Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What if a clock could count down to the exact moment you’ll meet your soulmate?

Would you want to know?

That’s the premise behind Timer, the revolutionary device reshaping how we understand, and experience, love. In a world where relationships are so often built on uncertainty and hope, Timer offers a way out of the guesswork, a chance to end the endless search for true love.

The latest innovation in affective technology. Implanted shortly after puberty and activated by body heat, the device uses complex algorithms and an advanced biomonitoring system to track levels of oxytocin—the so-called “love hormone.” As oxytocin rises and falls with social interaction, the device syncs and adjusts in real time with that of your soulmate.

Tired of waiting? Of wondering if true love is even real? With Timer, uncertainty becomes a thing of the past. No more bad dates. No more broken hearts. No more chasing something that may never come.

Because true love has a scheduled time. And Timer will make sure you know it.

Timer is more than just a device, it’s a promise. A clock counting down to the moment you’ve always dreamed of. A guarantee that true love exists… and that it’s on its way.

Because now, more than ever, love is right on time.

The TV goes silent the moment Minho jabs the remote, impatiently. The room falls into a thick, pressing quiet that only amplifies the frustration on his face. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and stares at his wrist.

His Timer is still blank.

That empty display, paired with the advertisement’s cheerful certainty, feels like a cruel joke.

“True love has a scheduled time.” Yeah, right.

He shoots to his feet, as if stillness itself were unbearable. His eyes scan the room—restless, searching for something, anything, to drown out the anxious weight that blank screen presses onto his chest. Outside, city lights flicker against the windowpane, but tonight, even the distant noise can’t quiet the storm in his head.

Unable to stand it a second longer, Minho grabs his jacket and car keys. He has to leave. And he knows exactly where he’s going.

Jaw tight, steps purposeful, he walks out the door without looking back.This isn’t a random escape. He’s heading to the only place where, for just a few hours, he can mute the noise inside him.

That club.

Chapter Text

Wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, with his ear and cheek pressed against the firm chest rising and falling beneath him, Minho can feel the rhythm of his breathing: slow, steady, almost soothing. The man tightens his hold, a hand squeezing his ass—probably without thinking. Minho closes his eyes and exhales deeply, wishing he could stay just a little longer, though he knows he won’t. There's still a shred of self-respect left in him.

With slow movements, he detaches from the sleeping body. He slides out of bed as if walking on glass, holding his breath as he searches the floor for his pants. While dressing in silence, he can’t help but think this was, undoubtedly, one of the best nights he’s had. His muscles ache, he’s exhausted, and a sharp twinge in his lower back as he bends down for his shirt confirms it. There’s pleasure in that pain—a lingering echo of what was. And he regrets that it will only be that: just one night.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, he ties his shoelaces with minimal effort, given the state he’s in. The mattress creaks softly under his weight. Minho glances over his shoulder just enough to meet a half-lidded gaze and a sleepy voice—thick with slumber—speaking to him.

Maybe he made more noise than he thought.

He watches as his shadow stretches across the ceramic floor when the other man switches on the light.

"Where are you going?"

"Home, obviously," Minho replies calmly, as if the answer weren’t self-evident.

"At this hour?"

Minho shrugs with a show of indifference as he slips his things into his pockets: phone, wallet, keys. He checks twice—just in case. He learned long ago that when there are no second chances, anything left behind is lost forever.

Once ready, he smooths his clothes with a habitual gesture, stands, and lingers beside the bed for just a moment—measuring the exact beat to leave without it feeling like an escape.

"Thanks for last night—it was good," he says finally. His voice is quiet, sincere, but wrapped in a courtesy that serves more as armor than anything else. "Take care..." he adds, with that impersonal tone he saves for strangers he might’ve liked to share more than just breakfast with.

He considers asking his name—but the man never asked for his. He only knows the stage name he uses at the club, and after the way they ended up tangled together, bringing it up feels awkward and out of place.

"Anyway... sleep well," he finishes, as if nothing more needs to be said.

He takes one step away from the bed before the other man’s voice cuts through the air behind him—sharper this time—and a hand wraps around his wrist.

"You're just leaving like that?"

Persistent. That kind of persistence usually turns Minho off immediately—too invasive, too much. But for some reason, he doesn’t pull away this time.

The man is sitting up in bed, shirtless, hair tousled. Minho’s gaze drifts unwillingly to a mark on his neck—the one he remembers leaving by the door, when he was pinned against the wall by this fiery dancer. There’s also a faint scratch along his ribs, a poorly concealed bruise on his hip. His body is a quiet map of the night they shared. Minho swallows.

"Mm, I already said thank you. Were you expecting something else?"

His voice isn’t cold, but it’s not exactly gentle either—it carries a faint thread of disappointment. Maybe he should’ve known. It couldn’t have been that good without expecting some kind of return.

Not that this was the first time it happened.

With a sigh, he starts digging through the pocket of his jacket until he finds his wallet. He pulls it out without hurry, like someone going through an awkward formality. But just as he’s about to open it, the grip on his wrist loosens. The guy lets him go.

"Don’t even think about it," he says, voice low but firm.

Minho closes his eyes for a second, slightly exasperated. Not because of the scolding, but because he hates when goodbyes drag on longer than they need to. He exhales, weary, and this time takes the effort to explain himself.

"Look, I don’t usually do this more than once," he says, straightforward. "We’ll probably run into each other at the club again, so... it’s better if it ends here."

Normally, he wouldn’t have explained at all. He would’ve just disappeared without a word. But this time, he bothers. Maybe because the night was that good. Because, for what it’s worth, the guy earned it.

"Can I at least know your name?" the other man asks, and at least he seems to have let go of whatever he was trying to hold on to.

That puts Minho a little more at ease. He hesitates for just a moment—not out of distrust. He’s fairly sure they’ll meet again, probably sooner rather than later. Maybe there's no point in playing mysterious. After all, there’s not much to protect.

"Minho. And you?"

"Hyunjin."

Minho nods, like tucking the name into a corner of his mind. Then, with the barest curve of his lips—just enough to qualify as a smile—he adds:

"Nice name."

And with that, he turns around and walks out of the hotel.

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***

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀

There are just over eight billion people in the world. Fifty-one million in his country. Eighty-seven percent of the global population has a timer, and its effectiveness has been confirmed at 99.98% since it was invented thirty years ago. The most recent generations were born with that certainty—that sooner or later, the countdown would hit zero, and with it, they’d find their soulmate. Everyone, except Minho. Because his had always remained blank. Since the day it was implanted, twenty-one years ago.

“Earth to Honnie? Honnie, do you copy?”

Felix’s voice, distant at first, slowly sharpens as he waves a hand in front of Minho’s face, trying to pull him back—snap him out of whatever place his mind tends to drift off to. And honestly, it is far away.

Eight billion people and not one for me, Minho thinks.

He shakes his head lightly, scoops up a bit of lemon ice cream, and lets it melt on his tongue. The sharp citrus spreads across his taste buds like a guilty pleasure. He holds back a grimace and simply lets the cold seep in, numbing his thoughts as well.

“Sorry,” he says. “I spaced out for a second. What were you saying?”

They’re here to celebrate his best friend’s recent engagement. After a long wait, Felix had finally found his soulmate. Now a ring sparkles on his finger, and Felix looks genuinely happy about it. Minho is happy for him, too.

“Is something wrong?” Felix asks, studying him with gentle concern.

“No, nothing important.” Minho takes his hands in his own, a warm and affectionate gesture. “I really am happy for you,” he adds sincerely.

Minho remembers it all clearly. How, just a few months before his predicted date, Felix had called him in a panic, saying his countdown had ended and that it could happen at any moment. Minho had been thrilled and wanted to celebrate. But Felix, too anxious, had declined. Understandably so, though a little dramatic—his soulmate wasn’t going to show up magically at his doorstep.

Minho pushed enough that Felix finally agreed, under one condition: no clubs. He wanted something quiet, just the two of them, talking about life and remembering old times.

So Minho suggested a new café that had opened in the city—one he’d visited a couple of times. At first, Felix hated the idea. Ever since he was young, his sense of smell had been extremely sensitive to coffee, and he usually avoided places like that. But Minho swayed him with a promise: the best slice of chocolate cake he’d ever have.

And that’s how it happened.

It wasn’t the original plan, but somehow Minho ended up right there, in his best friend’s special moment, when that guy—Jisung—who he vaguely recognized as the café’s owner, appeared (something he rarely did) with that calm, easy smile of his, greeting customers with his natural, enthusiastic charm. Just a few seconds behind him, Felix walked in—completely unaware that stepping through that door was about to change his life forever.

Their timers synced. Everyone around them noticed. They locked eyes. And that was it.

“It was beautiful, Honnie,” Felix says, his face softening with a smile. “He took me somewhere really special, we spent the whole day together, and when I thought it couldn’t get better… he proposed.”

“Sounds like a movie,” Minho teases, raising a brow. “So? Got a wedding date yet?”

Felix takes a sip of his taro milk tea and chuckles quietly, eyes glinting with emotion.

Minho watches him with affection. He rests his head in his hand, observing his friend as if watching the most heartwarming scene of the day. Felix’s happiness is always contagious.

“We want it soon. Honestly, Ji wanted to go to the registry the next day, but I told him it’d be better to share it with the people we love,” Felix says.

“That’s my friend. Owning the game with style.” Minho laughs.

Felix joins in, relaxed, then gives him a sly look from the corner of his eye—like he’s scheming something.

“By the way…” he says with a mischievous tone, shifting in his seat, “you never told me how it went with the guy from the other night. Was it... memorable?”

Minho raises an eyebrow, takes a moment to savor the memory, and smirks.

“Memorable?” he echoes, amused. “It was like riding a roller coaster with no harness: intense, chaotic, and mildly traumatizing.”

Felix bursts out laughing.

“God! That wild, huh?”

“I’m still recovering,” Minho adds, dramatically taking another bite of ice cream. “And it’s been weeks. A shame it won’t happen again.”

“Didn’t you say he still had, like... months on his timer?” Felix asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but he works at the club. It’d be awkward to hook up again and then see each other while I’m with someone else. I’m not in the mood for weird looks, you know?”

The truth is, Minho hasn’t been back to the club since that night. Not just because of time, but because he's afraid his thoughts about the dancer could turn into something dangerous. He knows himself too well—seeing him again too soon could unravel things he might not be ready to handle.

Especially one image that haunts him—the numbers he memorized from Hyunjin’s timer, back when he dropped him off at the hotel:

113 days : 12 hours : 25 minutes : 12 seconds

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Felix says gently. “Maybe… if you gave yourself the chance to get to know someone, even if your timer’s still blank…”

Minho lets out a long sigh, the kind that weighs more than it should. His eyes grow distant as he looks at Felix, slightly clouded. He knows his friend means well, speaks from affection—but he can’t take it seriously. Not when Felix knows better than anyone what he’s been through.

Minho came out of a relationship he once believed was genuine—five years where he gave everything to something he thought was real. Every moment shared, every dream built together seemed to have purpose, until that one day—just before their anniversary—when it all collapsed. No warning, no explanation. Seungmin left. Just like that. As if the time they’d spent together meant nothing. And the worst part? His timer, which had remained blank all those years—just like Minho’s—suddenly started ticking.

“It’d be a waste of time, I’m sorry,” Seungmin had said. And then he walked away.

That sentence carved itself into Minho’s memory. Not so much for the pain of being abandoned, but because it took him a long time to realize that the whole thing had been a lie—one he’d told himself too. He’d wanted to believe that even without numbers, even without confirmation from the universe, what they had was real. But apparently, none of it had been. The only real thing was the damn time that kept moving forward… and his own timer, always blank.

After a while longer, Minho says goodbye to Felix with a smile and a pat on the shoulder. They promise to see each other again soon, and Minho thinks the next time might be with his best friend already a married man.

On the way home, he decides to stop by the convenience store to pick up a few cleaning supplies. As he walks down the aisles, replying to a few messages from Felix—despite having just said goodbye—not one thought, but a familiar one, begins to circle in his mind. That thing they barely touched on back at the ice cream shop, now echoing louder.

Of course he’s not the only one living with this kind of uncertainty. Just like when he met Seungmin, Minho knows there are thousands of people with blank timers. Probably because their soulmates are also part of the 7% of the population who don’t have one. The real problem is that nothing guarantees those people will ever get one. And that’s what truly terrifies him.

There are others too: people whose countdowns are so long they seem like a cruel joke from the universe. Like Felix, who waited twenty years. Minho even knows more extreme cases. But sometimes, the idea of waiting fifty years feels more bearable than living with the constant question mark. Because at least waiting means certainty.

He knows he might be a little obsessed with the topic, but he can’t help it. His family feeds that obsession constantly, always reminding him not to lose hope. That everything arrives eventually. That his time will come too.

“Need help with anything else?” says a familiar voice.

Minho blinks and looks up, slightly disoriented, only just realizing where he is. Standing there is Hyunjin, smiling calmly as he finishes bagging up his items.

“You... what are you doing here?” Minho asks, surprised, as if this kind of encounter had been the last thing on his mind.

“Surprised?” Hyunjin replies, handing him the bags. “Working. What else?”

Minho takes his card back and glances behind him. No one else is in line.

“And the club?” he asks in a low voice, as if it’s some kind of secret.

“Still there,” Hyunjin says with a half-smile. “But the pay’s not as great as you’d think. They still consider me new, so I’m not part of the nightly show yet. Gotta make a living in the meantime, right?”

Minho nods, unable to keep a small smile from tugging at his lips in response to the honest simplicity of it.

Hyunjin is wearing a cashier’s uniform and his hair’s tied back in a loose ponytail—a completely different look than Minho remembers. Still, after seeing him under the lights of the club, putting on a performance that didn’t fall short of anyone else’s, it’s hard not to see him as some sort of accidental celebrity.

The automatic door beeps open and a group of teenagers walks in. Minho takes it as his cue to leave.

“Well… it was nice seeing you. Take care,” he says, casually.

Hyunjin gives him a smile—one of those smiles that tilts the world slightly toward the light. Minho shifts, uneasy.

He doesn’t sleep well that night either.

He tosses and turns in bed, switching positions over and over as if some corner of the mattress might bring relief. But all he finds is a quiet unrest that refuses to let go. That keeps changing shape, but circles back to the same center.

That image of Hyunjin’s timer—again—only this time, with new numbers:

94 days : 01 hour : 20 minutes : 04 seconds

It doesn’t seem like much, but it’s been nearly two weeks since they last saw each other. Time keeps ticking, faster and faster.

Meanwhile, Minho is still there, lying alone in that bed meant for two, where all the space only feels more hollow. He sighs.

He knows for a fact that Seungmin is doing well. He moved on. And Minho… even though it’s been over a year, he hasn’t even had the will to remove Seungmin’s toothbrush from the bathroom.

Not because he misses him. Not even out of resentment. That chapter is closed, and Minho accepted it with that quiet kind of resignation that comes when there’s nothing left to fight for. But sometimes—just sometimes—he still struggles to let go of the idea of stability he once thought he had. That’s why it’s still there.

Tired of tossing and turning, he gives up. Reaches for his phone on the nightstand, unlocking it with no real goal in mind. He scrolls through the screen like someone hoping it’ll tell him what to do—until his eyes stop on a contact saved not long ago: “Club guy.”

He still finds it funny how Hyunjin had hidden his number there, scribbled on a little piece of paper tucked inside the grocery bags. Clever move.

Suddenly, three months doesn’t feel like that long.

In a world where finding someone with an active timer near zero is rare, the idea of giving the dancer another shot no longer feels so absurd.

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***

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Minho didn’t go to the club just for fun. For him, it was almost a ritual. He searched for bodies that fit a silent checklist: instant attraction, flirtatious banter that sparked something, and above all, a timer with less than twenty-four hours left. He wasn’t interested in polite conversation or getting to know his lovers beyond the encounter. He only wanted to enjoy the moment.

There was something almost sacred about being the last. It felt like becoming, just for one night, a modern-day Charon: the last to touch them before they crossed over. Cruel, maybe. Selfish, without a doubt. But in a world that denied him any certainty, that ritual gave him an illusion of control. As if he could steal a piece of someone else’s certainty to fill the void inside him.

And that’s why he always came back.

Still, Minho had broken his own rule once—because of that long-haired dancer. He’d been drawn in by the way he moved, pulled toward him like a bee to honey. He didn’t have the sculpted body of Changbin—an old lover Minho remembered as much for his muscles as for his performance in bed—but his athletic frame and the way he moved, precise and fluid, were enough to capture all his attention.

And now he’s here again.

Minho watches him from his corner, glass in hand, the amber liquid sliding down his throat, burning a little more than usual. The man on stage. The dancer with the sharp gaze and calculated movements, who knows exactly how much to show and how much to keep hidden. He has that kind of sensuality that doesn’t scream—it whispers. It doesn’t beg for attention, but it never apologizes for taking it.

Minho tells himself he only came to take his mind off a terrible week. That he didn’t come for him. But deep down, he knows.

Some part of him was waiting.

He takes another sip, hoping the sting of the alcohol will dull his thoughts just enough to make it through the night. He’s willing to leave with someone. He isn’t feeling picky, so anyone who meets his one essential rule will do.

One of the guys who’s been eyeing him for a while finally makes a move. He walks over with casual ease and sits next to him—close enough for their legs to touch. He doesn’t even pretend to be subtle.

Minho doesn’t pull away.

The guy orders two drinks and, when they arrive, slides one toward Minho with a smile that feels less like politeness and more like an open invitation.

Minho looks down—not at the drink, but at the man’s wrist.

03 hours : 12 minutes : 54 seconds

“I already have one,” Minho says, more out of curiosity to see how he’ll react than to turn him down.

The guy smiles like it’s all part of the game. Like he already knows it doesn’t matter what Minho says—this night is his.

“Two’s always better than one,” he replies, not hesitating for even a second.

Minho doesn’t answer right away. He studies him. He’s attractive, confident, with that balanced kind of charm that could be either annoying or disarming, depending on his mood.

“Are you always this generous with strangers?” Minho asks, accepting the drink anyway.

“I wouldn’t say you’re a stranger,” the guy replies, giving him a half-smile that flirts with arrogance.

Minho raises the glass to his lips, but at that comment, the liquor catches awkwardly in his throat. He nearly chokes, though he manages to recover, only letting a bit of the liquid spill over the edge and drip onto the counter.

He looks up with a calm he doesn’t quite feel, and the bartender—who’s seen it all—shoots him a quick, knowing glance while wiping up the mess without saying a word. There’s no need. They both know the guy wasn’t wrong.

After all, Minho had earned a certain reputation from his frequent visits to the club. It wasn’t the first time someone approached him with that air of overconfidence, like they already held the winning card. And while it could be off-putting, it wasn’t something that truly offended him.

Besides, it’s not like he’d ever see them again.

The clock in the hotel room reads 3:00 a.m. Minho gets dressed in silence, collecting his things with almost meticulous care. He buttons his shirt without urgency, as if time doesn’t weigh on him at all. The stranger—Bangchan, he vaguely recalls—is fast asleep, face down, one arm hanging over the edge of the bed, completely unaware he’s about to be left behind.

When Minho closes the door, he does it with the same quiet precision he used to open it—just a soft mechanical click lost in the empty hallway. And yet, something dull pulses in his chest. A strange feeling he can’t shake as he walks away.

It hadn’t been a bad night. But that’s the thing: it was just another night.

And it’s not the guy’s fault. It never is. They show up knowing exactly what they’re here for, what they’ll get from him, and Minho lets them take it. Then he wishes them well with a smile and leaves without looking back. But this time, something is different. Something else lingers.

Maybe it started earlier, when he walked out of the club with his partner for the night. Still flushed from the heat of the place, the music vibrating in his bones, the lights dancing like they were trying to distract him. And in the middle of all that noise and movement—the long-haired dancer.

Maybe it was the way their eyes met, fleetingly. Or that particular look Hyunjin gave him—not accusing, not reproachful, but like he knew. Like he could see right through the mask. Read him. Reveal what even Minho tries to ignore.

And for a moment, Minho felt exposed. Stripped bare. Not because he’d chosen to leave with someone else, or because people around might’ve noticed. But because he was still pretending it was enough. Pretending that this was what he needed.

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***

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The sunlight filters through the studio windows at an angle, casting golden lines over fabric swatches, color palettes, and floor plans spread across the table. Minho nods now and then, offering a measured smile while his client talks. But his mind isn’t fully there.

She gestures with excitement, turning to her husband for confirmation, and he looks at her as if the entire room—and the world—has narrowed down to just her. Minho lingers on that image for a moment. On the way their hands remain intertwined, as if they were one seamless extension, and on the timers on their wrists—bright, still zeros. Soulmates found.

His gaze drops slightly, and then he notices the barely-there curve beneath the woman’s dress. A recent pregnancy. Three, maybe four months.

And it’s right there, in that subtle detail, that something shifts inside him. A faint tug. A name, uninvited: Seungmin.

Not that he thinks about him often—or at least, that’s what he tells himself. But just a few days ago, someone—he can’t even remember who—showed him a photo with that casual tone that never feels completely innocent. Seungmin, smiling, his arms wrapped around his wife. And she, showing that same soft curve Minho sees now, in another body, in another life.

He wonders if the timing lines up. If maybe that’s what Seungmin had always wanted. That simple, predictable life. Beautiful, even. Something Minho was never going to be able to give him.

He sighs, unable to hold it back.

The woman notices.

“Am I boring you?” she asks suddenly, with a nervous laugh that tries to mask her self-doubt. She doesn’t sound offended, just shy—like someone who’s asked herself that question a hundred times before. “I just… once I start talking, I don’t really know when to stop. He’s the only one who never gets tired of listening to me,” she adds, looking at her husband, who smiles with quiet affection and nods.

Minho lifts his gaze and forces himself to return a reassuring smile.

“Not at all,” he says softly, almost in a gentle whisper. “I was just picturing everything you described. I could already see it in my head.”

That seems to spark her enthusiasm again. She keeps talking with fresh energy, her husband keeps watching her like she’s the center of gravity, and Minho pulls out his tablet to show them some references. Their excitement slowly starts to seep into him like a gentle echo, something warm he didn’t know he needed.

Later that afternoon, after work, Minho picks up his brother Jeongin from university. He’s in his final year and currently doing his internship, so he usually finishes late. He doesn’t own a car, so every now and then he asks Minho to come get him. And Minho never says no. With Jeongin, it’s always been like that—a quiet softness that has existed between them since they were kids.

Still, ever since Jeongin moved out on his own a few years ago, the closeness between them has cooled a bit. Not for lack of love, but because of that natural distance that settles in once adult life starts demanding more than it gives. They don’t talk much. And when they do, it’s rarely about anything personal.

But something feels different today. Jeongin gets into the car with an unusual kind of energy—excited, almost glowing—as if he’s hoping Minho will notice and ask. Eventually, Minho does.

An hour later, after hearing the extended version of the story, the only thing Minho really understands is that his brother is seeing someone. A girl he met during his internship.

Minho is genuinely happy for him. As he always is when someone close to him lets love in through even the smallest crack. He really means it. But there’s something about what Jeongin tells him that stirs a quiet concern.

He doesn’t want his little brother to go through what he went through with Seungmin.

Because Jeongin, unlike most people, belongs to that strange percentage Minho used to view with a mix of skepticism and quiet sympathy: people without timers.

And, from what he’s gathered, the girl does have one. But it’s blank—just like his.

Minho drops Jeongin off at their parents’ house and plans to keep driving. He’s tired, the day’s been long, and he’s not really in the mood for more. But Jeongin insists—with that combination of smile and guilt that always gets to him. Minho sighs, almost resigned, and turns off the engine.

The garden smells freshly watered. Their stepfather is out front trimming the hedges, and when he sees them arrive, he puts the clippers down and walks toward them.

“Well, look who decided to show up!” he exclaims, more surprised than anything. “How are you, son? Come in, your mom’s inside.”

Minho greets him with a small nod and a warm, quiet smile—something genuine, never just polite. He’s never needed many words with this man; their relationship has always been simple, grounded in steady kindness. Even though they don’t share blood, the man has always treated him like a son. No distance. No difference. Not even in the smallest of things. And that’s why Minho respects him deeply—in that unspoken, solid way that builds slowly over time.

“I’m good, Dad. How about you?”

Inside, his mom is sitting on the couch, knitting with the TV on in the background. As soon as she sees him walk in, she sets the needles aside and lights up with immediate joy.

“My boy! What a surprise!” she says, getting up to hug him.

“Yeah, yeah, thank Jeongin for bringing the prodigal son home,” Jeongin jokes, dropping his backpack and flashing their parents a playful grin.

Laughter fills the space. It’s the kind of familiar warmth Minho knows well, the kind that settles around you without asking for permission. He leans into it. Accepts a cup of tea. And when his mom asks if he’ll stay for dinner, he can’t come up with a good enough reason to say no.

Dinner is light and easy. They talk about nothing in particular—Jeongin’s internship, a new ginger recipe their mom wants to try, how the neighbor’s cat got stuck on the roof again. Everything flows. And Minho almost lets himself relax, as if he could stay like that just a little longer.

Until the comment comes. Innocent. Offhand. Disguised as just another piece of gossip.

“Did I tell you Minhee—you know, the fishmonger’s daughter—is pregnant? I saw her the other day, her belly’s starting to show. She looked so lovely. And to think, just a year ago, she was so down because her timer was blank. We all thought she’d stay single forever…”

Minho forces a polite smile. He nods. But inside, something shuts down. Like a sudden draft sneaking in through a crack and chilling everything to the bone.

He doesn’t want to be there anymore.

He excuses himself kindly, thanks them for dinner, says he has work early in the morning. No one questions it. Jeongin walks him to the door and gives him a light nudge on the arm.

“Go easy on her—she’s deep into midlife crisis mode,” the younger one jokes, trying to soften the awkwardness of what their mom said earlier.

Minho lets out a short laugh, more out of habit than humor.

“I honestly don’t know how you put up with that every day,” he says, car keys already in hand.

Back behind the wheel, the car’s silence settles around him like a second skin. The city lights blur against the windshield like distant stars. He doesn’t know where he’s headed. He just knows he doesn’t want to go home. Not yet. He needs air—even if he hasn’t opened the window.

He drives without thinking. Letting muscle memory take the lead. He turns one corner, then another. The traffic fades, and the city starts to glow in neon.

And then, just like so many times before, he’s there.

The club.

Violet lights and carmine red flashing above the entrance. A line of people. Laughter. Voices half-swallowed by the music. Everything exactly the same. Like the place doesn’t belong to the rest of the world. Like it exists only for escape and forgetting.

Minho stops at the corner, unsure why.

Maybe he just wants to look. Maybe he wants to remind himself that he can still choose not to go in. Or maybe—and he doesn’t want to admit it—maybe there’s a part of him still searching for something. For someone.

He leans his forehead against the steering wheel. His shoulders feel heavier. He closes his eyes. He knows he’s not desperate for company tonight. That’s not it. But a small, quiet, persistent part of him misses being needed. Not loudly. Not overwhelmingly. Just enough. Just enough to feel like someone still sees him. Still wants him. Not just in bed.

Until—knock, knock.

A sharp tap on the window breaks the stillness like a stone skipping across water. Minho sits up quickly, heart jumping in his chest. He blinks. His fingers, which had been resting loosely on the steering wheel, tense.

Hyunjin.

Minho sits up straighter, lowering the window, and the cool night air slips into the car like it had been waiting for that exact moment.

“Hey,” Hyunjin greets, his smile tilted just slightly. “What are you doing out here? Waiting for someone?”

Minho doesn’t answer right away.

Not because he doesn’t know what to say—but because he simply hadn’t expected to see him. Not like this. Hyunjin isn’t wearing the club uniform, no makeup, no glittering jacket. Just worn jeans and a slightly wrinkled white t-shirt. He looks… normal. Which makes Minho think maybe he wasn’t on shift yet. Or maybe he was just leaving.

“No, not really,” Minho says at last, scratching the back of his neck. “Just passing through.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the dashboard. His fingers toy with the key, like he’s considering a quick exit. He could drive off right now.

But he doesn’t.

“And you?” he asks, not quite looking at him. “Heading in, or just getting out?”

Hyunjin leans casually against the window frame.

“Just came to grab something I left during yesterday’s shift,” he shrugs. “Got it now. I was on my way home.”

Minho nods, silent. That sounds like goodbye. He’s about to glance away, to end the moment—when the words slip out, unplanned:

“Where are you headed? I could give you a ride, if you want.”

Hyunjin pauses. Tilts his head just slightly, his expression curious. A sharp, amused smile starts to pull at the corners of his mouth.

“Hm… I wonder if that offer comes with a hidden agenda.”

He says it teasingly—his voice soft, without accusation. More a game than anything else. A quiet, dangerous kind of flirtation that floats between them like static. Minho narrows his eyes, a crooked half-smile twitching at his lips.

“In your dreams. I was just being nice. But don’t push it—I don’t have infinite patience.”

Hyunjin lets out a soft laugh—low, airy, genuine. There’s something fresh about it. Easy. Then, like someone who knows they’re welcome, he opens the door.

“All right,” he says, leaning in to settle into the passenger seat. “I’ll accept the ride… no apparent hidden intentions.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches him out of the corner of his eye as Hyunjin buckles in like he belongs there. After giving him the address, the silence stretches for a few minutes. Not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either. Like they’re both tuning into each other’s wavelength.

“Mind if I play something?” Hyunjin asks without looking at him.

“Go ahead. Your pick.”

He scrolls through the stereo options, then presses play. The car fills with the soft opening chords of Know Me Too Well, followed by the melancholy voice of one of the New Hope Club singers.

“Good song,” Hyunjin says, eyes still on the windshield. “You’ve got taste.”

Minho hums quietly, a wordless thank-you.

When Danna’s voice joins the track—clear, wistful—it slips into his chest like a breeze through an open window. His body relaxes before he realizes it. The tension in his shoulders softens. His grip on the steering wheel loosens. For the first time all day, he doesn’t feel so guarded.

“Nice car,” Hyunjin comments, tipping his head back lazily. “Mercedes, 2017?”

“2018,” Minho corrects, offering no further details.

“And what does one have to do to get a car like this?” Hyunjin asks almost immediately.

“Interior design.”

“Ah…” Hyunjin nods, as if processing that with calm, quiet interest. “Makes sense. It looks like the kind of car someone detail-obsessed would drive.”

“Was that a compliment or an insult?” Minho asks dryly.

“Depends,” Hyunjin replies, finally turning his head toward him with a sly half-smile. “If it annoys you, it is. If not—it should.”

Minho lets out a small snort of laughter. Brief, but real. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but now and then, he catches Hyunjin’s reflection in the mirror.

His hair is loose, a little messy, falling across his forehead with the kind of ease that feels unintentional—but isn’t. Minho can’t help noticing it. There’s something about him that draws him in. A subtle, persistent pull, like a taut wire humming between them.

He recognizes that feeling: the same impulse that had made him approach Hyunjin the first time, without knowing why. It’s back again—quiet but growing, teasing the idea of trying once more. Of crossing another line.

But Minho forces himself to stay still. Letting the possibility exist is one thing. Letting it take over is another.

The possibility sits between them now, unspoken. For Minho, it knots tight beneath his ribs. If the months left on Hyunjin’s timer mean anything—and to Minho, they do—then maybe all of this is just a temporary detour. Something fleeting. Nothing meant to stay.

He could play along. Let himself fall into it, no questions asked. But he knows what waits on the other side of that choice. That feeling that creeps in after—the disconnect, the emptiness. The sudden cold of a door closing.

He doesn’t want to get stuck in another half-written story.

“Mmh, you can drop me here,” Hyunjin says, nodding toward the building they’ve stopped in front of.

Minho nods, glancing at him as he unbuckles the seatbelt. But Hyunjin doesn’t get out right away. He lingers, one hand still resting on the door handle, like he’s trying to find the words for something.

Minho senses it—that hesitation in the air before something’s said. And he doesn’t want to hear it.

Before Hyunjin can speak, Minho cuts in.

“Whatever you’re about to say—it’s not going to happen,” he says, bluntly, his voice leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Hyunjin exhales, unsurprised. Like he expected that answer from the start. Minho hopes it’ll be enough to end it. But Hyunjin’s reply comes anyway.

“You’re just delaying the inevitable. You know that.”

Minho lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

“I don’t do repeats.”

He says it with conviction, but his fingers betray a faint tremor. His voice is steady, but his pulse isn’t. The tension, the gentle back-and-forth between them—it doesn’t unsettle him. If anything, it stirs something he’s trying hard to suppress. A flash of adrenaline. A spark.

Hyunjin waits a second longer, like he’s weighing how much of that statement is real and how much is just defense. Then he tilts his head and gestures toward the curb with his thumb.

“Move the car to the front. You can’t park here. I’ll be waiting,” he says, and steps out.

Minho exhales sharply, frustrated at himself for slipping. He pulls forward slowly, parking just in front of the building Hyunjin pointed to. As he does, his thoughts wander—almost involuntarily—to the numbers he’d seen on Hyunjin’s wrist before he stepped out.

Still ticking. Still stubborn.

85 days : 03 hours : 12 minutes : 24 seconds

This time he turns the engine off completely, but his hands linger on the wheel for a few extra seconds. Then he exhales, gets out of the car, and crosses the street to where Hyunjin waits.

His palms are sweating. He feels ridiculous for it.

“Just this once,” he mutters to himself, like it’s a mantra he has to say aloud. A line he’s drawing for himself.

Just this once.

Though he has no idea—for how long.

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀

***

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀

“Hey, I have to go. Let me go,” Minho murmurs softly, his voice almost kind toward the man sleeping behind him, arm locked firmly around his waist, the warmth of his body pressed against him like an anchor.

His request seems to have the opposite effect. Hyunjin only snuggles closer, tangling their legs together. Minho feels his ice-cold feet slipping between his own in search of warmth. He doesn’t let him. He kicks them away.

“It’s cold... and it’s too early,” Hyunjin mumbles in a low, raspy voice.

He says it as his lips brush the nape of Minho’s neck—warm, soft.

A shiver runs down Minho’s spine. He doesn’t know if it’s the breath or the vulnerability in his tone. He tries to shift, but the bed is too narrow and their bodies too close to allow much movement. He reaches out blindly for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up, painfully bright: 4:02 a.m.

He sighs. Outside the fogged-up window, the night still holds.

Just a little longer. Just until sunrise, he thinks. It’s winter now anyway, and Hyunjin is right—the nights are colder. While he lies there, he can hear the dancer’s even breathing. Hyunjin always sleeps so peacefully, unlike Minho, whose nights feel shorter and more restless with each passing day.

His gaze drops to the arm wrapped around his waist—and there it is, barely visible:

63 days : 19 hours : 48 minutes : 12 seconds

He closes his eyes. Every time he went home after one of their nights together, he could hardly sleep, replaying how things had ended up this way. A few nights ago, he’d tried to convince himself it would only happen once. That once the tension between them burned itself out, the spark left lingering after their first encounter would fade. But instead of fading, it had only grown stronger. It had already been several weeks.

Hyunjin’s long black hair spills over the side of Minho’s neck like a soft curtain. The kisses he starts to press against his skin are slow and absentminded, like sleepy touches. Minho squirms slightly, a low laugh slipping out—half amused, half annoyed.

“Don’t you ever get tired?” he mutters through clenched teeth.

Hyunjin responds by sliding his hand lazily across Minho’s bare chest, circling a thumb over one nipple.

“Why’d you wake me up, then?” he mumbles, voice still heavy with sleep.

Minho shifts his body as best he can. The tiny bed creaks beneath the movement. He leans in close, dangerously close to his mouth, and kisses him—dives into those soft, full lips with purpose, with just a little bite. Hyunjin smiles into the kiss, then lets his hand trail boldly down Minho’s back, mischievous. Minho wraps his legs around him, trapping him there.

“I’m buying a bigger bed soon,” Hyunjin mutters suddenly.

Minho doesn’t answer. Mostly because he doesn’t care—at least not while Hyunjin is on top of him.

The early morning stretches out like a silk thread. Outside, the sun begins to nudge away the darkness. Inside, their bodies come together again and again until light finally slips through the curtains and spills over the tangled sheets.

Minho is the first to get up. Naked, sore, he picks up his clothes from the floor. When he bends down, a sharp pain shoots through his hip, drawing a groan from his lips.

“Next time you’re on the bottom, asshole,” he growls, still facing away.

Hyunjin shrugs and stretches like a satisfied cat before disappearing into the bathroom.

Minho finishes dressing. He slips his keys into his pockets, then checks his phone. The first thing he sees is a message from Felix. Clearly agitated, like he’s been for days now, leading up to the wedding. That afternoon is the civil ceremony, and of course, Minho is going to be his best man.

He smiles, thinking about how his best friend is getting married now—and how not long ago, he was just a skinny kid nobody wanted on their soccer team because he was terrible at the game. But Minho, who was team captain, always picked him anyway, despite the complaints from the others. The memory tugs at him, a small thread of nostalgia.

From the bathroom doorway, Hyunjin watches him. He has a towel draped over his shoulders and his face is still damp, like he’s been standing there a while. He leans casually against the frame, unhurried, as if this moment were part of a routine already shared.

“Don’t want to stay for breakfast?” he asks, voice low, almost casual.

Minho bends down to grab his coat from the back of a chair, not looking up.

“I can’t. I’ve got stuff to do,” he answers, though he knows it’s not entirely true. There’s nothing urgent. But still, he’d rather not stay. Sleeping with someone is one thing. Sharing breakfast the next morning is something else. That kind of intimacy feels more dangerous—more personal. And he’s not willing to open that door.

As he pulls the coat over his arms, he adds something that sounds offhanded, but that he’d actually been thinking for a while.

“Oh—by the way. Next time, I’ll just wait for you downstairs,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “I think people at the club have seen us together a few times lately. I don’t want them getting ideas… or misunderstanding.”

Hyunjin listens in silence. There’s no irritation on his face, no clear reaction. Then he nods slowly, without drama.

“Alright. I’m not going to the club much this week anyway. Just Wednesday. I’m covering for a friend—he’s been sick.”

Minho nods, too. One hand already on the doorknob, ready to leave.

“Got it. See you then.”

“Yeah. Take care,” Hyunjin replies, already turning toward the kitchen.

As Minho steps out of the building, the cold air hits his face instantly. He pulls up his coat’s zipper with one hand and stuffs the others into his pockets as he crosses the street toward his car. Still, something gnaws at him. A vague unease, almost imperceptible—like the feeling of being watched.

He glances back, just slightly, not even thinking about it. Pure instinct. He casts a quick look at the building where he just left the dancer—but nothing seems out of place. Everything looks normal.

He shakes his head, almost amused with himself, and keeps walking, thinking maybe Felix’s wedding nerves are starting to rub off on him—and now he’s the one imagining things.

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀

***

ㅤ⠀ㅤ⠀

The reception hall carries a warm, inviting air. Round tables dressed in crisp white linens, soft golden lights strung overhead, trays of drinks and finger food weaving between the guests, and a gentle melody blending into the hum of conversation. Everything is arranged with care—clearly the result of meticulous planning.

Minho sits alone at a table near the wall, fingers wrapped around a half-empty glass. He watches quietly. His gaze drifts from face to face: he recognizes a few, not many. The rest are strangers. Despite the lively atmosphere, he feels more like a spectator than a participant.

He hears a familiar laugh behind him—low and distinct—and doesn’t need to look to know who it is. A moment later, the chair beside him shifts, and Felix sits down with the ease of someone who doesn’t need an invitation.

“She’s pretty, huh?” Felix says, that bright energy of his still glowing, like it never dims.

Minho turns slightly. Felix’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes still sparkling, as if the excitement of the ceremony hasn’t yet worn off. He’s holding a glass too, filled higher than Minho’s.

“She is,” Minho replies, following Felix’s subtle gesture toward the center of the room.

There, Jeongin and his girlfriend are laughing as they share a piece of cake. Nearby, a woman—he thinks she might be one of Jisung’s aunts—is chatting them up enthusiastically. Jeongin nods along politely, the way he does when he doesn’t fully follow the conversation but wants to be kind.

“They look good together,” Felix says, still watching them.

Minho nods slowly, like he’s processing more than what he sees.

“Yeah…”

“And it looks serious,” Felix adds, his tone quiet but pointed.

Minho says nothing. He takes a sip from his glass, letting the liquid settle slowly.

“That’s exactly what worries me,” he murmurs, exhaling softly.

He doesn’t need to explain. They’ve had this conversation more times than Minho would care to admit. Felix just looks at him with that mix of understanding and playful teasing in his expression. Minho knows exactly what that look means.

“You’ve got that face again, Honnie,” Felix says with a smirk. “You’ve talked to three people tonight—two of them were waiters. Want me to make you a sign that says ‘Please get me out of here’?”

Minho lets out a small laugh, but doesn’t respond right away.

“What could go so wrong?” Felix pushes, with the same tone he always uses when trying to nudge Minho toward seeing things from a lighter angle.

“Want me to start the list?” Minho shoots back, half-joking—but only half.

Felix chuckles and shakes his head.

“It’s not that deep. If it crashes, let it crash. Jeongin’s not a kid anymore. Let him have his telenovela drama if that’s what life’s handing him.”

Minho gives him a sideways glance. He knows Felix isn’t finished.

“Besides…” Felix adds, his smile curling a little more, “If I were you, I’d be more concerned with… other matters.” He lifts his brows with that familiar conspiratorial gleam. “How are things going with your favorite boy?”

Minho sighs, already resigned.

“He’s not my boy, idiot,” he replies quickly, refusing to take the bait—at least not entirely.

Ever since Minho had told Felix what was going on with Hyunjin, his best friend hadn’t missed a single chance to tease him about it. Still, Minho played along. It was easy—it was Felix. And deep down, that dynamic always made him smile.

A voice breaks in from behind them.

“Seriously? Can’t I even have my wedding without you trying to steal my husband?”

They both turn at once. Jisung stands with his arms crossed, grinning, his face warm under the lights and the soft blush of alcohol.

“I turn my back for one second and you two are planning your grand escape,” he says, dramatically narrowing his eyes as if genuinely jealous.

Felix laughs and rises with all the theatrical flair his suit allows.

“Forgive me, my love. I was trying to rescue this cynical, lonely soul from his shadowy corner,” he says, gesturing at Minho with a flamboyant bow.

“Then come rescue me instead. They’re playing our song, and I’m not dancing to it alone,” Jisung says, extending a hand.

Felix takes it without hesitation. Just before they disappear into the crowd, he throws a look over his shoulder at Minho—a sharp, knowing glance that says: you’d better enjoy yourself… I’m watching you.

Minho raises his nearly empty glass in reply. The music changes tempo, and he stays there a while longer, watching the two of them melt into the crowd with the ease of people who know each other far too well.

Minho has lost track of how many drinks he’s had. The last clear memory is Felix dragging him to the dance floor with the excuse of “just one song.” But the music doesn’t stop, neither does Felix, and by the time the first, second, and third songs end, Minho no longer has the will to resist.

Now, with his heart racing and his shirt clinging to his back from the heat, he feels his body begging for a break.

He holds his liquor well—he’s not drunk—but there’s a familiar pressure behind his eyes that tells him it’s time to breathe. He excuses himself, claiming he needs the restroom, and slips away from the crowd without much effort.

In the bathroom, he splashes cold water on his neck and exhales, grounding himself. The mirror reflects a slightly disheveled version of him—flushed cheeks and a faint, tired smile. As he dries his hands, he unlocks his phone. A few notifications await, and several are from Hyunjin, flashing softly on the screen:

"Are you at a party?

Saw a photo of you. You looked forced, lol.

Can I call you?"

Minho sighs. Hyunjin has a habit of messaging him outside their meetings, even though Minho has tried—more than once—to make it clear that whatever’s between them isn’t meant to go beyond what it already is. At first, Minho didn’t reply at all, but lately, ignoring him entirely feels too cold.

"I'm at my best friend's wedding."

He types it without overthinking, pauses a second, wondering if he should add more—but chooses not to. He locks the screen.

Exiting the bathroom, phone slipping back into his pocket, he makes his way toward the side exit, hoping to catch some fresh air before returning to Felix’s endless energy on the dance floor. But he’s distracted, still thinking about the message—maybe he should have told Hyunjin to stop texting altogether—when he bumps into someone head-on.

The collision jolts him out of his thoughts, and his phone flies from his pocket, clattering against the floor and sliding several feet down the hallway.

“Could you maybe watch where you're going?!” he snaps, his irritation sharp in his tone.

“Shit! Sorry!” the other voice stammers, already crouching to retrieve the phone. “I didn’t see you coming.”

Minho is about to fire off another comment, but he recognizes the face as the other man rises and hands him back his phone with a genuinely apologetic look.

“Oh… you’re the other best man, yeah? Jungwoo, right?” Minho says, checking his phone quickly. No cracks. He lets out a breath.

“That’s me,” Jungwoo says, smiling sheepishly. “And you were… Minhoo?”

“Minho. Just one ‘o.’”

“Sorry. That’s what I get for trying to memorize a million names while dancing with ladies twice my age,” Jungwoo jokes, a soft laugh escaping him.

Minho glances at him, and whatever irritation was left dissolves. Something about Jungwoo’s tone is simply… pleasant.

“Were you done for the night?” Jungwoo asks, nodding toward the door Minho just came from.

“No, just needed a breather. The party’s great, but I was starting to overheat,” Minho says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Also wanted to recharge before Felix drags me back out for more dancing.”

“Ugh, same. I came out to give my feet a break or I was going to bleed out through my shoes,” Jungwoo says with a dramatic gesture, like he truly might collapse from exhaustion. “It almost felt like we were part of some pagan ritual, summoning a higher being with all that spinning.”

A laugh escapes Minho—genuine, unfiltered.

“God, you’re so dramatic.”

“Years of practice. Not everyone’s built for flair,” Jungwoo replies with a grin, then adds, more casually, “So… since we’re both here for the same reason, would you mind if I joined you for a bit?”

Minho hesitates for a beat, then nods.

“Sure. I don’t mind.”

They walk together, crossing the lobby and slipping into one of the quieter hallways leading to a small outdoor area just past the main entrance. The air is cooler there, quieter. They stop near a railing, the light from inside casting a soft glow over them.

“By the way,” Jungwoo says after a quiet pause, “your speech for the newlyweds was… really good. You can tell you and Felix have something special.”

Minho lowers his gaze, clearly a little uncomfortable with the compliment.

“Thanks. Yeah… I guess it’s just because we’ve known each other forever,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck.

What he doesn’t mention is how emotional it had been to stand up there and speak. How his voice had caught slightly while recalling all the years they’d shared. He keeps that part to himself.

“Although…” Jungwoo continues, more thoughtfully now, “there was something you said that stuck with me.”

That catches Minho’s attention. He lifts his eyes, curious.

“Oh?”

“You mentioned the timers. You said they help people find their true love, and that those who manage to do so are lucky. Do you really believe that?”

Minho blinks, surprised by the question and the unexpected turn the conversation takes.

“Well… that’s what everyone says, right?”

Jungwoo doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls up his sleeve and shows his left wrist. His timer is blank—no numbers, no countdown.

“So then, I’m unlucky?” he asks, calmly.

Minho pauses before replying. He seems to consider it seriously, though the answer has been with him all along. Eventually, he lifts his own wrist and reveals his own blank timer—no ticking numbers, no visible fate.

“Yeah, welcome to the club,” he says, without bitterness. “It’s not as bad as people make it sound.”

Jungwoo chuckles, and that simple laugh lightens something in Minho’s chest. Just a little. As if, for once, he wasn’t so alone in his anomaly.

They stay like that for a while, the cool air brushing against them as the sound of music begins to drift out louder from the party behind them. Eventually, they decide to head back in. It looks like the reception still has a couple of hours left in it.

Minho drops into an empty seat—any seat, it hardly matters by now. Jungwoo follows without asking, without hesitation.

A server walks past with a tray of drinks, and Minho gestures to grab one. Before he sips, he offers it to Jungwoo out of courtesy. But Jungwoo raises a hand and declines with a polite smile.

“Sorry, I don’t drink,” he says.

Minho arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t judge.

“My friends always make me the designated driver,” Jungwoo explains with a sheepish look. “So I’ve kind of gotten used to staying sober while everyone else passes out in the backseat.”

It still feels a little rude to drink in front of him, but since he already has it in hand, Minho takes a small sip while letting his eyes wander across the room.

Felix and Jisung are still dancing, laughing about something. Jeongin and his girlfriend sway slowly nearby, clumsy and adorable. Even Minho’s parents have joined the dance floor, moving with something that isn’t quite rhythm but definitely joy.

Minho watches it all for a moment, and before he realizes it, the words slip from him.

“It must be nice… to have the right person and share something like this.”

He doesn’t say it to anyone in particular. It sounds more like he’s speaking to himself.

“What was that?” Jungwoo asks, tilting his head slightly.

And that’s when Minho realizes—he actually said it out loud. His ears turn red immediately.

“Ah… nothing. Just thinking,” he mumbles. “Nothing important.”

“Are you okay?” Jungwoo asks, his tone gentle, more curious than invasive. “We could step out again, if you want.”

Minho shakes his head quickly.

“It’s fine. Really.”

Jungwoo watches him in silence for a moment, maybe weighing his words—or maybe just giving Minho the space he clearly needs. Then, with a disarming kind of honesty, he speaks:

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. Wanting to love and be loved isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, and his voice softens.

“But you know… sometimes I wonder if these timers have made us too comfortable. We still have the ability to choose—but we act like we don’t. Like love is only worth pursuing if it comes with a guarantee. And in the meantime, everyone just waits. As if falling in love without certainty is a mistake... when really, those mistakes are the ones that matter. Because without them, how are we supposed to learn anything?”

Minho listens. He lets the silence linger between them for a moment, staring into his glass, thoughtful—then lifts his eyes to meet Jungwoo’s. What he’s just heard hits deeper than he’d like to admit.

Because deep down, he knows Jungwoo is right.

If he hadn’t made the “mistake” of trying to make it work with Seungmin, maybe he’d still be clinging to that naive version of love—that fantasy where just feeling something was enough. Where wanting it was all that mattered. Like love was a fixed destination, not a path you sometimes lose, or have to choose to leave.

“Actually… this is my second wedding this month,” Jungwoo says suddenly, as if casually revealing a secret. “My ex got married last week.”

Minho turns to look at him, genuinely surprised.

“Your ex?”

Jungwoo nods.

“Yeah. It was a small wedding, but really beautiful. I was happy for him, honestly.”

“So… he had a timer? Like yours?”

“No,” Jungwoo replies, shaking his head. “He had numbers. His countdown had already started before we met. But we liked each other, so we decided to try anyway. I stayed with him until a week before his timer hit zero.”

The confession leaves Minho silent. He watches Jungwoo with something between admiration and a quiet ache.

“You knew it would happen,” Minho says, unable to help himself. “That must’ve been hard.”

Jungwoo tilts his head, considering the truth of it.

“Yeah. It always is. No matter how much you prepare.”

Minho hesitates, then dares to ask:

“Did you ever feel like… you were just the in-between? Like you were just part of the wait for something better?”

The pause that follows is short, but weighted. Jungwoo takes his time. When he finally speaks, he meets Minho’s eyes.

“Maybe at some point, yeah. But even then… I wouldn’t change a single day of what I lived with him.”

Minho nods slowly, like he’s filing every word away. His gaze drifts back to the dance floor, where the music has softened.

Jungwoo watches him for a second longer, then gestures subtly toward his wrist.

“And you? What’s your story?”

Minho glances down at his own blank timer and lets out a dry chuckle.

“Seems like the tragedy of the empty-timer singles is universal.”

They both laugh—softly, not bitter. It’s the kind of laugh that feels shared. Understood.

When the celebration finally winds down, Minho is surprised to realize he’s had far less to drink than expected. He says goodbye to his parents and brother, who head home separately. Just as he thinks the night is over, he spots Jungwoo among Jisung’s friends.

He doesn’t know why, but he keeps looking.

Jungwoo seems to sense it. He turns suddenly, as if he felt Minho’s gaze. Minho panics, tries to play it off, but fails.

Jungwoo approaches with an easy stride, hands tucked into his pockets.

“Heading home already? Or is there a secret after-party I’m not invited to?”

“I’d love to, but I’m out of company,” Minho says, half-shrugging.

“What am I, then?”

Minho laughs, genuinely surprised.

“Are you inviting yourself?”

“Obviously,” Jungwoo grins. “I can be your designated driver. My traitor friends forgot to tell me they’d already ordered a cab.”

Minho shakes his head, amused, and the two of them walk off toward the lit street outside.

In Minho’s car, they drive to a nearby bar. The night still feels young compared to whatever’s left between them.

It’s well past midnight when the hotel room welcomes them in soft darkness. The door clicks shut behind them, the air still warm from the hallway. Minho fumbles along the wall, searching for the light switch, but his fingers barely graze it—Jungwoo’s arms are already around his neck, steady and sure, his lips brushing a trail of heat along Minho’s jawline.

Minho chuckles under his breath, low and unguarded, trying to catch his lips in a teasing bite. But Jungwoo pulls back slightly, smiling against his mouth.

“Easy, tiger,” he whispers, that smile still tugging at his lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Before Minho can reply, he feels himself lifted off the ground. His legs wrap around Jungwoo’s waist by instinct, hands gripping his shoulders for balance as Jungwoo walks them through the shadows toward the bed. And in the rhythm of those steps—soft, determined—Minho notices it: the vibration in his back pocket. Once, twice, three times.

The buzzing against his thigh is impossible to ignore.

Jungwoo notices, too.

“Your phone?” he murmurs close to his ear. “Could be something important.”

Minho shakes his head. The moment his back hits the mattress, he strips off his pants and, with them, the phone. It hits the floor with a soft thud, landing somewhere in the dark alongside the rest of their clothes.

“Not now,” Minho says, voice thick, somewhere between warmth and urgency. “I don’t care right now.”

And he wants that to be true. He really does.

But as his fingers curl into the fabric of Jungwoo’s shirt, as their breaths tangle and their mouths meet again and again, there’s something else beneath it all—pressing at the edge of his chest, cold and quiet.

A question he didn’t want to ask.

What does Hyunjin want from me… at this hour?

The thought won’t go away. And worse, it doesn’t just linger—it hurts.

Minho closes his eyes and presses harder into the kiss, as if he can smother the guilt with heat. As if it will go away if he just wants this enough.

But guilt, as he knows too well, always finds a way to stay.