Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

AFTERCARE

Chapter 1 : BARE

The first thing Wooyoung noticed was how quiet it was.

Not the kind of quiet wrapped in triple-paned glass or buried under engineered sound foam. Not the hush of backstage green rooms or sterile luxury hotels. This was an older quiet, one that felt like it belonged to the land, like it had outlived entire lifetimes before him. It didn’t mute him, it moved through him. Dusted the inside of his lungs like silt from another century.

The SUV rolled to a stop at the top of a long, winding gravel road. Ahead, the house stood low and steady beneath the slope of the mountain, its wood dark and weathered, tin roof sun-faded, porch wide enough to hold secrets. No fences. No security cameras. No flashing lights. Just windchimes that nudged each other gently in the breeze like they had all the time in the world.

“You’re here.” the driver said softly, glancing back.

Wooyoung didn’t move.

His hoodie sleeves were tugged over his knuckles, fingers pressed into his palms. Courrèges Sunglasses still on, despite the clouded sky. As if they were the last barrier between himself and everything else.

A beat passed. Then another.

The driver didn’t rush him. That helped.

Eventually, Wooyoung nodded—small, tight, and reached for the door handle. His hand trembled. He didn’t bother to hide it. He stepped out into the warmth, sneakers crunching softly on the gravel.

The air wasn’t hot, not really. But it felt real. Clean. It smelled of pine, dry grass, cedar, and something sweeter, honeysuckle maybe, or the edge of something blooming nearby. It was like being handed a weighted blanket he hadn’t asked for but somehow needed.

And then the screen door creaked open.

A man stepped out barefoot onto the porch, pausing like he hadn’t expected anyone to actually appear. His body was broad and solid in a plain white tee and jeans, hair pushed back into a rough knot like he’d been working all morning and only just remembered someone was coming.

His face didn’t show surprise so much as quiet recognition.

“Well, damn,” the man said, voice low and lazy like a Southern summer drawl. “Didn’t know they were sendin’ me a ghost.”

Wooyoung blinked behind his sunglasses, unsure if he was supposed to answer that.

The man, San, he remembered Seonghwa telling him at some point , offered a slow crooked smile. “I mean it nice, sugar.” he added, stepping down from the porch.The nickname made Wooyoung flinch, almost imperceptibly. It didn’t sound mocking, but it still felt too much. Too close. Too soon.

San’s gaze flicked to the duffel bag clutched tightly in Wooyoung’s hand. He held it like it weighed more than he did.

“Here,” San said, reaching for it. “Let me.”

“I—I can—”

“You can let go.” San said, gently but firmly.

Like it was that simple. Like he hadn’t spent weeks clinging to every tiny routine, every packed item, every scrap of control he had left. Letting go wasn’t easy. Letting go meant surrender. Meant admitting he was tired. Meant trusting someone with something. Even something as small as a bag.

And still…

San didn’t rush him. Didn’t tug. Just waited, patient and steady, like he could hold the weight of a world without blinking.

Wooyoung’s fingers didn’t want to unclench at first. He stared at them—pale, trembling, nails too short from anxious biting. His wrist ached.

Almost like peeling off a scab.

And when the strap left his hand and settled across San’s broad shoulder, something in his chest gave a quiet, aching sigh.

San slung the bag over one shoulder like it was nothing and gestured toward the house. “C’mon. Let’s get you settled.”

Just a quiet presence a few steps ahead, glancing back only once to make sure Wooyoung was still there.

He wasn’t really walking. Not exactly. He was being pulled forward by necessity, legs moving like they weren’t entirely his. Head ducked. Shoulders hunched. Like he thought if he moved too suddenly, the house might disappear—or worse, that he would.

San noticed. Didn’t say anything. But he noticed.

Halfway up the porch steps, San paused and shifted the duffel on his shoulder. Then, with a carefulness that felt almost out of place in someone so solid, he placed a hand on Wooyoung’s upper back.

Just a touch.

Not heavy. Not pushing. Just there. Grounding. Warmth through fabric.

Wooyoung twitched beneath the hoodie, breath catching, but didn’t pull away.

San withdrew just as quietly and opened the door.

“Place ain’t much,” he said, nudging the screen shut behind them with one bare foot. “But it’s somethin’. I run the ranch out back. This part’s the B&B. Got its own bathroom. You’ll have space to breathe.”

Wooyoung nodded once, barely perceptible, gaze skating along the hallway without settling. He kept near the walls. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to exist in the center of things yet.

Wooyoung nodded once, gaze skating along the hallway without really settling. He kept near the walls. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to exist here yet.

Inside, the air was cooler, touched with the scent of lemon balm and cedar. Wooyoung stepped in like someone waiting to be stopped.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask questions. Just stood there, eyes flitting from a row of crooked picture frames to the dusty light on the floorboards.

“You alright with stairs?” San asked.

Wooyoung gave a barely-there nod.

“Cool. You’re on the first floor anyway.”

They passed a coat rack holding a single worn jacket, and a basket of dog toys that looked well-loved. A small square window breathed open and closed in the hallway, a curtain lifting lazily like lungs.

In the kitchen, Wooyoung noticed the kettle. Stainless steel. Too clean. Set on a stove that looked older than both of them, but still worked. A jar of orange marmalade sat open on the counter beside an empty plate.

When they reached the guest room, San didn’t step inside. Just held the door and let Wooyoung go first.

The room was small but clean. Quiet. A bed made tight and neat, with a quilt folded at the foot. One window. One desk. A chair. A dresser that looked like it had lived there longer than the house. The sheer curtain danced in a breeze that carried no sound.

Wooyoung’s duffel hit the floor with a soft thud. The sound seemed to echo.

“You can rest as long as you need,” San said. “Nobody’ll bother you.”

Wooyoung didn’t answer, but he gave the smallest nod. It was barely more than a breath, but it was something.

San turned to leave, then paused.

“Shower’s down the hall. Kitchen’s open. You need anything, take it. Or holler.”

Another pause. Not awkward. Just long enough to see if Wooyoung would respond.

He didn’t. But he was listening.

He hesitated once more. “I’m usually around.”

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Wooyoung didn’t rest.

He didn’t unpack either.

He opened his duffel just long enough to grab his meds. Seonghwa had packed them in a clear organizer—AM/PM compartments, backups labeled with a sharpie in perfect handwriting. One was to sleep. One was to stabilize. One was to keep him from collapsing like sugar glass under pressure.

He washed them down with lukewarm tap water. No glass. Just his cupped hand.

Then he moved like muscle memory was the only thing left functioning. Hoodie off. Shirt folded too precisely on the bathroom counter. Not tossed, folded. Smoothed flat like it might judge him if it wrinkled.

The bathroom smelled faintly of eucalyptus and pine. The tile was cool beneath his toes. The shower came on too hot, but he didn’t adjust it. Just stepped under, face tilted down, one hand braced against the wall.

The water stung his back. His scalp. His chest. But he didn’t flinch.

He scrubbed like he was trying to erase something. Neck. Arms. Again. Again. The loofah squeaked across raw skin. Shampoo missed his hand once, dribbling onto the floor.

When he stepped out, the mirror was too fogged to see himself.

He dried with tight, mechanical movements. Black sweatpants. A thin Chrome Hearts long-sleeve with barely-there embroidery near the wrist. He checked the collar twice. Rolled the sleeves exactly two times, adjusting until they matched. His hand drifted up to his chest, two fingertips. Press, circle. Once.

Just checking he was still real.

There was a knock—soft.

“Didn’t mean to bother,” came San’s voice. “Just letting you know I’m makin’ something to eat. If you’re hungry later.”

“I’m okay.” Wooyoung replied. Quiet. Automatic.

He wasn’t.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Later, Wooyoung found himself on the porch again. He wasn’t sure when he’d drifted out there. The sky was low now, all soft lavender and muted fire, like it had been washed in watercolour and left to dry without finishing the edges.

The chair creaked as he curled into it, folding in on himself. Hoodie sleeves pulled low. One leg tucked beneath the other. Still, always, small. Still, always, trying to take up less space.

The breeze lifted his hair, brushed past his cheek, didn’t ask anything of him.

Somewhere out of view, San was humming—just barely. Not a tune, not even a rhythm. Just a sound that filled the silence without crowding it. It was… nice. Like the hum came from someone who knew he didn’t need to speak to be felt. A presence that wrapped around the edges but never stepped too far in.

Wooyoung let his eyes fall shut. Just for a moment.

His body felt unfamiliar. Like a house left locked up too long. Dust in the corners. Light bulbs flickering when he tried to flip the switches. He hadn’t eaten today. Hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words. Hadn’t cried. The pressure was still there, behind his ribs, but nothing was coming out. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it didn’t know how.

Then, quietly, the screen door eased open and shut.

A plate was set beside him.

He didn’t flinch. He was too slow, too fogged, but he opened his eyes, blinked once, and looked down.

Chicken. Roasted squash. A biscuit, still warm.

No fanfare. No footsteps lingering. No voice urging him to eat. Just… a folded napkin. And a small, crooked note scrawled across it.

The handwriting wasn’t neat. It dipped and hooked in places like San had scribbled it with one hand while stirring something with the other. Like he hadn’t planned the note, just written it because he meant it.

Wooyoung stared at it for a long time. Not the plate. Just the napkin.

He didn’t move for several minutes. Let the scent settle in-warm, rich, earthy. The kind of food you didn’t rush through. The kind of food you gave someone when you didn’t know what else to say.

His fingers ghosted across the paper’s edge.

Then, slowly, he reached for the fork.

The first bite was small. Careful. His lips barely parted around it. He chewed slowly, eyes down. And then something—some memory in his mouth or something tucked in his chest, twisted. His throat caught.

He paused, breathed in through his nose.

And then another bite.

He didn’t finish it. But he ate enough. And that was new. That was something.

When he finally set the fork down, he tucked the napkin into the front pocket of his hoodie.

Like a keepsake.

Like proof.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

A knock. Two taps. Like punctuation at the edge of a dream.

“Morning,” came San’s voice. Rough with sleep, warm with something else. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I just… made coffee.”

Wooyoung blinked up at the ceiling, still tangled in the unfamiliar sheets, then slowly moved toward the door. He cracked it open, squinting into the brightness. San stood there barefoot, hair a little mussed, holding two mismatched mugs. One had a chip in the rim, the other had a faded cartoon cow on the front.

Steam curled between them, rising in lazy spirals.

“Thought you might wanna sit,” San said.

So they sat.

Out on the porch, the air was crisp in that particular way it only is after sunrise—edges still cool, light stretching its arms across the sky. The wood beneath their feet creaked gently as the boards settled. Somewhere in the trees, birds were already deep in conversation. The wind carried the faintest scent of clover, hay, and fresh soil.

Their silence wasn’t empty. It had shape now. A weight. It settled between them like a folded blanket, not heavy, just present.

After a while, Wooyoung asked, almost shyly, “…What do you do here?”

San sipped from his mug before answering. “Chores. Riding lessons. Feed runs.” He paused, shrugged. “Mostly for folks in town. Jam, eggs. Sometimes bread.”

He trailed off into a murmur, naming things like they were familiar landmarks—Mrs. Holloway’s apple jelly, the Liu brothers’ hens, the postmaster’s goat with the limp—and Wooyoung didn’t understand half of it, but something about the rhythm of it felt like music anyway. San had a way of talking like everything made perfect sense, like the world was just a series of things you picked up and handed back with care.

“You bake?” Wooyoung asked, the question hanging somewhere between genuine curiosity and teasing disbelief.

San snorted into his coffee. “Hell no,” he said, amused. “My mom does all the baking. I just carry it.”

Wooyoung arched a brow. “Carry it where?”

San tipped his mug toward the horizon like it answered everything. “Town. Farmers’ market runs Fridays and Sundays. Got a stall near the feed store. She’s been selling there since I was a kid—pies, breads, jams, sometimes candied pecans if the mood strikes her.”

He scratched lightly at his jaw, the way people do when they realize they’re rambling but keep going anyway.

“I help set it up when I’m not on the road. Load the truck, stock the table, haul crates from the cooler out back. Mostly just heavy lifting and looking pretty while she does all the actual work.”

He grinned like the last part was a joke, but Wooyoung didn’t laugh—just studied him for a second.

“You’re the face of the brand,” he said, mock-serious.

San chuckled, sitting back. “She’d kill me if I said that out loud.”

Wooyoung made a sound then, small and breathy—almost a laugh. A little puff of amusement that startled even him.

“…Can I see the goats?”

San turned his head like someone had handed him something precious without warning. His eyes lit with a quiet kind of surprise, like he hadn’t expected Wooyoung to want anything at all.

“Course.” he said.

They walked past the edge of the porch, through dew-damp grass that clung to Wooyoung’s jeans. The morning light stretched long shadows behind them as they reached a small wooden shed nestled near the slope, its roof sagging slightly but still solid. A fenced area spread out beyond it, speckled with hoof prints and hay.

San opened the door and rummaged for a pair of boots. He held them out, then crouched down in front of Wooyoung without asking. His hands were sure and gentle as he eased the boots on, thumb brushing against Wooyoung’s ankle as he adjusted the laces.

He didn’t rush.

“Good?” San asked, looking up.

Wooyoung nodded, still watching him. There was something about the way San moved—quiet and steady, like nothing ever surprised him, like kindness was muscle memory. It made something uncoil, slow and strange, low in Wooyoung’s chest.

Then San stood, cupped his hands to his mouth, and let out a sharp, melodic whistle—two short bursts, one long. The sound broke across the field like a ripple.

Wooyoung’s eyes widened.

And then, like magic, they came.

Goats, bounding over the ridge like they’d been waiting all morning to be summoned. Their stubby legs kicked up dirt as they galloped down, bleating at various pitches, high, eager, chaotic. A blur of ears and hooves and soft, chubby bodies.

Two of them made a beeline for Wooyoung.

He startled, visibly—stepping back half a pace, shoulders tight. His hands hovered at his sides, unsure.

San noticed instantly.

“Hey,” he said, soft but steady, already at his side. He brushed two fingers along Wooyoung’s wrist, grounding him. Then, gently, he guided his hand forward. “It’s okay. Just hand flat—like this.”

He didn’t force it. Just slid his palm under Wooyoung’s and adjusted the angle, thumb curling lightly against the inside of his wrist. His touch was warm. Calm. Like an anchor in the shifting morning.

“Goats don’t bite,” San murmured. “They just wanna know if you’ve got snacks. Or secrets.”

Wooyoung let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a scoff and a nervous chuckle.

The first goat nudged his fingers with a damp nose. The second pressed into his hip, insistent and unbothered, like he belonged to the herd now whether he liked it or not.

And then it happened.

Wooyoung laughed.

It was small. Bright. It startled out of him like a bubble and hung in the air between them. Boyish and breathless. A little cracked at the edges, but real.

San didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

He just watched. Watched the way Wooyoung’s eyes softened, the way tension bled out of his shoulders, the way he reached out—tentative at first, then more certain—to stroke a goat’s head. The way the sunlight caught in his lashes. The way something in him unfolded.

It was like watching frost melt. Like watching something bloom.

San stayed close but not too close. Let Wooyoung take his time. Let the moment breathe.

And then, so quiet it barely qualified as sound, San murmured, “Yeah…”

The words slipped out into the air like a promise meant only for the wind.

“You’ll be alright here, sugar.”

But Wooyoung didn’t hear it. He was too busy laughing again as one of the goats tried to nibble the cuff of his hoodie. His Chrome Hearts hoodie, San noted absently—the one that probably cost more than all his boots combined.

Didn’t matter.

Right now, out here in the golden light, surrounded by goats and wind and the gentle hum of the earth waking up.

They lingered there for a while.

Wooyoung didn’t say much after the laugh. Just kept his hand hovering near the smaller goat’s ears, occasionally reaching to touch, then pulling back like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to keep wanting softness. His fingers twitched once when the goat leaned in, like he didn’t know whether to flinch or lean back.

San didn’t rush him. He crouched beside the fence at one point, brushing dirt off his knee, pretending not to notice how quiet Wooyoung had gone again. The goats milled around them, bleating halfheartedly now that they realised no snacks were coming, and Wooyoung watched them like someone watching a dream that might end if he blinked too hard.

Eventually, San stood with a quiet grunt.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower now, casual but still gentle. “Gotta run up to the barn real quick. Just need to check the pasture gates, make sure the horses didn’t go knock somethin’ stupid over again.”

He hesitated, thumb hooking into one of the loops on his jeans. “You okay to walk back by yourself?”

Wooyoung nodded without thinking.

It was a small nod. Reflexive. Too fast. Like he was answering automatically—just to make sure he didn’t inconvenience anyone. The kind of nod that didn’t come from confidence, but habit.

San didn’t call him on it. Just gave a slow, thoughtful look and a quiet hum that said he saw it, and chose not to push. “Alright,” he said. “Won’t be more than ten.”

He turned and walked up the slope, boots quiet in the grass, hands swinging easy at his sides. There was something about the way San moved—as if nothing could touch him. Like even the earth moved out of his way out of respect.

Wooyoung watched him go until the trees swallowed his outline.

And then he was alone again.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The kind that catches behind your ribs and makes your chest ache when it finally slips free.

The goats had wandered off now, lazily tugging at patches of grass or lying in the sun. One of them sneezed and startled itself. Wooyoung didn’t laugh again.

The silence shifted.

Not like a blanket. Not the way it had when San was beside him.

This silence had sharp edges. It settled on his shoulders, not as comfort, but as weight.

He turned and began walking back toward the house, arms wrapped loosely across his chest as the sun pressed down just a little too hard. His steps felt off somehow. Like they didn’t quite belong to him—like they were borrowed. Like his legs only knew how to move when they had someone to follow.

The grass brushed against his ankles. The air still smelled good. The breeze still kissed the side of his face.

But it all felt… thinner now.

Like the moment had burned out too quickly, leaving nothing behind but the echo.

When he reached the porch, he hesitated before stepping up. Then he sat—slowly—on the top step, shoulders curled slightly in. Hands clasped between his knees, elbows on thighs. Not hunched exactly, but closed in. Like he was still bracing for something.

The light shifted across the gravel in front of him. A few birds chirped from the trees. Nothing asked anything of him, but that didn’t mean he could rest.

He didn’t hear San return at first.

Just the soft jingle of a buckle… then paws on wood.

Wooyoung looked up to see a large dog trotting toward the porch, tail swinging in slow, lazy arcs. Golden-brown with thick fur and droopy, observant eyes, she didn’t bark or bounce. She just climbed the steps like she’d done it a thousand times, circled once, and flopped by the door with a contented huff.

A second later, San rounded the corner. His jeans were dusty, hands rough from work, and his hair looked wind-ruffled, like he’d barely slowed down on the way back.

“There you are,” he said with a smile that didn’t ask for anything in return. “Didn’t mean to take forever.”

He nodded at the dog. “Bo beat me again?”

The dog flicked an ear but didn’t move. Her gaze followed San like she was keeping score.

“Sticks to me like Velcro,” San added, stretching one shoulder with a soft groan. “Walk across the field? She’s at my heel. Stop for a second? She’s sittin’ on my damn foot. Won’t even nap unless she’s sure I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He gave her a mock-scowl. “Traitor.”

Bo gave a long, theatrical groan, shifting just enough to prove she heard him, but not enough to be bothered.

San chuckled, then looked back at Wooyoung. “She don’t usually warm up to strangers. Think she’s more suspicious than I am.”

Wooyoung’s gaze drifted back to the dog. “She yours?”

San shrugged, the motion easy. “Think she decided I was hers. So yeah—works out.”

He stepped onto the porch and leaned on the railing, arms folded, gaze sliding toward the trees. For a second, nothing passed between them but the rustle of leaves and the soft creak of wood.

“I’m headin’ into town,” San said after a beat. “Gotta pick up some feed, a few bolts for the gate. Might swing by the diner while I’m out.”

He glanced down the steps, then back at Wooyoung. “They’ve got this strawberry pie. Warm this time of day. Crust’s so flaky it makes a mess and you’ll still end up lickin’ your fork clean.”

Wooyoung didn’t answer. But his eyes tracked the dust glinting in the light, how it drifted in the air like lazy glitter. His fingers curled just slightly into the hem of his sleeve. A reflex. Comfort through friction. He hadn’t unpacked much, just enough to survive the first twenty-four hours. He didn’t feel like a guest, not quite, but he wasn’t anything else either. Just… here. Floating.

“You ever been into town?”

Wooyoung shook his head once. “No.”

It hadn’t even crossed his mind. The idea of being seen, of walking through unfamiliar streets with unfamiliar people, it all felt too loud. Too soon. He hadn’t even memorized the shape of the house yet. The bed still felt borrowed. The walls still echoed too much.

San nodded like he’d expected that. “Didn’t think so.”

Silence settled again, low and weightless. It didn’t dig at him or hang heavy—it just was. Like the sound of wind through the screen door. Like sun-warmed wood under bare feet. It was the first kind of quiet that didn’t make Wooyoung feel worse for not filling it.

“You wanna come?” San asked eventually.

Wooyoung blinked. His eyes lifted only halfway. “Why?”

It wasn’t meant to be defensive—just honest. He hadn’t talked much since arriving. Barely more than yes or no. He didn’t know what to do with kindness when it came without a contract attached. Was it politeness? Pity? Or just ranch boy decency?

San didn’t flinch. “Thought maybe you’d wanna see somethin’ that doesn’t bleat or bite.”

That earned a soft puff of air from Wooyoung—half a laugh, maybe. He looked down. His voice was quieter than before. “I’m not… good company.”

That wasn’t self-pity. It was just fact. He hadn’t eaten yet today. Hadn’t slept well either. He’d showered twice already, obsessively scrubbing down until his skin felt like paper. He wasn’t presentable in any sense of the word. His Chrome Hearts hoodie-pulled up, sleeves over his hands, was the only armor he had. He didn’t want anyone to see what was underneath.

San smiled. Slow. Honest.

“Didn’t ask you to be.”

And for a second, that stopped something inside him. No pressure. No performance. Just an open offer, soft at the edges. San looked at him like there was no clock running, no timeline he had to beat. Like if Wooyoung said no, the offer would still be there tomorrow.

And maybe… maybe that’s why he didn’t say no.

Bo yawned, her tail tapping the wood once.

San tilted his chin toward the yard. “Passenger seat’s open. If you pass, Bo’ll call dibs and snore the whole way there.”

Wooyoung glanced at the dog again. Peacefully sprawled, like nothing in the world could shake her. Then back at San, whose face was open but not expectant. Just present.

San turned to go, boots thudding softly as he stepped down.

At the bottom, he paused.

“If you come,” he said, tossing the words gently over his shoulder, “I’ll buy the pie.”

Then he kept walking. No pressure in his step. No weight in his voice.

Just an offer left in the warm air like something sweet cooling on a windowsill.

TBC. :]

Chapter Text

AFTERCARE

Chapter 2 : CRAVE

The passenger door closed with a soft thunk, followed by the rustle of fabric against worn upholstery — softer now, cotton instead of denim. Wooyoung had changed. Jeans swapped for loose black slacks. His hoodie sleeves were tugged down again, nearly past his fingertips, the hem of the fabric worn and stretched from habit. The boots San had tied for him that morning had been quietly replaced with sleek black sneakers, spotless except for a single smudge on the left toe — not enough to be noticed, but Wooyoung had probably noticed anyway.

San did.

He just didn’t say anything.

The seatbelt clicked a second later, and Wooyoung pulled it too tight across his chest — like he was trying to hold himself together from the outside in.

San adjusted the mirror and turned the key.

The truck rumbled to life with a groan like old bones. It rolled over the gravel slow and sure, tires crunching over sun-warmed stone. Dust rose behind them in lazy curls, soft as smoke, drifting into the trees.

Wooyoung didn’t speak. He kept his gaze on the window, head tilted slightly away. The hood of his sweatshirt cast a faint shadow over his cheekbone. His fingers toyed with the hem of one sleeve, worrying a single thread until it began to fray.

San didn’t stare. He didn’t need to. He’d already clocked it — the faint bruise-like exhaustion under Wooyoung’s eyes, the way his collarbones had started to show even through the soft fall of the hoodie. The way he hadn’t eaten more than three bites of dinner the night before, or touched his breakfast that morning. The quietness wasn’t just personality, it was hunger and wear and grief, all woven together like a shirt pulled on backwards in the dark.

Didn’t mean nothing.

But it didn’t mean nothing either.

He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers, drumming out a beat only he could hear. Then leaned forward and clicked the radio on — low, just enough for company. A country tune Wooyoung maybe could recognise on off day if was fully paying attention fuzzed through the static, soft and honey-warm, his voice curling around the cab like smoke on a porch.

“I was gonna stop at the hardware store first,” he said after a stretch of quiet. “Gates on the back field need refitting before the horses get too curious and bolt again. I’ll just be in and out.”

Wooyoung nodded once, still looking out the window.

“You can wait in the truck if you want,” San added. “Air still works decent, long as she’s movin’.”

Another nod. Smaller.

San didn’t push. There was no point filling silence for the sake of it — not when the land itself was talking loud enough. The wind came through the window crack, the gravel gave way to soft tar, the tires hummed on the road like a lullaby no one remembered the words to.

They passed a field of bluebonnets, spread thick like spilled ink. San saw the way Wooyoung’s gaze caught on them — just briefly. Just enough to prove he was still seeing.

“You’d like spring around here,” San said, not quite looking his way. “-whole town turns into a damn painting. Every fence post gets flowers braided onto it by someone’s niece. It’s obnoxious.”

Wooyoung’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. Like he wanted to smirk and didn’t remember how.

San smiled to himself. Kept driving.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Town rose slowly, not like it was built, but like it had grown there. Just a handful of buildings leaning into the road — a diner, a squat brick market, a crooked feed store, a bookstore with sun-bleached signs and a fat orange cat passed out in the window. Everything looked older than Wooyoung but lived-in, like things that hadn’t been fixed because they hadn’t needed to be. Painted by hand. Letters on signs a little crooked, but proud.

San pulled into a parking space across from the diner and cut the engine. The silence that followed felt softer than before,  expectant, not empty.

“You good here?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer right away. He blinked down at his lap. Then, surprising them both, he reached for the seatbelt and unclicked it. “I’ll come.” he said, voice gravelly from disuse.

San raised a brow, but didn’t comment. Just nodded once and stepped out.

They crossed the street side by side. San didn’t hover, didn’t guide. He just walked like he always did, a steady, quiet presence that let you walk close if you wanted to.

The sun was higher now, not quite harsh but starting to stretch its elbows. The hardware store was cool by comparison, lit by soft yellow bulbs and the long, slatted light from a row of dusty windows. The floor creaked beneath their feet.

San moved like he lived there. He nodded to the man behind the counter. “Mornin’, Hank,” he said, low and easy, before disappearing down an aisle lined with metal tools and thick spools of fencing wire.

Wooyoung stood near the doorway, not quite inside, not quite out. The woman at the register glanced up from her magazine. Her gaze snagged on him — that flicker of almost-recognition people get when they’re trying to place a face they can’t quite name. Wooyoung looked away before it could turn into anything.

He tracked the way light moved across the tile. Noticed the uneven pattern in the wood ceiling. Noticed the quiet. For once, it didn’t feel like something pressing against his ears.

San returned with a box tucked under one arm and a tin of nails in the other.

“All set,” he said. “Pie time.”

The diner was quieter than expected. Most of the seats were taken by old-timers. Bent heads over black coffee, newspapers folded in half, crossword pens tapping in thought. A radio hummed behind the counter, barely audible beneath the soft clink of ceramic and silver.

San led the way to a booth by the window, far from the regulars, but still with a view of the street. He slid into his seat and tapped the menu twice like muscle memory.

“Best pie in town,” he said. “Real strawberries. Not that syrupy crap.”

Wooyoung hesitated, then sat. His posture was too straight. Like sitting wrong might get him noticed, like comfort was something you had to earn.

A waitress with gray curls appeared, smiling like she’d known San his whole life. “Back so soon?”

“Brought someone with better taste,” San said, nodding toward Wooyoung.

Her eyes softened. “What can I get y’all?”

San looked at Wooyoung, who blinked at the menu like it was a puzzle with no answer. His fingers touched the edge but didn’t flip it open.

“Two strawberry slices,” San said for both of them. “And coffee, if it’s fresh.”

“Always is.” she replied with a wink, then vanished behind the counter like smoke.

San leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “She’s been working here longer than I’ve been alive,” he said. “You sneeze, she’ll have a tissue in your hand before you finish.”

Wooyoung let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh. But lighter than silence.

“…Thanks.” he said quietly.

San didn’t ask what for. Just nodded. “Anytime.”

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The plate hit the table with a soft clatter — ceramic against laminate — and a wisp of steam rose from the pie like it hadn’t quite decided whether to stay solid. The scent hit first, warm sugar and real strawberries, edged with citrus and something buttery underneath. It should’ve been comforting.

It wasn’t.

Wooyoung reached out without thinking — too quick, fingers brushing the crust.

“Don’t,” San said, soft but firm, his voice close.

Wooyoung froze.

“Too hot. Use the fork, honeybee.”

Honeybee.

The nickname drifted through the air like it had always been his. Not a tease. Not a joke. Not a transaction. Just… San, being careful.

Wooyoung blinked, hand still hovering, heat blooming faintly against his skin like a warning. He wasn’t used to being stopped before pain. Not used to being protected from the things he reached for.

“Okay..” he murmured,  quiet as a button pressed in the dark.

He picked up the fork instead.

The first bite was cautious. More of a test than taste. Just enough to prove something to himself. His throat tightened anyway. Not from the flavor,  it was good, too good, like it came with strings, but from nerves. From not knowing how to eat something soft without swallowing a memory too.

He angled toward the window, hoping a shift in view might help him keep it down. The sun caught the edge of the booth and painted his hoodie sleeve gold. Another bite. Smaller. Then one more. Half of it made it to his stomach.

San didn’t comment. He just sipped his coffee like it was all part of the same quiet ritual — a small blessing shared in silence.

Wooyoung set the fork down. Leaned back. His legs brushed the underside of the table, and the booth creaked softly. It sounded loud.

He reached for his phone out of reflex.  not expecting anything, just needing something to do with his hands. The screen lit up. Blank. No messages. No missed calls. No calendar reminders. Nothing from staff. No manager yelling in all caps about missed interviews. No stylists. No members.

Just… absence.

It stung less than it used to. But not by much.

He turned back to the window, to the watercolor-soft town outside. A bakery with ivy curling over its railings. A flower shop down the block with a chalkboard sign: DAISIES 3 FOR $5 — the S’s uneven and honest. Wooden chairs sat beneath striped awnings where locals sipped from chipped mugs like they’d never been in a hurry a day in their lives.

Too soft. Too pretty. Too much.

Like something bad was going to happen just to even the score.

He glanced at the plate again. At the crust he hadn’t touched. The bite he’d skipped. He knew San had seen it,  the way he froze, the way he looked.

So he pulled out his wallet. Slipped two folded bills beneath the plate. Not a statement. Not drama. Just what he always did. Guilt money. Tip money. Thank-you-for-putting-up-with-me money.

They stood.

San noticed — of course he did,  his gaze flicking from the cash to Wooyoung’s face, then to the slim leather wallet. It wasn’t something sold around here. San didn’t comment. But Wooyoung could feel the weight of the pause. Curiosity turning like slow gears in the background.

They stepped outside into the glare of early afternoon. The warmth hit harder now, more real. The air pressed in close. Wooyoung missed the curb by half an inch and stumbled, heart jerking sideways in his chest like it expected pain.

San’s hand caught him before he could fall.

“Careful.” he murmured, steadying him with a gentle grip on his elbow. 

Wooyoung stopped walking. Not because he was hurt, he wasn’t, but because something in him ached anyway. Something he hadn’t let surface in months. Maybe longer.

He nodded, eyes lowered. “Sorry.”

San didn’t let go. His hold stayed gentle, steady as fence-post wood.

“Ain’t a crime to need a second,” he said, voice pitched low, soft enough that even the passing cars couldn’t steal it.

The walk back to the truck was quiet, but not the kind that scraped. It felt a little fuller now, like the silence had something tucked inside it. Not a conversation, not yet, but maybe the possibility of one.

San opened the passenger door and tipped his head. “After you, honeybee.”

Wooyoung ducked his gaze, barely nodding as he climbed in.

The cab was warm, sun filtering through the windshield in long diagonal streaks. The air smelled like dust and pie and something else now, something clean, like wood soap and the inside of a feed barn. The engine rumbled to life, and they rolled back onto the road with a little puff of gravel.

San didn’t talk much. Just hummed low to a Patsy Cline song fuzzing through the speakers and adjusted the brim of his cap.

A minute later, he nodded out the window. “That’s Yeosang’s place.”

Wooyoung followed his line of sight.

The flower shop looked like it had grown out of the sidewalk — vines curling around the gutters, the windowsills crowded with mismatched pots. Buckets of tulips and sunflowers sat along the curb, cheerful and unbothered. Inside, a flash of movement,  someone adjusting a ribbon on a bouquet, half in shadow, half backlit by stained glass.

San didn’t slow down. Just added, “We’ll stop by after I pick up feed. Yeosang might have some of those fancy room sprays my mom likes. Guests think it smells like heaven, so I stock up when I can.”

He said it like it was normal. Like carrying lavender mist through a ranch house was the most natural thing in the world.

Wooyoung didn’t respond. Just tucked his hands between his knees and kept looking out the window until the feed store came into view.

It wasn’t much from the outside, wide barn siding, a metal roof, and a wooden sign swinging in the breeze. San parked with one arm braced behind Wooyoung’s seat, and the truck hissed softly as it settled.

“I won’t be long,” he said, then paused. “You wanna wait, that’s fine. But you’re welcome to come in.”

Wooyoung hesitated,  not because he didn’t want to, but because he wasn’t sure if he should.

Still, he climbed out.

The sunlight hit harder here, catching on San’s shoulders as he rounded the back of the truck. He didn’t walk like someone trying to impress,  just moved like someone who knew exactly how his weight carried. He exchanged a few quick words with a man by the loading dock, then headed toward the stacked pallets.

Wooyoung stayed near the door, halfway in the shade. Watched.

San grabbed a bag of feed and hoisted it up like it weighed nothing. Thick burlap, probably forty pounds, easy, but it didn’t so much as slow him down. He tossed it onto the flatbed with a dull thump and turned back for the next one.

Wooyoung swallowed.

Another bag. Then another. Dust rose up around San’s boots, sticking to the sweat at his neck. A guy standing nearby whistled under his breath.

“You don’t feed ‘em by hand, do you?” he joked.

San smirked. “Only the spoiled ones.”

He looked over his shoulder.

At Wooyoung.

Wooyoung’s ears went hot.

He ducked his head fast, pretending to read a faded flier taped to the feed store door. Something about a 4H event. He didn’t retain a single word.

When San was finished, he wiped his palms on his jeans and headed back toward him, reaching into a cooler that had been wedged under the last feed sack. He pulled out two bottles of water.

“Here,” he said, offering one.

Wooyoung took it, fingers brushing the condensation. Cold.

“Figured you earned it, for supervising”

Wooyoung took it slowly, eyebrows twitching just faintly.

San grinned. “You take in the scenery, or just there to judge my lifting form?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer, but the look he gave him over the rim of the bottle was unmistakably dry.

San laughed under his breath. “Knew it.”

He tried not to think about the fact that San had said honeybee again. Out loud. In public. Or his top stretching every time he lifted the feed.

Nobody blinked.

Nobody looked twice.

Was that just how people talked out here? Did he call everyone honeybee? Did it mean anything?

Wooyoung turned it over in his mind like a marble in his palm — smooth, cool, possibly nothing.

But maybe not.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The flower shop came back into view like a watercoloured painting tucked between two rougher brushstrokes of town. A splash of green, a tangle of vines. Buckets of wildflowers out front, cheerful and unbothered. The chalkboard sign was still crooked, still honest, DAISIES 3 FOR $5 — and this time, Wooyoung didn’t just glance.

He stared.

San parked with one arm slung behind his seat again and cut the engine. “Won’t take long,” he said, but his voice held something softer now. “You good to come in?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer right away. Then, with a small breath, he nodded.

“Alright then.” San murmured, and pushed open the door.

The bell above the shop chimed as they stepped inside — a light, musical sound that didn’t belong anywhere near a feed store but fit here perfectly. The air was cooler, fragrant. Like something had been steeped in chamomile and left to bloom.

Wooyoung froze just inside the doorway.

It wasn’t fear. It was the kind of pause you take when you don’t want to ruin something by being part of it.

The shelves were crowded in a way that felt intentional. Jars of dried herbs lined one wall, each labeled with tiny handwriting. Handmade candles flickered inside glass cups. Flowers spilled from every surface. Not in vases, but in baskets, in boots, even one old guitar repurposed into a planter. Something was playing faintly in the background — piano, soft and slow, almost like a memory.

Behind the counter, Yeosang looked up.

He was in an apron dusted with pollen, sleeves pushed to his elbows, wrists slender and neat. His hair had been tied back loosely. He was pinning up a string of eucalyptus when he saw them.

“Hey!” he said to San, eyes bright. “You’re early. Don’t tell me the back gate finally gave in.”

“Just getting ahead of it,” San replied, tapping the box of wire tucked under one arm. “Figured I’d grab that spray Ma likes while I’m here.”

Wooyoung drifted deeper into the shop, moving slowly past displays and shelves that felt more like memories than merchandise. Books on wildflowers were stacked near a tiny reading chair. A dog-eared journal with pencil sketches lay tucked beneath glass. A shadowbox of pressed blooms hung nearby, beside a faded photo of a horse with a pink ribbon behind its ear. A record player spun in the corner, soft vinyl crackling like it had survived three heartbreaks and a war.

Nothing here was for show.

Everything had been touched. Chosen.

Wooyoung’s fingers hovered over a tray of hand-stitched bookmarks, each one embroidered with a different flower. He picked one up carefully,  forget-me-not, sky blue. Neat work, delicate as a secret.

“That one’s new,” came a quiet voice beside him.

Wooyoung turned slightly. Yeosang was there now, not crowding, just close enough to share the moment.

“-Didn’t think anyone would notice it,” Yeosang added.

“It’s… pretty.” Wooyoung said.

Yeosang nodded once, expression unreadable but not unkind. “‘Was my grandmother’s favourite. Said they were stubborn. Bloomed when nothing else would.”

A silence settled between them,  not awkward, just knowing. Gentle.

Then San’s voice carried from the front of the shop. “If you see any of the lavender oils, let me know. Ma swears they keep the stress ghosts out.”

Wooyoung didn’t respond, didn’t need to. But when Yeosang’s eyes flicked briefly toward San at the word “stress ghosts”, they lingered.

Not at the phrase.

At the tone.

He looked at San for half a second longer than necessary — quiet and knowing — then turned back to Wooyoung.

Wooyoung, who had already shrunk slightly behind San earlier when they’d come in, sleeves slipping down his wrists. He wasn’t trying to hide. Not really. But something about him felt folded up. Like a letter never meant to be read out loud.

Yeosang saw it.

Didn’t speak, just looked for a moment longer than expected. Not unkind. Just… noticing. As if something about Wooyoung didn’t quite fit with the rest of the room, and yet somehow made perfect sense anyway.

Wooyoung flushed and shifted his gaze, letting it land on a nearby shelf lined with small glass bottles. Their labels were handwritten: Sleep, Stillness, Gentle Heart. He reached toward one like it might bruise.

Yeosang stepped around the counter, his footsteps soft against the wooden floor. He moved with the kind of gentleness you didn’t get from a city. No rush, no agenda. Just calm.

“That one,” he said softly, stopping beside the shelf. “My grandmother used to use it. She blended it herself.”

Wooyoung blinked at the bottle between his fingers.

Yeosang continued, brushing one of the other jars with a fingertip. “When things got too loud in her head, she’d rub a bit on her temples and wrists. Said it gave her five quiet minutes. Sometimes… that’s enough.”

He looked at Wooyoung again, still not prying. “If you want it, I’ll bag it for you. No charge. She’d have said someone needed it more than the shelf did.”

Wooyoung opened his mouth then closed it. He looked at San, who hadn’t interrupted. Then at the oil. Then back at Yeosang.

“…Thanks,” he whispered. “But— I can pay.”

His wallet was already half out of his sleeve.

Yeosang smiled, a quiet one, gentle at the edges  and gave a soft shake of his head. “Please,” he said simply. “Just have it.”

Wooyoung stared down at the bottle in his hand like it had grown weight. Then nodded, barely, and slipped it into the crook of his arm.

“…Okay,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

Yeosang gave him a small nod, already turning back toward the counter. “You’re welcome.”

San reappeared with two sprays and a small bag of wrapped soaps. “Got what I needed.”

Yeosang rang it up but didn’t touch the oil.

As they left, the bell above the door chimed again. San shouldered the box, the sprays tucked under one arm. The sunlight felt brighter now, less sharp. Wooyoung held the little bottle like it was breakable, which maybe it was.

San glanced at him as they climbed back into the truck.

“You alright?”

Wooyoung looked down at the bottle, then nodded.

“I think so,” he said. Then added, quietly, “-Thanks for bringing me.”

San didn’t say anytime, though he thought it.

He just turned the key in the ignition and let the truck carry them home.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The road stew stretched out head and long lazy curve, golden light trailing behind them like a slow farewell.dust rose behind the trap like smoke catching the last of the Sun as the hills folded in on themselves. San didn’t rush.he let the silence settle the tires humming steady beneath them, the radio fading into something soft and string-heavy.

Somewhere along the way, Wooyoung fell asleep.

It wasn’t sudden. His head had already been leaning against the window, his hands tucked between his knees, shoulders drawn in like he was trying not to take up space. But somewhere between the last cattle guard and the broken mile marker near the creek bend, his body gave up pretending. His head tilted slightly. His breathing evened out. Just the barest twitch of his fingers against the sleeve hem, then stillness.

San didn’t say anything. Just lowered the volume and drove a little gentler around the turns.

The bottle from the flower shop was still resting in Wooyoung’s lap. Cradled like it was worth something.

By the time the ranch came into view — all low beams and rust-colored shadows — the sky was bruising purple at the edges. A flock of birds cut across it in a loose V, flapping hard toward somewhere warmer.

San eased the truck to a stop near the barn, gravel crunching low under the tires. He didn’t kill the engine yet. Just rested one arm on the wheel and let the moment sit.

“Wooyoung,” he said softly.

Wooyoung blinked awake fast — startled, not disoriented, but with that same stiff jolt of someone who hasn’t let himself sleep in front of another person in a long time.

San just nodded toward the porch light ahead. “We’re home.”

Wooyoung nodded, too. Faint, like he was still shaking off the dream. He followed San out of the cab without a word.

They walked slow across the yard. The air had cooled with the dusk, carrying the scent of cut hay and something sweet from the pasture, maybe alfalfa. A barn cat darted past them, all tail and attitude.

At the door, San paused with his hand on the handle.

“You don’t have to,” he said, glancing back. “But I usually check the horses round this time. You’re welcome to tag along. Beats sitting in the dark, if nothing else.”

Wooyoung hesitated.

Then nodded.

San’s boots thudded down the porch steps with weight behind them. Wooyoung’s steps barely made a sound. They cut across the yard together, then around the fence line toward the pasture gate. The horses were already gathering near the post, sleepy-eyed and dust-dappled. A few lifted their heads at the sound of San’s voice — low, comforting, a steady thread of half-words and names.

“Hey now,” he said to the bay closest to the rail. “Ain’t time to act dramatic. You were fed just this morning.”

He unlatched the gate and slipped through, grabbing a canvas bucket off the fence hook and tossing a handful of feed across the low trough. Grain scattered. Hooves shifted. The sound of breath and hay filled the air.

Wooyoung stayed just outside the gate, hands in his sleeves.

The fence creaked softly as Wooyoung leaned on it, just a little.

One of the horses — a mare, lighter in color, cream at the nose — wandered close to him. Not fast. Not curious. Just quiet. She stopped a foot away and blinked at him once.

Wooyoung stood still. He didn’t reach. He didn’t back up.

She nosed the air near his sleeve, just once, then turned and walked away.

“…It didn’t even flinch,” he said, voice small, like it had been waiting to speak all day.

San didn’t look over this time. “She’s just sayin’ hi,” he said. “That’s all.”

Not long after, they headed back toward the house.

Inside, the light was low. San flipped on a kitchen lamp and shrugged off his outer layer — a denim shirt smudged with dust and sweat. The scent of citrus soap clung faintly to him from the flower shop, like a misplaced memory.

He didn’t ask if Wooyoung was hungry.

Just sliced an apple, slow and methodical, and left the pieces on a plate in the middle of the kitchen table. Next to it, a second mug joined his own — steam rising from the tea kettle still warm on the stove. No offer.

Just there.

Wooyoung drifted back downstairs ten minutes later, changed into a clean hoodie and thick socks that swallowed half his calves. He didn’t say anything. Just moved to the table and took the plate without comment.

He ate one slice. Then another. Sipped the tea like it had been made just for him, even if it hadn’t.

San didn’t watch him. Just wiped down the sink and checked the back door locks, the quiet rhythms of home still carrying on as if nothing had changed.

Eventually, Wooyoung stood. Carried his mug to the sink. His fingers lingered a moment against the edge of the counter — not quite a grip, just contact. Like he was reminding himself this was real. That the tile was solid beneath his palm.

He looked up. Met San’s eyes across the kitchen.

“…Thanks,” he said again, soft but steadier now.

San just nodded, folding a dish towel in half. “Anytime.”

Maybe Wooyoung actually believed It the second time.

Chapter Text

AFTERCARE

Chapter 3 : RENDER

It was still raining when Wooyoung came down the stairs.

Not hard, just steady. The kind of rain that clung to everything. It rolled off the leaves in lazy rivulets and pattered softly against the windows, like the sky was taking its time.

The house was quiet. Still smelled like wood and something sweet. But now there were signs of life layered over it, a thermos left on the counter, a towel slung over the back of a chair, and muddy boot prints trailing through the hall like breadcrumbs.

Wooyoung padded into the kitchen on bare feet, careful not to step in anything. He hovered near the doorway, eyes catching on details,a pair of gloves drying on the radiator, an old coat hanging by the door, the distant clatter of hooves.

Outside the back window, past the barn, he could just make out two figures on horseback moving along the far fence line. One of them, taller, broader, he was almost sure was San. The other was someone he hadn’t seen before. Or maybe he had. It was hard to tell in the mist and rain. Both of them were hunched in their saddles, heads bowed against the cold.

The rain was steady. The air inside was warm.

Wooyoung’s stomach growled, louder this time.

He didn’t mean to cook.

At first, he was just poking around, checking the fridge, maybe looking for a snack. But then he saw the tub of gochujang tucked behind the eggs. Fresh garlic. A half-used bag of dangmyeon. A small container of anchovy broth base. Doenjang, soy sauce, two kinds of kimchi. Thinly sliced pork belly, perfectly portioned and wrapped.

And it all clicked into place.

Someone had stocked this for him.

Wooyoung blinked at the contents, stunned by the quiet care of it. Not just Korean food, but real ingredients. The kind you’d only request if you actually knew how to cook. Not idol-diet portions. Not sad instant noodles.

This wasn’t random.

This was someone’s mom, maybe. San’s. Following instructions from whoever had arranged this stay. Probably Seonghwa. Of course it was Seonghwa. That neat, tidy bastard probably sent over a full spreadsheet.

The familiarity of it made Wooyoung’s throat tighten.

So he rolled up his sleeves and did what he always did when his brain got too loud.

He cooked.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

There were more footprints now.

Heavy ones near the back door. Smaller ones by the side entrance. Mud tracked across the floor in overlapping patterns, some still wet, some already drying. Jackets had been left on hooks. Someone had passed through and taken another thermos. The screen door had been left ajar.

Wooyoung hadn’t seen anyone. Just the signs of them. As if the house itself was exhaling people he didn’t know yet.

He spent most of the morning into midday in the living room, curled up in the big chair by the window, nursing a cup of tea that kept going cold. The rain didn’t let up. If anything, it deepened, a silver veil across the pasture, thick enough that the far ridge disappeared entirely.

He almost didn’t hear the porch creak.

But then the door opened.

Wooyoung startled, hand flying out toward the umbrella leaning against the doorframe. He grabbed it like a sword, heart thudding, and stepped forward just as someone ducked inside.

A stranger. Young. Dark hair matted to his forehead from the rain. His jacket hung off one shoulder, gloves dangling from his fingers. He paused when he saw Wooyoung, eyebrows lifting.

“—Whoa,” the guy said, raising a hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Wooyoung didn’t answer. His grip tightened on the umbrella.

The guy blinked at him. Then glanced down at the pointed end of the umbrella aimed vaguely at his chest.

“You, uh. You good?”

Before Wooyoung could decide what to do, whether to speak, or apologize, or bolt, another figure stepped up behind the stranger on the porch. Taller. Soaked.

San.

His shirt clung to his chest like it had been painted on, dark with rain. His hair was plastered to his forehead. He was still holding the reins of his horse loosely in one hand, like he’d only just dismounted. 

He took one look at the scene, Wooyoung with the umbrella raised like a weapon, and the other guy frozen mid-step and grinned.

Not cruelly. Not mockingly.

Just like it was the best thing he’d seen all day.

“Easy, cowboy,” San drawled, eyes fixed on Wooyoung. “He works here.”

He didn’t look away. Rain slid down his face, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He didn’t seem angry. Didn’t even seem surprised. Just amused, warm, steady, like the sight of Wooyoung standing there with an umbrella cocked in self-defense made perfect sense.

“He works here,” San repeated, nodding at the younger guy still frozen behind him. “-Name’s Jongho.”

The stranger — Jongho — blinked. “Hey.”

Wooyoung didn’t move.

His heart was racing, fingers tight around the umbrella handle like it mattered. Like it could keep him from folding beneath the weight of being seen.

San’s voice softened. “You okay?”

Wooyoung flinched.

It wasn’t even the question. It was the way San asked, like it didn’t matter whether he answered. Like the care was already there.

He looked down, lips pressed tight. His other hand curled into the hem of his hoodie.

Then San stepped forward.

Not rushed. Not looming. Just… closer.

Boots still wet, gloves tucked into his back pocket. He crossed the porch like someone approaching a spooked colt,  no sudden movements. No demands. Just presence.

The umbrella was still half-raised when San reached out.

“Here,” he murmured. “Let me.”

He wrapped his fingers around Wooyoung’s, gentle, easing the umbrella down. His thumb brushed the back of Wooyoung’s hand — not to hold, just to guide.

Wooyoung’s breath caught.

San smelled like rain and horses and something green underneath — not cologne, not shampoo, just outside. He radiated heat, even through soaked clothes.

“You don’t need to guard the door,” San said quietly. “I wouldn’t let anyone through it if I didn’t trust ’em.”

Wooyoung didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak either.

Jongho cleared his throat. “I can come back later—”

“No, you’re fine,” San said, still watching Wooyoung. “He just got startled.”

Silence fell again, rain ticking gently on the roof.

Then San tipped his head, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Though I gotta say, if that umbrella’s how you defend yourself, we might need to get you a better weapon.”

It was light. No pressure.

But he was still close, and not moving.

Wooyoung blinked.

And then, finally. let out the tiniest huff. Almost a laugh. Barely there, but San caught it. His smile grew just a little more.

The moment held. Warm. Awkward. Real. softly

“…There’s food,” Wooyoung said.

San raised an eyebrow. “Food?”

He nodded, eyes flicking away. “I made lunch.”

San blinked, then turned slightly,  and that’s when he noticed it. The scent drifting from the kitchen,soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic. Something simmering. Something familiar.

“You cooked?”

Wooyoung shrugged. “There was stuff in the fridge.” He hesitated. “I made too much. You—” His voice caught. “-You and your crew can have some, if you want.”

San didn’t move right away. Just watched him retreat toward the kitchen, as if the nearness had never happened at all.

“…I thought I was imagining that smell.” San murmured.

Behind him, Jongho perked up. “Is that japchae?”

Wooyoung didn’t answer,  just lifted the foil on one of the trays and stepped back, like it wasn’t a big deal.

But his ears were pink.

Steam curled up from the pot on the stove. The table was covered in dishes,  japchae, neatly plated. Doenjang jjigae in a heavy pot. A trio of banchan lined up with the care of someone who used to do this for a camera crew.

Jongho gave a soft, reverent whistle. “Whoa.”

San didn’t speak.

He glanced down at his soaked clothes,  shirt clinging to his chest, sleeves still dripping, then back to the table. His hand twitched slightly, like he wanted to reach for something but held back.

Then, quietly.

“This looks amazing. But I should probably not soak your floors.”

Wooyoung blinked. “You—what?”

San gave a crooked smile. “Didn’t realise I’d walk into a full spread. Feels wrong to sit down like this.” He gestured at himself. “Wouldn’t wanna disrespect the chef.”

Something in Wooyoung’s chest stuttered.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “-there are towels. Or you could… change.”

It came out before he could think better of it. His ears flushed deeper.

To his credit, San didn’t tease him. He just nodded once. “Alright.”

He turned to Jongho, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Grab what you need and give me five. I’ll be back.”

Jongho grinned and wandered toward the hallway for the med kit. San lingered a second longer, gaze drifting over the table again.

“This really does smell like home,” he said, low. “Like my halmeoni’s kitchen.”

And then, softer still,  not quite looking at him, but not-not looking either.

“Thank you.”

Ten minutes later, they returned, both showered, dressed in clean clothes. San’s hair was damp in a freshly-washed way now, not rain-soaked. He wore a faded black t-shirt and jeans that had been mended more than once. Jongho padded in behind him in joggers and socks, eyes still full of wonder.

They sat only after Wooyoung, awkward and hovering by the counter, waved at them to do so.

He didn’t join. Just stood with a glass of water in hand, sleeves still pushed up, acting like he wasn’t waiting.

San took the first bite.

He didn’t say anything right away.

Then,

“Shit.”

His chopsticks stilled. His eyes lifted, slow and startled.

“This is… exactly how she used to make it. With the pork belly. Most people don’t add that.”

Wooyoung looked down into his glass.

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Another silence — heavier now. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.

Wooyoung pulled his sleeves over his hands, fidgeting quietly. He wasn’t used to this kind of praise. Not when it was quiet. Not when it wasn’t performative.

San kept eating. Slower now.

Like he was trying to remember something.

Or maybe trying not to forget.

Jongho was already halfway through his bowl, chopsticks moving fast.

“You’re not eating?” he asked, glancing over at Wooyoung, who still stood by the counter with his glass of water.

Wooyoung shook his head. “Not hungry.”

Jongho tilted his head. “You made all this, and won’t touch it?”

“I tasted everything while cooking.”

Jongho snorted. “Sounds fake. Sounds like someone who doesn’t want to be blamed if we all drop dead.”

San cracked a smile. “You think he’s poisoned the japchae?”.

“I’m just saying,” Jongho said, pointing his chopsticks. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

San turned in his seat, resting an arm casually over the back of the chair as he looked at Wooyoung again. His voice was gentler, teasing, but not mocking.

“You’re really not gonna try any of your own food?”

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung said, a little too quickly. “Just… full.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow. “Can’t believe you make your guest cook for you, hyung. That’s brutal.”

San shrugged, still watching Wooyoung. “Didn’t make him..Still. Makes me look bad.”

Wooyoung gave a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t mind.”

But that wasn’t the truth.

Not exactly.

The word guest sat weird in his chest.

He was a guest. That’s how it had been explained. He wasn’t part of the crew. He wasn’t from here. He didn’t belong to this table, no matter how kind they’d been. And now here they were, eating his food, laughing like he was one of them and it only made him feel further away.

They liked the food.

That should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

His legs were tight with nervous tension. His jaw ached from trying to keep it still. And San — San kept glancing at him like he could see through the performance. Like he knew that Wooyoung wasn’t fine. That he was seconds away from cracking.

The glass in his hand shifted slightly.

He didn’t realize how hard he was holding it until his fingers trembled.

He needed air.

Wooyoung set the glass down. Too fast. It clinked hard against the counter.

No one stopped him.

He didn’t say anything.

He just grabbed the towel from earlier and walked straight out the back door.

The porch swing creaked beneath him, cool and damp. He sank into it like it might hold him together. His hands gripped the towel in his lap, fists curled into the soft cotton.

He wasn’t crying.

But he was close.

He hated this feeling,  the way silence closed in when no one was telling him who to be. When no camera told him when to smile, no manager signaled when to talk.

This was worse.

Because this meant he had to choose how to exist.

And he didn’t know how.

He didn’t hear the screen door creak open. Not right away.

But then he felt it,a shift in weight on the porch behind him, the soft scuff of boots.

“Hey.” San said quietly.

Wooyoung didn’t turn.

Rain misted across the field in front of him, soft and silver.

The swing creaked again as San stepped closer. His footsteps were deliberate, slow, careful. Like approaching a spooked animal.

He didn’t speak again. Not at first.

Then, without warning, he dropped down onto one knee in front of the swing.

Not dramatic.

Just steady. Grounded.

Wooyoung blinked, startled,  eyes flicking down to see San crouched there in front of him, one knee on the wooden porch, hand hovering near his.

San didn’t reach immediately. Just rested his arm on the edge of the seat, fingers brushing the fabric of the towel in Wooyoung’s lap. Not touching him. Just close enough to feel.

San didn’t rush him.

Didn’t ask anything stupid like what’s wrong.

He just looked at him — really looked — with that steady, open face of his. The one that didn’t flinch when Wooyoung was quiet or brittle or didn’t know what to say. The one that didn’t ask for more than Wooyoung could give.

“I was gonna thank you,” San murmured, voice low like he was worried the wind might carry it away, “but it didn’t feel like enough.”

Wooyoung’s fingers twitched slightly in the towel in his lap.

“That food…” San continued, eyes still on him. “It wasn’t just good. It felt like home. You didn’t have to do that. But you did. And I noticed.”

Wooyoung looked away again. His throat felt like it had caught on something sharp.

San smiled, quiet, crooked. “You don’t make a bad umbrella knight either.”

That earned him a glance, barely.

“I’m serious,” he added, softer. “you had good form. Real intimidating. Jongho almost peed.”

Wooyoung huffed a little through his nose. It was barely a sound, but it cracked the smallest smile. Just for a second.

San leaned forward slightly, hand still not quite touching. “Will you come in soon? It’s cold out.”

Wooyoung didn’t answer.

His gaze stayed fixed on the field, on the mist, on the soft hush of the rain slipping off the gutters.

San waited.

“I just…” Wooyoung’s voice caught. “I just need a minute.”

San nodded. “Alright. You take all the time you need.”

He rose slowly. One knee first, then the other, and paused at full height. Looked down at him like he wanted to say more. Like he had a dozen quiet words tucked behind his teeth but knew they wouldn’t make this part easier.

So instead, he just said, “I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

And turned, boots thudding softly as he disappeared back inside. The screen door clicked closed behind him.

Wooyoung stayed.

Bo lifted her head from where she lay curled at his feet, then tucked herself back into his shin, warm and close.

And in the silence that followed, Wooyoung whispered to no one.

“I didn’t mean to stay this long.”

But he didn’t move either.

It had stopped raining for all of fifteen minutes before Wooyoung thought maybe a walk wouldn’t be the worst idea. He didn’t exactly want to go back inside, not yet — not with Jongho still scraping plates and San making too much noise with his kindness. It was easier to be out here, in the hush of wet trees and foggy sky.

Bo trotted after him without being asked.

She was soaked too, a little mud on her paws, ears flipping with every bounce. But determined to keep him company like it was her job. Wooyoung didn’t mind. She kept brushing his hand with her nose like she was checking he hadn’t disappeared.

“No leash for you, huh,” he mumbled, half to her, half to the trees. “You just follow people you like?”

Bo sneezed, then galloped ahead to chase a leaf.

He smiled. Just barely.

The path wasn’t really a path. Just grass worn down where boots had been too many times, some wagon tracks from a hundred years ago or last Tuesday, who knew. It sloped a little. The kind of terrain that looked like it’d be fine to walk across, until it wasn’t.

He didn’t get far.

Just past the fenceline, where the pasture dipped, one foot found a patch of slick earth, and before he could catch himself, the world spun sideways and everything hurt.

“Fuck—”

It wasn’t a scream. More like a grunt, sharp and panicked. His ankle twisted under him in a way that ankles should not twist, and he landed hard on his hip, elbow first, teeth clacking together.

Bo barked. Loud. Immediate.

She ran over, circled him once, then sat down with her ears forward like alright, what now?

Wooyoung didn’t cry.

But he did whimper. Quiet and strangled.

Everything felt tight. His chest. His throat. The mud already soaking through his jeans. He tried to move and instantly knew that wasn’t happening. He was going to swell like a balloon and bruise worse than a peach, and what the fuck was he supposed to do now?

That’s when the gunshot cracked in the distance.

It wasn’t close, not really. But it didn’t matter.

His body still reacted — jerked like a live wire and all he could think was wrong place, wrong time, and of course this is how I go out, like a dumbass in the middle of a cow field.

Bo didn’t bark this time. She growled.

Low and tight in her throat.

Then she bolted.

“Bo—!”

He tried to reach after her, but his ankle lit up like a live wire and he folded forward again, clutching it with both hands.

He was wet. Cold. Alone.

And he’d left the front door wide open like a moron.

Great.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

They didn’t say much after lunch — just picked up plates, scraped bowls clean, stacked dishes with quiet efficiency. San kept glancing over his shoulder while rinsing, half-expecting Wooyoung to come back inside, maybe hover like before. But he never did.

Jongho dried the last dish with the same beat-up kitchen towel San always meant to throw out. “You think he’s alright?”

“He just needed some air,” San said, but his voice lacked its usual weight.

They’d both tried. Jongho had called out once, San twice — soft, no pressure — offering to split the last plate of japchae if he was still hungry. Wooyoung had waved them off from the swing like he couldn’t hear them, but they’d both seen the nod.

He had heard. He just wasn’t ready.

“Anyway,” San muttered, drying his hands on his jeans instead, “we got those busted gates to deal with.”

Jongho groaned. “The ones from yesterday?”

“Yeah.” San rolled his shoulder, already thinking through the supplies they’d loaded up at the tool store. “If I don’t fix ’em, those dumbasses’ll be in the creek by morning.”

“‘Those dumbasses’ being the horses or the ranch hands?”

“Take your pick.”

They grabbed gloves and jackets from the hooks by the back door — Jongho stuffing a thermos into his bag, San double-checking the fencing nails they’d left on the porch and headed down past the barn where the old posts leaned wrong against the slope.

The house was quiet when they left.

Rain started again, light and misty.

San didn’t look back until they’d already walked twenty feet.

The rain was light but steady, threading through the air like silk. Damp earth clung to their boots as they made their way past the barn, toward the back fence where the slats leaned crooked against the slope.

Jongho carried the fencing wire, coiled tight under one arm. San had the hammer and nails, the weight familiar in his palm. They didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. The kind of work they were about to do didn’t require planning. Just patience.

“Should take us an hour, maybe two,” San said, mostly to himself. “The west post’s the worst. Probably sunk out of alignment in the last storm.”

Jongho nodded. “I’ll dig it out while you brace the east.”

San nodded back, adjusted his gloves, and knelt by the first rail.

The clink of tools started to fill the quiet.

A rhythm.

Rain on wood. Metal on nail. Boots shifting in mud.

It grounded him. The work. The routine. The small, tangible things that didn’t ask anything complicated of him.

But every now and then, San’s gaze drifted — just a glance over his shoulder, toward the house.

The porch was still empty.

He shook it off. Adjusted the angle of the rail. Lifted the hammer again.

They worked in silence for another ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.

That’s when San paused.

Something tugged at him. Not loud. Not obvious. Just… off.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, ignoring the damp sleeve that came away darker with mud than rain. Then glanced up again, instinct more than curiosity.

Still no Bo.

Still no Wooyoung.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

They finished just as the sun began its slow, cloud-muted descent.

Jongho rolled his shoulder with a groan, tossing the last coil of fencing wire into the cart. “That’s the last of it.”

San gave the newly-braced post a hard shove. It held.

“Solid enough,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. His gaze was already drifting, past the tree line, toward the edge of the pasture. “Should hold through the week.”

“Longer, if the horses don’t get dramatic again,” Jongho muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans.

San didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile.

He was quiet. That tight kind of quiet he got when something didn’t sit right.

“You good?” Jongho asked, brows raised.

San blinked like he’d just been pulled out of a thought. “Yeah,” he said, then glanced toward the sky. “-just hungry.”

“Fair,” Jongho said. “That japchae’s probably gone cold.”

San gave a distracted hum. “If Wooyoung didn’t toss it.”

“You think he’d do that?”

“No,” San admitted. “But I’ve never met someone who makes food like that and doesn’t eat a single bite.” He scrubbed a hand through his damp hair. “Doesn’t sit right.”

They packed the last of the tools in silence. The rain had stopped again but the air was thick, humid. The kind of stillness that always came before a new storm.

San led the way back up the slope, steps slower now. Not tired — just thoughtful. He squinted toward the house as it came into view, expecting to see the porch swing. A flicker of movement in a window. Bo stretched out in the grass.

But none of that was there.

The swing was still.

The porch empty.

The house quiet.

Bo was nowhere in sight.

San’s pace faltered.

He slowed so suddenly that Jongho nearly bumped into him from behind.

“What—?”

“Bo,” San said, scanning the yard. “-you see her?”

Jongho followed his gaze. “No… thought she was with your guest.”

San turned fully now, boots crunching through wet gravel.

The swing was still empty.

His chest went tight.

Then — without a word handed Jongho the bucket of nails and started back toward the barn at a jog.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

San had made it exactly twenty feet from the barn before he realized something was wrong.

It wasn’t the silence. Or the rain.

It was Bo.

Specifically, the absence of Bo.

“She usually doesn’t wander off without someone,” he said aloud, more to himself than to Jongho. “-You seen Wooyoung?”

Jongho wiped his hands on his jeans. “Figured he went inside.”

San looked up at the porch swing.

Empty.

His chest tightened.

He passed Jongho without another word, boots crunching through wet gravel as he made a sharp turn toward the tree line. Just as he reached the edge of the pasture, he heard it.

A bark.

Loud. Repeated.

Followed — seconds later — a shot.

Low, distant, but enough to make San’s blood run cold.

“Bo!” he shouted, suddenly sprinting. “BO!”

That dog had better not be chasing anyone with a rifle. Not on his watch. Not with Wooyoung potentially out in it.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket, but he didn’t check it. He only stopped when he saw her — Bo, soaked and barking in panicked circles, eyes wide like she was trying to pull him through pure willpower.

“What is it? Where is he—Bo, go!”

She did.

Straight down the slope, skidding through the mud with that ridiculous determination that only came from being loved a little too much. San didn’t hesitate. He followed.

And then — over the rise — he saw him.

Crumpled in the grass. Covered in dirt. One shoe off, one arm clutched around his leg like he was trying to hold it together by hand.

San nearly lost his mind.

But he didn’t show it.

He just dropped to his knees next to him, breathing hard, voice soft.

“What’d I say about straying off, honeybee?”

Wooyoung blinked up at him like he wasn’t sure he was real. Like maybe the sky had conjured him.

San looked him over quick . No blood, no broken bones visible — then down at the ankle. Already swelling.

“Okay,” he murmured, trying to stay calm. “Okay. Gonna pick you up, alright? Don’t fight me.”

“I can—”

“You cannot,” San said firmly. “-and if you argue, I’ll carry you over my shoulder like a sack of feed, don’t think I won’t.”

Wooyoung shut up.

San scooped him up carefully — arms under his knees and back — and started the long trudge uphill with Bo bouncing behind them like I did something good, right?

“You’re wet, cold, and limping, and there’s people around here who do fire guns for practice,” San muttered, more to himself than anything. “Jesus, I leave you alone for a few hours—”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

That stopped him for half a second.

San looked down.

Wooyoung’s face was blotchy, his hair stuck to his forehead, his lips chapped. But his eyes?

Those looked the worst.

Like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Like it hurt more than the ankle.

“…Next time,” San said, voice gentler now, “-you tell me. You want space, I’ll give it. You want quiet, you got it. But don’t wander off near the hunting lines. There’s too many folks working this land to go ghost like that. You scared me.”

Wooyoung said nothing.

San adjusted his grip and whispered, “And I’d really prefer not to have to chase you through the mud every other day, if I can help it.”

The words came out sharper than he meant. but he was soaked, muddy, and halfway convinced he’d pulled something in his back. It was funny, in a way. All the years he’d spent riding broncs, dodging hooves, getting dragged through dirt — and now here he was, hauling one stubborn boy uphill like he’d signed up for ranch rescue duty.

Wooyoung let out the tiniest, dampest snort against San’s shoulder.

Good enough.

Back at the house, Jongho had the door open before San even reached the porch.

“Shower’s already runnin’. Towels on the bench. I pulled the clothes from earlier and tossed ’em in the dryer.”

San nodded. Didn’t need to ask.

Jongho was good like that.

“Kid slipped,” San said as he carried Wooyoung through the front room. “Ankle’s a mess. I’ll look at it after.”

He set him down on the bathroom bench like he was placing glassware. Peeled off his muddy hoodie. Unzipped the soaked outer layer.

Wooyoung was shaking, just slightly.

Not from cold, not anymore.

From adrenaline.

“Strip down. Get warm. Don’t lock the door in case you need me. I’ll be right outside.”

“…I’m sorry,” Wooyoung said, voice small.

“I know.”

San leaned in, brushed the damp hair from his forehead.

“I’ll chew you out later. Right now, I just need you warm. Got it?”

A nod.

“Good.”

He stood, backed away slowly, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Wooyoung stayed there for a long moment, towel wrapped around his shoulders, steam curling from the tiles, heart finally starting to slow.

San closed the door with more care than necessary.

Not because it was loud.

Because it felt final,  like closing the lid on something too fragile to look at just yet.

He stayed there a moment. Hand still on the handle. Listening to the water start up on the other side.

A soft thud. Maybe clothes hitting tile. Maybe knees.

He didn’t want to think about it too hard.

Instead, he turned and paced a slow lap down the hall. Not far. Just enough to settle his nerves. His boots tracked faint prints on the hardwood, drying muddy at the toes. He’d clean it later. For now, he sat at the top of the stairs and braced his arms on his knees, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the denim.

Bo padded over and dropped her head on his thigh like she knew she was owed something. San let out a quiet sigh and scratched behind her ears.

“You did good,” he murmured. “I mean that.”

She thumped her tail once against the banister.

San watched the rain bead down the windowpane across the landing. It was barely more than mist now. Just enough to soak you without noticing.

He rubbed his thumb along a scar near his knuckle. Old injury. Didn’t matter. But it grounded him — something to touch while his thoughts ran too fast.

“He said,” San began, then paused. Swallowed.

“He said he didn’t know where else to go.”

His voice came out flat. Like saying it again might make it less of a punch to the chest.

Jongho appeared at the bottom of the stairs but didn’t come up. Just leaned a shoulder to the wall and looked up at him.

“You alright?”

San didn’t answer right away.

“Do I look alright?” he said eventually.

Jongho shrugged. “You look like someone who’s trying not to cry.”

San scoffed under his breath. “Ain’t that dramatic.”

“No,” Jongho said. “But it scared you.”

San exhaled through his nose. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It did.”

They sat in that quiet for a beat. Just the sound of the shower running and the light creak of the house settling around them.

Then Jongho nodded once and pushed off the wall. “I’ll make tea.”

San didn’t say thank you, but Jongho didn’t wait for it.

Left alone again, San glanced toward the bathroom door.

Still closed.

Still running.

He stood. Walked over. Didn’t knock.

Just sat back down outside the door, back against the wall this time. Close enough that he could hear the water. Could listen for anything out of the ordinary. But far enough he wouldn’t scare him.

The floor was cool under his thighs. The house smelled like rain, cedar, and something warm from the kitchen.

Jongho reappeared ten minutes later with two mugs.

Steam curled up from the rims, smelling faintly of ginger and honey.

He didn’t hand San one right away — just set both mugs on the little hallway table across from the bathroom and leaned beside the doorframe.

San didn’t move to get up.

“You sitting there all night?”

“If I have to.”

Jongho didn’t argue. Just crossed his arms and glanced toward the closed door.

“I pulled the heating pad from the closet,” he said. “Already plugged in. Set it by the couch.”

San nodded once. “Thanks.”

“You think it’s sprained?”

“Feels like it. Didn’t look broken. Just swollen and stiff.” He rubbed his jaw. “He wasn’t putting weight on it.”

Jongho hummed. “Still breathing hard?”

San shook his head. “Calmer now. I think.”

“You think?” Jongho raised a brow. “You’re listening through the door?”

“…Yeah.”

That earned him a small exhale, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. Jongho looked down at Bo, who had curled herself protectively at San’s side again, then back up at San.

“You’re real gone for him, huh?”

San didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Jongho leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling like he was working out a math problem.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Bo shifted at his side, her ears twitching like she didn’t trust the quiet. San gave her another slow scratch and let his head fall back against the wall. The plaster was cool. The house creaked softly, like it was trying not to interrupt.

Jongho didn’t say anything at first. Just stood across from him with one shoulder braced to the wall, sipping from his own mug.

Then, gently, “How long you think he’ll stay?”

San didn’t look up. “Don’t know.”

“He talk much?”

“Not really.”

Jongho blew on his tea. “Still don’t know who he is?”

San shook his head. “Not the important parts.”

A pause.

Jongho nodded like that made sense, even if it didn’t to most people. Then he said, “Kinda strange though, isn’t it? Showing up here like that.”

San looked up then, just briefly. “You mean the ankle, or just him bein’ quiet?”

Jongho smiled faintly. “I mean the whole thing.”

San didn’t argue. Didn’t defend it either. He just let the weight of it settle between them.

“Feels like he’s running from something,” Jongho added after a moment.

“Probably is,” San said. “Aren’t we all?”

Jongho didn’t have a response for that.

He stepped over and set the second mug down beside San’s knee. Steam still curled from it, sweet and sharp.

“He’ll need to eat,” he said. “Once he’s out. You’ll have to make sure.”

San nodded.

“And you,” Jongho added, nudging him lightly with his foot, “should probably shower too. You look like you wrestled the rain.”

San didn’t smile, but he huffed a little under his breath. “Feels like I did.”

“Thought so.”

Jongho didn’t linger. Just walked back toward the kitchen, quiet as ever.

When San was alone again, he stared at the door across from him. Still shut. Still running water inside. But something in the air had shifted — like the worst of the storm had passed, even if the sky hadn’t cleared yet.

He picked up the tea and held it in both hands. Let the warmth soak through.

He didn’t know what Wooyoung was running from.

Didn’t know if he’d ever say.

But San knew what it felt like to be alone with it.

To sit in the middle of nowhere, half-wild with ache, and wonder if anyone might notice.

So he sat.

And he waited.

Just in case this time, someone did.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

The water stopped.

San heard it clearly through the door — the sudden hush that followed the constant stream, like the air itself held its breath.

He straightened a little. Didn’t stand, just adjusted his posture and set the tea down beside him.

There was a pause. Long enough to make San’s spine stiffen.

Then the soft scrape of skin on tile. A thud, light but real. Fabric shifting.

San waited.

Didn’t knock. Didn’t speak.

Another few seconds passed, then the door creaked open an inch. Steam spilled into the hallway like breath.

Wooyoung’s voice came through it, quiet, hoarse. “San?”

He was on his feet before he knew it. “Yeah. Right here.”

The door cracked wider. Not enough to see him, just enough that Wooyoung could speak without shouting.

“I didn’t know if you were still out here.”

“I said I would be,” San said softly. “Didn’t wanna leave you alone.”

Another pause.

Then a hand appeared, damp, trembling a little, holding out a towel-wrapped bundle.

“Clothes are wet.”

San stepped forward and took them from him without comment. The towel was heavy, soaked through, and smelled faintly of cedar soap.

“You warm enough?” he asked, not prying, just checking.

“…Yeah,” Wooyoung said. “-I think so.”

San hesitated. “You want help getting settled on the couch?”

A breath. Then,“I can walk.”

“Sure,” San murmured. “-but I’ll stay close anyway. Just in case.”

The door closed again with a soft click. San stepped back, arms full of wet laundry, heart tight in his chest.

He headed for the laundry room, dropping the bundle into the bin before returning to the living room to flip the blanket down and check the heating pad Jongho had left out. Still warm. Still glowing faint red.

Bo followed him like a shadow.

And when Wooyoung finally came out — hair damp, hoodie a little too big, ankle wrapped loose with a towel — San was already there.

Waiting.

Quiet.

Ready to catch him if he fell.

tada!✨ #moodboard 🪴🧺🌱🪷