Work Text:
Joshua's Profile: "Josh," 26. His bio is a single, mysterious quote from a Frank Ocean song. His pictures are all tastefully moody—sipping coffee in a dim cafe, the back of his head at an art gallery, a blurry shot of his hands on a piano. He is, in fact, just an introverted music producer who let his extroverted best friend (Seungcheol) set up his profile as a joke.
Jeonghan's Profile: "Hannie," 27. His bio reads: "Looking for someone to be mutually delusional with. Must be okay with aggressive pampering and potentially faking our deaths to move to a farm." His pictures are a chaotic mix of flawless selfies, a video of him dramatically losing at Mario Kart, and one where he's photobombing a stranger's wedding photo. He did it on a dare from his roommate (Seokmin) after a bottle of soju.
[Dating App Chat — Thursday Night, 11:42 PM]
Hannie: What’s your love language?
Josh: acts of service.
Hannie: Perfect. I booked us a couple’s therapy session for Saturday.
Josh: …what.
Hannie: You said acts of service. This is a service.
Josh: that’s not— that’s not how that works.
Hannie: Don’t back out now, Josh. This is an emotional commitment.
Josh: we haven’t even met.
Hannie: Exactly. We have trust issues already. See you Saturday, sweetheart ❤️
[Saturday — 11:00 AM, Downtown Wellness Center]
Joshua Hong was 90% sure he was the subject of a hidden-camera show. The other 10% acknowledged that Jeonghan might just be this deranged, and that he, Joshua, was somehow even more deranged for showing up.
The therapy room was deceptively peaceful: beige walls, a thriving monstera plant, and a plush couch that seemed to swallow the light. It was a couch that had heard confessions. Joshua felt it judging him.
Jeonghan was already perched on it, looking infuriatingly at home. A smug smile played on his lips as he held out an iced latte. "For you. I guessed you'd need the caffeine."
"Hi," Joshua said, taking the coffee. "You know, most people start with 'hello' and a name, not a psychological evaluation."
"Boring," Jeonghan chirped. "I told Dr. Kim we've been dating for five months. Our central conflict is that you're emotionally constipated and I'm a free spirit. Just follow my lead."
"Five—? We've known each other for 48 hours!" Joshua hissed.
"Shhh," Jeonghan silenced him, pressing a finger to his own lips as the door opened. "She's here. Look conflicted, but in a loving way."
Dr. Kim entered, a woman with a kind smile that didn't quite reach her tired eyes. "Good morning, you must be Jeonghan and Joshua. It's lovely to meet you. What brings you in today?"
Jeonghan's posture slumped into an Oscar-worthy portrayal of long-suffering devotion.
"He doesn't listen," he sighed, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders.
Joshua, mid-sip, choked. "I'm sorry?"
Dr. Kim nodded, scribbling on her notepad. "A common concern. Can you give me an example?"
"See?" Jeonghan said, gesturing to Joshua. "He's doing it right now."
Before Joshua could form a coherent defence, Dr Kim asked, "And how long have you been together?"
"Five months," Jeonghan stated, smooth as silk.
"Two weeks," Joshua blurted out, a beat too late.
A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the frantic scratching of Dr. Kim's pen. She looked up, her gaze flickering between them.
"Fascinating," she said, her voice utterly dry. "A discrepancy in temporal perception. We can definitely work with that."
Joshua sank deeper into the accusatory couch, resisting the urge to scream into the latte. Jeonghan leaned in, his whisper a warm, treacherous puff of air against Joshua's ear.
"You're doing amazing, sweetie."
Dr. Kim smiled in that calm, terrifying way therapists do when they smell chaos. It was the expression of a shark who’d just scented chum in the water. “Alright then. Why don’t we start with something simple? How did you two meet?”
Joshua opened his mouth, a bland, safe story about a coffee shop on the tip of his tongue. But Jeonghan beat him to it, his voice a confident, dreamy baritone. “It was at a cat café. He was trying to bribe a particularly stubborn Scottish Fold with a churu stick, and I told him he was holding it wrong. We bickered for ten minutes over feline persuasion techniques.”
Joshua blinked. “I’m allergic to cats.”
Jeonghan turned to him, utterly unfazed. “That’s why it was so memorable. You were willing to risk death for a moment of connection with a creature that despised you.” He sighed wistfully. “I knew then you were the one.” Then he lowered his voice, “Commit to the bit, babe.”
Dr. Kim’s smile widened. “Oh, how sweet — a love that overcomes obstacles.”
“The obstacle was anaphylaxis,” Joshua deadpanned, gesturing with his latte. “The epi-pen was the third wheel on our first date. The primary obstacle was my ability to breathe. It’s a real mood-killer.”
Dr. Kim scribbled something else down. Joshua could practically hear the note: Deflection via humor. Uses literal life-threatening scenarios to avoid emotional intimacy.
“Okay,” she continued, seamlessly moving on, “how would you describe your relationship dynamic in one word?”
Joshua didn’t hesitate. “Chaotic.”
Jeonghan, at the same time: “Stable.”
Joshua turned to stare at him. “You literally kidnapped me into therapy.”
“See?” Jeonghan said, spreading his hands as if it were obvious. “He calls it kidnapping, I call it… proactive relationship enrichment. It’s about building that connection, you know?”
Dr. Kim nodded. “So, some differences in perception. That’s very normal.”
“This,” Joshua muttered under his breath, gesturing between himself and Jeonghan, “is not normal.”
Dr. Kim folded her hands neatly on her notepad. “Let’s try something more positive. Jeonghan, what’s one thing Joshua does, even something small, that makes you feel loved?”
Jeonghan blinked. For the first time since he’d invented the cat café, he didn’t have a ready-made, theatrical answer. The glib smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. He looked at Joshua, really looked at him, sitting there with his slightly-too-formal sweater and his genuine, bewildered expression. Then, the smirk returned, but it was softer at the edges. “He showed up.”
The room went quiet for a half-second too long. It was the simplest, truest thing either of them had said all morning.
Dr. Kim’s smile became genuine. “That’s actually very sweet.”
Joshua looked down at his hands, a faint, traitorous warmth creeping up his neck. He tried to fight the smile tugging at his lips and lost.
Jeonghan leaned closer to him, his whisper a triumphant puff of air. “Write that down. I’m romantic now.”
Dr. Kim, sensing a shift, turned to Joshua. “And Joshua, what’s something Jeonghan does that… frustrates you?”
Joshua exhaled slowly, a long, suffering sound. “How long do you have?”
Jeonghan gasped, placing a hand over his heart as if mortally wounded.
“I’ll keep it short,” Joshua said dryly. “He lies for fun. Constantly. Elaborately. He’s building a fictional universe where we have a shared history with a Scottish Fold named Mr. Whiskers.”
“I lie for art,” Jeonghan corrected, leaning forward eagerly. “There’s a difference. It’s about crafting a more interesting narrative.”
“Is that what this is?” Joshua asked, waving a hand around the room. “Performance art?”
“Exactly!” Jeonghan beamed, as if Joshua had finally understood. “We’re emotionally avant-garde. We’re deconstructing the traditional couple-client-therapist paradigm.”
Dr. Kim made another note, her pen scratching decisively. Jeonghan leaned toward her, stage-whispering, “You’re writing that down, right? ‘Emotionally avant-garde.’ Put that in the file.”
“Alright,” Dr. Kim said after a beat, closing her notebook and placing it aside. “I sense a lot of humour between you two. It’s a strong connection point. But sometimes, humour can be a defence mechanism to avoid—”
Jeonghan immediately pointed at Joshua: “She’s talking about you.”
“I will throw this latte at you,” Joshua said, his voice dangerously calm. “It will be a deeply satisfying, caffeinated sacrifice.”
Dr. Kim held up a placating hand. “Let’s try something different. A simple communication exercise. No jokes, no deflections. I’ll ask you each to express one small, honest vulnerability. Right here, right now.”
Joshua groaned quietly, slumping back into the couch. “You have to be kidding me. We’re not equipped for that.”
Jeonghan, however, turned to him fully. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a startling focus. “Fine. I’ll go first.” He tapped his fingers on his knee, his gaze dropping for a moment before flicking back up to Joshua’s. “I think… I use humor and I make up stupid stories because I don’t know how to be honest without scaring people away. It’s easier to be a charming mess than to just be… a mess.”
The silence this time wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, charged, and real. The monstera plant in the corner seemed to be leaning in to listen.
Joshua blinked, all the air leaving his lungs in a soft rush. “Oh.”
Jeonghan offered a small, fragile smile. “Your turn.”
Joshua cleared his throat, his own eyes fixed on a loose thread on the couch cushion. “I think… I keep agreeing to ridiculous things because it’s easier than admitting I actually want them. It’s safer to be dragged along than to choose to jump.”
They both looked anywhere but at each other, the confession hanging in the air between them, more intimate than any of Jeonghan’s elaborate lies.
Dr. Kim watched them, a quiet understanding dawning on her face. She didn’t reach for her notepad. “I think,” she said, her voice gentle, “despite the… unconventional circumstances… there’s more progress here than you realise.”
She tried again, a new tactic. “Let’s simplify. Describe your partner in three words.”
Jeonghan’s eyes lit up with mischief. He tapped his chin, then pointed a finger-gun at Joshua. “Beautiful.” He fired the imaginary gun. “Chaotic.” He mimed the recoil. “Liar.” He blew smoke off the tip of his finger.
Joshua stared at him, unblinking, before slowly reaching out and pushing Jeonghan’s hand down. “You just described yourself.”
Jeonghan waved a dismissive hand, flopping back against the cushions. “Projection, babe. It’s a classic defence mechanism.” He poked Joshua’s arm. “Your turn. Don’t choke.”
Joshua batted the poking finger away. “Fine. Delusional.”
“That’s one word,” Jeonghan chirped, sitting up straight and counting on his fingers. “I need two more. Come on, use your adjectives. Impress me.”
Joshua leaned forward abruptly, planting his hands on his knees and locking eyes with Jeonghan. He didn't miss a beat, biting out each word with precision: “Unbelievably. Fucking. Delusional.”
A beat of stunned silence. Dr. Kim’s pen scratched frantically across her notepad. She looked up, a flicker of academic appreciation in her weary eyes. “Good use of adverbs for emphasis, Joshua.”
Jeonghan slouched deeper into the couch, kicking his foot out to nudge Joshua’s shoe. “You know,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips, “you’re kind of mean for someone who looks like he sings in a church choir.”
Joshua caught Jeonghan’s ankle, holding it in place to stop the nudging. “And you’re suspiciously angelic-looking for someone I’m pretty sure has scammed at least two priests.”
Jeonghan gasped, snatching his foot back to clutch his chest as if struck by an arrow. “That was one time,” he wailed, draping himself dramatically over the arm of the couch, “and it was for charity!”
Joshua simply raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow, waiting.
Jeonghan sat up smoothly, his expression shifting in an instant to a blinding, triumphant smile. “Whose charity?” he repeated, echoing Joshua’s silent question. He leaned in, close enough to whisper, but said it loud enough for the whole room to hear: “Mine. I’m a very charitable cause.”
Dr. Kim, looking like she was mentally drafting her resignation letter, decided on a final, simple test. She leaned forward, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “Let’s try a basic intimacy question. Tell me each other’s birthdays.”
A heavy, telling pause sucked all the sound from the room. Joshua and Jeonghan stared at each other, a silent, panicked conversation passing between them in the form of widened eyes and slight head shakes.
Joshua ventured cautiously, the words creeping out. “...October?”
Jeonghan’s hand flew up, palm out, cutting him off. “Wrong.”
“You didn’t even let me finish the date!” Joshua protested, throwing his own hands up in exasperation.
“The month was already wrong,” Jeonghan declared, slicing a hand through the air for emphasis. “The specific date is irrelevant. We’re dealing with a foundational error here.”
Dr. Kim’s grip on her own hands tightened, her knuckles turning white. Her voice was strained, thin as wire. “And Jeonghan. Joshua’s birthday?”
Jeonghan beamed, leaning back and spreading his arms wide as if presenting a grand concept. “It’s… definitely sometime after January.” He reached over and pinched Joshua’s cheek. Joshua swatted his hand away like a mosquito.
Joshua slowly lowered his face into his hands, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “That’s literally eleven months of the year.”
Jeonghan nodded, utterly proud of himself, and gave Joshua’s knee a consoling pat. “See? I’m inclusive. I don’t believe in limiting my celebratory spirit. You get a birthday week! A birthday season!”
Dr. Kim stared at them. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable. She very slowly, very deliberately, closed her notebook. She placed her pen squarely on top of it, aligning it perfectly with the notebook’s edge. She then took a deep, centering breath that did nothing to calm the visible twitch in her jaw.
“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice dangerously level, each word a brick being carefully laid into a wall. “Let me be perfectly clear. Are you… actually in a romantic relationship?”
Jeonghan placed a hand over his heart, the picture of sincerity. “Emotionally? Yes. Spiritually? We’re entangled.”
Joshua didn’t even look up from his hands, his voice muffled. “No.”
Dr. Kim’s eyes narrowed. “So you are not dating.”
“We are not even in the same solar system of dating,” Joshua confirmed, finally lifting his head to reveal a face full of pure, unadulterated mortification.
Jeonghan, ever the helpful clarifier, held up two fingers. “Technically, we matched on a dating app forty-eight hours ago.”
Dr. Kim’s eye twitched, a full-bodied spasm she couldn’t control. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on her knees. “And your first instinct,” she repeated, her voice dropping to a disbelieving whisper, “was to schedule… couple’s therapy?”
Jeonghan smiled serenely, as if bestowing a great wisdom upon her. “I believe in early intervention.” He gestured between himself and a shell-shocked Joshua. “We’re preventing future problems.”
The therapist just sat there, blinking at the wall as if seeking answers from the paint. Finally, she released a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of every bad decision that had ever led her to this moment. “Well. This has been… enlightening. For the fields of psychology, and for my understanding of the limits of human absurdity.”
Joshua dragged his hands down his face, the skin stretching comically, his groan one of profound, soul-deep mortification. “I am so, so sorry, Dr. Kim.”
Jeonghan patted his back, a gesture that was anything but comforting. “See?” he announced to the room, as if presenting a fascinating specimen. “He apologizes for existing. Textbook anxious attachment style. Don’t worry,” he added, giving Joshua’s shoulder a shake, “we can workshop that.”
“Will you stop diagnosing me with personality disorders based on a TikTok you saw?” Joshua snapped, shoving Jeonghan’s hand away.
“We’re in therapy, Joshua!” Jeonghan retorted, throwing his arms out wide, nearly smacking Joshua in the process. “This is the entire point! This is the place for unsolicited, half-baked psychological analysis!”
Dr. Kim did not speak. Instead, she slowly, deliberately, rose from her chair. The movement was so unnervingly calm it was threatening. She walked to the door with the grim purpose of a funeral director, pulled it open, and held it, her body a rigid silhouette against the bright, sane hallway beyond. When she finally spoke, her voice was cloyingly sweet, a stark contrast to the sheer, unadulterated rage screaming in her eyes.
“Please. Leave.”
Jeonghan, utterly undeterred, paused on the threshold. He flashed her his most charming, conspiratorial smile. “So, just a quick question—can you email me the session notes after this? I feel like I was really on fire today. A lot of my best material was in that last bit.”
Dr. Kim’s smile didn’t waver. It just got sharper, more deadly. “Leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The single word was a cannon shot. It finally propelled them out the door, which clicked shut behind them with an air of finality usually reserved for bank vaults and tombs.
The hallway had never felt so quiet, so normal. Joshua leaned against the wall, processing the last hour of his life.
“You realise she’s probably writing a case study on us right now,” he mumbled. “We’re going to be in a textbook. Under ‘Pathological Banter.’”
Jeonghan, looking utterly pleased with himself, adjusted his shirt. “As we should be. We’re groundbreaking. We’ve redefined the first-date paradigm.”
Joshua pointed a finger at him. “You are never, ever choosing the date venue again.”
Jeonghan’s grin was immediate and incandescent. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “So… there’s going to be a next one?”
Joshua sighed, the long-suffering sound of a man who had already lost a war he didn't know he was fighting. He pushed off the wall and started walking away. “You’re exhausting.”
Jeonghan fell into step beside him, still smiling. “But in an emotionally enriching way!”
[One Week Later — Session Two: Aggravated Progress]
Dr. Kim was having a peaceful morning. She’d lit her sandalwood candle, queued up a gentle acoustic playlist, and reaffirmed her personal boundary: she would not let two walking, talking red flags derail her inner peace today.
Then her intercom buzzed.
“Dr. Kim? Your 11 AM is here. Jeonghan and Joshua? They said to tell you they’re, and I quote, “in a more serious phase of their shared delusion now.’”
Dr. Kim froze, her chamomile tea halfway to her lips.
“…Back?” she whispered to the empty room.
The tea went down the wrong pipe.
When they walked in, it was a horrifying sort of déjà vu.
Jeonghan entered first, holding a vibrant green smoothie in one hand and Joshua’s hand in the other. Joshua followed, allowing himself to be led, his expression a perfect cocktail of fondness and profound regret.
“Good morning, Dr. Kim!” Jeonghan chirped, as if they were all old friends. “Did you miss us?”
Dr. Kim simply blinked, her pen hovering over a fresh, doomed page. “Why,” she began, her voice dangerously calm, “are you here?”
Joshua sighed, the sound of a man who had asked himself the same question many times. “I’ve been asking that for seven days.”
Jeonghan squeezed his hand. “Because we’re dating now. For real.”
Dr. Kim’s eyes darted to their linked fingers. “You’re… what?”
“Apparently,” Joshua confirmed, with a resigned shrug.
Jeonghan beamed, settling onto the couch and pulling Joshua down with him. “See? Progress!”
Dr. Kim stared at them, visibly calculating her hourly rate against the cost of future therapy for herself.
“Alright,” she said finally, the word tasting like ash. “Let’s… explore this development. How has your dynamic changed since last week?”
Joshua didn’t miss a beat. “He still lies with the ease of a seasoned politician.”
Jeonghan took a sip of his smoothie. “And he’s still violently allergic to the concept of joy. And cats.”
Dr. Kim scribbled. “So the foundation remains… consistent.”
“But!” Jeonghan interjected, holding up a finger. “Now, when he yells at me for reorganizing his vinyl collection alphabetically by vibe, he holds my hand after. That’s growth.”
“That’s pity,” Joshua corrected flatly.
“Tomato, tomahto,” Jeonghan singsonged. “The hand-holding is the same.”
Dr. Kim massaged her temple. “And how do you express affection in this new, ‘real’ relationship?”
Jeonghan: “Creative insults.”
Joshua: “Sarcastic commentary.”
Dr. Kim closed her eyes for a brief second. “So, fundamentally, nothing has changed.”
Joshua shook his head grimly. “Oh, no. It’s so much worse now. The stakes are real.”
“Let’s try a simple exercise,” Dr. Kim pressed on, a soldier marching into a battle she knew she’d already lost. “Can you each tell me one genuine thing you’ve learned about the other since we last met?”
Jeonghan tapped his chin, then brightened. “He hoards condiment packets. Like, a truly alarming number. We have a drawer dedicated to soy sauce and ketchup. It’s a preparedness kink.”
Joshua stared at him. “That’s the profound insight you’ve gleaned from a week of knowing me?”
“That,” Jeonghan said, his voice dropping into a softer, more sincere register, “and the fact that you get this little crinkle right here,” he reached over and gently tapped the bridge of Joshua’s nose, “when you’re trying not to smile. It’s very cute.”
Joshua froze, his ears turning a tell-tale pink. He looked away, muttering, “You’re impossible.”
Jeonghan’s grin was triumphant. “Yet, here you are. In session two.”
Dr. Kim let out a long, weary sigh. “You two are a living case study in mutually-assured psychological destruction.”
Joshua nodded. “See? We’re inspiring academic thought.”
Jeonghan draped an arm over the back of the couch behind Joshua. “We’re her legacy.”
Dr. Kim didn’t look up from her notepad, the scratching of her pen the only sound for a solid ten seconds. “You’re my migraine,” she stated flatly, as if reading a clinical diagnosis from a textbook.
When the clock finally ticked over to the end of the hour, she closed her notebook with a slow, final thud, pressing down with both hands as if sealing a cursed tomb. “Well,” she said, her voice thick with the weariness of a woman who has not only seen the abyss but heard the abyss bicker over who left the cap off the toothpaste, “it seems you’ve managed to achieve… something.”
Joshua slumped further into the couch, the leather creaking under him. “Clinical codependency?” Jeonghan, meanwhile, sat up straighter, puffing his chest out with pride. “A timeless, epic romance for the ages.”
Dr. Kim’s gaze remained fixed on a faint water stain on the ceiling. “I was going to say ‘something in the nebulous, frankly alarming region between the two.’”
As they stood to leave, Jeonghan shot her a dazzling, trouble-making smile over his shoulder. “So, same time next week? I feel a breakthrough coming on.”
Dr. Kim’s answering smile was so tight and strained it looked like it might crack her face. “No,” she said, the word clipped and absolute.
The door clicked shut behind them, the sound echoing with the finality of a guillotine. In the sudden quiet of the hallway, Joshua ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in distressed, chaotic tufts. “You do realise she actively despises us, right? I think I saw her eye twitching. That’s a medical thing.”
Jeonghan, entirely unbothered, simply reached for Joshua’s hand, lacing their fingers back together with a practiced ease that should have been impossible after just one session. “Nonsense. She adores us. She just has a very stoic, therapeutic way of expressing it. It’s a form of repressed maternal affection.”
Joshua shook his head, but a reluctant, fond smile finally broke through his exasperation. “You’re projecting.”
“Onto you?” Jeonghan said, already tugging him down the hall, their joined hands swinging between them. “Absolutely.”
Joshua rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his head, but his grip on Jeonghan’s hand tightened in a way that felt like an answer. He didn’t let go.
[Six Months Later — Progress (Somehow)]
Dr. Kim wasn't expecting divine punishment on her day off. She'd specifically booked a Tuesday to avoid people, choosing a quiet, sun-drenched café she’d read about in a lifestyle blog. She was looking forward to a novel, an oat latte, and the profound silence of not being responsible for anyone’s emotional well-being.
Then she saw the sign, hand-painted with whimsical lettering: “Meow & Brew — Cat Café.”
And the universe, that cruel, ironic jester, laughed directly in her face.
The smell hit her first—rich, dark roast coffee layered over the faint, herbal scent of catnip. It was almost pleasant. Then her eyes adjusted to the soft light, and she saw them. Of course she did. Seated in a bay window, haloed by the afternoon sun, were two very familiar faces.
Joshua was calmly sipping an iced coffee, a faint smile gracing his features as he watched the scene unfold beside him. Jeonghan was locked in a gentle, losing battle, trying to coax a fluffy, unimpressed ginger cat to stay on his lap. The cat was attempting a slow, determined crawl toward freedom.
Their voices, that specific soundtrack to her professional nightmares, wove through the quiet hum of the café.
“He likes me more,” Jeonghan insisted, gently trying to redirect the cat’s paws.
“He’s literally trying to escape your gravitational pull,” Joshua countered, not looking up from stirring his drink.
“He’s playing hard to get. It’s a classic courtship ritual.”
“You’re projecting our entire relationship onto a random cat.”
Jeonghan finally managed to get the cat to stay, holding it carefully. “At least I’m consistent!”
Dr. Kim froze mid-step, her tote bag slipping from her shoulder. She whispered a silent, fervent prayer to Freud, Jung, and every other patron saint of sanity.
She was already pivoting, planning her escape, when Jeonghan’s head snapped up. His eyes, those terrifyingly perceptive beacons of chaos, locked onto hers.
“Dr. Kim!” he called out, waving with the unbridled joy of someone spotting their favorite rock star.
She flinched as if the sound itself had physical force. “Oh. You two. Hello,” she managed, her therapist’s mask of neutrality slipping into pure, unadulterated shock.
Joshua looked up, a genuine but sheepish expression on his face as he subtly tried to wipe a stray cat hair from his jeans. “Hi. Uh… small world?”
“We told you we’d make progress,” Jeonghan announced, beaming as if he’d single-handedly solved their shared insanity.
Dr. Kim stared, her brain struggling to compute the data. “…You’re still together?”
“Against all odds,” Joshua confirmed, his dry tone belied by the fond look he shot at Jeonghan.
“And several of your professional predictions,” Jeonghan added cheerfully. “Mainly hers.”
Dr. Kim’s gaze flickered between them and the cat now attempting to climb onto Jeonghan’s shoulder. “And this… the cat café—?” she asked, the final, absurd piece of the puzzle clicking into place.
Joshua gestured with his glass toward the feline acrobat. “He insisted on a re-enactment. Said our origin story deserved a more whimsical setting.”
Jeonghan grinned, carefully detaching the cat’s claws from his sweater. “And this time, my leading man came prepared with non-drowsy antihistamines.” He leaned into Joshua’s side. “That, Doctor, is romance.”
Dr. Kim let out a sigh that was half amusement, half profound, career-ending defeat. “Well,” she said, the word heavy with a thousand unspoken diagnoses. “I suppose I should congratulate you.”
Joshua chuckled, a warm, open sound she’d never heard in her office. “For surviving each other, or for making you a believer in miracles?”
Dr. Kim allowed a rare, genuine smile to break through her weary exterior. “Both.”
As she turned to leave, granting them—and herself—a merciful exit, she couldn’t resist one last glance over her shoulder.
The scene had shifted. The ginger cat, having finally given up its struggle, was now curled into a purring loaf in the space between them. Jeonghan had leaned his head on Joshua’s shoulder, still chattering away, and Joshua’s arm was slung comfortably around him, his thumb drawing absent-minded circles on Jeonghan’s arm. The look on Joshua’s face was one of soft, unreserved affection, a world away from the pained mortification of their first session.
Dr. Kim shook her head as she pushed the door open, the bell chiming her return to a slightly less chaotic world.
“Therapeutically dysfunctional,” she muttered to the quiet street, a reluctant, fond smile finally tugging at her lips. “But somehow… it works.”