but firm, and there was a faint, unmistakable flush rising in his cheeks as the others grinned at him. He didn’t look at Yeosang—but he didn’t need to.

“Three couples’ rooms, one dance studio, and that leaves one for… storage? Study room?” Mingi mused.

“Home gym?” San suggested, to which Yunho and Wooyoung both groaned.

“Okay, calm down, protein bar,” Wooyoung muttered.

“Creative studio and study space. It has enough space for Seonghwa’s dress forms and fabrics and Hongjoong’s music stuff. Add in a couch and a low table and it will be perfect for studying.” Mingi says after a beat. There are murmurs of agreement.

The real estate agent watched as they gathered again near the kitchen island, eyes alight, flushed with excitement and nerves.

“So,” Seonghwa said, glancing around at all of them. “Are we agreed? We’ll take it?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“Oh my god, yes, please,” Wooyoung gasped. “I will die if I don’t get to cook for us in this kitchen.”

The laughter that followed was bright and easy, carrying through the house and curling around the old beams and corners like it had always belonged there.

The agent didn’t say anything for a moment. Just smiled, quietly.

She had a good feeling about this.

The buzz didn’t fade.

Even as they stood in the living room, sunlight warming the floors beneath their feet, they were already talking logistics. Plans layered over plans, excitement under every breath.

“The place won’t be available for another couple of weeks,” Seonghwa said, scanning the rental agreement again. “But that actually works, right? We need time to give notice on our leases.”

Hongjoong nodded, folding his arms. “And pack, and organise transport. Maybe we can look at hiring a small moving company for the big stuff? Then we can handle the boxes ourselves.”

“Can we colour code?” Wooyoung asked, already pulling his phone out. “Like, I’ll pack the kitchen stuff in yellow, and Hwa’s studio things can be blue—”

“No one is letting you near the label maker again,” Yeosang said dryly.

“You say that, but who labelled every single container of gochujang we had in the fridge correctly?”

“You put ‘angry red paste’ on one.”

“That was for dramatic flair.”

The laughter swelled again, and even Jongho was grinning faintly as he flicked through the lease dates on his phone, calculating rental overlaps and final utility payments.

San, who had been quieter today, suddenly lifted his head.

“I saw a café,” he said. “Just around the corner, on the way here. It looked kind of cute. Should we check it out?"

“Are you suggesting a celebratory drink?” Mingi asked, nudging him playfully. “Are we that grown up now?”

San gave a tiny smile—still tired, but real. “I guess we are.”

They left the house with signed papers in their bag and eight sets of keys to a new future.

The café was nestled beside a vintage clothing store, its old brick façade softened by creeping ivy and painted signage that had clearly been there for years. The window boasted tiny hanging plants and a faded “Help Wanted” sign tucked in the bottom corner of the door. It smelled like fresh bread and espresso the moment they stepped inside.

It was perfect.

Wooden floorboards creaked underfoot, and mismatched chairs huddled around tables with chipped mugs and handwritten menus. A student behind the counter waved at them, welcoming and casual.

“This is adorable,” Seonghwa whispered.

“This is dangerous,” Wooyoung corrected. “I will be here every single morning.”

Hongjoong was already eyeing the pastries in the display case. “Let’s get drinks. Something warm. We’ve earned it.”

San hung back near the door for a moment, eyes drawn to the counter, then to the sign. He walked over, tilting his head at it.

Yeosang followed him. “Thinking about applying?”

San shrugged. “I’ve been considering picking up part-time work in a café anyway. It’d be good experience… y’know, for later.”

Yeosang looked at him—at the little spark in San’s eyes he hadn’t seen for days—and nodded.

“I think it’d suit you,” he said gently. “And I think you’d be really good at it.”

San looked down at the sign again.

And for the first time in a while, the future felt a little less heavy. A little more his own.

As always, happiness doesn't last.

The apartment was quiet, the others had decided to crash at Jongho's, so they can start oraganising the move. They'd already notified their landlords about breaking the lease on their places. San had even applied for the Cafe job.

Jongho sat at the kitchen table, the light from his laptop casting a dull glow across his tense face. His hands were wrapped around his favourite mug, fingers clenched so tightly around the ceramic that his knuckles blanched. The coffee had long gone cold.

He was only half-aware of clicking through his inbox.

Assignment feedback. Spam. Class updates.

Then—

INTERNSHIP CONFIRMATION – HAN GROUP HOLDINGS

The blood in his ears started to roar.

He opened the email. Scanned it once. Then again. His vision blurred.

Dear Mr. Choi,
As previously arranged with your father, your summer internship with Han Group Holdings’ finance division has been confirmed…

It continued—dates, times, dress code, who he would report to, what documents to bring.

As if he were already theirs.

As if his name were a formality and not a person.

His stomach turned. Fury, white-hot and sudden, surged like flame.

He stood. The chair shrieked against the floor.

And then—without thought, without pause—he hurled the mug across the kitchen.

It shattered against the wall, ceramic exploding like a gunshot, coffee splattering across white paint like blood.

“Fuck!”

He didn’t know if he screamed it or thought it or both.

The apartment jumped to life.

Doors opened. Feet rushed. Voices called out.

But Jongho didn’t care.

He snatched his phone, fingers trembling, and stormed out onto the balcony like a man seconds from detonating.

Two rings.

“Jongho,” his father answered, clipped and cold. “I assume you received the confirmation. I don’t know why you’re calling when—”

“I said no,” Jongho snapped, voice shaking. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“I don’t need to ask. You owe me. I’m your father. I know what’s best for your future. This discussion is over.”

“No,” Jongho growled. “This discussion is just beginning. You never gave me a choice. Not about my major. Not about this internship. Not about my life. You treat me like I’m just a fucking pawn—”

“Watch your tone.”

“Why should I?” he exploded. “Why should I respect a man who’s never once respected me? You treat me like some investment you expect returns on—”

“Because you are an investment. You are the legacy of this family, and you will fulfill that responsibility. You’re not some soft weak man like that waste of space—”

“DON’T YOU FUCKING TALK ABOUT SAN LIKE THAT!”

The words ripped out of him like thunder.

Inside, someone gasped. He didn’t know who.

“Do not fall down to his level Boy. You will accept the internship,” his father said icily. “You will complete it, and then you will join the company full time. You will marry the Han girl like we agreed—”

“I’M GAY!” Jongho screamed, voice cracking. “I’m gay. I’m not marrying some girl you picked. I’m not taking over that company. I’m not going to be your puppet anymore!”

Silence.

Then, quiet and brutal:

“You disappoint me.”

Jongho gave a low, disbelieving laugh. “No. You’ve disappointed me my whole damn life. I’m done.”

The line went dead.

His breath was ragged. His heart pounded. The world tilted beneath him like the air had been sucked from the sky.

He let out an anguished cry.

And then he turned.

The balcony door hadn’t shut all the way.

Yeosang stood just outside it, pale and shaken. Behind him, San was frozen, gripping the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright, he'd heard the tone, the words. Never has he spoken to Jongho that way. Wooyoung had a hand over his mouth. Mingi. Yunho. All of them—eyes wide, stunned, wrecked.

And behind them—

Seonghwa. Hongjoong.

Jongho’s fury twisted into something worse. Humiliation.

But before he could speak, Yeosang stepped forward, voice steady but thick.

“You didn’t disappoint anyone here.”

Jongho looked away.

“I don’t want pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Yeosang said gently. “It’s awe.”

Jongho’s eyes flicked up, disbelieving.

“That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen,” Yeosang continued, closing the space between them. “You’re not the one who should feel ashamed.”

And just like that, Jongho cracked.

Not with tears—but like a dam finally bursting. He collapsed into Yeosang’s arms, fists clenched in the fabric of his hoodie, and breathed like he was drowning.

“I hate him,” he whispered. “I hate that he never saw me. Never loved me. Not once.”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Yeosang murmured fiercely, holding him tighter. “But we do.”

And one by one, they came.

San, eyes rimmed red but dry, sat beside him without a word. Mingi crouched and leaned close, eyes wide with quiet sorrow. Yunho stood behind him, strong and still.

Then Seonghwa crossed the room, stepping lightly over the threshold.

He didn’t say anything. Just knelt beside Wooyoung, who had begun quietly sweeping the shattered pieces of the mug from the floor.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

Wooyoung didn’t look up. “He shouldn’t have to see it again.”

Seonghwa placed a hand on his back, a silent I’m proud of you, and then rose.

Hongjoong stepped into the centre of the room.

He crouched beside Jongho and Yeosang, expression unreadable, then softened his voice.

“You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to fix it. You just… get to feel it, Jongho. We’re here.”

Jongho trembled. His head dipped in a nod.

Seonghwa knelt on the other side. “You’re not alone,” he said again, quieter. “Not ever again.”

And in the silence that followed, something loosened.

The apartment stayed still, cocooned in care. The mess was cleaned. The fury had passed.

But the love stayed.

Hongjoong rose and looked around—at San, broken open in a way none of them had seen; at Jongho, wrecked but freer than he’d ever been.

And he made a silent vow.

No more of them would ever be alone again.

The apartment had gone quiet again.

Not the startled silence of earlier, filled with shattered mugs and broken voices, but a gentler one—dim and breath-held, moonlight painting soft outlines across the furniture. The kitchen had been cleaned. The rage was gone.

But the pain still lingered.

San sat curled into one corner of the couch, arms wrapped around his knees, shoulders trembling as the last couple of days finally started sinking in. The others moved quietly around him—careful, reverent, letting him have the stillness he needed.

Seonghwa entered first, fresh from a call with his noona. Hongjoong followed behind, the soft thump of slippered feet barely audible on the wooden floor.

They both paused in the doorway.

San’s eyes were red, gaze unfocused, staring somewhere near the far wall but not really seeing it, lost in memories. He didn’t bother wiping his cheeks anymore. His defences had long crumbled.

“Hyung,” he whispered when he saw Seonghwa.

That was all it took.

Seonghwa crossed the room in a few quick steps, kneeling in front of the couch and wrapping San in a firm, warm embrace. San folded instantly into it, clinging to him like someone who’d held himself together too long.

“I’m not his son,” San choked out. “I—I always knew he hated me. But to hear it like that, It—hurts.”

“You were never the problem,” Seonghwa murmured, his voice steady as stone. “You were the light in that house. He just didn’t deserve to see it.”

Hongjoong sat beside them, anchoring them both with a hand between their shoulders.

“You are so much more than the blood in your veins,” he said gently. “And anyone who can’t see your worth doesn’t deserve to define your place in this world.”

San’s chest heaved with a sob. Seonghwa whispered something only he could hear—a string of soft truths and affirmations—and Hongjoong rubbed calming circles between his shoulder blades, quiet and constant.

One by one, the others trickled in.

Wooyoung settled at San’s feet, resting his head gently against his knee. Mingi took the space beside Hongjoong, reaching forward to take San’s hand in both of his. Yunho came to stand behind the couch, resting one large hand between Wooyoung’s shoulder blades, another reaching down to squeeze San’s.

Then came Yeosang and Jongho.

Yeosang climbed up onto the arm of the couch near Seonghwa, legs tucked beneath him. Jongho didn’t say anything at first—he just lowered himself to the floor beside San, pressing their sides together, grounding them both.

“You’re still my brother,” Jongho said finally, voice soft but steady. “That hasn’t changed. Won’t ever.”

San swallowed hard, gaze bouncing from face to face.

His family.

The one he’d chosen. The one who had stayed.

“I love you,” he whispered, throat raw.

Seonghwa brushed back his hair gently. “We know. And we love you too. Every piece.”

San’s gaze lowered. "Jongho, you are his son and he still couldn’t love you.”

The words hit like a gut punch. Jongho flinched, shoulders tightening, but he didn’t argue.

“I love you, though,” San whispered, eyes fixed on him. “I always have. And I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Jongho's throat worked, but no sound came. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to San’s shoulder, and let himself be held. His arms came up slowly, encircling his hyung like he was afraid he might break again.

“I’m sorry,” San whispered.

Jongho blinked, pulling back just enough to look at him. “For what?”

“For…” San’s voice cracked. “Not protecting you more. I thought if I could just take it—if I could stay quiet—maybe he’d go easier on you.”

Jongho looked away. “You had your own battles.”

“Still,” San whispered. “He dumped that pressure, all on you. Made you his heir and his target. And I just stood there.”

“You stood by me,” Jongho said, fierce now. “Even when you couldn’t stand up to him. You were the only reason I didn’t forget who I was.”

There was a moment then, just breath between them.

And then Jongho pulled him in closer, not as the younger brother trying to be strong—but as the person who knew, finally, that he didn’t have to be strong alone.

It was a few days later “You know what you need?” Mingi asked, his voice muffled around the yawn he barely bothered to cover. He balanced on one foot as he shoved the other into a mismatched sneaker, already halfway to the door.

Jongho, slumped stiffly on the couch, barely lifted his head. His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, shoulders hunched like the weight of the day hadn’t quite let him go. “We’ve had a lot of chaos, hyung,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Mingi agreed brightly, unlocking his phone with a thumb swipe, “but this kind has skee-ball and neon lights.”

San, flopped upside down across the armrest with his legs thrown over the back of the couch and a cushion half-covering his face, squinted at him. “You’re not making sense.”

“I’m making perfect sense,” Mingi replied, finger in the air like a professor mid-lecture. “The only cure for being emotionally pulverised by your father is kicking my ass at air hockey while I demand a rematch and Yunho buys you unnecessarily overpriced churros.”

“Scientific fact,” Yunho chimed in as he entered from the hallway, already halfway into a denim jacket. His hair was damp, fresh from a quick shower, and his smile—while not bright—was steady and sure, like a hand on your back when you need to know you’re not alone.

He paused in front of Jongho and tilted his head slightly. “We’re kidnapping you,” he explained, as if that was an entirely reasonable, non-negotiable statement. “Arcade. Snacks. Terrible claw machines. Mario Kart battles that ruin friendships.”

Jongho frowned faintly. “I don’t think I’m in the mood.”

“No moods allowed,” Yunho said, and offered his hand. “Only Mario Kart.”

Behind them, Wooyoung emerged from the kitchen, already tying up a plastic bag of what suspiciously looked like emergency snacks and drink bottles. “If you don’t come willingly,” he warned, “we will drag you. I once carried Mingi down three flights of stairs in a laundry basket.”

Mingi beamed. “One of our best moments.”

Seonghwa, who had just returned from the balcony with his arms folded and his hair tied loosely back, raised an eyebrow. “Are you really going out at this hour?”

“Yes,” Hongjoong said, appearing beside him with his phone and keys already in hand. “It’s urgent medical treatment. The prescription is fluorescent lighting and stupid claw machines that never give you the plushie you actually want.”

“Or an armful of rubber ducks you didn’t ask for,” Yeosang added dryly from the hallway, pulling on a windbreaker. “But you’ll treasure them forever.”

“I named mine Jeff,” Mingi said helpfully.

Jongho looked around, bewildered. “Are you all serious right now?”

San finally flipped himself upright and stretched dramatically. “Dead serious. You stood up to your father, came out, broke the cycle of generational trauma and shattered a mug. That deserves at least one round of laser tag.”

“We’ll even let you win,” Wooyoung offered, completely lying.

Yeosang blinked slowly. “We will not.”

Everyone was in motion now—jackets thrown over shoulders, phones grabbed, keys checked, wallets and student IDs located. Jongho sat there in the middle of it, still in his softest hoodie and house slippers, watching his chaotic family rally around him with an energy so stubbornly kind it made his throat ache.

Then Yunho crouched in front of him again, hand still outstretched.

“Come on,” he said gently, the way someone might coax a bruised animal out of hiding. “Let us remind you what it feels like to laugh.”

Jongho stared at his hand for a long moment.

Then, without fully knowing why, he took it.

Yunho pulled him up and into motion before his doubt could catch up. The apartment buzzed with voices and zippers and snack rustling. 

As Jongho stepped into his shoes and let San throw a jacket over his shoulders, the noise wrapped around him like a blanket.

The train ride was absolute carnage.

They had barely made it onto the platform in one piece—Yeosang nearly lost his balance when San shoved him out of the way for a seat, and Wooyoung dramatically declared he’d been left behind to die after the ticket gate swallowed his card. Jongho, surrounded by backpacks, limbs, and the chaos of a seven-person assault on a completely average Friday night train ride, just blinked in disbelief.

“Sit there, Jongho!” Mingi shouted, pointing to a single empty seat like it was a raft in open ocean.

“I’m fine standing—”

“No, you’re traumatised, emotionally exhausted, and full of repressed rage,” Mingi said, herding him toward the seat while also elbowing San out of the way. “You sit. The rest of us will yell about snacks.”

“Already yelling,” Wooyoung called from the other end of the carriage, where he’d managed to wedge himself between Yeosang and a very alarmed commuter. “Is anyone else hearing the call of the churros? Because I’m hearing it loud and clear.”

“This train doesn’t even go to churros,” Seonghwa sighed, clinging to the overhead rail like he regretted every life choice that had brought him here.

“It does go to fun,” Hongjoong said, surprisingly cheerful as he tapped the route map with the back of his knuckle. “And possibly a bowling alley, depending how many stops we overshoot.”

Mingi clambered into the space next to Jongho and threw an arm around him with the weight of a very large, very determined golden retriever. “Phase One of Recovery: Public Transportation Panic. Phase Two: win you a rubber duck.”

“Why a duck.”

“Why not a duck?”

Behind them, Yunho managed to claim the end of the carriage’s long bench, legs spread slightly as if guarding the territory. He patted the spot beside him. “San. Come sit before you fall and accidentally marry someone.”

“I’m very charming under stress,” San muttered, stumbling as the train lurched. “I could be someone’s tax problem by morning.”

“Not mine,” Yeosang said primly. “I already have Wooyoung.”

“Excuse you,” Wooyoung said, offended. “I am not a tax problem. I am a luxury expense.”

The entire conversation earned them a few side-eyes, one elderly woman who actually laughed out loud, and a group of teenagers who looked vaguely terrified.

Jongho let it all wash over him—the jostling bodies, the overlapping voices, the constant tug and whirl of movement—and felt, for the first time in days, like he wasn’t drowning under it.

“Hey,” Yunho said as they neared their stop, leaning over Mingi’s seat to ruffle Jongho’s hair. “Remember—only rule of tonight is you’re not allowed to think.”

“I’m usually the responsible one,” Jongho said, dry.

“Exactly why you’re not allowed to be,” Hongjoong called, already pressing the door button.

The arcade welcomed them with a buzz of fluorescent lights and terrible pop music that somehow suited the energy of their group perfectly. Seonghwa immediately made a beeline for the café counter, muttering about caffeine and moral support, while Yeosang and Wooyoung locked eyes and made a silent, deadly sprint for skee-ball.

“Alright,” Mingi said, slapping a game card into Jongho’s hand with exaggerated ceremony. “You and me. Air hockey. It’s therapy.”

“Your version of therapy sounds violent,” Jongho muttered, but didn’t hand the card back.

“It is,” Mingi grinned. “That’s the point.”

San managed to lose three games in a row to Yeosang, and retaliated by stuffing Wooyoung into one of the photo booths. Yunho got dragged into Mario Kart and proceeded to demolish Hongjoong and Seonghwa with unnerving precision. Mingi attempted a claw machine three times and declared a war on “the gods of gravity and claw strength.”

And somewhere between laser tag and a hallway vending machine, Jongho laughed.

Not a polite chuckle, not a tired huff—but a real, startled, breathless laugh that cracked the surface of the weight on his shoulders. It escaped him before he even realised it, and Mingi whipped around from the claw machine with wide eyes.

“There it is!” he shouted triumphantly. “Joy! It lives!”

“Shut up,” Jongho muttered, cheeks warming—but the smile didn’t fade.

They didn’t go home until the last train was nearly pulling out. The group sprinted across the platform like a pack of gremlins, tripping over each other and cackling as they squeezed into seats and collapsed in a tangle of limbs and prizes. Someone—probably San—had picked up a giant inflatable hammer. Someone else—definitely Mingi—was still muttering about a rubber duck named Jeff.

Jongho sat between Yunho and Hongjoong this time, warm on both sides, legs pressed against friends who refused to let the world get too dark.

The café near the new apartment smelled like roasted beans and fresh possibility.

San lingered outside the entrance, shifting nervously from foot to foot. His shirt was pressed to perfection, and he clutched his CV like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Do I look okay?” he asked.

“You look like you’re about to get hired on sight,” Wooyoung replied, arms crossed and sunglasses perched on his head like a crown. He gave San a once-over and nodded. “Very capable. Very professional. Slightly kissable.”

“Woo.”

“Let me fix that—” Wooyoung stepped forward and caught him in a kiss. Soft, slow, and distracting in the best possible way. When he pulled back, San’s ears were burning and his expression dazed.

“There,” Wooyoung said, brushing a thumb over San’s cheek. “Now you’re good to go.”

San groaned, laughing despite himself. “I can’t tell if that helped or made it worse.”

“Go,” Wooyoung grinned, nudging him toward the door. “Charm their socks off. I’m going to explore the area a bit.”

“You mean snack scout.”

“I mean research, thank you very much.”

After San disappeared into the café, Wooyoung lingered for a moment, scanning the storefront before turning away. He had nowhere urgent to be, and that alone made him fidget. He wasn’t good at waiting—not when it was San on the other side of a job interview and every second out of sight felt like something he couldn’t help with.

So, he walked.

The new neighbourhood was quieter than their current one. More leafy corners, fewer sirens, less neon. There was a secondhand bookstore he made a mental note to drag Yeosang to, and a café cart selling matcha lattes from a side alley. But then—

A scent stopped him mid-step.

Buttery, sugary, with something floral and citrus layered beneath.

Wooyoung turned his head, eyes landing on a pale cream sign with gold lettering: Le Rêve du Four.

A pâtisserie.

His heart lifted.

He pushed the door open with quiet reverence, the little bell above chiming a soft, delicate note. And then the smell hit him full force—real laminated pastry, warm glaze, toasted almond. A gentle jazz instrumental was playing in the background.

The display case took up most of the front, and Wooyoung stepped forward automatically, drawn like gravity had a personal hold on him. His eyes roamed over everything. Entremets with perfect mirror glazes, sugar-piped florals so fine they looked like porcelain, tarte au citron with gently torched peaks that had just started to blister.

“Oh my god,” he whispered.

He leaned forward, eyes sharp, tracing the edge of a mousse dome. “That glaze is neutral-based with yuzu. Probably a stabilised mirror finish—gelatin, glucose, white chocolate base… Damn.”

“You’ve got a good eye,” said a voice from behind the counter.

Wooyoung looked up. A woman stood there in a flour-dusted apron, her sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, her tone more curious than surprised.

“Second year pâtisserie,” Wooyoung offered, rubbing the back of his neck with a slightly sheepish smile. “We did plated desserts and entremets last term. I saw something almost exactly like that raspberry dome in class—but your glaze is cleaner.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “Flatterer.”

“Just honest,” he grinned, tapping the glass gently. “Is that basil in the mousse?”

“Basil and lemon. With a strawberry centre.”

“I knew it. That’s gorgeous.”

He lingered a moment longer, scanning the other desserts. “That matcha choux is textbook. Good piping structure. And that caramel tart—with the hazelnut sable base?” He exhaled. “That’s criminally pretty.”

“Would you like a box?” she asked, already reaching for one.

“Yes, please. I want to try everything, but I’ll start with those three.”

As she carefully packed the desserts into a pale pink box, Wooyoung studied her technique, the way her fingers were gentle but deliberate, precise without being stiff. She reminded him a little of his mentor back at school. Kind hands. Confident ones.

When the box was tied with a cream ribbon and handed over, he held it like something precious.

“Thanks,” he said. “Seriously. These are stunning.”

She nodded once, then offered a quiet, “Good luck with whatever you're waiting on.”

Wooyoung blinked, then smiled. “Thanks. I think it’ll go okay.”

Outside, the sunlight felt warmer. He found a spot near the café San was in and sat on the low edge of a planter box, dessert box beside him, resisting the urge to open it.

He wanted to wait.

Even if San wouldn’t understand the difference between pâte sucrée and pâte sablée, he’d still want to share the first bite.

Probably.

Maybe.

Eventually.

San pushed open the glass door of the café, stepping out into the morning light with a heart still fluttering from the interview. His nerves were starting to settle, replaced by a quiet hope.

And then he saw him.

Wooyoung was sitting on the low edge of a planter box just across the street, bathed in sunlight that seemed to cling to him like a halo. His face was tilted up, eyes closed, soft smile playing on his lips—like the world was holding him gently, like he was exactly where he belonged.

Beside him, the pale pink box of desserts rested neatly, ribbon catching the light.

San stopped dead.

For a moment, Wooyoung’s eyes remained closed, as if he hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps. But then San’s shadow fell across him, and Wooyoung’s lashes fluttered open.

The moment their eyes met, Wooyoung’s smile grew wider, warmer, like a sunrise blooming in his chest.

It was a smile that said: “You’re here. You’re enough. I see you.”

San’s breath hitched. His throat tightened.

Because there, in the soft glow of morning, was the man who loved him without hesitation or condition—the man who held space for all his fears and doubts and still chose him every single day.

The man who saw his worth when he couldn’t see it himself.

It was beautiful.

It was fierce.

It was everything.

San’s lips trembled as he swallowed the lump in his throat.

Wooyoung stood, brushing dust off his jeans as he reached out, fingers curling gently around San’s wrist.

“Hey,” Wooyoung said softly, voice low but sure.

“Hey,” San managed, voice breaking just a little.

Wooyoung’s thumb brushed across his skin in a slow, comforting stroke. “You did great.”

Without thinking, without hesitation, San closed the distance between them.

His hands found Wooyoung’s face—warm, steady—and he leaned in, pressing their lips together in a kiss that was sudden and fierce and full of everything he couldn’t quite say.

Wooyoung melted into it, hands sliding down to rest lightly on San’s waist.

When they finally parted, Wooyoung’s breath was slow and steady, his eyes dark and soft as they locked onto San’s.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, the words low but full of certainty.

San’s heart hammered, wild and hopeful.

“Only yours,” he breathed back.

San and Wooyoung walked back through the quiet streets, hands still lightly clasped, the afternoon sun warming their backs. The box of delicate pastries rested carefully in Wooyoung’s other arm, a small treasure from the pâtisserie.

As they turned the corner onto their street, the familiar hum of bustling activity drifted toward them—zipper pulls, soft laughter, the occasional murmur of conversation. The apartment where Seonghwa, Hongjoong, Yeosang, and Wooyoung lived was already alive with the chaos of a packing day.

Through the open front door, San could see bags half-packed, boxes labeled “Books,” “Decor,” and “Winter Clothes,” and stray hangers balanced precariously on the edge of the couch. Yeosang sat on the floor, sorting through stacks of papers and legal books, while Hongjoong carefully folded a pile of music sheets.

Seonghwa was nearby, thoughtfully holding up a garment rack heavy with carefully preserved designs. Wooyoung’s eyes caught his immediately, a small smile of recognition and tired pride tugging at his lips.

San took a deep breath, feeling the familiar warmth of friendship and home wrapped around him. Even with the chaos, the stress of the upcoming move, the uncertainty of what was to come, this was theirs. They were in it together.

“Hey, you two,” Yeosang called softly, looking up from his papers and giving Wooyoung a brief nod before turning his attention back.

“Did the interview go okay?” Hongjoong asked, voice gentle but curious.

San exchanged a glance with Wooyoung before answering, “Better than I hoped.”

Wooyoung set the pastry box carefully on the kitchen counter, eyes bright. “And I found something worth sharing,” he said, grinning.

Seonghwa folded his arms, raising an eyebrow with amused affection. “Did you eat all the samples already?”

Wooyoung laughed. “Not yet. But soon.”

San felt a quiet swell of contentment as he joined the others, ready to help with the packing, the moving, and everything ahead.

As the others busied themselves folding clothes and sorting boxes, Hongjoong and Seonghwa found themselves lingering near the window, away from the bustle but close enough to keep an eye on the progress.

Seonghwa ran a hand through his loosely tied-back hair, eyes flicking toward the scattered bed frames and mattresses stacked awkwardly in the corner. “Have you thought about the beds yet?”

Hongjoong glanced over, expression thoughtful. “Yeah. I mean, you and I have the double bed, but the rest all have singles.”

Seonghwa nodded slowly. “It would be nicer for the couples to have doubles, each. More space. More comfort.”

“True,” Hongjoong agreed, rubbing his chin. “But the cost…”

Seonghwa gave a small sigh. “We could sell the singles and some of the duplicates. Despite what Wooyoung says, we don’t need two microwaves or two washing machines.”

Hongjoong smiled, shaking his head. “Yeah, Wooyoung does love to stockpile.”

Seonghwa’s gaze softened. “I just want us all to have a space that feels like home.”

Hongjoong reached out, taking Seonghwa’s hand in his. “We’ll make it work. Together.”

The packing had settled into a comfortable rhythm—boxes taped, drawers emptied, small discoveries met with laughter or groans of "I thought I lost that." Jongho waited until there was a lull, everyone gathered in the living room for a short break, sipping water and picking through a leftover container of biscuits.

“I, uh...” Jongho cleared his throat. “I’ve already booked movers.”

Seven pairs of eyes turned to him at once.

“For both apartments,” he added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Packing, transport, unloading. It’s all covered.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, followed by San blurting, “You did what?”

“I wanted it to go smoothly,” Jongho said, glancing at the floor. “So no one burns out before the semester even starts.”

Yeosang looked faintly surprised but impressed. “That’s... really organised of you.”

Mingi let out a low whistle. “Jongho, that can’t have been cheap.”

Jongho hesitated, then shrugged a little. “I’ve been investing. Since I was thirteen. Small stuff, mostly—savings, some stock, a little crypto when it made sense. I kept reinvesting.”

He didn’t look at anyone directly, and he didn’t say why.

But across the room, Seonghwa and Hongjoong exchanged a quiet glance. They already knew.

They remembered their conversation a few weeks ago where he admitted that he started to invest more to help San with his dream of owning a cafe.

It was never spoken outside that conversation. Not then. Not now.

Hongjoong was the first to respond, softly. “Thank you, Jongho. That’s a big weight off all our shoulders.”

“Seriously,” Wooyoung added. “You didn’t have to, but... thank you.”

San blinked a few times. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Jongho gave a small smile and shrugged again, trying to pass it off as no big deal. “You don’t have to say anything. Just... help me lift Yeosang’s horror movie DVD box set later. That thing weighs more than a textbook.”

Yeosang sniffed. “Art has weight.”

The moment passed with quiet laughter, the tension diffused. But from where they sat, Hongjoong reached over and gave Jongho’s shoulder a brief squeeze.

Seonghwa didn’t say anything—but when their eyes met, Jongho nodded once.

The reason stayed between them. And that was enough.

The living room was half-packed and echoing slightly, the absence of clutter making their voices ring a little louder than usual. Boxes were stacked neatly against one wall, labels scrawled in black marker: KITCHEN (FRAGILE), YEOSANG’S DESK, WOO’S BAKING (OPEN FIRST!!!).

San looked around with a low whistle. “It’s really happening.”

“About time,” Hongjoong muttered, squatting to seal a box of extension cords and tangled chargers. “I’ve lived here long enough to know exactly which floorboard creaks when Yeosang sneaks to the fridge at 2am.”

Yeosang didn’t even look up from taping a box. “I don’t sneak. I glide.”

Jongho, perched on the edge of the coffee table, cleared his throat. “So I organised it that we’ll move this apartment on Friday. Then Saturday we’ll move ours.”

“Smart,” Seonghwa said, passing him a marker. “That way we’re not trying to move eight people’s lives in one day.”

“Exactly,” Jongho nodded. “We’ll spend Friday getting everything moved in, beds set up, maybe even unpack a bit. We can sleep at the new place that night, or back here at our apartment, so we don’t have to travel in the morning.”

“Ooo,” Wooyoung perked up from where he was bubble-wrapping a collection of oddly shaped spatulas. “One last sleepover before we’re all settled? That sounds cute.”

“Like a farewell party for the chaos,” Mingi added. “I vote new place. Test the water pressure. Get emotionally attached to the lighting.”

Seonghwa chuckled. “You just want to run around barefoot on the new floors and scream into the empty rooms.”

“That too.”

Hongjoong leaned against the kitchen counter. “By the way, the beds are confirmed. The three new doubles for the other couples will arrive Friday afternoon—just in time.”

“And mine and Joong’s double is already getting moved over with everything else,” Seonghwa added. “So everyone gets their space. Finally.”

“It’s weird,” Wooyoung said, holding up a spoon like it might make his point clearer. “But it’s also really nice. Like… we’re all building a home together. A real one.”

Jongho nodded quietly. “We’ve sold off most of the duplicate stuff—extra toasters, old shelves, the microwave that no one wanted to claim... it gave us more than enough to cover the new beds.”

“And,” Wooyoung jumped in proudly, “we’re keeping both fridges.”

San raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Eight people,” Wooyoung said, counting dramatically on his fingers. “That’s twenty-four meals a day, not counting midnight snacks or experimental baking. And don’t even start with me about condiments.”

“There’s space for both,” Seonghwa added. “We planned the layout together, remember?”

“I’m designing my own fridge system,” Wooyoung declared. “Left fridge is bulk prep and storage. Right fridge is daily use, leftovers, and emergency pudding.”

Yeosang muttered something about food diplomacy but didn’t argue.

Boxes rustled. Tape hissed. The sound of scissors slicing through cardboard mixed with casual conversation as the afternoon light shifted across the floor. This place had been a lot of things to them—a safe haven, a creative battleground, a late-night counselling office with leftover fried chicken.

But it was time.

“I’ll miss it,” Seonghwa admitted, gently closing the last wardrobe drawer.

“So will I,” Hongjoong said. “But I think I’ll love the new place even more.”

And somehow, they all felt it—like a chapter ending, and a new one beginning, lined with clean countertops, soft lighting, and more room for everything they had become.

The movers arrived at exactly 9:00 a.m.—three men in navy shirts and cheerful attitudes, clipboard in hand, eyes already scanning the organised chaos of the apartment.

“Morning!” one of them called as they stepped in. “Looks like you guys are ahead of the game.”

“Please be careful with the dress forms,” Seonghwa said immediately, guiding them to the living room where two were waiting, draped in protective muslin like sleeping ghosts. “They’re custom-moulded. If they’re crushed or bent, I’ll have to start again from scratch.”

The lead mover gave a reassuring smile. “We’ve moved a whole gallery of mannequins before, mate. These are in good hands.”

“And the kitchen things,” Wooyoung added sharply, arms crossed, eyes laser-focused. “There are labels. Use them. If I find my piping tips next to the rice cooker again, I’ll cry.”

The movers exchanged glances, amused but not surprised.

“Culinary student?” one of them asked.

“Mmmmhm focusing in Pâtisserie,” Wooyoung said gravely, as if that explained everything.

“Ah,” said the mover, nodding solemnly. “We’ll treat it like gold.”

Wooyoung narrowed his eyes like a suspicious hawk as they began carefully moving boxes and wrapping furniture, following each trip to the truck with the intensity of a mother tiger. Yeosang was no help, unless you counted his dramatic running commentary from the counter.

“That box says fragile, you fool!” Yeosang announced dramatically as one of the movers gently lifted a clearly bubble-wrapped blender. “The tears of angels are inside!”

“Yeosang,” Seonghwa sighed, “please stop terrorising the people helping us.”

“They said they’re professionals. They should be tested.”

The movers just laughed and kept working, clearly used to this kind of chaotic energy.

By late morning, the apartment was almost stripped bare—bookshelves emptied, rugs rolled, every corner cleared except for the faint outlines of where things used to be.

Jongho, San, Yunho, and Mingi had gone ahead with the first wave to the new place, there to meet the truck and start directing where things should go. Wooyoung had made San promise—explicitly—that he’d guard the kitchen boxes like national treasure.

“I want a map, San,” he’d said, tapping his phone. “A plan. I want to be able to find the vanilla bean paste with my eyes closed.”

Now, in the echoing quiet of the emptied apartment, the remaining four stood still for the first time all day.

Yeosang let out a dramatic sigh and spun slowly in the centre of the living room. “Wow. It’s ugly without our stuff.”

“It’s peaceful,” Seonghwa murmured.

“No,” Wooyoung corrected, “it’s echoey and emotionally manipulative.”

Yeosang laughed but softened when he glanced around again. “We really did make this place home.”

Hongjoong and Seonghwa exchanged a look over the boxes by the door—one long, lingering with the weight of years and memories packed into these rooms. Late nights, deadlines, shared dinners, whispered comforts from the couch at 2 a.m.

“Remember when we first moved in?” Hongjoong said, reaching out to gently tug a hair tie from Seonghwa’s wrist and slipping it onto his own.

“I hated the lighting,” Seonghwa said fondly. “And the wallpaper.”

“You still hate the wallpaper.”

“Because it’s awful.”

They laughed, and Hongjoong reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “Thank you for making this place feel like home.”

Seonghwa leaned into him. “Thank you for being my home in it.”

A moment of stillness passed between them, soft and sure, before Wooyoung’s voice broke it completely.

“Okay, unless one of you is going to propose right now, I’m grabbing the last snack bag and calling it. Goodbye, cursed sink that never drained properly. Goodbye, too-small oven that ruined my first croissants. Goodbye, Yeosang’s old beanbag that smelled like stress and soy sauce.”

“Hey,” Yeosang said, indignant. “That beanbag comforted many people.”

“Including you, the night we bombed the kimchi stew.”

“You bombed the stew.”

And just like that, the energy returned—bickering and laughing and tugging on jackets as they made their final sweep. Seonghwa turned out the lights with one last glance around the quiet flat.

“Ready?” Hongjoong asked softly.

Seonghwa nodded. “Let’s go home.”

The moving truck pulled up to the new place just after midday, right as the delivery van for the beds was backing out of the driveway. Timing, for once, had aligned perfectly.

“They’re already inside,” one of the movers told Seonghwa as he climbed out of the cab. “Beds came early—your mates signed for them.”

“Thanks,” Hongjoong replied, already tightening his grip on the small overnight bag slung over his shoulder.

The front door was unlocked, left ajar in invitation, and the moment they stepped inside, the air felt different. Warmer, somehow. Lived in—even if it wasn’t, not yet.

Boxes lined the hallway, stacked with post-its in Wooyoung’s handwriting—KITCHEN (Apt A), BOOKS (YEOSANG), SEONGHWA CLOSET – DELICATE. The scent of cardboard and clean paint mixed in the open space.

From above came the thud of something heavy being set down and Yunho’s unmistakable voice: “No, Mingi, the slats go that way.”

“Are you sure?” Mingi called back. “I swear the diagram says left!”

“You’re holding it upside down.”

Downstairs, Jongho was already in the living space, rearranging the furniture pieces that had made it through the move intact. He glanced up when they walked in, brushing dust off his hands. “Hey. Beds are all here. San’s waiting on Wooyoung to approve his kitchen placement decisions before he dares move a single thing.” Yeosang moves to help Jongho.

“I heard that!” San shouted from the kitchen. “And I’m being respectful, thank you!”

“You’re scared of him,” Yunho's’s voice floated down from upstairs. “Just admit it.”

San muttered something about piping tips being weapons and returned to the labelled boxes.

Wooyoung, arms full of freshly-purchased spice jars, beamed. “You waited! Good. San, those three are pantry, those two fridge dry zones, and I want the baking trays—”

“On the side rack, yes, I remember.”

“Good boy,” Wooyoung said sweetly, and gave him a kiss on the cheek as he passed.

Seonghwa didn’t say anything at first. He just stood at the centre of the living room and turned slowly in a circle, taking it all in—the staircase, the open-plan kitchen, the sunlight through the big front windows, the sound of their people upstairs and down.

Hongjoong reached for his hand.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s see our room.”

The master bedroom still smelled faintly of fresh paint, but the new bedframe was in place, mattress leaning upright against the wall. Boxes were neatly stacked beside the wardrobe. Seonghwa moved instinctively toward the ensuite bathroom, already opening drawers and beginning to line up skincare and toiletries with a familiarity born of habit.

Hongjoong stood in front of the wardrobe, opening doors, placing his jewellery box on a shelf, smoothing the top of a fabric storage bin.

Upstairs, the others were still talking and laughing, footsteps thudding, the rhythm of homebuilding unfolding around them.

Seonghwa turned from the sink, wiping his hands on a towel as he leaned on the doorframe. He looked at Hongjoong, who was crouched to unpack his boots and humming under his breath, and he felt it—a tension unwinding inside his ribs. A slow breath out.

“Joongie,” he said softly.

Hongjoong looked up.

“We did the right thing.”

A smile curled slow and sure across Hongjoong’s face. He stood and crossed to where Seonghwa leaned, brushing a gentle hand along his arm.

“Yes, love,” he said, voice warm and certain. “We did.”

And outside their door, the house continued to fill—noise, laughter, love—like it had always been waiting for them.

Chapter Text

Unloading the Past

By the time the last box was shoved into a corner and the sun dipped fully below the horizon, their new home buzzed with low, steady energy. Day one of moving complete, one more day and one more apartment to go.

Wooyoung had claimed the kitchen with all the grace and authority of a crowned king, sleeves rolled up, music playing from a speaker someone had unearthed mid-unpacking.

“Don’t touch anything, I have a system,” he warned, waving a spatula dangerously when Mingi offered to help.

“That’s what you said before and you made me zest a lemon wrong,” Mingi shot back, flopping dramatically into one of the chairs around the dining table.

“You twisted the zester,” Wooyoung deadpanned, “like a psychopath.”

Across the room, Yunho let out a wheezing laugh and nearly dropped the plates he was drying.

The living room was only half-set-up, but the essentials were there: couch cushions, a low table, and enough blankets for a proper sleepover pile later. The dining table was mismatched—two chairs from the old apartment, a bench from the new one, one still in its box—but no one cared.

Dinner was warm and familiar: kimchi fried rice, crispy dumplings, pan-fried veggies, and the last of Wooyoung’s treasured stash of homemade dipping sauce from the old place. He set it all out with a triumphant flourish and accepted San’s kiss on the cheek like it was his payment.

They crowded in around the table and ate like they hadn’t touched food in days—laughing, stealing from each other’s plates, toasting with cans of soda and mugs of tea.

“You realise,” Yeosang said slowly, picking a piece of carrot out of Mingi’s bowl like it belonged to him, “that we now live with seven other people.”

“God help us,” Jongho muttered.

“God help you,” Mingi replied with his mouth full. “You’re the only one who goes to bed early.”

After dinner, someone queued up a playlist, and Mingi started a slow, dramatic rendition of a ballad that had the others immediately joining in. Yunho knew the harmonies, of course, and Wooyoung dramatically lip-synced with a spoon like it was a mic.

Jongho, curled up on the floor with a cushion behind his back, let himself laugh until his chest ached. San leaned against the wall behind him, eyes flicking between his brother and Wooyoung like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real.

Seonghwa and Hongjoong shared a blanket on the couch, tangled close. Seonghwa’s head rested on Hongjoong’s shoulder, his eyes closed, but a small, content smile tugged at his lips whenever Hongjoong murmured something into his hair.

Yeosang, ever the observer, eventually gave up pretending he wasn’t smiling and just leaned his head on Jongho’s knee, watching as Mingi tried to lift Yunho in a fireman’s carry and failed spectacularly.

“You’re all idiots,” Yeosang murmured.

“I’m glad we are,” Jongho replied, voice soft.

Later, they drifted. Showers were taken. Teeth brushed in twos and threes. Pajamas pulled on, lights turned off room by room.

They gathered again in the living room, some already half-asleep, some still talking in low murmurs. They spread out across cushions and couches and bean bags, limbs tangling, blanket-sharing negotiations quiet but stubborn.

Mingi ended up squished between Yunho and San, muttering about how it was like sleeping in a sauna. Yeosang curled beside Jongho without a word. Wooyoung pulled San into a blanket nest of his own design, head tucked under San’s chin.

And as the final light clicked off, silence fell over the house—soft, deep, and peaceful.

They'd made their way to the old apartment, just before 7am.

The apartment was a controlled mess of half-filled boxes and taped-down cords, with the scent of dust and lingering takeout hanging in the air. The boys had been up since sunrise, room by room, folding the last chapters of their time here into cardboard and memory.

Seonghwa crouched by the kitchen bench, Sharpie in hand, carefully labeling the last few boxes. He adjusted the tape on one and scrawled in block capitals: San + Jongho’s bathroom essentials (keep separate!)

Across from him, San was halfway through taping up a box of game controllers, grinning as Yunho and Mingi bickered about the fate of their battle-worn karaoke mic.

“I’m just saying—if we’re starting over, we don’t bring haunted items,” Yunho said.

“That mic carried your ass through ‘Love Scenario.’ Show some respect,” Mingi shot back, arms crossed.

Their laughter was easy. Natural. Safe.

And then the doorbell rang.

Seonghwa glanced at his phone. “The movers are early.”

“I got it!” San called, wiping his hands on his jeans. He bounded to the door, bounce in his step, mouth already parting in a greeting—

Then stopped.

Like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

His entire body stiffened. His smile collapsed. He blinked—once, twice—and his face drained of colour.

Because standing in the doorway, as real as the air in his lungs, was the man who had haunted his every breath for as long as he could remember. He hadn't seen him in years. Not after he'd been shipped off to a private boarding school (where he'd thankfully met Wooyoung and Yeosang).

Tall. Immaculately dressed. His suit so pristine it might’ve been made of ice. Hair slicked with cruel precision, his shoes polished to a mirror. But his eyes—his mouth—were nothing but rot.

He looked San up and down and sneered like he’d stepped in something foul.

“Well,” he said coldly. “If it isn't the bastard.”

San flinched.

The man stepped into the apartment without invitation.

“I see you’ve downgraded to filth,” he said, gaze sweeping across the boxes like they were trash. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised. You always were a stain. If I’d known what kind of plague you’d become, I would’ve had you removed the moment I knew about you. I'm so glad you know, now I don't have to pretend I don't loathe your exisitence.”

San didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His throat had closed up, his shoulders drawn high. His hands trembled.

Wooyoung, standing by the counter with a roll of bubble wrap, dropped it. It landed with a dull, bouncing thud.

“Who the hell is that?” he whispered, already knowing in his heart.

Seonghwa looked up from where he was crouched, catching sight of the man—and instantly stood. His body tensed. One step forward. Then another. Hongjoong entered from the hallway, two coffee mugs in hand, and froze mid-step.

The man’s voice cut like glass.

“You ungrateful wretch,” he spat at San. “You lived under my roof. You bore my name. And this—” his hand gestured around, curled like he was touching something diseased “—this is where you’ve ended up. With gutter trash. With leeches.”

Wooyoung’s mouth fell open. Yunho stepped out from the hallway, frowning. Mingi was right behind him. Both of them stopped dead.

“What’s going on?” Yunho asked warily.

“You don’t even speak,” the man snarled, ignoring them all. “Still just a dog. Trained to stay silent. You think hiding in the shadows with these degenerates makes you better?”

San flinched again, curling in on himself.

“You were always good at crawling. That’s what your kind does, isn’t it?” he hissed. “Crawl behind Jongho, clinging to what isn’t yours. You really believed you mattered?” He leaned in, voice dropping to something far uglier. “You are a mistake. A fuck-up. And now you’re dragging him down with you.”

“Stop it,” Seonghwa said, voice sharp.

The man didn’t even look at him.

Yunho moved to step forward, but Mingi grabbed his arm. Tight. Holding him back.

“San,” Hongjoong said gently, stepping forward, the tremble in his voice carefully caged. “San, breathe. Come here, baby.”

But San was frozen. Not just still—gone. His eyes were wide, but unfocused. Pale lips parted, face crumbling under the weight of old terror.

Then a voice gasped behind them.

“San?”

It was Jongho.

Yeosang was at his side, gripping his hand. But Jongho stepped forward slowly, something sinking in.

The voice.

That voice.

He saw the man—and his heart dropped. Not just for what he saw, but for what he didn’t know.

The man turned to him, a twisted smile rising. “There’s my boy. Finally some sense.”

And then he said, like a final decree:

“Come, Jongho. Enough of this. You don’t need—” a sneer “—these people.”

Silence.

Then:

“No.”

Jongho’s voice was flat. Solid. Cold.

“No?” his father echoed, stunned.

“Don’t talk to San like that,” Jongho said. “Don’t talk to any of them like that. He’s my brother.”

The man’s nostrils flared.

“I should’ve dumped him,” he hissed. “I should’ve should have dumped him in an orphange the moment he left his mothers womb. I was too soft for your mother. He’s nothing, Jongho. Nothing. Just a waste of oxygen I fed out of obligation—”

“Shut up,” Jongho said.

The man whirled on him.

“You have no idea what he’s done to you,” he barked. “Made you weak. Stupid. Less. You were supposed to be mine. Perfect. And now I see you shacked up in this hole with—” he looked around, gaze catching Wooyoung’s arms around San, Yeosang’s hand in Jongho’s, Hongjoong and Seonghwa standing united, Yunho bristling in Mingi’s arms “—with perverts. With trash...freaks. You’ve disgraced my bloodline.”

And then:

“I no longer have a son.”

He looked at San again, voice dripping with finality.

“Have fun with your whores.”

The words detonated in the room like a bomb.

“Get out.”

Hongjoong’s voice split the silence.

Not a shout.

Not a plea.

A command.

Low.

Icy.

Dangerous.

“You don’t ever get to come here and speak that filth. Not to him. Not to anyone here. This is my family. Our family. And you are not welcome. Leave.”

The man’s face twisted—but he hesitated. For the first time, he saw them not as strangers—but as a wall.

Unmoving. United.

Fury burned in Yunho’s eyes. Mingi held him back with effort.

Jongho’s chest heaved with grief and fury, Yeosang white-knuckled at his side.

San trembled. And Wooyoung—Wooyoung held him like he would shatter without him.

Seonghwa stepped forward to stand beside Hongjoong.

“Leave,” he echoed. Quiet. Devastating.

The man looked at them—at the rage, at the love, at the shield they formed—and spat at the doorframe before turning to go.

The silence after the door slammed was deafening.

It rang in the air like a siren, screaming louder than any words ever could.

And then San’s knees gave out.

He didn’t fall so much as fold—like something inside had finally snapped. He hit the floor with a choked breath, his hands grabbing at nothing until Wooyoung caught him, dragging him into his lap with trembling arms.

San curled in, body wracked with silent sobs, face hidden against Wooyoung’s chest. His fingers fisted in the front of Wooyoung’s hoodie, holding on like it was the only thing keeping him on the ground.

“San,” Wooyoung breathed, tears already streaking down his cheeks. “Sannie—baby, it’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you, I swear—”

His voice broke. His lips found San’s hairline, kissed him again and again. “You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Behind them, Jongho stood rooted to the floor.

Frozen.

He stared at San—his hyung, his brother, the one who made him lunch on exam days, who walked him to class when he was sick, who laughed loudest at his dumbest jokes—curled into himself like something shattered.

And it hit him.

Like a weight across his chest, like glass under his skin.

This—this horror, this vitriol—had always been there.

He just hadn’t seen it.

It had never happened in front of him. Not like this. And San—San had never said a word.

Not once.

Because he had protected him.

San had endured this, alone, for years. And still smiled. Still protected him. Still shielded him from this monster’s wrath like it was nothing.

And Jongho had never known.

“My…” Jongho whispered, stumbling forward. “My Sannie-hyung…”

His knees hit the floor beside them. He reached out with shaking hands and touched San’s back—gently, as if afraid to break him further. His voice was barely audible, shattered by a thousand pieces of grief.

“I didn’t know,” he wept. “I didn’t know it was like this. I thought—I thought he was harsh, I thought he was cold, but I didn’t know.”

His voice cracked. He bent forward, forehead pressing to San’s spine.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve seen. I should’ve seen. You hid this from me my whole life.”

San’s sobs were quieter now. But he didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“I didn’t know what you were carrying,” Jongho whispered. “You never let me see. You never let me see.”

Yeosang moved then, slowly sinking down beside Jongho. He placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed gently, grounding him. “You’re here now,” he murmured. “He’s not alone anymore. You’re both not.”

Across the room, no one had moved.

Seonghwa’s lips were pressed into a thin, bloodless line. His hands clenched at his sides.

Next to him, Hongjoong stepped forward, crouching down slowly, his gaze never leaving San’s crumpled form.

“San,” he said gently, “sweetheart. Look at me.”

San didn’t respond.

“Baby,” Hongjoong tried again. “You both are ours. You hear me? You and Jongho—you’re family. We want you in this family. We choose you.”

He reached out, brushing sweat-damp hair away from San’s forehead.

“You are worth it, Sannie. You are enough. You are so loved, and so needed, and above all, you are wanted. Always.”

Wooyoung choked out a sob, cradling San tighter. “He is,” he whispered. “He’s the best of us. The kindest of us.”

Hongjoong nodded, throat tight. “You turned all of that hate into love. Into protection. Into kindness.”

Jongho whispered again, voice hoarse. “He told you you were nothing. But you’re the reason we’re still standing.”

Yunho made a strangled sound behind them. He had turned fully into Mingi’s chest, face hidden, hands shaking at his sides.

“I wanted to kill him,” he rasped. “I wanted to—”

“I know,” Mingi murmured, arms around him tight. “I did too.”

“I didn’t know it was like that. I knew it was bad. I thought I knew. But—”

None of them had ever heard San described like that. Had never heard those words aimed at anyone, let alone the softest, most loyal, most radiant of them all.

Seonghwa looked to the floor, breathing in hard through his nose. “He… grew up with that.”

The words made everyone go still again.

It wasn’t just today. Not a single outburst. That voice, that hate—had been with San from the beginning. Since childhood. Every birthday. Every bad grade. Every breath.

“He grew up with that,” Seonghwa repeated, voice cracking. “And still he’s the one who checks if everyone’s eaten. Still the one who makes sure no one walks home alone. Still the one who protects everyone before himself.”

Wooyoung sobbed again and kissed San’s temple.

“My love,” he whispered. “How did you carry all of that and still give so much of yourself away? How did you believe him? How could you think you were worthless?”

Hongjoong reached out, covering San’s trembling hand with his own.

“You don’t ever have to carry that alone again,” he said. “You never have to hide again.”

Mingi’s voice came quietly, steady like always.

“You don’t have to survive anymore, hyung. You get to live. With us.”

Yunho pulled free from his arms and crossed the room slowly. He dropped to his knees beside Wooyoung and San, blinking through tears.

“Sannie,” he whispered. “You’re not a stain. You’re our heart.”

San shifted at last.

Not much. Just a small movement—his hand, uncurling, reaching blindly.

Wooyoung caught it. Held it to his chest.

“You’re safe,” he repeated. “You’re safe now. My Sannie.”

The tension still lingered like smoke, clinging to every surface of the apartment. But now, it was grief-heavy instead of rage-sharp. The worst had come—and passed—and left behind a silence that felt too loud.

San hadn’t moved from Wooyoung’s arms. He trembled, eyes open but unfocused, his breathing shaky and uneven.

Hongjoong crouched beside him again, slower this time. The adrenaline had left his limbs heavy, but his touch was feather-light.

“San,” he said softly, voice low and steady, like a lullaby spoken instead of sung. “Hyung’s here.”

Wooyoung looked up, cheeks still wet with tears. He didn’t speak, but he gave Hongjoong a small nod. Permission.

Hongjoong reached out with both hands, one to San’s shoulder, the other to cup the back of his neck. He leaned in close, so San could hear him without needing to focus.

“Let me take care of you for a bit, okay? Let’s get you cleaned up.”

San didn’t answer, but he didn’t resist either. When Hongjoong helped guide him upright, he moved stiffly, like the weight of his bones had suddenly tripled. His hands dropped from Wooyoung’s hoodie, hovering in the space between them.

“You’re alright,” Hongjoong whispered, easing an arm around San’s back. “I’ve got you, baby. Just a few steps, that’s all.”

The hallway to the bathroom had never seemed so long.

He moved slowly, leading San like you’d lead someone half-asleep. His hand stayed warm against San’s back, steadying him when his knees threatened to give. With each step, Hongjoong murmured small affirmations—more breath than voice.

“You’re safe now.”

“You did so well.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“You’re not alone.”

“We love you, San. All of us. Always.”

In the bathroom, the light was soft and golden. Hongjoong guided him to sit on the closed toilet seat, crouching in front of him again.

“Just sit for a second. I’ll be right here.”

San didn’t respond. He sat with his arms limp at his sides, his head bowed slightly, as if he didn’t know what to do with his body now that the danger was gone.

Hongjoong turned on the tap, letting the water run warm. He grabbed a soft cloth and dampened it, then crouched again and gently, so gently, touched it to San’s cheek.

The dirt, the salt of tears, the cold sweat—he wiped them away with quiet care. The cloth moved slowly across San’s skin, tracing down his jaw, across his temple, under his eyes. Not scrubbing. Not rushing.

“Good,” Hongjoong whispered. “You’re doing so good.”

He rinsed the cloth, brought it back to San’s neck, cleaned away the remnants of panic. San’s hands twitched, but he didn’t pull away.

When he was done, Hongjoong set the cloth aside and grabbed a glass from the sink shelf. He filled it, checked the temperature, then knelt and held it out.

“Here. Just a few sips.”

San blinked slowly. His hand rose like it weighed a hundred pounds, fingers curling clumsily around the glass. Hongjoong helped him guide it to his lips.

The first sip almost didn’t go down, but he swallowed.

Then another.

And another.

Until the glass was half-empty and San’s breathing had evened out, if only a little.

Hongjoong smiled, cupping his shoulder again. “That’s it. You’re here. You’re safe.”

In the living room, Seonghwa had pulled Jongho aside.

They sat together near the window, on the edge of a low bench that had once held plants and old textbooks. Jongho sat curled into himself, arms wrapped around his middle, like he was afraid he’d unravel if he let go.

Seonghwa didn’t speak at first. Just sat beside him, his presence warm and grounding. Then, after a long moment, he reached over and gently brushed Jongho’s hair back from his face.

“You look like you’re carrying the whole world,” he said softly.

Jongho’s breath hitched. He didn’t cry—he had no tears left. But the guilt painted every line of his face, every tremor of his shoulders.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “He protected me from it. All of it. And I just let him.”

“No,” Seonghwa said, gentle but firm. “You didn’t let him. He chose to protect you. That’s the kind of person he is.”

Jongho’s head dropped, lips trembling. “He shouldn’t have had to.”

Seonghwa’s arm slid around his shoulders and pulled him in, tucking him into a side hug. Jongho sagged against him, small and quiet like a little boy.

“He shouldn’t have,” Seonghwa agreed. “But he did. And now you’re here. Now you protect him too.”

Jongho nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the floor. “I will. I swear I will.”

“I know you will.”

They had about an hour before the movers arrived.

And they would use every second of it to put their boys back together.

San was still quiet when he returned to the living room with Hongjoong, but his steps were steadier. His face was clean. The worst of the tremors had faded.

Wooyoung opened his arms immediately, and San all but melted into them, resting his cheek against Wooyoung’s chest like it was the only place he could breathe.

Hongjoong stood for a second, watching them with something like pain and love braided together in his expression—then glanced at Seonghwa and Jongho across the room.

Their eyes met.

A silent decision passed between them.

They would take San and Jongho to the new apartment first, get them settled, make tea, hold them, keep them safe.

The others would stay behind, handle the movers, the boxes, the furniture.

Because right now, the only thing that mattered was this:

San and Jongho needed their family.

And their family would never fail them again.

The apartment wasn’t silent—it was muffled. Like grief had stuffed cotton in every corner, thick and heavy and aching.

Outside, the sky was too bright. The clouds too clean. It felt offensive, almost, how normal the day looked from the window. As if the world hadn’t just fractured open at their feet.

Inside, the only sound was breath—shallow, ragged, or absent altogether.

San sat hunched on the couch, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around them. He was wearing his oldest hoodie, sleeves pulled so far over his hands that only the tips of his fingers showed. He hadn’t looked up once since he'd collapsed into Wooyoung gain. His head was bowed, the tendons in his neck drawn tight.

Hongjoong hovered nearby, one hand hovering just over San’s shoulder like he was afraid to touch him too suddenly. His other hand gripped his phone tightly—he’d just ended the call with the taxi service. A soft chime buzzed in his palm, confirming the car was on its way.

“We’ve got a few minutes,” he said gently. “You’ve got time. Just breathe with me, San-ah. In and out. That’s all we’re doing.”

San didn’t nod, but his breathing changed, barely. One inhale, shaky. One exhale, thinner. Another.

Hongjoong shifted to kneel in front of him, slow and deliberate, until he could meet San’s eyes—though San’s gaze barely lifted past his chest.

“One minute at a time,” he murmured. “That’s all we have to do.”

From across the room, Seonghwa perched on the coffee table, facing Jongho, whose posture hadn’t changed in ten full minutes. He sat with his elbows on his knees, fingers clasped in front of his mouth like he was praying or trying not to scream.

“I didn’t know,” Jongho whispered again, still disbelieving. His voice was raw. “I didn’t know it was like that. All this time and I didn’t—”

“You weren’t meant to,” Seonghwa said, crouching lower so they were eye to eye. “He didn’t want you to know. San protected you from it.”

Jongho shook his head, eyes filling. “He was a kid too. Just a kid.”

Seonghwa laid a hand over his. “He still is. And so are you.”

A tense silence fell again. One that didn’t ease so much as settle.

Then San blinked. Just once. His gaze flicked toward the door.

Hongjoong followed the glance and checked his phone.

“Taxi’s pulling up.”

Wooyoung kissed San softly on his temple and let him go. He helped him up and helped Hongjoong lead him to the door.

They moved slowly.

Not because they didn’t want to go—but because it took effort to remember how.

Shoes were pulled on like habits. San fumbled with the laces, hands not quite cooperating, so Hongjoong knelt again and tied them for him without a word. Jongho didn’t speak when Seonghwa tucked a water bottle into his backpack. He didn’t need to.

When they stepped into the hallway, the door shut behind them with a soft click.

It was the sound of a chapter ending.

Of something being left behind—not just space, but pain too old to be in a body that young.

The silence left behind didn’t crumble. It pressed.

Like the very walls were waiting for someone to scream.

Wooyoung was the first to move. He leaned both hands against the kitchen counter, bracing himself like he might fall otherwise.

“Jesus,” he said, under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”

Yunho knelt beside one of the kitchen boxes, trying to refold the loosened tape, but his hands wouldn’t cooperate. He paused. Pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, hard.

Mingi came out of the hallway slowly, the movers’ checklist in hand. He didn’t say anything—just walked over to the couch and sat heavily beside Yeosang, whose hands were clasped so tight in his lap his knuckles had gone white.

No one spoke for a while.

The air was too thick.

Then Yeosang said, quietly, “He didn’t even flinch.”

They all looked up.

Yeosang didn’t blink. “San. He didn’t flinch. Not once. When that man said those things—called him a rat, told him he was nothing—he just stood there. Like he’d heard it before.”

Mingi exhaled through his nose, sharp. “Because he has heard it before.”

“I kept thinking it was just the pressure,” Yeosang continued, voice faint. “The pressure of being the oldest. Of trying to meet expectations. But it was him. It was that man.”

Wooyoung let out a low sound and dropped his forehead against his arm, shoulders tight.

“He’s been hearing that his whole life,” he whispered. “That wasn’t heat-of-the-moment shit. That was practiced. That was something he’s lived with.”

Yunho stood slowly, jaw tight. “And he kept it to himself. All of it. He took the hits, kept smiling, and made sure Jongho never saw any of it.”

“Because he thought he had to,” Mingi said. “Because he thought he deserved it.”

Wooyoung turned, eyes glistening. “He was so scared to ask me out. Do you remember? I thought it was nerves, maybe fear of rejection. But he—he thought he was less. That loving me was something he had to apologise for.”

No one could meet his eyes.

Wooyoung wiped his face with his sleeve. “I didn’t understand then. But I do now.”

Mingi came to him, wrapped an arm around his shoulder and tugged him in.

“I’m going to love him so hard he forgets how that man made him feel,” Wooyoung whispered. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving him wrong.”

The words hit heavy and true.

Yunho stepped closer, voice steady but thick. “San grew up with someone telling him he wasn’t enough. That he was nothing. And he still… he still became this. This person who checks in on us, who cries in movies, who can’t cook but still tries because he wants to help.”

“He still became San,” Yeosang said.

Mingi nodded. “And thank god he did.”

Another beat of silence passed.

Then Yeosang reached for the list in Mingi’s hands. “Let’s get everything ready for the movers."

“We’ll make our new place a proper home.” Yunho said. “One that man never touched.”

They moved together then—wordlessly, purposefully.

Mingi and Yunho tackled the kitchen, checking duplicates, bubble-wrapping anything fragile. Yeosang folded blankets and towels, repacked open boxes. Wooyoung took charge of San and Jongho’s shared room, setting aside anything that felt too heavy, too haunted.

The truck engine rumbled outside. Mingi glanced through the blinds.

“They’re here,” he said.

Yunho nodded once. “Let’s finish this.”

And with sleeves rolled up and backs straightened, they worked like men on a mission—not just to pack, but to protect.

The taxi ride was quiet, save for the low hum of the engine and the occasional click of the indicator. San sat by the window, forehead nearly brushing the glass, one sleeve of his hoodie pulled up over his hand. He hadn’t spoken since they’d left the old apartment. His eyes didn’t move. Not even when they passed familiar landmarks. Not even when the city began to fade into the morning hush.

But he never let go of Jongho’s hand.

Jongho, for his part, sat beside him like stone. Still, silent, holding San’s hand with the kind of care that said he’d never let go unless asked. His thumb rubbed small, steady circles over San’s knuckles. He didn’t look outside. He didn’t look forward.

He looked at his hyung.

When the taxi pulled to a stop in front of the new apartment, more of a house, Hongjoong was the first to move. He opened the door, thanked the driver softly, and waited as Seonghwa slipped out behind him. Then he turned, offering a hand to San first.

It took a moment. Then San’s hand slid into his.

He stepped out slowly, hoodie still pulled tight, eyes still down. The air felt different here—cooler, cleaner somehow, like it hadn’t been touched by the voice that had torn open his chest just hours ago. The wind brushed through the trees overhead and rattled the leaves in a soft shiver. It wasn’t silence. But it was quiet. Gentle.

San looked up at the building. Older, weathered, with two stories and good bones. It smelled faintly of dust and plaster, like a home waiting to become one. He gripped Jongho’s hand a little tighter.

Jongho squeezed back.

Inside, the house was lit by the first glow of the sun through wide windows. Furniture had been placed, though not all of it was where it would stay. Boxes still lined the walls, some opened, some not. The scent of fresh paint still lingered beneath the faint smell of tea from earlier that morning. Shoes had already been placed neatly by the door. A soft rug had been rolled out in the living room.

It didn’t smell like grief.

It didn’t smell like him.

Hongjoong didn’t speak. He just gently guided San toward the couch, one hand warm and steady at the small of his back. Seonghwa moved ahead, padding quietly into the kitchen and setting a kettle to boil.

Jongho followed, staying close. Like he’d carved out space beside San and refused to ever leave it again.

The couch, the one Hongjoong and Seonghwa got when they first moved in together, was worn in all the right places. It gave beneath San like it meant to hold him. He sat slowly, blinking like the light hurt. Jongho sat beside him, hands still locked in his. San’s fingers twitched once, then stilled.

“I’ll make something warm,” Seonghwa said gently, already pulling down mugs. “Nothing heavy. Just tea.”

San didn’t speak.

Hongjoong crouched in front of the couch, elbows on his knees so his eyes were level with San’s. He didn’t rush. He waited until San looked at him—just briefly, just enough.

“I can’t change what’s been done,” Hongjoong said, voice low and steady. “I can’t erase what he said. Or what he made you believe.”

San’s shoulders curled inward, jaw tightening.

“But I can promise you this,” Hongjoong continued, firmer now. “That man will never step foot in this house. He will never speak to you again. Not here. Not ever.”

He leaned in just slightly—not to intimidate, but to anchor. To show the steel in his spine.

“I won’t allow my family to be treated like that. Not in my home. Not while I’m still breathing.”

San blinked fast. His throat bobbed once. He stared at Hongjoong—not startled, not shrinking—but really, truly looked at him.

And what he saw—

He saw fury. But not at him. Never at him. There was righteous anger there, yes, white-hot and searing—but it burned for him, not against. There was something protective in it. Something unflinching.

And deeper still, beneath the heat of that rage—there was love. Quiet. Undeniable. Unconditional.

San had known love. He had known affection, loyalty, care. But this—this was different.

This was a man who had taken him in to his group of friends with no questions, who had never once asked him to change, to be smaller, to be easier. This man, with his soft voice and his brilliant talent and his impossibly big heart, had seen the ugliest parts of San’s past now—and still knelt in front of him like this.

Still chose him.

Still called him family.

Behind them, Seonghwa returned with two mugs of tea. He passed them over with both hands, gaze soft. “Calming blend,” he murmured. “Chamomile, lavender, honeybush. No caffeine. Just warmth.”

San took the mug slowly, cradling it between both hands. The warmth seeped into his fingers, up his arms, like a small lifeline.

Jongho held his own mug, untouched, and kept his eyes on San.

“I…” San started, but the words crumbled.

Hongjoong shook his head. “You don’t need to say anything.”

But San tried again. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to,” San whispered. “Because I didn’t think I could come back from this.”

“You don’t have to,” Hongjoong repeated, quieter now. “You just have to know it’s true.”

Beside him, Seonghwa brushed San’s hair back, tucking it behind his ear like a mother might. His fingers lingered at his temple for a moment, then dropped. “We’re here,” he said gently.

And San—this boy who had grown up on scraps of kindness, who had been told for too long that he was unwanted, too much, unworthy—finally believed it.

They were here.

And they were staying.

He looked at Jongho, who met his eyes with something like fire. Fierce and loyal and unshaken.

He looked at Hongjoong, who still crouched in front of him, who had drawn a line in the sand without flinching.

He looked at Seonghwa, who moved through the space like he was making a home, not just decorating one.

He looked at the mug in his hands, at the warmth that hadn’t stopped seeping into him.

And San exhaled.

He held the tea close to his chest, shoulders tight and trembling. The steam curled up into his face, stinging his eyes—not that he needed help crying. He wasn’t wearing his glasses today. He’d forgotten them in the rush, or maybe he’d left them behind on purpose, like he could shed the weight of who he’d been in that other apartment, in that other life.

His eyes were wide and wet now, blinking rapidly, and his breathing started to hitch again.

“I want Wooyoung,” he whispered, so quiet it barely reached the others across the room. But Seonghwa heard it. Of course he did.

San’s fingers tightened around the mug. “My Woo. My love,” he said again, each word more broken than the last. “He was the first—after Jongho—to make me believe I could be loved. That I could deserve love. He made me feel like I wasn’t wrong for wanting things. For wanting him.”

His shoulders crumpled inward, chest heaving. “I want to hold him. I want him to hold me. I want to tell him I’m sorry for waiting so long. For not being ready to love him properly. That I’m ready now. That I’m not scared anymore.”

The mug jerked in his shaking hands, sloshing hot tea dangerously close to the rim.

Seonghwa was there in an instant.

“San, sweetheart—let me take that,” he murmured, so gently it felt like a caress. He eased the cup from San’s hands before it could spill, setting it aside on the coffee table, and then, without a word, gathered San into his arms.

The hug wasn’t tight. It wasn’t fierce.

It was soft. Cradling. Protective in the way a mother might soothe a child who didn’t have the words to ask for comfort. One hand rubbed slow circles into San’s back, and the other cradled the back of his head, tucking him in close against Seonghwa’s shoulder.

San let go.

He folded in completely, burrowing into Seonghwa like he’d been starved for warmth. The sobs came thick and fast now—ugly, shuddering things that shook his entire frame—but he didn’t try to stop them. He just let Seonghwa hold him.

“I want him,” he whispered again through hiccuped breaths. “I want to love him so much that he never, ever doubts it.”

Seonghwa’s voice was quiet, steady, sure.

“You will.”

The rest of the room didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Jongho watched from the side, eyes rimmed with red, holding onto his tea with shaking hands. Hongjoong stood nearby, still like stone, but the kind that was built into foundations—unmoving. Unshakeable.

San cried until his throat hurt. Until the tremors eased.

And when he finally went quiet again, he was still in Seonghwa’s arms. Still surrounded by the kind of care he didn’t have to earn.

He exhaled slowly, blinking at the ceiling with swollen eyes.

The front door opened on a breeze of warm a midday air and the low, muffled voices of the movers announcing their arrival. Hongjoong stood up from the couch, smoothing his palms on his jeans, and headed for the door. Jongho followed, wiping at his cheeks and steeling himself—because even after everything, there were boxes to carry, rooms to fill, and lives to piece gently back together.

San didn’t move.

He stayed curled in the corner of the couch, limbs drawn in close, face pale and empty. Seonghwa hugging him, one arm wrapped carefully around San’s shoulders. His tea was on the table. the soft notes of a chamomile blend lingered in the air, but San hadn’t drunk it.

There were no glasses on his face. Just eyes that looked too big, too bare, too full of hurt to hide.

And then—footsteps. Not hurried, but determined. Not the heavy clunk of a mover’s boots, but the rhythmic pace of someone who had forced his way forward, heart first.

“Sannie.”

San blinked, slow and dazed.

Wooyoung stood just inside the doorway, wind-tossed and flushed from the heat, a light sheen of sweat on his brow from the effort of convincing the moving crew he was absolutely, without question, coming with them.

He looked at San like the world had narrowed down to only him.

“Hyung messaged me,” Wooyoung said, voice raw with emotion. “Said you asked for me.”

San’s mouth parted slightly, but no words came.

Wooyoung took a step closer.

“I told them I was getting on that truck or throwing hands. And I meant it.”

Another step.

San moved, just slightly—an inhale, shaky and deep. His hands gripped the edge of the cushion beneath him.

“Woo,” he whispered.

That was all it took.

Wooyoung surged forward, dropping to his knees in front of him, arms wrapping around San’s waist as if anchoring them both to something real. San melted into him, breath catching in a soundless sob, fingers tangling in Wooyoung’s hair, in his hoodie, in anything he could grab.

“I’ve got you,” Wooyoung murmured against his chest. “You don’t have to say anything. I’ve got you.”

San didn’t let go.

Even when his body trembled, even when Seonghwa gently shifted away to give them space, San stayed right there—clutching the one person he’d tried not to lean too hard on. The person he had loved so deeply, so carefully, and yet held back from without realising.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t know I was still... I just—”

Wooyoung pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t have to explain. I know. I’ve always known.”

San shook his head. “But I… I want to hold you. I want you to hold me. I want—”

“You have me,” Wooyoung said, fiercely now. “You have me.”

His hands found San’s face, gentle but firm, cradling him like something fragile and precious. “I love you, San. You are not what that man said. You’re not the silence he left you in.”

San’s tears returned, falling silently down his cheeks as his arms wrapped around Wooyoung again, tighter this time. “I want my Wooyoung,” he said into his shoulder, words wet and trembling. “I want my Woo.”

“I’m right here.”

Around them, the sounds of the move continued. The first truck’s contents were being unloaded—boxes marked with Seonghwa’s careful handwriting, suitcases and garment bags, disassembled furniture, and containers of books, clothes, and memories. Jongho and Hongjoong moved to direct the flow, pointing out rooms and clearing paths, while Seonghwa joined Yeosang and Mingi in the kitchen to sort the things already inside.

And through it all, San stayed where he was, curled in Wooyoung’s arms, face buried against his collar.

No glasses today.

No mask of strength.

Just San, open and hurting and loved.

When the second truck pulled up—carrying the rest of the things from his and Jongho’s apartment—he still hadn’t moved. He didn’t need to. Because for once, he wasn’t the one making sure everything got done. He wasn’t the one patching things over or pushing himself forward.

The others had him now. All of them. And for the first time in his life, he truly let himself be held.

San stirred in Wooyoung’s arms, much later.

It was subtle, at first—just a soft inhale, a shift of fingers where they curled in fabric. His head stayed against Wooyoung’s chest, eyes still closed. But then he took a breath, a real one. Deep and slow, like it came from somewhere heavy.

“I don’t think…” San started, voice rough and low, like he hadn’t used it in years. “I don’t think he ever hugged me.”

Wooyoung froze under him, arms tightening just slightly.

“I mean… not once. Not that I can remember. No hand on the head. No back pats. Not even when I got hurt. Just cold stares. Or… nothing.”

The silence in the room sharpened, but no one moved to stop him.

“I used to think maybe I was forgetting,” San murmured. “Like… maybe there was a moment, when I was really little. But I don’t think there was. There were no bedtime stories, no picking me up when I fell. I’d just get told I was loud. Annoying. In the way.”

He blinked slowly, eyes still closed.

“It wasn’t always like what you heard today. Not at first. When I was little, it was just the absence. You don’t really notice that when you’re a kid. Not until you see it somewhere else.”

He shifted, forehead pressing lightly to Wooyoung’s collarbone. His next words were halting, coming in fragments.

“I saw how he held Jongho. How he smiled when he walked into the room. My baby brother. He was small and sweet and always clung to me, so it was okay. It made me feel… proud.”

San’s throat bobbed.

“And then I got older. I turned seven, maybe eight, and he started saying things. Little things. Just words, at first. ‘Useless.’ ‘Why are you even trying?’ ‘Stop embarrassing me.’ I didn’t even get in trouble—there wasn’t anything to punish. He just didn’t like… me.”

His hand curled tighter against Wooyoung’s chest, like anchoring himself.

“Later it was my looks. My schoolwork. The way I spoke. The way I dressed. He’d tell me my voice was grating. That I couldn’t sing, couldn’t act, couldn’t do anything right.”

“San…” Jongho whispered from the other couch, voice cracking. “You don’t have to—”

“I have to,” San said immediately, eyes still closed, but his voice firmer now. “Because if I don’t say it, it stays inside me. Like it always has. And I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

Nobody dared interrupt again.

He breathed out, shaky but steadying.

“I didn’t understand why, for so long. I just thought I was bad. I was difficult. So I started trying harder. Being helpful. Quiet. Neat. Still, he never looked at me like he looked at Jongho.”

A silence passed. Then a bitter laugh slipped from his lips—dry and without humour.

“When I turned twelve, I asked him if he loved me. He said he didn’t owe me that answer.”

Wooyoung made a small, pained noise—too quiet to be a sob, but it trembled with the weight of one. His hand slid around San’s back, not squeezing—just holding.

“That was the last time I asked,” San said softly. “After that, I just… tried not to need anything from him.”

His voice dropped lower, breaking around the edges.

“What you heard today… That was the worst he’s ever been. And I think—I think it’s because he doesn’t have to pretend anymore. Now that I know I’m not his… He can be honest. No more effort. No more holding back.”

His lips parted, then closed again. Then opened once more, voice trembling like something had finally cracked open deep in his chest.

“And I believed him. For so long. I believed that I wasn’t enough. That if even your own father doesn’t want you, no one really will.”

San’s fingers flexed again in Wooyoung’s sweatshirt. He was quiet for a long moment, breathing soft but uneven. Then, barely above a whisper:

“If Jongho didn’t love me the way he did…”

His voice trembled. It felt like trying to say something that had never been given air before—something sharp and heavy and sacred.

“If he hadn’t clung to me when we were little. If he hadn’t looked at me like I mattered. If he hadn’t needed me the way he did…”

His hand reached out blindly—instinctual, searching—and Jongho caught it instantly, wrapping both of his around it like he could shield it, protect it, hold it together with his own shaking hands.

“I don’t think I’d be here,” San said, voice breaking open.

The air shifted. Like it understood what had just been said. Like it paused to hold the weight of it.

San let out a shuddering breath, eyes fluttering open for the first time since he started talking. “You saved me, baby bear.”

And Jongho made a sound then—a broken, wounded sound, torn from someplace deep. He surged forward, pressing his forehead to San’s arm, curling in like he couldn’t breathe, like it physically hurt to hear.

“I didn’t know,” Jongho cried, voice cracking as he squeezed San’s hand tighter. “I didn’t know I was saving you. I thought you were the one saving me.”

“You did,” San whispered, finally turning his face to look at him—really look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed but steady, vulnerable in a way none of them had ever seen. “You were the first person who loved me without needing a reason.”

Across the room, Yeosang moved without hesitation. He leaned forward and wrapped an arm around Jongho’s shaking shoulders, tugging him gently back against his chest. Jongho didn’t resist. He let himself be held, still clinging to San’s hand as tears slipped silently down his cheeks.

Mingi stood frozen for a second, knuckles white as he clenched his fists, like he was trying not to fall apart. Then he sat forward with his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face, mouth pressed hard into a line.

“Fuck,” he whispered thickly. “You’ve been living with all that in your chest this whole time…”

Yunho leaned into him gently, resting their heads together for a beat. “And we didn’t see it,” he murmured. “We didn’t see how deep it went.”

Mingi shook his head. “We saw parts of it. We felt it. But not like this. Not the root.”

Hongjoong hadn’t moved. He sat perched on the edge of the couch, posture tight, eyes burning—but not with tears. With fury. And grief. And a kind of protective love so sharp it felt like steel.

“None of this,” he said lowly, “should’ve ever touched you. You were a child. A kind, bright, loving kid. That man—” He had to stop himself, breathe, calm the snarl behind his teeth. “He doesn’t get to define you anymore. You hear me, San?”

San looked over, still tucked in Wooyoung’s arms, and saw it. That fierce fire in Hongjoong’s eyes, the kind that burned through cruelty and stood in front of it. The kind of anger that didn’t strike out—but stood guard. Held the line. Protected what it loved.

San nodded slowly.

“I hear you.”

And then there was Seonghwa.

He hadn’t said much—but he hadn’t needed to. He’d been close to San from the second they stepped into the new home, gentle and sure, a quiet lighthouse through the storm. Now, he shifted forward from his spot on the floor near the couch, one hand reaching out to brush a tear from Jongho’s cheek before settling gently on San’s knee.

“I saw pieces,” Seonghwa said softly, “before any of us knew the full shape of it. I saw how small you made yourself when someone raised their voice. I saw how fast you tried to make things easier for others. How hard you worked to smile even when you were exhausted.”

His voice didn’t waver, but it held something profound beneath it. Not pity. Something deeper. Fierce care. Pain for the child San had been. And unshakable love for the man he was now.

“You study business, San,” Seonghwa continued, “but you were always trying to manage more than classes. You were trying to manage everyone’s emotions. The tension in a room. How not to be too much, too loud, too needy.”

San’s lips parted with a sharp breath. Like he’d been seen in a way that startled him.

“I didn’t know everything,” Seonghwa said, “but I knew you deserved to be held. So I did what I could.”

San’s lip trembled. He remembered that first night after a long group study session, when Seonghwa had insisted he eat, had tucked a blanket around him on the couch, brushed his hair back like it was second nature. No fuss. No question. Just presence.

“You don’t have to earn anything with us, Sannie,” Seonghwa said. “You never did. And you never will.”

Wooyoung hadn’t spoken yet, his face still wet, his arms wrapped tight around San like he was afraid letting go would undo the moment. But now he shifted slightly, just enough to brush his lips against San’s temple.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispered. “I’d love you even if you never said another word. Even if you couldn’t give anything back. You’re not here because you earned it. You’re here because you’re ours.”

San let out a wet, broken sound, one hand clutching the front of Wooyoung’s hoodie, the other still tangled in Jongho’s grip.

“I wanted to be enough for you,” San whispered. “But part of me… Part of me still thought I had to earn it. That if I just gave more, waited longer, held back just enough… maybe you’d stay.”

“You don’t have to hold anything back anymore,” Wooyoung said quietly, voice shaking. “Not from me. Not from any of us.”

“And not from yourself,” Seonghwa added, reaching to rest a hand gently over San’s heart. “You’ve carried so much. Let us hold it with you now.”

San didn’t respond with words. Just a soft, aching cry that finally escaped from his chest as he leaned into all of them—into the love, the comfort, the truth.

Around them, the room held still. It was full now—not just of furniture and boxes and the remnants of a moving day—but of something far more permanent.

Mingi ordered pizza.

He didn’t ask what anyone wanted—just quietly pulled out his phone and made the call, his hands trembling slightly. No jokes, no commentary. Just silence and motion. The kind that came when sitting still felt impossible, but moving felt worse.

No one mentioned food. No one even looked like they remembered how hunger worked.

Once the order was in, Mingi sat back against the couch, arms around his knees. Yunho shifted closer beside him, quiet, warm, a steady anchor. He didn’t speak. Just stayed. That was enough.

San was still in Wooyoung’s arms. His body had gone quiet, muscles limp and loose in the way that only came after an emotional collapse. But he wasn’t asleep—not really. His breathing was too irregular, his brow still drawn. He lay there like a man underwater, held only by the shape of Wooyoung’s arms around him. Wooyoung’s hands never stopped moving—thumbs stroking San’s back in soft, looping motions. His eyes were glassy, fixed on nothing, though every inch of him was focused on San.

On the other couch, Jongho had tucked himself into Yeosang’s side, one of Yeosang’s arms draped around him protectively. Jongho’s expression had fallen blank, the kind of vacant where thoughts circle too fast to land. He held the edge of his sleeve in one hand, thumb rubbing rhythmically against the fabric like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

Hongjoong sat cross-legged in the centre of the room, not touching anyone but with his eyes constantly scanning. Watching each of them like he was silently counting breaths, making sure no one disappeared. His shoulders were hunched slightly, tension knotted at the base of his neck. But he didn’t move. Just kept vigil.

Then Seonghwa stood.

He didn’t speak, didn’t excuse himself—just quietly walked up the stairs. The creak of each step echoed slightly in the new house, still mostly empty, still full of too many boxes and things left unsorted. For a few minutes, all they could hear were distant movements overhead—the rustle of linen, the gentle thump of pillows, the click of a door.

When Seonghwa returned, he moved softly through the room, checking one thing, adjusting another. He spread a blanket gently over the back of the couch where San and Wooyoung sat. His hand paused for just a moment on San’s shoulder.

“I made up the beds,” he said softly. “Fresh sheets. And towels in the bathrooms, if anyone wants to shower or wash up later.”

The quiet around them wasn’t quite heavy—it was reverent, like they were all holding space for something sacred and raw.

Then Seonghwa glanced toward the stacks of cardboard boxes pushed haphazardly into corners.

“We’ll need to be careful tonight,” he added gently. “There’s still a lot of unpacked stuff lying around. Just… watch your step, okay?”

No one moved to reply, but a few gave small nods.

“We’ll worry about the rest tomorrow,” he said after a moment. His voice was firm but warm. “Tonight’s for resting.”

He crossed the room and sat beside Hongjoong, fingers finding his partner’s hand and threading through. Hongjoong let out a small breath, the barest release of pressure.

The doorbell rang. It startled no one.

“I got it,” Yunho murmured, already on his feet. He padded to the door, accepting the boxes with a quiet thank you and a polite bow, then returned with the hot stack of pizzas balanced in his arms.

He set them down carefully on the coffee table. The smell filled the space—cheese, garlic, oil, tomato—and for a second, the room felt just a little bit fuller. Not lighter. But closer.

Yunho opened the lids slowly, steam curling into the air. He took two paper towels, folded them into makeshift plates, and passed one to Mingi, then took a slice for himself. He didn’t start eating, just held it.

Yeosang took two slices and gently placed one on the armrest beside Jongho, who blinked down at it like he wasn’t sure it was real.

No one really ate. But they accepted the food, each in their own quiet way.

And still, Wooyoung cradled San close, brushing a bit of hair from his brow.

“Do you want something?” he asked gently, holding a slice near San’s mouth.

San stirred a little, blinking drowsily. He didn’t speak, but he leaned forward just enough to take a small bite. He chewed like he wasn’t tasting it, but he swallowed. That was enough.

Hongjoong stayed still, pizza cooling in his lap, his eyes never leaving San.

Eventually, Yeosang leaned his head against Jongho’s. Mingi slumped sideways into Yunho’s shoulder. Seonghwa reached up and thumbed a loose curl off Hongjoong’s forehead.

And all around them, the new house remained half-unpacked, half-moved-in. Their things scattered in cardboard and disorder. But none of that mattered just yet.

The hallway lights were dim, the quiet hum of the house settling around them like a shared breath. San still hadn’t said much, his hand in Wooyoung’s like an anchor, his steps soft and slow as they moved toward their room.

Their room.

Their space.

It was still half-built, half-lived-in. The bed was made thanks to Seonghwa, the corners of the comforter tucked in with care, but the rest of it bore the signs of a life mid-move: stacked boxes, a duffel unzipped and slumped in the corner, a half-unpacked bookshelf leaning slightly against the wall. But there was warmth, too—soft lamplight, the scent of clean sheets, a photo taped to the wall of the two of them, grinning on some past summer day.

San stood in the doorway, unmoving.

Wooyoung didn’t rush him. He just touched his elbow gently and murmured, “Come here, baby.”

San turned his head, gaze heavy with exhaustion and something else—something uncertain and raw. But he followed, one step, then another, until they were both standing at the foot of the bed.

“Let me help,” Wooyoung said softly.

He didn’t wait for permission—it was written in the way San leaned into him, in the tension gone slack beneath his fingers.

Wooyoung moved slow. He reached for San’s hoodie, fingers brushing the hem. When San didn’t stop him, he lifted it up and over his head. His hands were careful—not clinical, not afraid, but gentle in the way someone is when handling something they cherish.

The shirt underneath followed, slow and quiet.

And Wooyoung let himself see.

Not with hunger. Not with lust. But with love. With awe.

He took in the planes of San’s chest, the slope of his shoulders, the soft curve of his belly as he breathed. Then, without speaking, Wooyoung pressed a kiss to the space just beneath his collarbone.

San didn’t move. His eyes fluttered shut. A small sound escaped him—less a sigh and more a release, like something long clenched now finally loosening.

Wooyoung’s hands skimmed his arms next, fingertips mapping over skin and bone with quiet reverence. A kiss to the inside of San’s wrist. Another to the point of his shoulder. Then his bicep. He didn’t linger anywhere longer than a breath—just enough for the message to land.

You are real.

You are safe.

I see you.

He knelt briefly, not to worship but to steady, helping San step out of his jeans and into the soft flannel pants Seonghwa unpacked for them earlier. The waistband sat snug over his hips, grounding. Warm.

A kiss pressed to the side of his knee. Not sensual—just there. Just present.

San stood the whole time with his eyes closed, letting Wooyoung learn him like this—silent, unhurried touch. Nothing expected. Nothing taken. Just given.

Once he was dressed, Wooyoung guided him gently to the bed and pulled back the covers. San lay down like he didn’t know how to carry himself anymore. Like he’d emptied himself out, and now only Wooyoung’s hands could hold the shape of him. Wooyoung quickly changed, not wanting to be seperate from San for too long in this moment.

Wooyoung slid in beside him and tugged the duvet over them both. His arms wrapped around San’s middle, and he drew him close, nose brushing against his temple.

“I’m going to love you the way you should’ve always been loved,” he whispered.

San didn’t reply, but he trembled once, his body softening all over again.

“The way you deserve to be,” Wooyoung continued, lips brushing the top of San’s head. “For the rest of my life.”

There were no tears this time—just breath. Just quiet. Just San, held in the arms of someone who saw every broken piece and chose to stay.

And Wooyoung, learning the shape of him with every touch that said: you are mine, and I am yours.

The hallway was quiet. Still.

Only the soft hum of the fridge downstairs and the faint creak of cooling walls filled the silence as Yeosang touched Jongho’s elbow and tilted his head toward the bathroom.

“Come on,” he said, quiet but sure. “Wash your face before bed.”

Jongho blinked, like he was just realising he was still standing in the hall. He gave a small nod, obedient and numb, and followed without a word.

The bathroom light was gentle, warm, not harsh like the one in the old place. Yeosang reached for a washcloth, ran it under lukewarm water, then pressed it gently into Jongho’s hands.

He didn’t speak, not yet.

He watched as Jongho slowly moved through the motions, mechanical and clumsy. Water splashing. Face damp. A soft sigh. Yeosang didn’t correct him when he didn’t quite rinse properly. He just stepped in with quiet hands, dabbing at his cheeks with a towel, then squeezing a bit of cleanser onto his fingers.

“Close your eyes.”

Jongho did. Without question.

Yeosang worked the cleanser over his face in smooth, practiced motions. Circling at the temples. Down the nose. Along the jaw. A quiet rhythm, like a lullaby in motion. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Just… present.

Then came toner, then moisturiser—patted in with care. Yeosang let his fingers linger when he reached the delicate skin beneath Jongho’s eyes.

He was watching him closely now. The way Jongho’s eyes stayed open, but far away. Like his body was here, but the rest of him—his thoughts, his feelings—were still tangled back in that living room. Still curled around the hateful, blistering words their father had spit like venom.

And Yeosang knew.

Knew that Jongho hadn’t even registered the last thing that had been said to him.

Not yet.

“All done,” Yeosang murmured, giving a last gentle pat to his cheek before turning to wash his own face. Jongho just stood there, watching him silently, still in the fog.

Yeosang moved faster with himself, practiced motions, layers of skincare applied in order. All the while, he tracked Jongho’s reflection behind him.

The guilt was coiled tight around his shoulders.

But that wasn’t the only thing.

As they padded down the hallway, toward their shared room, Yeosang reached out and slipped his fingers into Jongho’s. A small, steady tether.

They passed the closed door of San and Wooyoung’s room—no light underneath. Yeosang paused for just a moment, letting his gaze settle on the quiet stillness inside. Then he looked to Jongho and opened their door instead, guiding him through.

He waited until they were inside, the door shut behind them, the lamplight low and the weight of the night curling in around them like a blanket.

Then Yeosang turned.

“He said something to you too, you know.”

Jongho stilled. His face didn’t move. But his breath caught.

Yeosang kept his voice calm, soft. Not accusatory. Not sharp. Just… steady.

“You haven’t said a word about it.”

Jongho blinked, his mouth opening—then closing.

Yeosang stepped closer. He raised a hand and cupped Jongho’s cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye.

“You heard what he said to San. About Wooyoung. About me.”

Jongho flinched at that, just slightly. His jaw clenched. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

Yeosang’s voice dropped lower. “But you didn’t hear what he said to you.”

“I…” Jongho’s voice cracked. “I didn’t—”

“He said he has no son.”

Jongho sucked in a breath. It sounded like it knocked the air straight out of his chest.

Yeosang nodded slowly. “I don’t think you heard him. Not really. You were listening to what he said about everyone else. What he did to San. To me. To Wooyoung. You were protecting us in your head. Like always.”

Jongho looked down.

“But Jongho…” Yeosang reached for his hands and held them, firm and warm. “That was meant for you. That cruelty. That disowning. That wasn’t just an insult. It was a wound. One you’re pretending didn’t land.”

The silence between them pulsed.

And then, softly, Yeosang added, “It’s okay to let it hurt.”

Jongho’s mouth trembled.

Yeosang pulled him close, wrapped his arms around him.

“You’re not alone. You never were. Not even when he tried to made you feel like you had to be.”

Jongho leaned in, slowly, then all at once. His arms wrapped around Yeosang like a lifeline.

And finally, for the first time that night, he let himself cry, for himself.

Yeosang held him through it—soft, strong, unshaken. A quiet promise made in the dark:

You are loved. And I’m not going anywhere.

The house was quiet.

Not the comforting kind — not yet. It was the silence after a door slammed, after words too sharp had settled into skin, after you’d run out of tears but not ache.

The confrontation had happened that morning. And none of them had been the same since.

The words were still there, echoing — how San’s father had spit them like poison. The way Jongho had frozen. The way no one had been able to move fast enough to stop the damage. But also: the way Hongjoong had stepped in. The way they had all silently, fiercely closed ranks around the brothers they loved.

They were in the new apartment now. Larger, clean, bright — a fresh start. But it already felt heavy. Not with memories, not yet. With the weight of everything that had been said. And everything that never should’ve had to be.

Only four remained in the living room.

Yunho and Mingi were curled together on the smaller couch, tangled up with limbs and slow breathing. Mingi’s head lay on Yunho’s shoulder, his hand resting over Yunho’s chest like he was keeping time with his heartbeat. Yunho’s cheek rested against his temple, holding him without needing to speak.

On the larger couch, Seonghwa sat curled against Hongjoong, knees drawn up, one arm looped around his waist. Hongjoong had a hand in his hair, slow and steady. His thumb stroked against Seonghwa’s shoulder without thought, a rhythm they’d both memorised over the years.

The pizza Mingi had ordered still sat on the coffee table. Cold now. No one had really eaten. Even comfort food had felt too far removed from the weight in the room.

Seonghwa was the first to speak, voice soft against Hongjoong’s chest.

“We’ll need to be careful tomorrow. There’s still so many boxes. Unpacked kitchen stuff. The tools are still in the hall.”

“Tomorrow,” Hongjoong echoed quietly. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

A long silence stretched before Yunho broke it again.

“He said he’d never been hugged,” he said softly. “San. That his father never touched him. Not once.”

Mingi pressed closer into him, breath catching. “He said it like it was just a fact.”

Yunho nodded slowly. “Like he’d already made peace with it. Like it was just something about him — like he wasn’t someone who got hugged.”

Seonghwa looked down, lashes dark and wet. “And then he said Jongho saved him.”

Hongjoong’s arms tensed faintly. “Because he loved him. Because Jongho was the one who made him feel like he mattered.”

“I can’t stop thinking about that,” Yunho whispered. “That San might not be here — that we might’ve lost him long before today — if Jongho hadn’t loved him like that.”

“He said it so quietly,” Mingi said. “Like it wasn’t meant to be heard. Just truth, finally let out.”

Hongjoong’s hand moved again, stroking Seonghwa’s back as he tried to breathe through the ache in his chest.

“San’s always been… bright. But that brightness wasn’t ever given to him. He made it himself. Carried it despite everything. Built it out of nothing.”

“He’s only in his second year,” Seonghwa said softly. “Still studying, still trying to figure out what comes next. And yet… he’s been carrying a lifetime of pain like it was normal.”

“And Jongho…” Yunho said, his voice shaking, “he’s barely processed it. I think the shock’s still rooted in him. Everything his father said today — especially about San. About Woo. About Yeosang.”

“He called them whores,” Mingi muttered. “Wooyoung. Yeosang. Like the only words he had were meant to scar.”

“But San, our Sannie, he didn’t even name,” Seonghwa said bitterly. “Not once. Just said things to insult. To make him less than human.”

Hongjoong’s voice was low, but steady. “And then told Jongho he had no son.”

Silence swept through them again like a tide. Thick. Inevitable.

Yunho’s jaw flexed. “I hate him. I don’t care if that makes me small. I hate him.”

“You’re not small,” Seonghwa said, lifting his head. “You’re protective. That’s love. And love should be loud in the face of cruelty.”

“You both were,” Mingi added, looking at Hongjoong and Seonghwa. “You didn’t flinch. You stepped in. Caught them when it all fell apart.”

Hongjoong looked down, tired. “I didn’t even think. I just… knew they couldn’t be alone in that.”

“You didn’t think,” Yunho said. “Because you didn’t need to. That’s who you are, hyung.”

“You’re more of a father to them than he ever was,” Mingi added, voice quiet but sure. “And I think they know that now.”

Hongjoong swallowed hard. “I don’t want to replace anything. I just want them to feel… safe. Like they’re allowed to exist. To be loved.”

Seonghwa reached up, fingertips brushing his cheek. “You make them feel that. Every day. You have for years.”

“And you too,” Yunho said, looking at Seonghwa. “You always hold everyone together. You always see what needs doing. And then you do it.”

“I just don’t want them to break alone,” Seonghwa whispered. “Not San. Not Jongho. Not anyone.”

“You don’t let them,” Mingi said. “That’s what makes this a family.”

They fell quiet again. But this time it wasn’t silence made of fear. It was a silence made of endurance. Of loyalty.

Seonghwa stirred, shifting slowly in Hongjoong’s arms. He tilted his head to press a kiss to Hongjoong’s temple, then whispered softly, “Come on. Bed.”

Hongjoong blinked up at him, reluctant to move, his arms still loosely looped around Seonghwa’s waist.

But Seonghwa was already standing. “You need to sleep,” he said gently, brushing Hongjoong’s fringe back. Then, without making a big deal of it, he quietly started clearing the pizza boxes, stacking the untouched slices into storage containers, setting the rest in the fridge with quiet efficiency.

By the time he returned, Yunho and Mingi had roused slightly, still drowsy in each other’s arms.

“You guys too,” Seonghwa said, kissing each of them lightly on the head. “It’s been a long day.”

Yunho blinked, managing a small nod. Mingi gave a tired hum in response, their limbs still tangled but starting to stir toward sleep.

Seonghwa returned to Hongjoong and tugged him gently up by both hands, smiling just enough to coax him. “Up we go.”

Hongjoong let himself be pulled, leaning briefly into Seonghwa’s shoulder as they made their way upstairs. The house was dim and quiet, save for the faint creak of the wood beneath their steps and the muffled hush of sleep behind closed doors.

Once in their room, they changed in silence, brushed their teeth side by side, familiar in motion, worn through to softness. No performance, no walls. Just the quiet of home.

When they slipped into bed, Seonghwa immediately tucked close, draping an arm across Hongjoong’s waist. He pressed his lips to the side of his mouth and lingered there.

“I’m proud of you, Joongie,” he said, voice hushed but full. “Really.”

Hongjoong turned slightly toward him, eyes reflecting the dim light.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” Seonghwa continued, “but I think… I fell in love with you even more today.”

Something in Hongjoong’s breath hitched, barely audible — not because he was surprised, but because he felt the same. So deeply he could barely hold it.

He turned fully toward Seonghwa and rested their foreheads together.

“I love you too, Hwa,” he whispered. “Always.”

Seonghwa smiled, kissed him again, and let the quiet wrap around them — not heavy, but warm.

Yunho and Mingi lingered in the hallway, at the top of the stairs. The house had settled into silence around them, the kind of hush that only came after a storm had passed—when grief and exhaustion had soaked into the walls and there was nothing left but to rest.

Mingi stood still outside San and Wooyoung’s door. The light beneath it had long gone out, but he stared at it anyway, gaze soft and pained. Just a few steps away, the door to Jongho and Yeosang’s room was also shut, silent and dark.

Mingi’s brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

“I should’ve seen it,” he said finally, barely above a whisper. “All of it. I should’ve done more.”

Yunho reached out, threading his fingers through Mingi’s and giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “You couldn’t have known, Min. None of us did. Not really. What we can do now is be here. Be steady. Keep showing up.”

“I know,” Mingi said, voice hollow. “I know, I just… I can’t get it out of my head. The things he said. The way San looked. Jongho…” He shook his head and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Yunho pulled gently, guiding him down the hall toward their shared room. “Come on. Bed. You don’t have to fix everything tonight.”

Mingi let himself be led, silent until they were inside their room. It was familiar here, warm and quiet, lit only by the small lamp on Yunho’s bedside.

As Mingi changed into his pyjamas, he spoke again, voice quieter now.

“We’re lucky, Yunho,” he murmured. “We grew up loved. We had parents who cared. Who showed up. And I never… I never realised how rare that is. I didn’t know parents could choose not to love.”

Yunho, already sitting on the edge of the bed, looked up at him. There was no argument in his eyes—just agreement, tinged with sadness.

“I didn’t either,” he said. “Not until now. Not like this.”

Mingi sat beside him, the mattress dipping with his weight. “I feel guilty.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Yunho said gently.

“I know,” Mingi said again. “But I still do.”

They were quiet a while longer, their hands finding each other in the space between them.

Eventually, they slipped under the covers, turning in toward one another. Yunho tucked a hand behind Mingi’s neck, drawing their foreheads together.

“All we can do now,” he whispered, “is keep loving them. Make this house the kind of place where they never have to question if they’re wanted.”

Mingi nodded, closing his eyes. “Yeah. We can do that.”

And with that promise nestled between them, they let the quiet take them, and finally—finally—slept.

Chapter Text

Unpacking

Wooyoung loathed to move.

San was warm and still in his arms, curled tight like he was trying to fold himself into the smallest shape possible and stay there forever. He hadn’t said anything since waking—hadn’t even opened his eyes. But he was awake, breath soft and even against Wooyoung’s neck, fingers fisted lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

Still, Wooyoung knew what needed to be done. San hadn’t eaten. None of them had. The kitchen was a mess, and breakfast wasn’t going to make itself.

So, with the gentlest shift of his hand, he reached for his phone and sent a quick message.

Wooyoung:
You awake? I need a sub for snuggles. San’s awake, just quiet. I want to go sort the kitchen and breakfast. Please?

The response came almost immediately.

Mingi:
On my way. Giant sweater equipped.

Wooyoung smiled faintly and turned his attention back to San. He kissed his temple, then his cheek. “Hey, baby,” he whispered, brushing his thumb across the soft skin under San’s eye. “I’m going to make breakfast, okay? Mingi’s coming to snuggle. I promise he’s qualified.”

San didn’t speak, but he shifted—just a little—and there, at the corner of his mouth, the tiniest upcurl.

Wooyoung beamed.

“Oh? Was that a smile? A smirk?” he teased. “Don’t hide it. I saw it. I win.”

He pressed a kiss to San’s lips, slow and sweet.

“I’m going to make something light. And tackle the kitchen before the gremlins completely ruin my spice rack. There will be tears, San. And not just mine.”

Another subtle twitch of San’s lips.

“I’m taking that as encouragement.”

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door before it cracked open.

“Snuggle sub, reporting for duty,” Mingi said, padding in with his sleeves pulled halfway over his hands, the oversized grey sweater he stole from Yunho practically swallowing him whole.

“Perfect timing.” Wooyoung carefully shifted out from under San and stood. “He’s warm and quiet. A top-tier snuggle assignment.”

Mingi gave a small salute, then ruffled Wooyoung’s hair as he passed him on the way to the bed. “Go on, Chef. Make us cry with your breakfast.”

“I will,” Wooyoung said with mock solemnity. “From joy. Or rage, if anyone’s moved my cinnamon.”

He blew San one more kiss and slipped out, closing the door behind him.

Wooyoung padded downstairs slowly, barefoot, hair a soft mess and San’s hoodie swallowing his frame. He paused in the hallway when he heard the murmur of voices—low and tired but unmistakably familiar. Rounding the corner, he stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and blinked.

Everyone was already there.

Yunho leaned against the bench, mug in hand, still in his sleep shirt. Seonghwa and Hongjoong were at the table, close together, while Yeosang sat with Jongho, their hands loosely linked on the tabletop. Someone—probably Yunho or Seonghwa—had started boiling water, and the kettle clicked softly behind them.

Only two people were missing, and Wooyoung knew exactly where they were: Mingi was upstairs, curled around San, keeping him safe while Wooyoung tried to ground himself in something familiar. Something warm.

No one said anything at first.

They just looked at him.

At the puffiness under his eyes, the way he carried himself—not broken, but worn. Tender. Held together by thread and quiet resolve.

Wooyoung exhaled and moved into the kitchen, heading straight for the spice rack like it was a touchstone.

“If anyone moved my cardamom,” he said under his breath, “I’m not saying I’ll cry. But I am saying there will be tears.”

The tension cracked, just a little—small smiles, soft huffs of breath. Jongho even let out a tiny laugh. It broke something in Wooyoung’s chest in the best way.

He moved through the kitchen carefully, not bustling like usual. There was no bravado. Just presence. He checked the rack. Straightened the trays. Kissed Yunho’s temple in passing, rested his chin briefly on Hongjoong’s shoulder, squeezed Seonghwa’s arm and brushed a kiss to Yeosang’s cheek. At last, he ruffled Jongho’s hair and said softly, “My gremlins. All in my kitchen. Guess I really do love you lot.”

Jongho watched him.

The way Wooyoung moved around the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair still mussed from sleep. The way he cleaned and wiped and fussed — not because anyone asked, not to be praised — but because San was upstairs, and this was something he could do. A way to care. A way to show love with his hands, in action, in the shape of a home he was still building around them.

And it hit Jongho suddenly.

Not like a thought, not like a flash of clarity — but like something he’d always known and only now remembered.

“Oh,” he breathed.

The soft sound cut through the quiet kitchen, and heads turned toward him.

He didn’t flinch. Just blinked slowly, looking at them as if something inside him had clicked into place.

“I have a big brother,” he said, voice small but steady.

Then, after a heartbeat, he looked around again — really looked — and his chest ached with the sheer, staggering weight of it.

“I have six big brothers.”

His eyes lingered first on Wooyoung, who had paused at the sink, a sponge still in his hand. The way he’d been moving all morning — gentle, but not fragile. Focused, but not avoiding. He wasn’t pretending things were fine. He wasn’t plastering on smiles. He was just here. Steady. Present. Doing what he could. For San. For all of them.

Then Jongho’s gaze moved to Yunho, leaning against the counter with a quiet frown of concern. Yunho hadn’t said much, but he had moved through the morning like a grounding presence — helping unpack dishes, nudging drinks toward tired hands, glancing upstairs now and then with quiet worry in his eyes. Reliable. Unshakable. Like gravity, somehow. Mingi. who was upstairs with his brother, making sure he had comfort, a presence there, so that he didn't feel alone. Strong and quiet, gounding and loveable Mingi.

Near the table, Seonghwa sat with one knee drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around it. His hair was still damp from the shower he’d somehow made time for. He looked tired — no, worn — like everything he’d held for them yesterday had left marks. But there was a softness in his expression when he looked toward Hongjoong beside him. A gentleness that said: we made it to morning.

Hongjoong, still in a hoodie too big for him and with sleep lines on one cheek, held a mug in both hands. He looked up at Jongho with quiet understanding, his expression unreadable but his heart completely visible. He was the one who had spoken when the room was breaking apart yesterday. The one who had stepped forward, not away.

They all had.

They were just… here.

No expectations. No demands. No sharp words. No conditions.

Just presence. Steadiness. Care.

And it settled into Jongho like something sacred. Like sunlight warming stone.

Then his eyes landed on Yeosang.

Still and quiet at the edge of the kitchen island, Yeosang hadn’t said a word, but he hadn’t let go of Jongho’s hand either — not once since breakfast had begun. His thumb brushed back and forth over Jongho’s knuckles, steady and grounding, like he knew Jongho was still floating somewhere half-outside his body and was gently guiding him home.

He didn’t force anything. Didn’t try to fix it. He was just there.

That was how Yeosang loved — quietly, with intention. He paid attention. He remembered things Jongho had forgotten he’d ever said. He knew when to push, and when to simply exist beside him, breathing in sync. He hadn’t looked at Jongho any differently yesterday, not even after the screaming or the silence or the tears.

There was only ever honesty in his eyes — the kind that made Jongho feel safe in a way he couldn’t explain. Safe and seen.

And maybe that was what love truly was. Not declarations or grand gestures.

But this.

This soft, unwavering presence.

This hand in his.

This boy — this man — who saw every part of him, the shattered ones and the scarred ones, and chose to stay anyway.

Jongho’s throat closed up, eyes stinging.

Then, with a voice so small it almost wasn’t there, he breathed it like a truth he’d known forever.

“And one love.”

Yeosang smiled at him lightly.

“I think… I’ve always known. But now I feel it. After yesterday, it’s just… clear. Family isn’t a name. It’s not legacy. It’s not fear, or silence.”

His voice wavered. “It’s people who stay. People who hold you when it’s dark. Who let you cry and don’t make you feel weak. Who love you even when you think you’re hard to love.”

Jongho’s hand curled slightly around Yeosang’s. He looked down, then up again.

“Will you… help me and Sannie-hyung choose a new last name?”

The room was so still, you could hear the soft clink of Wooyoung setting a spoon down.

Then Seonghwa stood and crossed to Jongho’s side. He laid a gentle hand between Jongho’s shoulder blades and gave a small nod.

“We’d be honoured.”

Yeosang was already holding his hand tighter, brushing his thumb over the knuckles. “We’ll find something that feels right. That feels like yours.”

Wooyoung stepped forward, something shining in his eyes.

“You’ve always been ours,” he whispered, pulling Jongho into a hug. “We’ll help you find a name that reminds you of that. That you chose. Just like we chose each other.”

Yunho leaned back in his chair with a small smile. “I’ve got a name list if you want inspiration. Some are great. Some are ridiculous. One is… dramatic and sounds like a fantasy novel. But it’s yours if you want it.”

Hongjoong chuckled, resting his chin on his palm. “You’re not alone, Jongho. You never were. And now? You never will be again.”

Jongho’s eyes burned. He blinked hard, a tear slipping loose anyway.

Upstairs, San lay still beneath the blankets, curled in Mingi’s arms.

Mingi had come without hesitation, warm and solid and quiet, the way San needed. He didn’t ask questions. He just held. Gave without demanding anything back.

But still… San’s eyes stayed open.

He loved Mingi—his giant sweater and his giant heart. But his soul… his soul was still reaching for someone else. For home. For Wooyoung.

Carefully, San shifted the blanket off. Mingi stirred, one arm loosening in silent understanding. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask. Just gave San the space to choose.

San murmured a quiet, “Thanks, Min,” and padded barefoot across the wooden floor, wrapping the blanket tight around his shoulders like a cloak. The house creaked faintly underfoot as he descended the stairs, breath shallow, heartbeat loud in his ears.

He paused just before the final step.

Voices drifted from the kitchen. Familiar. Low.

He crouched there, tucked small at the base of the stairs, just outside the doorway.

He heard Wooyoung first. Teasing gently, dropping kisses on foreheads and cheeks like offerings of affection.

“My gremlins,” he said with a tired fondness that made San’s throat go tight. “All in my kitchen. Guess I really do love you lot.”

Then, silence—brief but loaded.

San’s breath caught when he heard Jongho’s voice.

“Oh,” Jongho said softly. “I have a big brother.”

San froze, one hand curling into the blanket.

“I have six big brothers.”

San’s eyes stung.

“And one love.”

He heard a chair shift. The soft inhale of breath.

“I think… I’ve always known. But now I feel it. After yesterday, it’s just… clear. Family isn’t a name. It’s not legacy. It’s not fear, or silence. It’s people who stay. People who hold you when it’s dark. Who let you cry and don’t make you feel weak. Who love you even when you think you’re hard to love.”

San pressed a hand over his mouth, tears threatening.

“Will you… help me and Sannie-hyung choose a new last name?”

The air shifted around him, like the whole world had inhaled.

His own name. Spoken with affection. With belonging.

His breath hitched, loud in the quiet of the stairwell.

He heard Seonghwa’s voice, steady and warm: “We’d be honoured.”

Yeosang followed, firmer but no less gentle: “We’ll find something that feels right. That feels like yours.”

And then—

“You’ve always been ours,” Wooyoung whispered, close enough San could almost feel the warmth of his voice. “We’ll help you find a name that reminds you of that. That you chose. Just like we chose each other.”

San’s fingers trembled against the banister.

He wasn’t alone.

He’d never truly been alone, even when it felt like it. He had brothers. He had Jongho. He had Wooyoung.

Behind him, the stairs creaked quietly.

Mingi stood there, sleep-mussed and kind-eyed, watching.

He didn’t say anything.

He just reached out and gently brushed San’s shoulder as he passed, heading back to the room they'd shared a moment before.

San turned, just slightly, and whispered, “Thank you.”

Mingi smiled softly. “Go where your heart is, Sannie.”

And San did.

He stepped down the last stair, into the light spilling from the kitchen.

Wooyoung turned just as he entered, a mug in one hand, surprise flickering across his face before it softened into something quiet and deep.

“Hey,” Wooyoung said.

San didn’t answer. He just walked forward, blanket still around his shoulders, and wrapped himself into Wooyoung’s chest like he belonged there.

Because he did.

And when Jongho looked up, eyes wide with unshed tears, San gave a small, wobbly smile.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Let’s pick a new name.”

They weren’t sons of a cruel man anymore.

They were something new.

The last of breakfast lingered on their plates — bowls half-full, toast crusts left behind, spoons resting on the edges of mismatched mugs. The kitchen had gone quiet again, but it was no longer the silence of grief. It was the silence of soft comfort. Of breath finally caught. Of warmth beginning to settle in the bones.

San sat at the table with his shoulders still blanketed, tucked securely between Wooyoung and Jongho. His body no longer folded in on itself but slowly unfurling, like a leaf thawing after frost.

Then — brrr brrr brrr.

The buzz startled them slightly, a vibration from somewhere beyond the room. They looked toward the living room, brows furrowing.

“Was that—” Hongjoong began.

Yunho was already getting up. “I think someone’s phone got left on the couch.”

He walked over and bent beside the cushions, fishing around until he straightened with the device in hand.

“San,” Yunho called gently, holding it up. “It’s yours.”

San blinked, eyes unfocusing for a second. “Oh… I didn’t even notice. Must’ve fallen out of my pocket yesterday.”

He reached for it, fingers brushing Yunho’s as he took the phone. He looked down at the screen. Not a contact. Just a number. Unknown.

There was a stillness then, like the moment before a wave breaks.

Wooyoung touched his knee beneath the table. “You don’t have to answer if it’s too much.”

San didn’t speak. He just stared for a second longer. Then, without a word, he pressed accept and lifted the phone to his ear.

“…Hello?”

His voice was quiet, raw at the edges.

“Hi, is this San-ssi?”

He sat up straighter.

“Yes. Speaking.”

A pause, then a smile could almost be heard through the line. “Hi there! This is Mina calling from Willow & Bean — the café you interviewed with earlier this week?”

“Oh.” His voice caught. “Yes, of course. Hello.”

“Sorry about the wait! We’ve just finished our last round of scheduling, and we’d love to offer you the weekend server position — starting next Saturday, if you’re still interested?”

For a moment, San didn’t breathe.

Then his mouth parted.

“I…” he began, eyes wide. “Yes. Yes, I’m definitely still interested.”

His tone shifted — wonder threading in like sunlight. “Thank you so much.”

“Brilliant! We’ll see you Saturday, then. Looking forward to working with you, San-ssi.”

He hung up slowly, phone still cradled in his hand. His gaze lifted, like he was waking from a dream. A flicker of something new lit in his eyes — not disbelief this time, but joy. Soft and cautious, but real.

“I got the job,” he said.

The others froze for half a heartbeat. Then Wooyoung turned sharply toward him.

“What?”

San’s lips twitched, as if the words didn’t quite seem real yet.

“I got the job,” he repeated, breathless now, the sound of it like laughter ready to bloom. “At the café. They want me to start next Saturday.”

And then it happened — the joy catching like a spark in a dry field.

Wooyoung threw his arms around him with a happy cry, nearly knocking San’s chair back. “Yes!” he whispered into his hair. “Yes, baby. Oh my god.”

Yunho clapped so loudly it startled Mingi into laughter. Seonghwa gasped softly and placed a hand over his heart, then walked around the table just to squeeze San’s shoulder.

“That’s amazing,” Hongjoong said, warmth coating every word. “You deserve this.”

Yeosang nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You really do.”

Even Jongho lit up beside him, the tension in his shoulders easing visibly. “You’ve worked so hard. You’re gonna be great.”

San’s heart thudded. He looked down at his phone again, then at the people surrounding him.

He had told himself, over and over, that the world didn’t have space for someone like him. That he’d be left behind. That the light would only ever fall on someone else.

But now — with arms around him and hands on his back and smiles aimed his way — he felt the warmth begin to reach him too.

This was his. Not just the job.

But the joy. The welcome. The belonging.

His voice was soft, but certain when he said it again, like speaking it aloud made it more real:

“I got the job.”

The house wasn’t quiet, not really.

But it wasn’t chaotic either.

It was the sound of a new beginning taking root.

Cardboard boxes were being opened and flattened, tape peeled, and drawers filled. Music played softly from a speaker somewhere in the living room — one of Mingi’s playlists, chill and lo-fi, underscoring the movement of bodies finding their places.

They weren’t just unpacking.

They were settling.

Rebuilding.

In the kitchen, Wooyoung had claimed his space like a general returning to war — albeit a little gentler than usual. He didn’t snap or threaten bodily harm when someone touched the knives. He just gave San a meaningful look when the older boy tried to stack the baking trays in the wrong drawer. San only smirked, nudged Wooyoung’s hip, and went back to unpacking the next box.

San moved a little slower than normal, sleeves pushed up, the inside of one wrist still bandaged where he’d scraped it yesterday. But his hands were steady as he unwrapped stacks of bowls and passed them to Wooyoung, who was labelling cabinets in his neat, blocky handwriting.

“You’re putting the sauces in this cupboard?” San raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah?” Wooyoung replied, pulling open another drawer. “Proximity to the stove, best lighting, maximum aesthetic joy.”

“You’re so extra.”

“I’m the right amount of extra, and you know it.”

There was no tension between them anymore. Not in the way there had been — not since the night before when Wooyoung had helped San to bed and kissed the inside of his wrist, his shoulder, the dip of his back, just to remind him that he was whole. That he was loved. That he was real.

Now, their rhythm was softer. Familiar. They bumped into each other often — on purpose, most of the time — and every now and then, Wooyoung would rest his hand lightly at the small of San’s back, grounding him with a glance.

San stuck a label on a drawer. Hyung’s weird teas.

Wooyoung laughed and added one underneath: Coffee — the good stuff, hands off unless you wanna fight.

In the living room, Jongho and Yeosang were a picture of quiet balance. They’d cleared out most of the packing materials already, working methodically to arrange the bookshelves and tech setup. Jongho was on his knees untangling a nest of HDMI cords with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb. Yeosang, perched cross-legged on the couch, was peeling protective plastic off the TV with graceful precision.

They didn’t speak much, but there was no need to. Yeosang had helped Jongho with his skincare last night, seen the way guilt sat behind his eyes like a bruise. Now, he stayed close — just within reach — letting Jongho come to him in his own time.

A moment passed. Yeosang turned to look at him.

“You okay?”

Jongho didn’t answer right away. He looked around the living room — at the shelves, at the old framed photo of the group from last summer, at Yeosang — then nodded.

“Yeah. This helps.”

Yeosang stood and reached out a hand. Jongho took it immediately, rising to his feet.

“Come help me fold the blankets before Wooyoung screams about creases.”

“I’m stronger than him.”

“You’re still scared of him.”

Jongho cracked a smile. “Fair.”

In the lone bedroom downstairs, Mingi and Yunho had turned it into a mini construction zone. Mirrors leaned against the walls, foam mats spread out across the hardwood. Yunho was crouched at the wall with a pencil and leveler, carefully marking where to mount the brackets. Mingi was reading out the instructions — upside down.

“Yuyu, it says don’t overtighten—”

“I’ve got it.”

“You say that and then the wall caves in.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Okay, but if we have to explain to Seonghwa that we broke a supporting beam—”

“Mingi.”

Mingi shut up, but he grinned as he helped brace the mirror while Yunho worked. There was sawdust in his hair and a soft sweat sheen on his neck, but he felt lighter than he had in days. Lighter, but also heavier — with the weight of knowing what San had been carrying. What Jongho had taken on.

The mirror clicked into place. They both stepped back and admired it.

“We did good,” Mingi said.

“We did great.”

Upstairs, in what would become the shared creative room, Seonghwa and Hongjoong were untangling extension cords and arranging workspaces. Seonghwa had already hung one of his mood boards — layers of fabric swatches, sketches, and colour wheels pinned up with thoughtful care. Hongjoong’s half of the room was chaos, already, with wires and sound pads and a laptop open to his last half-mixed track.

“I’m gonna need like…two shelves,” Joong said, holding up a bundle of USB cables.

“You’re getting one. Maybe.”

“I’m emotionally fragile, you know.”

“Good. Now you’ll write something poetic about it.”

Hongjoong chuckled, coming over to where Seonghwa was fussing over the placement of his cutting table. He wrapped his arms around the older’s waist from behind and rested his chin on his shoulder.

“Room looks good, Hwa.”

“It will,” Seonghwa murmured. “Once we make it ours.”

Back in the kitchen, Wooyoung stepped back and admired his kingdom. The spice rack was in place. The utensils were labelled. The shelves were organised by frequency of use. San stood beside him, drinking water and looking like he might cry at the sight of a properly stocked rice cooker.

“We did good,” Wooyoung said.

San leaned his head on his shoulder.

“We did great.”

"We still have to unpack our room"

San just groaned.

"Later"

The bookshelf was finished.

Jongho slumped onto the couch, chest rising and falling with a quiet sigh. The last box had been unpacked, and he'd arranged Yeosang’s absurdly colour-coded files exactly how he’d asked. Law textbooks lined the top row; fiction and their shared collection of mystery novels on the second. The third was chaos—half-planned, half-sentimental, with a photo of the eight of them tucked into the corner.

He let his head fall back, eyes drifting closed. Everything felt heavy and full. But good. Safe.

A quiet voice called from the hallway. “Did you really alphabetise the crime section?”

Jongho cracked an eye open, smiling. “You’re welcome.”

Yeosang appeared in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking unfairly good in a black long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants. His brows were raised, but the curve of his mouth betrayed amusement.

He started walking across the room—then caught his toe on the edge of the rug.

“Yeosang—”

The next second, he stumbled, caught himself—barely—by bracing both hands on the couch. Or rather, bracing himself over Jongho, straddling him.

They both froze.

Jongho’s hands instinctively came up, resting lightly on Yeosang’s hips. They stared at each other, too close now to pretend otherwise.

Yeosang’s breath ghosted against Jongho’s lips. “Hi,” he murmured, voice low and amused and suddenly full of something unspoken.

Jongho swallowed hard. “Hey.”

Yeosang didn’t move. His fingers curled slightly into the back cushion, and Jongho’s grip tightened without meaning to.

“You okay?” Yeosang asked softly, something flickering behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” Jongho breathed. “Yeah, just—”

Yeosang leaned down and kissed him.

It wasn’t slow. Not hesitant. Not anymore.

It was urgent, but tender. Familiar now, but still electric. His lips moved against Jongho’s like he’d been waiting all afternoon. Like he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since the last time. And Jongho—Jongho melted into it with a soft sound that made Yeosang shiver.

When they pulled apart, Jongho was pink-cheeked and breathing just slightly faster.

“You always do that when you trip?” he asked, voice a little shaky.

“Only with you,” Yeosang said, still half in his lap, clearly not planning to move yet.

And then—

A cough.

They both turned sharply toward the doorway where Seonghwa stood, holding a basket of blankets with raised brows. Behind him, Hongjoong peeked over his shoulder with a knowing smirk.

“Oh my god,” Jongho groaned, trying to sit up—but Yeosang didn’t budge.

“Just so we’re clear,” Seonghwa said mildly, “nothing past kissing and heavy petting in communal spaces.”

Jongho's face exploded into colour.

Yeosang blinked, then sighed. “Yes, Eomma.”

Seonghwa squinted. “Don’t sass me with your thighs still wrapped around my Maknae.”

Hongjoong snorted.

“Hyung, I swear,” Jongho muttered, trying and failing to hide his face behind one hand.

Yeosang finally slid off his lap, settling next to him with a smirk far too satisfied for someone just caught mid-makeout. His hand found Jongho’s again, threading their fingers together. “He started it,” he said, entirely unapologetic.

“He ttripped,” Jongho argued weakly.

“Into your mouth?” Seonghwa deadpanned.

Hongjoong dropped the blankets on the chair, still laughing, and patted Jongho’s shoulder as they left. “Just wash the couch covers later, kids.”

Jongho groaned again and flopped back dramatically.

“I’m never going to live that down,” he mumbled.

Yeosang turned toward him and nudged their shoulders together. “You’re cute when you blush.”

“Not helping.”

“You love it.”

“…Shut up.”

Their hands were still joined, fingers loosely tangled in the space between them on the couch. The quiet after Seonghwa and Hongjoong’s exit lingered, not awkward—just full of things unsaid.

Jongho gave Yeosang’s hand a soft squeeze, eyes fixed on the smooth curve of their knuckles.

“Thank you,” he said after a beat, voice low.

Yeosang looked over at him, brow gently raised.

Jongho turned his head slightly, eyes meeting his.

“For letting me be in my own thoughts today,” he said. “To sort through them. You didn’t push. You just… stayed nearby.”

Yeosang’s features softened at that, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. He didn’t say anything—just listened. And somehow, that made it easier for Jongho to keep going.

“This morning,” Jongho said, voice quieter now, “when I looked around and saw all of them… and you… and the way everyone was just there, not asking anything from me—”

He swallowed.

“—it finally settled. What I said wasn’t just something I blurted out. I meant it. I feel it. I have a family. I have people who… who would choose me. Even after all that ugly stuff yesterday, I got to feel love today. And a big part of that is you.”

Yeosang’s throat bobbed as he nodded slowly, thumb gently brushing over Jongho’s knuckle.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jongho added quickly, not wanting to make it heavier than it needed to be. “I just wanted you to know. I feel a little more like myself today, because of you.”

Yeosang didn’t speak for a moment—but he leaned in, pressing a kiss to Jongho’s temple, then resting their foreheads together for a beat.

“I’m glad,” he murmured. “I wanted you to have space. But I’m really glad you let me stay close too.”

Jongho smiled—just a little, but it reached his eyes. He held Yeosang’s hand tighter.

They didn’t need to move. They didn’t need to say anything else.

Right then, being beside each other was enough.

“I’m taking Sannie out for a walk~!” Wooyoung sing-songed from the hallway, voice bright as he leaned into the living room doorway.

It was nearing lunchtime, the late morning sun angling through the big front windows and casting warm stripes across the hardwood floor. The house smelled faintly of coffee and laundry detergent, and someone—probably Yunho—was playing lo-fi from a speaker somewhere.

Hongjoong looked up from where he was writing at the kitchen island. “Don’t forget we’ve got about fifteen tonnes of pizza still in the fridge.”

“A feast of cold carbs,” Seonghwa called from the living room, without looking up from his laptop. “The true college experience.”

Wooyoung grinned and flashed them a double thumbs-up. “Can’t wait. But first—fresh air.”

He ducked into the living room and tugged gently at San’s arm, where the other boy was still curled on the edge of the couch, hoodie too big and sleeves tucked into his palms. He looked up slowly, blinking at him.

“Come on, sleepy bear,” Wooyoung coaxed, voice soft now, “just a little walk. We’ll stay close. Clear your head.”

San made a small noise of protest but didn’t pull away, and that was all the permission Wooyoung needed. he hauled him up and guided him to the entry way. He dropped a kiss onto San’s temple and crouched in front of him to help with his shoes. The quiet act—steadying his foot, tugging on the heel—was gentle, grounding. Familiar.

San rested his chin on Wooyoung’s shoulder when he leaned close to tie the laces.

“You’re spoiling me,” he murmured.

“Obviously,” Wooyoung replied, straightening with a huff of pride. “I am your emotional support boyfriend-slash-personal valet.”

San finally smiled, small and real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re beautiful. Let’s go.”

They slipped out the front door together, leaving the muted hum of the house behind. San pulled his hoodie up over his head, and Wooyoung took his hand without hesitation, swinging it slightly as they walked down the path. Neither spoke for a long while—they didn’t need to.

Behind them, the house remained full of life. Music playing, laughter floating down the stairs, the smell of something baking (probably Yunho testing the toaster oven again). But for now, it was just the two of them, walking in step, letting the light and the wind carry them forward.

And the promise of cold pizza for lunch waiting when they got back.

Wooyoung led San by the hand, their fingers laced as they walked down the sun-dappled pavement. The trees that lined the street offered patches of shade that danced across their shoulders, the late morning air thick with the scent of new blossoms and fresh-cut grass.

San was quiet, but it was a softer quiet now—less withdrawn, more restful. Each step seemed to loosen the knot in his chest. He hadn’t asked where they were going, and Wooyoung hadn’t told him. He just walked, steady and sure, leading them around the corner like he had something tucked behind his smile.

When they reached the patisserie—Le Rêve du Four—San blinked at the sign, recognition flickering across his features.

“I saw a strawberry shortcake in here last time,” Wooyoung said as they stepped toward the door. “Didn’t buy it because I wanted to make one for you. But today… today I don’t think either of us has the energy.”

San huffed a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “You want to buy me cake.”

“I want to celebrate,” Wooyoung replied easily. “Your job. Us moving in. You making it through yesterday. And—selfishly—I want to see you smile while eating something that tastes like joy.”

The bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped inside.

The woman behind the counter looked up and immediately brightened. “Ah, monsieur pâtissier!” she exclaimed, her eyes crinkling with familiarity. 

"I will say that your pastries are even better than my professors, but you didn't hear that from me." He winked at her as he pulled San up to the display.

"Flattery will get you everywhere." Wooyoung smiled at her response.

"I’m here on business today, so I can't flatter you for too long.”

She laughed. “Of course. What can I get for you today?”

“I’d like a full strawberry shortcake,” he said, glancing back at San with a wink. “The one in the window last week haunted my dreams.”

“Celebrating something?”

“New home,” Wooyoung said. “At the end of the tree-filled street. Big two-storey.”

The woman lit up. “Ah, that house has been empty too long. I’m glad it has people in it again.”

“There’s eight of us,” Wooyoung added, lifting San’s hand with a grin. “It’s… a full house.”

She paused, her gaze drifting from Wooyoung to San and their joined hands. Something in her softened. The math was there, but so was the meaning—eight young people, hearts stitched together through friendship and love and something harder to define. Her smile turned luminous.

“Well then,” she said, reaching into the glass case, “eight hearts deserve a little something sweet.”

She slipped a small white box beside the shortcake. Inside, nestled like treasure, were eight delicate pastries: flaky lemon tarts topped with toasted meringue, each no bigger than the curve of a palm. Little sunshine clouds.

“A little gift,” she said warmly. “To start your life there sweetly.”

Wooyoung blinked, surprised. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to. Tell your friends it’s from Madame Colette.”

“Merci beaucoup,” San said quietly, his voice shy but genuine.

They stepped back into the sunlight, Wooyoung balancing the boxes with an ease that came from years in a kitchen. San walked a little straighter now, his hand still tucked safely in Wooyoung’s.

“Come on, Sannie,” Wooyoung said, grinning over his shoulder. “You know Seonghwa’s going to love this shortcake too. We'll have it after lunch.”

San smiled, barely more than a curve of lips—but his cheeks were pink, his eyes clearer, his shoulders lighter.

Wooyoung glanced down at San’s flushed cheeks, the soft warmth that had returned to him making Wooyoung’s chest tighten in a quiet, protective way. His fingers tightened gently around San’s hand as they strolled under the dappled sunlight.

“You’re my sunshine, Sannie,” Wooyoung said softly, voice tender.

San blinked up at him, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Why... why would you say that?”

Wooyoung smiled, squeezing his hand a little more. “Because even when things are heavy, or dark, or all tangled up in worries... you bring light. You remind me why we keep going. You’re the warmth that makes everything feel okay.”

San’s breath caught. The words felt like a gentle balm to his bruised heart, something he hadn’t expected, but desperately needed.

“I don’t feel very sunny sometimes,” San murmured, voice small.

“That’s okay,” Wooyoung said quietly, his thumb brushing over San’s knuckles. “You don’t have to be sunshine all the time. I’ll hold the light for both of us when you need me to. But right now? Just being with you, watching you find your way... you’re brighter than you know.”

San’s lips curled into a shy, grateful smile. “Thank you, Woo. You make me feel... safe.”

Wooyoung leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of San’s head. “That’s where you belong. Safe, and loved, always.”

San rested his head lightly against Wooyoung’s shoulder as they continued walking, the quiet warmth between them like sunlight wrapping them both in a promise of better days ahead.

Wooyoung and San’s room was the last on the list, and when the group stepped in, they all stopped at once.

It was… a lot.

Not because of the mess — the boxes were stacked neatly, labelled in San’s tidy handwriting or Wooyoung’s chaotic shorthand — but because of aesthetic whiplash.

San’s things were all warm and soft, earthy pastels and plush textures. His desk setup was orderly and calming, with small succulents in handmade pots and a string of muted fairy lights tucked inside one box.

Wooyoung’s contribution?

Black bedding, bold graphic posters (one of which featured a skeletal hand flipping the bird), and an entire box labelled DO NOT JUDGE ME — KITCHEN STASH.

“It’s like someone tried to merge a Pinterest board titled Soft Healing Space with one called Welcome to My Inner Demons,” Yeosang said, tilting his head.

Jongho raised a brow. “And they’re sharing one bed.”

Hongjoong crossed his arms. “This is their first time living together, yeah? We want it to feel like home. For both of them.”

“Exactly,” Seonghwa said, already eyeing the space above the headboard. “Balance, not division.”

Yeosang clapped his hands together once. “Alright, I’ve been dealing with Wooyoung’s chaos for a year and a half, I know how he likes his mess to be arranged.”

Jongho smirked, gesturing to a box marked Sannie’s Drawer Friends (DO NOT CRUSH). “And I know how San likes to build little corners of peace. We’ll blend them.”

“We could use San’s bedding and layer in some of Woo’s darker throws and pillows,” Yeosang offered, already opening a box of plushies with practiced care.

“Soft and brooding,” Jongho quipped. “Like a haunted cottagecore romance.”

“That actually works,” Seonghwa admitted.

The group got to work — sorting, folding, arranging. Jongho and Yeosang took the lead with an ease born of knowing what would bring comfort. San’s plushies were lined up along the window ledge and bedhead. Woo’s dramatic candle collection was placed on floating shelves Seonghwa mounted with silent precision. A black ceramic skull now kept watch from the corner desk.

They made room for San’s plants and tiny treasures on the left side of the shared dresser, while Woo’s darker trinkets and vintage cookbooks took the right. San’s desk setup — clean and calming — was slotted near the wardrobe. Above it, one of Woo’s framed culinary certificates was hung like a quiet declaration: this is who we are, together.

“We should get a bigger plushie,” Hongjoong said, watching Seonghwa tuck one of San’s stuffed cows into the corner of the bed. “I saw this massive black cat one the other day. Looked pissed off at the world.”

“So… like Wooyoung before coffee?” Yeosang deadpanned.

“Exactly.”

Jongho stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Will both of them even fit in here once that cat moves in?”

“It’s not a question of space,” Seonghwa replied, smoothing out the blended comforter. “It’s a question of harmony.”

And somehow — with candles and fairy lights, plushies and posters, softness and sharpness — they found it.

When Wooyoung and San came back in, hand-in-hand and sun-warmed from their walk, San slowed in the doorway. His eyes swept across the bed, the desk, the shelves — everything they’d made together. His plushies. Wooyoung’s little skull-shaped bedside tray. The matching reading lamps. The framed photo of the two of them from that trip to Jeju, tucked between their pillows.

“Oh,” he breathed.

“Welcome home,” Jongho said softly.

San blinked, and Wooyoung squeezed his hand. “It’s us,” he murmured. “Our room.”

The moment was broken with the sound of Mingi's stomach protesting he lack of food.

"Ok, that pizza downstairs in the kitchen has our name on it." Yunho laughs, dragging Mingi out of San and Wooyoung's room and down the stairs.

The pizza boxes sat open again, still mostly full — relics of the night before when no one had the stomach to eat more than a few slices each. Now, the kitchen held a quieter energy. Not heavy, but soft. Settled. Like the first deep breath after a storm.

No one made a big deal about lunch. Some slices were reheated. Others were eaten cold, folded in half and devoured between sips of water or bites shared over shoulders. It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt real. And real was exactly what they needed.

Wooyoung appeared from the fridge holding a large, white box with delicate black lettering. “We have dessert,” he announced casually.

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow. “You left and brought back cake?”

“Strawberry shortcake,” Wooyoung grinned, nudging the box a little so they could all see the perfect peaks of cream through the plastic window. “For the move. For San.”

There was no need to ask. They already knew San got the job — it had passed through the group like warm sunlight as soon as the call ended. Now, sitting next to Wooyoung, San offered a small smile, quiet and genuine. His cheeks still pink from their walk, hair a little wind-blown.

“She remembered me from last time,” Wooyoung said, opening the box carefully. “Madam Colette. I complimented her stuff — told her she was better than my professors.”

“You flirted with her, didn’t you,” Yeosang said, deadpan.

“Respectfully,” Wooyoung replied, hand on heart. “She asked if we’d moved in — she seemed genuinely pleased the house finally got let.”

“She gave us extra pastries,” San added, still soft-voiced but clearer now. “Eight of them.”

“Oh?” Mingi leaned forward, perking up. “What kind?”

“tarte au citron,” Wooyoung answered, a bit breathless, like even he was surprised. “Like. Proper ones.”

There was a collective sound of reverence. Even Yunho made a low whistle.

“I haven’t even given her anything yet,” Wooyoung said, almost like a confession. “I might have to make her a kouign-amann or something, as thanks.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widened. “You’re going to make that?”

“That’s like… butter squared,” Hongjoong added.

“It’s layered affection,” Wooyoung replied smugly, already reaching for plates. “She deserves it.”

“So does San,” Jongho said simply, catching his brother’s eye across the table. “This is a big thing.”

San didn’t respond right away. But when he did, it was with a quiet nod and a half-smile — grateful, a little overwhelmed, but present.

They didn’t toast. They didn’t cheer. They just passed out plates, split the cake and stole bites of pastry from one another’s slices.

It had been a few days since they had moved in. The tension was still there, the pain had hung around and settled on everyone in some way, shape or form. Yunho and Mingi also felt it. It made Yunho tightly strung and Mingo a little anxious.

The late afternoon light filtered softly through the sheer curtains of their new dance studio, casting warm patterns across the polished wooden floor. Yunho and Mingi had spent hours moving to the rhythm of their favourite tracks, the music pulsing through their bodies as they practised routines and honed every step, trying to release the pressure, the tension. The others were somewhere in the house or they could have left, they had been practicing for over an hour now.

The air was thick with heat and the scent of exertion. Both of them were drenched in sweat, breaths coming in ragged gasps. Mingi had peeled off his shirt sometime ago, the fabric discarded carelessly in a corner, revealing skin that glistened under the warm light. His muscles flexed and rippled with each precise movement — the curve of his back, the strength in his arms — and Yunho couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances.

He found himself mesmerised by the way the sweat made Mingi’s skin glow, his gaze lingering longer than he intended. Every shift, every stretch, drew him in deeper. Yunho swallowed hard, heart thudding painfully in his chest. Fuck, he thought, he looks incredible.

A sharp breath escaped him when Mingi’s eyes caught his in the mirror. That small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Mingi’s lips, the kind that said he was well aware of the effect he had on Yunho.

The world seemed to narrow — just the two of them, reflected back in glass, the heat between them almost tangible.

Yunho’s fingers twitched at his sides, the dance forgotten for a moment as he fought the rush of something deeper, something raw and electric, burning through every glance and every breath.

Mingi tilted his head slightly, eyes sparkling with mischief and something softer beneath it all.

Oh, he knows exactly what this does to me, Yunho thought, heart soaring and tightening all at once.

Yunho’s breath hitched sharply as Mingi flowed into a smooth body roll across the floor, muscles undulating beneath his glowing skin. The movement was hypnotic—sensual in a way that set fire under Yunho’s skin. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as something raw and fierce sparked inside him.

Before he could stop himself, a low growl rumbled from his throat. He pushed off the wall and stalked forward, each step deliberate, his gaze locked on Mingi like a predator closing in on its prey.

When he reached him, Yunho hovered over Mingi. His eyes were wide, wild, fierce with need and something tender buried beneath it all.

“Don’t you fucking tease me, Min…” he growled, voice thick with a mixture of frustration and longing. “Up.”

Mingi looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, a smirk playing on his lips that only made Yunho’s pulse race faster.

The room seemed to shrink, the air charged electric as Yunho waited, breathing hard, for Mingi’s next move.

Mingi moved with the fluid grace of the dancer he was—every motion deliberate, controlled, effortless. Without even using his hands to push off the floor, he rose smoothly onto his knees before Yunho, the heat between them thickening the air.

He clasped his hands behind his back, an unspoken offering, and looked up through half-lidded eyes that shimmered with exhaustion and something more—anticipation. His full, pouty lips parted slightly as he caught his breath, soft and vulnerable.

Yunho growled low in his throat, gaze darkening as he leaned in closer. One of his rough hands lifted, cupping the side of Mingi’s face with a possessive tenderness. His thumb brushed slowly over Mingi’s plush lips, tracing their outline with a featherlight touch.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Yunho murmured, his voice thick with heat.

"Do you remember the safe word we talked about?" Yunho asked, he needed Mingi to know that if at anytime he felt uncomfortable he would stop as soon as he said the word. It's something they discussed after the first time they had sex, both happy to explore things with each other and both wanting the other to feel safe in doing so. Consent is sexy afterall.

Mingi nodded, "Pineapple."

That's all Yunho needed to hear.

Without breaking eye contact, he pressed his thumb gently into Mingi’s slightly parted mouth.

The warmth of Yunho’s other hand settled lightly around Mingi’s throat—not constricting, just a promise of the strength behind it, of what might come.

Mingi’s breath hitched, a soft moan slipping past his lips as the intensity of the moment washed over him.

“Oh, you like this, don’t you, Princess,” Yunho’s voice was low and raspy, thick with desire.

Mingi’s breath hitched, a moan slipping out as he nodded eagerly, his eyes dark with need. “Yeah,” he breathed, “I like being on my knees for you.”

Yunho’s grip tightened just a fraction, his large, strong hands wrapping firmly around Mingi’s throat with a quiet, hidden strength that sent a thrilling shiver down Mingi’s spine. Mingi isn;t sure if he would admit it out loud, but he loved having those hands around his neck more than he expected.

Then Yunho slowly withdrew his thumb from Mingi’s mouth, his hand never loosening its hold as he tugged Mingi upright. The sharp, confident motion made Mingi’s pulse race.

Oh, Mingi really liked this — liked how Yunho took control, how he led without hesitation. The raw dominance in Yunho’s touch stirred something deep inside him, and he found himself craving more.

Mingi felt the blood rush out of his head, his thoughts melting away as he surrendered to the overwhelming sensations Yunho was giving him. The hand at his throat controlled his breathing, steady and possessive, while the other traced slow, teasing strokes along his length, firm but deliberate, setting a rhythm that left no space for resistance.

His moans were quickly swallowed by Yunho’s mouth again, their lips locked in a messy, heated exchange where saliva mingled, grounding them in the rawness of the moment.

“I want to fuck you, here in this room that we put together,” Yunho murmured, his voice low and fierce. “I’m going to turn you around, press you against these mirrors so you can see your own face as I take you, own you.”

His eyes locked deep into Mingi’s, full of dark promise and hunger, as his grip on Mingi’s length tightened just enough to send a sharp pulse of pleasure shooting through him.

“Please, please,” Mingi begged, voice thick with need. “I want that.”

"Do you need to use your safe word?" A check in.

"No"

Mingi's breath hitched sharply when Yunho’s hands abruptly left him, and for a moment, a desperate whimper threatened to escape—only to twist into a low moan as Yunho grabbed him roughly, spinning him around.

Mingi’s chest hit the cool glass of the mirror, his body pressed flush against it. He could feel Yunho’s heat behind him, the hard, urgent press of his cock straining against the fabric of his sweats, pressing into his ass.

The chill of the mirror against Mingi’s skin contrasted with the fire of Yunho’s body weight leaning into his back, a delicious tension sparking through every nerve ending. The sharp pressure against the glass was almost painful, but it only deepened the ache pulsing between them.

“Does my good boy want this?” Yunho ground his hips against Mingi, savoring the almost broken moan that slipped past Mingi’s lips.

His hands gripped Mingi’s hips firmly, pulling him away from the mirror just enough to free his waistband. Slowly, deliberate, Yunho pulled down Mingi’s sweats and underwear.

A sharp whimper escaped Mingi as his cock sprang free, nearly brushing the glass in front of him.

Yunho’s hand came down with a sharp smack on Mingi’s right ass cheek, the sound echoing through the room beneath the steady beat of the music still playing from their practice.

“Answer me, sweet thing,” Yunho demanded, voice low and commanding.

Mingi bit back a groan at the sting. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” Yunho pressed, his hand landing on Mingi’s left cheek this time, harder, signaling Mingi was taking too long to answer.

“Yes, I want your cock.”

Yunho felt his cock twitch, a deep, guttural growl rumbling from his throat.

“Fuck, princess.” Yunho yanked Mingi harshly from the glass, slamming one hand hard into his back, bending him over to fully expose himself. A deep, rough groan tore from Yunho’s throat as Mingi obeyed without hesitation, a needy, broken sound spilling from him.

“Does my good little princess want me to fuck him full with this hard, relentless cock, huh?”

Mingi gasped out a trembling, desperate “Yes, please” barely able to breathe. Yunho dropped to his knees, his grip on Mingi’s hips brutal—fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, holding him rock steady.

“Brace yourself.”

No more warning came before Yunho’s mouth descended—biting, licking, devouring his tight hole, dragging his tongue deep and slow, slicking him slick until Mingi shuddered uncontrollably beneath him.

Mingi barely had a second to catch himself, hand pressed hard against the glass, before Yunho launched his attack. His tongue drove into him relentlessly, slick and demanding, dragging desperate moans from Mingi’s throat that came faster and hotter with every stroke. Pre-cum slicked the tip of his cock, leaking freely as the pleasure built into a frantic storm inside him. He hadn’t known that giving Yunho full control—complete dominance—would feel this raw, this wild, this utterly freeing.

Yunho pulled back and stood, burning with need to fuck Mingi deep and hard. But first, he shoved his fingers into Mingi’s mouth, commanding,
“Get these nice and wet for me, princess.”

Mingi’s tongue swirled around the thick digits, working them over until they were dripping with saliva, some slick dripping down his chin. Yunho’s eyes locked on their reflection in the mirror, the filthy scene fueling the ache in his cock like wildfire.

He yanked his fingers free and slammed two of them against Mingi’s slick, tight hole. He knew Mingi could take it—weeks of fucking had stretched him perfectly. Slowly, relentlessly, he pressed the fingers inside, stretching that hot, tight heat wide.

Mingi’s breath hitched, spilling into a long, ragged groan as Yunho’s thick fingers buried themselves deep. God, those fingers—so long, so thick, so fucking perfect—pushed him further than he’d thought possible.

Mingi moaned, back arching as Yunho’s fingers stretched him wide. Every slow twist, every deliberate push had him trembling. He loved this—being used, opened, completely at Yunho’s mercy. The burn only made it better.

Yunho didn’t bother dragging it out. He pulled his fingers free, earning a desperate whine from Mingi, then looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror. Their eyes locked.

Without looking away, Yunho spat into his hand, messy and deliberate, coating his cock with rough strokes. He slapped it hard against Mingi’s hole—once, twice, a third time—each smack making Mingi jolt and gasp, eyes fluttering.

Then he pressed the swollen tip against him, just enough to tease the stretch again.

“Eyes on me, princess,” Yunho growled, voice low and sharp. "Remember the safeword."

The command hit Mingi hard. He lifted his head, breath catching as he met Yunho’s gaze in the mirror. Wide, blown pupils. Red cheeks. Open mouth. Completely wrecked—and Yunho hadn’t even started.

Yunho didn’t give Mingi time to adjust—he slammed in with a deep, brutal thrust, groaning as Mingi’s hole stretched wide around him. He could feel every inch being swallowed by that tight heat, every pulse and squeeze like Mingi’s body was begging to be ruined.

And Yunho was happy to oblige.

He kept his eyes locked on Mingi’s through the mirror, watching every twitch of his brows, every gasp, every helpless parting of his lips. Watched him fall apart in real time.

“Fuck, look at you,” Yunho growled, voice thick with hunger. “Taking me so well. This hole was made for me.”

His hands gripped Mingi’s hips again, fingers digging deep—hard. There’d be bruises. Good. Let everyone see who he belonged to.

He pulled back, slow just to tease, then slammed back in with force, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room.

Mingi nearly lost it. His cock was dripping, twitching, aching. His body jolted with every thrust, his thighs shaking, his teeth biting down on a moan he couldn’t let out.

He wanted to scream. Wanted to sob from how good it felt. But if he did, the others would hear. They’d know he was bent over, glass fogged with breath, being fucked stupid by Yunho.

And the thought alone made his cock throb harder.

Yunho slammed into him again, harder this time, pace picking up with a punishing rhythm. Every thrust drove the air from Mingi’s lungs, his fingers slipping slightly on the fogged-up glass as he tried to stay upright.

“Fuck, listen to you,” Yunho growled, watching Mingi’s mouth fall open, silent moans spilling out with every snap of his hips. “So fucking needy. Can’t even take my cock without shaking like a little slut.”

Mingi whined—helpless, wrecked.

“You love this, don’t you? Getting split open like this, dripping all over the fucking floor. Bet you’d let me fuck you in front of all of them if I told you to.”

A broken sound caught in Mingi’s throat. His eyes fluttered closed for a second—too much, too good.

“Eyes on me, princess,” Yunho snapped, delivering a brutal thrust that made Mingi gasp. “You don’t look away when I'm ruining you.”

He reached around, stroking a hand up Mingi’s trembling thigh to his leaking cock.

“Fucking mess,” he muttered, voice low and filthy. “You’re soaking wet just from getting stuffed full. Can’t even hold it in. What would the others think, hmm? Seeing their sweet little Mingi getting fucked dumb like this?”

Mingi whimpered, breath hitching, eyes wide and glassy in the mirror.

“Say it,” Yunho demanded. “Tell me whose hole this is.”

“Y–Yours,” Mingi choked out. “It’s yours.”

“Damn right it is,” Yunho snarled, slamming into him again. “And I’m not stopping ‘til I mark it.”

Yunho’s pace was rough but focused now, each thrust deep, precise—driving Mingi higher, pushing him to the edge. His moans came faster, desperate and shaky, his fingers gripping the glass for balance, legs barely holding him up.

“Please,” Mingi breathed, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “Please, Yunho—I want it. I want you to come inside. Need to feel it.”

Yunho’s breath hitched, the words hitting him just as hard as the heat around his cock. His hands flexed on Mingi’s hips, holding tight, grounding them both.

“You want me to fill you up?” he asked, low and breathless, watching the way Mingi’s reflection flushed deeper in the mirror. “You want them to see it in your eyes later—that you let me ruin you?”

“Yes,” Mingi choked out. “I want it. I want you.”

That did it.

Yunho gritted his teeth, driving in one last time, deep and full, cock twitching as he spilled inside Mingi with a soft, broken groan. He pressed forward, body flush against Mingi’s back, lips brushing over his shoulder as he caught his breath.

“Mine,” he murmured, almost reverent. “You’re mine, Mingi.”

Mingi trembled under the weight of it all—of Yunho’s voice, his body, the heat inside him. He felt full in every way, mind swimming, heart racing.

And he didn’t want it to stop.

Yunho stayed pressed against Mingi’s back, still buried inside, breathing heavy against the curve of his neck. His hands gentled, sliding down to hold Mingi’s waist with something close to reverence.

Mingi was trembling, overstimulated and full, the intensity of it all leaving him on the verge of breaking open.

“Baby,” Yunho murmured, lips brushing just behind his ear. “You still with me?”

Mingi nodded, a shaky breath leaving him. “I—I need to…” He swallowed, flushed and breathless. “Please, Yuyu I need to come.”

Yunho’s hand came around, slow and sure, fingers wrapping around Mingi’s cock with a feather-light touch at first. “Let me help you,” he whispered. “Just breathe.”

He began to stroke him, slow, steady, each movement coaxing Mingi closer to the edge with tenderness instead of urgency. Mingi’s body leaned back into him, trusting, overwhelmed by how gentle Yunho had become.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Yunho said softly. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

It didn’t take much—just a few more careful strokes, Yunho’s lips pressing soft kisses along his shoulder, and Mingi came with a quiet cry, his release spilling over Yunho’s hand and the glass in front of them. His whole body shook, but Yunho held him, grounding him through it.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just let Mingi catch his breath, brushing soothing circles over his skin, murmuring things too soft to be words.

“I’ve got you, princess,” Yunho said finally, pressing his forehead to Mingi’s temple. “You did so well.”

Mingi let his eyes close, sinking into the warmth, into the hands that held him like he was something precious.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Yunho smiled against his skin. “Always.”

Yunho stayed pressed against Mingi’s back, feeling the steady slow of his breathing finally beginning to even out. Mingi’s body trembled slightly under him, a mix of exhaustion and release still coursing through his veins. When Mingi’s legs wobbled, Yunho didn’t hesitate—his hands slid firmly but carefully around Mingi’s waist, steadying him, pulling his sweatpants up with deliberate gentleness.

“Easy, princess,” Yunho murmured, voice low and thick with emotion. “I’ve got you. How are you feeling now?”

Mingi leaned back into the warmth of Yunho’s chest, blinking slowly, still flushed and breathless. “Tired,” he whispered, voice soft and ragged, “but… it feels like we needed this. Both of us.”

Yunho’s hand tightened just slightly on Mingi’s side, a silent promise. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough but tender. “There’s been so much… tension, holding back, from both of us these last few days. This was more than just… release. It was breaking free.”

Mingi turned his head just enough to meet Yunho’s eyes in the mirror—those dark, intense eyes softened with something almost like reverence. “I feel lighter,” Mingi said quietly. “Like I don’t have to carry it all anymore.”

“That’s what I want for you. For us.” Yunho crouched down, grabbing a soft cloth and carefully wiping the mess from the glass, then moving slowly to clean the floor. Every motion deliberate, as if trying to hold onto the fragile stillness between them. He also turned their music off. He winced a little at the thought of the others hearing and the tips of his ears went red.

Yunho glanced up, voice softening. “Did I go too hard on you?” There was genuine worry in his tone. “I don’t want to hurt you. I want to mark you, yes, but not break you.”

Mingi shook his head, lips parted slightly, voice steady despite the lingering breathlessness. “No. It was rough… but it was exactly what we both needed. I trust you.”

“That trust means everything,” Yunho breathed, standing and sliding an arm around Mingi’s shoulders, pulling him flush against his side. “I want you to know—any time you feel overwhelmed, or if it’s too much, you say so. You’re never alone in this.”

With careful strength, Yunho lifted Mingi off the floor, cradling him close like he was fragile glass. Mingi rested his head against Yunho’s collarbone, eyes fluttering closed briefly as the steady beat of Yunho’s heart settled him.

“We’ll get you cleaned up,” Yunho said gently, voice a quiet promise. “Then you can rest. But I’m here, always.”

“Okay,” Mingi whispered, feeling the tug of sleep already pulling at him.

Yunho helped Mingi step into the warm shower, water streaming over their bodies like a balm. His hands moved slowly over Mingi’s skin, fingertips tracing soothing circles across his shoulders, down his arms, and over his hips.

“How’s the pain?” Yunho asked softly, brushing damp hair from Mingi’s forehead. “Any spots bothering you?”

Mingi gave a tired smile, voice hushed. “Sore all over… but in a good way. Like every ache means something.”

“That’s good to hear,” Yunho murmured. “If anything gets too much, just tell me. I want you safe.”

Mingi nodded, feeling the warmth of the water and Yunho’s gentle touch wash over him, both physical and emotional.

Once out of the shower, Yunho wrapped Mingi in a thick towel and dried him slowly, paying special attention to his neck and shoulders, where he pressed gentle, almost invisible kisses.

As Yunho carried Mingi upstairs, the soft weight of him resting against Yunho’s chest felt grounding and real. He settled Mingi onto their bed, tucking him in beneath the soft blankets.

Yunho’s fingers brushed lightly over Mingi’s skin, tracing slow patterns across his shoulders and down his arms. 

“Do you want me to stay with you while you sleep?” Yunho’s voice was low and warm.

Mingi’s eyes fluttered closed, then opened just a crack. “Yes. Please.”

“Always,” Yunho said softly, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Mingi’s temple. “I’m here. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

Mingi smiled, voice barely above a whisper. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Yunho whispered back, curling around him as their breaths slowed and the room softened into quiet peace.

Yunho and Mingi padded quietly down the stairs, still soft from their nap. 

In the kitchen, San was helping Wooyoung chop vegetables, their movements easy and practiced. The sounds of sizzling and soft chopping filled the space with a homey comfort.

Jongho wasn’t there—he’d gone out for a run earlier, wanting to explore the neighbourhood.

Yeosang sat nearby at the dining table, eyes focused on his laptop screen, fingers tapping lightly as he worked through some case research.

Hongjoong’s door to the studio was closed, muffling the low hum of music production from inside. He’d been there for hours, lost in sound.

Seonghwa returned just as Yunho and Mingi reached the bottom of the stairs, carrying bags of groceries with a small smile.

No one said anything about the afternoon’s quiet retreat. No questions, no concerned glances. Just the gentle rhythm of life continuing — everyone giving Yunho and Mingi the space they needed. Eveyone dealt with things in different ways, and the events of the last few days had wound everyone up.

Mingi caught San’s eye as he passed by and shared a small, grateful smile. San returned it quietly, wordless but clear.

Wooyoung looked up and smiled warmly as he stirred the pot. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

The group settled into the evening’s familiar comfort — together, but letting silence speak where words weren’t needed.

Wooyoung was a whirlwind in the kitchen, chopping with exaggerated flair and singing loudly off-key, clearly enjoying himself way more than necessary. “I swear, if this kimchi jjigae isn’t the best damn stew you’ve ever had, I’ll eat my knife!” he declared, tossing vegetables with a grin that almost sent a carrot flying across the counter.

Yeosang, perched at the table with his laptop, didn’t miss a beat. “Better watch out, Chef Wooyoung — your culinary ego might be bigger than your stew pot,” he quipped, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Wooyoung shot him a playful glare, wielding a ladle like a sword. “Says Mr. Sassypants, who’s clearly just jealous you can’t cook worth a damn.”

Yeosang smirked, unbothered. “I’m just here for moral support and to make sure you don’t burn the place down.”

San stood nearby, quietly chopping some garlic, a small smile tugging at his lips. He loved watching their back-and-forth — it was like an unspoken comfort, a constant in the storm of everything else. He’d known their friendship for so long now, and seeing it steady like this helped soothe the ache he carried inside.

About twenty minutes after Yunho and Mingi had come downstairs, the front door opened again. Jongho stepped in, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the run.

Yeosang slid off his seat without hesitation, padding over and pressing a quick, soft kiss to Jongho’s sweaty cheek before slipping back to his spot at the table.

Jongho’s lips curved into a small, tired smile as he wiped his brow, then headed toward the bathroom.

Wooyoung didn’t miss a beat. “Once you’re done, grab Hongjoong, please! Dinner will be ready in fifteen.”

Jongho nodded, disappearing behind the door.

Wooyoung grinned, turning back to the stove where the fragrant kimchi jjigae bubbled gently. The spicy, comforting aroma filled the apartment.

San breathed it in deeply. This stew wasn’t just food—it was Wooyoung’s way of trying to heal the heavy emotions hanging around San and Jongho. A warm embrace in broth form.

“Nothing like a good jjigae to fix the soul,” Wooyoung said softly.

Yeosang snorted. “And if it doesn’t, at least we’ll be too full and sleepy to care.”

San laughed quietly, feeling a little lighter already.

The apartment buzzed with life again — the chaotic clatter of chopsticks and bowls, Wooyoung’s cheerful humming as he stirred the bubbling kimchi jjigae, and the warm, spicy scent filling the air like a comforting hug. After days of quiet tension and low voices, tonight felt like a return to something familiar, something safe.

But then, almost simultaneously, the soft ding of phones and laptops echoed around the room.

Heads lowered, eyes scanning the screens.

Mingi’s voice broke the moment, quiet and almost breathless. “The semester final results…”

The table fell into a hush so complete it felt like the air had thickened, each heartbeat loud in their ears.

Seonghwa’s fingers paused mid-air, chopsticks suspended. “So… do we go in order? Oldest first?”

A ripple of discomfort passed through the group.

Yeosang’s jaw twitched as he muttered, “No one wants to be first.”

Mingi’s gaze dropped to his lap. “Yeah… it’s nerve-wracking.”

San exhaled slowly, eyes flicking between the faces around the table. “Waiting just makes it worse, doesn’t it?”

Wooyoung leaned forward with that easy smile that could cut through steel. “Why don’t we all open them together? No waiting, no one’s alone with the silence.”

Their eyes met his, some hesitant, some hopeful.

Hongjoong closed his laptop, nodding. “That sounds... better.”

Yunho’s smile softened. “Okay. On three?”

The group’s tension eased just a fraction, breaths synchronizing in quiet agreement.

San shifted, setting down his bowl. “Ready.”

Wooyoung raised his hand. “One… two… three!”

Fingers hovered, then tapped.

Instantly, the room flooded with a jumble of reactions — soft gasps, stifled laughs, quiet sighs, and the shuffle of chairs as they leaned in, sharing the moment.

There was a beat of silence after they all tapped their screens.

Then—

“Ah,” Hongjoong let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping as he stared at the screen. His fingers flexed against the edge of the table before he rubbed a hand over his face and then through his hair. “I passed everything. Better than expected, actually.”

Yunho nudged him gently, grinning. “Told you. You’ve been running on empty and still managed to carry half your group project.”

Hongjoong gave him a tired but grateful look. “You and Mingi saved my ass. If you hadn’t kidnapped me and helped me with the flow and stuff”

Mingi raised his bowl in mock salute. “We told you it’d work out.”

Seonghwa’s screen glowed softly in front of him, but he stayed quiet for a moment longer. Then he exhaled, deeply, and tapped a fingernail against the ceramic of his soup bowl.

“I passed.” His voice was steady, though a little quiet. “One of them just barely... but I passed.”

Hongjoong looked at him instantly.

Seonghwa offered a faint smile, bittersweet but present. “Grief’s a bitch,” he said simply, not needing to explain more. “But I’m still here. I’ll do better next semester. I want to.”

"I'm proud of you for fighting Hwa, even if it was agains't yourself" Hongjoong grabbed Seonghwa's hand and kissed it lightly, eyes full of love.

No one pushed him. No one had to. The others simply nodded — with love, with understanding, with the kind of weight that only comes from knowing someone deeply.

Yunho leaned in toward Mingi and grinned, showing him his screen. “I did it. They loved the solo piece. The adjustments from the midterm feedback really helped.”

Mingi beamed. “You deserved that. Your timing was way cleaner — and hey, you let me bully you into changing the beat.”

“You did not bully me—”

“Strongly encouraged, then.”

Across the table, Yeosang sat back in his seat with a slightly stunned expression. “My final case analysis was the talk of the professors, apparently. One of them called it ‘a reframing of foundational precedent.’”

“Of course it was,” Wooyoung said proudly, nudging his leg under the table.

Yeosang gave a modest shrug, but the flush of quiet pride was unmistakable. “Law’s still brutal. I’ll prep even harder next time.”

San looked like he’d been holding his breath for hours — and maybe he had been. But when he finally exhaled, it was with a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “All As.”

He turned the screen to show Wooyoung, who let out a delighted sound and leaned in to kiss his cheek, then his temple, laughing against his skin. “That’s my genius boyfriend.”

San blinked fast, but his smile was genuine. “I passed Accounting for Decision-Making.”

Wooyoung's eyes widened. “Wait, that paper?”

“The one I stuggled with during midterms.”

There was a pause. Then the whole table burst into applause.

Mingi waited for the noise to quiet, then raised his screen a little. “I did really well. Cleaned up the last few technical flaws from midterms — got a few comments, but good ones. It paid off.”

“You’ve been working hard,” Yunho said, proud and warm.

“I had motivation.” Mingi’s gaze lingered on him, soft and full of affection.

Wooyoung was already grinning before he said anything. “Top of my class again.”

San clapped once. “Chef Jung Wooyoung, future pâtissier god.”

Wooyoung puffed his chest dramatically. “They said my technique has heart and discipline.”

Yeosang muttered without looking up, “You are dramatic, so that tracks.”

“You’re sassy, and that also tracks,” Wooyoung shot back, but his smile was radiant. “Still got a lot to learn, but I’m proud of where I am.”

Then they all looked toward the youngest.

Jongho had been quiet, though his fingers drummed lightly against his thigh. When he finally looked up, he smiled, small and sure. “Straight As.”

The others whooped.

“First semester down,” Hongjoong said with a grin. “Already crushing it.”

Jongho shrugged a little. “I’m hoping next semester’s harder. That was… almost too smooth.”

“Classic,” Yeosang said, smirking as he sipped his water. “You would ask for more work.”

“Just means he knows what he’s capable of,” Seonghwa said warmly.

Around the table, tension finally dissolved into celebration — relieved laughter, shared glances, playful nudges under the table. The meal carried on, steam curling in the air, their voices overlapping again, like harmony after dissonance.

The results were in — and while some had soared, others had simply endured. But they’d all made it. Together. In spite of all they had face in recent times. They were still together.

Chapter Text

A Chance

The week eased on with slow warmth, the kind that settled into the bones. The eight of them began to feel less like scattered stars and more like a constellation — imperfect, but connected.

There were hiccups, of course. Mingi left wet towels on the floor. Jongho monopolised the washing machine. San nearly set off the smoke alarm reheating leftovers. But apologies were quick, laced with care and teasing, and not once did any of it fracture the quiet sense of safety they were building together.

Hongjoong, for all his sharp edges and deep focus, had taken to giving out small pieces of himself — quiet tokens of affection as he moved through the house. A lingering kiss to Seonghwa’s temple when they passed each other in the hallway. A pat to Mingi’s messy hair whenever he flopped dramatically on the couch. A warm hand ruffling Yeosang’s head as he studied at the dining table. He kissed Wooyoung and San both on the forehead when they looked particularly tired — which was often lately — and gave Yunho and Jongho firm, reassuring shoulder pats that lingered just a second too long to be casual.

And sometimes, without warning, he would simply wrap his arms around one of them — just a soft, grounding hug that seemed to say I see you. I'm here. You're not alone.

No one asked why. No one questioned it. They just leaned in.

Seonghwa, on the other hand, gave his love in a different form — structured, steady, domestic. The Eomma of the household in every sense. He scolded gently when dishes were left out, sighed exasperatedly when someone wore shoes inside, but his hands never stopped moving — cleaning, folding, caring.

He brewed cool drinks in the early evenings — barley tea, citrus water, iced matcha — and set them out with barely a word. The fridge was always organised, the couch cushions fluffed just so. He didn’t hover, but he was present in every little detail that made the house feel like a home.

And when someone was hurting, even silently, he noticed.

He brushed Yunho’s fringe from his eyes after long practice sessions. Quietly adjusted Jongho’s blanket when he fell asleep studying. Pulled Mingi into the kitchen one morning and made him eat properly before dance.

He still didn’t go into the backyard. Not yet. But he was trying. And that mattered.

San, as expected, took his new café job training seriously. He practiced at home like he was auditioning for the Olympics, balancing trays with theatrical flair until Wooyoung swatted him with a dish towel and told him to stop showing off unless he was serving his boyfriend first.

Yunho and Mingi were their own pocket of kinetic energy — training outdoors, dancing beneath the sun, laughter occasionally punctuated by music and choreography. They moved in tandem, feet thudding on warm earth, sweat-slick and smiling. Sometimes the others watched them from the living room window, the way their bodies moved with such intention and freedom. It was a kind of joy.

Hongjoong recorded it once — said it might inspire something.

Yeosang and Jongho continued their quiet routine. Dates to the arcade, shared study sessions, gentle kisses at unexpected moments. They were never loud about their affection, but it was there — in glances across the room, in Yeosang tugging Jongho’s sleeve when he was overwhelmed, in Jongho saving Yeosang’s favourite corner spot at the library every time.

Wooyoung cooked.

He poured himself into the dishes he made, taking more time now, perfecting presentation and flavour both. He baked more too — small delicate sweets, flaky pastries, soft breads. He kept an eye on everyone, sensing when someone needed something extra — a second helping, a sugary treat, a warm hug disguised as a plate of food.

He was quieter than usual, especially in the mornings. But when he smiled, it was real.

San noticed, of course. And he let Wooyoung lean on him in those moments.

Together, they were learning how to be seen.

It was Friday night, and the dining table was full — crowded with steaming dishes and the hum of overlapping voices. The air carried the scent of grilled meat, garlic, and sesame oil, wrapped around the sounds of chopsticks clinking and easy laughter.

Wooyoung had gone all out again, claiming he had to test a few new recipes, which of course meant half the table was covered in food he had no intention of scaling down. San had tried to help and ended up banned from the kitchen halfway through for sneaking bites.

Mingi and Yunho were elbowing each other as they fought over the last bite of rolled omelette. Jongho was already halfway through his second bowl of rice. Yeosang sat calmly scrolling on his laptop until he caught Wooyoung sneaking a look — then snapped it shut just to be dramatic.

And Hongjoong, eyes thoughtful as he took in the scene, waited until the volume naturally dipped. He reached for Seonghwa’s hand beneath the table, thumb brushing against his knuckles.

“Now that we’re all properly settled,” he said, voice calm but carrying, “and with the new semester coming fast... I’ve been thinking.”

“Hyung, no,” Yunho said immediately.

“Oh god,” Wooyoung groaned. “Is this about budgeting again? I swear I didn’t overspend this week.”

Mingi dramatically clutched his chest. “If you make us sit through another three-hour lecture on weekly meal plans—”

“It’s not that kind of thinking,” Hongjoong interrupted with a small smile. “I swear. I’m not here to ruin your lives.”

That earned a few amused chuckles. Seonghwa nudged him gently with his shoulder.

“I just wanted to suggest something simple,” Hongjoong continued. “A monthly family night. Just once a month — something we all do together, the eight of us. Could be staying in, playing games, watching a movie, going to the night market, anything really.”

He looked around the table slowly, letting it sink in. “No matter how busy things get. One night where we’re all here, with each other.”

There was a beat of quiet as the words landed.

“We don’t have to always talk about serious stuff,” he added, softer now. “But if someone’s struggling, or needs to be heard... I want this to be a safe place for that too. Because we can’t help each other if we don’t know.”

Yeosang leaned back in his seat. “That sounds reasonable,” he said, surprisingly mild. “Once a month is doable.”

“Especially if we rotate who plans it,” San added, grinning. “That way if Jongho makes us do maths night, we know who to blame.”

Jongho didn’t even look up from his rice. “Noted.”

“And if Wooyoung picks it, we know we’re either ending up at karaoke or in the emergency room from food coma,” Yeosang said.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Wooyoung shot back, indignant.

“But really,” Seonghwa said, cutting through the teasing with gentle finality, “I think it’s a good idea. We’ve all been through a lot. A little structure — something to look forward to — it might help.”

Hongjoong reached across the table to squeeze his hand, gratitude in the touch.

“We’ll start next month, then?” he asked. “Nothing fancy. Just us.”

Everyone nodded, in their own way — a hum from Yunho, a quiet “sure” from Jongho, a raised thumb from Mingi who was busy chewing.

And as dessert was passed around — slices of yuzu castella with whipped cream and sweet berries — the mood softened again. There was something comforting in knowing that, no matter how busy or chaotic their lives became, they had this.

A space to land.

Later that night, the apartment had quieted — the hum of conversation faded to the occasional creak of floorboards or distant laugh. In their shared room, Wooyoung sat cross-legged on the bed, pulling on one of San’s oversized t-shirts. San stood at the dresser, checking his work uniform for the café one last time. He smoothed the fabric with his palms, fingers trembling just a little.

Wooyoung watched him with a small smile.

“How’re you feeling about tomorrow?” he asked softly, pulling his knees to his chest.

San turned, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Nervous. But... excited, too,” he admitted. “It’s the next step, you know? If I’m serious about running a café someday, I need to learn everything I can. How the place works, the flow, the customers, the chaos. All of it.”

He hesitated, voice dropping just slightly. “I hope I can keep up.”

Wooyoung slid off the bed and walked over, reaching for his hand. “You will. You always do.”

San didn’t respond right away. Instead, he pulled Wooyoung in close, wrapping both arms around his waist and burying his face in the crook of his neck. He breathed in slowly — like he needed this more than air.

“Thank you,” San murmured against his skin. “Thank you for being you, Woo. For seeing me. For loving me so fully — even when I wasn’t sure I deserved it.”

Wooyoung’s breath caught, and before he could find words, San kissed him.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It was full of feeling — intense and grateful and aching all at once. Weeks of emotional weight, quiet distance, and the unspoken fear of not being enough melted into that kiss. Wooyoung clutched San’s shirt tightly, fingers fisting in the fabric as he responded, mouth parting under the pressure of San’s. His moan was low and breathy, caught between them as San lifted him easily and carried him across the room.

They barely broke apart as San set him gently on the edge of the desk. Their hands moved instinctively — cupping jaws, carding through hair, gripping at backs — all without losing the rhythm of their mouths.

Wooyoung kissed like he cooked — with intensity, precision, and instinct. Like he was pouring himself into it. San groaned softly at the feeling of it, of being wanted like this, of being claimed.

He broke the kiss only long enough to press his forehead to Wooyoung’s.

“I’m so lucky,” San whispered. “You make everything feel possible.”

Wooyoung smiled, brushing his thumb across San’s cheek. “Then go make it possible. I’ll be right here. Always.”

They kissed again, slower this time. Softer. The kind of kiss that lingered, not just on their lips but somewhere deeper, threaded into the quiet night air between them.

Then Wooyoung yawned mid-kiss, eyes crinkling as he pulled back with a sheepish smile.

“Let’s go to bed,” he mumbled, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand.

San chuckled, eyes fond. “Come here, sleepyhead.”

He wrapped his arms around Wooyoung’s waist and lifted him easily. Wooyoung didn’t protest — just curled into him with a soft hum, arms winding around San’s neck like it was second nature. It was. San pressed a kiss to Wooyoung’s neck as he walked them over to their bed, lips lingering on the warm skin there, breathing him in.

They passed the light switch and Wooyoung reached out just in time, flicking it off before curling back into San’s chest.

“Sannie,” he whispered, voice already growing heavy with sleep, “cuddle me to sleep?”

San lowered him gently onto the bed and slipped in beside him, pulling the blankets up and wrapping Wooyoung tightly in his arms.

“Always, Wooyoungie.”

Their legs tangled beneath the sheets. Wooyoung tucked his face into the curve of San’s shoulder. And in the soft stillness of the room, their breathing slowed, synchronised, as sleep found them — wrapped in warmth, and each other.

The scent of breakfast drifted warmly through the house, eggs sizzling, pancakes flipping, and something sweet baking in the oven. Wooyoung moved through the kitchen with purpose, lips pursed in focus as he made breakfast for everyone — but his attention, his care, was poured into the lunch box resting just beside the stove.

He filled it with all of San’s favourites: rolled omelette, seasoned rice, crispy chicken bites, and neatly arranged sides of fruit and kimchi. Nestled between the compartments was a small cupcake in a silicone liner, topped with a swirl of vanilla cream. Finally, he added a bottle filled with iced tea and scribbled a tiny sticky note to stick on the undersied of the of his lunchbox lid. 

When San came down in his café uniform — a crisp white shirt, slim black trousers, apron folded under his arm — he looked every bit the vision of someone on the brink of his dream.

Mingi let out a dramatic wolf whistle from the couch. “Happiness looks good on you, Sannie!”

Seonghwa, passing behind San with his coffee, leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head. “It really does,” he murmured fondly, before sitting at the table.

Wooyoung stood at the stove, arms crossed, looking like he might burst with pride. San caught his gaze and smiled, that deep, dimpling kind of smile that made Wooyoung feel like the sun had parked itself in their kitchen.

San ate quickly but happily, murmuring his thanks, promising to be back around dinner time. He took the lunch box with a bow of gratitude and a kiss to Wooyoung’s lips, soft and lingering.

Then he was gone.

Then—

“Right.”

Wooyoung’s voice cracked through the calm, sharp and sudden. Everyone jumped.

Yeosang snapped his head up from his laptop. Yunho looked like he nearly stabbed himself with his chopsticks. Mingi flinched, noodles halfway to his mouth.

Wooyoung stood with hands on hips, expression serious. “San’s birthday is coming up.”

For a moment, there was silence.

“Oh, fuck,” Mingi breathed. “That’s soon.”

“I can’t believe I forgot,” Yunho muttered.

“We have to do something,” Seonghwa said, already setting his chopsticks down. “Something good.”

“Presents, cake, everything,” Mingi agreed, eyes alight. “Make it huge.”

“Not too huge,” Wooyoung said quickly, “not a party party — I think San would hate that. Just… us. Something soft. Thoughtful.”

“Picnic,” Yeosang offered, nodding. “It’s warm enough. We could go down by the stream.”

“I like that,” Hongjoong chimed in. “Quiet, and it keeps it just us. We can relax. Laugh. Let him feel everything good.”

“I’ll sew a blanket,” Seonghwa said, not missing a beat. “Big enough for all of us. I’ve got everything I need upstairs already — I can start tonight.”

"Make it purple." Wooyoung says, it's well known to be San's favourite colour.

“I’ll bring the speaker,” Hongjoong added with a small smile. “Make a playlist. Just good vibes. He can lay in the sun with Woo in his lap and forget the world for a day.”

“Oh!” he added suddenly, “I'll get that plushie, the angry black cat that looks like Wooyoung when Mingi steals food while he's cooking.”

Wooyoung narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Hongjoong grinned. “I saw it and immediately thought, ‘Oh. It’s Woo. He’ll love it.’”

Mingi barked a laugh. “He’s gonna treasure that thing.”

The energy around the table shifted — bright, warm, determined. But it faltered again when Jongho cleared his throat.

His voice was soft. Hesitant.

“He… never had a party growing up.”

Everyone went still.

“I asked once,” Jongho continued, staring down at the edge of his plate. “I think I was four? And I asked why he didn’t get cake, or presents, and that man—” he swallowed, voice going tight, “—he said that boys like San don’t get birthdays. That they don’t deserve them.”

The air went heavy, like the whole kitchen held its breath.

“I didn’t get it,” Jongho said. “I was a kid. I thought maybe I’d asked something wrong. I didn’t ask again. Every year after I turned 10... I tried to make it the day special for him, but, he'd just ruffle my hair and said 'don't worry baby bear.'"”

Yeosang reached across the table without a word, resting his hand over Jongho’s in quiet solidarity.

Seonghwa looked down, eyes shining faintly. Wooyoung wiped his hands on a tea towel with sudden purpose.

“Then this one,” Wooyoung said, “this one’s going to be perfect.”

“We’re going to show him what it’s supposed to feel like,” Seonghwa added.

“He’s going to be spoiled,” Mingi said. “Like, cake-for-breakfast, open-laughter, full-stomach kind of spoiled.”

“I’ll bake something stupidly decadent,” Wooyoung declared. “Like three-layer chocolate with a cherry glaze. Maybe something citrus too, he likes that.”

“I’ll help,” Yunho said, eyes steady. “Whatever you need.”

“Same,” Yeosang murmured. “Let’s just… make it soft. Safe.”

Jongho exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders.

And Hongjoong leaned forward, voice warm. “Let’s give him the kind of birthday that feels like a hug. One he’ll remember for the rest of his life.”

And in that little kitchen — filled with mismatched chairs and half-eaten breakfasts — seven boys made a silent promise to love their San the way he’d always deserved.

San arrived fifteen minutes early, nerves curled tightly in his belly like a coiled spring. He straightened his shirt once more, adjusted his name badge — SAN, neat block letters on a clean black tag — and stepped into the café.

Willow & Bean smelled like warmth. Like fresh scones and roasted espresso. Like cinnamon and flour dust and something sweet on the stove. The space was cosy without being cluttered, lined with mismatched chairs and wooden tables smoothed by time.

The bell above the door jingled lightly.

Mina looked up from where she was setting the display counter, her face lighting in recognition. “You made it. Come in — I’ll show you around.”

She was about his age, warm and efficient. She guided him through the soft rhythm of the space, introducing him to the staff who were working that morning. The Lees — Mr. Lee with the gentle smile and greying temples, Mrs. Lee with flour on her apron and eyes that missed nothing — had run Willow & Bean for over twenty-five years. They still worked in the kitchen together, a seamless team that passed ingredients and shared jokes without looking up.

“Welcome,” Mrs. Lee said with a brief nod, a dusting of sugar on her wrist. “We’re happy to have you.”

“And don’t worry,” Mr. Lee added, stirring something in a pot on the stove, “no one gets the espresso machine right the first day.”

San laughed a little, already feeling some of his tension ease.

Mina showed him the ropes up front: the register, the way they wrote names on takeaway cups, how to balance the order flow.

The other student on shift was a second-year named Hana, bright and fast-paced, clearly at home in the café. She gave him a quick thumbs-up and whispered, “They like you already, trust me.”

The place was, in San’s words, a dream. Willow & Bean had a rhythm, a soul — and it didn’t take long for him to fall into step with it, though he was nervous as hell.

By late morning, the regulars had begun to pour in. Older couples who took their time with tea and crossword puzzles. Knitting circles that set up camp in the window seat. University students rushing in between lectures, the joys of summer lectures. And more than a few curious younger customers who blinked a little too long at San, cheeks pink, trying not to stare. San smiled kindly, offered helpful recommendations, and handled every interaction with gentle confidence.

He was an instant hit.

“Is this your first day?” one of the older women at a corner table asked as he brought her lemon tea.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, you’re already my favourite,” she winked, sipping slowly.

San bowed politely, fighting off a small, pleased grin. “I’ll do my best to keep that title.”

When the lunch rush settled and Mina waved him toward the back door for his break, San stepped into the quiet alley behind the café, sunlight filtering through a trailing vine of wisteria clinging to the old brick.

The breeze carried the scent of coffee and baked apples from the open kitchen vent above.

He sat on the small bench and opened his lunchbox — neatly packed and tied with a cloth wrap in his favourite colour. Tucked inside the lid was a folded note, the ink slightly smudged from rushed handwriting.

"You’re already doing amazing. So proud of you. Don’t forget to hydrate, idiot.
– Love you, Woo"

San smiled, pressing the paper flat in his palm before slipping it into his pocket.

He picked up his chopsticks and started eating, grateful for the way Wooyoung always remembered exactly what made him feel grounded. Each bite was familiar, comforting — like being seen and held, even from a distance.

San took a long drink of the iced tea, sighing softly.

He had made it through the first half of his shift. The work was good, the people kind, and the food — perfect.

When he rose to go back inside, he folded the note carefully and slid it into his wallet.

A small piece of Wooyoung, tucked right beside his heart.

Back at the house, Wooyoung had completely taken over the kitchen.

The soft hum of summer air drifted in through the windows, mixing with the scent of sugar and butter as flour dusted nearly every surface — the counter, the floor, his apron, and the tip of his nose. His sleeves were rolled up, hair clipped back messily, a few strands escaping as he leaned over the marble countertop with the kind of intensity reserved for either final exams or laminated pastry.

“Okay,” he murmured, eyes locked on the dough. “Chill the dough, roll it out, fold into thirds — letter fold, not book. Rotate ninety degrees. Don’t let the butter melt. Keep the layers clean.”

He exhaled slowly, trying not to radiate stress. Kouign-Amann wasn’t easy. Not even close. But Madam Colette had slipped him that box of eight tiny tartes au citron when he and San stopped by her bakery to get the strawberry shortcake last week. No fuss, — just a soft smile, and a conspiratorial wink as she handed the it over.

So this was the least he could do.

Wooyoung squinted down at the dough like it had personally insulted him. “You better rise like you’ve never risen before,” he muttered, aggressively dusting flour over the surface. “We’re not half-assing anything for her.” He's felt a connection to her, her warmth seeping into his bones from the few interactions that he had had with her.

He checked the butter consistency — cold but pliable. Perfect. He folded with careful precision, muttering to himself all the while.

“Pastry is layers. Pastry is patience. Pastry is love and pain and—God, I should’ve just made her macarons.”

But deep down, he loved it. The process, the challenge, the transformation. He wasn’t just baking to say thank you — he was showing care in the way he knew best.

And even as he worked, his thoughts kept slipping back to San.

San, who left for his first shift that morning all nerves and hope. San, who kissed him goodbye and held onto his hand for just a second longer than usual. San, who didn’t know the rest of them were planning something special for his birthday — a day that Jongho quietly revealed had never once been celebrated properly.

What kind of birthday didn’t come with cake? Or presents? Or even a hug?

Wooyoung shook his head, jaw tightening. Not this year. Not in this house.

Seonghwa was already sewing a picnic blanket — of course he was, the man had his sewing machine humming upstairs after breakfast. Hongjoong already gone out bought that ridiculous plushie that apparently looked like him — an angry black cat with a permanent scowl and floppy limbs. Yeosang was planning baking something, which he never does, Mingi was plotting something with Yunho, and Jongho was… quietly determined, eyes steeled in that way he got when something truly mattered.

Which meant Wooyoung needed to get his part just right too.

The oven dinged. He moved quickly, oven mitts on, pulling the test batch from the tray. A little wonky in places, but at least they were golden, crackled, flaky. The smell hit him — sugar and butter and caramel — and he sighed, proud.

He set the tray down and grabbed a glass of iced water, finally letting himself breathe. His gaze flicked to the calendar near the fridge. One week until San’s birthday.

They were going to give him something beautiful.

Something soft and simple and loud with love.

Wooyoung sipped his water, reached for the next block of dough, and rolled his shoulders.

The triumphant cry shook the quiet house.

“Yes!” Wooyoung whooped, both arms thrown into the air like he’d just won Olympic gold. “Finally! Look at you, you flaky little bastards!”

He practically bounced in place, eyes gleaming as he stared down at the tray like it was a newborn child. The kouign-amann sat in perfect rows, golden and glossy, their sugary exteriors crisped just right, with the rich scent of caramelised butter filling every corner of the kitchen.

From the hallway, two heads poked around the doorframe.

“Did he just—” Mingi started.

“—Call them flaky little bastards?” Yunho finished.

They both stepped in fully, already grinning, summoned by the divine scent and the theatrical victory.

“You’ve been hovering for twenty minutes,” Wooyoung accused without looking, still inspecting the pastry with reverence. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. And no—these ones are off limits.”

He waved a tea towel at them like a warning flag, protectively guarding the perfect batch cooling on the rack.

“But,” he added magnanimously, “you may eat the test batch.”

“Finally,” Mingi groaned, making a beeline for the tray of slightly misshapen but still glorious pastries. Yunho followed suit, already reaching for a flaky corner.

“You’ve been mumbling to yourself like a mad scientist for hours,” Yunho said through a mouthful of pastry. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this intense.”

“Pastry is science,” Wooyoung said proudly, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he surveyed the chaos around him. “And war. And art. And… okay, I need to clean this kitchen.”

The two dancers made exaggerated noises of bliss as they ate, flopping onto the bar stools like they'd been blessed by the gods. Wooyoung smirked to himself as he rinsed the mixing bowls and wiped down the counters, letting the rhythm of clean-up slow his pulse back to normal.

“I hear there’s a new server at Willow & Bean,” he said offhandedly, stacking mixing spoons with a clatter. “Might go check it out. Flirt a little.”

There was a beat of silence—then simultaneous snorts from both Yunho and Mingi.

“You’re insufferable,” Mingi said.

“You’re in love,” Yunho added.

“I can be both,” Wooyoung sing-songed, hips swaying as he dried the counter with a flourish. "Insufferably in love."

“You’re gonna make San combust,” Mingi muttered, licking sugar off his thumb. “He’s already nervous enough.”

“Which is why I’m going to flirt with him,” Wooyoung replied, eyes rolling fondly. “I’m doing him a public service.”

Yunho shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And these,” Wooyoung continued, gesturing to the carefully arranged pastries on the cooling rack, “are Madam Colette-only property. Touch them and I will stab you with the sugar thermometer.”

The kitchen smelled like heaven, and in the midst of the laughter, the buttered crumbs, and the sweet air of accomplishment, Wooyoung gently packed up the perfect kouign-amann into a small box lined with parchment.

He glanced at the clock.

He had a delivery to make.

Before leaving, Wooyoung darted up the stairs to change—because of course he wasn’t going to deliver pastries looking like a flour-dusted kitchen goblin. Not when he was about to casually drop into San’s new workplace.

By the time he came back down, Yunho and Mingi both paused mid-bite.

“Whoa,” Mingi said around a mouthful of pastry. “You’re really going like that?”

Wooyoung smirked.

He wore a look inspired by the new Arena Homme+ photospread—carefully curated, perfectly styled, and effortlessly devastating. He has a boyfriend to wow. A sleeveless black knit top, ribbed and slightly sheer, hugged his torso like a second skin, teasing the lines of his shoulders and the curve of his waist. Over it, he’d thrown a cropped denim jacket, distressed at the edges and artfully frayed. His black cargo trousers sat low on his hips, cinched with a silver-buckled belt, and his boots—chunky, worn-in, and stompy in all the right ways—completed the look. A slim silver chain hung at his collarbone, catching the light, and his ears were adorned with mismatched studs, one of them a tiny knife.

His hair was tousled just enough, like he’d walked through a summer windstorm, and his lips were slightly glossy, like he'd just had a bite of something forbidden.

Yunho blinked. “You’re so annoying.”

“What?” Wooyoung asked innocently, slipping on his rings and gently placing the pastry box into a canvas tote. “I’m just dropping something off.”

“Uh-huh,” Mingi muttered. “Sure. You’re dressed like heartbreak and sugar for no reason.”

“Exactly,” Wooyoung said brightly. “Now—do I have flour on my ass?”

He spun in place, grinning when Yunho launched a paper towel at him.

“No visible flour,” Yunho said dryly. “Only your god complex.”

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” Wooyoung chirped, already halfway out the door. “Don’t eat my lunch.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and the house fell quiet for a beat.

“He’s totally going to wreck San,” Mingi mumbled.

Yunho just shook his head. “Poor guy doesn’t stand a chance.”

The golden bell above the patisserie door jingled as Wooyoung stepped into the warmly lit shop. Madam Colette looked up from behind the counter, hands busy piping filling into pastry shells.

She brightened immediately. “Ah, mon étoile du matin!”

“Hello, Madame,” Wooyoung greeted, holding out the box. “My peace offering.”

She opened the lid slowly, then gasped. “Oh, darling... These are beautiful.”

He bit his lip. “I was nervous. The lamination kept catching and—”

“Nervous?!” she interrupted, plucking one with delicate fingers. She broke it in half to reveal the perfect honeycomb structure. “They are textbook. No... they are soul. Do you understand?”

He flushed a little. “I just wanted to say thank you properly.”

Madam Colette tilted her head, watching him with thoughtful eyes. “You cook with hunger. But not just for food—for being seen.” Her voice dropped as she took a bite, eyes closing in bliss. “Mmm... You have the fire, Wooyoung.”

“I have dreams,” he admitted quietly. “Big ones, well... Shared ones. A place of our own. A space that makes people feel like this.”

She smiled, eyes glinting with something more. “Do you want to learn how to run a kitchen, not just cook?”

His head tilted. “Yes.”

She tapped her cheek. “Then you must start shadowing. Come in weekends. I’ll show you how I do deliveries, track costs, plan menus. I might even teach you a thing or two about pastry too.”