Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sky split open like a wound.

Rain poured in violent sheets, soaking the forest floor and turning earth to slush beneath hurried, uneven steps. Thunder cracked against the heavens like a war drum, but Lee Jeno did not stop running. The hem of his hanbok, embroidered with his family crest, dragged through mud and brambles, torn and ruined by branches that whipped at his arms like punishment. He didn’t care.

The letter had arrived only minutes ago, folded into itself, pressed with no seal, as if shame were too great to mark it with a name. Just six words.  

And so Jeno ran.

The night bled around him. The trees loomed like watchmen, bare-limbed and skeletal in early spring, save for one kind, the plum blossom trees that bloomed stubbornly despite the season's cruelty. Their soft white petals were scattered in the wind like ghosts, like farewell notes written by nature itself.

He tripped on a rock slick with rain and stumbled, catching himself on both palms. His breath came ragged, torn from somewhere deep in his ribs. He looked up—

And saw him.

Beneath the largest plum blossom tree at the forest’s edge, Jaemin, suspended from arched branches, his body eerily still, all but the swing from storming winds. His hanbok, plain, light grey with tiny stitch-work at the sleeves clung to him, soaked through. His skin had the complexion of snow left too long in shadow. Body limp and just there, limp and lifeless. Hanging.

“No,” Jeno choked out.

He pushed forward, slipping again, hands out, crawling by the end. “No, no, no—Jaemin—!”

He reached the body, face pressed against socked feet, arms raised to embrace the lifeless form strung above. Wobbling and unsteady on his feet, Jeno lifted from below, carefully with as much care as a mother holding a newborn. He lowered Jaemin to the ground, staring upward towards him, misted over eyes open and bare of the normal light and admiration that shone within them. His thumb traced the curve of a cheek he’d kissed just nights before, now pale and unresponsive. Plum petals stuck to Jaemin’s hair. Jeno brushed them away with the reverence of a coroner preparing the dead.

“Wake up,” he said, voice breaking.

Thunder rolled again, louder this time, but Jeno barely heard it. Rage burned behind his ribs like a furnace. “How could you—how could you do this? You said you wouldn’t leave me.”

Jaemin didn’t move. Of course, he didn’t.

“You promised!” Jeno’s voice cracked. “You told me we’d find a way. That you weren’t afraid.”

His shoulders shook as tears mixed with the rain. Somewhere behind his grief, a poisonous whisper rose: They were right. He was weak. He couldn’t bear it.

The idea hit him like a blow. He drew back, eyes blazing.

“Was life with me so terrible,” he whispered, “that this—” his hand gestured to the lifeless body, the plum blossoms,  “—was your only option?”

He knelt beside the body, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into skin.

“I would’ve burned the world for you,” Jeno hissed. “I would’ve thrown my title to the dirt. Faced my father. Faced exile.”

A sob ripped from his chest.

“You were supposed to stay.”

He leaned forward, forehead pressed to Jaemin’s cold shoulder, as if sheer proximity could call him back from death.

But no warmth returned.

Present Day:

The rain patters against the rooftop, a spring storm rolling in during the depths of night.

Jaemin sits behind his sewing machine in the small corner of his room, pressing neat seams into silk, trained fingers nimble as they work. He’s near silent as he does, humming an old tune he doesn’t know the origin of.

Outside, plum blossoms scatter on the wind. Petals whisper to the storm tales as old as time.

Inside, the room is warm. Dim lamplight spills over bolts of fabric, spools of golden thread, patterns chalked onto paper and pinned to a corkboard. The sewing machine clicks softly, a rhythm Jaemin finds more comforting than his own heartbeat. The only other sound is the steady ticking of a wall clock above the window, an old heirloom shaped like a lotus in bloom.

It’s late. Most of the town sleeps. But Jaemin never works during the night unless he has to. But there's something about the quiet hours,  just him, the silk, and the hush of memory creeping in through the cracks of the world.

He stops suddenly, fingers frozen mid-stitch.

Outside, the wind kicks up not loud, but sharp. Jaemin blinks once, then again, as if shaking off a chill that came from inside.

Then it’s gone.

He exhales and leans back, dragging a hand down his face.

These moments come more often in the spring.

It’s always spring.

In this life, Jaemin was born to memory.

His earliest ones came like dreams, bleeding through at age seven, subtle at first. A name he shouldn’t know. A word in a dead dialect he somehow understood. A street that didn’t exist anymore but used to feel like home.

By the time he was twelve, the flashes had sharpened. Faces. Rooms. Pain. A scream in a field. Rain on silk.

By fifteen, the full truth had settled in his chest like a second heartbeat.

Jaemin had lived before. Many times. And he remembered nearly all of them.

Rebirth was rare, but it wasn’t unheard of.

There were stories, old, unspoken ones, whispered by monks and village elders in mountainside temples. People said that when a soul was too stubborn to let go, it could follow itself into the next life. That powerful grief, or love left unresolved, could bind the threads of memory so tightly they bled through the veil of rebirth.

But the details were never reliable. Some remembered their pasts only in slivers. Others forgot them altogether. And some, like Jaemin, retained everything, vivid and intact, like his soul had slipped through lives without bothering to forget.

He never questioned why. Only what.

Because no matter how many fragments returned, no matter how sharp the images or specific the memories… There was one thing Jaemin had never recovered.

The face.

The face of the boy he loved so intensely.

Their secret meetings under starlight, the thrill of brushing hands beneath a shared overcoat in the cold, the stolen glances across crowded streets.

He remembers warm touches, soft smiles, urgent kisses exchanged behind market stalls and half-closed doors.

He remembers the risk. The fear. The love.

And he remembers the end, More clearly than anything else. Haunting and painful in the most terrible of ways. 

He remembers the rain. The tree. The men who came in the night with hands like iron and faces he never saw clearly.

He remembers pain. He remembers the choking and trying, one last time, to whisper a name, but his throat had already given out.

And then…

Darkness.

Jaemin gets up from the sewing machine and moves to the window, wiping his hands on a threadbare towel. Hi room overlooks the small yard behind his family home, a garden his grandmother planted decades ago. Stone lanterns flank winding footpaths. A rusted swing sways gently in the breeze. And there, standing defiantly in full bloom, is a plum blossom tree.

His grandmother hadn’t planted it. It simply stood, older than even her and her mother

Jaemin has never asked much about it. He’s afraid of the answers it would unveil.

He looks at it now and feels a tightening in his chest. Like memory is pressing a thumb into his ribs.

He leans his forehead against the glass and closes his eyes.

He sees hands. A soft voice calling his name. A firelit room with books lined neatly against dark walls. Fingers brushing against his as they threaded a needle together. A smile, crooked on one side, familiar as his own breath.

He sees the boy’s body crumpled at the foot of the tree, soaked in rain.

But never his face.

Never the one thing he truly needs.

That’s the cruellest part, he thinks, is that he remembers loving someone so deeply it split his soul across lifetimes… but not who they were.

No name. No voice. No face.

Only the echo of a feeling.

And so he waits.

He’s always waited. For the sound of a laugh that strikes the wrong chord. For a stranger’s hands that tremble in a way that feels too familiar. For a look across a crowded street that leaves him breathless without knowing why.

And every spring, that feeling gets louder.

This year… It’s deafening.

The alarm went off at 7:00 AM, but Jaemin was already awake.

He lay in bed for a few extra minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady ticking of the clock and the faint hum of his grandmother making tea in the kitchen downstairs. It was a Wednesday, a delivery day, which meant a trip to the shop, an hour of packing orders, and probably two hours spent dealing with Donghyuck, the intern, and best friend, who always managed to get under his skin.

By 7:30, he was up, showered, dressed in loose black slacks and a worn hoodie, and downstairs helping his grandmother carry rolls of fabric into the back of her van. She still insisted on driving, even though her license had technically expired last year.

“You’re going to kill us one day,” Jaemin said, not for the first time, as he helped her climb into the driver’s seat.

She waved a hand at him. “If I do, it’ll be with love. Now get in.”

The shop was a small, clean space tucked between a bakery and an empty storefront downtown. It had been in their family for generations, and Jaemin had grown up there, sleeping in the backroom when he was too tired to walk home after school. Now, he handled most of the operations: designing, custom orders, repairs, social media, local market collaborations , all of it.

It was quiet work. A little repetitive. But he liked the rhythm.

By noon, he was at the front counter sorting client notes when the door opened and a bell chimed.

Donghyuck breezed in, half an hour late as usual, grinning like he wasn’t. “Sorry! Traffic was wild.”

Jaemin didn’t look up. “We’re downtown. There’s never traffic.”

Donghyuck ignored him and pulled a clipboard from his bag. “We’ve got three packages for pickup today. Is everything ready?”

“Backroom,” Jaemin said, jerking his chin.

As Donghyuck disappeared through the curtain, the front door opened again.

This time, no bell.

Just footsteps.

Jaemin glanced up automatically.

The guy who walked in didn’t look like a customer. Too well-dressed. Clean-cut. Like he belonged in an office or a showroom, not a neighbourhood shop that still smelled faintly of dust and mothballs. Tall, serious-looking. Dark eyes. Polished boots. Coat slung over one arm like he didn’t care if it wrinkled.

He looked around the shop once, eyes scanning the shelves, the sewing station, the chalkboard menu of services.

Then he looked at Jaemin.

Their eyes met and stuck.

Something dropped in Jaemin’s stomach. Hard. Like recognition without memory. A punch of déjà vu.

But it was gone as fast as it came.

“Can I help you?” Jaemin asked.

The guy raised an eyebrow. “You work here?”

Jaemin blinked. “Obviously.”

The guy’s tone was flat. “I was told this place handles custom commissions.”

“We do.”

“Good,” he said. “I need some hanboks designed for a event next month.”

Jaemin tilted his head, annoyed by the guy’s tone, not rude, not exactly, but condescending in that upper-class, I-don’t-know-how-to-talk-to-service-workers kind of way.

“We’re booked until late April,” Jaemin said. “Unless you’re on our priority list, it’ll be a wait.”

“I was told to give my name.” He straightened slightly, like that was supposed to mean something. “Lee Jeno.”

Jaemin didn’t react. The name meant nothing to him. Not yet.

“Well, Lee Jeno,” he said, crossing his arms, “your name’s not on the list. So unless you’re offering double for rush work, I can give you a booking form for April.”

Jeno frowned. “That’s not how this was explained to me.”

Jaemin shrugged. “Then you were told wrong.”

There was a pause.

The air in the room had shifted not loud, not confrontational yet, but tense. Like the quiet in a movie just before someone slams a door.

Behind them, Donghyuck stepped back into the front room, blinking at the atmosphere.

“Uh… everything good?”

Jeno glanced at him, then back at Jaemin. “This was a waste of time.”

“Glad we agree,” Jaemin muttered.

Jeno gave him one last unreadable look, then turned on his heel and walked out.

The bell chimed as the door shut behind him.

Donghyuck stared after him. “Was that guy serious?”

“I guess,” Jaemin said, trying to shake off the weird weight in his chest. “Or just another rich asshole who thinks we drop everything for him.”

He turned back to the counter, but his hands didn’t move.

That look in Jeno’s eyes it had struck something. Something deep. Not familiarity exactly, but the ghost of a feeling. Like hearing the opening notes of a song you used to love before you forgot the lyrics.

He told himself to forget it. He had work to do after all. 

By the time Jaemin closed the shop at six, the rain had come back.

It wasn’t heavy, just steady. The kind of drizzle that soaked your clothes without making a sound. Jaemin pulled his hood up, locked the front door, and started the walk back home through the narrow streets of the old district. He liked walking. He always had. It cleared his head and gave his hands a break.

Today, though, his thoughts wouldn’t settle.

He kept replaying that encounter. The way Jeno had walked in like he owned the place. The way he’d expected his name to mean something. The way his eyes had met Jaemin’s,  steady, unreadable, and for a second, something unspoken had surged between them like static.

He didn’t like it.

Or rather, he didn’t like how much it had stuck with him.

He pushed open the gate to his grandmother’s house, wiped his shoes on the mat, and stepped inside to the smell of hot rice and soy-marinated vegetables.

“Wash up,” she called from the kitchen. “We’re eating early. Someone’s coming by.”

“Who?”

“Representative from the Cultural District Committee.”

Jaemin paused. “Why?”

“They’re restarting the traditional events this spring,” she said, setting plates out on the table. “They want us to be involved again.”

Twenty minutes later, Jaemin sat across from Ms. Oh, a woman in her early fifties with tidy hair and a permanent expression of polite disapproval. She’d been the Cultural Preservation Committee’s lead for years, organising events, curating exhibitions, working closely with old families in the area. Jaemin had dealt with her a few times, mostly when helping tailor hanboks for seasonal festivals.

This time, she came with a thermos of tea, an overstuffed file folder, and an agenda.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” she said after dinner. “The committee is overseeing a private heritage gala next month. Partially funded by the Ministry of Culture. Very high-profile. We’re using local artisans for everything, food, decor, music, and traditional clothing. That includes hanboks.”

Jaemin nodded slowly. “Alright.”

“We submitted your shop as the top tailoring recommendation. They approved it. You’ll be the only one providing formal wear for the event.”

His eyebrows lifted. “That’s great, but—”

“The client’s already been in contact. His name is Lee Jeno.”

Jaemin froze.

Ms. Oh continued, completely unaware of the tension tightening his shoulders. “He’s from the Lee family that recently moved back to the area originally from the old noble line, you may have heard. They’ve re-acquired some of their ancestral property and are donating heavily to restoration projects. This event is partially hosted on their grounds.”

Jaemin stared at her.

“So… that’s why he thought I’d just take the commission. He assumed the Committee had cleared it already.”

“Yes,” she said briskly. “They did. And frankly, Jaemin, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

He bristled. “He walked in with an attitude.”

“Because he assumed you were informed.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” Jaemin said, annoyed now. “And maybe next time you can tell me when I’m being signed onto a government-funded project.”

She gave him a look. “Consider this your notice.”

There was a pause.

Jaemin exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair. His grandmother placed a hand on his shoulder, not forcing him to agree, but gently reminding him to be civil.

Ms. Oh took a sip of tea. “You’ll be paid in full for the commission. More, if he requests additional fittings.”

“What’s his role in the event?” Jaemin asked.

“He’s one of the keynote presenters,” she replied. “Some talk about family legacy and cultural identity. Honestly, he didn’t want to do it, very private young man, but his family pushed for it. Apparently, he’s involved in the preservation of historical ground like their family and others like them. Very good at it too, I hear.”

“Of course he is,” Jaemin muttered.

“Give him a chance,” Ms. Oh said, rising to leave. “He’s not as bad as he seems.”

After she left, Jaemin stood on the porch and watched the rain.

He felt unsettled. The kind of unsettled that didn’t come from committee meetings or surprise work. It was the kind that came from the past brushing too close to the present.

Lee Jeno.

The name still meant nothing. But it did scratch a small crevice in the back of his mind, one that he hadn't felt before.

At least not in this life. 

Jaemin opened the shop just after nine the next morning.

The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still hanging low, grey and heavy. He turned on the lights, unlocked the back room, and set the kettle to boil before opening the front blinds. The usual morning routine, muscle memory at this point.

He didn’t think about Jeno.

He told himself he didn’t, anyway.

At 9:20, Donghyuck showed up, ten minutes later than promised, balancing a coffee in one hand and a greasy paper bag in the other.

“You’re late,” Jaemin said, not even looking up from the worktable.

“I bring offerings,” Donghyuck replied, tossing the bag onto the table with a grin. “Egg toast. And a black coffee with that weird oat milk you like.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“I’m everyone’s favourite intern,” Donghyuck said, plopping into the second chair. He wasn’t really an intern, just a friend who helped out at the shop part-time when he wasn’t working at his actual job, a part-time singer songwriter. But he was good with people, quick on his feet, and liked hanging around, so Jaemin didn’t complain.

“What’s on the docket today?” Donghyuck asked through a mouthful of toast.

“Alterations for Mrs. Park, hemline fixes on the museum pieces, and the committee wants me at the village office sometime this week. They’re expecting full wardrobe work for the exhibit showcases.”

“That’s the heritage gala thing, right?”

“Yeah. Ms. Oh dropped it on me last night. Apparently, I’m already locked in, even though no one asked.”

Donghyuck raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t that fancy guy come in asking about that yesterday?”

Jaemin frowned. “Yeah.”

“Did he annoy you?”

“Very.”

“Then I like him already.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes and pushed Donghyuck’s coffee toward him.

They spent the next few hours in the workshop, Jaemin at the machine, Donghyuck organising receipts and tagging finished pieces. Customers came and went: a couple picking up custom sashes, a grandmother asking about ceremonial jackets for her grandson’s doljanchi, and a high school student begging for a last-minute patch job on a uniform.

Just before noon, Jaemin’s grandmother called to say the village office had finalised the meeting time for the exhibit designers.

“Tomorrow,” she said over the phone. “Three o’clock.”

“Short notice.”

“They’re bureaucrats, Jaemin. That’s how they work.”

He sighed. “Fine. I’ll go.”

“Wear something clean. Not that ripped hoodie you always have on.”

The next day, Jaemin dressed in a button-down shirt and clean jeans, no hoodie,  and walked the fifteen minutes to the Village Office building. It was a newer facility near the cultural centre, with glass doors, beige walls, and fluorescent lighting that made everything feel slightly too bright.

A young receptionist directed him to Room 4B.

Inside, there were already a few people seated: two other local artisans, a woman from the flower market, and a photographer, Jaemin vaguely recognised from a fall event last year. A small digital display at the front listed “Spring Heritage Gala, Cultural Wardrobe Design Meeting.”

He took a seat near the back, flipping open the notebook he’d brought with him. The table had a neat folder labelled with his name.

At 3:05, the door opened and Ms. Oh walked in, trailed by a committee staffer with a tablet and a stack of printed packets.

“Thank you all for coming,” Ms. Oh said, setting her bag down. “We’ll keep this brief. Each of you has been selected for specific components of the gala exhibition, and we want to ensure that your work is aligned with the historical periods represented.”

She handed out reference sheets as the assistant spoke up.

“The exhibit will be divided into five cultural zones,” she explained. “Each area represents a time period: Late Goryeo, Early Joseon, Mid Joseon, Late Joseon, and Contemporary Fusion. The goal is to show evolution, but keep it rooted in local tradition. Your shop is responsible for the wardrobe in all five historical sections.”

Jaemin blinked. “All five?”

“Yes,” Ms. Oh said. “We trust your expertise. Your shop has the largest archive and best tailoring history.”

Jaemin made a note, already calculating time and labour in his head. “When’s the dress rehearsal?”

“Three weeks before the event.”

“That’s barely over a month.”

“We’ll be flexible with deadlines,” she said, “but you’ll need to start sourcing fabric soon. The Lee family is providing funding for materials.”

Jaemin paused. “As in… Lee Jeno’s family?”

“Yes. It’s their estate being used for the gala.”

Great.

He jotted down a few more notes and didn’t say anything else.

The meeting wrapped up after thirty minutes. People lingered afterwards, chatting with committee members or coordinating delivery dates. Jaemin simply packed his folder and left quickly, pulling his hoodie out of his bag and over his head, what his grandmother doesn’t know won't hurt her, he thought as he stepped out into the wind.

As he walked home, he cursed his luck, shackled with enough work to bury a team of people all by himself. And the gnawing displeasure of knowing just who he would be working alongside. 

And he didn't like it. 

By the time Donghyuck strolled into the shop on Monday, Jaemin was already elbows-deep in fabric samples and reference sketches. The front door jingled as he entered, balancing a takeaway bag in one hand and two drinks in the other.

“You look like you haven’t blinked in hours,” Donghyuck said, nudging the door closed with his foot.

“Because I haven’t,” Jaemin replied without looking up. “Do you know how many sleeve shapes existed in Mid Joseon? Too many. Too many sleeves, Donghyuck.”

“That’s not a real problem. That’s a you problem.”

“You’re the one who said I should give this event a chance.”

“And I stand by it. You love this heritage stuff. Plus, you get to boss people around and be smug.”

Jaemin snorted, finally glancing up as Donghyuck dropped the food on the nearest clear surface.

“What did you bring?”

“Egg toast. And the coffee you like. But they ran out of oat milk, so it’s just sad milk today. Apologies in advance.”

“Ugh.”

“You’re welcome.”

Donghyuck flopped into the rolling chair and kicked off gently, letting it spin half-heartedly while Jaemin took a quick sip of the coffee and made a face.

“Tastes like depression.”

“Perfect, you’ll fit right in with the committee.”

“Don't remind me,” Jaemin muttered, unrolling another swatch of fabric and pinning it to the Mid Joseon board. “They’ve dumped five entire sections on me. Five. That’s not a contract, it’s a full-time job.”

“I thought this was your full-time job?”

“Yeah, but this is the overachiever version.”

Donghyuck leaned back, watching him work. “So, when’s your next historical breakdown?”

“Probably after lunch.”

“I’ll bring snacks.”

They spent the next few hours in mostly comfortable chaos.

Donghyuck alternated between badly folding receipts and singing along to whatever girl group track was playing. Jaemin kept going through his checklist, switching between stitching and sketching. The rhythm of the shop was normal, familiar. Even with the added pressure, Jaemin found he could still focus. There was something soothing about working with his hands.

The rest of the week passed quickly.

Jaemin met twice with the event assistant to go over timelines and layout plans. He visited the estate grounds once, only to see the outer buildings and drop off early sketches for approval. The main house was closed to non-staff.

There was still no sign of Jeno.

Jaemin didn’t ask.

Most of his days were spent inside the studio, patterning and prepping the base cuts. His grandmother helped hand-stitch two of the ceremonial overcoats, and he ordered a new roll of silk blend for the inner linings.

The work was repetitive, but he didn’t mind. It kept things normal.

He’d booked his calendar out to avoid other commissions, but one or two regulars still popped in ,Mr Kim, who always needed trousers taken in, and a newlywed couple ordering matching jeogori jackets for their ceremony photos.

By Friday, he’d finished the under garments for the Late Goryeo set and moved on to the Early Joseon children’s garments.

It wasn’t until Saturday morning that the call came.

The number was local, but unfamiliar.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Na Jaemin?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Eunji from the Cultural Committee. Just a quick heads-up the Lee family representative wants to schedule fittings for their custom set this week. They’ll need to meet with you directly.”

Jaemin held the phone between his shoulder and ear as he marked seam allowances.

“Fine. Just send me the schedule. I’m in the shop all week.”

“Great. We’ll slot him in for Tuesday afternoon. Around 2pm?”

“Got it.”

“Thanks again. You’re doing great work.”

He hung up, set the chalk down, and wrote the appointment in his planner

By Tuesday morning, most of the prep work was running smoothly.

Donghyuck showed up again just before noon, kicking the door open with his foot like he was in an action movie.

“Guess who’s free and useless?”

“I’m not guessing. I know.”

“Harsh.”

“You’re here, so obviously you’ve run out of people to annoy.”

“False. I’m multitasking. Annoying you and being helpful at the same time.”

He dropped a plastic folder full of fabric receipts onto the table and picked up a sketch pad.

“What’s this? Are we in the fusion era now?”

“Don’t touch that.”

“I’m helping.”

“No, you're not, you’re just a menace.”

Donghyuck grinned and leaned against the table, watching Jaemin set up for the afternoon appointment.

“So, is this that guy again?”

“I guess. His assistant called to book a time.”

“He didn’t even call himself?”

Jaemin shrugged. “Why would he? He’s probably busy, lots of prep work and all that,” he mused half-heartedly, waving his hand in dismissal. 

“What’s his name again?”

“Lee something.”

“You forgot?”

“I wasn’t listening.”

Donghyuck blinked. “Wasn’t that the guy who came in here last week? Tall? Jaw sharp enough to slice tofu?”

Jaemin didn’t look up. “Sure. Maybe.”

“You know he’s going to be a pain, right?”

“I know. But he’s paying.”

“Sellout.”

“Quiet, you unpaid intern.”

Donghyuck gave a mock salute and went to refill the kettle. “I’m making tea. Shout when the next aristocrat arrives.”

Jaemin smiled to himself and returned to trimming a lining seam.

He wasn’t thinking about Jeno.

Not really.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door jingled precisely on time. Jaemin glanced back at the clock. Two o’clock, sharp.

Of course he’d be punctual. Jaemin thought, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. 

Jaemin set down the iron and wiped his hands on the cloth at his side, schooling his face into neutrality before turning.

Jeno stood just inside the doorway, posture straight, hands clasped loosely in front of him. Today he was dressed less like some corporate heir and more like someone who had read about streetwear in a magazine and followed it to the letter. 

Tailored slacks, a structured jacket, and a perfectly pressed shirt that Jaemin didn't want to know the price tag of. 

"You’re on time," Jaemin said flatly.

Jeno's gaze flicked across the studio before landing on him. "Did we not say 2pm?” he chided. 

"Mm. We did." Jaemin nodded and stepped aside, motioning toward the fitting area. "Let’s get this over with."

Jeno arched a brow but said nothing, moving past him with the quiet confidence of someone used to getting exactly what he wanted. It was aggravating. 

Jaemin followed. The air between them felt tense again, sharp at the edges. Maybe it was just Jeno’s face. Or his voice. Or his whole...everything. Whatever it was, was starting to really test his patience. 

He gestured toward the platform. "Shoes off. Arms up."

"So direct," Jeno muttered, toeing off his shoes anyway. "Do you talk to all your clients like this, or just the ones you don't like?"

Jaemin gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Only the ones who assume I was briefed about their arrival and then act like I missed something."

There was a pause. Then Jeno exhaled, short and stiff. "That was a misunderstanding. I assumed the committee had informed you. They told me they would."

Jaemin pinned the fabric he was holding to the mannequin beside him with unnecessary force. "Well, they didn’t."

"Noted."

They stood in silence as Jaemin reached for the mock-up he’d prepared.

"Arms out," he repeated.

Jeno obeyed. His expression gave nothing away, but Jaemin swore he could feel judgment radiating off of him like static.

"You’re tense," Jaemin noted, adjusting his shoulders.

"I’m standing still while someone pokes at me with pins. That tends to happen."

"Most clients manage it without locking up like a robot."

Jeno didn’t reply.

Jaemin stepped back to look at the fit. "So what exactly are you expecting out of this? Traditional? Fusion? Something ostentatious so everyone knows how expensive your taste is?"

"Something respectful," Jeno said, still not looking at him. "Clean lines. Period accurate. You know. The kind of thing I’ve been told you’re good at."

Jaemin blinked, a small scowl forming on his face, “You aren't so convinced by their words?”

Jeno finally looked at him. “I’ve seen nothing from you yet, I reserve my thoughts until then.” 

Jaemin bristled in annoyance; had this been a cartoon, smoke may have started spewing from his ears. Jeno didn't seem to notice and continued on his jaunt.

“Can you not accommodate the request?”

Jaemin made a sound between a snort and a sigh. "I can, it's just unexpected."

They stared at each other for a moment too long.

Then Jaemin turned back to his tools. "This won’t take long. Don’t move."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

By the time the fitting was done, the air between them was still stiff but no longer quite so brittle. Just cold. Professional. Bruised at the edges, but tolerable.

Jeno pulled his jacket back on with a practised motion. "When will the first mock-up be ready?"

"Next week. I’ll call."

Jeno gave a tight nod. "Good."

He left with the same quiet efficiency he arrived with.

Jaemin stared at the closed door for a moment before muttering, "You’re welcome…" punctuating it with an exasperated breath. 

He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. The irritation in his chest said enough.

Jaemin’s grandmother had made too much food again. 

He sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through seaweed stems and egg rolls like it might distract him from the growing ache behind his eyes. Across from him, Donghyuck was elbow-deep in japchae and entirely too smug for someone who hadn’t done any of the chopping.

“You know,” Donghyuck said, pointing at him with his chopsticks, “you’ve sighed eleven times since we sat down.”

“I haven’t.”

“Your grandmother asked if you were sick.”

“I’m just–” Jaemin poked aggressively at his rice. “Thinking.”

“Thinking is the gateway drug to spiralling. What now? Pattern logistics? Fabric delays? Did someone disrespect the collar width again?”

“No.”

Donghyuck narrowed his eyes. “Is it about Mr.Cold again?”

Jaemin didn't answer, which was answer enough.

His grandmother looked up from the sink. “This is the quiet one you complained about yesterday?”

“He’s not quiet,” Jaemin muttered. “He’s... selectively silent. Like a passive-aggressive spreadsheet.”

“Was he rude?” she asked, drying her hands.

“Nothing bad. But he wasn’t exactly... pleasant either. Just stood there stiff like I was wasting his time. Barely blinked. Like he was auditioning for a statue.”

Donghyuck slurped his noodles with a dramatic sigh. “So basically, he was calm and you decided to take it personally.”

Jaemin turned to glare. “He looked at me weirdly.”

“That’s not a war crime.”

“It is when you’re measuring someone’s inseam and they look like they’re silently judging your ancestors.”

His grandmother tutted, already over it. “So he has a stiff face. Maybe he has indigestion. Or a stick up his–”

“Halmeoni!”

She waved him off. “Don’t take it to heart. Some people are just born with a resting ghost-face.”

Donghyuck snorted and nearly choked.

Jaemin set down his chopsticks, half-laughing, half-defeated. “I don’t even hate him. He just... rubs me the wrong way.”

“Like sandpaper?”

“No, like- like when you put your glasses on and your eyelashes touch the lenses, uncomfortable.”

“Still sounds like nothing to me.”

“Get out of my house.”

“This isn’t your house.”

“Get out anyway.”

His grandmother patted his shoulder as she passed behind him. “Stop obsessing. You’ll wrinkle your face.”

“Too late,” Donghyuck said, mouth full. “His whole vibe’s wrinkled.”

Jaemin leaned back with a groan, arms flapping behind him. “I have to see him again next week.”

“Oh no,” Donghyuck said dryly. “Work with the attractive man again? Tragic.”

“I hope his collar’s crooked the whole time.” Jaemin mumbled, shoving a spoonful of rice in his mouth to keep himself from spewing words that would earn him a clap around the back from his grandmother. 

The shop was cloaked in the kind of silence that only came after hours. No music playing, no bell chiming from the door at the front. Just the faint, rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the back wall and the low whir of the desk fan rotating in lazy arcs. Outside, dusk had settled. The golden light filtering through the windows had cooled into deeper, bluer hues, casting the whole workspace in muted twilight.

Jaemin sat hunched over his worktable, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, needle and thread in hand. His fingers moved with quiet efficiency, thread through loop, pull taut, knot, repeat. He wasn’t even thinking about it anymore. Muscle memory did the heavy lifting while his mind wandered. His workspace was a sea of half-finished garments, fabric samples, and sketches. Stacks of swatches lined the wall. His phone buzzed somewhere behind him—he ignored it.

Tonight was for focus. And maybe a little escape.

The commission deadlines were looming. The gala was closer than he liked to admit. He should’ve been in a groove by now, working through fittings and fabrics like second nature. But everything about this project felt heavier. Slower. Like he was dragging something behind him.

He paused, pressing the back of his knuckles to his temple, trying to chase the fog from his head. Lately, his dreams had been... strange. And too vivid. He hadn’t told Donghyuck, because he didn’t feel like explaining something he couldn’t even explain to himself. But almost every night now, he woke with a tightness in his chest and a sharp clarity of sound—paper rustling, the soft crunch of footsteps on stone, wind chimes, laughter that echoed and faded before he could grasp it.

Always the same feeling: he was forgetting something important. Or someone.

And always, always…no face.

Tonight, the sensation crept into him slowly. It didn’t announce itself. It just... settled. Like dust on silk.

He blinked down at the fabric in his lap.  He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. The fabric between them was modern, machine-woven, bleached and uniform. But in his memory, no, not memory, just a feeling, it was coarser. Hand-dyed. The weave looser. Imperfect.

He closed his eyes for a moment and saw it: not the shop, not the paper lanterns strung across the front window. 

A courtyard.

Stones underfoot. A hanbok sleeve, dyed deep plum at the edge of his vision. The corner of a wooden pillar carved with peonies.

A name on his tongue he couldn’t say.

And a face, or the outline of one. Familiar and featureless all at once. Like trying to remember a dream, you’re still halfway inside.

He shook himself.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until colours burst behind them, but the phantom memory lingered.

The frustration in his chest bloomed. He didn’t know what was worse: the fact that it felt real, or that it refused to become real enough for him to make sense of it.

When he opened his eyes again, he was still alone in the shop, fabric still in his lap, the sky outside now fully inked over with night.

It was nothing, he told himself. Just dreams. Just stress. Probably some stupid, subconscious reaction to dealing with people like Jeno, tight-lipped and polite in that aggravating way, like he was always three thoughts ahead and none of them worth sharing.

Jaemin dropped the scraps of silk into the bin and stood up, stretching the stiffness out of his shoulders. The fabric he'd been working on pooled silently over the table. He stared at it for a long minute, as though it might reveal something if he just kept looking.

But it didn’t.

It was just fabric.

And he was just tired.

Still, when he turned off the lights and locked the shop for the night, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that someone had been there before him.

Or was still waiting to return.

The key stuck in the front gate again.

Jaemin jiggled it with more force than necessary, and the metal finally gave in with a reluctant click. He let out a breath as he stepped into the courtyard, the familiar sound of the gravel crunching under his trainers grounding him in the present. The small hanok his grandmother insisted on keeping in the traditional style was dimly lit, warm light spilling through the papered doors like honey.

Inside, the smell of stewed radish and soy was already thick in the air. She must’ve started dinner early.

He toed off his shoes by the door and called out softly, “Halmeoni, I’m home.”

A soft clatter came from the kitchen, followed by the shuffle of her slippers. “Didn’t I tell you not to stay so late at the shop?”

“It’s barely seven.”

“In winter, that’s late.” She peeked her head out, hair tied back in a neat bun, brows lifted. “Have you eaten yet?”

He shook his head and gave her a tired smile. “I’ll help set the table.”

His grandmother didn’t answer with anything more than an approving hum. He just focused on setting the utensils, fingers pausing once on the folded napkin like he’d forgotten what he was doing, lost somewhere else… or perhaps some-when else

Dinner passed quietly enough, Halmeoni fussed over Jaemin’s portions, ignoring his protests that he wasn’t a teenager anymore. The warmth of the meal helped, but it didn’t settle the unease curled up in his chest.

Later, in his room, Jaemin sat at his desk in the half-light. His sketchbook was open beside him, the mock-up sketches resting faintly on the paper, but he wasn’t looking at them. His hands were idle in his lap, the quiet hum of the night broken only by the occasional bark of a neighbour’s dog.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment.

And like slipping underwater, he was there again.

Not here, not now, but somewhere else entirely. A room, wide and empty. The paper doors open to a sprawling view of pines. His own voice calling out a name he couldn’t remember. A hand reaching toward him in the dark. Always reaching. Never touching.

And no face.

He jerked back with a soft gasp.

The room was still. The silence was deafening.

He dragged a hand down his face and pushed back the hair from his forehead. Maybe he needed a break. Or more sleep. Or less caffeine. Anything to stop the dreams from creeping into his waking hours.

But even as he reached to shut his sketchbook, his eyes caught on the sketch he’d been adjusting earlier, the hanbok design meant for Jeno. Sharp collar, overlapping folds, details that felt like instinct rather than choice.

His stomach twisted.

Because the more he stared at it, the more certain he felt he’d drawn it before.

Not last week.

Not even this life.

Somewhere much, much older.

And that, he didn’t know what to do with that.

The village moved slow in the late afternoon, light bleeding gold across shop windows and wet pavement, the rush of daytime tapering off into something gentler. Jaemin walked with a paper cup of barley tea in hand, his bag slung over one shoulder, a bolt of ivory silk tucked into the crook of his other arm. He wasn’t in a rush. He rarely was after a day working on the commissions. His head felt full in the way it did when he’d spent too long around fabric, measuring tape, and sketches. Focused, but fraying at the edges.

He turned the corner near the traditional bookbindery, about to cut through the small courtyard between buildings, a shortcut he wasn't sure where or when he had learned, when someone stepped in from the opposite end. 

Jaemin slowed mid-step, irritation flaring the moment he recognised the clean, precise profile.

Of course.

Jeno.

Wearing a navy coat buttoned to the throat, leather gloves in one hand, and his expression unreadable as always. He looked entirely out of place in the cramped, crooked little alley of old buildings and tiled roofs, too polished, too composed.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

“Didn’t realise you frequented this part of town,” Jaemin finally said, voice dry.

Jeno raised a brow. “I don’t.”

“Then what? You following me?”

“If I were, I’d be better at it.”

A scoff escaped Jaemin before he could help it. He shifted his bag slightly, shifting his weight to one hip. “So what, then? An unfortunate coincidence?”

“Apparently. Just passing through”

Jaemin took a slow sip of tea, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You know, most people just say hello.”

“I find small talk inefficient.”

“No kidding.”

Jeno didn’t rise to it. Just stood there, hands in his pockets now, gaze steady. Unmoved.

Jaemin’s fingers itched. He didn’t know why Jeno got under his skin so quickly. Something about the way he always seemed to be holding back, like everything he said had been vetted, polished, and cooled down to room temperature before delivery.

“You’re impossible,” Jaemin muttered.

“You’re easily irritated.”

Jaemin let out a short laugh, sharp and humourless. “Is that your thing? Just going around needling people with that deadpan expression and seeing who snaps first?”

“No. You’re a special case.”

“Lucky me.” Jaemin mused with faux sincerity. 

They passed each other in the narrow space, shoulder to shoulder, neither of them stepping aside.

Jaemin didn’t mean to look back. He just did.

Jeno had paused, the wind tugging slightly at his coat. He looked up briefly, instinctively, there was a flicker, a flash of something unguarded.

It wasn’t much. Just the turn of his head, the way his jaw clenched, and his nose twitched, sniffed. But it caught Jaemin like a hook in the chest. A movement so specific it felt pulled from another time.

His breath caught, just for a beat.

Jeno turned fully then, catching his stare. “Something wrong?” Jaemin blinked, the moment dissolving.

“No,” he said. “Just thought you’d keep walking.” Jeno’s expression didn’t shift. “You were behind me.”

“Wow. Observation skills and a charming personality.”

Jeno tilted his head. “And yet, you’re still talking to me.” Jaemin didn’t have an answer to that.

A silence stretched, not quite comfortable, but no longer bristling. Then Jeno gave a faint nod, almost a bow, though too short to be formal. “I won’t keep you.”

“Good.”

He watched Jeno walk away, measured steps, hands back in his pockets, posture straight despite the chill. Jaemin stood there for a while, barley tea cooling in his hand, feeling like he’d just come out of a conversation that hadn’t really happened.

When he finally moved again, he walked more slowly.

A warmth lingered under his ribs. Not a good kind. More like recognition, half-buried and uninvited.

He hated it.

He just hoped that his interactions with Jeno were few and far between. His presence was starting to unsettle something within him. 

Jaemin woke with his fingers clenched in the sheets, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

The room was dark, lit only by the soft, flickering amber of the streetlamp outside. It painted long shadows on his ceiling—branches swaying like they were underwater. His skin was damp, his throat dry, the inside of his mouth tasting faintly of metal and regret.

He didn’t cry. He never did.

But the ache that lived in his chest after these dreams was worse than tears—quieter, more permanent.

He sat up slowly, pushing the blanket away with stiff hands. His body remembered before he did. The pressure at his throat. The swing of rope. The helplessness. The air that didn’t come.

The silence.

He blinked hard, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes until the afterimages danced in red and gold behind his lids. He hated this night. Hated this dream. Hated that no matter how many times it came, he always woke just before the end, but never early enough to avoid what it did to him.

He didn’t need to see the whole thing anymore.

He knew.

The scent of blossoms still clung to him, even though there hadn’t been any in bloom for months. He could feel their petals brushing against his shoulders—too soft, too light, like they were mocking the weight that came after. He'd stopped burning incense that reminded him of plum flowers years ago. It didn’t help.

Nothing did.

He stood, wandered barefoot through the house, avoiding the creaky floorboards out of habit. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and stared at it in his hand without drinking. His reflection in the dark window looked like someone else, someone thinner, sharper, weighed down by things he couldn’t say aloud.

Sometimes, he tried to convince himself that what he remembered were just metaphors. That no one could carry that kind of pain from one life into another. That memory didn't linger like this, uninvited and unwelcome. But those were lies he told himself on the good days. This wasn’t one of them.

Tonight, everything was sharp. He wrapped his arms around himself, knuckles digging into his sides.

It was easier not to think too hard about it

Some nights, he was almost grateful he didn’t remember everything. The cruelty of that recognition would break something in him he wasn’t sure could be repaired.

But most nights—especially nights like this—he hated the not-knowing more.

Hated the way his body carried the memory of pain more vividly than it did the memory of love.

Jaemin slid down onto the floor, back to the wall, legs pulled close to his chest. He pressed his forehead to his knees.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Count. Anchor.

He'd been here before. He'd survive it again.

But still, deep in the back of his mind, the branches swayed.

Still, in the pit of his stomach, something screamed. Still, across the veil of time, a voice he recognised as his own whispered in forgiveness 

He didn't get any more sleep that night. 

He blinked at the ceiling, the morning light too soft for how raw he felt.

There was a knock, followed by Donghyuck nudging open the door with his hip, hands full with two bowls of soup and a disapproving scowl. “You look like death, reincarnated. Again.”

Jaemin let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. He sat up and took one of the bowls without protest. “Why are you always here? Anyone would think you lived here.”

Donghyuck ignored him and climbed into the other corner of the bed, folding his legs under him like this was just another Tuesday. “Dreams again?”

Jaemin nodded, quiet.

“Bad?”

“The usual.”

Donghyuck didn’t need to ask what that meant. He knew.

“You should stop eating sugar before bed.”

“It’s not the sugar.”

“I know.” He paused, poking at the rice with his chopsticks. “You remembered it again?”

“Parts.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. Donghyuck had known for years—Jaemin had told him not long after the first wave of memories started returning, Donghyuck had believed him without needing proof. Not because he was superstitious, but because Jaemin had looked at him with the kind of grief that couldn’t be faked.

“Tree again?” Donghyuck asked quietly.

Jaemin didn’t answer right away. He took a sip of soup. It tasted like childhood and comfort, like routine and mornings where the air didn’t feel this thick. “Yeah.”

“Still no faces?”

“No.” He swallowed. “I don’t get it, why keep showing me the same thing every time. It’s like getting to the end of a jigsaw puzzle and finding out you’re missing the last piece.”

Donghyuck watched him with the tired compassion of someone who’d heard this more than once. “Maybe you should stop fighting it.”

“I’m not fighting it.”

“You hate it.”

Jaemin didn’t deny it but still chided back. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I think I’d hate not knowing more.” Donghyuck shrugged, setting his bowl aside. “You always said it felt incomplete.”

Jaemin let his head fall back against the wall. “It’s-  god I don’t know how to explain. It hurts to know that even if it wasn't really me, that some part of my soul felt desperate enough to cling onto consciousness. ”

“Like they have a debt to pay or something holding them here” Jaemin sighed.

“It's unnerving to have all these memories, experiences, feelings that aren't my own.” “Sometimes I feel like just forgetting would have been easier.”

Donghyuck nodded thoughtfully “Perhaps it's not so much a reminder of a past you once lived but a push to live the one you were supposed to? ”

The words dropped into the air like a stone. Jaemin flinched.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”

Donghyuck gave him a look. “Of course it matters.”

“It's just a dream. Terrifying, frustrating, repetitive dream .”

“One that causes you enough grief, you feel it across a lifetime. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s not proof. Barely a delusion”

“No, but it’s a start.” Donghyuck stretched out beside him on the bed, hands tucked behind his head. “Maybe it's trying to tell you that you have some unfinished karmic beef to settle. Maybe a bitter ex-lover's story. Or rivals. Ooh—mortal enemies with sexual tension.”

Jaemin shot him a look. “Hyuck.”

“I’m just saying. Anything’s possible in the reincarnation cinematic universe.”

“You’re not helping.”

Donghyuck grinned. “I’m never helping. That’s not my role in this story.”

Chapter Text

Jaemin hated going into the city.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle it. He’d visited his parents many times, after all. But after three years in the village without them, surrounded by slow hills and people who remembered his name without needing to check a screen, the city always felt like an assault. Too loud. Too fast. Too much.

Still, when the fabric company called to tell him that his special-dye silks, the ones he’d spent a week agonising over and needed to start cutting by the weekend, had been sent to the wrong recipient, he didn’t hesitate. Well, he did. Briefly, then he saw the email confirmation saying “no additional courier availability”, and the anxiety clenched tight in his chest. So he threw on a decent button-up, took the van keys from the bowl near the shoe rack, and loaded up the car.

His grandmother packed him lunch before he could even ask.

"Take the container to your parents," she said, shoving a heavy tote bag into his hands. “And don’t you dare bring it back empty.”

“Do I look like someone who returns containers empty?” Jaemin grunted as he shifted the weight of what could only be a week’s worth of banchan in his arms.

“Yes,” she said without missing a beat.

He rolled his eyes but pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’ll try to be back before dinner.”

“Don’t rush. And say hello to your father for me.”

She didn’t say “your mother”  they both knew she’d already called her this morning. Twice.

The drive into the city felt longer than usual.

Jaemin had the windows rolled halfway down, the crisp wind threading through the old van like it belonged there more than he did. His grandmother’s patchwork quilted seat covers rustled with each bump in the road, and the van’s engine growled its age every time he tried to accelerate up a hill. It was a vehicle with personality stubborn, proud, and decidedly not built for speed, but somehow it suit him.

The wrong delivery was still irritating him. The fabric that had arrived yesterday had been all off, cheap synthetic blends, clashing colours, and one box completely missing. If he hadn’t double-checked the shipping labels, he would’ve thought it wasn’t even his order.

Of course, no one had answers over the phone.

So here he was. Driving into the city to fix something someone else had messed up.

Typical.

He rubbed at his temple, sighing. His grandmother’s containers—three large bento-style boxes stacked and packed tight with side dishes and rice—shifted in the passenger seat beside him. “For your parents and Jisung,” she had said, all but shoving them into his hands. “Your mother works too much to cook properly, and your brother eats like he’s still growing.”

He had smiled then, but now the warmth was fading.

He hadn't been back to the city in weeks, and even then, it was usually for business. Not visits.

But today would be both.

When he pulled up to his parents' apartment building, Jaemin parked with a soft grunt from the brakes and climbed out, careful with the food. The building was clean, newer than the homes back in the village, but it had none of the charm. No uneven wood floors or mountain air. Just glass doors and sterile hallways.

His mother answered the door before he could knock.

“Jaemin!” She broke into a bright smile, pulling him into a quick hug that smelled like soap and simmering soup. “You should’ve told me you were coming.”

“I didn’t know I was, either,” he said, stepping out of his shoes. “It was last minute.”

“I assumed it was work-related. Still, come in, Jisung’s home from dance practice. You’re staying for lunch, right?”

“I can’t, I’m not in town long,” he murmured, glancing around the apartment. Same couch. Same thin curtains. Same small calendar on the fridge with every family member’s name written in neat boxes.

Jisung poked his head out from his room. “Hyung?” he said, his voice cracking a little on the second syllable. Taller than the last time they’d seen each other.

“Hey,” Jaemin said, a little awkwardly.

“Did Halmeoni send food again?” The teen shuffled over, peering into the stacked containers with a reverence usually reserved for holidays. “I missed her kimchi.”

Jaemin gave a soft smile. “Yeah. She made enough for all of you.”

His mother was already ferrying the boxes into the kitchen. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

“Don’t thank me. She threatened me into it.”

His mother chuckled. “That sounds about right.”

They settled briefly around the dining table, the smell of gochujang and garlic beginning to fill the space. 

“So,” his mother said after a lull, glancing up at him. “Since you’re already in the city… would you mind stopping by your father’s office?”

Jaemin looked up sharply. “Why?”

“You know he’ll never say it out loud, but I think he misses you.”

Jaemin said nothing, staring into his tea. The distance between him and his father wasn’t anything new. They talked occasionally. Polite, stiff conversations over the phone. Fewer in person. Still, the thought of showing up at his father’s office made his shoulders tense.

But his mother was looking at him in that quiet, expectant way of hers.

“I’ll stop by, grandma might have something to say if I don't”, he said finally, and she smiled as if that was what she’d been waiting for all morning.

His father’s office building was uptown, all mirrored windows and stone pillars. Inside, everything smelled like lemon polish and recycled air. Jaemin greeted the receptionist and took the elevator up to the 14th floor.

His dad didn’t look up at first when Jaemin knocked and stepped inside.

“You’re late,” he said.

“I didn’t say I was coming.”

That earned him a small smile. “Fair enough.”

Jaemin set the food bag on the desk. “Halmeoni sent reinforcements.”

“Thank God. Your mom only made pickled radish this week.”

They talked for a bit. His father looked tired, but good. He was ageing into his office clothes better than he used to.

“You still happy in the village?” he asked suddenly, while repacking the food into a drawer mini-fridge.

Jaemin hesitated. “Yeah. It’s… quiet. Good for work.”

“Still feel pulled to it?”

“Every day.”

His father nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “Your mom thinks it’s spiritual.”

“Halmeoni thinks it's fate.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think it’s stubbornness.”

His father chuckled. “Then that’s definitely from your mother’s side.”

The sky was overcast by the time Jaemin left the building, the sun swallowed behind pale clouds. He was halfway through planning his route back,  fuel, maybe a coffee stop when the van made a strange knocking sound near the on-ramp.

Jaemin frowned. Then the van sputtered.

Coughed.

Died.

“Shit,” he muttered, throwing on his hazard lights and easing over to the shoulder.

He tried the ignition twice. The engine refused to turn.

Great.

He popped the hood, not that he knew what to do with it. The engine looked the same as always ,a mess of tubes and mystery. He pulled out his phone, opened his roadside assistance app, and groaned at the 90-minute wait.

Perfect.

He leaned against the van, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Of course, this would happen today.

The sky had started to spit light rain when Jaemin finally gave up trying to look like he knew what he was doing under the van’s hood. He shut it with a frustrated thud and leaned back against the front bumper, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

The roadside assistance tracker hadn’t moved. Still 82 minutes away.

He was about to call Donghyuck out of pure boredom when he heard it, the slow purr of an engine pulling up behind him. A sleek black car, far too nice to be anywhere near this part of town, rolled to a stop beside the van.

Jaemin didn’t recognise it at first. Not until the window lowered and he saw the driver.

Jeno.

Of course.

He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine. Simple black slacks, button-down open at the collar, one arm resting casually on the wheel like he hadn’t just stumbled across someone he knew, someone he’d clearly rather not be talking to, stranded on the side of the road.

Jaemin stared.

Jeno raised an eyebrow. “You planning on camping here?”

Jaemin gave him a tight smile. “I’m embracing the rustic charm of urban decay.”

Jeno’s gaze flicked to the van, then back. “Let me guess. Transmission? Fuel line?”

Jaemin blinked. “You know cars?”

“No. But that thing looks like it runs on vibes and fermented cabbage.”

Against his will, a breath of amusement escaped Jaemin’s nose.

“I called a tow,” he said. “It’ll be here in an hour or so.”

“In this neighbourhood?” Jeno shifted in his seat. “You’ll be lucky if the van’s still here when they show up.”

“Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I’m just saying.”

There was a beat of silence. Rain dotted the windshield.

“Get in,” Jeno said.

Jaemin blinked. “What?”

“I’ll give you a ride back.”

“No thanks.” The response was automatic.

Jeno just looked at him. Not annoyed. Not smug. Just… blank. “You’d rather wait in the rain?”

“Yes,” Jaemin said, even as a drop landed square on his forehead.

Jeno tilted his head slightly. “You hate owing people, don’t you?”

Jaemin narrowed his eyes. “I just don’t like you.”

That almost got a smirk. “Mutual. Door’s unlocked.”

He started to roll the window back up.

Jaemin stood there a moment longer, arms still crossed, weighing his pride against the growing wet patch on the shoulder of his shirt. Then, with a sigh that scraped along his spine, he grabbed his tote bag of fabric and stalked over to the car. Making sure to update his grandma, sending a quick text informing her of the poor van’s death.

The interior was silent. Cool, expensive-smelling. The leather was probably real.

“Don’t touch anything,” Jeno said mildly as Jaemin slid into the passenger seat.

“I’ll try not to contaminate your rich-boy air.”

“Appreciated.”

They drove in silence for several minutes. Jaemin focused on the road, on the rain, on anything but the man next to him. But tension still clung to the space between them like static.

“Nice car,” Jaemin muttered eventually.

“Thanks. It’s my dad’s.”

Of course it was.

“What were you doing in the city?”

“Work.” Cryptic as always, Jaemin mused to himself

“Of course.”

“And you?”

Jaemin gestured vaguely to the bag at his feet. “Fabric mix-up. Had to come get it myself.”

“Let me guess. Time-sensitive?”

“Very.”

Another silence stretched. Then:

“You always drive that van?”

“It's my grandmother’s.”

“Hm.”

Jaemin glanced sideways at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, say it.”

Jeno gave him a sidelong look. “It just… suits you.”

Jaemin blinked. “The van suits me?”

Jeno shrugged. “Stubborn. Older than it looks. Loud when it’s pissed off.”

“Wow. That sounded almost like an insult and a compliment.”

Jeno didn’t respond. But something about the edge of his mouth twitched.

They hit a long stretch of road between the city and the village the landscape opening up into low fields and scattered trees, the air clearer. The rain had slowed to a mist.

Jaemin found his gaze drifting. Jeno’s hands were steady on the wheel. He drove without music, the cabin filled only by the soft hum of tires and the rhythm of windshield wipers. His expression, as always, was unreadable. Cool. Controlled.

But then, just for a moment, Jeno reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror, his fingers brushing the small talisman hanging from it. A folded knot of thread and cloth. Jaemin’s breath caught.

Something about that movement.

His heart thudded hard, unreasonably.

A memory tried to form, not a clear image, but a shape, a sensation. Fingers brushing a ribbon. A whisper of thread across skin. He shook it off.

“What's that?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Jeno glanced up. “Just a charm. My grandmother gave it to me.”

“Doesn’t seem like your style.”

“It’s not. But it keeps her from worrying.”

Jaemin didn’t respond. His chest still felt too tight. Like something important had just slipped past him in the dark.

They pulled into the village just as the sun began peeking through the mist.

Jaemin leaned forward, already reaching for the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Don’t thank me. I couldn’t stand the idea of you flagging down a stranger and giving them your tragic life story.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes. “I save that for you .”

Before he could open the door, the front gate to his house creaked open. His grandmother stood there in her apron, hands on her hips, squinting at the unfamiliar car.

Then her eyes landed on Jaemin. And on Jeno.

“Oh!” she said, hurrying over. “You brought a guest!”

“He’s not a- ” Jaemin started, but she was already opening the passenger door.

“And such a handsome one,” she added, beaming at Jeno. “Come inside, I made too much stew.”

Jeno opened his mouth, maybe to protest, maybe not. But Jaemin cut in.

“He has to go. Busy person. Cold heart. No time for stew.”

“Don’t be rude,” she chided. “You owe him dinner, don’t you? He gave you a ride, didn’t he?”

Jaemin stared at her, betrayed.

Jeno’s expression didn’t change, but his voice was calm. “I can stay a bit.”

“Wonderful!” she said, stepping aside. “Come in, come in. I’ll reheat the side dishes.”

Jaemin followed reluctantly, glaring daggers at Jeno’s back.

This was going to be hell .

Jaemin trailed into the kitchen like a man walking to his own execution.

He dropped his tote bag near the shoe rack, ignoring the way his grandmother had already pulled Jeno into the warmth of the kitchen, talking at full speed as if they were old friends reunited after years. Jeno, naturally, didn’t look the least bit fazed. He was polite, even bowing slightly when she handed him a hand towel to dry his hands. The bastard.

“You didn’t tell me you had such a kind friend, Jaemin,” she said, bustling between rice cooker and stove, her slippers squeaking faintly on the floor.

“He’s not a friend,” Jaemin muttered, slinking into the corner of the kitchen and grabbing a cup of barley tea from the fridge.

“What was that?” she asked brightly.

“He’s a client .”

“Client or not, he’s staying for dinner. Sit down, Jeno-ah. You like kimchi stew?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jeno said smoothly. “It smells delicious.”

Jaemin didn’t miss the way his grandmother practically glowed.

“Oh, so polite. I like him,” she said, turning back to the bubbling pot. “Unlike some people I know.”

Jaemin set his tea down with a little more force than necessary. “I’m not the one who invited strangers into our house.”

“You brought him here.”

“Because your van broke down.”

“Still brought him.”

Jeno, traitor that he was, had already taken a seat at the kitchen table and folded his hands in his lap like he’d done this a hundred times before. He looked perfectly at ease, which only made Jaemin’s skin crawl.

His grandmother set the table quickly, moving with the practised rhythm of someone who had done it for decades. Dishes appeared like magic rolled omelette, spinach namul, crispy pancakes, and a small side of anchovies. The stew she ladled out was thick with tofu and tender pork, just the way Jaemin liked it.

He hated that it smelled like comfort. He hated more that Jeno took a bite and murmured, “This is incredible.”

“Oh, he has manners,” she laughed, patting his shoulder as she passed.

Jaemin stabbed at his rice. “He’s only like this in front of grandmothers.”

“I bet he’s always like this,” she said.

Jaemin looked up, ready to disagree violently, but stopped short when he caught Jeno watching him eyes unreadable, mouth set in a faint, neutral line.

Then, as if sensing Jaemin’s building retort, Jeno reached for another side dish and said calmly, “You should take her to the city sometime. Food like this is wasted on you.”

“I offered to bring her last Chuseok. She said no.”

“I have my plants,” his grandmother chimed in. “And I don’t like city air. It’s too sharp.”

“See?” Jaemin said. “Not my fault.”

“No one said it was,” Jeno murmured, spooning more stew into his bowl.

Jaemin stared at him. Jeno met his gaze briefly before looking away, as if bored already. The sheer audacity.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen were the clinking of utensils and the soft hum of the fan above the stove. Jaemin couldn’t tell if the quiet was peaceful or awkward. Probably both.

“How are the commissions for the gala coming along?” his grandmother said suddenly.

“Theyre- not” Jaemin muttered, chewing on a piece of radish.

“Not?”

Jaemin sighed, putting down his chopsticks “I just can’t get the sketches right. Something feels off and I just can’t figure out what ”

His grandmother hummed, reaching for his hand to pat it gently as if to reassure him. “You'll figure it out, I know you will. You're the best tailor in the village”

“I’m the only tailor in the village”, Jaemin huffed 

Jeno gave a small sound, not quite a laugh. More like a scoff.

“Something to say?” Jaemin asked, turning to him.

Jeno didn’t look up from his rice. “Just wondering if your whole design process is based on scowling or if that’s a bonus.”

“You’re one to talk. Your entire personality is detached disappointment .”

“I’m not detached. I just know when to pick my battles.”

“Oh, so I’m the battle now?”

“You made yourself one.”

“Boys,” his grandmother said sharply. “No fighting at the dinner table. Or I’ll send both of you out to weed the front path.”

Jaemin opened his mouth, then shut it.

Jeno had the nerve to look amused.

“You really must come by again,” she said to Jeno, topping off his rice. “You’re good for Jaemin. He’s so grumpy when it’s just the two of us.”

“Grumpy isn’t strong enough,” Jeno said mildly.

“I’ll show you grumpy,” Jaemin muttered.

Jeno smirked, looking over the top of his mug, sipping his tea.

Despite himself, Jaemin caught the faint twitch at the corner of Jeno’s mouth, not a smile exactly, but close. And fleeting.

Something about it stirred that same annoying pull in his chest from the car ride earlier. That almost-memory. That phantom echo. He pushed it down.

After dinner, Jaemin insisted on walking Jeno to the gate.

“Because I want you out of my house as quickly as possible,” he clarified when his grandmother gave him a curious look.

Jeno didn’t argue. As they stepped outside, the air was cool and damp from the earlier rain. The light above the porch flickered slightly.

“You’re good with her,” Jaemin said finally, watching the path ahead.

“With who?”

“My grandmother. She likes you.”

“I’m good with grandmothers,” Jeno said. “They like people who don’t talk too much and eat all their food.”

“Guess I’m screwed then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you thought it.”

Jeno stopped at the gate and turned to him, face unreadable again.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said.

Jaemin rolled his eyes. “You sound like you’re trying to be civil. It’s disturbing.”

Jeno opened the car door. “Don’t get used to it.”

Jaemin watched him drive off, arms folded tight over his chest, heart doing that annoying off-rhythm beat again.

He told himself it was just residual irritation.

Nothing more.

The house was quiet again. Too quiet.

Jaemin stood at the sink, rinsing the last of the dishes beneath warm water, the soft clink of ceramic echoing in the silence. His grandmother had gone to bed shortly after dinner, humming to herself as she disappeared down the hall, utterly unbothered by the small hurricane of tension that had breezed through her kitchen hours earlier.

Jaemin, on the other hand, was still buzzing from it.

He towelled off his hands, set the dish towel down, and leaned forward, palms braced on the countertop. The kitchen light cast faint shadows across the tile, making everything look softer, older, faded in a way that felt more emotional than visual.

He wasn’t even sure what part of the day had left him so off balance. The delivery mess? Seeing his dad again? Or maybe-

No. Not maybe.

He pressed his fingers into his temples and exhaled slowly.

It was Jeno. Of course, it was Jeno.

It had been Jeno since the moment he stepped out of that stupid black car on the side of the road, all cool distance and calm calculation. He hadn’t even hesitated to help. Just offered, as if it cost him nothing.

And that should’ve made him easier to tolerate. But it didn’t.

Because Jaemin didn’t understand him.

He dried his hands again, even though they were already dry, then climbed the stairs to his room. The house still smelled faintly of spices and dust, of waxed wood and sun-dried cotton.

Inside the small space of his room, bolts of fabric were stacked neatly beside his drafting table. Spools of thread glinted softly under the desk lamp. The half-finished sketch of one of the gala hanboks was still pinned to his wall,  brushstrokes precise but cold, missing something he couldn’t name.

He sat in front of it and stared.

The lines were too clean. Too academic.

His hands twitched toward a pencil but didn’t lift it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to admit it, but the whole encounter today, the ride, the meal, the way Jeno had looked at him with something like detached amusement, it had left a dent in his mind. Like a stone skipping across water: brief, shallow, but persistent.

It wasn’t the memory flashes. It wasn’t like the dreams, where images bled into one another and left him gasping. This was different. A sensation. A strange, quiet pulse beneath his skin when Jeno had looked at his grandmother with such practised warmth, like he knew, had learned how to slip into any role needed, guest, helper, stranger. Not quite welcome. Not unwelcome, either.

Jaemin opened his eyes. The sketch still stared back at him.

He stood, frustration building, and crossed the room to dig through a box of offcuts, scraps of fabric, failed dye tests, mistakes he’d never thrown away. He needed texture. A new angle. Anything.

Instead, his fingers brushed against something odd. A scrap of plum-dyed silk.

He froze.

He didn’t remember putting that in this box. Didn’t remember cutting it, dyeing it, or touching it.

But here it was, smooth, soft, light as breath, but vivid in a way that made his chest twist.

He lifted it slowly. Held it up to the light.

The colour reminded him of late spring. Of trees just past bloom. Of—

No. Don’t.

He dropped it back into the box like it burned.

He hadn’t dreamt of the tree in weeks. Until last night.

The detail had been sharper than usual, the way the branches bent under the weight of the flowers, how the scent of blossoms had turned sickening in the end. Then the dull, dead swing of something left behind.

He didn’t want to remember. Not like that. Not again.

But the plum-coloured silk stared up at him from the box like an accusation.

He shut the lid and walked out of the room.

In the hallway, he stopped by the small cabinet where they kept tea. His hands shook slightly as he filled the kettle.

It was irrational. The fabric didn’t mean anything. And yet, when he closed his eyes, the image came again not as a full memory, but as a weight in his lungs. The kind that made every breath feel tight.

He poured himself a cup of barley tea and sat on the floor of the living room, back against the wall, eyes on the front door as if expecting someone else to walk through it.

He hated this. The anticipation. The not knowing.

He’d gotten used to the idea that his dreams were a curse. A relic. Something half-healed. But the feeling he had now, this crawling unease in his chest, felt like something waking up again.

And Jeno…

Jeno hadn’t done anything today to warrant that kind of reaction.

Except maybe he had.

Not in words. Not even in looks. But in that small, unguarded moment, that brief, flickering gesture where he’d looked amused in the kitchen, like he could’ve smiled but stopped himself.

It wasn’t enough to prove anything. It wasn’t even enough to suspect anything.

But it was enough to keep Jaemin awake long after the tea had gone cold.

Chapter Text

The hidden storeroom behind the old granary was barely big enough for two people to sit comfortably, but it had a roof that didn’t leak and a small window high in the wall that let in soft light just after noon. It had become theirs.

Jeno arrived with a bruised peach tucked into his sleeve and a folded paper kite under his arm. Jaemin was already there, cross-legged on an old quilt, a half-finished sketch of a hanbok pattern spread across his lap.

“You’re late,” Jaemin said without looking up.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Jeno set the kite down carefully and crouched beside him, tilting his head to look at the sketch. “That’s new.”

“Special commission,” Jaemin said, not quite able to hide the pride in his voice. “A wedding piece. They want matching robes.”

He sounded vaguely wistful.

“Is that allowed?” Jeno asked, lips quirking. “Matching?”

“If you’re rich enough, anything’s allowed.”

Jeno hummed, pulling the peach from his sleeve and handing it over. Jaemin took it with a nod of thanks and bit into it immediately, juice dripping onto his thumb.

“You didn’t even check it first.”

“I trust you,” Jaemin said simply, and for a moment, Jeno forgot how to breathe.

The world outside was always full of eyes and rules and duties, but here, time slowed. They sat with their shoulders pressed together, sharing fruit and brushing fingertips over threadbare fabric as they spoke in low voices about nothing at all. Jeno told him about a poem he was supposed to memorise; Jaemin made fun of him for mispronouncing half the characters. They traded stories about the servants in the manor and the gossip from the market square.

At one point, Jeno leaned his head on Jaemin’s shoulder, and neither of them moved for a long while.

It was safe here. Their quiet little rebellion.

“Have you ever thought about what it would be like if none of this mattered?” Jaemin asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“All the time,” Jeno murmured back.

“If we weren’t—” Jaemin gestured vaguely “—who we are.”

Jeno didn’t answer right away. He reached for Jaemin’s hand instead, threading their fingers together with a care he didn’t show anywhere else.

“I’d still find you,” he said finally.

Jaemin didn’t look at him, but his thumb traced slow circles against Jeno’s skin.

They didn’t have much. Just these moments. Just this place. But it was enough to carve a space in both their lives where they weren’t a nobleman’s son and a tailor’s apprentice. Just two boys. Just hearts beating in tandem.

The kite never got flown. They fell asleep with their foreheads touching and the sketch paper crumpled between them, plum blossoms drifting past the window like promises.

They became experts in silence.

In the quiet sliver of time before sunrise, in the hush between footsteps in a hallway, in the lull of a conversation when no one was listening, that’s where Jeno and Jaemin lived.

They didn’t need much. A hand brushing against another as they passed in the corridor. A smile hidden behind a teacup. Fingers lingering too long over fabric that didn’t need adjusting.

Sometimes, Jaemin would sneak into the courtyard just before dawn, when the house still slept and the plum trees cast long shadows against the stone. He’d wait under the wooden eaves with a folded cloth over his arm, pretending to be delivering something, and Jeno would appear like clockwork collar half-fastened, hair barely combed, eyes soft only for him.

Those mornings were quiet things. Jeno never spoke first. He’d step in close, tilt Jaemin’s chin gently, and kiss him slow, like he had all the time in the world, like he’d starve if he didn’t.

Sometimes Jaemin would tease him for it.

“You always kiss me like you’re leaving.”

Jeno would pause, fingers grazing the back of his neck. “Aren’t I?”

Jaemin would swallow the ache and pull him closer.

Other times, they met in the storeroom again, but it had changed from what it was. The kite still hung from the rafters, faded now, but everything else had shifted. There was a mat on the floor that they’d stolen from the washhouse. A folded blanket. A teacup that always went mysteriously missing from the main house and somehow reappeared here. Their names were nowhere on anything, but the space was theirs. It felt like breathing for the first time after holding it too long.

One night, when the air was thick with summer heat, Jeno slipped in past curfew with a lantern dimmed low and a parcel wrapped in linen.

“What’s this?” Jaemin asked, blinking sleep from his eyes.

“Stolen peaches,” Jeno whispered, unwrapping the fruit with a grin. “From the festival table.”

Jaemin stared at him, torn between horror and laughter. “Again? You’re going to be beheaded.”

“Worth it.”

They shared the fruit sitting cross-legged on the mat, juice sticky on their fingers, laughter muffled behind their hands. Later, when Jeno leaned in, tasting of summer and recklessness, Jaemin kissed him like the world didn’t end outside the storeroom door.

They didn’t speak about the future. Not really. Sometimes, Jeno would say things like “When I take the state exam, I’ll ask my father to send me south, closer to the coast. You could come.” And Jaemin would smile but never answer.

Because they both knew there were things they couldn’t say out loud.

They were boys pretending to be men. They were trying to carve something impossible into a world that had never made room for it.

But still in that little stolen world, they loved without apology.

And that, Jaemin thought, was the bravest thing either of them had ever done.

The courtyard behind the tailors’ workshop had long since grown wild, left untended once Jaemin’s father passed the busiest commissions down to his son. Plum trees arched over the crumbling wall, their blossoms spilling like pale confessions across the mossy ground. It wasn’t much, not hidden enough to be called secret, but quiet enough to be theirs.

Jeno arrived just past dusk, his outer robe still pressed, boots dusted from the long walk down from the noble quarters. He didn’t speak as Jaemin opened the side gate and let him in. He didn’t have to.

Instead, they stood there in the faint blue glow of twilight, shadows stretching long, and Jeno simply reached out. Jaemin met him halfway.

Their fingers laced together like memory, like instinct. A touch rehearsed a thousand times in the quiet of stolen hours.

"Did anyone see you?" Jaemin asked softly, brushing Jeno’s hair back beneath his ceremonial headband. The act was gentle, almost reverent.

"No." A pause. "Though I wouldn’t care if they had."

"You would." Jaemin smiled, but his voice was quiet, eyes dark with understanding. "You always care."

Jeno sighed, his forehead pressing briefly to Jaemin’s. "Only because I’m afraid of losing this."

"This?"

"You."

There was no fire between them tonight, no brazier, no lantern. Only the slow heat of skin meeting skin, a whisper of silk as Jaemin tugged Jeno closer by the collar of his robe and guided them to sit on the woven mat beneath the plum tree. They stayed like that a long time, shoulder to shoulder, the air fragrant with blossoms and old wood.

"Did you finish the under-robe for the Minister’s daughter?" Jeno asked eventually, his voice low, almost teasing.

"Only after unpicking her mother’s ridiculous alterations. They wanted it tighter at the waist. You’d think being able to breathe was a sin."

"You do have a talent for making them look beautiful."

"I have a talent for making their vanity tolerable," Jaemin quipped, then tilted his head. “But thank you.”

Jeno looked over, gaze lingering on the curve of Jaemin’s cheek, the way the moonlight caught in his lashes. He felt it again, that ache. Not of want, but of knowing.

He couldn’t keep Jaemin. Not really. Not in the way the world would allow.

But he could have this. Now .

Jaemin reached out first this time, fingers brushing over the back of Jeno’s hand. “Stay tonight,” he said, barely louder than the wind.

"Someone will notice I’m missing."

"Let them notice."

"Jaemin."

"Just until the moon sets."

That was always the compromise moments carved out between obligations, between names that didn’t fit and futures they could never fully speak aloud. But Jaemin’s eyes were too soft to refuse, and Jeno’s resolve was already fraying.

Later, when the village slept and the stars wheeled silently overhead, they lay curled in the narrow room behind the tailor’s shop, pressed together beneath a worn summer quilt. Jaemin’s fingers traced slow, idle patterns over the slope of Jeno’s back, and Jeno exhaled into the space between Jaemin’s neck and shoulder.

"Do you ever think," Jeno murmured, "what it would be like if we weren’t born like this? If I were a commoner. Or you weren’t a man."

"I don’t want to be anyone else," Jaemin said, matter-of-fact.

Even in the dark, Jeno could see his expression: certain, unshaken. He envied that steadiness.

"Not ever?" Jeno pressed.

Jaemin shook his head. "Not when it means I wouldn’t have found you like this."

And maybe it was foolish;  this whole fragile dream they built in the shadows. But Jeno tightened his arms around him, heart stammering at the thought.

They didn’t have forever.

But they had tonight.

The river was quiet in the heat of day, a thin ribbon of silver winding through the green canopy like a whispered secret. Cicadas shrieked lazily from the trees, and the sky hung low and bright, too hot for most to do anything but seek shade.

Jaemin was knee-deep in the shallows, a bolt of white linen spread across the smooth rocks as he beat it rhythmically with a wooden paddle. His sleeves were bunched at his elbows, his tunic damp with effort, clinging to the lines of his body. He didn’t complain. He liked the solitude, the steadiness of the motion, the way the water cooled his skin even as the sun painted golden light over his shoulders.

Jeno sat nearby on a straw mat he’d laid out beneath a leaning pine, legs crossed, chin in hand. He wasn’t reading, or sketching, or doing anything remotely productive. He was just watching.

“You’re going to burn a hole in me,” Jaemin called over his shoulder without looking.

Jeno’s lips quirked. “Worth the risk.”

Jaemin shook his head, biting down a smile. “You could at least pretend to be helpful.”

“I am being helpful. I’m supervising.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?”

Jeno hummed, leaning back on his palms. The sunlight filtered through the leaves above, dappling Jaemin’s back as he worked. The muscles in his arms flexed with each movement, and his hair clung to his neck, damp and curling from the heat.

After a few long, warm moments, Jeno sighed dramatically. “Watching you work is making me hot.”

Jaemin laughed, low and disbelieving. “You’re the one lounging in the shade. I’m the one up to my knees in river water.”

“Exactly.” Jeno pushed to his feet, stretching with an exaggerated groan. “You’re doing all the hard labor. I’m sweating just looking at you.”

With a wicked grin, he reached for the sash of his robe and tugged it loose, shrugging out of the top layer with practiced ease. The linen slipped off his shoulders, revealing the smooth planes of his chest, kissed golden by the sun.

Jaemin stilled.

The sound of the river faded for a second. His eyes had fixed, completely, shamelessly, on the line of Jeno’s collarbone, the dip between his ribs, the lazy confidence in the way he stepped barefoot into the water.

“Jeno..”

“Mm?” Jeno waded in, letting the cool stream lap up over his calves, then thighs, then waist. He turned slightly, glancing back at Jaemin with a grin. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jaemin blinked. “I- just..what are you doing?”

“Cooling off,” Jeno said innocently, brushing his hair out of his face. “You should join me.”

“I still have work-”

“Jaemin.” Jeno tilted his head. “Come here.”

The sound of his name, soft and coaxing like that, made something flutter painfully in Jaemin’s chest. He hesitated for a beat longer, then set the linen aside with a sigh, stripping off his damp tunic and tossing it to the riverbank.

Jeno’s eyes dropped, just for a moment. Enough to take in the way Jaemin’s chest rose and fell, lean and flushed from the sun. He swallowed, the grin faltering into something softer.

Jaemin stepped forward until the water kissed his hips, until he stood barely a breath away from Jeno, the current swirling lazily around them. His hand reached out, fingers brushing against Jeno’s.

“Better?” Jaemin murmured.

“Much,” Jeno whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the river.

They didn’t kiss right away. It wasn’t necessary. They stood like that for a long time skin to skin, water swirling around their legs, hearts thudding in quiet tandem. Jeno’s hand slid slowly up Jaemin’s back, fingertips pressing gently at the curve of his neck.

Jaemin leaned in, forehead resting against Jeno’s, their noses brushing, breath shared.

“You always do this to me,” Jeno said quietly. “Make me forget everything else.”

Jaemin smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Then I’m doing something right.”

Their lips met, not in urgency but in reverence a slow, sun-warmed kiss that lingered like the taste of ripened fruit. The water moved gently around them, the world narrowed to this: two boys in love, in a place where no one could see, no one could say it was wrong.

For that moment, the rules of the world didn’t matter. There was only the river, the sunlight, and the space between heartbeats.

The sun hung low by the time they found their way back to the mat Jeno had abandoned. Their clothes, damp from riverwater, clung to their skin as they redressed in silence, the kind born from being full of something too fragile to name aloud. Jeno still had a crooked grin on his face ,smug from how Jaemin had blushed all the way to his ears when their chests brushed beneath the water’s surface. Jaemin, for his part, avoided his gaze as long as he could, trying to calm the heat in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun.

They walked in tandem back toward the village outskirts, their hands never quite brushing. The breeze through the trees had cooled just enough to raise goosebumps along Jaemin’s arms. It should’ve felt like any other summer day. But the warmth inside him didn’t feel safe; it felt exposed, like silk left too long in the sun.

Just before the edge of the trail where the trees broke into the outer walls of the estate, Jeno paused, gaze fixed on the narrow footpath ahead. Jaemin stopped a pace behind him.

“What is it?” he asked, voice low.

Jeno didn’t answer at first. The shadows were deeper here. Less forgiving.

Finally, he said, “I think the steward saw me leave earlier.”

Jaemin’s stomach twisted. “Did he say anything?”

“No. But he watched. That’s enough.”

They both stood in the silence that followed, the weight of unspoken things gathering like storm clouds overhead.

“I’m careful,” Jaemin said quietly. “We’re careful.”

Jeno’s jaw clenched. “Careful doesn’t mean invisible. You know how my father is.”

“I know.”

A cicada buzzed somewhere nearby, loud and sharp. Jaemin hated the way his chest tightened. Hated that the joy they’d shared just moments ago could be so easily threatened by the world outside their bubble.

“But I don’t regret it,” Jeno said suddenly, turning to face him. “You… you make the air feel real.”

That pulled a soft sound from Jaemin’s throat part laugh, part sigh. “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“And yet true.” Jeno stepped forward until there was only a breath of space between them. “I’ll lie if you need me to. I’ll keep lying. But I won’t stop.”

“Even if it means they punish you?”

“They already do. Just for being different.” His voice softened. “But when I’m with you, I don’t care.”

Jaemin reached out then, knuckles brushing Jeno’s hand. Not holding. Not quite. Just enough.

“I won’t let them take this from us.”

But they both knew wanting wasn’t the same as keeping. The world had sharp edges, and their love, no matter how careful, had already started to bleed.

Chapter Text

The rhythmic whirring of the sewing machine echoed through the shop like a heartbeat. Jaemin leaned over his worktable, fingers guiding the delicate seams of a jeogori sleeve under the needle. The silk shimmered with every adjustment, pale and opalescent under the morning light filtering through the windows. His brows furrowed in concentration, but only partially for the task at hand.

The plum swatch sat in the corner of the table, untouched, folded neatly like it had been waiting.

He hadn’t put it back in the drawer. He told himself he just hadn’t gotten around to it, but the truth clung to him tighter than the heat in the shop: he didn’t want to.

A shadow passed the window.

A second later, the door chimed, and Donghyuck stepped inside like he owned the place, holding a convenience store iced coffee in one hand and a bag of chips in the other.

“I brought the breakfast of champions,” he declared, slapping the coffee down on Jaemin’s table with zero concern for the pristine fabrics. “You looked like you were going to skip meals again.”

Jaemin arched a brow. “That coffee has more sugar than a bag of sugar.”

“Exactly. It’s fuel. You’re welcome.”

He wandered further inside, casting a glance around the shop, humming softly to himself until his eyes settled on the plum swatch.

“Oh,” he said, pausing. “Still thinking about it?”

Jaemin said nothing. His hands had stilled on the silk.

Donghyuck dropped into the second chair beside him. “You know you don’t have to fight it.”

“I’m not fighting anything,” Jaemin muttered.

“Then why do you look like the fabric personally offended you?”

Jaemin sighed. He leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders until they cracked. “Because I can feel it again. Like it’s right there, just under my skin. Like I could touch it if I stopped pretending long enough.”

Donghyuck didn’t say anything at first. Just opened his bag of chips and offered one in truce.

“You always try so hard to stay here,” Donghyuck said finally. “But you’ve already remembered more than most people who come back. And it’s not like it’s going to go away.”

“I know.” Jaemin took a chip. “It’s just… when I let it come, I lose time.”

“Maybe that’s okay,” Donghyuck said gently. “Maybe what you’re remembering needs to be seen. Felt.”

Jaemin stared down at the plum swatch.

After a long pause, he whispered, “It started again last night. Stronger this time. It’s getting harder to ignore.”

Donghyuck stood, brushing crumbs off his hands. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t touch Jaemin, didn’t offer another word. Just left the shop as casually as he’d come in, door chiming behind him.

Jaemin sat in the silence that followed, hand resting on the sketchbook tucked beneath his sewing patterns.

His fingers moved before he could stop them. They slid the swatch into his palm, smooth, cool, too familiar.

And then-

The air shifted.

The sound of cicadas and distant laughter filled his ears. The scent of warm earth and ink brushed the edge of his awareness.

His vision tilted.

And he fell…gently, like water drawn downriver into memory.

The bell above the shop door rang like a crack in glass.

Jaemin jolted upright, heart thudding. For a moment, the hum of cicadas still clung to the edges of his hearing. His fingers were tight around his pencil, he hadn't even realised he’d picked it up. He looked down. The sketchbook lay open in front of him, a new page half-filled with soft, deliberate lines.

A hanbok.

Drawn in quiet grace, the shape of it unmistakably old. Familiar. The same one he'd seen in his memory.

He blinked, the ache in his chest lingering as he traced the folds he had just imagined clinging to his frame. It was beautiful. And wrong. Because he hadn’t meant to draw it.

“Jaemin,” came a voice, polite and dry.

Jaemin’s head snapped up, breath still caught somewhere in his throat.

Jeno stood in the doorway, framed in the shop’s warm light like some kind of phantom pulled through time. His usual black jacket was half-zipped, and his expression was unreadable, calm, as always, but something sharper lived behind his eyes today. His gaze flicked to the sketchbook before returning to Jaemin.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Jeno said.

Jaemin forced a breath out, fingers subtly sliding the sketchbook closed. “You didn’t. I was… focused.”

“So I see.” Jeno stepped further into the room, his gaze skimming the works in progress along the walls. “Mrs. Oh sent me. She wanted an update.”

Jaemin blinked slowly, like it took him a moment longer than it should have to return fully to the present. “Right. The gala commissions.”

He stood, smoothing his hands over the front of his shirt. The air felt too thick, his skin too warm. The aftertaste of the memory still clung to his senses like plum blossoms in spring air.

“I was just finishing a couple of mock-ups,” he continued. “There’s a hanbok almost ready for her final fitting.”

Jeno nodded. He wasn’t looking at the racks. He was still watching Jaemin.

Jaemin moved toward a nearby form, motioning at the pinned muslin version of one of the formal hanboks. “The colour we discussed, sea-foam for the outer layer, with pink lining, it’s being hand-dyed now. I had to re-order the silk. It was delivered wrong.”

“You drove to the city for it,” Jeno said, tone mildly curious.

“You know?”

“I was there.” His eyes glinted. “I gave you a ride back, remember?”

Jaemin’s smile was faint, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right. How could I forget?”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, thin and taut like silk drawn on a frame.

Jeno tilted his head slightly. “You seem… distracted.”

“I’m always distracted,” Jaemin said lightly. “Part of the job. Creative chaos.”

“Mmm.” Jeno’s brow twitched. “Still. Something’s different.”

Jaemin turned away under the scrutiny, pretending to adjust a seam. “Maybe I just didn’t expect you to show up in person. Mrs. Oh usually sends a very specific kind of chaos, her assistant and an unnecessary number of fabric samples.”

“She’s at a fundraiser meeting,” Jeno said. “And she likes sending me when she wants people to take things seriously.”

“And do you always do what she wants?”

There was a pause.

“No,” Jeno said. “But I’m good at pretending I do.”

Jaemin risked a glance at him then, just long enough to catch the faint amusement flickering across Jeno’s features. 

“Do you want to see the design?” Jaemin asked after a beat.

“Only if it’s not going to send you further into whatever daze you were in when I walked in.”

That earned a more genuine huff of laughter from Jaemin. “It’s just a sketch. You can tell her I’ll have the real thing ready in a week or so.”

He moved to retrieve the notebook, fingers hesitating slightly on the cover.

Jeno’s voice came softer, this time with something curious curled inside it. “Was it something… personal?”

Jaemin froze.

The moment stretched.

He glanced up, the edge of the memory still ghosting behind his eyes. “Everything I make is personal.”

Jeno didn’t push. But the quiet that followed felt loaded. As if he were cataloguing every shift in Jaemin’s mood like pieces of a puzzle he wasn’t meant to solve.

Jaemin turned the page, showing Jeno a stylised version of the gala hanbok instead. “Here. This is the final silhouette. High-waisted jeogori, soft layering in the sleeves. Mrs. Oh wanted modern elegance, not traditional stiffness.”

Jeno’s gaze dropped to the page, nodding once. “It’s beautiful.”

Jaemin didn’t miss the way Jeno’s eyes flicked to the earlier, half-hidden drawing—the one he wasn’t showing.

Neither of them acknowledged it aloud.

“And mine?” Jeno inquired with a slight lilt to his tone. 

“Yours?” Jaemin repeated. Jeno raised his eyebrows in apprehension clearly waiting for Jaemin to respond. 

“Ah, right. It’s taking a bit longer. You wanted authentic, historically accurate right?”

Jeno just nodded, gaze still puzzled as he took in the strange demeanour that had settled around Jaemin today.

Jaemin’s fingers tightened around the sketchbook, still held in his grasp. His mind flitted back to the sketch. A gut-sinking feeling pooled in his stomach when his mind supplied the image of Jeno wearing it instead of the faceless memory of his past. 

With a shuddering breath to calm himself, one that was mostly ineffective, “ I’m still fine-tuning the sketch, I know how you rich kids get over details and inaccuracies” Jaemin voiced, trying to bring back his usual teasing and argumentative tone.

Something, anything to ease the uncomfortable feeling swirling within. 

“I see,” Jeno mused, seemingly unconvinced of the false bravado Jaemin was displaying. Not rising to the challenge. 

After a few more details about the fitting schedule, fabric delivery, and a few notes Jaemin scribbled down, the air began to shift again, less charged, more business.

However, as Jeno lingered near the door, he said, “Take care of yourself, Jaemin.”

Jaemin looked up, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. That uncomfortable air returning in a mist.

“I mean it,” Jeno added. “You’ve looked… far away, make sure you take some rest, ye?”

Jaemin nodded, lips parting like he wanted to say more. But the words caught, and the moment passed.

Then Jeno was gone, the bell above the door jingling in his wake.

Jaemin stood there a long time before sitting again, his fingers finding the page he hadn’t shown. The hanbok of memory. Soft plum. Familiar lines.

He exhaled.

He began to draw the next piece without thinking, the pencil gliding like muscle memory across paper.

The market smelled like ripe tomatoes, dried anchovies, and sugar-glazed walnuts.

Jaemin walked beside his grandmother, their canvas tote bags already heavy with produce. She moved through the narrow stalls like a seasoned general, bartering in clipped, affectionate tones while Jaemin followed like a quiet shadow. He liked these mornings, the rhythm of the crowd, the warm chaos, the grounding comfort of her familiar figure beside him.

“Don’t forget the chives,” she said, adjusting her sunhat as she peered at a vendor’s display. “You always complain when I leave them out of the pancake batter.”

“I don't complain,” Jaemin murmured.

She shot him a look. 

Jaemin smiled, watching her examine a bunch of herbs like she was appraising gemstones. He let his mind settle, for once not tugged by the thread of memories waiting just beneath the surface. The sun was warm, the tote strap dug comfortably into his shoulder, and there was something soothing about the market’s familiar noise.

He was halfway through calculating how many green onions they still needed when a familiar voice called out.

“Jaemin!”

He turned just in time to see Donghyuck weaving through the crowd, oversized sunglasses perched on his head and a bright green iced drink in one hand. His shirt was loud, patterned with cartoon peaches, and he looked entirely too pleased to be up this early.

“I knew that was your tragic little side profile,” Donghyuck said, grinning as he joined them. “And here I thought you didn’t leave the shop before noon.”

“My grandmother needed help,” Jaemin replied. “And I’m not tragic.”

“You’re always tragic. Beautiful, but tragic.”

“Hyuck,” Jaemin’s grandmother greeted him with a knowing smile, “You still owe me a song. You promised last Chuseok.”

Donghyuck clasped his chest dramatically. “It is my greatest regret, ma’am. I will serenade you this weekend if you come to my show. We’re doing a retro cover night at the bar, full band, neon signs, very bad decisions.”

Jaemin arched a brow. “You’re trying to sell that like it’s a good thing.”

“It is a good thing,” Donghyuck said. “You, my dear introvert, need a night out. Some drinks, some music, a little flirting…”

“I don’t flirt.”

“Not intentionally,” Donghyuck muttered, sipping his drink. “But that’s part of your charm.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes, gently nudging his grandmother forward as she moved on to the tofu vendor.

Donghyuck fell into step beside him. “Come on, just for a bit. You’re always holed up with fabric and sad music. You need a little bit of me in your life. Everyone does.”

Jaemin huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ll think about it.”

Donghyuck slung an arm around his shoulders. “I’ll take that as a yes. I’ll even reserve a booth near the stage so you don’t have to talk to anyone unless you want to.”

“Generous.”

“I know. I’m a saint.”

They continued strolling through the market, Jaemin's grandmother bargaining somewhere just ahead. Donghyuck kept up a steady stream of chatter about his band’s setlist, a ridiculous costume idea involving disco pants, and the rumour that Mrs. Oh once tried to buy the bar just to shut it down.

Jaemin didn’t say much, but he smiled more than once.

It was nice, the noise, the ordinary, the simple distraction. Even if something deep in his chest still felt coiled and heavy, for now, he let Donghyuck’s energy carry him through the morning, like sunlight filtering through fabric.

The kitchen was alive with warmth and steam, and the scent of sizzling garlic and soy filled every corner.

Jaemin stood by the counter, slicing mushrooms while his grandmother worked beside him, commanding the stove like a general, precise, tireless, and somehow always knowing where he’d misplaced the sesame oil. The light filtering through the window had gone golden, casting a soft haze across the small, cluttered kitchen.

“You’re chopping too slow,” his grandmother scolded, not unkindly. “Dinner won’t cook itself.”

“I’m making them even,” Jaemin replied, lips twitching.

“Even doesn’t mean slow.” She leaned in to taste the broth with a practised hand. “Hmm. Needs more salt. Maybe some kelp.”

He turned to oblige, rummaging through the lower cupboard when a loud, theatrical knock exploded at the back door, no rhythm, just chaos.

“Who knocks like that?” Jaemin muttered.

“Someone who never learned manners,” his grandmother said dryly, already walking over to open it.

The door creaked open, and there was Donghyuck, dramatically fanning himself with a folded flyer and looking like he’d just survived a desert.

“Smells like heaven in here,” he said. “Am I invited or am I crashing?”

“You’re always crashing,” Jaemin called over his shoulder.

Donghyuck grinned and kicked off his shoes, making a beeline for the pot on the stove. “What’s for dinner?”

“None of your business if you try to taste it before it’s done,” Jaemin’s grandmother warned, brandishing a spoon.

Donghyuck backed away with both hands up. “Yes, ma’am.”

He plopped down at the kitchen table, lazily draping himself over it while Jaemin returned to his chopping.

“Did you seriously follow us back from the market?” Jaemin asked.

“No,” Donghyuck replied. “I waited until you were back and had time to get started on dinner. I’m not rude.”

“That’s… somehow more annoying.”

“It’s a gift.”

 “Anyway, guess who I saw talking to one of the art reps from Seoul last night? She’s interested in booking me for a city show. City. As in civilisation.”

“Sounds loud,” Jaemin said, not looking up from the cutting board.

“It is loud. And that’s the point. Anyway, you’re coming to my gig on Saturday to celebrate.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No. We already spoke about this earlier.”

Donghyuck sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m peaceful.”

“Like a hermit.”

Jaemin’s grandmother broke in, tone casual: “Speaking of company, that boy who gave you a ride home the other day. What was his name? Jeno? He was very polite.”

Jaemin froze mid-chop. “We’re not speaking of company.”

Donghyuck blinked. “ Jeno gave you a ride?”

“He happened to be at the right place at the wrong time,” Jaemin said flatly. “And my grandmother ambushed him.”

“I offered him dinner,” she said. “And he took it, which is more manners than some.”

Donghyuck’s grin spread. “The plot thickens.”

“There’s no plot.”

“So he just… spontaneously became your personal chauffeur?”

“His car was there. Mine broke down. End of story.”

Donghyuck narrowed his eyes, clearly enjoying himself. “Did you fight in the car?”

“Yes.”

“Did you win?”

“No one won.”

“Was it… sexy tension ?”

Jaemin threw a dishcloth at his face.

Donghyuck cackled, dodging. “Oh come on, I’m just asking the important questions!”

“There’s no tension. There's just Jeno and his infuriating jawline and his mysterious rich-boy brooding and his-”

He stopped. Too late.

Donghyuck’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Oh-ho-ho.”

Jaemin shot a warning look. “Don’t.”

“Infuriating jawline, huh?”

“Have you ever actually listened to him speak? He’s smug, he thinks he’s clever, and he keeps showing up with this smirk like he knows everything-”

“And yet… you noticed the smirk.”

Jaemin groaned and dropped his head to the counter.

His grandmother calmly plopped another dumpling onto the tray. “I thought he was nice.”

“Traitor,” Jaemin mumbled.

Donghyuck leaned over the table, positively vibrating with delight. “If you hate him so much, why does it sound like a historical romance novel in here?”

“I do not hate him. I just… don’t like him.”

“Mmm,” Donghyuck said, clearly not believing a word. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

Jaemin threw another towel at him, but his lips twitched despite himself.

Jaemin managed to chase Donghyuck out of the kitchen eventually partly with threats, mostly with a ladle and returned to helping his grandmother portion out the dumplings for freezing. The quiet after Donghyuck’s exit was almost deafening.

His grandmother hummed beside him as she set the dumplings into trays for freezing. “He’s a handful, that friend of yours.”

“Understatement of the year,” Jaemin muttered.

She gave a soft chuckle. “He’s good for you. Keeps you from taking everything so seriously.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes. “He keeps trying to set my blood pressure records.”

His grandmother shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Still, better than working yourself into the floor.”

She turned to put the trays away, leaving Jaemin staring at nothing in particular. His thoughts were still a haze not just from Donghyuck’s relentless teasing, but from the fact that Jeno had come up again, uninvited, into his evening, his home, his head.

That smug look. That clipped voice. That maddening calm, like he was always one step ahead.

Jaemin shook his head and stepped away from the counter.

Later, in his studio slash room, Jaemin sat down at his desk and opened his sketchbook, meaning to check the notes he’d made for one of the gala commissions. But his eyes instead landed on a rough, unfinished sketch. The lines were faint but unmistakable, the curve of a jeogori sleeve, the fold of fabric, and that same plum hue he'd been fixated on since—

He frowned.

He blinked and sat back, flexing his hand slightly. His pencil was still gripped between his fingers.

The memory from earlier must have crept in again, soft but vivid, like a daydream wearing clothes it didn’t belong in. He closed the book.

Before he could think too much about it, he heard the creak of the floorboards in the hall, his grandmother heading off to bed and then the house was quiet again.

Jaemin stayed seated for a long moment, jaw tense, trying to piece together the pressure building in his chest. It wasn’t about Jeno. It wasn’t about Donghyuck, or the gala work, or even the memories clawing at the edges of his mind.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Light from the high front windows spilt across the workspace, warm and gentle, but Jaemin barely noticed. He was deep in focus, or trying to be, as he worked through the final detailing on Mrs. Oh’s chima.

It helped to keep his hands busy. Helped not to think.

He didn’t notice the bell over the shop door at first, not until a familiar, refined voice called, “Jaemin-ah?”

He blinked, looked up, and quickly stood from his stool.

“Mrs. Oh. You’re a bit early.”

She swept into the shop with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged wherever she went, her cream wool coat perfectly pressed, a designer handbag tucked over her arm. “I didn’t want to risk running late. And I’ve been looking forward to seeing it finished.”

“It’s ready,” Jaemin said, gesturing to the dressing area. “Right this way.”

As she disappeared behind the partition to change, Jaemin laid out the remaining accessories the norigae she’d commissioned, and the delicate inner jeogori that still held a faint trace of lavender from his studio’s sachets.

“So,” she called from behind the curtain, “you’ve been keeping busy, I see.”

“Trying to,” Jaemin replied, checking the mirror’s position. “Gala season, I guess.”

“Ah, yes. You know, I was speaking to one of the gala committee members just the other day ,the one from the Lee family, working with the preservation initiative. Jeno.”

Jaemin paused in adjusting the sash.

“He is quite involved, apparently. He’s been helping organise the cultural preservation exhibit, bringing in pieces from the university archive and arranging storytelling elements to go with them. Not just objects, but clothing, maps, journals. Fascinating work.”

Jaemin didn’t answer right away. His mind snagged on the name, Jeno and on that word: storytelling . Of course, he would be involved in something like that. Even the way he’d looked at Jaemin’s stitching, precise and thoughtful, had hinted at some deeper connection to craft, authenticity.

“He sounds...” Jaemin began, then stopped, frowning at himself.

Mrs. Oh stepped out, dressed now in her hanbok, turning gracefully toward the mirror. “Very capable. Very focused. You know how some men get…brilliant, but distracted? He isn’t like that. Very respectful of the material. You two might even get along if you gave it a try. I’ve seen the way you two scowl at one another.”

Jaemin made a noncommittal noise as he stepped in to adjust the sleeve line, avoiding her eyes in the mirror.

“I think it’s perfect,” she said after a pause. “The embroidery sings without shouting, and the weight of the layers is so well-balanced.”

“Thank you,” Jaemin said quietly. “I’ll press everything one last time before the event.”

Mrs. Oh smiled and gave his arm a brief, gentle pat. “You’ve done beautiful work. I hope you’ll come to the gala too. It’s your art on display just as much as ours.”

He nodded but said nothing.

As she changed again and left with her usual graceful efficiency, Jaemin found himself back at the worktable, hands resting idle against the edge. The sketchbook still lay open from earlier that morning, the plum-threaded lines of the hanbok staring back at him. His fingers drifted toward it almost without thought, brushing the corner of the page.

Storytelling, she’d said.

And somehow, Jeno was at the centre of it.

Chapter Text

“Jaemin, if you don’t move from that spot in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to set fire to your wardrobe.”

Jaemin didn’t so much as blink. He remained seated on the edge of his bed, arms folded, an expression of mild suffering fixed to his face.

Donghyuck, currently sprawled upside-down across the foot of the bed with a face mask peeling off one cheek, let out a dramatic sigh. “You are the worst person to get ready with.”

“I didn’t ask to get ready with you.”

“And yet here we are.” Donghyuck flipped himself upright, bits of the dried clay mask crumbling onto the duvet. “Now get up. Try on the black shirt. You’ll look mysterious. Sexy but disinterested. Which, frankly, is the only mood you ever exude anyway.”

“I’m not trying to be sexy.”

“Well, you’re failing at not trying. So. Embrace it.”

Jaemin glared at him, then dragged himself to his feet with the energy of a reluctant ghost. “I don’t see why I have to dress up. It’s Maehwa . Half the village drinks there in work boots.”

“Yes, and half the village also eats plain rice for dinner. We aspire to more.”

Jaemin rifled through his wardrobe. “The black shirt’s wrinkled.”

“So iron it. We live in a society.”

“You iron it.”

Donghyuck gasped. “The audacity. I am your stylist and emotional support. I don’t do labour.”

Jaemin snorted. “You say that like you’re not getting paid in my grandma’s tteokbokki tonight.”

Donghyuck looked momentarily humbled. “Fair point.”

He peeled the remainder of the mask off his face and wandered over to Jaemin’s tiny mirror, examining his reflection with all the seriousness of someone prepping for a red carpet. “Tonight’s important,” he said, suddenly more earnest. “If it goes well, that rep from Seoul might actually book me. Proper shows. Real venues. I could get out of here.”

Jaemin paused. That quiet hope, not loud or showy, just tucked under the surface, caught him off guard.

“You’re good,” he said simply. “You deserve it.”

Donghyuck blinked, then shot him a look. “Stop being nice, I’m not used to it.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes. “Fine. You look like a peeled grape.”

“There it is.”

Donghyuck grinned and flopped onto the bed again, this time to kick his feet aimlessly like a bored teenager. “You never go out. You always find excuses.”

“Maybe I like being boring.”

“Jaemin. You hand-embroidered a full wedding hanbok set last year. You are the least boring person I know.”

Jaemin pulled on the black shirt in response, refusing to look in the mirror. “Fine. But I’m not dancing.”

“You say that now.” Donghyuck stood and patted him on the shoulder like a proud dad. “You clean up alright.”

Jaemin sighed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

But something in his chest, something low and reluctant and unfamiliar, stirred all the same.

Maehwa sat low and square at the edge of the village high street, tucked between a shuttered bakery and a tired-looking laundrette. From the outside, it looked like every bar Jaemin had ever been reluctantly dragged to: warm light spilling through stained windows, the murmur of voices rising and falling like tidewater, and the occasional roar of laughter loud enough to carry across the car park.

Donghyuck was practically vibrating beside him. “Look at that turnout. I’m a local celebrity .”

Jaemin gave him a sideways look. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

He tugged at Jaemin’s sleeve, steering them both towards the door. Inside, the place was already buzzing not packed shoulder-to-shoulder, but lively enough that it surprised Jaemin. He hadn’t realised this many people were still around on weekends, let alone enthusiastic about live music.

The interior was exactly as he remembered from years ago, dark beams across the ceiling, mismatched tables scattered like forgotten thoughts, fairy lights strung along the walls with half their bulbs flickering. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of spilled sprits, cheap citrus-scented cleaner, and the first waft of food from the kitchen.

Donghyuck gave him a nudge. “You good?”

Jaemin nodded, scanning the crowd. “Just… taking it in.”

They found a spot near the bar, tucked behind a tall barrel table. Donghyuck leaned in, his voice low and smug. “This might be the first time you’ve been out socially in actual years.”

“I’m out now, aren’t I?”

“Barely. You still look like you’re on parole.”

Jaemin snorted into his drink. “Says the man in a sequin blazer.”

“Exactly. It’s called style .”

Jaemin gave him an unimpressed once-over. “It’s called reflective.”

Donghyuck blew him a kiss. “Be honest. You’d miss me if I disappeared to Seoul.”

Jaemin hesitated, then met his eyes. “Yeah. I would.”

Donghyuck softened for a moment, lips twitching into something almost sheepish. Then he threw an arm around Jaemin’s shoulders and squeezed. “You’re so sentimental when you're tired. I love that for me.”

“Go warm up,” Jaemin muttered, nudging him off.

“Fine, fine. But if anyone sexy sits at this table, tell them I’ll be back in twenty minutes and emotionally available.”

“You’re emotionally unavailable to everyone .”

“Not true. I have a strict policy of chaos with intimacy.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curved despite himself. He watched as Donghyuck wove his way towards the small makeshift stage near the back, already greeted by a few familiar faces and one or two too-excited fans.

Left on his own, Jaemin took a sip of his drink and let the atmosphere settle around him. He stayed standing, leaning against the high table, his eyes quietly mapping the room people chatting in little groups, a pair of older men at the bar talking football, two teens awkwardly circling the snack table pretending not to be on a date. Familiar, comforting chaos.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly.

Something pulled at him though, a soft weight behind his sternum. Not unpleasant. Just… expectant.

He let himself exhale and leaned back, the sounds of the bar muffled just slightly as he focused inward. It was nice, in a way, to be anonymous in a crowd again. No commission work, no fading dreams, no fragments of half-remembered hanbok haunting his sketchpad.

Just a drink, some ambient noise, and the warmth of being near someone who made the world feel a bit less like static.

Even if that someone had abandoned him for a mic check.

He checked his phone. No messages. He should’ve brought his sketchbook, even if it felt criminally pretentious to pull it out in a bar.

Still, the stillness didn’t bother him.

The lights dimmed ever so slightly, not dramatically, just enough that the low amber bulbs above the bar felt warmer, softer. A hush threaded its way through the crowd as Donghyuck took the stage with the kind of casual confidence that didn’t need announcing. He adjusted the mic stand, exchanged a few quiet words with the guy at the small soundboard, then cleared his throat.

“Alright, alright,” he said, voice laced with familiar mischief. “You’re all far too sober and far too well-behaved. I’ll fix one of those.”

A ripple of laughter rolled through the room. Jaemin allowed himself a half-smile, then settled into leaning against the barrel table, arms crossed, drink half-forgotten beside him.

The music began with a soft chord progression on acoustic guitar, simple but clean. Donghyuck swayed slightly with it, like his body knew where the rhythm would go before it got there. When he started singing, the mood shifted in an instant.

His voice, light and smooth, with that natural rasp at the edges, wrapped itself around the melody like silk sliding over skin. He didn’t belt or overreach. He didn’t need to. Every lyric was delivered like a secret, just loud enough to catch.

Jaemin watched as the crowd tilted in toward him, conversations paused, heads turned. It wasn’t a dramatic transformation, but something in the air pulled tighter, more attentive.

Donghyuck had always had that knack. Not just for performing, but for occupying space , for drawing it inward and spinning it around him like a thread.

Jaemin found himself relaxing into the music, the subtle sway of Donghyuck’s body on stage, the flicker of fairy lights against his sequinned blazer, the ease of it all. The lyrics were original. Jaemin could tell by the way they didn’t quite follow predictable pop patterns and the themes' soft-edged: late nights, missed trains, a vague yearning that lingered in every line.

The second song was brighter, almost cheeky, with a hook that had a few of the younger women near the bar nodding along, and Jaemin caught someone whistling under their breath after the first chorus.

His gaze wandered, idly scanning the crowd, fingers curled loosely around his glass. Familiar faces, mostly neighbours, that one girl who worked the till at the shop, an older couple he vaguely recognised from church when he used to go as a kid.

And then.. slightly to the right of the low-lit stage, near a booth at the edge of the room Jaemin noticed someone new.

A boy. Early twenties, maybe. Dark hair, falling in an effortless sweep over his brow. His neck was craned toward the stage, eyes wide, lips parted just enough to betray the kind of focus that wasn’t casual.

He looked captivated, openly, unapologetically.

Jaemin watched him for a moment, curiosity flickering. He didn’t recognise him. Not someone local, he was sure of it. There was a city polish to his clothes, the kind of layering you didn’t often see out here, and a softness around the eyes that suggested he was used to watching, not demanding attention himself.

The boy laughed quietly at one of Donghyuck’s between-song quips, and Jaemin felt something twist beneath his ribs, not jealousy, not quite, just a kind of odd satisfaction. He smirked, tipping his head slightly as he watched the boy lean closer to the stage, elbows braced on the edge of the booth’s table.

Donghyuck was going to be impossible after this.

And fair enough. He was putting on a damn good show.

The third song started, slower again, voice-forward, the kind that made you ache without knowing why. Jaemin let himself close his eyes for a moment, the melody wrapping around his thoughts like a warm coat. He could see Donghyuck’s hands moving in his mind’s eye, the tilt of his mouth, the rise and fall of his shoulders.

When he opened them again, the boy was still there, chin now resting in one hand, eyes locked on Donghyuck with the kind of quiet awe usually reserved for sunsets or stars.

Jaemin shook his head once, amused. He’d tease Donghyuck later, no doubt. But for now he let himself enjoy it, the music, the crowd, the rare moment of weightlessness.

For the first time in a long time, Jaemin didn’t feel like he was missing something.

He just felt… present .

Donghyuck practically bounced over the moment he cleared the stage, still flushed from the performance. His hair was slightly damp at the nape, and his grin could’ve lit up the whole room.

“Well?” he asked, breathless and expectant, throwing himself into the seat opposite Jaemin. “How’d I do?”

Jaemin took a slow sip of his drink, lifting one brow. “Hm. Passable.”

Donghyuck narrowed his eyes. “Passable?”

“You hit most of the notes.”

“ Most? ”

Jaemin finally cracked a small smile. “Alright, you were good.”

Donghyuck slumped in his seat dramatically, as if relieved of enormous pressure. “Good. Thank god. Thought I was going to have to cry into my drink.”

“You could , if you’re aiming for your next single to be about emotional devastation.”

Donghyuck flipped him off cheerily, then caught the glint in Jaemin’s eye. “Wait. What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Na Jaemin, I can smell gossip.”

Jaemin leaned back, arms folding loosely. “Fine. During the second song, there was a guy near the side booth. Couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

Donghyuck’s entire expression lit up like Christmas. “Shut up . What guy?”

Jaemin flicked his chin toward the booth without looking. “Dark hair. Jumper layered over a shirt. Looked like he wanted to write poetry about your cheekbones.”

Donghyuck spun on the spot, utterly unsubtle, nearly knocking into someone’s table in his haste to peer across the room.

The guy, still sat there was indeed watching the stage. Or had been. Now, his gaze locked with Donghyuck’s, eyes going wide in slow, horrified realisation. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, cheeks pinking visibly even from where they sat.

“Oh my god ,” Donghyuck whispered, eyes enormous as he turned back to Jaemin, gripping his wrist like it might help anchor him. “Did you see that? He’s adorable. That little blush . Oh I’m going to die. I’m dying.”

“Please don’t die,” Jaemin said flatly. “That would make this so much more complicated.”

“Jaemin, I need you.”

“I’m sitting right here, aren’t I?”

“No, I need you to wingman .”

“Absolutely not.”

Donghyuck begged, clasping his hands together in full dramatic flair. “Please. Come with me. Just for two minutes. I need backup in case he’s secretly awful or says something about NFTs.”

Jaemin snorted. “You think I’m the kind of person who can diffuse a conversation about NFTs?”

“You’re broody. That scares people. Come on, please?”

“Ugh. Fine. But I’m leaving the second he talks about astrology or says ‘I vibe with that.’”

“You’re such a snob,” Donghyuck said, delighted.

He tugged Jaemin up before he could change his mind, dragging him through the press of bodies, weaving toward the booth with single-minded purpose. Jaemin trailed behind, grumbling under his breath, preparing for awkward introductions and a painfully earnest artist type.

He wasn’t prepared, however, for the second person sitting in the booth.

Jeno.

Sat back in the curve of the seat, one arm resting along the top of the booth, half-drunk drink beside him. His eyes met Jaemin’s just as they came into view unreadable at first, then narrowing slightly with recognition.

Of course he was here. Because Jaemin’s life clearly wasn’t cursed enough already.

Jeno blinked once, slow, then raised his glass in a mock salute. Jaemin’s stomach twisted with instant irritation.

“Brilliant,” he muttered.

Donghyuck didn’t notice. Or didn’t care . He’d already made a beeline for the boy, who was now frantically straightening his posture, and introduced himself with a grin that could melt steel.

“Hi. I’m Donghyuck.”

The boy nearly dropped his glass. “I- I know. I mean. I saw. You were brilliant.”

Jaemin sighed and sank into the booth beside them, bracing himself for a long, awkward evening. Just his luck to be stuck between a budding love story and the human embodiment of smugness.

Jeno raised a brow at him. “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes. “Believe me, it wasn’t by choice.”

The booth was not particularly spacious, which meant Jaemin found himself wedged between Donghyuck, who was currently deep in animated conversation with his new admirer, and Jeno, who radiated a kind of quiet smugness without having to do much at all.

Jaemin nursed his drink, arms loosely folded, gaze drifting somewhere past the bottles lining the back of the bar. If he angled himself just right, he could almost forget he was sitting beside his least favourite person in the village. Almost.

Donghyuck was practically vibrating with delight. “-and then I said, if you think I’m going to sing Ed Sheeran at a wedding, you can pay me in gold bullion and I’ll still say no.”

Mark, bless him, laughed like Donghyuck had just delivered the greatest punchline of the decade. “You’ve got standards. I like that.”

Jaemin smirked into his glass. “Tragic. He’s found someone who encourages him.”

Jeno shifted slightly beside him, and Jaemin caught the flick of his eyes. “You’re surprisingly chatty, considering you always look like you’re thinking about committing a murder.”

“I like to keep my options open,” Jaemin replied.

“I’ve noticed. You glare like it’s your default setting.”

“Only when I’m forced to share air with people I dislike.”

“Harsh.” Jeno took a sip of his beer, entirely unfazed. “But not unexpected.”

Jaemin opened his mouth to retort, but Donghyuck cut in, leaning across Mark to wave them down.

“You two gonna flirt all night or actually join the conversation?”

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

Jeno, to Jaemin’s horror, smirked. “I’m happy to keep doing whatever this is. Clearly, I’m growing on him.”

“Like mould,” Jaemin muttered.

“Oh, come on ,” Donghyuck groaned. “Just admit you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I’m tolerating it,” Jaemin corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Donghyuck rolled his eyes dramatically and turned back to Mark, clearly abandoning the idea of dragging Jaemin out of his self-imposed sulk.

To his right, Jeno chuckled softly, the sound irritatingly low and warm. “You know, you’re kind of fun when you’re being mean.”

“And you’re kind of tolerable when your mouth’s shut.”

“Ouch.”

Another round arrived at the table, brought over by the bartender with a cheerful “on the house” courtesy of Donghyuck’s performance and drinks were distributed accordingly. Mark offered to get the next one, but Donghyuck waved him off with a pleased shake of his head.

Jaemin caught the soft glance Donghyuck cast toward him when Mark was looking away subtle, but undeniably affectionate and for a moment, something in his chest softened. Donghyuck had always been like this: bold, reckless, heart-first. It wasn’t the first time Jaemin had seen him fall. But it was rare to see him fall this quietly.

Jaemin turned back to his own drink, tipping it towards his lips and caught Jeno still watching him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Jeno’s tone was entirely unbothered. “Just wondering what it’d take for you to say something nice.”

“A head injury. Possibly yours.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked glasses with a slightly too aggressive tap, and both took generous sips.

As the night wore on, the bar grew louder, the crowd more flushed with heat and booze. Laughter tangled with background music, and the booth became its own little pocket of noise. Mark and Donghyuck edged ever closer, their knees now clearly touching under the table, heads inclined toward one another like they were sharing secrets. How Mark had just arrived in the village, how he’d been working in the background, sourcing pieces to display at the gala’s exhibit. It explained why he knew Jeno, work friends in the beginning, now clearly closer. 

Jaemin was half-listening to Donghyuck’s enthusiastic retelling of an audition story when Jeno interrupted, voice lazier now, softened by whatever round he was currently on.

“So, do you actually hate me, or is this just how you talk to everyone?”

Jaemin blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Jaemin said slowly. “I just... dislike the way you exist.”

Jeno snorted. “That’s poetic.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes, but it didn’t have quite the same bite. There was something in Jeno’s gaze, not teasing, not smug. It threw him off balance.

A clatter of laughter from the bar distracted him, and Jaemin took the opportunity to look away, tapping his fingers along the glass in front of him. This night was getting strange or maybe it was just the alcohol dulling his edges. Either way, he wasn’t sure he liked how easy it was becoming to talk to Jeno.

“Round five?” Donghyuck chirped, waving down the bartender again before either Jaemin or Mark could protest. “You better keep up.”

“You’re trying to kill us,” Jaemin muttered.

“I’m trying to loosen you up . You’re one drink away from being an actual doorstop.”

“I’m perfectly relaxed.”

“Right,” Donghyuck said, rolling his eyes. “And Jeno’s not drunk.”

“Wait, what? ”

Jaemin turned and sure enough, Jeno was slightly grinning, eyes a touch glassy, chin resting in his hand as he hummed to himself.

“Fucking hell,” Jaemin muttered.

Jeno blinked slowly. “You’ve got very... symmetrical eyebrows.”

Jaemin turned to Mark with wide eyes. “How much has he had?”

“Uh... including what he had before you sat down? Six? Seven? 

“Unbelievable.”

Donghyuck gave him a bright, unrepentant smile. “On the bright side, I am definitely pulling tonight. So you’ll be fine looking after him, right?”

Jaemin’s jaw dropped. “You’re ditching me with that ?”

Mark looked slightly guilty. “We can stay-”

Donghyuck grabbed his hand. “Don’t even think about it. Jaemin lives to suffer.”

Jeno lifted a hand lazily. “You smell like fabric softener,” he said to Jaemin.

Jaemin sighed, head thudding gently against the table.

“Kill me,” he muttered. “Just kill me now.”

It took longer than it should’ve to get Jeno out of the bar. Not because he was loud or belligerent, he wasn’t. If anything, Jeno was quiet when drunk, frustratingly composed. But he moved slowly, like his limbs were lagging behind his thoughts, every step a negotiation.

“I could walk myself, you know,” Jeno said as Jaemin hooked an arm under his to keep him from veering into the edge of the pavement.

“Sure you could,” Jaemin muttered. “Right into the nearest ditch.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust drunk you. You’ve been staring at the same lamp post for a full minute.”

“It was crooked.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes and kept walking, half-dragging, half-guiding. Jeno wasn’t making it easy, too heavy to be casual, too quiet to be predictable.

They moved slowly through the sleeping village, lamplight throwing long shadows across stone walls. The night had cooled significantly, and Jaemin tugged his jacket tighter around himself, glancing sideways at the man he was hauling home.

“You’ve got some nerve drinking like that in a place where you don’t even have a bed to collapse into.”

“I wasn’t planning on getting that drunk,” Jeno said, voice slurred but even.

“Then what happened?”

There was a pause.

“I’ve been feeling… strange,” Jeno said finally. “Since I got here. Like I’m walking around someone else’s life. Like I should remember things, but I don’t.”

Jaemin’s stomach twisted.

“Memories?” he asked carefully.

“No. Just... feelings. Like I’m watching a film I’ve already seen, but can’t remember the ending.”

Jaemin didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. So instead, he just nudged Jeno forward when he slowed again.

When they reached the house, it was quiet and dark, the only light coming from the motion sensor above the door. Jaemin helped Jeno inside, careful not to trip on the worn threshold.

“Boots off,” Jaemin ordered, already kicking his own off and reaching for the light switch.

Jeno made a noise of protest but leaned against the wall and obeyed clumsily, nearly losing his balance in the process.

“I don’t do well with house rules,” he muttered.

“Not a problem. You’re not staying,” Jaemin shot back, grabbing the folded blanket from the cupboard and dropping it on the sofa. “Couch is yours. Don’t move around too much. My grandmother’s sleeping.”

He turned to grab a glass of water and a painkiller from the kitchen, and when he came back, Jeno was standing awkwardly in front of the sofa, staring down at it like it might vanish.

“Need help?” Jaemin asked dryly.

“I’m fine,” Jeno replied.

But the second he tried to lower himself onto the sofa, his legs buckled a little, and instinctively, Jaemin moved forward to catch him.

It was clumsy, Jeno’s weight threw him off, and they tumbled together with more force than Jaemin had expected, Jaemin half-toppling, hands pressed against Jeno’s chest to stop him from crashing flat. But the force dragged Jaemin down too, until he found himself braced awkwardly over Jeno, their faces inches apart.

Jaemin froze.

Something clicked.

Not a thought, not a memory, not exactly, but a flicker, sharp and fleeting. Fingers brushing damp skin in river water. A low laugh close to his ear. Summer heat clinging to bare skin.

His breath caught.

Jeno blinked up at him, unfocused, too drunk to register the look on Jaemin’s face. “You alright?” he asked softly.

Jaemin snapped upright, stepping back quickly and brushing invisible lint from his jumper. “You’re the one about to pass out. Don’t ask me if I’m alright.”

He tossed the blanket toward Jeno and shoved the water glass on the table. “Sleep. Shut up. Don’t snore.”

Jeno groaned as he slumped onto the cushions, the tension in his shoulders finally giving way.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “Even if you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“I’m just-” Jaemin cut himself off, jaw tightening. “You’re exhausting.”

A soft, breathy chuckle from the sofa.

“That’s fair.”

Jaemin hovered a moment longer, staring down at the shape of Jeno curled awkwardly on the sofa, one arm slung over his eyes. He looked different like this, undone. But it didn’t make him softer. If anything, it made him harder to look at.

The strange feeling was still there still buzzing in Jaemin’s chest, but he shoved it down, locked it tight, and turned away.

He padded quietly to his room, closing the door with a gentle click.

In the dark tucked below his sheets, his hands were still trembling.

The darkness came in pieces. Not the heavy, dreamless dark of deep sleep, but the wavering, too-light drift of a mind teetering between memory and dream.

Jaemin shifted under the weight of it, heart still uneasy, as his thoughts blurred into something not entirely real.

He was laughing, breathless, surprised. The sound echoed strangely and loud in a wooden loft. Dust spun in the slanting light as his back hit something soft. Hay. Warm, sweet-smelling hay. The loft above the barn. He remembered the feel of it catching at his sleeves, cradling his limbs like it meant to keep him there.

He wasn’t alone.

Someone had fallen with him. The weight of another body pressing close, their fall cushioned by laughter and sun-drenched straw. He couldn’t make out the face, not clearly, the details blurred at the edges, like the dream refused to let him see. But he felt them. Strong hands at his waist. A brush of knuckles against his jaw. Breath ghosting hot against his cheek.

They were so close. So close.

A quiet, secret moment. The world muffled around them. Just the creak of the beams overhead and the fluttering of birds outside.

Fingers brushed his collarbone, tentative. Then firmer. A thumb stroking gently over his neck as though learning him, memorising the shape of him. The heat pooled in his chest, settled deep in his bones.

Their foreheads touched.

And then…

Then lips.

Soft, hesitant at first, like neither of them were quite sure what they were doing. But Jaemin’s hands moved without thought, curling into the front of a loose silk jeogori. The feel of it was familiar. The fall of it against that chest, the faint smell of the river and wild summer air still clinging to it.

He kissed back. Desperate and quiet.

His eyes fluttered shut.

And when he opened them..

It was gone.

The barn. The light. The hay. The lips.

All of it swallowed by the dark.

He lay in bed, breath caught in his throat, the image still fresh behind his eyes, heart hammering like the memory had chased him out of the dream.

Jaemin pressed a palm to his chest, fingers trembling slightly.

The smell of toasted sesame oil and dried anchovies drifted under Jaemin’s door, a familiar kind of comfort that usually helped him ease into the day.

Not today.

He sat at the edge of his bed, the morning sun casting uneven light across the floorboards, the dream, the memory, still clinging to him like a damp second skin. His heart had been a mess all night, even in sleep, fluttering at shadows and the ghost of a smile he couldn’t place. That touch. That laugh. The hay crackling under their weight. It had been real , hadn’t it?

Jaemin scrubbed a hand through his hair and sighed, dragging himself upright. It was too early for answers. Too early for questions, too, but they wouldn’t stop forming.

He opened his door and padded into the kitchen, blinking against the sudden brightness.

And there he was.

Jeno. Sat at the table with his grandmother like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was holding a mug, Jaemin’s favourite one no less and smiling faintly at something she’d said. His hair was still tousled, his clothes a bit rumpled, but his eyes were clear, sharp. Infuriatingly awake.

“Oh-  Jaemin, good morning!” his grandmother greeted, glancing up with her usual fondness. “I didn’t want to wake you. Jeno, here’s been keeping me company while I finished breakfast.”

Jaemin blinked. “You’re up early.”

Jeno turned in his seat, one brow raised. “Slept well.”

Of course you did, Jaemin thought. 

He moved stiffly into the kitchen, trying not to feel like Jeno’s gaze was following his every movement. Because it was, he could feel it ,watchful, maybe even… concerned?

“I thought you’d be half-dead this morning,” Jaemin muttered, reaching for a cup.

“I don’t get hangovers easily,” Jeno said. “Lucky, I guess.”

“Mm. Must be nice.”

His grandmother tutted lightly. “You boys and your stubbornness. Come sit, Jaemin. Eat something.”

He sat, but the food barely registered. His eyes kept darting to the side, to Jeno, who had returned to sipping his tea, but kept glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jeno said after a moment.

Jaemin startled slightly, looking up. “What?”

“You’re jumpy.”

“I’m tired.”

“Right,” Jeno said slowly. “Must be that exhausting personality of yours wearing you out now.”

The jab was light, but Jaemin didn’t rise to it. He just stared down at the bit of rice he’d barely touched.

Jeno’s expression shifted, just slightly.

“What?” Jaemin snapped, sharper than he meant to.

“Nothing,” Jeno said. “Just… You’ve been weird lately.”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” Jeno leaned back in his chair. “In the shop the other day, when I came to check on the commission, you were totally spaced. Same thing now.”

Jaemin said nothing. His brain supplied him with the thought, ‘Why do you care?’

His grandmother looked between them but wisely said nothing, choosing instead to refill her tea with a soft clink.

“Just tired,” Jaemin muttered eventually. “Long week.”

Jeno didn’t push, but his gaze lingered. Too sharp for someone pretending not to care.

Jaemin turned his attention to the table, trying to focus on the mundane, the little bowls of banchan, the warmth of the rice. Anything but the ache in his chest and the weight of a memory he couldn’t shake.

The same laugh from his dream echoed faintly in his ears.

And this time, when Jeno reached to pour more tea, knuckles brushing Jaemin’s on the table, Jaemin flinched before he could help it.

He saw Jeno notice.

And he hated that he had.

Chapter Text

Jeno stepped out into the crisp morning air, the door to Jaemin's house clicking shut behind him. The village was quiet, still stretching out from sleep, the sun barely cresting over the rooftops, painting the cobblestone lanes in muted gold. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and began walking, footsteps echoing in the hush.

He'd meant to leave quietly, not stick around long enough to overstay whatever strange welcome had been extended to him. But he’d woken early, restless, the night still clinging to his thoughts.

Jaemin had been odd. Not just his usual sharp-tongued self, but off . Distant. Like he was looking through Jeno instead of at him. The same thing had happened at the shop. And again this morning. Something flickering behind his eyes that didn’t match his expression. Something Jeno couldn't name.

He turned a corner, pace slowing.

Ever since he arrived in this village, there had been this… thing. A feeling. A weight in his chest that didn’t belong to him. Places he walked past felt too known, paths he hadn’t walked yet somehow familiar underfoot. He'd chalked it up to countryside nostalgia, the kind you get from watching too many dramas. But it wasn't going away. It was getting worse.

And Jaemin—

Jeno exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. It wasn’t like him to dwell. Feelings weren’t exactly his thing. He functioned better with facts, plans, tasks that fit inside spreadsheets. The strange pull he felt here didn’t make sense. And Jaemin, least of all.

At first, he’d thought the guy was insufferable. Too sharp, too smug, always with something to say. But lately… lately there was something else. Some strange satisfaction in getting a rise out of him. Like they were dancing around something neither of them wanted to admit. Like Jeno had started looking forward to it.

Which was annoying. And inconvenient. And very possibly a problem.

The community centre sat quietly at the edge of the square, just beginning to stir with the low hum of morning activity. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, catching on dust motes and faded paper bunting left over from some earlier event. It smelled faintly of old wood, cleaning spray, and the burnt edge of toast from the kitchen at the back.

Jeno stepped inside and scanned the room. The folding tables had already been set up, a mess of paperwork and craft materials scattered across them in a way that looked chaotic but was probably methodical in some unseen way. Mark sat at one near the front, head bent over a folder, a pencil wedged behind one ear and an iced coffee sweating beside him.

“You’re late,” Mark said without looking up.

“It’s not even nine,” Jeno replied, dropping his bag to the floor and sliding into the seat opposite.

“That’s late when there’s bunting to assign and unhinged volunteers fighting over who gets the central stall.”

“Remind me why I agreed to help with this?”

“Because you owe me after I came to your ‘experimental heritage talk’ that lasted two hours and had one blurry slideshow.”

“Touché.”

Mark finally looked up, handing over the second coffee that had been waiting patiently for Jeno. “Also because deep down you love this village crap.”

Jeno sipped and shrugged. “Deep down is debatable.”

They settled into a rhythm of sorting through names and plans. The gentle shuffle of papers and scratch of pen on clipboard filled the silence. It was easy between them; it always had been. Mark was one of the few people who never demanded more from Jeno than he was willing to give, and he never asked too many questions when Jeno shut down mid-thought.

Jeno flipped through one of the sign-up lists, his brow twitching.

“You put Donghyuck down to perform?” he asked, squinting at the messy handwriting scrawled across the ‘Live Music’ section.

Mark brightened instantly. “Yeah. He was incredible last night.”

“I noticed.”

“You did?”

“We were in the same booth as him, Mark. I couldn’t not notice.”

Mark flushed, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. “Yeah, well. He was really good.”

“He was staring at you, you know.”

Mark’s head snapped up. “What?”

“During his set. He kept glancing over.”

Mark spun his pencil between his fingers, visibly flustered. “Are you serious?”

Jeno smirked. “Brutally.”

“He-” Mark clamped his mouth shut, ears turning red. “No. I mean. I’m not-  It’s not like anything happened.”

“You left together.”

Mark raised a hand. “Only to walk. We talked for a bit after. He’s... actually really sweet?”

“Frustrating,” Jeno corrected mildly.

“You say that, but I think you like him.”

Jeno raised an eyebrow. “Do not project your doomed romance onto me.”

Mark laughed, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. But you’re one to talk. The way you look at Jaemin-”

“Stop.”

“No, seriously. You two bicker like it’s your full-time job. But you’re weirdly invested.”

Jeno didn’t respond immediately. He let his fingers drift over a length of silk ribbon someone had tossed onto the pile, deep plum, almost black in the wrong light. It reminded him of something. He didn’t know what.

“I thought I didn’t like him,” Jeno said eventually. “But lately…”

Mark waited, eyes gentle.

“Lately it’s like... I don’t know. Like, annoying him has become the only fun part of this cursed planning gig.”

“See? That’s basically a confession.”

“Mark.”

“I’m just saying,” Mark said with a grin. “There are worse ways to flirt.”

“It’s not flirting.”

“You let him manhandle your drunk ass into a sofa last night.”

“Because I was drunk,” Jeno said sharply. “And it was his fault I drank that much anyway.”

“Right. Totally his fault.”

Mark took another sip of his coffee, then leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Seriously though… I feel like something's going on with you. You’ve been kind of... off since I got here.”

Jeno shot him a sidelong glance. “Off how?”

“I don’t know. You’ve always been the emotionally constipated type, but lately it’s like you’re zoning out in the middle of conversations. And you’re usually the one telling me to stop staring at people. Last night, you were doing your own fair share.”

“I was drunk.”

Mark’s brows lifted. “Exactly. You don’t get drunk. Not unless something’s bothering you.”

Jeno stared at the list again, but the names swam a little. He didn’t answer right away.

Mark nudged his foot under the table again. “Want to talk about it?”

Jeno shook his head, eyes fixed somewhere past the stack of gala prep notes. “It’s not something I can explain. I’ve just… felt strange. Since coming here. You know when you’re walking up the stairs and think there’s one more step but there isn’t?”

Mark winced. “Yeah. Hate that feeling.”

“It’s like that. Constant. Like I’m out of step with everything, like I’ve missed something important and can’t put my finger on it.” He paused, the plum ribbon from earlier drifting through his mind again. “Like I know places I’ve never seen before.”

Mark didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. He just nodded slowly. “That happen a lot lately?”

“Often enough to notice.”

There was a long beat of quiet between them.

“I’ve been working with this local collector,” Mark said, voice dropping slightly, more thoughtful now. “She’s helping me source some of the older pieces for the gala exhibit. She mentioned something the other day, about how some places hold on to memory. Not just history. Memory.”

Jeno looked at him.

“Like energy lingers. Emotion, connection. Whatever you believe in.” Mark offered a small shrug. “Maybe what you’re feeling isn’t yours.”

Jeno let out a quiet huff of breath, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “You’ve been here two days and you’re already going full village mystic.”

Mark grinned. “Comes with the iced coffee and local folklore. You’ll see.”

“I’d rather not.”

Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So what’s the deal with you and Jaemin, then? Honestly.”

Jeno made a face. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope.”

Jeno scrubbed a hand down his face. “He’s annoying. He’s stubborn. He clearly thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.”

Mark gave him a look. “And?”

“…And I might kind of enjoy winding him up.”

“Aha.”

“It’s not a thing,” Jeno said quickly, defensively.

Mark held up his hands. “Hey, you’re the one who got defensive.”

“I just-” Jeno cut himself off, scowling. “I don’t even like him.”

“You sat next to him all night.”

“That was a coincidence.”

“You got drunk and let him haul you onto his sofa.”

“That was gravity.”

Mark burst out laughing. “Right. Of course. Gravity.”

“Shut up.”

Mark smirked over his coffee. “Look, all I’m saying is… if you did like him, it wouldn’t be the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

Jeno rolled his eyes, but some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

They fell into a quieter rhythm again, shuffling papers and notes, the occasional scribble of pen against a clipboard. Outside, the village moved slowly past the windows, a dog walker, the postman, a pair of kids on bikes.

Jeno sat back eventually, arms folded.

“You settling in alright?” he asked, tone casual.

Mark blinked, caught off guard by the shift. “Yeah. It’s different, obviously. But it’s good. Quiet. I think I needed that.”

“You staying the whole summer?”

“That’s the plan. Unless the ghosts of the town archives drive me insane first.”

Jeno chuckled quietly. “You’ll survive.”

Mark gave him a small, sincere smile. “It’s good to see you like this, you know.”

Jeno raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Mark shrugged. “A little less guarded. Even if you’re still a stubborn pain.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jeno looked out the window, back to the square, where the shadows were shortening as the sun rose higher. That strange, persistent feeling stirred in his chest again, the ache, the pull, the ghost of something just out of reach.

He breathed in through his nose, slow and steady.

It wasn’t just déjà vu anymore. It felt like something waking up.

And it was starting to scare him.

The sound of the front door swinging open cut through their quiet rhythm. A gust of fresh air followed, along with the brisk tap of low heels on the polished floor.

“Morning, boys,” came Mrs Oh’s voice, clear and no-nonsense as ever.

Jeno and Mark looked up in unison. Mrs Oh swept into the community centre like she owned it. Which, unofficially, she probably did. Her hair was tucked into a practical twist, and she wore a long navy coat that flared at the hem as she walked. Clutched in her arms was a bundle of folders and what looked like a rolled-up site map.

“Morning,” Mark said brightly, already shifting papers aside to make space.

Jeno gave a polite nod. “Ma’am.”

Mrs Oh offered him a smile, sharp, observant, the kind that didn’t miss much. “Good. You’re both here. I’ve just come from a meeting with the Heritage Trust. We’ve got final sign-off to begin the site staging for the smaller locations. We’ll need someone to check over the old mill ruins before Monday.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “The one near the footpath behind the ridge?”

“That’s the one. There’s been talk of adding an outdoor exhibit there maybe some projection work, lighting, that sort of thing. But we’ll need to be sure it’s structurally sound first.” She turned to Jeno, her expression already telling him she had someone in mind. “Would you mind taking a look, Jeno? You’re the most detail-oriented of the lot.”

He blinked. “Sure.”

Mrs Oh passed him the folder. “There’s a rough sketch of the layout and a few notes from the last inspection two years ago. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.”

Jeno flipped through the folder. Crumbling stone walls, remnants of wooden beams the usual ruins. But the moment his eyes hit the aerial photo clipped to the back, something in his stomach twisted.

The shape of the building. The slope of the ground around it.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

Like he’d stood there before, not as he was now, but someone else entirely. He could almost feel the crunch of grass underfoot, the wind tugging at his collar.

He closed the folder with a little more force than necessary.

“Is everything alright?” Mrs Oh asked, brow lifting slightly.

Jeno forced his expression back into place. “Yeah. Just… haven’t had coffee yet.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” she said smoothly, with a nod to Mark. “And Mark, please make sure we don’t end up with too many stall redundancies. We don’t need four soap-makers again.”

Mark groaned. “Understood.”

Mrs Oh gave them both a crisp smile and disappeared just as efficiently as she arrived, already moving on to whatever fire needed putting out next.

Jeno tapped the closed folder against the table, eyes narrowed.

“That mill gives me the creeps,” Mark said offhandedly. “I walked past it the other night.”

Jeno looked at him. “Why?”

Mark shrugged. “Dunno. It’s like… there’s something sad about it. Can’t explain it.”

Jeno didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to.

But his fingers tightened slightly on the folder.

He would go. He would inspect the site. He would write his report and tick the boxes and act like the strange pull in his chest wasn’t real.

But some part of him, a part he couldn’t name, already knew what he’d find there.

The path to the old mill started just beyond the edge of the village, where the houses thinned and the hedgerows grew tall and wild. Jeno’s boots crunched softly on the gravel as he walked, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, shoulders hunched slightly against the wind rolling off the fields.

He didn’t really want to be doing this. There were a dozen other tasks he could’ve delegated , logistical things, tangible things. Things he could organise into lists and send follow-up emails about. But when Mrs Oh had mentioned the site needed a quick once-over, something in him had agreed before he had time to think better of it.

Now here he was. With birdsong and open sky and a strange pressure behind his ribs.

He wasn’t the type to overthink. He preferred precision. Structure. Being in control of the variables. But lately, something felt… skewed. Off-balance. Like the world around him had started whispering things just outside the range of understanding. Familiar shapes out of context. Gut instincts without logic. Half-recognised turns in the road.

He didn’t like it.

His thoughts drifted, unwanted,  to Jaemin. As they always seemed to, lately.

It was annoying. At first, Jaemin had been difficult in the obvious ways blunt, biting, unimpressed. Jeno hadn’t liked him. He still wasn’t sure he did. But somehow, their arguments had turned into a strange kind of rhythm. Jeno would poke. Jaemin would snap. And something in Jeno, the part of him that was usually so tightly controlled, would feel just a little bit lighter.

He didn’t know what to make of it.

Especially not after last night.

He hadn’t meant to drink so much. He didn’t do that, lose control, let go. But something about that bar, the people, the music, the sheer weight of everything unspoken pressing down on him, had made it feel necessary. Like shaking a limb that had gone numb. A way to feel something clear, even if it was messy.

He shoved the thought away as the mill came into view.

It sat nestled in a dip in the land, half-overgrown, half-sunken. Moss covered the stone walls like a thick blanket, and the wooden slats of the old waterwheel had splintered and rotted where they still clung to the frame. The roof was caved in, leaving its skeletal rafters open to the sky.

Jeno stepped through the old archway that might once have been a doorway. The shift in temperature was immediate, the air inside was cooler, stiller. Thicker.

He moved carefully, boots crunching against grit and fallen leaves. There was a quiet here that felt deliberate. Not abandoned, but expectant.

He hated how that thought came unbidden.

There was nothing here. Just dust and stone and decay. Old things, nothing more.

Still, he found himself moving toward the back of the structure, ducking beneath a broken beam. His fingers brushed a patch of ivy clinging stubbornly to the stone, and something about the texture snagged on a thread of feeling in his chest.

Not a memory. But something like it.

A twinge.

He frowned, pulling his hand back.

He stood there for a moment longer, unmoving, eyes flicking around the ruined space. He didn’t know what he was looking for.

Maybe he just wanted to stop feeling like this.

Like he was missing something vital. Like the world was speaking in a language he should already know.

With a final glance at the cracked foundation, he turned and left the ruin behind, the cool air giving way to warm sun as he stepped back onto the path.

He didn’t look back.

But that strange tension, that almost-recognition lingered in his chest all the way back to the village.

Jeno walked the long, winding road back from the mill, the late afternoon sun stretching his shadow out across the path. The quiet pressed in around him, broken only by the occasional bird call or rustle of wind through the hedgerows. His boots scuffed against the gravel, rhythm steady, but his thoughts kept pulling off track.

The air by the mill had been oddly still, like the world had exhaled and forgotten to breathe in again. It wasn’t eerie, exactly. Just strange. Familiar in a way that put his nerves on edge, like the building had been waiting for him.

He rubbed at the back of his neck.

It meant nothing. Probably just the age of the place. All that history had a way of sinking into your skin if you stood around long enough. He just needed a coffee and a few hours without thinking about crumbling walls or Jaemin’s weird silences.

Speak of the devil.

Jaemin appeared a few yards ahead, coming from the direction of the village square. He had a sketchbook tucked under one arm, a pencil twirling absently between his fingers, head half-bowed like he’d been walking and thinking too deeply at the same time.

Jeno slowed instinctively.

Jaemin noticed him a beat later and came to a stop, arching an eyebrow like this was a personal inconvenience.

“Well,” Jaemin said, coming to a stop and eyeing him. “If it isn’t the village’s most charming people person.”

Jeno arched a brow. “Takes one to know one.”

Jaemin’s mouth twitched, a half-smile playing there like he was tempted to enjoy the exchange. “Where’ve you been skulking off to? Or is it just brooding by appointment now?”

“Just came from the mill,” Jeno replied, already annoyed by the smug curl of Jaemin’s mouth. “Mrs Oh asked me to check the preservation progress.”

Jaemin’s gaze flicked briefly past him, toward the distant hills. “Haven’t been up there in years. Still smell like mould and regret?”

Jeno huffed a laugh. “It’s not a crypt.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There was a pause as they both stood there in the quiet, neither quite stepping aside, like the path wasn’t wide enough for the both of them or like neither wanted to be the first to move.

Jaemin gave him a sideways glance. “So? Find anything interesting?”

Jeno shook his head. “Just dust, creaky floorboards, and a weird feeling I couldn’t shake.”

That last part slipped out before he could reel it in, and Jaemin’s brow twitched, just slightly. But instead of teasing him, Jaemin only nodded once, thoughtful.

“Happens sometimes. Places like that… they hold onto things.”

Jeno glanced at him, surprised by the seriousness in his voice. “You believe that?”

Jaemin shrugged. “Don’t have to believe in ghosts to know some places are heavier than others.”

They started walking without agreeing to, the space between them filled with nothing but footsteps. Jeno kept half an eye on Jaemin, who seemed preoccupied, fingers twitching near his sketchbook like he was itching to draw something out.

Jeno didn’t know what to do with that quiet version of him. Didn’t know what to do with the part of himself that didn’t find it irritating.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Jaemin said, not looking at him.

Jeno looked straight ahead. “Maybe I’m just tired of your voice.”

That earned him a faint, amused snort. “Charming as ever.”

Their shoulders brushed, just barely not enough to call attention to it, but enough for both of them to feel it. Jeno didn’t move away.

As they reached the bend in the path, Jaemin slowed, the shop’s rooftop visible just down the next street.

“Well, as thrilling as this was, try not to fall into any wells or ancient burial sites before lunch, I’d hate to be shouldered with even more gala work,” he said, turning slightly.

Jeno smirked. “I’ll do my best. Try not to trip over your own ego.”

Jaemin waved him off with two fingers, already walking away.

Jeno watched him go for a second too long before turning in the opposite direction.

He didn’t like Jaemin. Obviously.

But lately, not liking him was starting to take effort.

Chapter Text

The community centre was quiet in the morning, only a few clatters of preparation echoing from the main hall. Jeno was crouched beneath a table, coaxing the projector’s tangled power cable through a mess of taped extension leads. It wasn’t glamorous work, but at least it kept his hands busy and his mind half-focused. A week ago, he might have left this job to a volunteer. Today, he didn’t feel like delegating.

He was halfway through muttering about the badly labelled cables when the door creaked open behind him. A familiar voice followed—dry, unimpressed.

“Didn’t think you were the type to crawl around on the floor for fun.”

Jeno bumped his head on the underside of the table. “God—”

He slid out from beneath the cloth and squinted up at Jaemin, who stood just inside the doorway with a sketch roll tucked under one arm and a garment bag slung over his shoulder. The morning light framed him like something out of a fashion editorial. Which was annoying.

“Do you ever enter a room quietly?” Jeno grumbled.

“Do you ever not look like you’re one inconvenience away from self-combusting?” Jaemin shot back smoothly, already walking past him toward the display area near the windows.

Jeno followed his path with his eyes and then, against his better judgment, got up and trailed after him.

Jaemin had already unzipped the garment bag and was pulling a half-finished hanbok onto a dress form. The fabric was soft green, the sleeves delicately embroidered in gold. It looked like something meant to be lit by candlelight.

“Didn’t realise you were actually good at this,” Jeno said, tone grudging.

Jaemin didn’t turn around. “I’ll pretend that wasn’t the closest thing to a compliment you’re capable of.”

“You’re welcome.”

A long beat. Then Jaemin clicked his tongue. “Come hold this sleeve out. The drape’s off, and I need a second set of eyes.”

Jeno hesitated. “Why not ask your grandma?”

“She’s at home hemming the back panels. And I need someone with arms that don’t shake when they hold something for more than a minute.”

Jeno approached reluctantly and took hold of the fabric as instructed. Their hands almost brushed. 

Jaemin adjusted the neckline in silence, his brows drawn in thought. Jeno didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to. The quiet between them felt... less loaded than usual. Still sharp around the edges, but dulling.

“This for the exhibit?” Jeno asked eventually.

“Yeah. Display piece.” Jaemin replied, eyes still focused on a stubborn fold of silk. “Traditional styling, but a little modern in the embroidery.”

Jeno tilted his head. “You’re tailoring all of them yourself?”

“Yeah.” He said it without bravado, just fact. “Most of it, at least. A bit of help here and there from my gran, but the designs are mine.”

Jeno found he had no snide remark ready.

“You really like it, don’t you?” Jeno said, and the question came out softer than he intended.

Jaemin glanced at him, something unreadable flickering across his expression. “Yeah. I do.”

The silence stretched. Jeno shifted slightly, still holding the sleeve.

Then: “What were you doing crawling around earlier?” Jaemin asked, tone returning to its usual dry edge.

“Trying not to die from tripping over cables. Unlike your fabric, which apparently floats on air.”

“It should float. That’s the point.”

Jeno huffed a laugh. “You’d be insufferable if you weren’t actually decent at this.”

Jaemin gave him a look that might have been a smirk. “You like that I’m good at it.”

“Don’t push it.”

Their eyes held for a beat too long.

Then Jeno let go of the sleeve. “You’ve got lint in your hair,” he said casually, already turning away.

Jaemin blinked, hand instinctively going up. “Where?”

Jeno didn’t answer. He was already back to the projector setup, but a faint smirk played at the edge of his lips.

Jeno didn’t get far. The extension cable refused to sit right under the rug, bunching up just enough to trip anyone unlucky—or clumsy—enough to pass over it. He knelt again, tugging it straight with more force than necessary, jaw tight.

Behind him, Jaemin was still fiddling with the mannequin. He’d gone quiet again, but the kind of quiet Jeno was beginning to recognise—not bored or irritated, but distant. Like something had snagged his thoughts and pulled him somewhere far.

“You’ve been weird lately,” Jeno said suddenly, not looking up.

Jaemin didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was cool. “Weird how?”

Jeno sat back on his heels, wiping his palms on his jeans. “I don’t know. Just... spaced out. Even more than usual. Like when I saw you at the shop last week. Or near the mill.”

Jaemin stiffened, only slightly. “So you’ve been watching me?”

“Hard not to when you’re staring holes in your surroundings.”

Jaemin paused, then shrugged. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Right.”

The air was brittle between them again.

“I mean it,” Jaemin said, quieter this time. “I’ve just had a lot to do. The sewing, the fittings, the deadlines—”

“I didn’t ask for an excuse,” Jeno cut in. “Just an observation.”

Another pause.

Then Jaemin’s voice, slightly dry: “Noted. I’ll try to be less mysteriously moody next time.”

“You won’t.”

Jaemin looked over his shoulder, one brow raised. “No faith in me at all?”

“Not when it comes to your charming personality.”

That earned him a huff of laughter. Not quite warm, but real.

They stayed like that for a while longer—Jeno resetting cables, Jaemin stepping back to examine the hanbok’s silhouette in the filtered morning light. The atmosphere settled into something quieter. Not friendly, not yet. But less like they were circling each other with bared teeth.

The air inside the community centre shifted again around noon.

The sound of approaching voices filtered in from the main hallway—louder now, layered and quick. Jeno had just managed to tape the last section of the cable to the floor when the doors swung open and Mark strode in, arms full of folders and that lopsided smile Jeno had come to associate with either impending chaos or too much caffeine.

Right behind him came Donghyuck, humming under his breath and carrying a rolled-up poster tube. His hoodie had something glittery across the back, and his hair looked like he’d styled it with his fingers on the way over.

Ms. Oh wasn’t far behind, stepping in with her usual brisk energy, two other committee members trailing in her wake. Her clipboard was already out, pen clicking in rhythmic taps.

“Alright, let’s get this moving,” she said without preamble. “One month. No more delays.”

Mark dropped the folders onto the nearest table and shot Jeno a look that said: buckle up . Jeno straightened, brushing dust off his knees as Donghyuck caught sight of him and grinned like a fox in a henhouse.

“Well, look who’s here,” Donghyuck said as he set his tube down and leaned casually on the table edge. “Didn’t peg you as the manual labour type.”

Jeno raised an eyebrow. “Still not sure I am,” brushing off the dust from his trousers. 

“That’s what they all say, well, before the village sinks its little teeth into you.”

Mark laughed, peeling open a folder. “Hyuck, you make it sound like a horror movie.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Across the room, Jaemin folded up his sketch roll and moved toward the group, the hanbok now resting in careful form on its mannequin. He didn’t say much, but Jeno noticed him pause beside the table, one hand lingering on the back of a chair. He looked steadier now, back in control.

Ms. Oh began sorting through paperwork with sharp efficiency. “We’re going to run through schedule updates, finalise the stage layout, and confirm all display plans. Donghyuck, I need a full list of your equipment needs for your performance by Monday. No exceptions.”

“I sent half of it already,” Donghyuck said, holding up a hand. “Just waiting for the sound check time.”

“You’ll get it by the end of this week,” Ms. Oh said without looking up. “Mark, anything new on the exhibit notes?”

“Yup. The catalogue prints are on track, and I confirmed the delivery route for the large-scale display pieces."

Jaemin, quiet until now, glanced over. “Do you need measurements for the hanbok displays? Some of the mannequins are custom.”

Mark gave him a thumbs-up. “If you’ve got time to send them tonight, that’d be perfect.”

“I’ll do it later.”

Jeno stayed near the edge of the group, half-listening as the discussion pinged between points. This felt... smoother than before. Not comfortable, exactly, but not like he was on the outside looking in. It was subtle, but the longer he stood there, the less the tension pulled in his shoulders.

And Jaemin, standing beside him now, didn’t seem in any hurry to move away.

“I didn’t realise Donghyuck would be here,” Jeno said under his breath, mostly to fill the space between them.

Jaemin gave him a sideways glance. “Well, he is performing, but honestly, I think he's mainly here to cause chaos and probably make heart eyes at Mark.”

“Not surprising” Jeno’s eyes followed where Donghyuck was now holding court at the table, half-singing a line from some song he probably wrote that morning. “They seem to be getting on well, a bit too well so fast.” Jaemin’s mouth quirked, a shadow of amusement. “It’s disgusting, right? Glad you agree.”

A pause.

“Still, I’m happy for Mark, Donghyuck too,” Jeno added.

Jaemin’s brow lifted slightly. “I didn’t take you as such a romantic softy”

“I’m not.”

Jaemin hummed. 

The air sat heavy for a moment.

Jeno didn’t reply. Not because he didn’t have anything to say—he just didn’t trust the tone that might come out if he did.

Before either of them could say more, Ms. Oh called everyone to attention again. “We’ll do a site walkthrough of the stage setup next week. I expect everyone who’s working in the back-end to be there. And please, for the love of god, someone test the mic this time before the day-of.”

Donghyuck gave a mock salute. “You got it, general.”

Jaemin didn’t expect to find Jeno already at the centre when he arrived. It was barely past eight, and the sun was still low, casting soft, cool light through the tall windows. Most mornings, the community centre was quiet at this hour, a little too still, like it hadn't quite remembered how to wake up yet.

But Jeno was there, jacket half-zipped, crouched over a box of tangled extension cords like a man fighting a losing battle with chaos itself. His hair was a mess—soft on one side, stubbornly flat on the other, like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into this warzone. It was an odd sight to see, from someone who always looked put together like Jeno.

“You’re early,” Jaemin said, leaning casually against the doorway with a thermos in hand, fingers still cold from the walk.

Jeno didn’t look up. “Trying to beat the cable gremlins.”

“You have a weird vendetta against cords.”

“I have a vendetta against public safety hazards. And these things are basically ankle-breaking traps.”

Jaemin stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. He didn’t immediately offer help—just crouched on the opposite side of the box and watched Jeno wrestle a particularly stubborn coil.

“You always been this intense before nine a.m.?”

Jeno paused, glanced up at him briefly, and then back down. “You always this observant before finishing your tea?”

“Touché.”

After another beat, Jaemin sighed and set his thermos on a nearby table. “Give me one. Before you strangle yourself.”

Jeno handed over a knot of wires without a word.

They worked in a strangely efficient silence for a while. Jaemin caught himself glancing sideways every so often—not out of annoyance, like he might’ve a week ago, but just... noticing. Jeno’s hands were quick and methodical. Focused. Like he needed this task to keep his brain from spinning.

“You’re less grumpy in the mornings now,” Jaemin commented, pulling a plug free.

“Don’t get used to it,” Jeno replied, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he didn’t mind the observation.

The morning sun hadn’t yet burned through the last of the mist curling around the hills when Jeno stepped into the community centre. The air inside smelled faintly of floor polish and the earthy residue of old wood—a scent that had become oddly familiar over the past few weeks. His trainers scuffed softly across the floor as he walked toward the storage hall, intent on repairing a few cracked display boards for Ms Oh. He didn’t plan on staying long.

That is, until he heard it.

A string of barely contained curses echoed down the corridor, followed by a heavy thud and the sound of something rolling.

Jeno frowned and changed course.

He rounded the corner and paused mid-step.

Jaemin stood in the middle of the open hall, a precarious stack of fabric bolts clutched in his arms like a makeshift tower. There were at least six—probably more—balanced in a teetering column that obscured half his face and all of his logic. The entire thing looked seconds from disaster.

Jeno didn’t even call out. He just moved.

One of the top bolts wobbled, then slipped. Jaemin lunged to catch it, elbow knocking another, which promptly began to spin toward the floor. Jeno caught it just in time, one hand bracing under the soft cotton as he stepped into Jaemin’s space.

“Need a hand?” he said, voice annoyingly even.

Jaemin startled and tilted his head around the fabric to glare at him. “I had it.”

“Right. Clearly,” Jeno said, dry. He repositioned the bolt he’d caught and tucked it under his arm.

Jaemin fumbled with his grip, annoyed, cheeks faintly pink from exertion or embarrassment—it was hard to tell.

“You could have just made two trips.”

“I could have if I didn’t value efficiency.”

“And your spine?”

“That too.”

Jeno chuckled and moved closer to take another bolt from him, their hands brushing in the exchange. He ignored the spark that zipped through the contact, chalking it up to static or irritation—or both.

“What happened to the trolley?”

“Missing a wheel. Took it for a spin and nearly ran over Mrs Oh.”

“Tragic,” Jeno said. “Would’ve made the gala headlines though.”

Jaemin didn’t laugh exactly, but his mouth twitched in a way that wasn’t quite a scowl either. A silent sort of truce settled between them as they started walking side by side down the hall toward the sewing room, a quiet that had weight without tension.

The room, as always, was a barely contained chaos of colour. Bolts of fabric leaned like crooked towers in every corner, sketch paper littered the central table, and patterns were tacked to the walls with both pins and sheer force of will. The chaos suited Jaemin more than it should have—he moved through it like someone who could see logic in the mess.

Jeno set the bolts he was carrying down beside the table while Jaemin dropped his own with an exaggerated exhale.

“Let me guess,” Jaemin said, rolling his shoulder. “Ms Oh wrangled you in again?”

“She ambushed me near the car park this morning.”

“Was she wielding baked goods?”

“She had that look. The one that makes it feel like saying no is a moral failing.”

Jaemin smiled, faint but present, as he started unrolling one of the bolts.

Jeno leaned against the edge of the table and crossed his arms, watching him work. There was a particular rhythm to the way Jaemin handled fabric—measured, precise, like every movement was second nature.

“You ever think about hiring help?” Jeno asked. “Seems like a lot for one person.”

“My grandma helps sometimes. But I prefer doing most of it myself. I like knowing how everything fits together.”

Jeno tilted his head. “Control freak.”

“Pot, kettle.”

“Fair.”

The sound of scissors slicing through fabric filled the quiet. Jeno watched the clean, straight line Jaemin cut, watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration. There was something calming about it—almost meditative.

“You’ve been… weird lately,” Jeno said, the thought slipping out before he could decide if he really meant to voice it.

Jaemin’s hand paused, mid-cut.

“Weird?”

Jeno nodded. “Spaced out. Off. Like the other day when I came into the shop. And again at your place.”

Jaemin stayed quiet a moment too long. Then: “It’s nothing. Just tired. Long hours.”

Jeno didn’t believe that for a second. But he let it go.

“Well, don’t drop dead before the gala. These hanboks won’t stitch themselves.”

“I’ll try my best,” Jaemin said flatly, then added, “Not like you could do it.”

“I could glue a few things together.”

“God, I bet you’d use a staple gun.”

“Only if I’m feeling fancy.”

The corner of Jaemin’s mouth quirked. He reached for another fabric swatch, holding it up to the light filtering through the tall windows. The sun caught in his hair, throwing warm glints into the brown strands. Jeno looked away before he could think too much about it.

There was a beat of silence.

“Thanks,” Jaemin said softly, not looking at him.

Jeno blinked. “For what?”

“Helping. Not being a complete ass.”

“I resent that. I’m a world-class ass.”

This time Jaemin’s laugh was more genuine, low and warm. He shook his head, turning back to the table.

Jeno pushed off from the edge of the desk, not quite ready to leave. “I’ve got display boards to fix. If I’m not back in an hour, tell Ms Oh I died nobly.”

“Sure. I’ll design you a mourning ribbon.”

“Make it black.”

“With glitter.”

“Perfect.”

Jaemin smirked, but didn’t look up as he returned to his work.

Jeno lingered a moment longer, then finally turned to go, the brief touch of shared ease still echoing in the space between them.

Something was shifting. Slowly. Subtly. But undeniably.

And for once, Jeno wasn’t sure he minded.

Jeno didn’t immediately respond, but he didn’t get up and leave either. A win, by Jaemin’s standards.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the hum of insects in the grass mingling with the distant thump of music from a community centre speaker. Jaemin took a bite of one of his rice balls, chewing slowly as he glanced at Jeno’s lunch—a mess of convenience store bulgogi gimbap and a protein drink.

“That’s depressing,” Jaemin said, gesturing with his chopsticks.

“What?”

“That.” He nodded at the gimbap. “You’ve got the diet of a university student on finals week.”

Jeno glanced at the roll in his hand, then shrugged. “It’s food.”

“You know the café makes actual meals, right?”

“I don’t really go in there.”

Jaemin arched a brow. “Why not?”

Jeno shrugged again, eyes flicking out across the field. “Too many people. Too many questions.”

Something in his tone made Jaemin pause. For all Jeno’s confidence—and he had plenty—it was easy to forget how carefully he kept people at arm’s length. Even with Mark, there was always a layer of distance, like Jeno was perpetually waiting to be disappointed.

Jaemin looked down at his rice ball. “My grandma makes too much food. You could always come by.”

Jeno turned to him, blinking like he hadn’t quite heard right. “What?”

“Not like, daily,” Jaemin added quickly, suddenly self-conscious. “Just—if you’re starving, or tired of protein drinks.”

Jeno watched him a beat longer, unreadable as ever. Then, finally, “You offering to cook for me, Na Jaemin?”

Jaemin snorted. “God, no. I said my grandma.”

“Pity.” But Jeno’s lips quirked in a half-smile, and it was just soft enough to unnerve something in Jaemin’s chest.

They lapsed into another silence, this one a little warmer. Not awkward, not quite familiar either—but something in between. Jaemin leaned back on his palms, letting the sun fall across his face. The quiet was steady, the kind that made it easier to let thoughts drift.

And that was when it happened.

A flicker behind his eyes—sudden, soft, uninvited.

It wasn’t vivid, not like some of the other dreams. Just a flash of sensation: the golden haze of late afternoon, laughter muffled by proximity, the warmth of hay pressing into his back. A silhouette leaning over him. Fingers brushing his cheek. The sound of someone breathing, close—close enough to feel the exhale across his skin.

Jaemin blinked, his heart giving a strange twist in his chest.

He didn’t move, didn’t react outwardly, but he stared ahead with sudden, careful focus. The image was gone as quickly as it had come, dissolving into the field and the sun and the sound of cicadas in the trees.

Just a dream, he told himself.

He’d been having more of them lately. Always half-blurred, always slipping through his fingers when he tried to grasp too hard. And always that same faceless figure, not a stranger exactly, but someone who felt familiar. Known. Safe.

He shook it off.

“I still don’t get you,” Jeno said abruptly, dragging him back into the moment.

Jaemin turned to him, blinking. “Huh?”

“You’re either making fun of me or feeding me. I never know which version I’m gonna get.”

“That’s because I contain multitudes.”

Jeno snorted. “You contain caffeine and sarcasm.”

“And fabric,” Jaemin added, patting the strap of the small bag by his feet.

Another beat passed. Jeno stretched again, arms lifting over his head, shirt riding just a little up his stomach before he dropped them back into his lap. Jaemin looked away sharply, pretending to be fascinated by a beetle skittering across the step.

“You’ve been weird too,” Jaemin said, voice slightly quieter.

Jeno tilted his head. “Me?”

“Yeah. Since that night. After the bar. You’ve been… twitchy.”

“Twitchy?”

Jaemin gave a half-shrug. “More introspective. Less grumpy. It’s throwing off my rhythm.”

Jeno looked off into the distance, and for a moment, Jaemin thought he might actually say something serious. But then—

“I think I’m just adapting to your weird energy.”

“Ah. So I’m contagious.”

“Like mildew.”

Jaemin burst into a laugh, a real one this time, full and quick. Jeno cracked a grin in return.

He hadn’t expected it—the ease. It came in flashes. Like this. Where neither of them were trying too hard. Where the push-and-pull softened into something that wasn’t quite teasing, wasn’t quite tenderness either.

“Thanks,” Jaemin said after a moment, quieter this time.

Jeno raised a brow. “For what?”

“Just... not being a pain for once.”

Jeno smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes but didn’t deny the truce. That felt like progress.

And when he stood, brushing crumbs off his lap and slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder, he caught the subtle tilt of Jeno’s head as he watched him go. Jaemin didn’t look back. But he didn’t need to.

For all the sniping and sarcasm, something was shifting—so slowly it barely made a sound.

But it was shifting all the same.

The centre had emptied out hours ago, the once-bustling prep rooms falling into a hush that Jaemin usually welcomed. The quiet let him work undisturbed, the whir of his sewing machine the only sound filling the wide space.

But tonight, it wasn’t just him.

Jeno lingered near the long display table. A freshly uncrated relic rested atop it—a wooden ceremonial screen from the Joseon era, its delicate hinges rusted and gold leaf patterns faded with age.

Jeno ran a hand thoughtfully over his tool roll, selecting a fine brush before crouching beside the screen. He worked quietly, steady and methodical. First, cleaning the surface with a soft bristle, removing years of dust and grime without disturbing the intricate hand-painted motifs. Then came stabilising the wood—a precise dance of applying consolidants to reinforce the structure without changing its appearance.

Jaemin, despite himself, kept sneaking glances.

There was a calm focus to Jeno’s movements. He wasn’t just fixing—he was preserving. Every decision he made seemed to weigh both history and artistry. He worked with the knowledge of someone trained, but the sensitivity of someone who cared.

“You specialise in Joseon-era stuff, right?” Jaemin finally asked.

“Yeah,” Jeno answered without looking up. “Restoration and preservation. I work mostly with wood, textiles, metalwork—anything from that period. The techniques back then were unique, and you can’t just use modern fixes or you risk ruining it.”

“Like what?” Jaemin asked, drawn in despite himself.

“Well,” Jeno glanced up with a faint smile, “take this screen. It’s hand-painted with natural pigments. If I used synthetic sealants, it could alter the texture or darken the colours over time. But if I use a diluted fish glue emulsion, like they did back then, it’ll preserve the integrity without compromising the original surface.”

Jaemin blinked. “You know how to make fish glue?”

“Unfortunately,” Jeno said dryly. “It smells exactly how it sounds.”

Jaemin laughed, surprised again by the ease that was creeping in.

Jeno returned to his work, and Jaemin stood beside him now, quietly observing as he carefully realigned a brittle section of carved wood.

“This is... kind of amazing,” Jaemin admitted.

Jeno glanced at him, a little surprised but pleased. “It’s not glamorous. But someone’s gotta make sure this stuff survives.”

Jaemin nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

There was a pause, then:

“I used to think you were just some overconfident city guy here to boss people around,” Jaemin said.

“And now?” Jeno asked, arching a brow.

“Now,” Jaemin said, nudging him lightly with his elbow, “I think you’re an overconfident preservation nerd who actually knows what he’s doing.”

Jeno chuckled, shaking his head. “Progress.”

The moment stretched, not tense or awkward—just full. Full of something unspoken.

Jaemin looked down at the screen again. “You’ll have to show me how to mix that fish glue sometime.”

“Only if you promise not to blame me when your studio smells like low tide.”

“I’ve worked with worse.”

Their eyes met, something quiet and mutual passing between them. Not quite romantic, not yet. But warm. Curious.

Jeno smiled, small and sincere. “Deal.”

“Yours is for the main display, right?” Jeno added, nodding toward the piece.

Jaemin cleared his throat. “Yeah. It’s based on a late Joseon court robe. I adapted the sleeves and embroidery, but the silhouette’s faithful.”

Jeno stood slowly, brushing his hands off on a clean cloth, then walked over to examine it. He didn’t touch,  just circled, eyes attentive, curious.

Jaemin found himself holding his breath.

“It’s stunning,” Jeno said, stepping back after a beat. “You got the layering right. Even the seams are hidden the way they should be. Honestly... if it were on a museum platform, I wouldn’t be able to tell it wasn’t original.”

Jaemin’s ears warmed. He ducked his head, pretending to adjust a pleat. “It’s not perfect.”

“Neither are the originals. That’s what makes them real.”

Jaemin looked up.

Jeno wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

And somehow, that made the compliment land deeper.

They stood like that for a moment, not speaking, not needing to. The silence was full but easy. Like something that didn’t need to be explained just yet.

Jaemin broke it first. “Want to stay and help me move some finished pieces into storage?”

Jeno shrugged, then nodded. “Sure.”

Jaemin turned away to hide the small smile curling at the edge of his mouth.

Maybe it wasn’t war between them anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, it was becoming something else.

The night in the hanok was hushed, thick with stillness, the kind of silence that settled not just in the air but deep inside the bones. Jeno lay on his back, the folds of his blanket pooling at his waist, eyes open to the dark shape of the ceiling beams. Somewhere, a breeze whispered past the window, rustling the paper-thin doors like fingers trailing over silk.

He drifted without meaning to.

And the dream came gently, like a tide pulling him somewhere quieter.

It opened with lantern light.

Amber glow spilling over dark wood and soft linens, the warmth of flame dancing on the floor. The room wasn’t unfamiliar, but it wasn’t quite his either, more refined, older, quieter in its corners. The paper doors were drawn shut, shadows painting lazy brushstrokes on the walls.

Jeno sat cross-legged on a cushion, a low lacquered table before him. His robes were simpler than usual, the sleeves loose around his wrists. His hands lay still in his lap.

Across from him sat someone else.

They wore white, soft, layered fabric that shimmered like moonlight. Their posture was easy, as though this closeness between them had long since stopped being remarkable. Their head was tilted slightly as they watched him, one hand resting loosely on the table. Jeno could feel their gaze, even if he couldn’t meet it properly, because where their face should’ve been, there was always just a blur of light. Gentle. Obscured. Like looking at someone through rippling water.

He wanted to see.

But he didn’t push. Something inside him said not yet.

Instead, he looked at their hand. Pale fingers. No rings. Just the smallest mark on the wrist, like ink smeared and faded.

“You’re quiet tonight,” the figure said.

Their voice was soft. Laced with amusement, but not unkind.

Jeno smiled before he could stop himself. “You always say that.”

“You’re always quiet.”

He shrugged. The candle between them flickered.

The other figure leaned in just slightly, folding their arms on the edge of the table, chin resting atop them in a gesture that felt too easy, too well-worn to be new.

“Do you remember,” they said, “the first time you kissed me?”

Jeno’s breath caught, but only a little. The question didn’t surprise him.

He didn’t know why, but he didn’t need to answer.

The figure sat up slowly, and then moved, fluid and sure, and slid around the table, the hem of their robes whispering against the floor. They stopped beside him, close enough that their knee brushed his.

Jeno turned his head to look up at them, and even now the dream held their face just out of reach. But he could see their mouth. A soft curve. A breath held.

They raised one hand and touched his cheek.

Not tentatively. Not as if asking for permission, but as if they already knew the answer.

Jeno didn’t flinch.

Their thumb moved gently across his cheekbone, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. His skin tingled under their touch, the way something wakes inside a body long asleep. Not fire. Not tension. Something older. Something unbearably familiar.

And then they leaned in.

The kiss was light. Barely there. The kind that comes after everything else has already been said. Their mouth was warm. Soft. The weight of their hand on his jaw grounding him, even as the world felt like it might float away.

Jeno didn’t chase it when it ended.

He just opened his eyes again, and the figure leaned their forehead to his.

For a moment, they breathed together.

Then the flame on the table wavered once, twice, and the dream began to loosen at the edges.

The touch fell away.

The warmth faded.

The silence returned.

He woke slowly, like rising from underwater. The ceiling of the hanok greeted him in grainy darkness. The moonlight filtering through the rice paper cast pale streaks on the floor.

Jeno blinked, heart still beating far too steadily for someone who’d only been dreaming.

He sat up, running a hand over his face. His skin still tingled faintly where that hand had touched him. His lips, too.

He didn’t know the face. Didn’t recognise the voice. But his body did. Or maybe it was something deeper than that. A memory beneath memories.

He looked toward the table at the foot of the room. Empty.

But for a moment, he could still feel the warmth beside him. The trace of something delicate. Reverent.

It unsettled him.

And yet…it didn’t scare him.

It felt like the beginning of something. Or the return of something long buried.

Jeno lay back down, hand resting absently over his chest.

And for a long while, he didn’t move.

Chapter Text

The early morning air still held a crispness as Donghyuck leaned back against the porch railing outside the corner café, a paper cup warming his fingers. Across from him, Mark sat slouched on a bench, legs stretched out, tapping his fingers to a beat only he could hear. They had the whole place to themselves for the moment—villagers didn’t seem as drawn to overpriced lattes and western pastries as Donghyuck did.

“You ever gonna sit properly?” Donghyuck asked, raising a brow.

Mark grinned without opening his eyes. “You ever gonna stop judging me?”

“Not likely.”

Donghyuck took a sip and let the quiet stretch. Mornings like this made the village feel softer, like the edges of things had blurred overnight. Everything slowed down. Even Mark, always on the verge of vibrating out of his skin, seemed mellow here.

They talked about nothing for a while. About the weather, a funny moment during rehearsal, Donghyuck’s setlist for the gala (“Yes, it’s a surprise,” he’d said with an exaggerated wink), and how his grandma had caught him singing in the bath again.

It wasn’t until their cups were nearly empty and the sunlight had warmed the wooden slats beneath their feet that the conversation shifted.

Mark nudged Donghyuck with his knee. “You notice how weirdly domestic Jeno and Jaemin are getting?”

Donghyuck blinked. “What do you mean?”

Mark shrugged, playing casual. “I dunno. They’ve stopped trying to kill each other. That’s weird.”

Donghyuck huffed a laugh. “You mean they finally stopped snapping like overstimulated cats every time they breathe in the same room?”

“Exactly. Last week, Jeno helped Jaemin carry fabric without complaining. And yesterday I saw them actually laughing. Together.”

“God forbid,” Donghyuck said with mock horror, but he was smiling.

Mark leaned back again, eyes glinting. “I’m just saying... It’s kinda obvious something’s shifting. Don’t you think?”

Donghyuck didn’t answer right away. His smile faded, just a little. He thought about the way Jaemin had been lately—quieter than usual, yes, but also more distracted. More watchful. The dreams he’d hinted at before, when Donghyuck had pressed. Half-formed memories, or something like them. And now Jeno, starting to soften around the edges.

“Hyuck?”

He blinked and looked back at Mark. “What?”

“You zoned out. Are you secretly composing a tragic love ballad about them?”

Donghyuck rolled his eyes. “Please. If I ever write a tragic love ballad, it’s gonna be about me.”

Mark scoffed in mock offence. Then, like it was nothing, he added, “Jeno told me he had a dream the other night.”

Donghyuck’s head snapped toward him, just a little too fast. “What kind of dream?”

Mark shrugged, but his tone was thoughtful now. “He said it was... weird. Kinda romantic. There was someone else in it, but he couldn’t see their face. Just this feeling. Like he knew them. Like he’d kissed them before.”

Donghyuck’s fingers curled tighter around his cup. “Did he say who?”

“Nope. Said he couldn’t tell. But it felt important.” Mark looked curious. “You think it means anything?”

Donghyuck looked out over the street, where a pair of sparrows were hopping along the edge of the fence, pecking at crumbs. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes turned thoughtful, quietly alert.

“No idea,” he said lightly, and took another sip. “Could just be a dream.”

Mark hummed like he didn’t quite believe that. “Maybe. Or maybe Jeno’s finally catching feelings.”

Donghyuck smiled. “Guess we’ll find out.”

He didn’t say anything else.

But his mind was already working. Jaemin’s dream. Jeno’s kiss. Two people dancing around a truth neither of them fully remembered.

And somewhere in his chest, Donghyuck felt the stirrings of something close to worry. Or maybe hope.

The sewing room was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and the rhythmic snip of Jaemin’s shears against muslin. Afternoon light slanted in from the high windows, casting drowsy gold across the floorboards. A half-finished hanbok lay draped across the table in front of him, pleats and panels forming slowly under his fingers.

Across the room, Jeno sat at the second workbench, elbows on the table, hands still, eyes unfocused.

Jaemin glanced at him again. That made the third time in ten minutes.

It wasn’t like Jeno to be idle. Ever since he’d started helping with preservation work on the centre’s old artifacts and some of the gala displays, he was usually a blur of silent efficiency, methodical and meticulous to the point of being annoying. But today, he was somewhere else entirely. His hands hovered above a lacquered scroll box that needed cleaning, unmoving. His brow furrowed like he was watching something no one else could see.

“Are you planning to preserve that with your mind?” Jaemin asked finally, tone mild.

Jeno blinked, startled. “What?”

“You’ve been staring at it for five minutes.”

“I was just—” He cut himself off. “Thinking.”

“You think so hard, it’s a miracle your hair doesn’t catch fire.”

Jeno shot him a dry look, but didn’t rise to the bait. He leaned back, gaze drifting once more to the scroll box. “Sorry. I’ll get to it.”

Jaemin watched him a moment longer, then went back to pinning the hem on his piece. “You’ve been quiet today,” he said after a beat. “Quieter than usual.”

“Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I figured.”

A pause. Then Jaemin added, quieter, “Is everything okay?”

Jeno didn’t answer right away. The silence between them stretched long and thin.

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a little stressed,” Jeno said eventually.

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth, either.

Jaemin knew enough about him now to tell the difference. Jeno wasn’t just stresses. He was haunted by something he didn’t want to say, maybe couldn’t say.

Jaemin didn’t push.

Instead, he let the silence settle again, folding neatly around them. Sometimes, he’d learned, you didn’t need to fill the space. Sometimes, just being there was enough.

“I can finish the panels tonight,” Jeno offered after a while, voice a little lower. “If you need the extra time on embroidery.”

Jaemin looked up, surprised.

“That’s... considerate of you.”

Jeno shrugged, eyes still fixed on the scroll box. “You’re better at the details.”

Jaemin narrowed his eyes. “Are you complimenting me?”

“I’m acknowledging your competence. Don’t get greedy.”

A reluctant smile curled at Jaemin’s mouth. “Still sounds like a compliment.”

“Then maybe you’re hearing things.”

They lapsed into silence again, but this one felt easier. More familiar. Jeno finally reached for his tools, fingers moving over the surface of the scroll box with practised care. Jaemin watched the way his expression shifted—still intent, still quiet, but not so far away anymore.

He’d never really paid attention to the precision of Jeno’s work before. The way he cleaned each crevice with measured patience, how he handled the fragile lacquer as though it held stories in its grain. There was a kind of reverence in the way he touched the past, as if it deserved to be remembered.

“Do you ever wonder who made those?” Jaemin asked suddenly, nodding toward the box.

Jeno glanced up. “Sometimes.”

“What do you think they were like?”

Jeno ran his cloth gently along the painted surface. “Careful. Detailed. Probably stubborn.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“You asked.”

Jaemin smiled to himself, tracing a finger along a seam in the fabric before him. “I used to think I didn’t care much about history. That the past didn’t matter as long as we kept moving forward.”

“And now?”

“I think... I think some things want to be remembered. Even if we don’t understand them yet.”

He didn’t look at Jeno when he said it, but he didn’t have to. He could feel the way the other boy stilled, just for a second. Like something unspoken had brushed against them both.

Jeno returned to his work, a little slower this time. “Maybe that’s why we’re here.”

“To remember?”

“Or to find out what we’ve forgotten.”

The words were quiet. Weighted. Jaemin felt them settle inside him like a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

They worked in companionable silence for a while after that. Occasionally trading tools. Occasionally brushing hands. No snark. No sarcasm. Just the soft rhythm of cloth and wood and careful motions, like the beginning of something tentative and real.

Later, when the shadows had grown long and the room was golden with late sun, Jeno reached for a cloth Jaemin was already holding. Their fingers met.

Jaemin didn’t pull away.

Neither did Jeno.

They looked at each other, something unreadable hanging between them—soft and still, like a thread pulled taut but not yet snapped.

Jaemin spoke first, voice low. “You’re still weird.”

Jeno’s mouth quirked. “And you’re still annoying.”

But the words lacked bite. They both smiled.

The shared smile lingered, warm and slightly crooked, between them before Jaemin glanced away first, returning to his half-folded fabric. But his hands didn’t move for a while. Instead, he just let his fingers rest against the edge, aware—acutely, uncomfortably—of the hum in his chest.

It wasn’t irritation.

It wasn’t even confusion.

It was something far more dangerous: comfort.

Jeno shifted beside him, but didn’t retreat to his side of the room. He stood there, close enough that Jaemin could feel the subtle warmth of him, like the heat left behind after sunlight fades from your skin.

“So…” Jaemin began, eyes flicking down to the box Jeno had just finished. “Do you always treat old things like they’re sacred, or is that just your mysterious restorer persona?”

Jeno made a quiet sound, a low scoff that carried the edge of a smile. “They deserve care. Time leaves marks. Doesn’t mean the thing itself isn’t still valuable.”

Jaemin tilted his head, watching him now with something softer in his gaze. “People aren’t much different.”

Jeno’s expression didn’t shift right away. But he met Jaemin’s eyes again—fully this time, and for a moment, there was nothing guarded about it. No sarcasm. No tension. Just quiet understanding.

“Maybe,” Jeno said.

Silence settled again, but this one was filled with something dense and charged, like standing in the pause before rain.

Jaemin turned back to his fabric, threading a needle with a steadier hand than he expected. “My grandma used to say that the person who takes time to mend something broken often ends up loving it more.”

Jeno was quiet behind him. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, rougher. “Sounds like she’s wise.”

“She’s nosy. But yeah, sometimes she surprises me.”

A quiet chuckle escaped Jeno, and Jaemin looked up again, catching the way his lips curved—not the polite smile Jeno offered most people, but something smaller. Sincere.

“You’re different when you’re not being a pain,” Jeno said, glancing toward the fabric Jaemin was working on. “Less fire. More focus.”

“And you’re not as boring as I thought you were,” Jaemin countered. “Still kind of uptight, though.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

But they both smiled.

A breeze fluttered in through the open window, shifting the paper pinned to the far wall. The room smelled faintly of old wood, rice starch, and lavender from Jaemin’s fabric box. The sun had dipped low enough now that the golden light took on a pink hue, casting soft shadows across the table.

Jaemin’s fingers stilled again. “You’re staying in the old Hanok, right?”

Jeno nodded. “It’s been empty since my grandfather passed. Figured I’d keep it from falling into dust while I’m here.”

“Does it feel familiar?”

A pause. “Sometimes. Not in ways that make sense.”

Jaemin’s gaze sharpened a fraction, but he kept his voice even. “That sounds like something someone should write a poem about.”

“I’m better with a toothbrush and a restoration scalpel than metaphors.”

“I don’t know. You’ve got a mysterious aura thing going for you.”

Jeno laughed, sudden and real. “God. Don’t start.”

“Just saying. It’s working.”

Jaemin hadn’t meant to say that last part. Not out loud.

But it hung there, weightless, honest.

Jeno didn’t answer right away. He didn’t look away, either.

Something flickered between them—unspoken, uncertain, but not uncomfortable.

Jaemin shifted slightly, letting their elbows bump as they both reached for different tools. Jeno didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in just a little closer.

Jaemin could feel the warmth of him again, not just in proximity now, but in the quiet presence that had gradually softened from sharp edges into something gentler.

He didn’t know when that had happened. But he wasn’t sure he wanted it to stop.

“I should probably get this stitched before the lighting gets worse,” Jaemin murmured, eyes dropping to his cloth.

“Right,” Jeno said softly. “And I should… pretend to work.”

They didn’t move for a moment longer.

Then, slowly, they turned back to their tasks, shoulders nearly brushing. No more teasing. No more jabs. Just the steady hum of two people learning how to exist beside one another, like a shared thread finally finding the right tension.

The sewing shop smelled like pressed cotton and faint jasmine incense, the scent Jaemin’s grandmother liked to light when the weather turned moody. Rain pattered against the roof in soft intervals, muffled behind the windowpanes streaked with early afternoon drizzle. It was the kind of day meant for slow work and warm drinks, and Jaemin found himself grateful for both.

Donghyuck was perched on the edge of the worktable, legs swinging, a paper cup of coffee in his hand and a grin too wide to be legal on his face.

“I’m just saying,” Donghyuck was saying—again—“he remembered what I said about hating citrus and brought me a pear tea instead. That’s boyfriend behaviour.”

“You’ve been on, what, four dates?” Jaemin asked, voice dry but not unkind. His needle threaded through the navy collar he was attaching to the hanbok piece laid out on the table.

“Five,” Donghyuck corrected, holding up a finger. “If you count the time we got lost trying to find the pottery workshop and ended up watching YouTube documentaries about shrimp farming at his place.”

“That’s the most romantic sentence I’ve ever heard.”

Donghyuck ignored the sarcasm, his smile softening. “He’s… sweet. Like, really sweet. It’s annoying how much I like him.”

Jaemin glanced up briefly, and despite his natural aversion to emotional vulnerability, the look on his friend’s face tugged something loose in his chest. Donghyuck looked genuinely happy, the kind of contentment that softened his usual sharp edges.

“I’m glad,” Jaemin said, almost quietly. “You deserve someone who sees you like that.”

Donghyuck blinked at him. “Wow. Are you feeling okay?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

They both laughed—easy and familiar. It warmed the corners of the room.

Donghyuck sipped his drink again, then, with the subtlety of a freight train, pivoted. “Speaking of people who’ve been oddly sweet lately…”

Jaemin didn’t look up, but he felt it coming like a thundercloud.

“Jeno.”

Jaemin’s hand paused briefly, the needle caught mid-air. “What about him?”

Donghyuck shrugged innocently. “You tell me. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time together. Voluntarily, too.”

“He’s been helping with the preservation stuff,” Jaemin replied, trying for casual. “And I’ve been there. So.”

“That’s the most awkward way to say ‘I enjoy his company’ I’ve ever heard.”

Jaemin sighed. “Hyuck…”

“Okay, fine.” Donghyuck leaned forward conspiratorially, voice dropping. “But seriously. You two were ready to murder each other like, three weeks ago. Now you’re… I don’t know. Laughing. Standing close. Making eyes.”

“We are not making eyes,” Jaemin snapped.

“You so are.”

Jaemin gave him a long look. Then, before he could stop himself, he admitted, “He’s… not who I thought he was.”

Donghyuck’s brow arched slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

Jaemin’s fingers resumed stitching, a little slower now. “He’s focused. Careful. Like, he treats everything he touches like it matters. Even the things most people would just discard. I didn’t expect that.”

Donghyuck was watching him carefully now, sipping his drink like he wasn’t on the edge of exploding with commentary.

Jaemin kept going, unaware of how much he was saying. “And he listens. Not just to what people say, but what they don’t say. It’s weird. I’ve been around him and… I actually feel kind of… calm.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Donghyuck said, too casually, “He is pretty attractive.”

Jaemin made the mistake of responding too fast. “Yeah, he is.”

Donghyuck’s grin went supernova.

“Oh my God,” he gasped. “You like him.”

Jaemin’s face flushed hot. “I said he was attractive. I didn’t say I was going to write his name in my diary.”

“You just admitted you feel calm around him and that he’s pretty. That’s practically marriage in your language.”

“Hyuck.”

“Is this a crush? This is a crush, isn’t it?”

Jaemin groaned and dropped his head to the table, cheek against the cloth. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You love me. And now maybe also Jeno.”

“I swear to god—”

Donghyuck held up his hands. “Fine. I’ll stop. For now.”

Jaemin sat up again, face still warm, eyes narrowing. “You’re being weirder than usual about this. Why do you care so much?”

Donghyuck paused, just a heartbeat too long.

Then he shrugged. “I think… it’s just nice. Seeing you actually let someone in.”

Jaemin studied him for a moment, something unsettled in his chest. There was something else in Donghyuck’s tone—something thoughtful, almost knowing—but it passed quickly, buried beneath his usual grin.

“Besides,” Donghyuck continued, “if this ends in some cinematic, slow-burn romantic drama, I expect to be credited as your emotional support character.”

Jaemin snorted. “You’d be the chaotic best friend who ruins all the serious moments with bad jokes.”

“Exactly. I’d kill it.”

Outside, the rain thickened slightly, tapping like fingertips against the roof. Inside, the room felt safe—warm light, soft threads, and a sense of something blooming, slow and unsure, but real.

Jaemin didn’t say it out loud, but a part of him was grateful for Donghyuck’s meddling—for the way he always seemed to notice the small shifts before Jaemin could name them himself.

He picked up his needle again, eyes flicking briefly to the window where the rain streaked like ink.

And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind that Jeno’s face had started lingering at the edges of his thoughts more often than not.

The rain had stopped sometime after sunset, but the soft humidity still clung to the wooden beams of the old house like a second breath. Crickets whispered outside the window, their steady chorus mixing with the occasional drip from the overhanging eaves. Inside, Jaemin sat curled at the corner of his desk, a single lamp casting a warm, golden pool across the grain of the wood.

The rest of the room was dark. Shadows folded over his bed and bookshelves, gentle and undisturbed, like they were waiting.

His sketchpad lay open before him. The lines on the page were mostly familiar now, though still half-formed—like a melody hummed without words. He’d started the drawing days ago, or maybe longer; he couldn’t quite remember when his pencil had first begun tracing that sweeping silhouette, the curve of a collar, the folds of a jeogori rendered in motion. The hanbok was old in style—distinctive, with ornamental touches that belonged to a time long before him. But the vision of it came from somewhere deeper than reference or research.

It had come to him in the quiet hour at the shop, his body drowsy and his mind loosened just enough to drift. Not quite a dream, not quite a memory. Something between.

And now it was back.

Jaemin exhaled slowly, pencil balanced between his fingers, unmoving.

He didn’t want to admit that he’d been avoiding this moment—avoiding the sketch, avoiding the clarity threatening to take shape in his thoughts. Every time he got close to finishing the piece, he’d find something else to distract himself with: hemming, cleaning, even untangling thread. Anything not to look too long at the soft, curved lines that felt like a whisper from somewhere he shouldn’t be able to hear.

But tonight there was no background noise. No, Donghyuck bursting in with gossip or his grandmother calling from the kitchen. No fabric to cut or guests to entertain. Just this.

Just him.

And the soft breath of something older than he could name.

He let the pencil rest. Closed his eyes.

For a moment, nothing happened. Just the familiar darkness, a quiet hum in his chest. Then, slowly, like silk sliding across skin, the sensation returned.

Warmth. Soft light. The smell of pine and earth.

He was standing beneath a tiled roof. Lanterns hung in quiet reverence, swaying gently in the breeze. Cloth moved around him—layers of delicate, hand-dyed silk, heavy in a way that felt ceremonial. A voice—his voice—laughed low in his chest, and there was someone there with him. He couldn’t see the face, not clearly, not ever. But the outline was steady, the presence strong and achingly familiar.

Their hands brushed as they walked side by side.

The other figure turned toward him, closer now, and Jaemin’s heart caught in his throat.

There was something sacred about it. Not grand or showy, but quiet. Rooted.

A breath passed between them. The kind that fills the air before something important. And then, just as natural as blinking, their hands joined, fingers lacing slowly. A pause. A look he couldn't see but could feel, and then the press of a kiss, gentle and reverent. Not rushed, not hesitant. Just sure.

A memory of a promise he hadn’t realised he'd made.

Jaemin’s eyes opened with a small breath, fingers tightening around the pencil still resting in his grip.

His hand moved before he could think, guided by instinct. The pencil filled in the final lines of the hanbok—the overlapping panels of the jeogori, the layered texture of the sleeves, the embroidery placement across the chest and cuffs. But what he added next wasn’t from reference or design. It was personal: a small clasp at the chest, shaped like an unfurling blossom. He didn’t know why it mattered—just that it did.

When he finally set the pencil down, he stared at the page for a long time.

There was no fear now. No resistance. Just a quiet thrum in his chest, like something old had been given space to breathe again.

He didn’t have answers. He didn’t even have questions, really.

But he had this: the weight of something remembered, not in words, but in feeling.

And this time, he didn’t turn away from it.

Chapter Text

The moon hung low and full over the quiet village, casting silver ribbons across the rooftops and glinting along the narrow stream that wound behind the granary. The night air was warm and thick with the scent of blooming nightflowers and damp stone, the hush of summer insects filling in the silence between footsteps.

Jeno crept down the shaded path behind the apothecary’s wall, sandals muffled by the earth. His heart beat in rhythm with the cicadas, every step an echo of something both thrilling and forbidden. A rustle to his left made him pause—and then Jaemin emerged from behind a clay water jar, grinning like mischief itself, his eyes bright even in the dim light.

“You’re late,” Jaemin whispered, mock-annoyed, though his smile betrayed him.

“You’re early,” Jeno shot back, unable to stop the smile that tugged at his lips.

They reached for each other at the same time, fingers lacing automatically, hands warm in the cool night. It was a practiced, familiar gesture, hidden from the eyes of day, nurtured in fragments of stolen time. Jaemin leaned close, bumping their shoulders together as they walked.

“Did you bring the chestnut sweets?” he asked, voice low and teasing.

Jeno pulled the small bundle wrapped in cloth from his sleeve and held it out triumphantly. “Two. You owe me one for last time.”

“You’re forgiven,” Jaemin said, eyes crinkling as he unwrapped the sweets with gentle fingers.

They crept along the back path toward the footbridge that overlooked the shallow stream. The willow trees there drooped low, shrouding the bridge in darkness, as if nature herself conspired to keep their secret. Beneath the low arching branches, they sat with their knees brushing, the pastries crumbling sweet between them, lips dusted with sugar, laughter half-swallowed so it wouldn’t carry.

Jaemin tilted his head back to look at the stars. “Sometimes I think we were meant to meet in the dark.”

Jeno turned to him. “Why the dark?”

“Because that’s where the world is quiet. And it stops watching us.”

The words lodged somewhere behind Jeno’s ribs. He reached out, fingertips brushing Jaemin’s cheek, then his jaw. Jaemin’s eyes fluttered closed as Jeno leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips—soft, reverent, aching.

It was not their first, but it still felt like a miracle. Every time did. Jaemin’s hand found the back of Jeno’s neck, holding him there for a moment longer than necessary, like he could stop the world from turning.

They had just parted ways near the outer edge of the village, laughing under their breaths like children caught stealing fireflies, when Jeno sensed something wrong. The air shifted. The trees no longer whispered—they watched.

The gate to his family’s hanok loomed up ahead, lanterns casting dull amber pools on the ground. And there, standing like a statue carved from disappointment and disapproval, was his father.

His white robe glowed in the dim light, but there was no purity in his stance. Only fury, masked in silence.

Jeno’s heart dropped. He swallowed, kept walking. There was no point pretending. His father’s arms were folded across his chest, and the heavy door behind him slid open without a sound as Jeno stepped inside.

The moment the door clicked shut, silence turned to storm.

The slap came first—sharp and searing, sending Jeno’s head to the side. His cheek burned, not just from pain but from the shame that he didn’t feel for himself, but for the man who’d struck him.

“You shame this house,” his father hissed. “You disgrace your name. Your blood.”

Jeno stood stiff, unmoving. “I love him.”

His father’s face twisted. “You love a boy? A filthy tailor’s son? You would throw away everything—your education, your future, your name—for that?”

Jeno didn’t blink. “I’d throw it away for him.”

The words landed like sparks in dry straw. His father moved forward, voice like a whip. “You think this is love? This is sickness. Perverted.  You will not see him again. You will behave like a son of this house. Or I will see to it you no longer are.”

The door slammed with finality as he turned and left, leaving Jeno standing in the flickering lamplight, his face throbbing, his heart in pieces.

He didn’t cry. He only clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. If love was a sickness, then he would rather die with it than live without.

Three days passed.

Three long, aching days where Jeno saw no sign of Jaemin, where the stream felt hollow and the lanterns too bright.

Then the whispers started.

Jaemin’s name twisted into mockery. “Disgusting.” “He was seen touching another boy.” “His poor mother.”

No one said Jeno’s name. His father’s power ran deep. But Jaemin was left exposed, vulnerable, a scapegoat for the village’s venom.

Jeno saw him once, from across the market. Jaemin moved quickly, shoulders hunched. His robe was faded and slightly torn at the hem. When he handed over coins for barley, the shopkeeper’s hand recoiled like Jaemin had infected her.

A boy nearby laughed and muttered something cruel. Jaemin flinched, but did not reply. He simply walked away, jaw set, eyes distant.

Jeno’s chest ached. This was his fault. Not because he loved Jaemin, but because he wasn’t brave enough to protect him.

That night, he waited beneath the plum blossoms.

And Jaemin came.

He looked thinner, his skin pale under the moonlight. But when his eyes met Jeno’s, the warmth was still there.

“You came,” Jeno said, voice shaking.

“I promised,” Jaemin replied.

They sat in silence for a while, their knees barely touching.

“I’ve heard what they’re saying,” Jeno finally said. “I wanted to stop it.”

“You didn’t cause it,” Jaemin said. “You didn’t speak the words.”

“But I didn’t stop them.”

Jaemin looked at the stream. “I’ve been called worse, in whispers I was never supposed to hear. At least now they say it to my face. It’s almost freeing.”

“You shouldn’t have to bear this.”

Jaemin’s smile was tired, but not gone. “I’d rather suffer for something real than be praised for a lie.”

And Jeno broke. He reached forward, cupped Jaemin’s face in both hands, and kissed him—not quick, not hidden, but slow and certain.

“I don’t care what they say,” he whispered.

“Then don’t,” Jaemin said. “Just keep choosing me. That’s all.”

Jeno nodded, forehead resting against Jaemin’s. “I will.”

[Modern Day]

The scent of aged wood and lacquer hung low in the air, softened by time and careful care. Jeno sat cross-legged on a worn floor mat, sleeves pushed up, his gloved hands moving slowly over the lacquered surface of an old ornamental box. The piece, one of several being restored for the gala’s display, was delicate—its once-glossy finish dulled with age, its mother-of-pearl inlays dusted with decades of fine grit.

The box was from the late Joseon era. A wedding chest, he guessed, from the artistry of the birds etched along the sides. He liked this part of the work—the solitude, the rhythm of patience. Each stroke of his cloth, each application of binding agent, felt like a quiet conversation with the past.

Across the room, Jaemin knelt at a long worktable covered in lengths of embroidered ribbon and sketches. The shop’s soft yellow light curved gently over him, highlighting the slope of his neck, the furrow in his brow as he studied a partially basted collar.

They’d been working in silence for nearly an hour, the kind that had recently begun to feel less awkward and more companionable. Not that they didn’t still bicker—but there was something warmer beneath it now. A willingness to listen, even if they didn’t always agree.

Jeno gently cleaned another patch of the box’s surface, letting the cloth drift in a careful spiral before setting it aside. He reached for the small tin of linseed oil but paused.

“You ever think about doing something else?” he asked suddenly, voice quiet in the stillness.

Jaemin looked up, blinking. “What, like quitting tailoring and becoming a barista?”

Jeno smiled faintly. “No, I mean—when you were younger. Was this always the plan?”

Jaemin leaned back slightly on his stool, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. “I think it was the only plan. My grandmother’s a seamstress. She raised me. I spent half my childhood sorting buttons and handing her thread. I started sketching hanbok designs when I was, what—eleven? Twelve?”

“Wow.” Jeno’s voice was lightly impressed.

Jaemin gave a lopsided smile. “I always liked the history part too. The structure of it. There’s something really beautiful in the rules of hanbok construction, you know? You can’t just stitch anything together and call it tradition. You learn the lines, the proportions—how a curve is supposed to sit against the body. It teaches you respect.”

Jeno hummed. “That’s exactly how I feel about restoration.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded, running a gloved thumb over the edge of the inlay. “It’s like… you’re preserving a language. But not one person speaks out loud. You can tell so much about a person or a time period by the way something was built, or worn, or cared for. Even what’s been broken tells you something.”

Jaemin tilted his head. “How’d you get into it? Restoration, I mean.”

Jeno hesitated, fingers pausing at the clasp of the box. “Sort of by accident. I was studying art history at university, but I got involved in a side project at a local museum. They had a batch of Joseon-era armor pieces they were trying to prep for an exhibit. I started helping one of the conservators—just basic stuff at first. Cleaning, cataloging. But I fell in love with it.”

There was a softness in his voice now, a kind of reverence. “It’s slow work. You have to be careful. Patient. There’s no rush. And I think… I liked that. I liked that the job was about protecting something. About giving it a second chance.”

Jaemin’s gaze lingered on him. “I can see that.”

Jeno smiled, then let it fade, gaze drifting downward. “My dad didn’t. He hated it.”

Jaemin blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. He wanted me to go into architecture. Or law, maybe. Something that made more money. Something stable. ‘Useful,’ he called it.” Jeno’s lips twisted. “We fought about it a lot.”

“Did you stop talking?”

“For a while,” Jeno admitted, tone even. “I moved out right after uni. Took a fellowship in Gyeongju to get some distance. He didn’t call for almost a year.”

Jaemin looked down at his fabric for a moment, fingers idly stroking the hem. “Did he come around eventually?”

Jeno exhaled through his nose. “Sort of. He started sending me clippings about exhibitions. Restoration features. Never said sorry, but... I guess that was his way.”

“Parents are complicated.”

“They are.”

A small silence settled between them, not heavy, just thoughtful.

Jaemin looked up again, brow lifted. “Do you like the work? Still?”

“Every day,” Jeno said immediately, surprising even himself with the certainty. “Even when I’m exhausted. Even when I’ve got glue in my hair or my back hurts from crouching too long. I get to bring things back. I get to honor what they were.”

Jaemin didn’t say anything, but his smile was soft, eyes warm with something almost like admiration.

Jeno caught it. His heart did something stupid in response—just a small skip, a breath too fast.

“What about you?” Jeno asked, quietly. “Do you love it?”

Jaemin glanced at the half-finished collar in his hands, then back at Jeno. “I do. But sometimes I wonder if I love it for what it means, or for what it connects me to.”

Jeno tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Jaemin hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. Just feels like… like every time I stitch something, it’s not just my hands doing it. Like I’m picking up where someone else left off.”

There was something in his voice that made Jeno sit a little straighter. A chord struck faintly in his chest. Not recognition—just resonance.

Like something he understood without needing the full language for it.

Jaemin shook the feeling off with a small laugh. “Wow. Sorry. That got weirdly deep.”

Jeno smiled gently. “It didn’t. I think it makes sense.”

Their eyes met across the small distance between their workspaces. A moment passed. Unspoken, unhurried.

Then Jaemin cleared his throat and turned back to his stitching. “So. You’ve told me your tragic family drama. I guess I owe you something embarrassing in return.”

Jeno chuckled, and the sound warmed the quiet room again.

Outside, the rain had finally stopped completely. The silence left behind wasn’t empty—it was expectant. As if something, very gently, had begun.

Jeno rounded the corner of the courtyard behind the community centre, brushing off his hands after inspecting one of the lacquered display plinths drying in the sun. He hadn’t expected anyone else to be out there so early in the afternoon—most of the others were inside finalising prep schedules—but then he spotted Ms. Oh arranging a basket of wrapped side dishes on a bench by the garden wall.

“Jeno!” Her voice lifted warmly as she straightened and waved him over, a soft smile pulling at the corners of her eyes.

“Ms. Oh,” Jeno greeted, adjusting the cuff of his shirt where it had slipped under his gloves. “What’s all this?”

“Oh, just some things for the dinner tonight,” she said, brushing a bit of lint off her sleeve. “We're having a little get-together at the hall. Nothing too formal—just food, a bit of music. A thank-you of sorts for everyone working on the gala.”

Jeno nodded. “That sounds nice.”

“Mark and Donghyuck already said they’ll be there,” she added, then peered at him with a thoughtful tilt of her head. “I was hoping you could let Jaemin know, too. He’s been so busy lately, I’m worried he’ll forget unless someone reminds him.”

Jeno blinked, caught off guard but not displeased. “Sure. I’ll tell him.”

Her smile widened just a little. “You’ve gotten more talkative lately. It suits you.”

He flushed faintly but managed a quiet, “I’ll pass that on,” before turning toward the path that would lead him to the tailor shop.

“Make sure you both eat properly tonight,” Ms. Oh called after him. “The two of you are starting to look like worn-out brushes.”

Jeno chuckled under his breath and raised a hand in a half-wave.

He wasn’t sure what it said about him that he didn’t mind being grouped with Jaemin anymore.

The shop was quiet save for the muted scratch of a pencil on paper and the soft rustling of fabric as Jaemin smoothed the sleeves of the hanbok he’d just finished. It was the third completed piece—cerulean blue with hand-embroidered peonies along the collar—and he was too focused adjusting it on the display mannequin to register the creak of the front door opening.

His fingers were midway through pinning the collar just right when a voice behind him cut through the silence.

“You always talk to the fabric like it’s going to answer back?”

Jaemin nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun on his heel so fast the pin clamped between his fingers flew to the floor.

“Shit—Jeno,” he hissed, a hand clutched to his chest. “You can’t just sneak in like that.”

Jeno, already halfway through the doorway, raised both hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t realise you’d be that deep in conversation with a mannequin.”

Jaemin exhaled sharply and stooped to retrieve the pin, ignoring the smug curve of Jeno’s mouth. He looked… nicer than usual. His hair was slightly tousled from the wind outside, cheeks flushed from the cold. His sleeves were pushed up again, forearms dusted with sawdust.

“Were you working again?” Jaemin asked, straightening.

“Something like that,” Jeno replied vaguely, brushing at his arms. “I was on my way out actually—heading home to get changed.”

Jaemin raised a brow. “Changed for what?”

Jeno shifted a little, glanced over his shoulder like someone might overhear. Then, oddly casual, he said, “There’s… a dinner. Later. I thought maybe you’d want to come.”

Jaemin blinked. “A dinner.”

“Yeah.”

“With you?”

Jeno paused. “I mean—yeah.”

It was said so offhand, so nonchalantly, but it hit Jaemin like a quiet bolt to the ribs. He stared for a beat too long, searching Jeno’s face for clues—anything that might betray a joke. But there was only that familiar unreadable look, like he was measuring something internally.

“I…” Jaemin cleared his throat, tried to recover. “Sure. Yeah. I’ll come.”

Jeno nodded once, not quite meeting his eyes. “Cool. It’s at the hall, around six. I’ll see you there?”

Before Jaemin could ask the question, beginning to claw at his tongue—Is it just us?—Jeno was already turning on his heel, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft jingle.

Jaemin stood frozen in the quiet shop, the mannequin at his side dressed in silk and silence. He looked at it, then at the door, then slowly back to the sketchpad still open on his desk.

“Did he just… ask me out?”

The mannequin didn’t respond.

Jaemin paced the length of his room, phone pressed to his ear, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve like it was responsible for the storm gathering behind his ribs.

“Pick up. Pick up, pick up—”

The call finally connected with a click and Donghyuck’s voice filtered through, bright and chipper.

“Jaemin, hey—what’s with the emergency-level three missed calls in five minutes? Did you stab yourself with a pin again?”

“No,” Jaemin snapped, then hesitated. “Wait. Yes. I mean—no, not really. That’s not why I called.”

“So dramatic,” Donghyuck muttered, but Jaemin could hear rustling on the other end, like he was flopping onto his bed or rearranging a snack plate.

“I think Jeno just asked me out.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly: “Come again?”

“I said I think Jeno just asked me out.” Jaemin dropped onto his desk chair, pushing aside his sketchpad with a sigh. “He came into the shop—looked all casual, kind of weirdly shy—and said he was heading home to change for dinner, and then asked if I wanted to come.”

Donghyuck snorted. “And you immediately assumed it was a date?”

Jaemin’s voice pitched higher. “He said with me, Hyuck!”

“Yeah, Jaem, because it’s a dinner Ms. Oh is throwing for all the gala contributors. Mark and I are going. Jeno probably just got asked to invite you, since you’re always buried in sewing and ignoring your texts.”

Jaemin froze, face slowly falling. “You’re joking.”

“I’m really not. She’s been planning it all week. It’s not some romantic candlelit thing, unless you consider buffet trays romantic.”

Jaemin groaned, pressing a hand over his face. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Donghyuck sing-songed.

“You could’ve led with the fact that it’s not a date!”

“I was enjoying watching your crisis unfold in real time. You should’ve seen your face just now—I didn’t even need to be there and I could picture it.”

Jaemin slumped further in his seat, legs sliding under the desk like he might melt into it. “He probably thinks I was being weird. I took so long to answer him.”

Donghyuck wheezed. “You do like him.”

“I—what? No—I mean—”

“Oh my god. You like him. You really like him. The designer falls for the restoration boy. This is peak drama. This is historical K-drama gold.”

“Donghyuck,” Jaemin hissed, mortified.

“Wait ‘til Mark hears this—”

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’ll keep your little heart-eyes secret if you promise to wear something cute tonight.”

Jaemin groaned again. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best,” Donghyuck chirped. “See you at dinner, lover boy.”

The call ended with another laugh, and Jaemin tossed his phone onto the bed with a soft thud, burying his burning face into his hands.

Not a date.

Not a date.

And yet, he couldn’t help the way his heart still beat a little louder at the thought of Jeno waiting at the hall, even if it wasn’t just for him.

Jaemin adjusted the cuff of his shirt for the third time in five minutes, pretending not to care about the slight sheen of nervousness clinging to the back of his neck. The community hall had been transformed for the evening—nothing too fancy, but string lights hung in gentle curves across the ceiling, and round tables had been dressed in soft linens and centrepieces of wildflowers in mason jars. It smelled like soy-glazed ribs, fresh vegetables, and something sweet cooling near the dessert table.

He was the first to arrive. Of course.

He told himself it was because he hated being late—not because he wanted a few extra minutes to breathe. Certainly not because of anyone in particular.

“Wow. You clean up when you’re emotionally compromised,” came Donghyuck’s voice, slicing through his thoughts like a butter knife dipped in sarcasm.

Jaemin turned sharply as Donghyuck approached with Mark in tow. Mark, ever the balance to Donghyuck’s chaos, offered a warm smile and a small wave. Donghyuck just gave Jaemin a once-over, clearly amused.

“I’m not emotionally compromised,” Jaemin said, flattening a wrinkle in his shirt that didn’t exist.

Donghyuck raised an eyebrow. “You’re wearing layers.”

Donghyuck leaned in, half-whispering to Mark, “He even put on that subtle cologne, the one he only wears to Seoul events.”

Jaemin scowled. “You two are insufferable.”

“And yet you continue to associate with us,” Donghyuck said sweetly. “Which means I’m allowed to be concerned when you dress like you’re attending a very specific type of first date.”

Jaemin opened his mouth to retort—but then the front doors creaked open.

Conversation swelled across the room, but Jaemin didn’t hear any of it. He didn’t move.

Jeno had arrived.

He stepped through the entrance like he hadn’t just made Jaemin forget every sound, every breath. Casual, effortless—but somehow striking in that subtle way that made Jaemin’s stomach dip. He wore fitted black trousers and a slate grey button-up with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair, usually messy from the day’s work or hidden under a cap, was swept back off his forehead, revealing sharp brows and clear skin that caught the glow of the lights just right.

And his hands.

Jaemin’s eyes drifted, traitorous and unrepentant, to where Jeno’s arms flexed lightly as he adjusted the strap of a canvas bag. The faint trace of veins stood out against the smooth lines of his forearms.

He looked... annoyingly good.

Donghyuck caught the trajectory of Jaemin’s gaze and whistled low. “Oh wow. You’re gone.”

“I am not.”

Mark, who had followed Jaemin’s gaze too, let out a quiet laugh. “You’re so gone.”

Jaemin forced himself to tear his eyes away, heat blooming across the back of his neck. “Can we please not make this a group observation?”

“I think it’s sweet,” Mark offered.

Mark leaned in, stage-whispering, “Should’ve warned you about how good he looks when he puts actual effort into his appearance. That ‘cool but oblivious guy in a period drama’ vibe? It’s criminal.”

“You are not helping,” Jaemin hissed under his breath, though his eyes—traitor eyes—slid back to Jeno again as he scanned the room.

Their gazes met.

Just for a second. Jeno’s lips tugged up at one corner, soft and knowing. He started walking toward them.

Jaemin forgot how to blink.

“Oh no,” Donghyuck said cheerfully, nudging Mark. “He’s making the face. The one where his soul leaves his body.”

“Shut up,” Jaemin muttered, shaking himself into coherence as Jeno stopped in front of them.

“Hey,” Jeno said, voice low and warm. His eyes flicked briefly over Jaemin, just enough to make Jaemin wonder if he noticed the layers. The effort.

Jaemin cleared his throat. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” Jeno returned, then added, “You look nice.”

It was said so casually—offhand, even—but something in Jaemin’s chest fluttered like a thread pulling tight.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to make eye contact.

Donghyuck took one look at his face and grinned like the devil.

“Let’s find a table,” Mark said quickly, saving Jaemin from whatever torture Donghyuck had planned next.

As they moved through the room, plates beginning to fill, Jaemin tried not to think about how Jeno’s shoulder brushed his every now and then. How his laugh sounded deeper tonight, easier. How Jaemin had seen him a hundred times before, but tonight—tonight felt like something was shifting.

And he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

But he wasn’t backing away from it either.

By the time Jeno found a seat between Mark and Ms. Oh, most of the tables were half-full and glowing with the warmth of conversation. The scent of simmered soy, sweet radish, and grilled fish clung to the air, and laughter rippled in waves through the hall.

Across the table, Jaemin was talking with Donghyuck, his hands moving as he explained something about fabric dye techniques. His sleeves were pushed up slightly, exposing the delicate bend of his wrists, and his hair fell just shy of his eyes, slightly tousled. He looked—Jeno paused on the thought—at home. Not the Jaemin who snapped at him on day one. Not the Jaemin who rolled his eyes every time they had to work together. No, this version was softer, settled, bright in the gentle hum of the space.

Jeno blinked. He looked down at his chopsticks.

“Jen, eat something,” Mark said beside him, nudging his elbow. “You’re spacing out again.”

“Just thinking,” Jeno mumbled, picking up a slice of galbi.

Donghyuck leaned in from across the table with a wicked grin. “Thinking about what?”

Jeno gave him a flat look, but before he could retort, Ms. Oh clapped her hands lightly to get everyone’s attention.

“Now that we’re all here—first of all, thank you all for your hard work so far. I’ve been watching this come together, and truly, I think this year’s gala might be our best yet.”

A small round of cheers and claps followed. Jeno smiled, nodding along, though he noticed Jaemin shift in his seat at the praise—eyes lowered, a slight blush rising at his cheeks.

“And,” Ms. Oh continued, “there’s something else I should mention.”

That tone. Jeno narrowed his eyes slightly. Ms. Oh only got that tone when she was about to rope someone into something.

She looked directly at him.

“A heritage and arts magazine reached out this week,” she said brightly. “They’re doing a feature on community-led preservation work and cultural events, and they’ve asked to include a piece on the gala. I told them we’d be delighted.”

Heads turned. Jeno suddenly felt like the whole table was looking at him.

“And,” she added with a pointed smile, “I’ve already given them your name, Jeno.”

“What?” he said, almost choking on his bite of radish.

Ms. Oh was entirely unbothered. “They want to highlight someone younger involved in traditional restoration. There’ll be a short interview, and a small photo shoot. They’re sending a photographer next week.”

Jeno stared. “You volunteered me?”

“Of course I did. You’re perfect for it.”

Mark leaned over, whispering with a grin, “You’re gonna be famous.”

Donghyuck laughed. “Finally, a centrefold worth pinning to my fridge.”

Jaemin made a sound that was suspiciously close to a snort, trying to hide it behind his water glass.

Jeno sighed. “You could’ve asked first, Ms. Oh.”

“If I had, you would’ve said no.”

He opened his mouth to argue—then promptly closed it again. She wasn’t wrong.

Across the table, Jaemin caught his gaze. His eyes were still crinkled at the edges from laughing, but there was something else there now—curiosity, maybe, or a trace of something Jeno couldn’t name. Not yet.

“You’ll do fine,” Jaemin said simply. “Just don’t glare like you usually do. Try not to look like you’re judging the entire camera crew.”

Jeno raised a brow. “I don’t glare.”

Mark muttered, “You do.”

Donghyuck nodded enthusiastically. “Literally your default setting.”

“Okay, enough,” Jeno said, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

“Smile, Mr. Restoration,” Jaemin teased.

And Jeno did.

Only a little.

But it felt like the kind of smile that came from somewhere deeper.

He didn’t say it, but maybe this wasn’t such a bad evening after all

The soy-sauce glazed sweet potatoes were disappearing fast, and the table had settled into the easy hum of full stomachs and mellow conversation. Laughter would bubble up every so often, but mostly, the tone had softened—comfortable, like a well-worn quilt drawn up over chilled legs.

Mark reached across the table for another helping of japchae and sighed dramatically. “If I eat any more, you’ll have to roll me to rehearsal tomorrow.”

“You say that,” Donghyuck replied, “but I give it ten minutes before you’re back in the kitchen looking for snacks.”

Mark lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty.”

Across the table, one of the volunteers chuckled. “Young people always think they’re full—until the rice cakes come out.”

Ms. Oh nodded sagely. “That’s because rice cakes operate on a spiritual level. Room is always made.”

“I second that,” Jaemin said, finally leaning back in his seat, his tone lighter than it had been all evening. “Especially if they’re filled with chestnut.”

Jeno found himself watching Jaemin without really meaning to. The way he pushed his hair out of his eyes when he talked. The lazy flicker of amusement when Donghyuck made another ridiculous face. The slight glow in his cheeks from the warm room, from being surrounded by people and laughter.

He hadn’t realised how rare it was to see him like this—unguarded. Relaxed.

Donghyuck shifted the conversation like he was switching tracks on a playlist. “So, when do we get to try on the hanbok?”

Jaemin raised a brow. “You think I’m letting you near finished pieces?”

“Oh, come on. What if I’m very respectful and elegant?”

“You,” Jaemin said, pointing a chopstick at him, “would show up in your sneakers and spill iced coffee on the sleeves.”

“I feel judged.”

“You are.”

Mark leaned into Donghyuck’s shoulder, barely holding back a grin. “I wanna try one too, though.”

Jaemin nodded. “I’m afraid if you want one, you gotta commission one. Like Jeno.”

Donghyuck gasped. “I want the richest colour. Something that screams ‘main character.’”

“That’s what you wear every day,” Jaemin deadpanned.

Across the table, someone asked Jeno, “How’s the scroll restoration going? Ms. Oh mentioned you were working with rice glue?”

Jeno nodded, slipping easily into the answer. “Yeah. It’s delicate—especially when the paper’s this old. But it’s responding well. I’ve been using a double-layer support method to keep the backing intact.”

There were a few impressed murmurs. Jaemin looked at him with something quieter—not awe, but attention. Like he was storing it away.

“I could show you sometime,” Jeno offered, before really thinking about it. “The process. It’s pretty hands-on.”

Jaemin blinked, then nodded once. “I’d like that.”

Donghyuck elbowed Mark. “Did you hear that? That was flirting.”

Jeno flushed and shot him a glare, but Jaemin only laughed under his breath and ducked his head.

The conversation shifted again, spiraling outward to include travel stories, local ghost tales, and Ms. Oh reminiscing about galas from decades past. The light above the table had dimmed slightly, golden and warm, casting everything in a soft, dreamlike glow.

It wasn’t loud or extraordinary, but for Jeno, it was quietly grounding—like a corner of his life had clicked into place without making a sound.

And when Jaemin laughed again at something Mark said, brushing his fingers unconsciously along the edge of his glass, Jeno let himself watch.

Just for a second longer.

The night air had cooled since they’d first arrived, a soft breeze moving through the narrow streets of the village as the warmth of dinner clung faintly to their clothes. The community centre sat behind them now, a soft glow still visible through the curtained windows as the last few volunteers trickled out.

Jaemin walked beside Jeno, their steps unhurried.

It wasn’t silent—not completely. Crickets stitched together a steady rhythm from the hedgerows, and someone was playing a quiet trot song through a window somewhere nearby. But between them, words had thinned out.

“Ms. Oh made way too much food,” Jeno said finally, like he needed to punctuate the quiet before it stretched too far.

“She knows we’ll all keep eating if it’s there.” Jaemin kicked at a stray pebble on the path. “It’s a tactic. She’s probably trying to slow us all down.”

“Didn’t work on Donghyuck.”

Jaemin laughed. “Nothing ever does.”

Their shoulders bumped, barely, as the path narrowed between two low stone walls. Neither moved to widen the space again.

A beat passed.

Jeno shoved his hands into his pockets. “So… you really thought I was asking you out earlier?”

Jaemin nearly tripped over his own feet. “What?”

Jeno didn’t look at him, but his lips twitched. “Donghyuck told me.”

Jaemin groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m going to kill him.”

“I mean,” Jeno continued, voice a little too casual, “was it that unbelievable?”

Jaemin looked over, sharply. “That you might ask me out?”

Jeno finally glanced back at him, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah.”

Jaemin held his gaze for a second too long. “I didn’t say it was unbelievable. Just... surprising.”

They stopped when they reached a small bridge that cut across a shallow creek, the stones worn smooth by time. Jeno leaned on the railing. Jaemin stood beside him, arms crossed against the cool.

The moon reflected soft and rippling in the water below. Everything else was muted in shades of blue and silver.

“I’ve never really…” Jeno trailed off, then shook his head. “I guess I haven’t had this kind of thing happen before.”

“What kind of thing?” Jaemin’s voice was quieter now.

Jeno’s fingers tapped the edge of the railing. “Where someone actually matters before I even realise they do.”

Jaemin didn’t answer right away. The breeze tugged at his collar. “Yeah,” he said eventually, “me either.”

There was a long pause.

Then, Jeno turned toward him slightly. “You looked nice tonight.”

Jaemin blinked. “What?”

“At dinner,” Jeno said, not looking away this time. “You looked… different. Good different.”

A heat bloomed behind Jaemin’s ears. He tried to laugh it off, but it came out soft and uneven. “You’re really bad at this.”

“I know,” Jeno muttered. “I’m working on it.”

Jaemin turned toward him, the space between them a little too small now to ignore. “You didn’t look so bad yourself. I don’t think I’ve seen your hair like that before.”

Jeno raised a brow. “You were paying that much attention?”

“Apparently.”

A heartbeat.

Another.

And then Jaemin shifted, just a little. His hand landed on the stone railing between them. Not quite touching Jeno’s, but close enough that the air between their fingers felt like it buzzed.

Jeno looked down at the space between their hands. “This is weird, right?”

“Only if you say it out loud like that.”

“I mean… we’re actually getting along.”

Jaemin smiled faintly. “I think I liked you better when you were annoying.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“No,” Jaemin agreed, “I didn’t.”

Jeno’s pinky brushed his, barely. An accident, maybe. Or maybe not.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty. It was heavy in the chest, tight in the throat.

Jaemin let his gaze fall to Jeno’s mouth, just for a moment—then dragged it back up.

Jeno noticed. He swallowed, eyes dark in the moonlight.

“If I said I was glad we’re not fighting anymore…” Jeno murmured, “would that make things weird again?”

“No,” Jaemin said. Then, softer: “It’d make things easier.”

Jeno gave a breathless laugh. “That’s a first.”

They stood a little longer on the bridge, still not quite touching, but not apart either. The air between them was something quiet and new. A moment suspended.

Eventually, Jeno shifted, glancing down the path. “I should get going, we have a lot to do in the next few days” Jaemin nodded, reluctantly stepping back. “Goodnight, Jeno.”

Jeno hesitated. Then, quietly, “Goodnight, Jaemin.”

And with that, they parted—both looking back, just once.

Chapter Text

Jaemin woke up with the sun pouring across his floor and heat blooming across his face.

For a moment, he was caught between dream and memory—Jeno’s voice low beside him in the dark, the flicker of their eyes catching, the air taut with something neither of them dared name. Then he remembered.

He’d almost kissed him.

He buried his face in the pillow with a groan.

“God.”

The word came out muffled, half-mortified, half-delighted. His toes curled under the blanket as the scene replayed in his mind like a reel stuck on loop. That moment, when Jeno had leaned in just enough to tilt the entire world off its axis, and Jaemin had felt his heart jolt so hard it echoed in his fingertips.

He hadn’t kissed him. That was important.

But he had thought about it.

He had wanted to.

And now the memory of it was stamped across his skin, his nerves singing every time he remembered how close they’d been—how good Jeno had looked, all styled hair and quiet confidence and those rolled-up sleeves that made Jaemin’s brain short-circuit.

He sat up too fast, the blanket tangling around his legs. “God,” he said again, rubbing at his face.

He was so screwed.

By the time he pulled himself together enough to shower and get dressed, the memory hadn’t faded. If anything, it had sunk deeper into his bones, showing up in the way he smoothed his hair too carefully, lingered too long choosing a shirt, stared at his own reflection like it might give him answers.

His heart hadn’t stopped fluttering since he woke up. That night had done something irreversible, even if nothing had actually happened. He felt it in the way his hands moved, distracted and unsure, like they were still waiting for something that might never come.

He was halfway through brushing his teeth when the memory of Jeno smiling—softly, gently, like it was just for him—hit again, and Jaemin had to brace both hands against the sink.

“Okay. Get it together.”

Downstairs, the breakfast table was already set.

His grandmother was humming softly as she placed a bowl of rice and soup down in front of him. The scent was familiar and comforting, but Jaemin barely noticed.

He sat down like a ghost in his own body.

“Sleep well?” she asked without looking up.

“Hm?” he blinked. “Oh—Oh-yeah. Fine.”

She glanced at him, pausing. “You look flushed.”

“I’m hot,” Jaemin blurted. “Too warm. I mean—it’s warm today, isn’t it?”

She frowned slightly, glancing out the window at the perfectly mild morning. “Is it?”

“Must be,” he mumbled, poking at his rice.

She watched him for a moment longer before sitting down across from him. “Did something happen?”

“No. Nothing.” A beat. “Just tired.”

The words tumbled out on autopilot as his mind replayed the way Jeno had stood so close, voice low, eyes soft in the lamplight.

His spoon hovered mid-air for a solid thirty seconds before he realised he wasn’t eating.

“Jaemin,” his grandmother said dryly. “Are you sick?”

“No!” he said too quickly. “No, I’m just...thinking.”

She raised an eyebrow.

He shoved a bite of rice in his mouth to avoid further questioning.

The table creaked in the silence. The soup steamed gently. And Jaemin sat there with his face on fire and his thoughts orbiting around a boy who had smiled at him like no one else ever had.

He didn’t know what it meant, not yet.

But whatever it was, they were past pretending nothing was there.

Even if his heart wasn’t quite ready to admit it out loud.

The village was caught in that liminal hush between early errands and proper bustle. A few vendors were starting to open shop along the square, the scent of ground barley tea drifting from a teahouse, and birds chattered in the bare branches overhead.

But Jaemin’s thoughts were elsewhere.

It was stupid. Embarrassing, even.

All night he’d tossed and turned, mind tangled around Jeno—around the almost-touch, the warmth, the spark of something so close he could still feel it on his skin.

He hadn’t said anything. Nothing had happened. But Jaemin had thought about it. About leaning in. About—

He groaned quietly to himself, cheeks pinking as he skirted past a few delivery crates.

Was it all in his head? Had he imagined the look in Jeno’s eyes?

“Get a grip,” he muttered. “You’re not fifteen.”

His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

When he glanced at the screen, a flutter of surprise moved through him.

Jisung.

“Hey,” Jaemin said, already smiling as he answered. “Look who remembered he has a brother.”

“I’ve always had a brother. I just didn’t know he’d turned into Grandma’s replacement,” Jisung shot back without missing a beat.

Jaemin snorted, continuing down the hill toward the square. “It’s called working in fashion artistry, thank you. And I am helping preserve culture.”

“Sure. Meanwhile, I’m being slowly smothered by our parents’ dreams,” Jisung groaned. “Hyung, I’m going to scream. If Mom sends me one more link to a ‘Top Dance-Friendly Universities With Law Programs,’ I’m moving into the mountains.”

“She’s started talking about fallback careers. Like backup plans for my backup plans.”

Jaemin’s steps slowed. “They still giving you crap about the dance thing?”

“They don’t get it. They think it’s a phase, or something I’ll outgrow. And if I try to explain how much I love it, they just nod like I’m speaking a different language.” Jisung sighed. “Honestly, I’m tired. I miss breathing room.”

Jaemin’s throat tightened at the quiet honesty in his voice. “I get that,” he said, softer. “More than you know.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“So… I was thinking,” Jisung ventured, “Could I maybe come up for a bit? Just for the spring. Clear my head. Grandma won’t mind, right?”

Warmth flooded Jaemin’s chest.

“Of course she won’t mind,” he said. “She’ll probably knit you a welcome sweater. You sure you won’t go stir-crazy out here?”

“I’m craving stir-crazy,” Jisung deadpanned. “And also, uh—”

“What?”

“I thought maybe I could help you out at the shop? Like, as a thank-you.”

Jaemin let out a sharp laugh. “Help? Do you not remember the last time you tried to thread a needle?”

“I was thirteen!”

“You stitched your glove to your jeans.”

“That was one time!”

“And you ironed a hole in silk.”

“That—okay, that was bad. But I’m older now. More coordinated. I dance now, hyung. I’ve got refined motor skills.”

Jaemin wiped a tear from his eye. “Yeah, well, keep your refined skills away from the antique silks and we’ll talk.”

Jisung chuckled on the other end. “Deal.”

Their laughter faded into a gentle silence. For a moment, Jaemin stood still in the middle of the square, his world slower and softer than it had been a few minutes ago.

“I’m really glad you called,” he said at last.

“Me too,” Jisung replied. “It’ll be good to see you.”

They said their goodbyes, traded jokes about train times, and Jaemin tucked the phone back into his jacket, a quiet smile still ghosting his lips.

His blush from earlier had faded, replaced now by a steadier warmth.

Family. Hope. Something like healing.

He turned the final corner toward Mi-sook’s café, the air warm with baking bread and the faint scent of cinnamon. 

The small bell above the café door tinkled as Jaemin stepped inside, warmth and sugar wafting into his face like a blanket. He blinked through the sudden shift from brisk spring air to the cozy, golden interior of Mi-sook’s café.

The place was quaint—quaint in the way only places untouched by time could be. Lace doilies layered beneath teacups, embroidered curtains framing the fogged windows, and the sweet scent of roasted barley and steamed milk clinging to everything.

Behind the counter, Mi-sook—short, round, wrapped in pastel knits—beamed when she spotted him.

“Jaemin-ah!” she chirped, arms open like she’d been expecting him all morning. “Come, come, my handsome boy. I’ve been keeping your cornbread warm like gold.”

Jaemin smiled, cheeks pinkening. “Grandma said you made the chestnut kind.”

“She said right,” Mi-sook replied proudly. “I made it extra soft for you. Your grandma said you’ve been working so hard. Look at you, your face is thinner! You boys work yourselves into ghosts.”

Jaemin opened his mouth to protest, but she was already bustling around the counter, tsk-ing under her breath.

“Sit, sit! You’re not leaving without a drink. Your fingers are like icicles.”

“I really can’t stay long, I have to open—”

“Five minutes won’t kill you.” She waved him toward a small table tucked near the corner window, pressing a warm ceramic mug into his hands. “Barley tea. Fresh.”

Resigned, but secretly grateful, Jaemin settled down, the warmth of the tea soaking into his palms. He watched as she returned behind the counter, humming to herself as she wrapped the cornbread in wax paper.

That’s when he heard the voice.

“Well, it’s not ideal,” Ms. Oh was saying from a table just to the left, half-obscured by a potted plant.

Jaemin’s brow furrowed. He leaned ever so slightly.

Jeno sat beside her, hair tousled from the breeze, wearing a brown collared jacket over a white tee, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. A leather-bound planner was open between them, pages fluttering.

“I just wish you’d warned me,” he said, a note of amusement in his tone.

Ms. Oh sighed. “I did. In the text you ignored.”

“Technically, I didn’t ignore it. I… scrolled past it.”

“You’ll do great. They just want a short interview, a few photos. We’ll do it in the Hanok. It’ll be tasteful.”

“I’m not exactly used to posing for magazines,” Jeno said, tapping the edge of the planner. “Especially not next to hundred-year-old roof beams.”

Jaemin smiled faintly, chin resting on his hand. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But Jeno’s voice—soft, low, unguarded—somehow stilled the noise in his head.

He didn’t even realise Mi-sook had returned until she tapped the table with a bright pink paper bag.

“Daydreaming already?” she teased. “What’s got your head in the clouds so early?”

Jaemin startled and quickly straightened. “Ah—nothing! Just… thinking.”

She gave him a look only older women who’d raised half a village could master. “Thinking,” she repeated knowingly. “Well. Make sure your thoughts don’t wander into walls. I remember how clumsy you were as a kid.”

He flushed. “Thanks, Mi-sook.”

She patted his arm fondly. “Come by again tomorrow. I’m testing out a new mugwort recipe.”

Before he could answer, a sharp shriek cut through the café.

Ms. Oh.

Jaemin turned, heart jumping.

Ms. Oh had her phone pressed to her ear, eyes wide. “Oh no. No, no, no—how bad is it?”

Jeno, immediately alert, leaned in as she rose from her seat, worry carved into her face. “Yes—okay. Send me the clinic report when you can. I’ll call back in ten.”

She ended the call and dropped her phone onto the table with a groan, rubbing her temple.

“What happened?” Jaemin asked, already having made his way over to them, now stepping closer.

Both Ms. Oh and Jeno turned to him, startled.

Jeno blinked, visibly caught off guard by how close Jaemin suddenly was.

Jaemin felt his own heart stutter, but he tried to keep his expression neutral.

Ms. Oh looked between them, then blew out a long breath. “One of our main dancers for the Gala—Sunhee—she broke her leg during practice. Spiral fracture. She’s out.”

Jaemin winced. “That’s awful.”

“She was leading the closing performance,” Ms. Oh said. “We don’t have a replacement at that level ready to go on such short notice.”

Jaemin paused. “Actually… I might know someone.”

Both of them turned to him.

“My younger brother,” Jaemin said. “He’s been dancing since middle school. Trained in Seoul. He just called this morning—he’s planning to come up for the spring. Says he wants space… and to help at the shop.”

Jeno tilted his head. “He’s a dancer?”

“Competitive,” Jaemin added. “Trained in both contemporary and traditional forms. He’s good. Really good.”

Ms. Oh perked up. “Would he be open to stepping in?”

“I can ask,” Jaemin said. “He’s eager for a change of scene.”

Ms. Oh looked visibly relieved, already reaching for her planner. “Please do. If he’s half as reliable as you are, we’re in luck.”

From beside her, Jeno gave Jaemin a look, soft, thoughtful. Almost proud.

Jaemin glanced away, ears warm.

The late morning sun spilled warmth across the village streets as the café door swung shut behind them, the soft chime of the bell marking their exit. Ms. Oh had been swept away by phone calls and damage control, leaving Jaemin and Jeno standing outside with takeaway drinks in hand and the paper bag of cornbread tucked under Jaemin’s arm.

They stood in silence for a beat, the wind rustling the budding trees above. The cobbled path stretched gently ahead, leading toward the main street. Neither of them moved at first.

Then Jeno cleared his throat. “You headed toward the shop?”

Jaemin nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Same direction. Mind if I walk with you?”

Jaemin blinked, surprised. “No—uh, sure. Not at all.”

They fell into step side by side, shoes scuffing softly against the cobbled stones. The warmth of the sun bathed the road in soft light, and the breeze carried with it a distant scent of wildflowers. Their shoulders weren’t touching, but the air between them felt close somehow—shared.

They walked quietly for a while, not quite awkward but not entirely easy either, the kind of quiet that came from feeling a little too aware of the other person beside you.

“You mentioned your brother earlier,” Jeno said after a while, glancing sideways. “What’s he like?”

Jaemin’s expression softened. “Jisung? He’s… reserved. Quiet most of the time. He keeps to himself but has this really dramatic way of reacting to the smallest things. Like, if he loses a sock, you’d think the world was ending.”

Jeno chuckled, a sound that made Jaemin glance over at him involuntarily. “Sounds fun.”

Jaemin smiled. “He is. But he’s also thoughtful. Creative. He’s been dancing since he was little. It’s the one thing that pulls him out of his shell. He gets lost in it.”

“That’s cool,” Jeno said, his voice genuinely interested. “Is he planning to dance professionally?”

“He wants to. Our parents aren’t exactly thrilled, though.” Jaemin’s gaze flicked down the path. “They’ve always pushed for more… conventional things.”

“Yeah,” Jeno muttered. “I get that.”

Jaemin looked over, catching something quiet in Jeno’s expression before he added, “He said he wants to come up this spring. Stay with me and Grandma for a while. Get out of the busy life in Seoul.”

“Will he help at the shop?” Jeno asked.

Jaemin laughed. “He offered. But last time he tried, he tripped over a bucket, knocked down a rack of fabric rolls, and nearly set his sleeve on fire with a steamer. So… probably not.”

Jeno laughed too—warm, unguarded—and Jaemin’s chest gave a strange flutter at the sound.

Jeno tilted his head slightly. “You said he lives in Seoul? How come you’re still here?”

Jaemin hesitated, thumb brushing over the corner of the cornbread bag. The wind picked up just a little, curling around them.

“My parents moved to Seoul when I was fourteen,” he said slowly, voice quieter. “My dad got a better job—some corporate firm with a fancy office and bad hours. They were really excited. Thought it was a big step up.” He paused. “I didn’t want to go.”

“Why not?” Jeno asked.

Jaemin exhaled. “I loved it here. The quiet, the hills, the way everyone knew each other. Seoul felt… too fast. Too loud. I didn’t know how to breathe there.”

Jeno didn’t interrupt. He just walked a little slower, so Jaemin could take his time.

“I stayed with my grandma,” Jaemin added. “She offered. Said I was old enough to make the choice. My parents weren’t thrilled, but they let me stay. I think they hoped I’d change my mind.”

“And… you never did?”

“No.” A small smile. “Never wanted to.”

Jeno looked over at him, expression unreadable but soft. “That’s… brave. I don’t think I’d have been able to make that choice at fourteen.”

Jaemin shrugged, but something in his chest stirred. “It wasn’t brave. It was just… obvious. I felt like I belonged here.”

They walked a few more paces before Jaemin dared a glance upward. Jeno’s profile caught the light just right—his lashes casting shadows on his cheek, his mouth slightly parted like he was about to speak again.

They neared the turnoff toward the shop, the familiar storefront coming into view, the old sign above the door slightly faded from years of weather. Jaemin slowed his pace, the quiet weight of the morning still wrapped around them.

They reached the gate when Jaemin paused, half-turned toward Jeno. “By the way,” he said, adjusting the bag in his hands, “we still need to arrange your final fitting.”

Jeno blinked. “Oh—right.”

“It won’t take long,” Jaemin added quickly, suddenly self-conscious. “I just want to make sure everything’s perfect.”

A pause.

Jeno’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable but soft. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Jaemin nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “I’ll let you know.”

“Okay.”

The air between them stretched again, quiet and warm.

Then Jeno gave him a small smile—one of those subtle, lopsided ones—and took a step back. “I’ll see you later.”

Jaemin watched him go for a second longer than he probably should have, then turned toward the shop, heart pattering a little too fast beneath his ribs.

The bell above the door jingled softly as Jaemin slipped into the shop. Sunlight poured through the front windows, catching dust motes midair. The stillness of the space settled around him bolts of fabric neatly stacked, mannequins dressed in half-pinned hanbok, and the comforting smell of starch and old wood.

He set the cornbread down on the counter, peeled off his jacket, and let out a long sigh. His cheeks were still warm from the walk with Jeno. That smile… the sound of his laugh…

Jaemin shook his head quickly and crossed to his workbench, tugging his phone from his pocket.

‘Hey Sungie,  random question. How would u feel about performing in a small local gala? One of the dancers got injured.

They’d probably want something short n graceful but a lil modern.

Before you ask: yes there’ll be free food. and no you don’t have to help at the shop. 😂’

The dots appeared almost instantly, followed by a series of rapid-fire messages.

Jisung: wait what???
a performance?? like on stage?? for people??
also are u serious about the shop bc u literally made me cry last time i touched the button box
also YES i wanna do it. pls say yes. pls.

Jaemin grinned, sending his reply.

‘It’s a yes. Ms Oh will be thrilled. I’ll send details soon. Don’t trip on stage pls.’

Jisung: NO PROMISES 

Jaemin chuckled, pocketing his phone just as the bell over the door rang again.

“Yah!” came a bright, unmistakable voice. “Why do you look like someone just proposed to you with a bouquet of bobbin thread?”

Jaemin groaned even before turning. “Hi, Donghyuck.”

Donghyuck strutted into the shop like he owned it, sunglasses pushed into his hair, the devil’s grin already curling on his lips. “So,” he said, leaning dramatically against the counter, “how’s the cornbread?”

Jaemin deadpanned. “Still in the bag. Which I will use to suffocate you if you don’t leave me alone.”

“Harsh,” Donghyuck clucked, strolling further inside. “But that doesn’t explain why your cheeks are pinker than that cherry silk bolt over there.”

Jaemin busied himself arranging some thread spools. “It’s warm out.”

“Sure. It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain quiet-eyed restoration boy walking you home like it’s a K-drama and your souls are entangled by centuries of fate, right?”

Jaemin’s ears burned. “Donghyuck-”

“What? It's not like you almost kissed him,”

Silence.

Donghyuck gasped, loud and sharp. “Oh my GOD, you did! Or you thought about it! Wait, was it you who leaned in? Or was it him?”

“I didn’t kiss him,” Jaemin muttered, barely audible.

“But you thought about it.”

Jaemin glared at him. “Why are you like this?”

Donghyuck grinned like he was winning a game no one else knew they were playing. “You were definitely picturing it, weren’t you? The hand brush. The soft gaze. Maybe even-”

“Stop talking.”

“Too late. I’m invested now.”

Jaemin huffed, crossing his arms. “It was a moment, okay? One moment. Nothing happened.”

“Yet.” Donghyuck wiggled his eyebrows.

Jaemin flung a spare ribbon at him.

It bounced off Donghyuck’s shoulder with absolutely no dignity, and he caught it midair on the rebound, draping it around his neck like a prize. “So, when’s the next date, hmm?”

Jaemin gave him a look. “It wasn’t a date.”

Donghyuck shrugged. “Right. Just a romantic walk, some shy glances, you imagining his lips-”

“Do you want to die?”

“Honestly, yeah, if it means I get to haunt this shop and watch you pine from the windowsill.”

Jaemin turned away in frustration, rifling unnecessarily through a drawer. Donghyuck leaned across the table, still smirking.

“You at least texted him, right?”

That made Jaemin freeze.

Donghyuck’s grin widened like a predator catching scent. “Wait. Wait- don’t tell me- ”

Jaemin glanced over his shoulder. “I… don’t have his number.”

“You don’t?!” Donghyuck slammed both palms onto the worktable, scandalised. “Jaemin!”

“I didn’t need it!” Jaemin argued defensively. “We see each other at the shop and the events and Ms. Oh is always…”

“You mean to tell me,” Donghyuck said slowly, “you almost kissed this boy, blushed your soul into oblivion, and you can’t even send him a heart emoji because you don’t have his number?”

Jaemin sank slowly into his stool, face in his hands. “Kill me.”

Donghyuck cackled, spinning dramatically on his heel. “Tragic. Absolutely devastating. And romantic in the most painful way.”

“Can you go away now?” Jaemin mumbled into his palms.

“Nope,” Donghyuck chirped. “You’re stuck with me. Until we fix your ridiculous, slow-burn, pining-till-we-die love story.”

Jaemin groaned.

Donghyuck beamed.

Chapter Text

Jaemin sat at the corner of the shop’s worktable, a steaming mug of barley tea cradled in both hands, untouched. The minutes ticked by too slowly and too fast, both at once. He kept glancing at the clock mounted on the wall, eyes darting back to the garment rack just behind him to the final hanbok, hanging quiet and expectant beneath its protective cloth.

Thirty minutes.

His leg bounced uncontrollably beneath the table.

The quiet hum of the morning outside barely registered through the fog in his mind. The usual calm that cloaked the shop was elusive today, replaced by a thrumming pulse that danced behind his ribs and made it difficult to breathe evenly. His fingertips twitched. He hadn’t been able to draw a thing all morning. The sketchpad at his side remained closed, like a secret he was too afraid to reopen.

Because the secret wasn’t just in the sketch anymore. It was stitched into silk and shape and memory.

He’d chosen that design.

The one he saw in his dream or his memory, or whatever strange in-between place his subconscious kept dragging him toward. The dream that left his hands trembling and his chest full of a quiet ache for days. The hanbok from that vision was unlike anything else he had created before… or since.

Layers of deep plum, a hue like bruised twilight. Subtle, elegant structure, an elevated durumagi robe in silhouette, soft in movement, but firm at the shoulder and spine. The clasp across the chest, shaped like an unfurling blossom, not quite a rose, not quite a camellia,  was hand-sculpted from resin and polished until it gleamed like mother-of-pearl. And the embroidery… small, purposeful threads that curled like smoke across the cuffs and the collarbones, stitched in a grey so muted it barely showed unless caught by the light.

He hadn’t told anyone the sketch came from a dream.

And certainly not that the dream had felt like more than just a dream,  vivid in strange ways, laced with emotions he didn’t fully understand, with a love he couldn’t place. A man he couldn’t see clearly, but whose presence felt like something sacred. Familiar.

Still, Jaemin didn’t believe it meant anything specific. Dreams were metaphors. Symbols. Longings his mind dressed up in elaborate stories. That’s all.

It couldn’t be Jeno. That idea was absurd.

Jeno hadn’t seen anything. Hadn’t remembered anything. Jaemin was sure of it, there had been no flickers of recognition, no telltale pause when they touched, no shared thread to follow. Whatever Jaemin’s dreams were, they were his alone.

He exhaled shakily and reached behind him to trail a hand along the hem of the hanbok’s sleeve. The fabric was cool beneath his fingertips. Smooth. Grounding.

He’d told himself this was just about the design that the image had come to him clearly, that it had felt important. But it wasn’t just that.

It felt right for Jeno.

Like it already belonged to him.

And maybe that was the part that scared Jaemin the most, not that Jeno might dislike it, but that he might feel something. Something Jaemin couldn’t explain. Couldn’t bear to question.

He stood suddenly, too restless to keep still, brushing invisible lint from the sleeve. Then he adjusted the shoulder seam. Then the collar. Then back again.

There was no flaw. He’d checked the stitching four times. But his hands wouldn’t stop moving.

What was he expecting, anyway?

That Jeno would see it and somehow understand a language Jaemin didn’t even speak aloud? That he’d recognise emotion woven into thread, longing embroidered across cloth? That he’d reach out and…

Jaemin bit the inside of his cheek.

No. He couldn’t afford to spiral now. Not when Jeno would walk through the door in…he glanced at the clock…twenty-two minutes.

Maybe less. Jeno was always early.

Jaemin grabbed the mug of tea at last and took a too-hot sip. It scalded his tongue and he welcomed the sting.

He paced once around the shop. The hanbok stood quietly on the rack like it had always been there. Like it had been waiting.

He whispered to no one, “Please don’t let me have made a mistake.”

Not with the hanbok.

Not with him.

The bell above the door hadn’t rung yet, but he could feel it coming a shift in the light, a tension in the air like the moment before a summer storm breaks.

Jaemin closed his eyes and inhaled slowly.

Seventeen minutes.

The bell above the shop door chimed, soft and familiar. Jaemin startled where he stood, nearly knocking over a pincushion tray on the worktable. He cursed under his breath and turned, smoothing the front of his shirt with damp palms.

Jeno stood in the doorway, brushing raindrops from the shoulders of his jacket. His cheeks were faintly flushed from the cold, his breath visible in small white clouds as he stepped fully into the warmth of the shop. His hair was mussed like he’d run a hand through it too many times, and his eyes found Jaemin with a sheepish curve of a smile.

“Hey,” he said, voice lower than usual. Almost cautious.

“Hey,” Jaemin echoed, a beat too late. His voice sounded a little too high, a little too tight. He cleared his throat.

For a few long seconds, they just stood there, a small silence stretching between them, not quite comfortable, but not uncomfortable either. Just charged. Like a match resting just a breath away from flame.

Jaemin gestured vaguely toward the back of the shop, then shoved his hands into his pockets. “You’re early.”

“Habit,” Jeno replied, stepping out of his shoes and into the familiar rhythm of the shop’s wooden floor. “Didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

Jaemin offered a tight-lipped smile and nodded once, heart thudding against his ribs. He turned without another word and led the way toward the rear display stand, where the mannequin stood dressed in plum and mystery.

Jeno followed, slower now, his eyes catching on every surface, the half-spilt box of thread near the shelves, the chalk markings on the cutting table, the ghost of something warm and personal in the air.

When Jaemin stopped in front of the mannequin, he hesitated, hand poised at the edge of the protective cover.

“This is it,” he said, more softly than he intended. “Your final fitting.”

He pulled the cover away with a single careful motion.

The hanbok revealed itself like a secret whispered in silk, deep plum and dusk-soft shadows, embroidery curling in silver-grey threads across the chest and cuffs like smoke suspended in time. The blossom clasp glinted quietly at the sternum, and the folds of the fabric caught the light in subdued, elegant ripples.

Jeno didn’t speak at first.

His breath hitched audibly, and Jaemin could feel his stillness. Like all the air had stilled around him.

Then, slowly, Jeno stepped forward, eyes wide with something unnameable, reverence, maybe. Or awe. Or something quieter and deeper.

He reached out, hesitantly, like he was afraid it would vanish if he touched it, then let his fingers skim lightly across the sleeve, the embroidery, the collar. His brows furrowed as if something hurt. Or healed.

“This…” Jeno started, then shook his head. “Jaemin, this is…”

He stopped again, the words caught in his throat.

Jaemin stayed silent, arms crossed tight across his chest, fingers digging into his biceps. He stared at the floor, at the space between them, anything but Jeno’s eyes.

Jeno tried again, voice lower this time. “I don’t have the words. I… I’ve never worn anything like this. It’s beautiful, doesn’t even start to cover it.”

His fingers hovered just above the blossom clasp now. “It’s more than clothing. It feels like…” He stopped again, lost.

Jaemin forced himself to look up.

“To wear something like this,” Jeno went on quietly, “it feels like… being seen. Like someone looked at me and..understood.”

Jaemin’s breath caught.

Jeno looked over at him, something soft and grateful in his expression. “You’re… really talented, Jaemin. I don’t think I’ve said that enough.”

Jaemin’s ears burned instantly. He turned toward the rack behind him and busied his hands unnecessarily, brushing at fabrics that didn’t need brushing.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “You ready to try it on?”

Jeno nodded, still watching the hanbok. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Jaemin moved to lift it carefully from the mannequin, his fingertips brushing the embroidery like it might break. And as he handed it over, their hands touched briefly, almost nothing.

But both of them felt it.

And neither said a word.

Jaemin turned his back, heart already acting out of line as he motioned toward the folding screen.

“You can change over there,” he said, trying to sound casual, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “I’ll wait.”

“Sure,” Jeno replied, taking the hanbok from Jaemin’s hands and disappearing behind the screen. The soft slide of fabric followed.

Jaemin fixed his eyes on the blank wall. Then the floor. Then the spools of thread lined neatly along the table's edge. Anywhere but the silhouette on the other side of the screen. His ears strained anyway, he couldn’t help it. The gentle rustle of fabric as buttons came undone. The unmistakable sound of clothing slipping off skin.

He fiddled with a pair of small shears unnecessarily, pretending to sharpen them. His heartbeat felt loud, like it might give him away.

And then, impulsively, before he could stop himself he turned his head, just a little.

Just enough to see.

And froze.

Jeno stood shirtless, back to the light, the plum silk draped loosely around his arms. His skin was smooth, pale under the wash of sunlight, and the lines of his body were all long muscle and soft definition. He was lean, the kind of naturally athletic build people didn’t know how to dress for unless they were lucky enough to have someone like Jaemin designing for them. His collarbones caught the light. His abs shifted faintly as he adjusted the waistband.

Jaemin blinked…once, twice, then jerked around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.

Oh my god. Oh my god oh my god–

He could feel the heat climbing up his neck, settling in his ears like fire. Why did I look? Why does he look like that? Why does he have to look like that?!

Behind him, the soft sounds of shifting fabric paused.

“You okay?” Jeno called, casual, almost teasing.

Jaemin squeaked. “Fine! Just– just making sure the pins are sharp.”

“Right.”

Silence.

Then the rustle resumed.

When Jeno finally stepped out from behind the screen, Jaemin turned to face him…and all the air left his lungs again.

The hanbok fit nearly perfectly. The deep plum wrapped around Jeno like dusk itself. The embroidery caught the light with each breath he took, and the unfurling blossom clasp lay right at the centre of his chest, delicate yet grounding. He stood taller in it somehow, more grounded, more… himself.

Jeno looked down at himself, turning slightly, examining the fit. “Wow.”

Jaemin nodded mutely, then remembered to speak. “It suits you.”

Jeno looked up, and their eyes met for a beat too long. “Feels like it does.”

They stood like that for a moment, the air softer now, the awkward edges of earlier shifting into something warmer. Tenuous. But real.

“Alright,” Jaemin said quickly, breaking the moment. “Let me check the fit. I’ll just… do the hem first.”

He knelt, pin cushion on his wrist, and carefully tugged the fabric at Jeno’s ankle. His fingers brushed the wool of the trousers beneath, then adjusted the drape of the outer layer. Jeno stayed perfectly still, except for the occasional hitch of breath or soft exhale when Jaemin’s knuckles grazed his leg.

“I’ll take the hem in just a little,” Jaemin murmured, mostly to himself. “It should fall a bit cleaner when you walk.”

He moved upward, circling Jeno like gravity had changed.

Jaemin reached for the side seams, smoothing the plum silk along Jeno’s waist. “Lift your arms slightly.”

Jeno obeyed without speaking.

Jaemin’s fingers worked quickly, checking where the jeogori sat against Jeno’s shoulders. He stepped in closer– closer than he usually let himself, and let his touch linger a second longer than necessary. Measuring. Memorising.

“This fits better than I expected,” Jaemin said, his voice softer now. “I might not have to adjust much.”

“You said that last time,” Jeno replied, his voice just as quiet. “And then you adjusted everything anyway.”

Jaemin chuckled. “That’s called perfectionism.”

“I’d call it caring too much.”

Jaemin looked up, startled. Jeno was already watching him.

He looked away quickly, refocusing on the embroidery near the collar. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Jeno said, a little too fast. “It’s… admirable.”

Jaemin pretends to fix a thread that didn’t need fixing.

They stood in silence again, close enough for Jaemin to catch the scent of him, something clean and woodsy, subtle like cedar soap and faint cologne.

“So… your brother,” Jeno said. “Jisung, right?”

Jaemin nodded, grateful for the change in subject. “Yeah. He’s excited to visit.”

“You said he's quiet?”

“Quiet, dramatic, and very much convinced the world revolves around him,” Jaemin said fondly. “He’s a dancer. Amazing one, actually. He’s trying to get into an academy program soon.”

“That’s cool,” Jeno said, genuinely. “What kind of dance?”

“Contemporary mostly. Some hip-hop and freestyle. He’s the kind of kid who can’t sit still for more than five minutes unless he’s watching videos of himself.”

Jeno smiled. “Sounds like he’ll make things interesting around here.”

“He’s also volunteered to help out at the shop,” Jaemin added, dryly. “Which I’m terrified about.”

Jeno raised a brow. “Why?”

“Last time he was here, he knocked over my entire silk drawer trying to get a snack. I told him not to bring food into the workspace. He said, and I quote– ‘Art requires fuel, and my soul requires honey bread.’”

Jeno laughed, bright and surprised. “I think I like him already.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Jaemin said, biting back a smile. “He’ll never leave.”

Another silence stretched between them, but this one felt different, lighter. Steady.

Jaemin took a breath. “Alright. Everything looks great. Just a few pins for adjustment.”

Jaemin returned with a small tin of pins balanced in his palm, shaking off the warmth still buzzing through his fingers. The hanbok gleamed quietly under the lights, plum and silver and dusk all wrapped around the shape of Jeno like something sacred.

He stepped forward, focused on the task, pretending he didn’t feel like his heart had been replaced by a bird in his chest.

“Okay, hold still,” he murmured, lifting his hands.

Jeno did, standing calm and composed, arms at his sides, eyes following Jaemin.

Jaemin leaned in, fingers smoothing out the folds of the jeogori along Jeno’s chest. The fabric was soft beneath his palms, and beneath that, the steady thrum of a heartbeat. It echoed under Jaemin’s skin like it belonged to him too.

And then, all at once, Jeno’s shoulders stiffened just barely, a subtle shift beneath Jaemin’s hands.

He stilled. “Did I– ? Did I poke you or something?”

“No,” Jeno said, voice low. Quiet. “It’s fine.”

Jaemin looked up. And froze.

Jeno was already staring at him. Not in confusion or idle curiosity, but with something unguarded, like sunlight filtering through a window cracked open.

Jaemin’s hands faltered, stilling right where they rested.

He hadn’t realised how close they were. Inches. Their breath mingled in the quiet air between them, soft and warm.

Time slowed.

Jeno’s eyes flicked from Jaemin’s eyes to his lips, then back. Not obvious. Just barely. But Jaemin saw it.

Felt it.

He inhaled, but the air caught in his throat.

No one moved.

The world outside the shop went silent, like even the wind held its breath.

Jaemin’s heart pounded, echoing in his ears, in his ribs, in his wrists. His gaze dropped for a single, dangerous second to Jeno’s mouth. And then…

They leaned in. Barely, almost imperceptibly, like gravity was trying to pull them together inch by delicate inch. Jaemin’s fingers clenched faintly into the silk, trying to anchor himself. His eyes fluttered–

The bell above the shop door screamed to life.

They shot apart like they'd been electrocuted.

Jaemin nearly dropped the tin of pins, catching it at the last second as he stumbled back. Jeno stepped to the side, awkward and sharp, one hand raking through his hair as he turned his back with a cough that sounded far too casual.

“Wow,” came Donghyuck’s voice, exasperated and loud. “Did I interrupt a heart attack or an almost make-out?”

Jaemin whirled around, flushing so hard it reached his collarbones. “What the hell, Hyuck?! You nearly gave me a stroke!”

Donghyuck raised both brows as he let the door swing shut behind him. “I knew something was going on. That tension in the air? Thicker than the custard tarts at Granny Cho’s. Yikes.”

“We weren’t– !” Jaemin flailed, then clutched the pin tin to his chest like a shield. “Nothing was happening.”

Jeno didn’t say anything. He had his back to them still, fingers flexing at his sides, probably trying to piece together whatever that almost had been.

Donghyuck looked far too amused for anyone’s safety. “If that’s what nothing looks like, I’m going to need to walk in on more nothings.”

Jaemin groaned, hiding his face behind one hand.

Jeno finally turned, eyes lowered, but his cheeks betrayed him with a blush that spread over his cheekbones like wildfire. “It’s fine,” he said. “You have good timing, Donghyuck.”

“I usually do,” Donghyuck said smugly. “You’re welcome. Anyway, was passing by. Thought I’d drop off the flyers Ms. Oh wanted printed. And maybe catch some drama. Lucky me.”

Jaemin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “unholy menace” under his breath and shoved the pins back onto the table.

Donghyuck leaned in as he passed, whispering into Jaemin’s ear with a smirk, “Don’t worry. I’ll let you get back to the nothing you were doing.”

Jaemin swatted at him half-heartedly, still half-floating from what had almost happened… and half-wishing Donghyuck had arrived just thirty seconds later.

Donghyuck stood at the shop door, hand poised on the handle, flyers now deposited on the table, still very much basking in the glow of being exactly the chaos he lived to be.

“Well,” he chirped, stepping out onto the threshold. “Don’t let me interrupt the romance any longer. But, Jaemin–” he glanced over his shoulder, voice too casual, too loud– “maybe get his number before you try kissing him again, yeah?”

The door slammed shut behind him with a merry jingle, leaving behind a silence so thick it could have been sewn into the air.

Jaemin stood frozen, staring at the door like it might open again and swallow him whole.

Jeno didn’t move for a second. Then he chuckled, low and brief, a breath of sound that felt like a warm wind in the quiet room.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this red before,” he said gently.

Jaemin turned slowly, fingers clenched tightly around the fabric resting on the table. “I might die,” he whispered. “I actually might.”

Jeno’s smile, when he met Jaemin’s eyes, was softer than expected. His gaze dropped to the hem of the jeogori where Jaemin had pinned a fold just moments before, then lifted again, careful. Kind.

Jaemin turned around slowly, forcing himself to meet Jeno’s gaze, expecting teasing. But instead, Jeno was smiling, soft and kind, his gaze holding no judgment, only something Jaemin couldn’t name.

“You okay?” Jeno asked.

“No,” Jaemin said honestly. “Absolutely not. That was… I mean, he– God, that was so embarrassing.”

Jeno tilted his head, something playful in the curve of his mouth. “I don’t know,” he said, “I didn’t mind the idea.”

Jaemin blinked.

Jeno’s cheeks coloured, the admission catching up to him half a second later. “I mean– , I just meant…”

Jaemin let out a small, strangled laugh, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple. “We are the worst at this.”

Jeno grinned. “Yeah. Kind of.”

They stood there in the hum of aftershock and silence. Jaemin let himself exhale, felt his shoulders drop a little.

Then Jeno held out his phone.

“Before Donghyuck storms in here again with more public service announcements,” he said, smiling, gentle, just a little shy…“maybe we should actually swap numbers?”

Jaemin blinked down at the screen, then up at Jeno again, heart thudding in his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, okay.”

They exchanged phones like it was something ceremonial. Jaemin quickly typed in his number, then stared for a second too long at Jeno’s contact name before handing it back. Jeno looked at his screen, thumbed in a quick message, Jaemin’s phone buzzed a second later.

Jeno: "So I don’t have to ambush you at the shop anymore."

Jaemin’s fingers hovered over his screen, and then he replied without thinking:

Jaemin: "You can still ambush me."

Jeno looked up. Their eyes met, and the air between them stilled for a moment.

They stood there for a long second, close but not touching. The echo of something almost-lived still lingered in the air, ghostlike and golden.

Jaemin took a small step forward, reaching for the seam along Jeno’s shoulder. “Let me just unpin this part,” he murmured, fingers steady even as his heart tripped over itself again. “You can change in the back.”

Jeno nodded, gaze never quite leaving Jaemin’s face.

He stepped away, disappeared behind the screen, the quiet swish of fabric signaling the slow, careful undoing of a memory Jaemin wasn’t sure how to hold.

When Jeno returned, the hanbok folded neatly in his arms, the silence between them had shifted again awkward but warm, unspoken things still trailing behind them like loose threads.

Jaemin reached for the hanbok, brushing fingers with Jeno’s as he took it. The contact was barely there, but it sparked all the same.

“Thanks for today,” Jeno said softly.

Jaemin nodded, eyes darting to Jeno’s mouth for a flicker of a second before he caught himself. “Of course. I’ll finish the last adjustments in a few days.”

Jeno hesitated by the door, one hand resting lightly on the frame. “Text me when it’s ready. I’ll… look forward to seeing you again.”

And with that..he was gone.

The bell rang gently in his wake, quieter this time, like even it understood something delicate had just passed through.

Jaemin stood in the quiet that followed, arms still folded around the hanbok, his phone buzzing faintly in his palm from the last message.

He looked down at it. Then smiled.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, Donghyuck’s voice echoed—

“Maybe get his number before you try kissing him again.”

Maybe next time, he’d even get to finish leaning in.

Chapter Text

The house was quiet when Jaemin stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a gentle thud. The low hum of the evening cicadas filtered in through the slightly ajar kitchen window, their rhythm as steady and nostalgic as breath. His grandmother was already asleep, the soft shuffle of her slippers and the murmured warmth of her goodnight hours behind him now.

He moved almost absently to his desk in the corner of his room, the final fitting of Jeno’s hanbok still clinging to his skin like warm water. His fingertips buzzed with the ghost of fabric—of the way it had rested over Jeno’s chest, how he had held his breath to trace the lines of it into place. That stillness between them. That almost.

Jaemin sat down, carefully placing the fabric swatches and pin tin beside his sketchpad. He didn’t open it. Not yet. Instead, his gaze drifted to the hanbok folded neatly on the mannequin across the room—the one that had started it all. The one he had dreamed of. Drawn from memory he didn’t recognise, stitched with instinct rather than design.

Something in his chest pulled tight.

He stood slowly and walked to it. Reached out, thumb grazing the edge of the embroidered collar. The deep plum silk was cool beneath his touch, but something in his mind… warmed.

His eyes fluttered shut.

And then—like ink bleeding across water—he remembered.

It had been dusk.

Golden light had poured through the open lattice windows, spilling across the worn floorboards of the old tailoring room in soft puddles. The air had smelled faintly of dye and pressed linen, of early summer. He’d stood there, palms slightly clammy, heart thudding in his throat.

Before him stood the man he loved.

He couldn't see his face—never could, not fully—but he remembered the way he stood: a kind of effortless grace, even in nervousness. His lover’s hands were uncalloused, his sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms kissed by sunlight.

Jaemin—past Jaemin—had reached out and lifted the garment with careful hands.

“I want you to have this,” he had said softly.

The hanbok was a deep plum shade, dyed painstakingly from petals he’d ground himself. The embroidery—threads of silver and pale grey—curved like a whispered secret across the cuffs and chest. A clasp sat at the centre, shaped like an unfurling blossom. A promise. A blooming.

The man had taken it slowly, reverently, his eyes wide with something between awe and disbelief.

“You made this?” he’d asked, voice quiet.

Jaemin had nodded. “For you.”

There was a pause, and then a smile.

That smile.

That’s what came back to him first—vivid and glowing.

The soft crease of his lover’s eye when he smiled, as if it was an expression he reserved only for Jaemin. A warmth that made his knees weaken.

And beneath one eye, just barely visible in the low light: a small, dark mole. Delicate. Familiar.

Jaemin’s breath caught.

He remembered that mole.

He remembered touching it with his thumb once, after a kiss in the dark. He remembered thinking it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He remembered wanting to sketch it so he’d never forget where it lived.

But he had forgotten—until now.

And now…

He opened his eyes.

The room around him was quiet again, the present folding back into place like a book softly shut. But something inside him remained open.

The plum hanbok stood silent on the mannequin, and Jaemin stared at it with new eyes.

A smile with a crease at the edge.

A mole just beneath the eye.

His heart thundered in his chest.

The late afternoon sun streamed in warm slats through the workshop’s wide windows, casting golden stripes across the scattered papers, steaming mugs, and idle hands resting around the long, shared table. Jaemin sat between Mark and Donghyuck, his sketchbook flipped open but long abandoned. Across the room, bent over a lacquered wooden panel, Jeno worked with silent focus, the tip of his brush gliding with steady precision along a groove no one else seemed to see.

“I still think we should have a dress rehearsal for the opening night,” Ms. Oh was saying, her pen tapping against her clipboard. “Especially now that the photographer from the magazine confirmed they’ll attend. And with Jisung joining the dance group, it’s even more important we don’t have surprises.”

Jaemin nodded distractedly, chewing on the end of his pen. “I’m not sure when he’s getting here, though. Grandma’s van is still in the shop, and without it, I can't go pick him up like I usually do.”

Ms. Oh frowned. “That’s cutting it close, dear.”

Donghyuck’s head snapped up like a fox catching the scent of mischief. A glint of glee sparked in his eyes.

“Oh,” he said, stretching the word until it dripped with intention. “That’s a shame. If only someone here had a car… and flexible weekends… and maybe, I don’t know, a soft spot for beautiful hanbok designers.”

Jaemin froze, eyes widening.

Mark didn’t even look up from his phone. “Don’t.”

But Donghyuck was already leaning back in his chair, hands cupped dramatically around his mouth.

“Jeno!”

Across the room, Jeno startled slightly and looked up, brow raised.

“Yeah?”

Donghyuck grinned. “What are you doing this weekend?”

Jeno glanced back at the lacquer panel, unsure. “Uh… not much?”

“Perfect,” Donghyuck beamed. “You’re driving Jaemin to Seoul to pick up his brother.”

Jaemin nearly dropped his pen.

Ms. Oh didn’t even blink. “That’s a great idea.”

“What?!” Jaemin yelped, turning to Donghyuck in horror.

“You said you can’t go, he’s got a car, you both clearly enjoy awkward silences together—seems like fate,” Donghyuck said smugly, sipping from his iced tea.

Jeno looked between them, a little startled, but not… annoyed. “I mean. If you need a ride,” he offered, eyes flicking to Jaemin, a tentative smile touching his mouth. “I don’t mind.”

Jaemin could feel the back of his ears heating. He swallowed, caught somewhere between flustered and betrayed. “I—uh—I mean, if it’s not too much trouble…”

“It’s really not,” Jeno said, more firmly now. “Just let me know the time.”

Donghyuck leaned forward, stage-whispering to Mark. “I should start charging a matchmaking fee.”

Mark swatted at him without looking. “You’re the worst.”

Jaemin sighed and slumped forward into his arms on the table, hiding his flaming face. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Donghyuck said cheerfully. “You just hate how much you like him.”

Ms. Oh chuckled, already scribbling something on her clipboard. “Then it’s settled. Jisung will arrive this weekend, and Jeno will play chauffeur.”

Across the room, Jeno dipped his brush into lacquer again, but Jaemin caught the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was soft. Pleased. And it made something in Jaemin’s chest flutter uneasily.

The sun had dipped lower now, casting long amber rays through the front windows of the studio. Most of the volunteers had trickled out, and the clinking of tools and murmured chatter had faded into a warm, companionable silence.

Jaemin hovered near the edge of the table where Jeno was now finishing up his restoration work, cloth wiping over the final layer of lacquer. He shifted awkwardly on his feet before clearing his throat.

Jeno glanced up, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Hey.”

Jaemin offered a small smile, thumb brushing anxiously over the hem of his sleeve. “Hey… uh. Just wanted to check… about the Seoul trip. Are you sure you’re okay with it? I know it’s a bit out of the way.”

Jeno tilted his head a little, like the question genuinely confused him. “Of course I’m sure. I wouldn’t have said yes if I wasn’t.” His voice was warm but calm, easy.

Jaemin nodded, gaze flicking down. “Right. I just… didn’t want to assume. I know we’ve been around each other more lately, but it’s still…”

“New?” Jeno finished gently.

Jaemin gave a sheepish little laugh. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence between them, comfortable but charged. Then Jaemin glanced up again, meeting Jeno’s eyes. “Can I… do anything to return the favour?”

Jeno blinked, then a slow, lopsided smile curled across his face. He didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said simply.

Jaemin perked up, unsure. “Yeah?”

“Go on a date with me.”

It took half a second for the words to land.

And then Jaemin felt like all the air had been knocked from his lungs.

His eyes widened, lips parting just slightly. “I—what?”

Jeno chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck but not looking away. “That’s what I want in return. Just… a date. With you.”

Jaemin’s heart was suddenly too loud in his ears. He blinked at Jeno, heat rushing into his cheeks so fast it was almost dizzying. “I—uh—are you—serious?”

“Dead serious,” Jeno said, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly with that quiet confidence he wore so effortlessly. “But only if you want to.”

Jaemin stared for a moment longer before finally nodding, voice barely a breath. “Okay. Yeah. I want to.”

The smile that bloomed on Jeno’s face made Jaemin’s stomach flip.

“Cool,” Jeno said. “Then I’ll pick you up Saturday morning? We can head out early and maybe stop somewhere fun before picking up your brother.”

Jaemin nodded quickly, too flustered to trust himself to say anything else. “Yeah. That sounds good. Great.”

They exchanged a few more details—what time, where to meet—but Jaemin barely remembered any of it. All he could think about was the look on Jeno’s face when he’d asked.

And the way his own heart hadn’t hesitated to say yes.

Jaemin stared at the shirts spread out on his bed like they were mocking him.

It was a date. A real date. Jeno had said the words—“Go on a date with me.” Just like that. Cool and casual, like he hadn’t just launched Jaemin into a 72-hour-long spiral of wardrobe meltdowns, heart palpitations, and daydreams that kept derailing his every waking thought.

He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I’m going to combust.”

He was due to be picked up in under an hour. Jeno was driving him to Seoul so he could collect Jisung, sure, but before that, they had plans. Together. Somewhere fun, Jeno had said. An actual day together. And Jaemin, like an idiot, had said yes. Not that he regretted it—he just hadn’t slept properly since.

He grabbed his phone and dialed without hesitation.

Donghyuck picked up on the third ring. “Tell me why you’re calling me before 9 a.m. on a Saturday,” he mumbled. “I’m still horizontal.”

“I don’t know what to wear,” Jaemin blurted.

A pause. Then Donghyuck’s voice perked up, interest immediately piqued. “Oh my god. It’s date day.”

Jaemin flopped onto the bed, face first. “It’s not just date day, Hyuck. It’s first date day. First real, full, he-asked-me-out-and-I-said-yes date day.”

“Right,” Donghyuck said, deadpan. “Because the emotional tension, flirty lingering stares, and almost-kiss didn’t already confirm that.”

“I’m serious,” Jaemin whined into his pillow. “This is actual pressure. There’s car proximity. Playlist politics. And snack choices.”

“Jaemin.”

“I can’t pick a shirt.”

Donghyuck sighed like he was being forced to solve international crises before coffee. “All right. What are we working with?”

Jaemin sat up and listed the contenders. White linen. Blue stripes. Navy button-down. They were all wrong for different reasons.

After some bickering and deliberation, Donghyuck made the final call. “Pale sage button-down. It makes your skin look like you moisturise and drink water and know how to text back within a normal timeframe.”

Jaemin huffed a laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m helpful. You’re welcome. Now—pants?”

“Black slacks. Slightly cropped.”

“Perfect. Add a belt or something. Cologne. Not too much. You want him to lean in, not pass out. Lip balm. For you know what.”

Jaemin hesitated. “What if I mess it up?”

“You won’t.”

“What if I say something stupid or get too nervous and forget how to act normal?”

“Jaemin.”

He blinked at the tone—soft, warm, sure. “Yeah?”

“He asked you out. He wants you. Nervous, flustered, overthinking you. That’s the whole point. Just let yourself enjoy it.”

Jaemin’s throat tightened unexpectedly. He nodded, even though Donghyuck couldn’t see. “Okay.”

“You’ve got this.”

A small smile broke across Jaemin’s face. “Thanks.”

“Now go get ready, pretty boy. And remember: you’re not just picking up your brother. You’re riding shotgun with a man who’s been trying not to kiss you for over a week.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too.”

Jaemin hung up feeling significantly less like a human disaster.

He turned to the mirror, smoothing his shirt down and brushing a hand through his hair. Just enough curl, just enough volume. Chill. Charming. Date-worthy.

He checked the time. Jeno would be there soon.

And for once, Jaemin felt just the tiniest bit ready for whatever came next.

The knock on the door came precisely at 10:01 a.m.

Jaemin froze halfway through lacing his shoes. His stomach flipped. He stood up so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, then darted into the hallway—only to find that he was too late.

His grandmother had already opened the door.

“Jeno!” she beamed, reaching out to clasp his hands in hers as if he were a long-lost grandson rather than a friend of Jaemin’s. “Oh, you look so handsome! Look at you! What do you feed him in that shop, Jaemin-yah?”

Jaemin rounded the corner, immediately horrified. “Halmeoni—!”

Jeno, for his part, was laughing gently, cheeks tinged with pink. He was dressed in simple black jeans and a cream-coloured shirt layered under a slightly oversized dark denim jacket, and Jaemin had to grip the doorframe for a second. His hair was slightly pushed back, neat but soft, and there was that easy, quiet warmth about him that always made Jaemin’s pulse trip.

“Good morning,” Jeno greeted, bowing politely to her before smiling at Jaemin. “Ready to go?”

“Y-Yeah,” Jaemin muttered, practically pushing his grandmother back inside. “We won’t be late, don’t wait up, bye!”

“Drive safe, boys!” she called after them, clearly delighted. “Jeno, make him eat something! And don’t let him sulk if he gets carsick!”

Jaemin groaned into his hands once they reached the car. “I’m going to have to move.”

“She’s cute,” Jeno said, unlocking the passenger side for him. “I think she likes me.”

“She likes feeding people. You’re not special.”

Jeno just smiled again, and Jaemin looked away quickly, heart rattling like a coin in a tin.

They got in, the silence comfortable despite the tension threading beneath it. As Jeno started the engine, Jaemin stole another glance at him, unable to stop himself. The sunlight caught on Jeno’s jawline, the bridge of his nose, the relaxed focus in his eyes.

He looked really good.

And then Jeno glanced over at him—and held his gaze for just a second too long.

Jaemin swallowed.

“What?” he asked, voice soft, caught between self-conscious and genuinely curious.

Jeno smiled faintly, a little lopsided. “Nothing. You just—look nice.”

Jaemin’s ears burned. “I—yeah. So do you. Obviously. I mean not obviously—just—anyway, where are we going?”

Jeno grinned wider, eyes back on the road now. “You’ll see.”

Jaemin blinked. “So it’s a secret?”

“Something like that.”

He turned on the radio, letting a quiet playlist fill the car. The sky was clear, the trees just beginning to bloom along the edges of the road as they drove out of town.

Jaemin settled back into the seat, heart still fluttering, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

The soft hum of tires on tarmac filled the quiet between them. The sky was clear and pale, and Jaemin watched the sun-dappled trees passing by through the window, trying to calm the ridiculous flutter in his chest.

He shifted slightly in his seat and risked a glance toward Jeno, who was focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. His sleeves were rolled up just a little, and the sunlight caught the faint curve of his smile.

Jaemin swallowed. “So… you’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?”

Jeno glanced over, lips tugging higher at the corners. “And ruin the surprise?”

Jaemin huffed a small laugh, tucking his hands in his lap. “I don’t do well with surprises.”

“Noted,” Jeno replied, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “But I think you might like this one.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it made Jaemin all too aware of how close they were in the small car. He fiddled with the hem of his sleeve and tried to sound casual. “I, uh… I still can’t believe you actually asked me.”

“Asked you?”

Jaemin glanced over. “To come with you. Like this.”

Jeno’s gaze flicked toward him for a moment. “You didn’t seem that surprised.”

“I was,” Jaemin admitted, quieter now. “Still kind of am.”

Jeno gave a small, sheepish laugh. “I almost didn’t.”

Jaemin blinked. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe you wouldn’t say yes.”

Jaemin looked down at his hands, a smile curling at his lips despite himself. “I’m glad I did.”

For a moment, the only sound in the car was the soft music playing on the radio and the quiet rhythm of the road.

Jaemin cleared his throat, his voice lighter this time. “You always this mysterious, by the way?”

“Only on weekends.”

Jaemin laughed, covering his face for a second. “Okay, that was actually kind of smooth.”

“Kind of?”

“I’m not giving you full points unless you actually tell me where we’re going.”

“Nice try,” Jeno said, stealing another glance at him, eyes crinkling just a bit. “You’ll find out soon.”

Jaemin leaned back in his seat with a dramatic sigh, letting his head tilt toward the window again. But his heart felt less tangled than before. There was something steady about Jeno. Something quietly reassuring beneath the bashfulness.

Jaemin glanced at him again, more curious now than flustered. “So... you’re from Seoul, right?”

Jeno nodded. “Born and raised.”

“Must’ve been a bit of a shock coming out here, then.”

“A little,” Jeno said, eyes scanning the road. “It’s slower. But I think I needed slower.”

Jaemin tilted his head. “Why’d you leave?”

Jeno paused, then gave a small smile. “Big city burnout. Plus, the work I do—restoration, archival stuff—it feels more meaningful out here. People care more about keeping history alive. Not just... displaying it.”

Jaemin blinked, unexpectedly moved by that.

“Sorry, that was weirdly deep,” Jeno added, laughing awkwardly.

“No, I liked it,” Jaemin said, meaning it. “You’re kind of full of surprises.”

Jeno glanced at him again, smirking. “So are you.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the grin that followed.

The car continued down the winding road, fields giving way to rolling hills, the sky opening up wide above them.

And even though they weren’t saying anything overt, even though the air between them was filled more with glances and half-smiles than declarations, Jaemin felt something settle.

Something that whispered: I like this.

Jaemin squinted out the window as the car rumbled to a stop on a patch of uneven gravel. Beyond the windshield stretched a narrow dirt path, flanked by wild grass and scattered trees, but no signs, no buildings, no clear indication of where they were.

He blinked. “So… this is where you murder me.”

Jeno let out a startled laugh as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”

“I mean, you did say it was a surprise.” Jaemin’s grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Could be romantic, could be a crime scene.”

“I’ll let you decide in a minute,” Jeno replied, stepping out of the car and circling to the back. Jaemin followed him, brushing invisible dust from his pants and casting a final, curious glance around.

Jeno popped the trunk and pulled out a neatly packed canvas bag. It had a rolled-up blanket strapped to the top, the soft fabric looking slightly worn from use.

“Okay, now I’m intrigued,” Jaemin said, eyeing the bag.

Jeno just smiled and nodded for him to follow. “C’mon. It’s not far.”

The path wound gently through the trees, overgrown in parts but clearly trodden. Jaemin trailed behind, the soft crunch of his footsteps mixing with the breeze that rustled through the tall grass. The air smelled like early summer — fresh, earthy, tinged with wildflowers.

And then, after a bend in the path, the trees gave way to a quiet clearing.

Jaemin stopped in his tracks.

A pavilion stood at the edge of the hill, weathered but proud. Its wooden beams were softened by time, a few tiles missing from the curved roof, but the structure still held its shape — elegant, unmistakably Joseon. Its eaves reached out like arms mid-embrace, and from where it stood, the land dropped into sweeping fields and low, misty mountains on the horizon.

Jaemin's breath caught.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Stepping onto the creaking platform, Jeno spoke softly. “I found it a few years back when I was doing an area surveillance trip for work. It’s not on the registry, no signage. Basically abandoned.”

He turned to look at Jaemin with a soft smile. “But it felt too… special to forget. I thought you’d like it.”

Jaemin stepped forward slowly, eyes tracing every beam, every paint-faded carving. The pavilion was crumbling in places, vines curling at the corners, but it was still breathtaking.

“I love it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jeno was already unrolling the blanket across the centre of the pavilion, smoothing it carefully to avoid any splinters. Then he knelt down and began unpacking the bag, box after box of food, a small thermos, and bottles of cold tea. And then—

Jaemin’s heart did something traitorous.

“Is that…?” he asked, pointing.

Jeno held up a carefully wrapped paper bundle and grinned. “Cornbread. From the café. The one you like.”

“You remembered?” Jaemin blinked again, warmth flooding his chest faster than he could handle.

“Of course I did,” Jeno said, still smiling, his voice almost shy now. “You looked like you could cry when that lady handed it to you.”

“I was just hungry,” Jaemin muttered.

“Sure.”

They settled down side by side, the food laid out between them, the breeze fluttering gently at the corners of the blanket. Above them, the rafters creaked, birds chirped somewhere nearby, and the whole world felt… paused.

“I can’t believe you brought me here,” Jaemin said, glancing sideways. “This is… really something.”

“I thought,” Jeno said, meeting his eyes for just a moment, “you probably spend so much time making beautiful things for other people… someone should take you somewhere beautiful to.”

Jaemin didn’t say anything for a moment. He couldn’t.

Instead, he just smiled—soft, warm, and a little flustered—and picked up a piece of cornbread to hide it.

The cornbread was slightly warm from the thermos wrap, soft at the centre and crumbly at the edges. Jaemin took a bite to avoid saying something embarrassingly heartfelt. Jeno poured them both some tea from the thermos—chrysanthemum by the smell of it—and handed Jaemin a cup without looking up.

They sat side by side, cross-legged on the blanket, the food spread between them, the view stretching endlessly in front of them.

For a few minutes, there was only the occasional sound of birdsong and the wind slipping through the grass.

“So,” Jeno said at last, a little hesitant. “Did I completely overdo it?”

Jaemin blinked, startled. “What?”

“This.” Jeno gestured around them. “I know it’s kind of… extra. Dragging you out into the middle of nowhere for a picnic.”

Jaemin turned toward him, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s definitely extra,” he said, and Jeno winced with a laugh.

“But,” Jaemin continued, “it’s also kind of perfect.”

Jeno glanced at him, a little taken aback.

“I don’t remember the last time someone did something like this for me,” Jaemin said, more quietly. “It’s usually me doing the planning. Or the giving.”

He didn’t mean it to come out so raw, but the honesty slipped free in the comfort of the breeze and the warmth of the sun. There was something about the quiet out here, the distance from everything, that made it easier to say things he might otherwise keep locked away.

Jeno nodded slowly. “I kinda figured that.”

Jaemin looked over.

“You’re always looking after everyone else,” Jeno said. “Your grandmother. Your brother. Ms. Oh. Even Donghyuck, and that’s probably a full-time job on its own.”

Jaemin laughed at that, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening.

“So yeah,” Jeno said, picking at the edge of a napkin, “I wanted to do something for you. Something that didn’t ask anything from you.”

Jaemin was quiet again. He fiddled with his cup, unsure what to say, the emotions rising uncomfortably high in his chest. Jeno didn’t ask for thanks, and he didn’t gloat. He just sat there, letting Jaemin feel safe.

And Jaemin realised something.

“You always notice things,” he said, half-wondering.

Jeno tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Jaemin looked down at his cup again. “I mean, the cornbread. The pavilion. Even the hanbok fitting… You knew I was nervous, didn’t you?”

Jeno didn’t answer right away, but his smile softened.

“I pay attention,” he said simply. “Especially to you.”

Jaemin’s breath caught for half a second.

He busied himself with a rice ball instead of replying.

There was a silence again, not uncomfortable now, but lingering. Heavy in the space between them.

Then Jeno asked, quieter, “Are you glad you came?”

Jaemin smiled, turning his head toward the view. “I’m really glad.”

“I was nervous, honestly,” Jeno admitted. “I mean, I asked you out and then basically kidnapped you with a picnic basket. Not my smoothest moment.”

Jaemin laughed again, this time with less restraint. “You’re smoother than you think.”

Jeno looked at him.

Jaemin met his eyes and said, a little softer, “Even if I didn’t want to admit it out loud.”

A pause.

Then, Jeno said, “So it’s definitely a date then?”

Jaemin’s ears went red.

“Yes,” he said. “You asked, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jeno murmured. “Glad I did.”

Another pause. A bit more charged this time.

Jaemin glanced at him sidelong. “You’re braver than I thought.”

Jeno let out a breath of a laugh. “You have no idea how many times I talked myself out of it before I actually said anything.”

“Well,” Jaemin said, half-teasing, half-earnest, “you did good.”

Their shoulders were almost brushing now. The picnic blanket shifted slightly with the wind. Jaemin looked down, saw their hands resting near each other between them, close enough that if he shifted just slightly…

He didn’t.

But his pinky finger bumped against Jeno’s by accident.

He didn’t move it.

Jeno didn’t either.

The light filtered through the lattice of the worn pavilion roof, casting patterns that danced over their faces. The wind had quieted, replaced by a gentler stillness, like even the trees were holding their breath.

Neither of them moved their hands.

Jeno’s voice came softer now, nearly a whisper. “Can I ask you something kind of… personal?”

Jaemin’s throat felt suddenly tight. He nodded.

“What made you stay?” Jeno asked. “In the village, I mean. When your family moved away.”

It wasn’t the question Jaemin expected, and maybe that’s why it landed the way it did. Deep and deliberate. His eyes didn’t leave the space between them, where their fingers still lingered close.

“My parents didn’t get it,” Jaemin said after a moment. “They thought this place was too small for me. But it didn’t feel small to me.”

He glanced at Jeno, testing, but Jeno was just watching him. Carefully. Quietly.

“This was the first place I ever felt like I belonged,” Jaemin said, voice low. “Even if it wasn’t always kind. Even if it’s changed.”

“You still love it,” Jeno said, not as a question but a knowing observation.

“I do,” Jaemin admitted. “And I wanted to build something here. I think… I think I was tired of running from myself.”

Jeno looked like he understood that more than he wanted to say.

“And you?” Jaemin asked. “You’re from Seoul, right? What made you stay here after the project?”

Jeno let out a slow breath, eyes drifting out across the swaying fields.

“I came because I thought it’d be temporary. Something I could add to my portfolio before going back to the real world.”

“And?”

“I don’t know when it stopped being temporary,” Jeno said. “Maybe when I realised I could breathe here. Seoul never really gave me that.”

Jaemin tilted his head. “I thought you seemed like someone who liked cities.”

“I like movement. Rhythm,” Jeno said, smiling a little. “But not noise. Not pressure. And… here, there’s space to think. To look around. To notice things.”

“Like cornbread?”

Jeno laughed, and the sound was so gentle and bright it made something ache behind Jaemin’s ribs.

“Exactly like cornbread,” Jeno said.

There was another stretch of quiet, softer this time. Comfortable.

“I never really dated anyone seriously in Seoul,” Jeno said suddenly, not looking at him. “I guess I never found someone I wanted to stay still with.”

Jaemin turned, heart fluttering in his chest.

“Are you saying you’d stay still with me?” he asked before he could stop himself, half teasing, half terrified.

Jeno’s smile faltered—but not because he was pulling away.

“I think I’m saying I’d like the chance to find out.”

Jaemin’s breath hitched. He looked down, then back up at Jeno, who was watching him now with something vulnerable in his eyes. Something clear and honest.

“I’d like that too,” Jaemin said, voice barely audible.

For a long moment, they didn’t say anything more. The breeze moved again, the grass stirred, and their hands slowly brushed—deliberately this time.

Jaemin turned his hand so his fingers laced gently with Jeno’s.

He felt the tension in Jeno’s shoulders ease.

It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t even a promise.

But it was a start.

And right now, that was everything.

Jeno didn’t want to let go.

The thought drifted through his head as he and Jaemin walked side by side, their fingers still loosely interlaced, warm and steady. The soft crunch of gravel and dried grass beneath their feet was the only sound between them, the sun now starting its slow descent behind the trees.

It wasn’t even the hand-holding that got him — it was the fact that Jaemin hadn’t pulled away.

That Jaemin had turned his palm into Jeno’s and let it stay there.

It felt… simple. Right.

Jeno glanced sideways. Jaemin’s eyes were on the path ahead, his cheeks tinged faintly pink from the fading sun, or maybe from something else. His expression was soft, contemplative. His thumb brushed lightly against Jeno’s every few seconds, like he was checking if Jeno was still there. Still real.

Jeno wasn’t sure when exactly his heart had shifted into this kind of rhythm — slow, quiet, but stubborn. All he knew was that there was something about Jaemin he hadn’t been able to look away from for a while now. And now, that gravity felt mutual.

Jeno spoke first. His voice was quiet, not wanting to startle the moment. “You okay?”

Jaemin turned to him with a small smile. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About?”

Jaemin laughed under his breath. “You. Me. This.”

Jeno’s grip tightened just a little. “Same.”

A pause. The path narrowed slightly, and Jeno stepped aside to let Jaemin pass, but Jaemin didn’t drop his hand. He simply shifted, fingers tightening, guiding Jeno with him.

The silence was easy. Natural.

“Thank you,” Jaemin said eventually, not looking at him this time. “For today.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do. It was…” Jaemin trailed off. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done something like that for me.”

Jeno’s heart squeezed. “Then they were stupid.”

Jaemin let out a startled laugh, head tipping toward Jeno like he couldn’t quite believe him. They reached the car.

Jeno hesitated before unlocking it, not quite ready for this day to move forward.

“Jaemin?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said earlier,” Jeno murmured, turning to him. “I want to take this seriously. Whatever this is. With you.”

Jaemin’s eyes met his, wide, surprised, and maybe a little shy — but not afraid.

“I know,” Jaemin said, voice soft. “Me too.”

Their hands finally slipped apart as Jeno reached for the door handle, but the absence of touch didn’t feel like a step back. Just a pause.

As they slid into the car, the engine hummed to life and music filtered low through the speakers. Jeno adjusted the mirror, glanced once more at Jaemin — now staring out the window, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth — and felt a strange, quiet certainty settle in his chest.

This was the start of something.

Something slow. Something real.

And for the first time in a long time, Jeno wasn’t looking for an exit.

He was driving toward something — someone — that felt like home.

Chapter Text

The golden light of early evening filtered between the buildings as Jeno pulled the car into the quiet street Jaemin had directed him to. He eased into a spot by the curb, shifting the car into park.

“This is it?” he asked, glancing over.

Jaemin nodded, suddenly fidgety. “Yeah. He said he’d be outside waiting.”

Jeno leaned forward slightly, scanning the apartment entrance.

Sure enough, the front doors pushed open and out came a tall, lanky figure dragging a suitcase one-handed and waving a phone in the other. His hoodie was too big, his beanie was askew, and his posture screamed “teenager.” But he wasn’t alone.

Trailing behind him with far too much energy was a smaller figure with dyed dirty blonde hair, arms slung over his backpack, and a grin that said he was already causing problems.

Jeno squinted. “Uh… Did you say your brother was bringing a friend?”

Jaemin groaned. “I didn’t. Because he wasn’t supposed to.”

The two boys reached the car. Jisung immediately yanked open the back door and started loading his bag.

“Hey, hyung,” Jisung mumbled.

“Hey,” Jaemin greeted cautiously, eyes already shifting to the boy beside him.

The stranger grinned, slipping in beside Jisung. “Hi Jaemin hyung!.”

“Right,” Jaemin said, rubbing his temple. “Chenle. Why are you here?”

“I was bored,” Chenle answered matter-of-factly, then leaned forward between the seats, peering at Jeno with way too much interest. “So... who’s this?”

Jeno offered an awkward smile as he put the car in gear. “I’m Jeno.”

“Jeno,” Chenle repeated, dragging out the vowels thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

Jisung looked between his brother and the driver, then back again. His eyebrows lifted, slowly, as recognition dawned.

“Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder: “Wait. Wait . This is that Jeno?”

Jaemin stiffened in his seat. “Don’t start.”

“ Hyung ,” Jisung gasped dramatically. “You didn’t say he was hot.”

“Jisung.”

“No, because I just assumed he was, like, normal hot. Not, like, main-character hot.”

Jeno choked on a laugh. “I—uh.”

Chenle lit up with a wicked grin. “ That’s who you’re dating? This is the one you almost kissed in your shop?”

Jaemin turned in his seat, voice low and furious. “How do you know about that?!”

“I have ears, and Hyuck has a big mouth,” Chenle sing-songed.

Jisung shook his head, clearly revelling in his new power. “This is gold.”

Jaemin let his head fall back against the seat with a groan. “Can we drive into traffic instead?”

“Nope,” Jeno said, his voice a little breathless from laughing. “Sorry. Not part of the route.”

Jaemin reached up to cover his flaming face with his hands. “This is the worst timeline.”

Chenle leaned forward again, this time almost nose to nose with Jaemin. “So. When’s the wedding?”

“I’m kicking you both out at the next rest stop.”

Jisung chuckled, finally settling back in his seat, but not before tossing one last smug line: “You’re lucky he’s cute. Otherwise I’d have questions.”

Jaemin peeked between his fingers at Jeno, who caught his eye for half a second. And smiled.

Flustered as he was, Jaemin smiled back.

He couldn’t help it.

The countryside lay bathed in golden light as Jeno’s car rolled up the familiar dirt road. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the smell of spring grass was carried on the wind, sharp and sweet. As the engine hummed to a stop, Jaemin could already see the front door swinging open.

His grandmother stepped onto the porch with her apron still tied around her waist, eyes squinting fondly. “There you are,” she said as they emerged, “just in time for dinner.”

Jisung was the first out, practically jogging up to pull her into a hug. “Missed you, Halmoni.”

She made a happy noise and squeezed his arms. “You’ve grown too fast.”

“Blame the snacks,” Chenle said, following behind and giving a theatrical bow. “Chenle, at your service.”

Her eyes narrowed affectionately. “I hope you’re polite and hungry.”

Chenle grinned. “Always.”

As the door closed behind them with the promise of warmth and food, the front yard was quiet again—except for the soft sigh of wind through the trees and the faint clink of Jeno closing the trunk.

Jaemin lingered by the passenger side, hands loosely in his sleeves. He glanced over, his heart doing that quiet flutter it had started doing far too often around Jeno. “You staying for dinner?”

Jeno looked up, smiling gently. “Not this time.”

“Shame,” Jaemin murmured, stepping closer.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The soft hush of the evening pressed in around them like a cocoon.

“So,” Jaemin said, shifting slightly. “Let’s just take inventory, shall we?”

Jeno tilted his head, already smiling in that lopsided, patient way.

“You asked me on a date,” Jaemin counted, ticking fingers. “Took me somewhere beautiful. Remembered my favorite cornbread. We held hands. Talked about actual feelings.”

“Sounds about right.”

“And yet,” Jaemin said, stepping a fraction closer, “somehow I still don’t have a kiss to go with all that.”

Jeno's expression flickered—something quiet and unreadable in his eyes for a heartbeat. Then he exhaled a laugh, low and breathy. “You’re really going to make me do it, huh?”

Jaemin’s voice came soft, steady. “I’m just saying... it’s overdue.”

The space between them thinned. Their shoulders were almost brushing now, and Jaemin could feel the heat radiating from Jeno’s skin. His heartbeat was a slow, echoing thud in his ears.

Jeno reached out, fingers grazing the edge of Jaemin’s sleeve. Just a touch. Testing the weight of the moment.

“You sure?” he asked again—this time, lower, a whisper against the wind.

Jaemin nodded. “Yeah.”

Then—

Jeno leaned in.

It wasn’t sudden, but it wasn’t hesitant either. The moment stretched—like the space between seconds cracked open and spilled something breathless and electric between them. Jaemin’s eyes fluttered closed just before their lips touched, and when they did, it was—

Everything.

The world dimmed. The weight of their lives fell away like loose fabric.

The kiss was slow, almost reverent. Not rushed or reckless—but deep. Lingering. Like they'd both been holding this inside for so long, and it had finally found a place to land.

And then—

Jaemin felt it.

A rush of something—raw, familiar . His breath caught, chest tight, not with panic, but with recognition . Like his soul remembered this. This kiss. This person.

A vivid whisper of another time. Another version of this moment. Another life, maybe.

Déjà vu crawled up his spine like a memory that didn’t belong to now.

When they finally pulled apart, Jaemin didn’t open his eyes right away.

He just breathed .

And when he did finally look up, Jeno was already watching him, lips parted slightly, eyes shining. Soft and still, like he didn’t want to break whatever fragile thread connected them.

And then Jaemin saw it.

The small mole beneath Jeno’s right eye.

Just beneath the crease of his lower lid. So small—but exactly as he’d seen it.

In the dream.

In that past.

His breath caught, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

He just smiled—soft and dazed—and let the realisation settle quietly inside him, like the final piece of a puzzle he hadn’t even known he’d been putting together.

Jeno smiled back, hands still loose around Jaemin’s wrist.

Neither of them needed to speak.

Not yet.

The sun filtered in through the thin cotton curtains, painting long strips of gold across the floorboards. The house was already stirring—Jaemin could hear the muffled sounds of movement downstairs, the clink of dishes and the rise and fall of voices. It smelled like toasted sesame oil and something sweet—probably his grandmother’s walnut pancakes.

He sat up slowly, hand running through his hair. Everything felt… different.

Not drastically. Not loudly.

But underneath his skin, something had shifted. Like a stone long lodged in his chest had finally rolled away.

He got dressed without much thought, his fingers moving on instinct. His heart was quiet today—not heavy or frantic. Just… present.

When he padded downstairs in socks, he was greeted with a sight that made him blink.

Chenle was sprawled across the floor in the sunbeam by the low table, eating persimmon slices straight from the plate, while Jisung stood in the kitchen struggling to work the old kettle, his face twisted in confusion.

“I swear this thing is possessed,” Jisung muttered, poking at the gas knob.

“Everything is possessed to you,” Chenle said without looking up.

“You’re possessed.”

“I’m a delight.”

Their bickering was familiar, comforting even—but both paused when Jaemin entered the kitchen. Jisung looked up and tilted his head.

“You good?”

Jaemin blinked. “Yeah?”

“You’re smiling,” Chenle said through a mouthful of fruit, sitting up now. “Like… genuinely.”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. “I smile.”

“Not like that ,” Jisung said, walking over. “You’re glowing or something. Did you ascend to a higher plane last night or what?”

Jaemin rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “No spiritual awakenings. I just… slept well.”

Chenle exchanged a glance with Jisung and said under his breath, “Slept well, huh?”

Jaemin swatted a dish towel at him, but didn’t protest further.

He poured himself tea, leaning on the counter for a moment as his eyes drifted to the window. Everything felt sharper this morning. Not in a painful way—but as though a lens had been cleaned. The world hadn’t changed. But maybe… he had.

There was a stillness inside him he hadn’t felt in years. A hush beneath the surface where, for so long, there’d only been noise. Worry. Fear. Restlessness.

That kiss…

Jaemin's fingers curled slightly around the warm ceramic in his hands.

It had felt like a doorway had opened. A small, glowing crack into something bigger. Something older . It hadn’t solved anything—hadn’t handed him all the answers. But it had reminded him what it felt like to want to believe.

For the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he didn’t feel entirely lost.

He wasn’t sure if Jeno was the man from his dreams.

But he hoped he was.

And more than that, he hoped—deep in his bones—that this time, in this life, maybe they wouldn’t be torn apart.

Maybe they would have a chance to see what could grow between them—freely, openly, without shadows.

“Earth to Jaemin,” Jisung said, waving a spoon in his direction.

Jaemin blinked. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you wanted the last pancake,” Jisung said slowly, eyeing him. “But clearly you’re thinking about something else.”

“Someone else,” Chenle added with a knowing smirk.

Jaemin took the pancake and walked away without answering, but the grin on his face said enough.

The bell above the door chimed as Jaemin unlocked the shop and pushed it open with his shoulder, arms full with two boxes of dyed fabric. “Careful, don’t bump the—”

Crash.

Jisung was already halfway across the room, attempting to “gracefully” carry an armful of display fans. One slipped out and skittered dramatically across the wooden floor like a frisbee.

Chenle, standing nearby, didn’t even flinch. “Ten out of ten. That was art.”

“I almost had it,” Jisung groaned, chasing after the fan.

“You almost had gravity.”

Jaemin sighed fondly and dumped his boxes on the back table. “This place is going to fall apart in less than a week if you two keep this up.”

“I thought I was helping,” Jisung said, holding the retrieved fan with a pout.

“You are,” Jaemin replied, straightening one of the mannequins Jisung had knocked askew. “Just… maybe don’t help with your entire body.”

“I’m trying to be proactive,” Jisung muttered.

“You’re trying to be a tornado,” Chenle corrected, plopping onto the small couch near the fitting room and kicking his feet up.

Jaemin didn’t even bother scolding him. The shop buzzed with warm energy—sunlight filtering through the windows, the scent of fabric starch and incense lingering faintly from the morning cleaning, and the quiet thrum of excitement in the air. The gala was only a week away, and the final fittings, alterations, and rehearsals had taken over the sleepy town.

Still, for the first time in weeks, Jaemin didn’t feel tight in his skin. His shoulders were looser, the lines between his brows lighter. Even with Jisung’s chaos and Chenle’s commentary, he felt settled .

The doorbell chimed again, and this time Donghyuck strolled in like he owned the place, sunglasses perched on his head and iced coffee in hand.

“Wow,” he said, stopping mid-stride as his eyes landed on Jaemin. “Who are you and what have you done with my broody tailor?”

Jaemin raised a brow but didn’t look up from the sleeve he was inspecting. “Good morning to you too.”

Donghyuck circled him, squinting. “No, seriously. You’re glowing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Did you exfoliate? You look like you exfoliated.”

Jaemin flushed lightly, nudging Donghyuck aside with his elbow. “What do you want?”

Donghyuck smirked and took a long sip from his coffee before answering, “I come bearing news. Ms. Oh wants Jisung at the community centre this afternoon.”

Jisung perked up. “Me?”

“You,” Donghyuck said, pointing with his straw. “Time to start learning the dance routine. The gala waits for no one. You’ve got some shoes to fill.”

Jisung blinked, then stood a little straighter. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”

“Please don’t trip over your own feet,” Chenle mumbled.

“I said I can do that.”

“Ms. Oh said to bring clothes you can move in,” Donghyuck added, flopping down on the arm of the couch beside Chenle. “Also, stretch. You’re not made of rubber.”

Jaemin snorted softly and finally looked up, folding the sleeve neatly. “Thanks for the message.”

Donghyuck gave him another once-over, then grinned. “No, but seriously—what happened to you? Did someone finally kiss the eternal frown off your face?”

Jaemin shot him a warning look, but Donghyuck just waggled his eyebrows.

Jisung glanced between them and then at his brother. “Wait. Did someone kiss you?”

Chenle sat upright. “ What?! Who?”

Jaemin, fully red now, turned away. “Get back to folding those scarves or you’re both banned from the premises.”

Jisung let out an exaggerated gasp. “It was Jeno, wasn’t it?!”

“Oh my god,” Chenle whispered, “That’s why you were humming this morning. You were humming.”

“I was not humming.”

“You were glowing ,” Donghyuck said smugly. “Confirmed.”

Jaemin rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out, but a smile tugged at the corners of his lips all the same.

It was annoying. It was embarrassing.

It was also, undeniably, kind of nice.

As Jisung and Chenle bickered over which one of them deserved credit for the “romantic breakthrough,” and Donghyuck dramatically pretended to cry about Jaemin “growing up,” Jaemin allowed himself a quiet moment of peace behind the counter.

There was still so much unknown. Still questions pressing at the edges of his dreams.

But for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was drowning in them.

And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t so afraid of the answers anymore.

The sun had shifted to a golden angle, streaking through the front windows and bathing the shop in soft light. Dust motes floated lazily in the glow, catching on the edge of the fabric bolts stacked near the cutting table. The shop was calm, the quiet that followed the storm of Jisung and Chenle’s departure like a welcome exhale.

Jaemin leaned over the counter, absentmindedly sketching something floral in the margin of a receipt book, his pencil dragging slow and thoughtful.

“Okay,” Donghyuck said, suddenly cutting through the silence as he dropped onto the stool across from him. “Now that the gremlins have left the building… talk.”

Jaemin didn’t look up. “About?”

“Don’t play coy with me. You’ve been walking around like a man in a romance drama who finally kissed his childhood crush. Which… I’m guessing is exactly what happened?”

Jaemin gave a weak, lopsided smile but said nothing.

Donghyuck leaned forward on his elbows. “You gonna make me guess how it happened? Was it in the rain? Did he catch your wrist dramatically?”

“It wasn’t that dramatic.”

“So you are admitting it happened.”

Jaemin finally glanced up at him, and Donghyuck caught the smallest flicker of softness in his eyes. It wasn’t the usual tired heaviness. It was something... quieter. Lighter.

“It was just… simple,” Jaemin said after a moment. “Nice. Real. I didn’t have to think, or panic, or overanalyse every second of it. It just... happened.”

Donghyuck smiled. Not the usual cocky one—something gentler. “You look like you needed that.”

“I did,” Jaemin admitted softly. Then, after a pause: “It’s weird. Ever since… I’ve felt like something’s shifted.”

Donghyuck blinked. “Shifted how?”

“I’ve been remembering more,” Jaemin said, lowering his voice even though they were alone. “From the dreams. Or—whatever they are. The pieces don’t feel so blurry anymore.”

He looked down at his sketch again, drawing slowly as he spoke. “I remembered giving someone that hanbok. The one I based Jeno’s off of. In the dream, I made it for someone I loved. I saw his face clearer than I ever have before. Just small things—a smile, the way the light hit his eyes, a mole beneath one of them.”

Donghyuck’s brow furrowed, his voice soft. “And?”

“And then… when Jeno kissed me,” Jaemin’s pencil paused, “I saw that same mole.”

Donghyuck stared at him for a beat. “So you think Jeno’s… him?”

“I don’t know,” Jaemin said honestly. “I’m not even sure I’m ready to believe all of this is real, let alone tell him . But… when he looked at me, it felt like—” He broke off, searching for the words. “Like I’d already known that gaze for centuries.”

Donghyuck let the silence stretch, unusually quiet.

Finally, he exhaled and gave a little shrug. “Okay, that’s kind of poetic. Gross, but poetic.”

Jaemin snorted. “Sorry for being profound.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m just processing that my emotionally repressed best friend might be stuck in a historical k-drama soulbond loop with a tall, hot restoration specialist.”

Jaemin cracked a smile. “That’s one way to put it.”

Donghyuck tilted his head, voice softening again. “Do you want it to be him? Jeno?”

Jaemin looked down at the half-finished drawing, thumb smudging the pencil lines faintly. “I think... I do.”

Another beat of quiet passed before Donghyuck said, “Then maybe just let it unfold. No rush. You’ve waited a long time—what’s a little longer?”

Jaemin nodded, a small breath easing out of him. “Yeah. I guess I just want to figure out who I was… before I decide what comes next.”

Donghyuck stood and reached over to ruffle Jaemin’s hair gently, to his protest. “Well, you’re doing better than most people who barely know who they are now, let alone in another life.”

“Thanks,” Jaemin muttered, swatting his hand away.

“Anytime,” Donghyuck said, heading for the door with a little wave. “Now go do something dreamy and artisan, or whatever it is you do when you're lovestruck. I’ll be back tomorrow to harass you some more.”

As the door swung shut behind him, Jaemin stared for a moment at the fading light cast across the shop floor.

He smiled faintly to himself.

The multipurpose hall at the centre of the village had been transformed into something airy and bright—white screens for backdrops, soft lighting rigs humming, and a small team bustling around arranging floral elements and antique props borrowed from the local museum’s storage.

Jeno stood off to the side, hands tucked nervously in the pockets of his slacks. His hanbok—deep plum with a soft, unfolding blossom clasp and delicately embroidered cuffs—hung on a garment rack beside him, still protected in its clear bag. He’d run his fingers along the embroidery more than once that morning.

There was something grounding about it. Something that made his chest ache in a quiet, unfamiliar way.

He was about to turn toward the small refreshment table when a voice called out behind him.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Lee Jeno.”

Jeno turned and blinked in surprise. “Renjun?”

Renjun—compact, stylish, camera already slung across his chest—grinned as he stepped forward, half-laughing as he clapped a hand on Jeno’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you were the restoration specialist for this project! I thought they’d stuck you in a backroom brushing clay pots.”

“I thought you were still living out of suitcases in Europe,” Jeno countered with a small smile, visibly relaxing.

“Temporarily grounded,” Renjun replied, spinning his camera in hand. “I’ve been helping curate a few regional cultural pieces—this gala spread included. I didn’t know I’d be seeing someone familiar. Small world.”

“Smaller village,” Jeno said dryly.

Renjun smirked. “Still allergic to small talk, I see.”

He motioned toward the dressing area. “You’re the main restoration feature, you know. They want to highlight one of the hanbok restorations and a new piece made for the gala. Yours.”

Jeno’s eyes flicked to the garment bag again, something unreadable in his expression. “It’s not just mine,” he said after a beat. “Someone… made it for me.”

Renjun caught the tone and raised a brow. “I see.”

Jeno didn’t elaborate.

The light was soft, filtered through cream-coloured gauze draped around the setup. A nearby breeze teased the edges of the hanbok Jeno wore, the embroidery at the cuffs catching just a hint of glimmer as the photographer, Renjun, adjusted his camera from a distance. The interviewer, a woman around Jeno’s age with warm eyes and a voice made for radio, smiled gently as she clicked her recorder on.

“Let’s begin,” she said. “First of all, thank you so much for agreeing to this, Mr. Lee.”

Jeno nodded, fingers unconsciously brushing over the clasp of the hanbok. “Thank you for having me.”

“Now,” she began, notepad open in her lap, “most people in the city don’t even know this place exists, let alone that there’s a major heritage restoration happening here. What brought you to this village?”

Jeno hesitated, then smiled a little. “Peace, I think. I didn’t realise I was looking for it until I got here.”

“That’s quite poetic,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “But I imagine it’s a big change from Seoul?”

He chuckled softly. “It is. I grew up in the city. You learn to live in the noise, to find rhythm in it. But after a while, it stopped feeling like rhythm and started feeling like static.”

The interviewer scribbled something down, intrigued. “So you’re saying this place is… what, quieter? More honest?”

Jeno took a moment before answering. “It feels like breathing again.”

That seemed to satisfy her. “And your work—restoration. It’s not exactly a flashy career path. What drew you to it?”

Jeno looked down, his thumb brushing the embroidery on his sleeve. “My mother once told me that broken things still deserve beauty. That not everything old needs to be replaced—some things are just waiting to be seen properly again.”

He glanced back up, voice lower, thoughtful. “Restoration is kind of like listening. You look at the pieces, the scratches, the wear... and you learn to see the story hiding underneath. You don’t rewrite it. You help it speak again.”

The woman stilled her pen mid-sentence, then smiled, quieter this time. “That’s… beautiful.”

Jeno blinked, surprised, and cleared his throat. “Sorry. That was probably a bit much.”

“No, it’s perfect,” she assured him. “You sound very connected to your work. Especially this piece.”

Her eyes flicked to the hanbok. “It’s clearly new, but it still speaks of tradition. Do you know who made it?”

Jeno’s expression shifted—gentled into something softer, almost shy. “Yes,” he said after a breath. “It was made by someone here. A hanbok maker who’s… extraordinary. Not just with his skill, but with how he sees people.”

“Did you request this design?”

“No,” Jeno replied, glancing down at the plum-coloured fabric, fingers tracing the faint outline of the embroidered cuffs. “He created it himself. Said it was inspired by something he couldn’t quite explain.”

He paused, voice dipping lower. “It feels like it was made for me before he even met me.”

The interviewer’s eyes lingered on him a moment, studying the way his hand hovered near the clasp—shaped like an unfurling blossom—like it meant something sacred. She clicked off her recorder slowly.

“I think,” she said gently, “that might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said about a hanbok.”

Jeno laughed under his breath, more flustered than before. “You can, uh… probably leave that part out of the article.”

But Renjun, from behind the lens, just smiled knowingly and clicked the shutter again. He’d caught it—the subtle flush in Jeno’s cheeks, the faraway look in his eyes, and the way he held that hanbok like it was more than cloth.

Like it was a memory waiting to wake up.

The hall had quieted, the crew packing away lights and reflectors while the last rays of golden afternoon stretched long across the field. Jeno had changed out of the hanbok, carefully folding it into its garment bag with a kind of reverence. Renjun lingered nearby, camera slung over one shoulder, watching with a crooked smile.

“You handled that interview better than I thought you would,” he said as Jeno zipped the bag shut.

Jeno huffed, brushing his hair back. “Was that a compliment?”

“A compliment and a miracle.” Renjun grinned. “You usually shut down the second someone asks you how you’re feeling.”

“Didn’t know we were airing my emotional dysfunction today,” Jeno said dryly, but a faint flush crept up his neck.

Renjun tilted his head. “I mean, it’s not every day I see you wax poetic about peace and plum-coloured hanbok. You’re usually a brick wall.”

Jeno shrugged but didn’t answer.

Renjun’s grin sharpened. “So. Who’s the hanbok boy?”

Jeno froze halfway through pulling on his jacket. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Renjun drawled, walking over to lean against the side of the table. “You called the design extraordinary . You looked like you were about to propose to the embroidery. And don’t think I didn’t notice how you kept brushing your fingers over it like it was made of stardust.”

Jeno groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m observant,” Renjun corrected. “And you’re clearly smitten.”

Jeno paused, mouth twitching before he gave a tiny, reluctant smile. “I guess I am.”

Renjun blinked, a little surprised by the honesty, but then just clapped him on the back. “Well damn. He’s cute then?”

Jeno glanced down at the garment bag, a softness creeping into his expression. “Yeah,” he murmured. “He’s… something else.”

“Romantic and vague. You’ve changed, city boy,” Renjun teased. “Does this mysterious hanbok artist have a name?”

“Jaemin.”

“Ah.” Renjun nodded like he was locking it into a mental file. “Jaemin. Pretty name for a pretty boy?”

Jeno shoved him lightly, rolling his eyes. “Drop it.”

Renjun just laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Fine, fine. But I’ll need to meet him.”

“Actually,” Jeno said, suddenly more serious, “you might get the chance. The gala’s this weekend. You should come.”

Renjun lifted a brow. “Are you inviting me as your date?”

Jeno looked at him, deadpan. “No. I’m inviting you so you can take more photos of me looking solemn in a hanbok.”

Renjun snorted. “Hot. I’m in.”

Jeno smiled, more to himself than to Renjun.

“Oh god, you’re already thinking about seeing him again, aren’t you?” Renjun said.

“Shut up and help me carry this,” Jeno muttered, tossing him the bag.

Renjun caught it with ease, still grinning. “I’m gonna meet him, and I’m gonna tell him everything. Especially how you blushed like a teenager when I said his name.”

“You’re not allowed near him anymore.”

“That’s not how invitations work, Jeno.”

Jeno just sighed and shoved the car door open.

The hum of conversation and hurried footsteps echoed through the community centre, mingling with the scent of paint, glue, and something vaguely floral from the arrangements waiting in buckets by the wall. Jaemin slipped through the entrance with his sewing kit still tucked under one arm, eyes scanning past half-built displays and tangled strings of fairy lights.

In one corner, a group of volunteers argued over the safest way to transport an elaborate paper lantern arch. In another, two older ladies were painstakingly sorting silk ribbons by shade. The centre looked like a storm of preparation had passed through—but somehow, it was all coming together.

Jaemin moved through it with practiced ease, sidestepping a tangle of extension cords and weaving between paint-splattered teens until he caught sight of Jisung on the temporary stage.

His breath caught for a second.

The music wasn’t loud—just the soft click of a rehearsal track—but the moment Jaemin saw his brother move, everything else dulled into the background. Jisung’s posture had changed completely. The nervous slouch he wore in conversation was gone. In its place was control, poise… grace.

Each step was fluid, each gesture dramatic but elegant. He glided across the makeshift platform, sharp where the rhythm needed it, soft when the melody called for it. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Jaemin saw him not as the kid who tripped on a curb last week, but as a dancer.

He felt his chest tighten. God, he’d missed this.

When the music faded out and Jisung came to a stop, cheeks flushed and hair damp at the edges, Jaemin was already clapping softly from where he leaned against the edge of the stage.

Jisung startled, blinking down at him. “You scared me.”

“You’re incredible,” Jaemin said, stepping up and handing over the altered stage outfit. “I mean, you’re still dramatic as hell, but at least now it’s choreographed.”

Jisung rolled his eyes and took the garment, holding it up with a pleased little sound. “Is it ready?”

“Stitched, pinned, steamed. All it needs now is someone who won’t fall on their face in it.”

“I don’t fall anymore,” Jisung sniffed, climbing down to stand beside him. “Chenle said I looked cool.”

“Chenle thinks the café cat is intimidating. Doesn’t count.”

Jisung laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made Jaemin’s chest warm.

“You really think I’m good?” he asked, more quietly.

Jaemin looked at him, smile softening. “I think you’re meant for this.”

Jisung blinked fast like he was trying to pretend that didn’t land so hard. “Well… good. Because I’m not giving the dress back.”

“It’s not a dress.”

“It swishes.”

“It’s structured .”

Jaemin bumped his shoulder against Jisung’s and they both laughed.

Behind them, someone called for help with moving the flower stands, and the clang of metal poles dropping onto a table reminded them of the chaos they were standing in.

“Better go remind Ms. Oh she’s working with children,” Jaemin said, already turning.

“Wait,” Jisung said suddenly, pulling the outfit against his chest. “You’re staying to watch, right? I want you to see the full run-through later.”

Jaemin paused, a quiet pride blooming beneath his ribs. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

By late afternoon, the community centre had become a battlefield of craft supplies, display pieces, and increasingly frazzled volunteers. Jaemin had rolled up his sleeves and surrendered to the chaos with Mark, both of them elbow-deep in a bucket of silk peonies that needed to be sorted by colour gradient for one of the larger display walls.

“I swear if I see another shade of ‘barely-pink-but-not-quite-peach’ I’m going to scream,” Jaemin muttered, squinting at a stubborn bloom.

Mark grunted in sympathy from where he was untangling fairy light strings. “Think of it this way—we’re contributing to the cultural legacy of the village… with cable ties and emotional trauma.”

Jaemin snorted, just as someone called out from near the entrance.

“Need a hand with those?”

The voice had him straightening instantly—recognising it before he even turned.

Jeno stood just inside the doors, dressed in a soft oatmeal sweater and dark jeans, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other gesturing toward the pile of tangled decorations. His usual calm, composed expression was softened by a barely-there smile. He looked... really good. And Jaemin was immediately aware of how dust-smudged his own face probably was.

“Oh,” Jaemin said, brushing his hands on his pants. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Jeno said back, his smile tilting a little warmer.

They stared at each other for a beat too long before Mark cleared his throat obnoxiously loud.

“I’m literally right here,” he mumbled, not even bothering to look up from the lights. “Still very much present.”

Jaemin flushed. “Right. Sorry.”

Jeno’s gaze flicked from Jaemin to the chaos around them, then back. “I just stopped by to let Ms. Oh know the Lee estate’s ready for deliveries to start moving in tomorrow. But… I could use some help doing a final prep sweep—just clearing the main space and helping the workers get access to the tool shed and everything.”

Jaemin blinked, thrown for a second by how casually Jeno asked—but more by the fact that he clearly meant him .

“You want me to help?”

Jeno shrugged lightly, though his ears were turning faintly pink. “You said you’re good with arrangements and fabric, right? I figure you’d be helpful making sure the canopies are laid out properly.”

Jaemin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then smiled.

“Yeah. I’d like that,” he said, tugging gently at the hem of his dusty t-shirt. “Just give me a second to change—unless you’re okay with me looking like I lost a fight with a flower shop.”

“You look fine,” Jeno said, too quickly. Then seemed to catch himself and added, quieter, “I mean. You always do.”

Mark let out a pointed cough.

Jaemin, cheeks pink, ignored him completely. “I just need to be back before six. Jisung’s doing the first full run-through of his performance.”

Jeno nodded, smiling. “Of course. We’ll make it quick.”

Mark watched this exchange like he was watching the most obvious romcom plot unfold in real-time, then muttered something under his breath about “slow burns and oblivious gays.”

Jaemin shot him a glare. Jeno just chuckled.

“I’ll be outside,” Jeno said, tipping his head toward the parking lot before slipping back through the doors.

Jaemin waited until he was fully gone before lightly smacking Mark in the shoulder with a bunch of fake flowers.

“Say one more word.”

Mark just raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t say anything.”

Chapter Text

They worked in silence for a while after that, each focused on their task, but something between them had shifted. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was soft. Comfortable. Like the walls of the estate held their voices gently, letting them settle into the space and into each other.

Jaemin was folding a final table cloth when he heard the unmistakable pop and fizz of a soda can being opened behind him.

“You want one?” Jeno called, already walking toward him with an extra can in hand. “Found them stashed in the back room fridge.”

Jaemin took it with a small smile. “You really do own this whole estate, huh?”

“Not officially,” Jeno said, popping the tab on his own drink. “But I’ve been running it since my grandfather passed. Kind of became my responsibility before I realised it.”

Jaemin nodded, leaning back against the edge of a low stone wall, can cool in his hands. “Does it ever feel heavy?”

Jeno looked thoughtful. “Sometimes. But mostly it feels… like home.”

He looked around, the soft breeze rustling the trees, the faint sound of a woodpecker in the distance. “When I was a kid, I used to come here during summers and pretend I was a guardian of some old hidden temple.”

Jaemin’s mouth curved. “Let me guess. Sword in hand. Robes billowing.”

“Absolutely.” Jeno grinned. “I took it very seriously. There was a stick I’d carved runes into with a butter knife. Still buried somewhere near the lotus pond.”

Jaemin laughed, picturing it. “So dramatic.”

Jeno shot him a look. “And what about you? Didn’t have any tragic, poetic main character summers?”

Jaemin hummed, pretending to think. “I did once try to run away because my brother broke my favourite pencil and no one cared.”

Jeno laughed out loud at that. “The injustice!”

“I got as far as the bus stop with a backpack full of instant noodles and a copy of the latest comic my mom bought me.”

“You’re incredible,” Jeno said, shaking his head with a grin. “Honestly.”

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s not the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever told someone.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” Jeno said. “It’s very you.”

Jaemin paused, the air catching a little in his throat.

He glanced at Jeno, who was watching him now—not with teasing or judgment, but with that quiet, sincere warmth he always carried, like he saw Jaemin clearly and chose to stay anyway.

“I like this side of you,” Jeno added after a moment. “Relaxed. A little mischievous.”

Jaemin looked down, the corners of his lips twitching. “It’s new. I think I owe it to someone.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to hang between them.

“You owe it to yourself,” Jeno said softly.

Jaemin looked up—and found Jeno already looking at him again. That same gaze, open and steady, like he wasn’t afraid to let it linger now.

It wasn’t intense. It wasn’t overwhelming.

It was just warm.

Right.

Jaemin swallowed, his voice quieter now. “You always this good at saying the right thing?”

Jeno smiled, stepping just a little closer, closing the space between them with an ease that made Jaemin’s pulse quicken. “Only when I really mean it.”

Jaemin stared at him, heart kicking harder behind his ribs.

“I can’t tell,” he said, “if you’re trying to fluster me or flirt with me.”

Jeno leaned in, just enough for his breath to skim Jaemin’s cheek. “Can’t it be both?”

Jaemin blinked—then laughed, pushing lightly at Jeno’s shoulder. “Unbelievable.”

But he didn’t move away.

Neither did Jeno.

Instead, they stood there for a moment in the soft golden light, the quiet rustle of the estate around them, their drinks long forgotten on the wall. Jaemin felt the buzz of something unsaid between them—something growing, something familiar in a way he couldn’t explain. A brush of something ancient in the warmth blooming behind his ribs.

He didn’t say it. Not yet.

But he thought: If you are him… if you’re really him… I think I’m ready now.

Jeno smiled at him again, eyes gentle and bright. “Come on,” he said, brushing their knuckles together. Let's go inside and eat before you go.”

Jaemin followed without hesitation, still smiling.

Still hoping.

The main house was quiet when Jeno opened the door and gestured Jaemin inside.

Jaemin hesitated on the threshold, shifting his weight. There was something different about stepping into this space—not just because the house was beautiful (it was, all warm wood and careful restoration), but because this was Jeno’s . This was where he slept, ate, existed outside of work and polite conversation. This wasn’t just the estate—this was his home.

And Jaemin was being invited into it.

“Come in,” Jeno said again, softer this time. “It’s a bit tidier than usual, promise.”

Jaemin stepped inside, his eyes immediately drawn to the faint scent of clean linen and something earthy—cedar and herbs. The entryway opened up into a large open-plan room, with a low dining table, a lived-in sofa draped in a knit blanket, and a modern kitchen nestled in a nook of exposed stone and warm tile.

It was beautiful. But more than that, it felt lived in . Loved .

Jeno toed off his shoes and padded into the kitchen, already rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll make something quick. Hope you’re okay with ramyeon and whatever’s left in my fridge.”

Jaemin lingered near the doorway, unsure where to stand, where to look. His eyes drifted to the table, the books stacked beside it. A folded jacket draped over a chair. A sketchpad on the counter.

“I didn’t expect this,” Jaemin said, his voice quiet. “Your place. I guess I thought it would be... more like the estate. Grand. Distant.”

Jeno glanced over his shoulder as he pulled ingredients out from the fridge. “It’s too big for that,” he said. “I figured if I was going to live here, I needed to make it mine. I didn’t want it to feel like a museum.”

Jaemin’s chest ached a little at that. He hadn’t realised how much he’d expected Jeno to feel like someone out of reach. But here he was—hair slightly mussed, sleeves pushed up, quietly humming to himself while boiling water.

It was so simple. So him .

And it struck Jaemin again just how much Jeno had changed in the short time they’d known each other.

No— not changed, Jaemin corrected himself as he leaned against the doorframe and watched. Unfolded . Like each layer of him was finally being revealed—warm, grounded, quietly brilliant.

And Jaemin couldn’t look away.

“You’re staring,” Jeno said without turning around, a smile playing in his voice.

Jaemin blinked. “Am I?”

Jeno turned then, looking over his shoulder with that soft, crooked grin. “Not complaining.”

Jaemin’s heart skipped.

He didn’t answer. Just crossed the kitchen slowly, quietly, until he was standing just behind Jeno.

For a moment, he hesitated—then leaned in.

Softly. Deliberately.

Pressed his lips to Jeno’s cheek.

Jeno stilled, hands paused mid-stir. The spoon clinked softly against the pot. He turned just slightly, his eyes finding Jaemin’s—wide, warm, a little stunned.

Jaemin didn’t look away this time.

Neither did Jeno.

Then, with a small breathless laugh, Jeno tilted his head—and kissed him.

It started slow, gentle. Their mouths met with the kind of careful reverence that only grows when you’ve waited long enough to mean it. Jeno’s hand found Jaemin’s waist, steadying them, while Jaemin curled his fingers around Jeno’s wrist, grounding himself.

But then—like the last time—something shifted .

It deepened. Grew.

Jeno angled his head, pulling Jaemin closer, and Jaemin went willingly, pressing in with a soft sound in his throat as their lips moved together, slow and searching. There was something magnetic in it, a pull that reached deeper than nerves or timing or firsts.

Jaemin's hand slid up to cup the back of Jeno's neck, fingertips brushing soft hair, and Jeno sighed against his mouth like he'd been waiting for this—just this—for far too long.

It was the kind of kiss that made the world blur at the edges.

Not rushed. Not urgent.

But sure .

When they finally broke apart, breath mingling, Jaemin’s forehead rested lightly against Jeno’s, his fingers still curled at the back of his neck. His cheeks were warm, but he didn’t pull away.

Neither of them did.

Jeno’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I was going to wait until after dinner to kiss you again.”

Jaemin laughed, breathless and soft. “Sorry for ruining your plan.”

“Not complaining,” Jeno said again, smiling. “Just… surprised. But in a good way.”

Jaemin’s thumb brushed idly at the edge of Jeno’s collar. “You make it really hard not to kiss you, you know.”

“I’ll take that as encouragement.”

Jaemin leaned in again, pressing a small, lingering kiss to the corner of Jeno’s mouth—gentle, affectionate. Familiar.

Then he stepped back with a soft smile, cheeks still a little pink.

“Okay,” he said, letting the moment settle between them like sunlight. “Now feed me. I’m emotionally overwhelmed and starving.”

Jeno laughed and turned back to the pot, his hands moving with renewed focus—but his grin hadn’t faded.

And Jaemin—standing there in the kitchen, heart full and head spinning—felt like something in him had finally clicked into place.

The food was simple—ramyeon with a soft-boiled egg, a handful of fresh vegetables, and a little kimchi on the side—but it tasted better than anything Jaemin could remember in recent weeks.

Maybe it was the atmosphere. Maybe it was the way Jeno slid the bowl across the table with a little smile, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

They ate on floor cushions at the low table near the window, the late afternoon sun casting gold across the wooden floor. Outside, the trees rustled in a quiet breeze, and somewhere in the distance, birdsong carried faintly across the estate grounds.

For a while, they didn’t say much.

It wasn’t the awkward kind of silence—just the easy kind, where glances replaced words and the air between them hummed with quiet warmth. Jaemin found his eyes wandering more than once—to the curve of Jeno’s smile, the slight furrow in his brow when he focused on the noodles, the way his knuckles brushed against the tabletop when he reached for the water.

“So,” Jaemin said finally, setting his chopsticks down. “Do you cook for all your first dates, or am I just lucky?”

Jeno let out a low laugh. “Depends. Most of my first dates don’t kiss me in the middle of the kitchen before I can even finish cooking.”

Jaemin smiled, dipping his head as warmth rose to his cheeks. “Right. That’s fair.”

Jeno nudged his foot under the table. “But for the record? You’re not just lucky. You’re special .”

Jaemin blinked at him. Something in Jeno’s voice—not teasing, not shy, just… sincere—made his breath catch for a second.

He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a soft, almost incredulous, “Oh.”

Jeno smiled, eyes flicking down, suddenly bashful himself. “Sorry. Too much?”

“No,” Jaemin said quickly. “No, not too much.”

He reached across the table then—hesitantly at first—fingers brushing against Jeno’s hand, then settling there. Jeno turned his hand over and curled his fingers around Jaemin’s without hesitation.

The touch was simple. Steady.

But Jaemin felt it in his ribs.

After a beat, Jaemin gave a soft sigh and glanced at the clock on the wall. “I should go soon. Jisung’s rehearsal starts in a bit.”

Jeno’s fingers held his just a little tighter. “I’ll drive you.”

Jaemin smiled, shaking his head gently. “It’s okay. It’s a nice evening. I wouldn’t mind the walk.”

“You sure?”

“Mm. Gives me time to overthink and replay everything that just happened in the last hour.”

Jeno chuckled under his breath. “If you figure out what you think of it all, let me know.”

“I already did,” Jaemin said, standing slowly. “I think… I really, really like being with you.”

Jeno stood too, quieter now, and met him halfway around the table. They stood toe to toe in the wide, warm space of the kitchen, the rest of the house quiet around them.

Neither made a move to rush the moment.

Jeno reached up first, his fingers brushing Jaemin’s cheek, a question in his eyes.

Jaemin answered it by leaning forward.

Their kiss this time was softer than the one in the kitchen earlier—but no less meaningful. It lingered. Carried with it the weight of all the unsaid things, all the growing feelings, all the stillness they shared in one another’s company.

When they finally pulled back, Jaemin stayed close, eyes half-lidded.

“Don’t forget,” he murmured, “you still promised to come see the performance.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Jeno said with a smile, brushing Jaemin’s hair back from his forehead. “I’d love to see Jisung dance. But I’ve still got a few things to finish here before the display teams show up tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll save you a seat near the front,” Jaemin said, taking a slow step back toward the door. “Only if you bring more cornbread.”

“I’ll consider it,” Jeno said, grinning. “No promises.”

Jaemin took one last look—at the room, at Jeno, standing there in the fading light—then slipped on his shoes and stepped out into the evening sun.

As he walked back down the path, the soft gravel crunching beneath his feet, the warmth of Jeno’s hand still lingered in his own.

The house was quiet again.

Jeno leaned against the counter, the faint click of the kettle switching off behind him. The plate that had held the last of their meal sat empty in the sink, a smudge of sauce clinging to its edge like a reluctant memory. He hadn’t moved it yet. His hand rested beside it, fingers slack, a dish towel forgotten in his grip.

He exhaled softly and ran a hand through his hair.

Jaemin had only just left. Said he wanted to walk back—"It’s nice out," he’d said, smiling in that way that made it hard to argue. Not that Jeno would have tried. He understood the need for a quiet walk, for air. Still, he hadn’t moved from the spot he’d been standing in since the front door had shut behind Jaemin.

Eventually, he pushed himself into motion.

The routine of cleaning steadied him. Plates rinsed, glasses washed and turned upside down on the rack. Crumbs swept into his palm and tossed into the bin. He moved without thinking, body on autopilot, but his mind… his mind was still caught up in the softness of earlier moments.

The way Jaemin had looked at him while he cooked—curious and quiet, eyes full of something tender. The way he smiled mid-bite when something tasted better than expected. The way he kissed Jeno’s cheek so suddenly, so gently, and didn’t quite pull away before Jeno turned his head and kissed him back.

God.

Jeno paused with his hands in the sink.

That kiss had stayed with him—warm and lingering, the kind that left something behind even after it ended. It had felt easy and charged at the same time. A kind of current, unspoken but understood.

He dried his hands and leaned back against the counter, eyes drifting to the hallway where Jaemin had disappeared.

When they first met, Jeno hadn’t expected any of this. Jaemin had been a quiet storm—focused, sharp, a little aloof. But as the days turned into weeks, that exterior had softened. There were cracks now where sunlight came through.

He liked that Jaemin teased him now. That he smiled more. That he let himself be looked at and didn’t immediately look away.

And when he looked at Jeno—really looked—there was something unguarded there. Something honest.

It made Jeno’s chest feel full in a way he hadn’t realised he’d been missing.

He didn’t know where this was going, exactly. But he wanted to find out.

With one last glance around the now-clean kitchen, Jeno flicked off the light. Evening had begun to settle, casting the estate in the golden blue of dusk. Tomorrow, the deliveries for the gala would start arriving. The courtyard would be full. The rooms would bustle.

But for tonight, it was still. And Jeno, standing in the quiet of his borrowed home, found himself smiling.

He was looking forward to seeing Jaemin again.

The gates of the Lee estate stood open, a wide invitation to the small caravan of trucks waiting to pull in. Dew still clung to the grass, glittering under the morning sun as the first few clouds of dust rolled over the long driveway.

Jaemin climbed out of the van, stretching his arms overhead. “We’re early,” he said, half to himself, half to Mark and Donghyuck as they joined him outside.

Donghyuck blinked up at the estate, his mouth already open in exaggerated awe.

“Oh my god ,” he breathed. “This is insane. This is—this is straight out of a period drama. Are we getting married here? Who’s the chaebol? Is it you, Mark? Be honest.”

Mark rolled his eyes, adjusting the straps of the tote bag slung over his shoulder. “You’ve been here thirty seconds.”

“And I’m already emotionally attached!” Donghyuck waved his arms, spinning slowly in place to take it all in. “There are multiple buildings , Jaemin. Multiple . You never said your mysterious boyfriend lives in a historical landmark.”

Jaemin made a choked sound in the back of his throat. “He’s not—Donghyuck.”

Mark smirked. “You walked right into that.”

Before Jaemin could retort, movement caught his eye—Jeno stepping out from the side path that led around the main house, clipboard in hand and sleeves rolled up. He was talking to one of the delivery drivers, head tilted, brow slightly furrowed in focus.

Then he looked up and saw them.

The furrow disappeared. His expression lifted into something warmer, something just shy of a smile but just as soft.

Jaemin felt it like a tug low in his stomach.

“Morning,” Jeno said as he approached, his voice quieter now, reserved in a way that was only for Jaemin. “You’re early.”

“Didn’t want to miss anything,” Jaemin replied, and he meant it.

They stood close without needing to adjust, a comfortable nearness that had become familiar, easy.

“I hope you’re ready for chaos,” Jeno said, glancing over at Donghyuck now gesturing dramatically toward a decorative archway, likely mid-rant about architecture. “Hyuck seems… enthusiastic.”

“That’s just his default state,” Jaemin murmured with a soft smile.

Mark came up behind them with a polite nod. “We brought some extra hands. Ms. Oh and the volunteers are due by noon.”

Jeno gestured toward the courtyard. “We’ve got the delivery manifest and floorplans inside. I’ll walk you through the staging areas first?”

Jaemin nodded, but before they turned to follow, Donghyuck appeared beside them like a summoned spirit.

“Okay, I’m just saying—this is the fanciest place I’ve ever sweat in. If I get heatstroke here, I want it written in my obituary that I died surrounded by heritage buildings and repressed sexual tension.”

Mark groaned. “Hyuck, please .”

But Jaemin just blushed and glanced at Jeno.

Jeno, for his part, chuckled under his breath, and Jaemin caught the corner of his mouth turning up again, subtle but there.

“C’mon,” Jeno said, eyes on Jaemin now. “Let’s get started.”

They fell into step together as the first truck pulled through the gates behind them, the quiet hum of industry beginning to build around the estate. And even with the noise, the laughter, the footsteps, Jaemin couldn’t help but notice how natural it felt—walking beside Jeno like this. Like the start of something real.

By the time the second delivery truck rolled through the estate gates, the peaceful grandeur of the morning had fully given way to organised chaos.

Jaemin stood in the centre of it all—clip in his hair, pencil tucked behind his ear, holding a staging map in one hand and an iced coffee Donghyuck had shoved into the other.

“Okay!” he called, dodging a volunteer hauling folded panels of a disassembled backdrop. “Stage components to the west garden, not the front path!”

Donghyuck, perched dramatically on the steps of the side building, sipped his own iced coffee like it was wine. “You’re doing great, sweetie,” he called, entirely unhelpfully. “You missed your calling as a general.”

“Get up and go help, you menace,” Mark said, passing by with a stack of laminated signs and the patience of a saint.

Donghyuck scoffed, but stood. “You love my chaos.”

Mark shot him a look that was exasperated, fond, and vaguely flirty. “I do. But the signs still need hanging.”

From the garden path, Jeno approached, clipboard in hand and brows slightly furrowed. “Hey, do you know where the LED rig boxes ended up? My friend Renjun said he wants some more photos for the magazine spread, he's on his way up..”

“Last I saw, they were with the black crates marked stage audio,” Jaemin said, already scanning the lawn where half the truck’s contents were still waiting to be sorted.

“Perfect,” Jeno said with a soft, grateful smile, and Jaemin swore it short-circuited his thoughts for a full second.

Mark joined them, handing Jaemin a folded diagram. “Updated layout. Ms. Oh wants the embroidery timeline display moved to the shaded side.”

Donghyuck, now helping a volunteer carry banners toward the front path, waved them off over his shoulder. “Tell her the shade is where my ambition goes to nap!”

“Are you sure you two dating?” Jeno asked quietly, one brow raised in amusement as he watched Donghyuck nearly trip over his own enthusiasm.

Mark laughed, bumping shoulders with Jeno as he passed. “It’s a constant test of patience. But yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

Jaemin grinned, glancing between them. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away.”

“We told you after, like, a week,” Mark said. “You were just too distracted by a certain restoration expert to register.”

Jaemin flushed. Jeno chuckled, head ducking a little as he turned back to his clipboard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaemin muttered.

“Mmhm,” Mark replied, smirking.

By noon, the lawn was dotted with moving pieces: tables half-assembled, fabric draped over garden arches, lanterns being strung overhead. Inside the building designated for the exhibits, volunteers worked in clusters, unboxing carefully wrapped artifacts, checking display instructions, arranging them like puzzle pieces.

Renjun had arrived and was now adjusting his lighting rig while making dramatic comments about balance, shadows, and historical ambiance. Donghyuck had taken to following him, loving having a new person to annoy, asking philosophical questions about art and lighting until Mark physically redirected him to hang string lights with the help of a very patient teen volunteer.

In a quieter moment, Jaemin and Jeno found themselves side by side again, stacking boxes against the wall of the display building. They worked in sync now, like muscle memory.

“Donghyuck really took to Rejun huh>,” Jaemin commented as he set the last box down.

“Seems like it,” Jeno said with a small shrug. “Its nice to have him back”

“You known him long?,” Jaemin said, glancing over. “Renjun I mean?”

“Ye. I have…hes been off in Europe , We met in china when I was studying abroad.”

Jaemin watched him quietly. “I’m glad you’ve got more friends around.”

The moment stretched between them. Jeno smiled gently and nudged Jaemin’s arm with his own.

“Come on,” he said, “we’ve got three more deliveries on the way. If we’re lucky, we’ll be done before sunset.”

“Optimistic,” Jaemin said with a grin, following him back into the afternoon hum.

And as the shadows stretched long across the Lee estate, laughter echoed down garden paths, soft music played from someone’s phone speaker, and amid the chaos of cables and canvas, something unspoken between Jaemin and Jeno continued to build—quiet and steady as the structures rose around them.

By the time the last truck rumbled out the gates and the sun dipped low behind the tree line, the Lee estate had settled into a tired, golden stillness. The scattered clamor of setup had faded, replaced by the soft rustle of wind through garden hedges and the low hum of cicadas beginning to stir.

The remaining crew—Jeno, Jaemin, Mark, Donghyuck, and Renjun—gathered around a long wooden table Jeno had dragged out to the courtyard, now lit by a halo of gently swaying lanterns.

“I feel like I’ve aged ten years,” Donghyuck announced dramatically as he slumped into his seat.

“You age like a fine wine,” Mark said, sliding a takeout container in front of him.

“I age like expired kombucha,” Donghyuck replied, peeling the lid off the box and sighing at the still-warm noodles inside. “But thanks, babe.”

Jaemin sat between Jeno and Mark, across from Renjun, who was still adjusting to the dynamics of the group with the quiet attentiveness of someone who’d just wandered into a sitcom mid-season.

“You must be Jaemin,” Renjun said, finally breaking his silence. His voice was smooth, measured, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “I’ve heard… enough.”

Jaemin blinked. “Should I be concerned about what you’ve heard?”

“No, but he should be,” Renjun said with a pointed nod toward Jeno, who gave an audible sigh and leaned back in his chair like a man accepting his fate.

“Please,” Jeno muttered. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m not starting,” Renjun said innocently, lifting his chopsticks. “Just confirming identities. It’s nice to officially meet the man who made that hanbok. And who made Jeno nervous enough to mess up his mic pack three times during the shoot yesterday.”

Donghyuck immediately perked up. “Wait—what?”

Mark groaned. “Renjun, don’t encourage him.”

“I’m just telling the truth,” Renjun said with a shrug, his tone light but teasing. “Jeno here couldn’t focus to save his life. Blushed every time someone mentioned embroidery. It was honestly adorable.”

Jeno buried his face in one hand while Jaemin tried and failed not to smile, cheeks warming despite himself.

“I didn’t know he was going to wear it that day,” Jaemin said, eyes flicking briefly to Jeno. “I thought it was still in the studio.”

“I brought it,” Jeno muttered. “Wanted it to be the real thing. It felt… right.”

Donghyuck let out a long, theatrical “awww,” and Renjun made a show of dabbing the corners of his eyes with a napkin. Mark rolled his eyes but was smiling into his drink.

“So,” Renjun said, cocking his head at Jaemin. “What’s your deal, then?”

“My deal?” Jaemin blinked.

“Yeah. You’re clearly talented, your little brother dances like he’s possessed, and you’ve got half the village wrapped around your finger. What’s the catch?”

Jaemin blinked, caught somewhere between flattered and flustered. “I don’t think there’s a catch.”

“There never is,” Jeno muttered under his breath.

Jaemin turned to him, brows raised. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Jeno said, reaching for the last spring roll, “that Renjun’s being nosy, and you’re perfect, and I’m not letting this become another interrogation.”

Everyone groaned collectively.

“You know what,” Donghyuck said, tossing his chopsticks into his empty container. “I like this version of Jeno. Defenseless. Mushy. Smitten”

“ Donghyuck —” Jeno tried.

“I think I’m going to like knowing all of you,” Renjun said, smiling to himself.

The evening wound on slowly—shared stories, soft laughter, lanterns swaying in the breeze. Plates emptied. Drinks refilled. The stars blinked to life above them.

And as Jaemin leaned back in his chair, listening to Jeno bicker lightly with Donghyuck and Renjun while Mark tried valiantly to keep the peace, he felt that sense again.

That gentle click of something falling into place.

The lanterns cast soft pools of golden light across the courtyard, now cluttered with empty takeout containers, drained cups, and the occasional crumpled napkin. The group was full, sun-warmed, and riding the high of a job mostly well done.

Renjun reclined in his chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. “Okay, serious question,” he said, directing it to no one in particular. “How is it that none of you warned me that working this gala would involve actual physical labor?”

“Because you wouldn’t have come if we had,” Mark said dryly.

Renjun looked wounded. “That’s slanderous. I love hard work. I just prefer it when it’s... optional.”

“You carried exactly one light stand and then took a water break,” Donghyuck snorted.

“I directed the placement of the others,” Renjun said, unfased. “Leadership is exhausting.”

Jeno chuckled softly beside Jaemin, nudging his elbow. “I kind of regret introducing these two now, I sense trouble”

Jaemin smiled, eyes lingering on the crinkle at the corner of Jeno’s eyes, the easy way he settled in the space—quiet but connected. “Honestly,” he said, “it’s kind of nice. I’ve never really had... a group like this.”

Donghyuck, still half-reclined in Mark’s lap, raised a brow. “You’ve had us for weeks, you ungrateful flower fairy.”

Jaemin laughed. “I know. But this—” He gestured vaguely to the group, the estate, the stars. “—feels like something I didn’t know I was missing. I wish Jisung and Chenle were here too, as chaotic as they are.”

Donghyuck looked over and smiled at him, gentle. “You’ve always carried so much on your own, Jaem. You don’t have to, you know. We’ve got you.”

Jaemin looked down, flustered. “I’m working on that.”

“Good,” Donghyuck said, then turned to Jeno. “And you. Just so we’re clear, if you hurt him, I’ll steal your car and crash it into your ancestors’ shrine.”

Jeno blinked. “That’s... specific.”

“Think of it as a cultural threat.”

Mark looked scandalised. “You can’t say that.”

“Watch me.”

Renjun raised his hand. “As the newest member of this found-family sitcom, am I required to threaten Jeno too? Because I’m already booked next weekend, but I could pencil something in.”

Jeno groaned but was clearly amused. Jaemin bumped his shoulder against his lightly, smiling at the way he was trying not to.

“I think he’s more scared of you than Donghyuck, honestly,” Jaemin whispered.

“Renjun has secret older cousin energy,” Jeno murmured back.

Jaemin laughed softly, not bothering to hide it.

As the conversation drifted toward the weekend’s chaos and last-minute prep assignments, Jaemin noticed how easily it all fit together: Renjun’s dry commentary, Donghyuck’s flair for the dramatic, Mark’s grounding calm, and Jeno’s quiet warmth beside him. For the first time in what felt like years, Jaemin wasn’t observing from the outside.

He was in it.

And when Jeno reached under the table and gently laced their pinkies together — subtle, secure — Jaemin didn’t say anything. He just smiled down at their joined hands, heart thudding steady in his chest.

Chapter Text

Joseon Era

The rain had started gently, like a whisper against the palace roof tiles, but now it slashed sideways through the wind, rattling shutters and cloaking the world in mist. The courtyards were deserted. Even the guards took shelter.

Jaemin kept his hood up, head bowed as he slipped past the outer gates of the servants’ wing. The note burned inside his sleeve, tucked tightly to his wrist where it wouldn’t fall.

He had read it at least a dozen times in the candlelight of his quarters:

“Tonight. The old plum tree, where the wall breaks near the stream. I’ll wait. — J.”

It couldn’t be anyone else.

It had to be Jeno.

His heart had pounded at the sight of the initial.

It had been nearly two weeks since they’d last spoken—since the rumours had exploded like oil on flame, and everything Jaemin had quietly, foolishly hoped for came crashing down. 

It had been two weeks since he’d seen Jeno—really seen him. Since the night they'd been caught beside the river, hands still damp from holding each other, lips bruised from kisses and laughter that had come too easy in the dark.

Two weeks since Jeno’s silence began, Jaemin knew,  it only made him sure when the townsfolk started looking at him in disgust, whispering behind poorly concealed grimaces. Jaemin knew. 

Lord Lee has caught them, and now Jeno was watched like a hawk, supervised on every appearance he made in town. And Jaemin, left with lingering glances and solemn silence.

No contact. 

Jeno’s father had made sure of that.

This hope .

Jaemin clutched it tighter, nearly stumbling over the tree’s roots as he reached the clearing. The plum blossom tree stood gnarled and ancient, bent like it had secrets. A few stubborn petals still clung to its branches despite the wind.

He scanned the shadows beneath its limbs.

“Jeno?” he called softly. “Are you here?”

Nothing.

Only the rain.

“Jeno…” he whispered. “Please.”

Footsteps behind him.

He turned, a sharp intake of breath on his tongue—hope rising too fast.

But it wasn’t Jeno.

A tall, commanding figure stood just beyond the arch of the broken wall. Black robes. Rain dripping from a wide-brimmed hat. Two guards flanked him in silence, their hands already at their sides, ready.

Jaemin froze. His breath caught.

"Lord Lee," he managed, his voice nearly drowned by the storm. Jaemin stepped back, one foot sinking slightly into the mud. “You…”

Jeno’s father stepped forward, calm as a statue. “You came. How predictable.”

Jaemin’s mouth went dry. “Where’s Jeno?”

Lord Lee didn’t answer. He stepped close enough for the light from a hidden lantern to catch the hard edges of his face.

The lord gave a small smile, humourless and cold. “Where he belongs. Where he’s being watched. Kept from making further mistakes.”

“You forged the note.”

“Of course I did.”

Jaemin’s fists clenched. “Why?”

A faint smile twisted at the edge of Lord Lee’s mouth. “I know what you are.”

The words landed like a slap. Jaemin straightened, but didn’t retreat.

“You think I would allow my son, heir to the Lee legacy, to be corrupted by…what are you? A man touched by demons? An unnatural deviant?”

“Don’t,” Jaemin said, voice shaking.

Lightning cracked in the distance, throwing jagged shadows across the field. Jaemin stood his ground.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, voice steady despite the tremor in his gut. “We were just—”

“You were just seducing the future of the Lee estate? Whispering pretty lies under the cover of darkness? Infecting him with your male colour.”

“I never forced him,” Jaemin said, quietly, fiercely. “We cared for each other. We loved each other.”

Lord Lee’s eyes flashed. “Your ‘love’ is unnatural ”

“I know unnatural”, Jaemin said, breath trembling. “It isn’t this. It isn’t threatening your own son’s happiness—”

“Enough,” the lord snapped. “I will not have my son shamed. I will not have his name dragged down by scandal and filth. He will marry whom he must. He will inherit what is owed. And you—”

Rain poured harder. The guards stepped closer.

Jaemin raised a hand. “I know. I know what happens next.”

Jaemin’s eyes flicked to them, then back to the man who had ruined everything.

“I won’t beg,” he said. 

“I won't plead for myself,” Jaemin said, quickly now. “If you’re going to silence me, fine. Do it. But don’t let him find out. Don’t let Jeno know. Let him believe I ran away. Let him think I left. Let him hate me if he must. Just… don’t let him carry this.”

Lord Lee raised a brow.

“Don’t let him find out what happened to me,” Jaemin said, voice breaking only at the end.

For a moment, the only sound was the wind whipping through the trees and the relentless rhythm of the rain.

Lord Lee studied him for a long moment, something like intrigue—or disgust—curling at the edges of his mouth.

“No,” he said simply.

Jaemin flinched like he’d been struck.

“I want him to remember you,” the lord said, voice low and certain. “To know what his disobedience cost. I want him to grieve . I want him to believe your betrayal so wholeheartedly he never steps another foot out of line.”

The guards grabbed Jaemin from behind—swift, practised. He struggled, fought, screamed, but one blow to the ribs and another to the temple blurred his vision. The lantern light stretched like fire across his sight.

"Please!" he shouted. “Please, don’t let him see—!”

But the noose was already ready. Hanging from the old tree. Prepared long before Jaemin had arrived.

Lord Lee didn’t move, didn’t flinch as Jaemin thrashed.

Jaemin tried to speak—tried to call Jeno’s name one last time—but the rope tightened, and the cold cut deep.

And then there was only air.

And pain.

And blackness.

Jaemin woke with a sharp, gasping breath.

His hands fisted in the sheets, damp with sweat, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted to escape. The room was still dark, pale blue with early dawn, the outlines of the walls soft and familiar — but it took a moment to believe it. To know that the rope was gone, that the tree was gone, that he was no longer under that cold, rain-slicked sky.

He was in his own bed, breath hot against his skin, chest heaving like he’d run miles.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just lay there, wide-eyed in the faint glow of dawn, letting the reality settle over him in slow, dizzying waves.

He sat up slowly, pressing a palm to his chest.

“Jeno,” he whispered.

And this time, the name didn’t feel like a question.

He knew .

It was him .

The dream hadn’t faded like the others. It hadn’t fractured upon waking, leaving him with vague impressions or emotions he couldn’t explain. This one had come through whole . A memory dressed as a nightmare. His past life — the one he had sensed, pieces at a time, for weeks — had finally cracked open.

And now he remembered everything .

Jeno was the one from his dreams. The boy whose name had always been on the tip of Jaemin’s tongue but never quite there. The one whose eyes had haunted him, whose voice lived in the background of every deja vu.

He remembered, 

The plum blossom tree.
The forged note.
The way Jeno used to look at him like he was something rare, something his .
The stolen kisses by the river, the laughter hushed by wind.
The fear. The love.
The betrayal.

Jaemin pulled his knees up and curled around them, trembling with the weight of it all.

It was him . Jeno. The boy with the quiet eyes and the sharp jaw and the habit of pretending not to care when he clearly did.

Jeno had loved him once.

No — they had loved each other . Fiercely. Secretly. With the kind of devotion that made you believe the world could bend around your need.

Jeno was the one he had loved — loved — with all the reckless certainty of youth. Jeno was the one whose name he couldn’t remember but had still managed to dream about, again and again. And now that the veil had lifted, he saw Jeno in every flicker of the man standing beside him now, even across centuries.

Jaemin sat, blinking away the moisture on his cheeks. He didn’t remember crying.

He wasn’t shaking from fear anymore. Not entirely.

There was something else, too.

Awe.

Wonder.

Like someone had taken the pieces of a puzzle he didn’t know he was building and clicked the final one into place.

Memories poured in — not just the horror of the end, but the softness before it.

The brush of Jeno’s fingers on his jaw.
The way they used to meet at the mill, talking, loving until the stars faded into mist.
Laughter muffled in sleeves.
A promise whispered against skin
That first kiss, hesitant but burning.
And the way Jeno had looked at him after, like the whole world had finally made sense.

Jaemin exhaled, a shaky laugh bubbling from his chest. He pressed both palms to his face.

It was him.

He hadn’t been crazy. The tug in his chest, the way he’d searched Jeno’s face for familiarity he couldn’t name — it was all real.

A warm, dizzy happiness began to spread through his ribs.

He hadn’t just imagined it.
He hadn’t loved alone.

Their story — tragic, unfinished — had looped back around. Found them again. In this life.

He should’ve known. The pull had always been there. The way his body turned toward Jeno without permission, how their silences weren’t awkward but full. How Jeno had found him, again and again, without ever trying.

Jaemin curled forward, forehead pressed to his knees.

His chest hurt, but not from sorrow. Not only.

He felt found .

But the joy of remembering twisted quickly into dread.

Because he also remembered the end.

The cold hand of Jeno’s father on his shoulder.
The smirk.
The guards.
The noose.
The helplessness.
The fear that Jeno would blame him forever, and worse, never know the truth.

Jaemin ran a hand through his hair, still shaking. His skin felt too tight, his chest too small for the storm brewing inside it.

Did Jeno remember?

Was he walking around with the same ache in his bones? The same sense of having lost something and not knowing what?

But no—Jeno had never said a word. Never slipped, never hinted. Not even a flicker of recognition when their hands brushed or their eyes met.

It made Jaemin feel alone in this knowing. Like he had crossed a line in time that Jeno hadn't.

He sat in silence for a long while, letting the room grow brighter around him. The morning sun touched the corner of his desk. Birds began to stir outside.

And finally, Jaemin made his decision.

He wouldn’t tell Jeno. Not yet. If Jeno remembered one day — if something stirred — then they’d face that together. But for now, Jaemin would hold the truth quietly, fiercely, like a talisman against fate.

Their lives now were delicate, not built on power or promises but something gentler. Something slow-growing and real.

He didn’t want to burden Jeno with the weight of a past he might not remember, or worse, not believe.

He wanted to see where this could go. Here, now, with the man Jeno had become. Not just the boy he’d once loved.

So Jaemin drew in a breath, stood, and began to ready himself for the day.

The past would stay silent — for now.

But his heart knew.
And it beat a little louder because of it.

The community centre buzzed with early energy. Not the frantic sort, but the kind you get just before something big — a hum beneath the skin, tension wrapped in anticipation.

Jaemin pulled up outside just after seven, the van packed to the roof with garment bags, steamers, and last-minute accessories. A few volunteers were already inside when he stepped in, arms full, the scent of starch and fresh fabric trailing behind him like a second shadow.

The space had been transformed overnight. Fold-out tables now held rows of cosmetics, hair tools, jewellery trays, and backup stitching kits. Racks lined the walls, labelled neatly by group and order of appearance. Garments shimmered under the overhead lights — the rich indigos, sharp creams, and soft celadons of hanbok and tailored silhouettes he’d spent the last few months pouring himself into.

This was it.

Today was the real thing.

“Jaemin!” Donghyuck appeared from behind a changing screen, already half-dressed in an embroidered jacket, a teasing smirk on his lips. “Look who’s on time for once.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Jaemin replied dryly, manoeuvring past him toward the main prep area.

“I hope that van has the backup hanbok I begged you for. You know I can’t trust Mark not to spill something.”

A muffled, offended “I heard that!” came from deeper in the room. Jaemin smiled despite himself.

“Shouldn’t you be warming up your voice or something?” he said, nodding at Donghyuck’s performance tag clipped to his jacket collar.

“I already did,” Donghyuck said, striking a melodramatic pose. “But I’m a generous artist. I can multitask and harass people at the same time.”

He winked, then disappeared behind a rack of performance wear, humming the melody of one of his solo pieces under his breath.

Jaemin dropped the garment bags onto a waiting rack, rolling out his shoulders as volunteers rushed in to help unpack. A few of the younger performers ran up to greet him, wide-eyed and chattering, tugging at sleeves or asking about hairpins. He answered gently, shifting from task to task with practised ease, his hands steadier than his heart.

It helped, keeping busy. Kept his thoughts from drifting too much.

But they still drifted.

Every so often, his gaze would catch on the door, expecting Jeno to walk in — tall and unreadable, maybe holding an extra box no one asked him to carry, just to help. Jaemin shook the thought off and moved to the mirror stations.

He adjusted collars, straightened waistbands, fastened clasps. Reassured a flustered singer with trembling hands and tightened the ribbon of a dancer’s belt with calming fingers. The performers looked to him now, not just as a tailor, but as someone who’d helped shape this night into something beautiful.

And beneath the nerves, Jaemin felt it too: pride.

They’d done something real. Together.

The doors opened again — this time, Renjun stepped in, followed by Jisung and Chenle. The three carried takeout coffee cups and a quiet, groggy sort of camaraderie. Renjun offered a polite smile toward the room but gravitated instinctively toward the edges, scanning for Jeno out of habit.

“You’re late,” Jaemin said, eyeing the clock without looking up.

“We’re not,” Jisung replied, setting down a pastry bag. “You’re just early.”

Chenle passed Jaemin a coffee. “Drink this. You look like a ghost.”

“Thanks,” Jaemin muttered, taking it. “Nice to see you too.”

Renjun stood a little awkwardly beside them until Donghyuck’s voice called out from across the room.

“You came back!” he said brightly, waving Renjun over with a grin. “That’s either brave or foolish.”

Renjun raised an eyebrow. “Probably both.”

Donghyuck laughed and stepped aside to make room. “Well, good. We need more people who know how to hold a steamer without nearly dying.”

The minutes spun quickly. One by one, performers disappeared into dressing rooms and emerged transformed — gold threads catching light, sleeves floating like silk banners, the past made present again with every step. The centre was alive with motion, the noise rising and falling in waves: laughter, shouts of “has anyone seen the red sash?” and “don’t sit down in that!” woven between soft music playing from someone’s phone.

Jaemin stood near the main fitting station, watching it all unfold with a hand still lightly gripping his cup, gone cold now.

He hadn’t seen Jeno yet.

And maybe that was for the best.

Because even now, surrounded by people, half-buried in garments and powder, with pins between his teeth and to-do lists looping in his head, part of him kept thinking about the dream. About the way it ended. About the way it began.

But he didn’t let it show.

Instead, he smiled and turned toward the next performer, nervously tugging at their hem.

“Come on,” he said, his voice soft but sure. “Let’s make you look perfect.”

Jeno wasn’t late. But he wasn’t early either — something he’d been quietly chastising himself for during the entire drive over.

He stepped into the community centre and was immediately met with a wall of warmth and motion. The space hummed with overlapping voices, fabric rustling, last-minute fittings, and the faint trill of someone rehearsing scales in the back room. Light poured in through the tall windows, catching the threads of gold and crimson in people’s outfits like sparks.

But all of it blurred the second Jeno saw him.

Jaemin stood near the centre of the room, giving soft instructions to a younger dancer while pinning a sleeve into place. His hanbok — cream and mint green, embroidered with delicate gold plum blossoms — hugged his frame like it had been made by the stars themselves. His hair was neatly styled, his posture straight, his expression focused.

Jeno felt his breath catch.

He looked—

Beautiful didn’t quite cover it.

There was something weightless about him in that moment, something still and striking. For a second, it was like everything around him slowed to half speed — the background noise fading into nothing but his heartbeat in his ears.

Wow,” came a voice beside him, too dry to be accidental. “You’re really gone, huh?”

Jeno blinked to find Renjun sidled up beside him, arms crossed and one brow arched like a dagger. He was already dressed in crisp blue formalwear, the pin at his collar catching the light.

“You always sneak up on people like that?” Jeno muttered.

“I do when they're looking at someone like they're about to write a sonnet.”

Jeno gave him a look. Renjun only grinned.

“I’m just saying,” Renjun added, brushing past him toward the makeup area, “maybe try blinking once or twice before you approach.”

Jeno shook his head but couldn’t quite suppress the smile pulling at his mouth.

Jeno took a quiet breath and made his way across the room. Jaemin had just finished pinning the dancer’s sleeve and was stepping back to admire the adjustment. When he saw Jeno, his eyes lit — not overly dramatic, just a flicker of something quiet and pleased

“You made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jeno said, hands tucked into the pockets of his black slacks. “You look—” He faltered, then cleared his throat. “Impressive work. That hanbok is... really well made.”

Jaemin’s smile curved, the smallest hint of mischief behind it. “It should be. I made it.”

“You wear it well.”

That earned a brief pause — Jaemin’s gaze flicked up, warm and amused.

“You’re no dressed yet?” Jaemin spoke, looking back up at Jeno still dressed in his usual attire.

Jeno smirked back. “That’s where you come in, isn’t it?”

Jaemin gave a soft scoff. “This way.”

He led him toward a folding screen set up in a quiet corner, behind which hung a clean set of clothing on a low rail — Jeno’s hanbok for the night. It was plum-coloured with charcoal accents and silver-grey embroidery along the collar and sleeve. A lotus clasp glinted near the neck, delicate but sharp-edged.

Jaemin ran a hand over the sleeve. “I still think this was the right choice. Plum suits you.”

“You sure? Not too formal?”

“You could wear a tarp and still look annoyingly good.”

“That’s flirting.”

Jaemin shot him a look over his shoulder. “Is it?”

Jeno stepped behind the screen, tugging his shirt loose. “You gonna help me or stand there and compliment me all day?”

Jaemin followed, tugging the edge of the screen back in place behind them. “I’m multitasking.”

Jeno had peeled off his shirt just as Jaemin turned to speak — and then froze.

For a breathless second, neither of them moved.

Jaemin’s gaze slid over his bare chest, down the lean muscle and subtle ridges of Jeno’s torso, all lit by the soft overhead light filtering through the screen. His mouth parted slightly, eyes stuck somewhere between surprised and captivated.

“See something you like?” Jeno asked, voice low.

Jaemin blinked, colour rising to his ears. “I—You didn’t warn me you were halfway undressed already.”

“You didn’t knock.”

“This is a folding screen, not a front door.”

Jeno took a step closer, the air between them buzzing. “You could have looked away.”

“I didn’t want to.”

The silence between them stretched, full and charged.

And then, like gravity pulling them together, they leaned in.

The kiss was sudden and soft, Jaemin’s hand finding Jeno’s shoulder, Jeno’s fingers brushing Jaemin’s jaw. It didn’t last long — the quiet outside the screen still hummed with voices and steps — but it was enough to leave Jeno reeling.

When they pulled back, Jaemin touched his own lips like he was testing the reality of it.

Jeno grinned. “Still think plum suits me?”

Jaemin coughed lightly, cheeks still flushed. “Shut up. Arms up.”

Jeno obeyed, still shirtless.

As Jaemin helped him into the underlayer and began adjusting the jacket piece, his hands were precise but slower now, lingering. Jeno leaned in just slightly.

“You’re being gentle.”

“I have a needle in my pocket,” Jaemin warned, deadpan. “I will poke you if you try anything.”

“Promise?”

Jaemin rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress his smile.

The sun was shining above the tree line when the first cars arrived at the Lee estate.

The gravel drive was lined with lanterns, soft, warm light lining the path from the gates to the main house. The estate had been transformed. The gentle, sloping courtyard was alive with music and chatter, framed by standing displays of art, photography, and traditional crafts — all curated and arranged with care over the past week.

A small ensemble played at the edge of the terrace, strings and flutes blending with the sounds of rustling hanbok and murmured greetings. The scent of grilled delicacies wafted from one side of the garden, where catering stalls were tucked beneath silk canopies. Each corner of the space held its own secret charm — a plum blossom tree blooming despite the season, a tea ceremony pavilion, even a miniature installation of ancestral artifacts paired with modern interpretations.

It was elegant, reverent, and quietly breathtaking.

Jeno stood near the main path leading up to the house, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the scene with a rare softness in his expression. Guests passed with curious glances, a few stopping to exchange greetings with him — local officials, family friends, sponsors. But his eyes kept drifting toward the inner court where the performers and volunteers were gathering.

Mark and Donghyuck were already in their formal hanbok, hands clasped as they went over the setlist with the event coordinator. Donghyuck’s hair had been styled with just the right sweep, his expression half-serious, half-dramatic, like he was mentally preparing to either sing or ascend to some kind of royal stage.

Renjun arrived a few minutes later, still fussing with the sleeves of his ceremonial jacket. He found Jeno immediately and gave him a curt nod that somehow felt warm anyway.

“Looks incredible,” he said, glancing around.

Jeno followed his gaze. “Yeah. They really pulled it off.”

Then, as if on cue, Jaemin appeared.

He stepped out from one of the inner wings of the house, eyes scanning the garden with careful attention, lips pressed in focused thought. His hanbok shimmered in the lantern light — mint and cream catching gold like it had been made from the rays themselves. He wore it fully now, the sash and inner layers in place, a subtle hairpiece glinting just above his temple.

Jeno watched him move through the crowd, exchanging brief smiles, adjusting collars, fixing small details — sleeves, sashes, posture. He was radiant in his calm. And every once in a while, he laughed quietly at something someone said — and Jeno felt the sound in his ribs.

“You’re going to burn a hole in him if you keep staring like that.”

Jeno blinked once and turned to see Renjun, smug as ever, sipping from a paper cup.

“I’m just observing,” Jeno said.

“You’re so obvious, it’s almost romantic. Almost.” Renjun snickered into the rim of his cup.

Before Jeno could respond, movement ahead drew his attention again — Jaemin, now finished with the volunteers, was walking toward him, smile easy, a hint of mischief already tucked into the corners of his mouth.

Renjun rolled his eyes but said nothing more. Instead, he slipped off toward the seating rows.

"Don’t tell me you wrinkled it already," Jaemin said, voice low and amused when they met.

"You were right,” Jeno replied, lips twitching. “I should’ve let you tie the sash tighter.”

"Mm. I usually am.”

Their smiles lingered, warm and unhurried. Jeno’s gaze lingered too — on the edge of Jaemin’s sleeve, the soft fold of his collar, the way the mint silk reflected sunlight like dew.

"You really wore the hell out of that colour,” Jeno said finally.

"I made it to."

"I know. That’s part of the problem."

They both laughed quietly and close. Jaemin stepped in and lightly brushed Jeno’s shoulder, straightening a fold he’d already smoothed earlier.

"You don’t look too bad yourself, you know?" Jaemin said, casual but not careless.

Jeno blinked. "You’re flirting again."

"Of course I am," Jaemin smirked, then met his eyes with something gentler.

A voice called Jaemin’s name from somewhere across the lawn. They both turned — Jaemin’s grandmother was arriving, flanked by two familiar village women and already waving enthusiastically in his direction.

Jaemin’s whole posture shifted. The easy flirtation was still there, but now it mingled with something fond, a little shy. He looked back at Jeno.

"I should go greet her. But don’t disappear, okay?"

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Jaemin’s smile, this time, was private.

And then he was gone, striding toward his grandmother, sleeves fluttering at his sides like wings.

Jeno watched him go, heart too full to speak.

The courtyard had been transformed into an open-air stage. Rows of chairs framed the central platform, where soft music now drifted from hidden speakers. The sun hung just above the roofline, casting dappled shadows from the fabric canopies overhead. The scent of fresh florals and steamed rice lingered in the breeze. Off to one side, servers moved quietly with trays of pale rice cakes and tiny, folded napkins.

Jeno stood near the edge of the seating area, arms folded, surveying the crowd. Most of the guests were already settled, chatting softly or flipping through the event program. A hush started to fall as the lights dimmed slightly beneath the canopy.

Jeno stood just beyond the seating area, arms loosely crossed, scanning the setup with a calm that only came from having spent days perfecting every detail. The soft sounds of the traditional ensemble tuning up served as a lull before the next performance.

“You’re brooding,” Mark said as he stepped up beside him, hands shoved in the wide sleeves of his hanbok. It was a soft grey-blue that complemented the warmth in his skin tone — subtle, until you noticed the silver crane embroidery across the back.

“I’m not brooding,” Jeno replied, without looking at him.

“You’re brooding in the way rich people do it. Like, ‘Hm. I own all this beauty and I’m burdened by it.’”

Jeno snorted. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m observant.” Mark’s gaze shifted toward the edge of the stage. “He’s up next.”

Jeno followed his line of sight — and sure enough, Donghyuck was stepping into position, a long note from the haegeum ushering him forward like an invocation.

“Is he nervous?” Jeno asked.

Mark tilted his head, watching Donghyuck adjust the mic stand, his expression unusually solemn. “He pretends to be. Then he gets dramatic and says something like, ‘If I’m going to die, at least it’s on my own terms and in key.’”

Jeno chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

“And then he sings and reminds everyone why we put up with him.”

Jeno nodded slowly. “He does clean up well.”

Mark made a soft noise of agreement, then went completely still as the music began and Donghyuck started to sing.

It wasn’t the bravado of rehearsals. No playful wink. No smug grin. Just his voice — stripped down, earnest, clear as silk stretched in tension. Every note felt carefully chosen, like it meant something. And somehow, he made it sound easy.

Jeno turned, eyebrows lifted. “Mark.”

“What,” Mark whispered.

“Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies.”

Mark blinked once, eyes still locked on the stage. “Shut up.”

“Mark, I think you may be in love.”

“I am not!”

“You’re literally gawking at him right now.”

Mark’s jaw tensed. “That could mean anything.”

“Your ears are red.”

Mark groaned, finally dragging his gaze away to glare at Jeno. “And you’re one to talk?”

Jeno blinked, surprised. “What?”

“Oh, please.” Mark leaned closer, smug now. “You’ve been looking at Jaemin all day like he’s a walking wish.”

“I haven’t—”

“‘Oh no, he’s adjusting someone’s sleeve. I must gaze longingly at him for twenty-eight consecutive seconds.” Mark mimed a dramatic clutching of the chest. Jeno rolled his eyes. “I’m not dramatic.”

“You followed him behind a dressing screen and didn’t come out for five minutes.”

“We were fixing my hanbok!”

“Right. And your hair. And your lips, probably.”

Jeno elbowed him, a bit harder than necessary. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying, it’s nice seeing you flustered for once.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“Please. You had that dumb look on your face. You know the one.”

Jeno turned back toward the stage, trying to ignore the way his ears definitely felt warmer now. “You talk too much.”

“And you love it.”

Donghyuck’s voice swelled as he moved into the second verse, the lyrics painting a bittersweet story of longing and return. Mark fell silent again, eyes back on the stage, and Jeno let the music wash over them.

The sun had shifted, casting light across Donghyuck’s face like a spotlight meant just for him. His hanbok shimmered — deep ocean blue, silver-threaded at the collar — and his voice held every note like it was carrying something personal.

Mark exhaled soft. “I think I might be screwed.”

Jeno smiled faintly. “You think?”

A pause.

Then Mark murmured, “He’s going to kill me if he ever hears that.”

Jeno just leaned slightly toward him. “Good thing I’m great at secrets.”

They stood there, shoulder to shoulder, teasing paused as the final note rang out — long and clear. The audience erupted into applause. Donghyuck bowed low, and when he rose, his eyes flicked again to where Mark stood.

He smiled. Small. Just for him.

Mark exhaled.

Jeno grinned, watching the cracks form in his best friend’s composure. “You’re toast.”

Mark gave up and nodded. “Yeah.”

Jeno patted his back. “Welcome to the club.”

The applause still echoed as Donghyuck stepped off the stage, the hem of his hanbok fluttering slightly with each movement. He looked flushed but triumphant, cheeks pink and eyes bright in the soft afternoon light. Jaemin found him just past the steps of the temporary stage, half-hidden by a draped partition where water bottles and fans had been set for the performers.

“Show-off,” Jaemin said, grinning.

Donghyuck turned to him, still catching his breath. “You mean genius. Divine, tragic genius.”

“You do know this is a cultural heritage gala and not your solo debut, right?”

“Are you mad that I got more applause than your embroidery?”

Jaemin rolled his eyes but stepped forward, offering a small cloth from his sleeve. “You were amazing.”

Donghyuck took the cloth and dabbed at his temple, eyes softening. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

“You sang with your whole chest. Even Mark looked like he forgot how to blink.”

At that, Donghyuck’s smile turned sly. “Did he?”

Jaemin gave him a playful nudge. “He did. Try not to combust when he tells you later.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’ll simply let him suffer in suspense. I’m very humble like that.”

“Absolutely insufferable,” Jaemin said, but he was smiling, too.

Donghyuck reached out and adjusted the edge of Jaemin’s sleeve — unnecessarily — then leaned in slightly. “You look good, by the way. The hanbok? Stunning.”

They shared a small, knowing look — the kind that needed no explanation. Then, Jaemin nodded toward the gathering near one of the plum blossom displays.

“I should go wish Jisung luck,” he said. “He’s up next.”

“Tell him I said break a leg.”

“You’re not going to tell him yourself?”

“I need a minute to bask in the afterglow of my own brilliance. I’m delicate.”

“Tragic genius, right,” Jaemin called over his shoulder as he turned away.

He crossed the courtyard, weaving gently through guests and performers until he spotted them: his grandmother seated on one of the benches, a lace parasol balanced lightly in her lap. Jisung stood in front of her, shifting from foot to foot, a nervous energy radiating off him like heat. Chenle hovered close by, grinning like a proud stage mom.

“There you are,” Chenle said as Jaemin approached. “Jisung was about to melt.”

“I’m not melting,” Jisung muttered. “Just… warming up.”

“Mmm,” his grandmother hummed, reaching up to adjust a curl that had fallen onto Jisung’s forehead. “You look very handsome, sweetie.”

“Grandma,” Jisung whined, but didn’t move away.

“You do,” Jaemin said sincerely. “This hanbok suits you. The green brings out your eyes.”

“It’s too tight.”

“It fits perfectly,” Chenle cut in. “Stop squirming or you’ll mess up the pleats.”

Jisung glanced nervously toward the stage. “What if I forget the steps?”

“You won’t,” Jaemin said gently. “You’ve practised all week. You’ve got this.”

Jisung looked at him, then at their grandmother, who simply took his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze.

“No matter what, we’re proud,” she said.

Jaemin nodded. “But we’ll be even prouder if you don’t trip.”

Jisung groaned.

“Go warm up backstage,” Chenle said, giving him a light push. “And remember to smile. People eat that up.”

Jisung gave them one last wide-eyed look before scampering off.

“He’s going to be fine,” Jaemin said, mostly for their grandmother’s benefit.

She gave a small, secret smile. “He reminds me of you.”

“Terrified and dramatic?”

“Determined.”

Jaemin’s smile softened, gaze lingering on the path Jisung had disappeared down.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt something rare and still — a moment of pride, of connection. Of family. His heart felt full.

And somewhere behind that fullness, tucked away like a secret, was a memory of silver embroidery and a boy who kissed him behind a dressing screen.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of conversation faded as Ms. Oh stepped up to the podium, the gentle sweep of her hanbok brushing the stage with elegance. Her outfit was a dignified navy with delicate peony embroidery, her silver-streaked hair swept into a careful bun. She surveyed the crowd with calm authority — guests seated in neat rows, elders with attentive expressions, families dressed in their best, and a handful of children shifting restlessly at the back.

She smiled, eyes bright behind gold-framed glasses.

"Welcome, everyone," she began, her voice resonating across the extensive gardens of the Lee estate, now transformed for the day’s event. The soft light from lanterns filtered over the audience and the pebbled paths, warming the air with a golden glow. “Today marks not only the culmination of months of hard work, but the revival of something deeply personal and deeply historical. This gala was built with hands and hearts from every part of our community — each of you has helped weave this story together.”

She paused to let her words settle. A few quiet nods rippled through the crowd.

“We honour tradition not only through memory, but through motion. Through the breath of it. So, to open our celebration, we share with you one of the oldest and most graceful art forms passed down through generations: a ceremonial court dance in the style of the Joseon Dynasty.”

A ripple of intrigue moved through the audience.

Ms. Oh smiled gently. “Performed today by members of our local cultural preservation group, and featuring our youngest participant, Na Jisung, we present this dance not as a reenactment, but as a living piece of our heritage. Please enjoy.”

She stepped back as the stage lights dimmed slightly, the shifting sunlight replaced by a soft, intentional spotlight over the performance space.

From the wings, the low, mournful hum of the haegeum and piri began to flow through the air, accompanied by the light tapping of the janggu drum. Then, in perfect harmony, the dancers emerged.

Six of them in total, robed in flowing hanbok of ivory, sage green, and faded rose. Their sleeves swayed with each deliberate step, arms extended, fingers curved like brushstrokes. Among them, Jisung moved with focused poise — eyes downcast, expression serene. His hanbok was a soft jade trimmed in silver, echoing the elegance of a court attendant from a time long gone.

They moved in a slow circular pattern, each step and turn unfolding like petals in bloom. The sound of their garments brushing the floor melded with the music — a soft, hypnotic rhythm that drew the audience into another era.

It was reverent, beautiful, timeless.

Somewhere near the back, Jaemin stood breathless. He’d helped adjust the sashes just moments before the performance began, smoothing out nervous hands and muttering encouragement. Now, he watched them from the shadows, hands folded tightly in front of him. Beside him, his grandmother leaned slightly forward, her eyes shining.

Jisung took his place in the centre of the circle, arms outstretched as the others moved around him in graceful arcs — the symbolism was clear: harmony, history, balance. Though young, he radiated dignity, the slow extension of his arm catching a shaft of light just so, silver trim flashing like water.

When the dance came to its end, each dancer stepped into stillness as if becoming part of a painting. The last note hung in the air before fading.

The applause erupted like a wave.

The applause from the performance still echoed faintly in Jeno’s ears as the crowd trickled out into the garden terraces and courtyards of the estate. The mid-afternoon light filtered through silk banners strung between beams, soft shadows cast across wooden tables set with rice cakes, teas, and colourful sweets. Laughter and conversation filled the air, children darting between adults in their bright hanbok, and somewhere in the distance, someone was trying to tune a gayageum with exaggerated concentration.

Jeno stood beneath one of the covered walkways, sipping a chilled plum tea, when a familiar voice rang out.

“Absolutely not! He moved his foot, look at where the stick landed!”

Jaemin.

Jeno turned toward the courtyard where several of the others had gathered. Jaemin stood with his hands on his hips in front of a scattered set of yutnori sticks, pointing dramatically at a nearby player, Donghyuck, who looked both offended and amused.

“It doesn’t matter,” Donghyuck said with mock severity, “you already won the last round.”

“Because I’m good at this.” Jaemin lifted his chin proudly. “Skill, Hyuck. You should try it sometime.”

“Luck,” Chenle chimed in with a grin, tossing a dried jujube into his mouth. “And questionable ethics.”

Jaemin gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like he’d been personally wounded. “I am the moral compass of this group.”

“God help us,” Jisung mumbled from his place on the woven mat, carefully setting the sticks back into the playing square.

Jeno couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. There was something about Jaemin like this, sleeves pushed up slightly, the corners of his hanbok fluttering as he gestured wildly, hair a little mussed from the breeze, that made Jeno feel… off-kilter.

Not in a bad way. More like being pulled forward by something he didn’t know he was already following.

“Are you going to just stand there and stare, or are you going to play?” Jaemin called suddenly, glancing over his shoulder.

Jeno blinked, caught. “I’m observing.”

“That’s code for cowardice,” Jaemin replied, tossing him a stick. Jeno caught it easily.

“That’s rich coming from the guy who argued with a twelve-year-old about game rules ten minutes ago.” Donghyuck teased

Jaemin narrowed his eyes. “He was cheating.”

“He’s twelve.”

“He was cheating confidently.”

Laughter rippled from the group again, and someone scooted over to make space for Jeno on the mat. He stepped out of his shoes and joined them, settling beside Jaemin, who nudged him lightly with his knee in greeting.

They played for a while like that,  rounds of yutnori , ttakji chigi , and later, a chaotic attempt at jegichagi , which quickly devolved into a series of failed kicks and mock betrayals. Jaemin was merciless, competitive, loud, and radiant — his mint and cream hanbok swirled with every spin, the gold embroidery catching the sunlight like fire.

At one point, when Jeno accidentally knocked over the wrong piece, Jaemin leaned in close, lips barely parted in a smug grin.

“Sabotage?” he whispered.

“You’re imagining things,” Jeno murmured back, unable to stop looking at him.

Jaemin raised an eyebrow. “Mm. If I lose this round, I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

“I wouldn’t dare interfere.”

“You better not,” Jaemin said, eyes flashing. “I’m about to set a record.”

“You say that every round.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Jeno chuckled, and Jaemin turned back to the board with renewed determination. As the game resumed, Jeno found himself watching more than playing — watching the way Jaemin’s nose scrunched slightly when he concentrated, the way his fingers twitched before he made a decision, the way his laughter curved up and out like the bells strung from the courtyard eaves.

There was a moment, brief, quiet, unexpected, when Jeno’s fingers brushed Jaemin’s as they both reached for the same stick. Jaemin paused but didn’t pull away.

“Careful,” he murmured, not quite looking at him. “You’ll make me think you like losing.”

Jeno leaned a little closer, voice low. “Only if you’re the prize.”

Jaemin blinked, caught off guard, and for a moment, his competitive smirk faltered into something softer.

Then Donghyuck threw a pine nut at them and yelled, “Quit flirting and take your turn!”

The golden hour light filtered through the gauzy white canopy stretched across the Lee estate courtyard, casting the space in warm amber hues. Guests hushed gradually, the soft chime of glassware and murmured conversations fading as Ms. Oh returned to the small wooden stage at the centre of the courtyard.

“And now,” she said, smiling brightly, “our next speaker is someone many of you have seen working tirelessly behind the scenes, ensuring this restoration project was done with both care and integrity. Please welcome Lee Jeno, our local historical restoration expert and one of the heartbeats behind this gala.”

Polite applause rose around the courtyard, joined by a few louder claps from his group of friends near the front. Jeno stepped up to the platform, his plum and charcoal hanbok catching the soft light, lotus clasp gleaming at his collarbone. He nodded once in gratitude before taking the mic.

For a moment, he simply stood there, gaze sweeping over the crowd. Then, in his usual calm, grounded tone, he began.

“Thank you all for coming. I know this event is called a gala, but for me, it’s more than just a celebration. It feels a little like…a full circle.”

He paused, thumb brushing along the edge of the podium.

“I first came to this town when I was just a kid, visiting for summers with my grandfather, who some of you may remember as the previous owner of this land. He was a stern man to many, but to me, he was warmth and knowledge. The kind of person who could hold a story like it was a treasure, who never saw a crumbling wall as a problem, just a chance to uncover something beautiful underneath.”

A faint smile tugged at Jeno’s lips.

“He used to say that history wasn’t dead. That it was breathing quietly beneath our feet, waiting for someone to listen.” His voice softened. “He was the one who encouraged me to listen.”

There was a pause as he looked toward the estate behind him—the tiled roofs, the garden paths, the gleam of lacquered wood newly polished.

“When I said I wanted to study historical restoration, he was the first person to say yes. Not ‘why that?’ or ‘how will you make money from it?’ Just yes.” He glanced upward for a heartbeat, jaw tight for a second. “He passed before he could see any of my work, but this project—this estate—was his, and now it’s mine to care for. And I hope one day, if I’m lucky enough, I can officially inherit it and continue preserving what he believed in.”

More applause stirred, quieter this time, respectful.

Jeno continued, voice steadier.

“Restoration work is slow. It’s meticulous. Sometimes frustrating. You uncover one artefact and spend two weeks cataloguing it before you’re even allowed to touch it. You peel back layer after layer of dust just to find a tile that tells a story in a way no textbook can. But it’s also deeply fulfilling. You see the marks of hands from centuries ago. You preserve love, pain, and lives lived. You hold time still, just long enough to say, ‘We were here.’”

A flicker of emotion passed across his features, but it was fleeting.

“I’ve had the privilege of working on this estate with some truly remarkable people. Some have become friends I never expected. And some...well, some changed my life in ways I didn’t see coming.” A quiet glance toward the crowd, toward Jaemin, subtle but sure.

He cleared his throat lightly.

“My hope for the future is simple. That this land continues to be a place of memory, of culture, and of connection, for the community, for future generations, and for anyone who believes history deserves to be felt, not just studied.”

He dipped his head. “Thank you.”

This time, the applause came like a soft wave, warm and lasting. Among the guests, Jaemin, off to the side, smiled gently, pride clear in his expression.

Jeno stepped off the platform quietly, jaw clenched a little, eyes distant—not from nerves, but from memory.

It was the first time in a long time he had spoken aloud about his grandfather. And the first time, maybe ever, that he'd spoken about what building something lasting really meant to him.

The sun had dipped just far enough to drape the estate gardens in a warm golden hue. The air had softened, no longer heavy with midday heat, but instead carrying a breeze that swept gently through the trees and over the rippling water of the small koi pond nestled near the far side of the grounds. Laughter echoed from the lawn — the others were still playing games near the pavilion,  but Jeno had slipped away, instinct pulling him toward the quieter corners of the garden.

He found Jaemin there.

The older boy stood with his back to him at first, near a low stone wall wrapped in flowering vines, his fingers grazing the edges of a blooming white camellia. His hanbok glowed in the evening light, embroidery catching in golden glints as he shifted slightly.

Jeno’s chest tightened.

He didn’t speak at first. Just approached slowly, the gravel path crunching beneath his feet until Jaemin turned and smiled, soft and knowing, like he’d been waiting.

“I was wondering where you went,” Jaemin said, voice a touch breathless from earlier laughter.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Jeno replied. “You disappeared on me.”

Jaemin tilted his head, smirking. “You did well, your speech, I mean.”

“Thanks” Jeno smiled.

They stood there for a beat, eyes on each other, the world narrowing until the faint hum of the gala melted into the background. Jeno took another step closer. The scent of gardenia and something citrusy—Jaemin’s cologne—floated between them.

“You’re… glowing,” Jeno said, realising too late how earnest it sounded.

Jaemin blinked, then bit his lip. “That a compliment or do I look like I’m sweating?”

Jeno laughed. “Compliment.”

Jaemin laughed too, but it quieted quickly, replaced with something else in his gaze. He looked at Jeno in that way he sometimes did, like he saw more of him than Jeno knew how to show. And when Jeno reached up, brushing his fingers near Jaemin’s collar to straighten a fold in the fabric, neither of them moved away.

Jaemin’s voice dropped. “You’re staring.”

“So are you.”

Jaemin didn’t deny it.

The closeness between them was different now. Not teasing, not loud or playful — but tender. Earnest. The kind that made Jeno’s heartbeat crawl up his throat and steal words from his tongue.

“You’re not going to poke me with another needle, are you?” Jeno murmured, a faint grin pulling at his lips.

Jaemin scoffed. “I should. You’ve been wrinkling that outfit all day.”

“Well then,” Jeno said, stepping even closer, “maybe you should fix it.”

There were barely inches between them now. Jaemin’s eyes flicked down to Jeno’s lips for half a second, maybe shorter,  but Jeno saw it. Felt it.

Jaemin’s hand lifted, fingers brushing over the edge of Jeno’s collar, ghosting down the front ties. His touch lingered as he adjusted a fold, but it was clear neither of them cared much for fixing anything anymore.

Then, with a quiet breath, Jaemin looked up again, his voice softer.

“Jeno.”

That was all. Just his name. But it felt like something fell into place with it, like some truth that had been waiting for them to stop running.

And Jeno leaned in.

The kiss was slow, not hesitant, but unhurried, like they knew they had the time to feel everything in it. Jaemin’s lips were soft, warm from the sun, tasting faintly of citrus tea and spun sugar. Jeno’s hand found Jaemin’s waist, and Jaemin’s fingers curled in the fabric near Jeno’s chest.

For a second, Jeno forgot everything else.

Click.

“Of all the moments I could’ve interrupted…” came Renjun’s voice.

Jaemin let out a quiet groan against Jeno’s mouth and pulled back just enough to drop his forehead to Jeno’s shoulder. Jeno turned toward the voice, trying not to sigh.

Renjun stood a few feet away, holding up his camera like a trophy. “Honestly, I was just trying to find someone to help carry the drinks. But you two? Wow. I feel like I should be paying admission.”

Jaemin, face slightly flushed, turned just enough to glare at him. “Do you mind?”

“Very much not,” Renjun said, grinning. “But I am thirsty. And I know for a fact Chenle is already complaining to Ms. Oh that we’re under-hydrated. Now it's my problem somehow?”

Jeno reluctantly stepped back. “Alright, alright. I’ll help.”

As he moved to follow Renjun, he paused beside Jaemin, their eyes locking again for a beat.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, quieter this time.

Jaemin nodded, a soft smile blooming on his lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

Jeno turned, heat still blooming in his chest, as he followed Renjun down the path.

The path back toward the refreshment tent wound lazily through the gardens, shaded by tall trees whose branches rustled in the breeze. Jeno walked alongside Renjun, who still had that ridiculous little smirk on his face, camera tucked securely around his neck after his timely interruption.

“So,” Renjun started, clearly unable to help himself, “on a scale of one to ‘public display worthy of a drama finale,’ how serious is that situation between you and Jaemin?”

Jeno shook his head, suppressing a smile. “I swear, you haven’t changed at all.”

“Answer the question.”

“You sound like Donghyuck.”

Renjun shrugged. “And you sound like someone dodging.”

Jeno sighed, a small laugh escaping as he glanced over at his friend. “Fine. I don’t know. It’s… new. But it feels—” He paused, searching for the word. “—like something I’ve been waiting for without knowing it.”

Renjun hummed knowingly. “That’s poetic. Look at you, Lee Jeno, romantic.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Absolutely,” Renjun said. “But seriously… he looks at you like you’re the best part of his day.”

That silenced Jeno for a moment.

It wasn’t a joke. Renjun’s tone had shifted, just slightly, enough to make Jeno glance at him again. And it hit him — how strange and good it felt to be walking beside Renjun again like this, casually teasing each other like no time had passed.

“Hey,” Jeno said after a beat, “I’m glad you came back.”

Renjun blinked, caught off guard for a second. “Yeah?”

Jeno nodded. “It’s been… years. We were just college kids the last time we talked properly. I didn’t realise how much I missed having you around.”

Renjun looked down at the path, hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Me too.” He smiled. “Even if you did replace me with a broad-shouldered main character type.”

“Mark?”

“Exactly.”

Jeno laughed. “You’re irreplaceable, don’t worry.”

“Damn right I am,” Renjun said, flashing a grin. “Though, if I had known the reunion came with front-row seats to a romantic saga, I might’ve returned sooner.”

Jeno groaned. “I take it back. I don’t miss this.”

Renjun nudged him with his elbow. “Shut up, you love it.”

They reached the refreshment table — a beautifully arranged spread under a canopy, with chilled teas, traditional fruit punches, and baskets of puffed rice treats. A few volunteers were already restocking trays, nodding politely as the two of them grabbed a serving tray and started loading it up with drinks.

“Think the others will behave long enough for us to get this back to them intact?” Renjun mused, carefully balancing a stack of small cups.

“With Chenle and Donghyuck? Not a chance,” Jeno said.

“Great. Can’t wait to watch a sugar-high Jaemin challenge someone to a wrestling match over rice crackers.”

They turned back toward the main lawn, carrying the trays carefully between them. The sound of music had resumed in the background — someone tuning an instrument, laughter rising as a new round of games kicked off.

And Jeno, walking with an old friend beside him and a new love waiting somewhere just beyond the trees, felt like everything might be exactly where it was meant to be.

Jeno handed off the tray of drinks with a quiet smile, murmuring a joke as Donghyuck mock-bowed and Mark tried to snag two cups at once. The chatter around him continued, laughter like wind chimes in the golden air, but his eyes were already drifting past the group, toward the gentle slope of the gardens rising at the estate’s edge.

He didn’t know why he felt the sudden urge to go — just that it tugged at him with a quiet persistence. Like something was waiting. Like someone was.

He turned from the group with a murmured excuse, no one stopping him, too distracted by Donghyuck’s dramatic retelling of some game-related injustice. The sound of it faded as Jeno walked away, his shoes crunching softly over gravel and the air shifting cooler as he moved uphill, toward the path winding behind the upper gardens.

His heart thudded, slow but strong. He didn’t know why.

He reached the gate to the plum blossom grove and stopped.

Jaemin stood just beyond the fence line.

The tree arched over him in full bloom, petals scattering around him in lazy spirals. He was still in his hanbok — that soft mint-green and cream, gold embroidery catching the dying light like threads of flame. His hands were folded in front of him, gaze tipped to the sky, and for a moment, Jeno couldn’t move.

He had seen this before.

No, not like this.

Exactly like this.

The garden changed around him.

The present slipped.

He stood at the fence line, breath caught in his throat, and the past slammed into him all at once, not like a memory, but a flood. Sights, sounds, the sharp taste of fear and the blur of rain on his skin. Jaemin, suspended lifeless. The sound of rope tightening.

Jeno staggered, hand grasping at the fence post as his knees threatened to give out.

He remembered.

He remembered everything .

Jaemin, the tailor’s son. The river. The secret meetings under the plum blossoms. The first time they kissed, soaked in moonlight and unspoken promises. And then.

The betrayal.

Jeno’s vision blurred.

The last image,  Jaemin cold and pale, cradled in his arms, his eyes wide in horror, and then gone.

He pressed his hand to his chest, trying to breathe through the ache tearing through him. His eyes burned, throat too dry to make a sound.

Jaemin had promised.

He had promised .

“I don’t care what they say about me,” Jaemin had whispered, lips brushing his jaw one late night. “Let them talk. You mean more to me than mere words.”

And Jeno had believed him.

He had held onto those words through everything. Through shame and fear and the sting of silence from his father. He thought, hoped. He foolishly held onto every whisper that spun from his love.

He had taken his own life.

Jaemin had selfishly chosen to leave him.

Jeno’s chest burned with something deeper than grief. Not just sorrow…betrayal.

All these weeks. This tension when they first met. The soft smiles. The gentle flirting. That look Jaemin always gave him, like he carried some tender secret. It all clicked, memories stitching together like cloth. 

He knew.

Jaemin had remembered already. 

He had come back to Jeno despite everything, or maybe because of everything.

And he had kept it from him.

He let Jeno fall for him again, knowing the truth, knowing what he had done.

Jeno’s hands trembled as he stepped through the fence line.

Tears pricked at his eyes again, but the warmth was gone now. Only the sting remained, of broken trust, of promises shattered in more than one lifetime.

He had loved Jaemin once. Enough to defy everything for him. And Jaemin had said he would never leave.

But he had.

And now he stood beneath the same tree, smiling like it meant nothing.

Jeno walked forward.

Jaemin turned when he heard footsteps, the light in his eyes already softening at the sight of him.

"Hey—" he started, smiling, voice low like they were the only two in the world.

But the smile didn’t reach Jeno. Couldn’t. Not now.

He didn’t say anything at first. Couldn’t. His mouth was dry, his pulse a storm in his throat. The silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle. Jaemin’s brow furrowed slightly.

“Jeno?” he asked, concern blooming on his face. He took a small step forward, hand half-reaching. “Are you okay?”

And then Jeno spoke.

“You knew.”

Jaemin froze.

“What…?”

“You knew,” Jeno repeated, this time louder. Sharper. “All this time.”

The colour drained from Jaemin’s face, his mouth parting slightly.

“You remembered it already,” Jeno continued, voice tight. “The river. The nights under this tree. The rope. Everything.”

Silence. The blossoms rustled in the wind.

“I—” Jaemin started. “I didn’t know how to tell you—”

Jeno let out a bitter laugh, too brittle to sound real.

“No. You didn’t want to tell me. You let me stand there like a fool while you acted like it was inconsequential. You flirted, you smiled, you - you kissed me , knowing exactly who I was. What we were.”

“I wasn’t trying to lie to you,” Jaemin said quickly. “I just… I was scared. I didn’t want to ruin what we have now—”

“Ruin?” Jeno snapped, eyes burning. “You think this is about ruining a good thing?”

Jaemin took a small step back. His hands were shaking now.

“You promised me, Jaemin. That you didn’t care what people said. That you loved me more than that. That you’d never leave me .”

“I meant it—”

“But you did! ” Jeno shouted, and the words felt like they scraped his throat raw. “You left me. You took the easy way. You didn’t try, fight. You gave up and you let them win! ”

Jaemin’s eyes welled, wide and stunned.

“I didn’t-”

“You thought killing yourself was the answer?” Jeno spat, voice cracking with fury. “You didn’t even say goodbye. You didn’t give me a chance. You just left . You knew I’d be left behind, you knew I’d mourn you, suffer for you, and you still did it.”

“No- t-that's not -” Jaemin cried.

“And I was supposed to believe you cared!” Jeno barked. “You looked me in the eye and told me none of that mattered. That it was us against them. That you loved me enough to stay.”

Jaemin shook his head, face crumpling, but Jeno didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“And now you come back. Like nothing happened. Smiling. Laughing. Like you didn’t rip me apart in another life. ”

“I didn’t want-” Jaemin whispered.

“Want what?!” Jeno exploded. “You don’t get to come back to me in this life like some shameless coward, acting like this is a second chance when you stole the first one from me. ”

Jaemin’s lips trembled. He looked completely shattered.

“Jeno, please—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

The words sliced out of him, sharper than anything.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re not the boy I loved. Not if you could do that to me. Not if you could hide it all this time like it was nothing.”

He turned.

Jaemin stepped forward, hand out like he might collapse if he didn’t reach him.

“Jeno—”

“Don’t,” Jeno warned, without looking back. “Don’t follow me. Don’t talk to me. Not right now. Not again.”

And with that, he walked away — not fast, not slow, just deliberate. Controlled, even as his hands trembled at his sides.

Behind him, Jaemin didn’t move.

But if Jeno had turned — if he’d looked back just once — he’d have seen the way Jaemin crumpled in on himself, like every word spoken had carved into bone.

He didn’t cry out loud. Just silently, shoulders shaking as the wind stirred the petals around him.

Like something from the past repeating again.

Chapter Text

[Joseon Era]

The plum blossom tree was bare now.

Where once its limbs had danced in the spring air, soft petals fluttering like shy kisses on the breeze, now it stood twisted against the sky—dark and skeletal. Jeno had not approached it since that night. He hadn’t stepped beyond the stone fence. He hadn't spoken more than a handful of words.

Not to the maids, not to the guards, not even to his own mother. And definitely not to his father.

He had buried the hanbok Jaemin made for him beneath the loose soil in the garden behind the estate. That morning he had dug with bare hands, nails broken and bloodied, silent save for the sound of breath strangling in his throat.

He buried it deep, and with it, the last of whatever warmth had lived in him.

Jeno never asked his father what happened. He didn’t need to. The guards who had fetched him, the note they said Jaemin had left behind, the coldness with which his father dismissed the whole affair as “a sickness that passed”—it was enough.

Jeno had stood there, unmoving, unmoved.

He hadn’t cried. Not since finding him.

He hadn’t spoken.

The Jeno from before, the one who used to sneak down to the riverside with Jaemin in the moonlight, who used to smile at the shape of Jaemin’s mouth when he was focused on stitching embroidery, was gone. Incinerated. A boy burned alive in his own grief and rage.

People spoke about Jaemin in hushed voices. Whispers about what he was. About how “unnatural love” drove him to hang himself. About how his kind never lasted long under the weight of their own sins.

Jeno didn’t defend him.

He couldn’t.