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Chapter Text

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The air in the Givenchy atelier tasted like straight pins and someone’s five-hundred-euro perfume. Joshua stood there, trying to be a mannequin, trying not to breathe too deep. A tiny woman with a mouthful of pins was fussing with the shoulder of his white coat, her fingers quick and cold against his skin.

No shirt. He still wasn’t used to that. The air-conditioning whispered right over his chest, a constant, goosebump-raising kiss. The silver choker around his neck felt less like jewellery and more like a collar, cool and heavy. He shifted his weight, just a fraction.

“Ne bouge pas,” the head tailor murmured, not unkindly.

So he froze again. In the huge mirror, he watched the chaos reflected behind him—a stylist frantically steaming a wrinkle out of a dress, an assistant sprinting past with an armful of shoes. It was all quiet panic and controlled screaming. His own little bubble, right here in the middle of the floor, was the only still point.

Then Madame Thierry herself approached, her expression unreadable. She held a black coat, heavier, wool so fine it felt like shadow. She nodded, and the team descended again.

They draped it over his shoulders. The weight was immediate, significant. It was like being given armour. Hands flew around him, tweaking, pulling, making him perfect. One of them gently brushed a strand of his too-perfect hair from his eye, and he had to fight the instinct to flinch at the sudden, human contact.

In the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling mirror, he could see the chaos of Paris Fashion Week unfolding—stylists clutching steaming irons, assistants sprinting with garment bags, and publicists murmuring into headsets.

“Joshua, darling, you look sublime,” the head stylist, Camille, declared, stepping back to admire her work. “The sharpness of this cut against your softer features… It’s a conversation.”

Joshua offered a practised, gentle smile. “Thank you, Camille.” His voice was calm, a placid lake, but beneath the starched white fabric of the suit, his heart was a frantic bird against its cage. He discreetly pressed his thumb into his palm, a grounding pressure point his therapist had taught him. Breathe in for four, hold for seven, out for eight.

His eyes, however, kept drifting to the live feed of the YSL show playing on a monitor in the corner.

The camera didn’t just follow him — it worshipped him. Yoon Jeonghan, drifting down the runway like a divine inconvenience. The black blazer hung off his shoulders in an artful shrug of I didn’t even try, satin lapels swallowing the light like midnight silk. The white shirt beneath was barely there, loose and low, offering the sharp grace of his collarbones as if he were letting the world peek at something forbidden. His trousers fell soft around him, every fold moving with a slow, languid arrogance — an I know you’re looking, keep looking kind of ease. His hair brushed past his jaw, feathered and careless, as though the wind obeyed him instead of physics. He didn’t walk — he glided, half-smile curving like he was in on a secret no one else would ever be worthy of. Angel, prince, sin made tender — the kind of beauty that ruins people quietly, permanently. The embodiment of effortless, icy cool.

A familiar, painful squeeze tightened Joshua’s chest. It was a feeling he’d learned to transmute into fuel.

A young, bright-eyed intern approached him, clutching a notepad. “Monsieur Hong, for the backstage blog—can you tell us a little about what you’re feeling right now? Perhaps something personal from home, like a TMI?”

The question, so innocent, was a landmine. Home. The word had no texture, no scent for him. Not one he could share.

Joshua’s smile was a masterclass in deflection, warm yet impenetrable. “Right now, I’m just feeling incredibly present,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. “Focused on the art, and honoured to be a part of it.” He gave no details, no past. He was Joshua Hong—a name he’d chosen himself, a persona born in Los Angeles, scouted at a café, a man with no history before the age of eighteen. The public knew nothing, and he made sure it stayed that way. 

“Five minutes, Joshua!” a producer called out.

He was ushered towards the media line, a gauntlet of flashing lights and shouted questions. He answered smoothly about the collection, the inspiration, and the honour of walking for Givenchy.

Then, the inevitable question came, sharp and gleeful, from a reporter with a slicked-back ponytail. “Joshua! You and Yoon Jeonghan are the two hottest names this season. His show just finished. Any thoughts on your… rival?”

The word hung in the air, a challenge. Joshua’s smile didn’t waver, but it became a little more polished, a little less real. He could feel the ghost of every past rejection, every icy stare, like a layer of frost on his skin. He remembered his first season, the desperate hope in his chest as he’d approached the veteran model, only to be met with a look of such utter contempt it had frozen the words in his throat. Jeonghan hadn't just ignored him; he had made it his mission to make Joshua feel invisible.

“Jeonghan-ssi has a very distinct presence,” he said, his tone diplomatically neutral. A safe, boring answer. But then, a flicker of the buried boy he used to be, the one who still ached with a decade-old wound, made him add, “He’s someone I’ve always admired from afar.”

It was the closest he’d ever come to acknowledging their non-existent history in public. A tiny, secret olive branch he knew would be set on fire.

Across the city, backstage at the YSL show, Jeonghan was holding court. He sat in a leather chair, a glass of whiskey in his hand as journalists clustered around him. The show was a triumph, and he was the king.

“Jeonghan-ssi, your walk was iconic as always,” a reporter gushed. “What do you attribute your longevity to in such a fickle industry?”

“A refusal to become a trend, a fad if you may,” Jeonghan replied, his voice a low, cool murmur. “I am not a moment. I am a legacy.” The reporters ate it up, scribbling furiously.

Another reporter, sensing blood, leaned in. “Speaking of moments, the internet is buzzing about Joshua Hong at Givenchy. Many are calling him the new ‘it’ boy. Any comment?”

A hush fell over the small group. Jeonghan took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the silence build. He then looked directly into the camera, a faint, derisive smile playing on his perfectly sculpted lips.

“Givenchy’s new direction is… certainly bold,” he began, his tone deceptively light. “But as I always say, I don’t pay much attention to the new faces. They come and go like the seasons. I find it’s better to focus on building something that lasts.”

The dismissal was absolute, elegant, and brutal. It was a masterclass in putting someone in their place without ever raising his voice. The message was clear: Joshua Hong was a passing fad, a beautiful mystery box with nothing inside. Yoon Jeonghan was an institution built on a known, formidable history.

As the reporters dispersed, thrilled with the quote, Jeonghan’s manager clapped him on the shoulder. “Perfect. They’ll have that headline in minutes.”

Jeonghan just nodded, his nonchalant mask firmly in place. But as he scrolled through his phone, a photo of Joshua from the Givenchy fitting popped up on his feed. Joshua Hong. The name was a slap. He had shed his past like a snake sheds its skin, creating this pristine, untouchable enigma. He had erased Yoon Jeonghan. He had erased him. So, perhaps this was time for Jeonghan to show how it felt to be erased and invisible. 

The cold anger that had fueled him for ten years settled in his stomach, a familiar, chilling comfort. Let Joshua Hong have his moment. Let him be adored.

He would make sure the world knew who was really on top.

Later that night, at the official after-party, their paths finally crossed. The room was a sea of the industry’s elite, but it parted like the Red Sea as Jeonghan made his way to the bar. And there, on the other side, getting a glass of champagne, was Joshua.

Their eyes met across the polished wood.

Jeonghan’s gaze was arctic, a flat, disinterested sweep that took Joshua in and found him wanting. It was the same look he’d given him on that first day, years ago, when a hopeful, nervous Joshua had whispered his name.

Joshua felt the look like a physical blow, a spike of cold dread that instantly triggered the flutter of anxiety in his chest. His hand tightened around his own wrist. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, a final, feeble attempt at a truce.

Jeonghan’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Then, he turned away, engaging the bartender with a dazzling smile, cutting Joshua Hong dead.

The message was received, as it always was. Loud and clear.

On the outside, Joshua Hong was the picture of composed grace, the enigmatic star of Givenchy.

On the inside, the boy named Jisoo was still waiting, screaming into a silence that had lasted a decade, trapped behind a name that no longer felt like his own.

The party was a crescendo of noise—a relentless symphony of clinking glasses, shrieking laughter, and industry chatter in six different languages. Each sound felt like a needle against Joshua’s skin. He had positioned himself near a towering floral arrangement, a feeble attempt at a barrier, his smile feeling more like a grimace with each passing second.

Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for eight.

The formula was failing. The lights were too bright, the room too close. He could feel the familiar, icy tendrils of a panic attack beginning to creep up his spine, tightening his throat. He needed an exit, a quiet corner, anything. He checked his pockets for meds, but there were none.

Across the room, Jeonghan held court, the epicentre of the chaos. He laughed at something an editor said, the sound sharp and clear even through the din. But his eyes, cold and perceptive, were not on the editor. They were tracking Joshua’s subtle retreat, the way his fingers trembled slightly as he set his champagne glass on a passing tray.

A minute later, a man in an impeccably tailored suit—Jeonghan’s no-nonsense manager, Park—approached Joshua. He offered a polite, professional smile.

“Mr Hong,” Park said, his voice low. “A small gift. The host thought you might appreciate a moment of quiet.”

He pressed two items into Joshua’s hand: a cold, sleek bottle of Voss water and, curiously, a pair of high-end, noise-cancelling earbuds in a minimalist case.

Joshua stared at them, bewildered. “The host? I… thank you.”

Park gave another curt nod. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He melted back into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared. Joshua’s gaze swept the room, searching for the anonymous benefactor, but found only a sea of indifferent, glamorous faces. His eyes flickered to Jeonghan, but the older model was turned away, deep in a conversation with the creative director of Vogue, seemingly oblivious.

Alone again, Joshua uncapped the water. The cool liquid was a balm on his parched throat. Desperate, he slipped the earbuds in. The second they activated, the world vanished. The roar of the party was reduced to a distant, manageable hum. In the newfound silence, his heartbeat began to slow, the tightness in his chest easing.

He stood there, hidden in plain sight, protected by an invisible, anonymous shield. He felt a wave of profound gratitude for the mysterious, thoughtful host. But the sanctuary provided by the earbuds was short-lived. A publicist soon found Joshua, her smile sharp and purposeful. "Joshua, darling, Vogue Korea wants a quick word. Just a follow-up on the show."

He was steered into a slightly quieter alcove, the bright lights of a camera lens replacing the party's strobes. The interviewer, a polished woman with a relentlessly cheerful demeanour, beamed at him.

"Joshua, what a night! The collection was a triumph. Now, we have to ask—Yoon Jeonghan-ssi just gave us a few comments, and he was surprisingly diplomatic about you! He called your presence 'a fresh energy in the industry.' How does that feel, coming from him?"

The words hit Joshua like a physical blow. Diplomatic. After a decade of icy silence and public dismissals, after that calculated cold shoulder just moments ago, now he was being diplomatic? It was the ultimate insult—a patronising pat on the head from the king on the hill. The fragile calm he'd scraped together shattered, replaced by a hot, sharp surge of rage. He was so tired of being Yoon Jeonghan's pawn, of reacting to his every move.

His own smile didn't falter; it simply changed. The gentle curve of his lips tightened into something sharper, more dangerous. The warmth in his eyes cooled into polished onyx.

"Did he?" Joshua's voice was sweet, lethally so. "That's… generous of him. Jeonghan-ssi has always been very… aware of his own legacy. It's admirable, really, how he focuses on it so intently." He paused, letting the implication—that Jeonghan was self-obsessed—hang in the air. "I suppose when you've been at the top for so long, you start to see everyone else as 'fresh energy' or passing trends. It must be a unique perspective."

The interviewer's eyes widened slightly, sensing the shift from scripted answers to real and veiled. "So, you don't see his comments as a positive gesture?"

Joshua let out a soft, airy laugh that held no warmth. "Oh, I see it as exactly what it is. And I appreciate the… sentiment. It only motivates me to keep building my own path. After all," he added, his gaze locking directly with the camera lens, "some of us are more focused on the future than on preserving the past."

Across the room, Jeonghan watched the live feed on a publicist's tablet, his expression a carefully neutral mask. He heard Joshua's words, each one a perfectly aimed dart. The "aware of his own legacy." The "preserving the past."

His manager, Park, leaned in. "That’s a first."

Jeonghan took a slow sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking softly in the sudden quiet around him. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes, which held a cold, satisfied glint. This was the reaction he had wanted. This was the Joshua he understood—not the serene, untouchable enigma, but the one who could still be provoked, the one who still felt enough to push back.

"Good," Jeonghan murmured, his voice low enough for only Park to hear. "It's more interesting that way."

He had thrown a stone of false diplomacy, and Joshua, true to form, had thrown back a dagger. The game was back on, and the lines between their public performance and private war had never been more dangerously blurred.

Just as the interview ended, Joshua all but fled to the bathroom.

The pristine, marble-clad room was a sanctuary of silence, a world away from the relentless hum of the party outside. He braced his palms against the cool edge of the sink, head bowed, breath stuttering in his chest. The confrontation with the interviewer replayed in his mind — every sharp word, every flicker of anger — looping, tightening, burning. His pulse was too loud.

In for four. 

Hold. 

Out for eight.

He tried to follow the count, but the anxiety still buzzed under his skin like a live wire.

The heavy door swung open with a soft, decisive click. Joshua’s head snapped up. In the mirror, his eyes collided with the reflection of icy, familiar ones. Yoon Jeonghan stood there, his posture relaxed, as if he owned the very air in the room.

In a heartbeat, Joshua’s entire demeanour shifted. The slight tremor in his hands vanished. The vulnerable line of his shoulders straightened into a posture of casual elegance. He picked up a paper towel, his movements deliberately slow and unconcerned, dabbing non-existent water from his perfectly styled hair. The man crumbling apart seconds ago was now nowhere to be seen, replaced by the impeccable facade of Joshua Hong.

Jeonghan didn’t say a word. He moved to stand at the adjacent sink, his presence an oppressive force in the quiet room. He didn’t look at Joshua, instead focusing on adjusting the cuff of his suit in the mirror. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, almost deafening. 

Finally, Jeonghan’s low, cool voice cut through the tension, laced with a mocking amusement that made Joshua’s skin prickle.

“The future looks a little tense from here, Joshua Hong,” he said, emphasising the stage name like an insult. “All that talk about moving forward… and yet, here you are, hiding in the lavatory. Charming, no?”

Joshua’s grip on the paper towel tightened, but his reflection showed only a faint, bored smile. “Just touching up,” he replied, his voice even, betraying none of the storm inside. “Some of us still care about our presentation. But I suppose when you’re a ‘legacy,’ you don’t have to try as hard.”

He turned to leave, refusing to let Jeonghan see another second of his unravelling. As he reached the door, Jeonghan’s voice stopped him, softer now, but no less sharp.

“The earbuds,” Jeonghan said, still not looking at him. “They suit you. Silence always did. You’re good at that.”

Joshua froze for a fraction of a second, then pulled the door open without a backward glance, escaping into the noise of the party, his heart hammering a frantic, furious rhythm against his ribs. The small, kind gesture was now just another weapon in their endless war.

He then picked up another glass of champagne; the flute felt dangerously fragile in Joshua's hand. He'd lost count of how many he'd emptied, the bubbles doing little to wash away the bitter taste of his encounter with Jeonghan. Hiding in the lavatory. Silence always did. Each word was a shard of ice in his veins, and the alcohol was a failed attempt to melt them. The world had taken on a soft, blurry edge, and the noise of the party was a distant roar. He leaned heavily against a secluded pillar, closing his eyes, trying to make the room stop spinning.

"Rough night, darling?"

A voice, slick and too close, cut through his haze. Joshua forced his eyes open. A man in an excessively tailored suit, his smile not reaching his cold eyes, stood before him. He was a familiar type in this world—old money and predatory instincts.

"Mm fine," Joshua slurred, trying to push off the pillar and walk away, but his legs felt like noodles.

"Of course you are," the man purred, his hand closing around Joshua's bicep, the grip deceptively strong. "Let's find you someplace quieter to... recover. My driver is just outside."

A spike of sobering fear cut through the alcohol fog. Joshua tried to pull his arm back, but his movements were uncoordinated, weak. "No... I'm—"

"Don't be difficult. A pretty thing like you shouldn't be alone." The man's grip tightened, already starting to steer him toward a service exit.

Panic, cold and sharp, seized Joshua's throat. He was trapped, his mind screaming, but his body refusing to obey.

"Get your hand off of him."

The voice was quiet. It wasn't a shout, but it cut through the ambient noise like a scalpel, laced with a venom so potent it froze the air around them.

The creep spun around, his smug expression faltering as he faced Yoon Jeonghan. Jeonghan wasn't looking at Joshua. His entire focus was on the man, his gaze so intensely cold it could have shattered diamond.

"This is a private conversation," the man blustered, though his grip on Joshua's arm loosened slightly.

"There is no conversation," Jeonghan stated, his voice dangerously level. He took a single step forward, and the man instinctively took a step back. "You have three seconds to remove your hand before I remove it for you. And I can assure you, I am not nearly as gentle."

The threat hung in the air, undeniable. The man, seeing the genuine, unhinged fury in Jeonghan's eyes, finally released Joshua's arm as if it had burned him. "I... There's no need for threats. I’m a rich bussinman too, you know?"

"Get out of my sight," Jeonghan whispered.

The man didn't need to be told twice. He melted into the crowd, disappearing without a backward glance.

The moment he was gone, the fierce protectiveness on Jeonghan's face vanished, replaced by his usual mask of icy disdain. He finally turned his gaze to Joshua, who was slumped against the pillar, trembling from the adrenaline crash and the alcohol.

Jeonghan's eyes raked over him, from his dishevelled hair to his unsteady posture, his lip curling in contempt.

"Pathetic," he bit out, the word a whip-crack in the space between them. "If you're going to drown your sorrows, at least have the dignity to do it where you won't become easy prey for these loser men."

Before Joshua could form a coherent thought, much less a retort, Jeonghan closed the distance. He didn't ask. He simply grabbed Joshua's wrist, his grip firm and unyielding, and started walking, pulling a stumbling Joshua behind him through the crowd, away from the prying eyes and the lingering danger.

He scanned the thinning crowd, his sharp eyes searching for a familiar face from the Givenchy camp—a manager, a publicist, even the over-eager intern. Anyone he could pawn this drunken, trembling mess off to.

There was no one.

His jaw tightened. He pulled out his phone, dialling his own manager, Park, with a sharp, impatient stab of his thumb.

“Where’s Hong Joshua’s team?” he demanded, the moment the line connected, his voice a low hiss.

There was a pause on the other end. “They left about twenty minutes ago. His manager said he wasn’t feeling well and had a car. Guess he changed his mind.” Park’s tone was neutral, factual. “Why? Do you need something?”

Jeonghan’s eyes slid to Joshua, who was now leaning heavily against his shoulders, eyes glassy and distant, completely vulnerable. A walking headline waiting to happen. A target.

“No,” Jeonghan bit out, the lie smooth and automatic. “It’s nothing.”

He ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket. The options were bleak. Leave him here, and risk another predator or a paparazzi finding him in this state. Call a car for him, and risk him passing out alone in a stranger’s vehicle or at his own hotel, with no one to ensure he doesn't choke on his own vomit.

A low, frustrated sound escaped Jeonghan’s throat. There was only one infuriating, illogical option left.

He turned back to Joshua. “Come on,” he muttered—low, clipped, and utterly devoid of softness.

He didn’t wait for any acknowledgement. His hand found Joshua’s arm again, but this time he dragged it over his own shoulders, letting Joshua lean into him. It looked almost like an embrace. It felt nothing like one.

“Wha… where’re we…?” Joshua slurred, head rolling forward as if gravity had suddenly grown heavier.

“Shut up,” Jeonghan said, not unkindly—but not gently either. Just… final.

He steered them past the gleaming main lobby, ignoring the flashes of cameras still going off somewhere behind them, heading straight for a side corridor no one else seemed to notice. A private elevator waited there, stainless steel and silent. Jeonghan swiped a black keycard, and the doors slid open like they recognised him — like this was his world, not anyone else’s.

The ascent was quiet. Too quiet. Joshua’s breathing was uneven, shuddering in a way that made Jeonghan’s jaw clench. He didn’t look at him. He didn’t have to. He could feel the tremble in Joshua’s body through their shared balance.

But Jeonghan did not speak.

When the doors opened, they didn’t reveal a hallway — but a low-lit private landing. Another door, already unlocked. Jeonghan had planned this. Certainly not for this, but for himself. Anywho it did come in handy. 

A sleek black cab waited outside the building — tinted windows, engine already running. The driver didn’t ask questions. He didn’t even look back. He knew better.

Jeonghan guided Joshua into the back seat. Joshua slumped, blinking slowly, trying to focus on him.

“You’re…” Joshua whispered, voice threaded with exhaustion, “…mad at me.”

Jeonghan’s gaze flicked to him. Something unreadable flickered there.

“Whatever,” he said.

The drive was short — a blur of Parisian lights smearing into gold streaks outside the windows. Joshua’s head finally fell against Jeonghan’s shoulder. Jeonghan did not move.

When they arrived, the cab pulled up to a private entrance with no signage and no doorman. Another keycard. Another silent elevator. Another world.

The doors slid open into Jeonghan’s penthouse — expansive, quiet, and much too beautiful to feel real. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Eiffel Tower in perfect symmetry, glittering against the midnight sky like the city was holding its breath.

He didn’t bother with the lights. He half-dragged, half-walked Joshua past the minimalist furniture and into his own bedroom, unceremoniously depositing him onto the large, pristine bed.

Joshua immediately curled onto his side, a soft, pained sigh escaping him. “H-Hannie…?”

The old name, spoken in a voice slurred with alcohol and sleep, hit Jeonghan like a physical blow, freezing him in place for a long moment. The mask cracked, revealing a flash of something agonizingly raw—a mix of fury, protectiveness, and a deep, old wound torn open.

His expression hardened again, quicker this time. He leaned over, his movements brusque, and pulled the blankets out from under Joshua, roughly tossing them over him.

“Go to sleep, Joshua,” he said, his voice cold and final, erasing the moment of vulnerability. “And don’t you dare throw up on my sheets.”

He turned and walked out, closing the door firmly behind him, leaving Joshua alone in the dark, safe in the gilded cage of his rival’s home.

The click of the guest bedroom door was a period at the end of a sentence Jeonghan never wanted to write. He stood for a moment in the dark, silent hallway of his own penthouse, the weight of what he'd just done settling on him like a lead cloak. He had brought the one person he was supposed to despise above all others into his sanctuary. The logic of it made his head pound.

He was about to retreat to sleep on the couch when a sound, muffled by the door, stopped him. A low, pained mumble.

His feet were moving before his mind could protest. He pushed the door back open, the dim city light from the window painting the room in shades of blue and grey. Joshua was curled on his side, his brow furrowed even in sleep. The words were slurred, tangled in the thick syrup of alcohol and dreams.

"...no... don't......"

Jeonghan stood by the bed, a statue of conflicted impulses. He should leave. He should let him sleep it off. This was already a catastrophic breach of their unspoken rules.

Then, Joshua shifted, a soft, distressed sound escaping his lips. His hand clutched at the duvet. "....you... promised..."

The words were a ghost, reaching out from a past that felt both a million years away and just yesterday. Every muscle in Jeonghan's body went rigid. The cold anger that protected him was being chipped away, leaving something raw and exposed beneath.

He couldn't stop himself.

Slowly, as if approaching a skittish animal, he lowered himself to his knees beside the bed. The expensive fabric of his trousers stretched taut, but he didn't care. He leaned in, close enough to feel the warmth of Joshua's breath, close enough to smell the champagne and his own cologne on his skin.

Joshua's murmuring continued, a stream of incoherent grief and confusion. Fragments of English and Korean, bits of the party, bits of their childhood, all jumbled together in a heartbreaking mosaic. Jeonghan listened, his own breath held, his heart a frantic, trapped thing in his chest.

And then it came, clear as a shard of glass in the muddle of words. A small, broken whisper, laden with a decade of confusion and hurt.

"...Hannie... why are you being so mean?"

The air left Jeonghan's lungs in a silent rush. The words landed not as an accusation, but as a plea from the boy he used to know. The boy who shared comic books and secrets under a blanket fort. The boy who looked at him like he hung the stars.

All the icy retorts, the public dismissals, the carefully crafted hatred—it all crumbled to dust in the face of that simple, drunken question. The armour he had worn for ten years suddenly felt like a prison.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. The silence in the room was broken only by Joshua's unsteady breathing. Jeonghan remained on his knees, the ghost of that whispered question—Why are you being so mean?—echoing in the hollow of his chest.

His hand, which had been clenched into a fist at his side, slowly uncurled. He stared at it, as if it belonged to a stranger, before lifting it with a tremble he would never allow in the light of day.

He reached out, his movements hesitant, almost reverent. His fingertips, cool from the night air, brushed against Joshua's fever-warm cheek. The touch was feather-light, a stolen secret in the dark. It lasted only a second—a fleeting connection that sent a jolt through his entire system. It felt like touching a holy relic and a live wire at the same time. Forbidden.

He snatched his hand back as if burned, rising to his feet in one fluid, panicked motion. The spell was broken. He turned and fled the room, closing the door with a soft, final click.

The next morning, sunlight streamed into the penthouse, mercilessly bright. Jeonghan, having slept poorly, was on his yoga mat, flowing through a series of sun salutations with a rigid intensity. A glossy magazine lay open beside him, its pages untouched.

The electronic lock beeped, and Seungcheol let himself in, a bag of fresh pastries in one hand. "I come bearing carbs and gossip," he announced, dropping the bag on the kitchen island.

Jeonghan didn't pause his downward dog. "The carbs are welcome. The gossip is not."

Seungcheol ignored him, his eyes scanning the spacious living area before landing on the closed door of the master bedroom. His eyebrows shot up. The door was never closed.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "Well, well," he drawled, walking closer to Jeonghan. "Joining the hook-up culture now, are we? I'm proud."

Jeonghan smoothly transitioned into a plank, his voice even. "It's not like that."

"Sure, it's not," Seungcheol chuckled, already striding towards the bedroom door. "Let me see who managed to crack the ice prince's—"

"Cheol, don't," Jeonghan warned, finally breaking his pose and standing up.

But it was too late. Seungcheol had already pushed the door open. His jaw went slack. There, tangled in Jeonghan's black silk sheets, was a mop of dark hair and a peacefully sleeping face that was currently on half the billboards in Paris.

Seungcheol spun around, his eyes wide with theatrical shock. "You've got the prettiest face worldwide in your bed???? The Joshua Hong! Fierce, gentle, sexy, the Joshua Hong!!"

Jeonghan grabbed a towel, wiping the non-existent sweat from his face. "He's just a man."

"A man whom anyone would sell their soul to work with," Seungcheol hissed, keeping his voice low but his excitement palpable. "What is he doing here? How? Why?"

"Ignore him. He's leaving soon," Jeonghan said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Seungcheol, however, was a master of ignoring Jeonghan's moods. "Well, this is a funny coincidence. I was here because I heard your company is adding a new face to their upcoming 'Legacy & Vision' campaign."

Jeonghan walked to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. "Okay? It's pointless to tell me that. You know I don't care about casting."

“I know, but it’s Joshua,” Seungcheol said, his grin returning like it had never left. “The offer is on his team’s desk. If he says yes, he’ll be working directly under you.”

He paused, deliberately, and wiggled his eyebrows.

“Wait. He has already been under you.”

Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to. The glare he levelled at Seungcheol could’ve sterilised metal. “You must think you’re so funny,” he said coolly. “How are you this free for a man who is a CEO?”

“Perks of being a CEO,” Seungcheol replied, raising his glass like he was blessing the air. “I delegate. And I am, in fact, delightful.”

Jeonghan opened his mouth to reply —

But the universe cut him off.

A scream — a real scream, blood-curdling and horrifying — tore through the penthouse, echoing down the hall from the master bedroom.

The scream faded into a stunned, ringing silence. Jeonghan stood his ground in the living room, feigning an indifference he didn't feel, while Seungcheol looked like a kid who'd just been given front-row tickets to his favorite drama.

The master bedroom door creaked open. Joshua emerged, looking impossibly small and disoriented, swimming in the clothes from Jeonghan’s closet, now wrinkled. His eyes were wide, darting from Jeonghan to Seungcheol and back again, a frantic, silent question hanging in the air.

Jeonghan braced himself for the accusations. What did you do to me? Why am I here? He had his defences ready, a whole arsenal of cold, sharp replies.

But they never came.

Joshua just stood there, his fingers nervously picking at the sleeve of his T-shirt. The fight, the sharp-tongued rival from last night's interview, was completely gone. In his place was a deeply embarrassed and confused man, his usual polished composure shattered. He looked... young. And unbearably vulnerable.

The unexpected silence threw Jeonghan off balance. His prepared script was useless. He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense quiet.

"Your clothes are with the housekeeping," he stated, his voice flat and businesslike. He gestured vaguely towards the service entrance. "They'll be cleaned and delivered to your hotel by noon. Everything was handled by the staff."

He picked up a bottle of mineral water from the counter and held it out, not stepping closer. "You should drink this. Dehydration."

Joshua took it mechanically, his fingers brushing against Jeonghan's for a fleeting second. He flinched back as if shocked.

"I... I don't remember..." Joshua finally whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Nothing to remember," Jeonghan cut him off, his tone final. He turned his back, effectively dismissing him, and walked towards the windows, staring out at Paris. "You were drunk. Your team abandoned you. It was a logistical solution, not a personal one."

He could feel Joshua's gaze on his back, could sense the unasked questions, the swirling confusion. But Jeonghan offered no comfort, no explanation for the uncharacteristic act of charity.

"Your presence is getting in my way," he said, the words cold and deliberate. "The door is there. You should leave."

From the kitchen island, Seungcheol watched the entire exchange, his earlier amusement replaced by a look of dawning comprehension. This wasn't a hookup. This was something far more complicated, and the tension in the room was so thick it was suffocating.

Joshua stood frozen for another moment, clutching the water bottle like a lifeline. Then, with a quiet, shaky breath, he nodded to no one in particular and moved silently towards the door, letting himself out without another word.

INT. JOSHUA'S HOTEL SUITE - 

The silence in Joshua's own hotel suite was deafening. It was pristine, ordered, and sterile—the polar opposite of the chaotic, emotionally charged atmosphere he just escaped.

He stood under a scalding hot shower, trying to wash away the lingering scent of Jeonghan's penthouse—a mix of expensive cedar and cold indifference. The water did little to cleanse the confusion. Fragmented memories assaulted him: the creep's grip, Jeonghan's lethal voice, the feeling of being half-carried, the softness of silk sheets, and that final, cold dismissal.

"Your presence is getting in my way."

He shivered, despite the hot water. The whiplash was staggering. One moment, Jeonghan was saving him from a predator with a ferocity that felt... possessive. Next, he was treating him like a piece of furniture that's been misplaced.

His phone, charging on the nightstand, buzzes incessantly. He ignored it until he was wrapped in a plush robe, his hair dripping.

It was his manager, Miya. "Joshua! Finally. Are you okay? Where did you end up last night? The car service said you never showed up."

"I'm fine," Joshua said, his voice still a little raw. "I... crashed at a friend's." The lie tasted bitter.

"Okay, good. Listen, I have huge news. YSL. They've reached out for their 'Legacy & Vision' campaign."

Joshua's blood ran cold. "They want you," Mia continued, her voice giddy with excitement. "It's a co-headlining spot. With Yoon Jeonghan."

The world tilted. This wasn't just a campaign; it was a collision course. It was being forced into a cage with the man who looked at him with more hatred this morning than any fashion critic ever could, yet who also, inexplicably, took him home and kept him safe.

Joshua, with no intention made his way towards Seokmin’s house. 

He didn’t knock. He never needed to.

The door swung open before his key even touched the lock. Seokmin stood there, hair a soft mess, swallowed by a hoodie. His eyes, warm and knowing, scanned Joshua’s face in one swift, quiet glance.

Joshua stepped over the threshold. The first thing that hit him was the warmth, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to his coat. The second was the quiet. No Eiffel Tower views, no glass walls. Just the soft glow of lamplight on wood floors, and the low, comforting hum of a record player spinning something instrumental and slow.

Seokmin didn’t touch him. Didn’t crowd him. He just stood there, a solid presence, and let the silence hang for a beat too long.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice a low rumble in the quiet apartment.

Joshua managed a single, tight nod. A reflex. A lie.

Seokmin’s eyes softened, but he didn’t call him on it. He just stepped back, making space. “Come in.”

The air left Joshua’s lungs in a slow, shaky exhale.

They moved to the living room. The couch sighed under their weight. Joshua drew his knees up, just a little, his fingers twisting anxiously into the expensive silk of his robe’s sleeve.

Legacy & Vision. Co-headlining. With Jeonghan.

Miya’s words were a needle stuck in the groove of his mind, repeating, repeating.

Seokmin waited. He had always known how to hold a silence, how to make it feel like a comfort instead of a void.

Finally, the words came, rough and quiet. “They offered me a campaign.”

“How big?” Seokmin asked, his tone even.

Joshua swallowed, the sound loud in the stillness. “YSL.”

A slight, almost imperceptible lift of Seokmin’s brows. But he didn’t whistle. Didn’t make a joke to cut the tension. He just absorbed it. “That’s… big.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence, this one heavier.

“With Jeonghan,” Joshua murmured, the name dropping like a stone between them.

This time, Seokmin turned his head to look at him fully—not to pry, but to see the damage. To measure the fracture lines around his eyes.

“God, I hate that asshole. But this isn’t about me. How do you feel about that?” he asked, the question gentle but direct.

Joshua’s eyes flickered, tired and raw, all his polished composure sanded away. He didn’t have a word big enough for the tangle in his chest. The history, the pride, the sheer, terrifying weight of it.

So he just let his shoulders slump and said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, “I don’t know.”

Seokmin nodded, just once. “That’s fair.”

No lecture. No unsolicited advice. Just… space. Permission to not have an answer.

Joshua felt the tightest coil in his shoulders loosen. Just a fraction. Just enough to finally take a full, deep breath.

“You’re exhausted,” Seokmin said, his voice firm now with a gentle finality. He rose from the couch. “Your room’s made. Go lie down. You don’t have to decide anything today.”

Joshua didn’t have the energy to argue.

He stood, his movements slow, as if his bones were filled with lead. As he passed, Seokmin’s hand came up and squeezed his shoulder once—a brief, grounding pressure. An anchor.

“Sleep,” Seokmin said. “We’ll figure the rest out after.”

Joshua just nodded.

He walked down the familiar hallway, each step taking him further from the noise in his head. The bedroom door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

He didn’t change out of his clothes. He didn’t let himself think. He just fell onto the bed, the plush duvet swallowing him whole.

Sleep came quickly—not the peaceful kind, but the heavy, blanketing kind that smothered everything for a while.

In the living room, Seokmin turned off the lamps, one by one, and let the apartment fall into a protective stillness.

Some things could wait. Some decisions could wait. But morning would come. And with it—everything.

INT. JEONGHAN'S PENTHOUSE -

Seungcheol was still there, leaning against the kitchen island. "Well, that was... intense."

Jeonghan said nothing, methodically cleaning the already-clean counter.

"So," Seungcheol pushed. "Are you going to tell me what really happened?"

"Nothing happened," Jeonghan repeated, his voice tight. "He was drunk. I only let him stay the night. Now, he was sober. So, he left before he became a liability."

"A liability you put in your own bed."

"Well, I don’t have any other room, do I?," Jeonghan snapped, then immediately clamped his mouth shut, realising he was given something away.

Seungcheol's eyes light up with triumph. "Ah. So you slept on the couch. How chivalrous of you, Jeonghan-na!”

Jeonghan's phone buzzes. It was a message from his CEO. He read it, and his expression darkens into a storm.

The board was thrilled. The offer was out to Hong. They believe his 'gentle mystery' is the perfect contrast to your 'edgy legacy.’

Seungcheol, reading his face, guessed the content. “You're pissed. Why? Because you have to share the spotlight? Or because you'll have to be in the same room with him and pretend you don't know what he looks like when he's asleep?"

Jeonghan finally looked at him, and the raw, conflicted emotion in his eyes was so stark it silenced Seungcheol immediately.

"It doesn't matter what I want," Jeonghan said, his voice dangerously quiet. "It never has."

Polished brass. Silent judgment. The elevator to the YSL top floor offered nothing but a cold reflection. His reflection. Jeonghan had built it meticulously this morning: the silk shirt gaping just so, the perfectly draped trousers, the armour of chains and rings. Every piece a statement. He was the legacy. He was the brand. And today, they would have no choice but to listen.

He didn’t knock. He pushed open the heavy oak door to the CEO’s office, a move designed to establish dominance.

Madame Laurent looked up from her sprawling desk, her expression unreadable. She was a woman carved from ice and ambition, the one who had built him into this icon.

“Yoon Jeonghan,” she said, her voice cool. “To what do I owe this… dramatic entrance?”

“The ‘Legacy & Vision’ campaign,” he began, bypassing pleasantries. He came to a stop in front of her desk, not taking a seat. “The offer to Joshua Hong. It needs to be terminated.”

Madame Laurent leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “Does it? And why is that?”

Jeonghan had his reasons ready, polished and professional. “His aesthetic is wrong for the house. It’s too soft, too… commercial. It will dilute the edge YSL is known for. The narrative will be a forced rivalry; it will feel cheap, manufactured.”

He delivered the lines with conviction, his voice steady. He almost believed them himself.

Madame Laurent watched him for a long, unnerving moment, her sharp eyes missing nothing—the slight tension in his jaw, the way his thumb worried at the heavy signet ring on his finger.

“I see,” she said finally. She picked up a tablet, swiping through it. “The board disagrees. The analytics are clear. The public’s interest in you two, this… tension… is a catalyst. His ‘gentle mystery’ against your ‘edgy legacy’ is not a forced narrative, Jeonghan. It is the narrative. It’s already writing itself.”

“The public’s interest is based on a lie,” he countered, the words sharper than he intended.

“All the best stories are,” she replied with a faint, knowing smile. “This is not a request for your approval, Jeonghan. This is a notification. The offer stands. We expect his team to accept by the end of the day.”

The finality in her voice was a brick wall. His armour, his status, his legacy—none of it mattered. He was an asset, and she was moving her pieces on the board.

He stood there, frozen for a second, the fight draining out of him, leaving only a cold, hard reality. He had no power here. The one thing he thought he controlled—his professional domain—was being invaded, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Without another word, he turned and left the office, the door clicking shut much softer than when he had entered. The walk back to the elevator felt longer, the weight of the designer jewellery suddenly feeling less like armour and more like chains.

The message arrived on Park Minsu’s phone from an unknown number, but the content made the sender’s identity immediately clear.

Unknown Number: Park-ssi, this is Joshua Hong. I apologise for the intrusion. Could I please request Yoon Jeonghan-ssi’s contact information? It is a private matter.

Park stared at the screen, a slow whistle escaping his lips. He’d been briefed on the penthouse incident in vague, tense terms from Jeonghan, and now the other half of the equation was reaching out. This had "complication" written all over it.

He knew better than to give out Jeonghan’s personal number without clearance. But the formal, polite tone of the message, and the sheer unprecedented nature of the request, made him pause. This wasn’t a publicist setting up a shoot. This was something else.

He typed a reply. Park Minsu: I cannot give out his number without his consent. However, I can relay a message or arrange a secure line of communication.

The response was almost immediate. Joshua Hong: A meeting, then. Somewhere no one would look for us. Please.

Park sighed, already calculating the logistics and the risk. He knew a private members-only club, so discreet it was practically invisible. He sent the details. Park Minsu: Tonight. 9 PM. I will ensure he is there.

Then, he sent another text, this time to Jeonghan. Park Minsu: We need to talk. The Hong Joshua situation requires a face-to-face. I’ll pick you up at 8:30.

Jeonghan’s reply was a single, frosty word. Jeonghan: Why?

Park Minsu: Because he asked to meet. Quietly.

There was no response from Jeonghan. Which, Park knew, was agreement.

That night, Jeonghan sat in the back of the black sedan, his posture rigid. "This is unnecessary," he stated, staring out the window at the passing Parisian lights.

"Perhaps," Park replied from the driver's seat. "But ignoring it is a greater risk. He was… quite insistent."

They arrived at an unmarked door in a quiet lounge. Inside, it was all dark wood and deep leather armchairs, the air smelling of old books and fine whiskey. It was the kind of place where powerful people went to be unseen.

And there, in a secluded booth in the corner, sat Joshua.

He stood up as they approached, looking painfully out of place in his simple, elegant sweater and jeans—a stark contrast to Jeonghan’s deliberately sharp, defensive attire. His hands were shoved in his pockets, but the anxiety was clear in the tight line of his shoulders.

Jeonghan stopped a few feet from the table, his expression unreadable. "Well?" he said, his voice cutting through the quiet club. "You wanted to talk. So talk."

Joshua took a steadying breath, his fingers curling around the paper bag at his feet. He stood, meeting that icy gaze with an effort that cost him.

"First," Joshua began, his voice softer, more hesitant than he intended. "I... I wanted to apologise. For the other night. For the inconvenience. It was... unprofessional of me." He lifted the bag and placed it carefully on the table between them. It was a slender, elegant shape. "This is for you. For letting me stay. I know it doesn't make up for it, but... thank you."

Jeonghan's eyes dropped to the bag, then back to Joshua's face. A slow, derisive smile curled his lips. It wasn't a smile of amusement, but of pure, undiluted contempt. Then, he laughed. It was a short, harsh sound that echoed in the quiet club, devoid of any warmth.

"Are you serious?" Jeonghan asked, the laughter dying as quickly as it came. "You think a bottle of wine fixes this? You think this is about etiquette?" He made no move to take the bag, leaving it sitting there as a monument to Joshua's misreading of the situation.

The rejection was so complete, so humiliating, it stole the air from Joshua's lungs. He felt his cheeks heat, but he forced himself to stand his ground. This wasn't about the wine. This was about the campaign. This was about them.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, his next words coming out in a raw, sincere whisper, stripping away all pretence.

"Then tell me what it's about," Joshua pleaded, his eyes searching Jeonghan's hardened face. "The YSL campaign. I got the offer today." He paused, letting the weight of it hang between them. "Jeonghan, if you don't want me to do it... if you're against this... just say the word. I'll refuse. I'll turn it down. Right now."

The silence that followed was absolute. Park, standing a discreet distance away, seemed to hold his breath.

Jeonghan stared at him, his mask of contempt faltering for a fraction of a second, revealing sheer, unadulterated shock. This was the last thing he had expected. Not a negotiation, not a power play, but a surrender. Joshua was handing him a veto. He was offering to walk away from the biggest opportunity of his career based on a single word from the man who had shown him nothing but cruelty for a decade.

The vulnerability in the offer was staggering, a crack in the flawless facade Jeonghan had spent years building. For a single, terrifying moment, his composure was shattered, leaving him utterly speechless.

His response, when it came, was a weapon forged from that panic.

"I don't decide for you anymore." The words were ice. Then, he let it fall. "Do what you want, Jisoo."

Jisoo.

It was a key turning in a lock rusted shut for a decade. The name he’d been born with. The name only his family and the boy from his past had ever used. The name he’d buried in Busan, building Joshua Hong over its grave.

Jeonghan had wielded it like a weapon, intending to hurt, to shock, to re-establish the vast distance between them. And it worked.

Joshua flinched as if he’d been physically struck. All the colour drained from his face, leaving him pale and utterly exposed. The sincere, pleading expression in his eyes shattered, replaced by a flash of pure, unguarded pain before a wall of glassy composure slammed down.

He took a small, shaky step back, his posture folding in on itself slightly.

"I see," he whispered, the words barely audible. He nodded, a stiff, mechanical motion. "Thank you for your time, Jeonghan-ssi."

The formal honorific was a slap in return, a deliberate re-establishment of their public roles. The moment of raw, vulnerable offering was over, obliterated by a single, cruel word.

Without another glance, Joshua turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. He didn't look back, disappearing into the shadows of the club's entrance.

Jeonghan stood frozen, watching the space where Joshua had been. The victory he’d expected to feel was ash in his mouth. The sound of his own voice saying that name echoed in his ears, and the image of Joshua’s shattered expression was burned onto the back of his eyelids. He had won the battle, asserted his dominance, pushed him away.

But as the heavy door clicked shut, sealing Joshua out, the silence that descended felt less like a victory and more like a sentence.

He didn't move for a full minute, just stared at the vacant space. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement, he pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he stabbed at a contact and brought the phone to his ear.

It rang twice before Seungcheol’s cheerful voice answered. "Hey? To what do I owe the—"

"Get drunk with me," Jeonghan interrupted, his voice flat, stripped of all its usual cool composure. It was raw, a direct line to the turmoil underneath.

The line was silent for a beat. Seungcheol’s tone shifted instantly, the joking demeanour gone. "Where are you?"

"Pick me up at the usual place. The one with the unmarked door."

"Give me twenty minutes," Seungcheol said, no questions asked. "Don't move."

Jeonghan ended the call. He finally looked at the bottle of wine. He considered leaving it there, a discarded prop in their miserable play. Instead, his hand shot out, his fingers closing around the neck of the bottle with a white-knuckled grip. He wasn't leaving it behind.

He walked out, the bottle swinging at his side. Park, who had witnessed the entire exchange from a distance, fell into step beside him, his face carefully neutral.

"Home, sir?" Park asked as they emerged into the cool night air.

"No," Jeonghan said, his gaze fixed on some distant point. "I'm waiting for Cheol."

Park nodded and retreated to the car, giving him space.

Jeonghan stood alone on the quiet street, the weight of the bottle in his hand feeling like the weight of a decade of regret. He had wanted to hurt Joshua, to push him away for good. So why did it feel like he was the one who had just been gutted? The only thing that made sense now was the certain, numbing promise of oblivion that Seungcheol and a bottle could bring.

The unmarked door swung open, and Seungcheol emerged, his usual bright demeanour tempered with concern. He took one look at Jeonghan standing rigidly under a streetlamp, the bottle dangling from his hand like a dead weight, and didn't say a word. He simply jerked his head towards his car, a sleek, understated model perfect for navigating Paris unnoticed.

Jeonghan slid into the passenger seat, placing the expensive wine carefully at his feet. The silence in the car was heavy, but it was a comfortable one, forged in the fires of their long friendship. Seungcheol didn't press. He knew the script. The questions would come later, if they came at all.

He drove them to a quiet, dimly lit bar tucked away on a side street, a place they frequented precisely because no one from their world ever would. They settled into a worn leather booth in the back, the kind that absorbed sound and secrets.

Seungcheol ordered a bottle of soju and two glasses. He poured them both a shot, clinked his glass against Jeonghan's without a word, and threw it back. Jeonghan followed suit, the liquor burning a welcome path down his throat, a sensation more honest than anything he'd felt all night.

They drank in silence for a while, the first bottle disappearing with a quiet efficiency. It was only when the second bottle was opened that Seungcheol finally spoke, his voice low and casual.

"Rough day at the office, boss?"

A ghost of a smile, bitter and fleeting, touched Jeonghan's lips. He swirled the clear liquid in his glass. "Something like that."

Seungcheol studied him. He remembered the Jeonghan he'd met in university—already a legend in the making, scouted and destined for greatness. But while everyone saw the ethereal beauty and the cool indifference, Seungcheol, as his roommate, had seen the cracks. The way he never talked about home. The way he flinched at loud, sudden noises. Hated Gods. The way he could retreat into a silence so profound it felt like he'd disappeared. He was an ice prince with a fortress built around him, and even after all these years, Seungcheol only knew the shape of the walls, not what they guarded.

"You know," Seungcheol said, pouring another round, "for a guy who has the world eating out of his hand, you have a real talent for making yourself miserable."

Jeonghan downed the shot, the alcohol starting to blur the sharp, painful edges of the evening. The image of Joshua's face, crumbling at the sound of his old name, flashed behind his eyes.

"I saw him tonight," Jeonghan finally said, the words slurring slightly. "Hong Joshua."

"Figured it had something to do with him," Seungcheol nodded. "The one who got away?"

Jeonghan let out a sharp, humourless laugh that was more of an exhale. "He didn't get away. He left." He looked at Seungcheol, his eyes glassy with drink and a decade of unshed grief. "And then he came back, and he was just... there. Smiling. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't—"

He cut himself off, grabbing the bottle and refilling his glass, his movements clumsy. The walls were trembling, and Seungcheol knew better than to push. He just waited, a steady presence in the storm of Jeonghan's quiet agony.

"He offered to turn down the campaign," Jeonghan mumbled, almost to himself. "Just like that. Said if I didn't want him to, he wouldn't."

Seungcheol's eyebrows shot up. "Wow. That's... not what I expected."

"And I called him Jisoo," Jeonghan whispered, the confession torn from him. "His real name. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to make him feel as erased as I did."

He looked at Seungcheol, his expression finally, truly broken. "And it worked, Cheol. It fucking worked. So why does it feel like I'm the one who lost?"

Seungcheol didn't have an answer. He just sighed, pushed the bottle closer, and prepared for a long, drunk night. Some wounds were too old and too deep for words. All he could do was sit there and share the weight of the silence.

He took a slow sip of his soju, choosing his words carefully. "I've known you for a long time, Han," he began, his voice low and steady. "And in all that time, you've never once talked about where you came from. Not really. I know the official story—the prodigy from Seoul. But I don't know.." He gestured vaguely with his glass. "Not the 'you' before all... this. Before Seoul."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent but not pushing. "What happened between you two? Back then?"

Jeonghan's eyes, glassy and fixed on the tabletop, flickered up to meet Seungcheol's. For a long moment, it seemed like he might actually speak. The alcohol had loosened the locks on the vault deep inside him, and a torrent of words—of pain, of betrayal, of a love that had been violently severed—seemed to tremble on his lips. Seungcheol could see the battle raging behind his eyes: the desperate need to finally tell someone, to release the poison, warring with a decade of ingrained silence and self-protection.

But the habit of a lifetime was too strong. The walls, even cracked, were still standing. The moment passed. Jeonghan's gaze dropped back to his glass, his shoulders slumping in a gesture of profound exhaustion. He didn't answer. He just gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, a silent plea to let it lie.

And Seungcheol, being Cheol, understood. He had carried the weight of Jeonghan's silence for years; he could carry it a little longer. He didn't sigh, didn't press, didn't show his frustration. He simply reached out, refilled both their glasses, and pushed Jeonghan's towards him.

"Okay," he said, his tone accepting. "Then we drink."

He lifted his glass in a simple, solid toast. "To miserable bastards like us."

A faint, weary smirk touched Jeonghan's lips. He clinked his glass against Seungcheol's, the sound a quiet acknowledgement of the unspoken pact between them. Some stories were too painful for words. Some wounds were best drowned, at least for one night, in the quiet company of a friend who knew better than to ask for answers.

The soju was doing its job, blurring the sharp, painful edges of the evening into a dull, manageable ache. Jeonghan watched the condensation trickle down his glass, the silence with Seungcheol now comfortable, a shared burden.

He swirled the clear liquid, his thoughts a messy swirl of Joshua's pained expression and the ghost of a name he shouldn't have spoken. He needed to get out of his own head. He needed to talk about something, anything else.

His gaze lifted, landing on Seungcheol. His friend had been his anchor tonight, asking for nothing.

"How are things," Jeonghan began, his words slightly slurred but his intent clear, "with Jun?"

A complicated series of emotions flickered across Seungcheol's face—surprise, warmth, and then a familiar, weary caution. He and Junhui, the heir to the vast Wen empire, had been a secret for two years. In their world, where image was currency and scandals were weapons, their relationship was a carefully guarded asset. Seungcheol, the self-made tech CEO, and Jun, the scion of old money—it was a partnership that could be perceived as strategic, predatory, or simply too volatile for their respective boards.

Seungcheol let out a long breath, a soft, frustrated sound. "They're... good. He's good." He played with the edge of his glass. "We had dinner last week. At the new place by the Seine. Had to use a private room, of course. His father's people are everywhere."

He looked at Jeonghan, a wry smile touching his lips. "You know how it is. It's like running a covert operation. Secret codes, decoy locations... sometimes I feel more like a spy than a CEO." The smile faded. "But it's worth it. He's... he's worth the hiding."

He said the last part with a quiet conviction that resonated in the quiet bar. It was a stark contrast to the destructive, public animosity that defined Jeonghan's own entanglement.

Jeonghan gave a slow, understanding nod. The alcohol made him feel raw, honest. "He makes you happy," he stated, not asking.

Seungcheol met his gaze, his own eyes serious. "He does. It's complicated, and it's exhausting sometimes, but... yeah. He does."

For a moment, they just sat there, two powerful men in their own right, one trapped in the gilded cage of a secret happiness, the other drowning in the very public wreckage of a past. The irony wasn't lost on either of them.

Seungcheol raised his glass again, a new, softer toast. "To the things that are worth it."

Jeonghan clinked his glass, the sound hollow. "To the things that are worth it," he echoed, but the words felt like ash in his mouth. He wasn't sure what, in his life, fit that description anymore.

The ride back to Jeonghan's penthouse was a silent, hazy blur. Mr. Park, a portrait of professional discretion, asked no questions as he helped an unsteady Jeonghan from Seungcheol's car. Seungcheol's own assistant efficiently whisked him away, leaving Jeonghan to be guided into the elevator by Park.

The grand, minimalist space was exactly as he'd left it—cold, silent, and impeccably clean. Or so he thought. He dismissed Park with a mumbled thanks, shrugging off his coat and letting it fall to the floor. All he wanted was the oblivion of sleep.

He stumbled into his master bedroom, not bothering with the lights. The city glowed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, providing a dim, blueish illumination. He collapsed onto the large bed, face-first, into the pillows.

And then he froze.

It was faint, woven into the threads of the high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, but it was unmistakable. A scent. Not his own cedar and bergamot cologne. Something softer, cleaner. A whisper of lavender and sandalwood from an expensive, understated shampoo. The scent of Joshua's hair from when he had leaned in when he was bringing him here. The scent that had clung to his silk sheets this morning.

He had explicitly told housekeeping not to change the sheets.

A low groan escaped him, half-sob, half-curse. He rolled onto his back, and his own reflection stared back at him from above—a pale, dishevelled man, drowned in luxury and loneliness, lying in a bed that held the ghost of his greatest regret. He couldn't escape the sight of himself, just as he couldn't escape the scent.

He brought a pillow to his face, inhaling deeply, and the ghost of Joshua Hong flooded his senses. In the mirror, he watched the desperate, pathetic act.

It was a torture of his own making. A self-inflicted wound. Lying there, confronted by his own hollow reflection and surrounded by the evidence of Joshua's vulnerable presence, the image of his hurt, shocked eyes when he'd called him 'Jisoo' slammed into him with renewed, sobering force.

He had pushed him away, savagely and completely. He had won. So why was the man in the ceiling mirror lying in the dark, clinging to the fading scent of the very person he had sworn to erase, looking more lost and broken? The victory was ashes. The silence in the penthouse was no longer powerful; it was deafening. And the only thing that felt real was the ghost in his sheets, reflected back at him infinitely.

Chapter Text

The cool night air of Paris hit Joshua like a physical slap, a stark contrast to the suffocating tension he’d just escaped. He stumbled away from the unmarked door, the name Jisoo ringing in his ears, each syllable a fresh cut. He barely registered his surroundings, his vision blurry with unshed tears of humiliation and pain.

"Joshua! Hey! Over here!"

A familiar voice cut through his haze. Parked a little way down the quiet street was a discreet, expensive car, and leaning against it was Lee Seokmin. His face, usually bright with an easygoing smile, was etched with concern.

Joshua stopped, bewildered. "Seokmin? What are you—how did you—?"

"I have my sources," Seokmin said simply, pushing off the car and opening the passenger door. "And I know that look. Get in."

Gratefulness, warm and overwhelming, washed over Joshua, momentarily dulling the sharp edges of his pain. He didn't ask questions. He just slid into the plush leather seat, sinking into it as Seokmin closed the door and got in the driver's side.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the city lights streaking past.

"I called my 'source'," Seokmin finally said, his voice gentle. "It was Hoshi, actually. He's friends with Park, Jeonghan's manager. He heard there was a... 'volatile private meeting' and texted me. Said you might need a friend."

Joshua let out a shaky breath, leaning his head against the window. "Volatile. That's one word for it."

"He's an asshole, Joshua," Seokmin stated, no sugar-coating. "I don't care what history you have. What he's done to you since you entered this industry is just being an asshole."

"You don't understand—" Joshua started, the old defence rising automatically.

"I understand that my best friend has been hurting for a decade because of him," Seokmin countered, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "I was there at UCLA when you'd get that look in your eye, the one that said you were a million miles away, grieving for something. I'm the one who had to piece together the story from your drunk, rambling confessions about a boy named Hannie back in Busan."

He glanced at Joshua. "I know enough to know he doesn't get to treat you like that. History or no history."

They arrived at Joshua's hotel. Instead of dropping him off, Seokmin parked and came up to him. He ordered room service—a simple, comforting pasta—and made Joshua eat.

"You know," Seokmin said, leaning back on the sofa after they'd eaten, "my father called today. Asked me when I'm going to stop 'dabbling in music' and take my 'rightful place' on the board." He rolled his eyes, but there was a familiar weariness there. "As if managing the family's billions is more important than actually creating something that makes people feel something."

Joshua managed a small, genuine smile. Seokmin’s eternal struggle between his birthright and his passion was a constant in their friendship. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him my muse was being stubborn today," Seokmin grinned. "But seriously. This life... the pressure, the image... it's a gilded cage. I see what it does to you. This feud with Jeonghan is your version of my father's board meetings. It's a cage you don't have to stay in."

"He called me Jisoo," Joshua whispered, the confession torn from him in the safety of Seokmin's presence. "My... my real name. He said it to hurt me."

Seokmin's face softened. He moved to sit beside Joshua, throwing a supportive arm around his shoulders. "Then he's a fool. Joshua... you're the most genuinely good person I know. Whatever happened back then, you don't deserve this. You never did."

In the quiet comfort of his hotel room, with his best friend steadfast beside him, Joshua finally let the tears fall—not just for the painful evening, but for the lonely boy he'd been, and for the man who was still trapped by that boy's heartbreak. Seokmin didn't offer empty platitudes. He just sat there, a solid, unwavering presence, reminding Joshua that he wasn't alone in his gilded cage.

The confidence Seokmin had helped him rebuild felt fragile as Joshua walked into the YSL headquarters the next day. The headquarters hummed with a different energy than Givenchy—sharper, darker, more intense. The building was a monument of dark glass and sharp angles, a physical manifestation of Jeonghan's own intimidating aura. Joshua had spent the morning in a whirlwind of introductions, meeting the other ambassadors, a constellation of the industry's most striking faces. He was polite, charming, and perfectly professional, the model of the "Givenchy Gentleman" they’d all expected.

During a lull, he found himself near a stark, modern art installation in the lobby, trying to steady his breathing.

"Congratulations on getting here," a smooth, accented voice said beside him.

Joshua turned to find Minghao, the Chinese ambassador for YSL, known for his sharp artistic eye and avant-garde style. He offered a small, genuine smile.

"Thanks," Joshua replied, the word feeling heavy.

Minghao leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Working with Jeonghan isn't easy."

A dry, humourless laugh almost escaped Joshua. "I know."

Minghao nodded sagely. "Well, as your hyung here, I'll tell you a few things. A survival guide." He held up his hand. "Mind you, this is coming from someone who has done two of these and still regrets it."

Joshua’s stomach tightened. He had a feeling he was already failing this test.

"First," Minghao said, his expression serious. "Never, ever call him 'Hannie'. I don't know why, but it's an instant death sentence. He looks at you like you've just spat on his entire lineage."

Joshua's blood ran cold. Wow. He had not only called him 'Hannie' during his rookie year, he’d done it repeatedly. Already done that.

"Second," Minghao continued, unaware. "He doesn't like people in his home. His personal space is… sacrosanct. Don't even suggest a meeting there. I made that mistake once. Never again."

A hysterical bubble of laughter rose in Joshua's throat. Done that too. He had not only been in Jeonghan's home, but he’d slept in his bed.

"Third," Minghao's voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't talk about God, religion, baptism… anything like that to him. That one is probably easy for you, no? Just avoid the topic completely."

A cold dread seeped into Joshua’s bones. Baptism. The word was a key to a locked room of his trauma. He knew why he flinched at it, but he never knew why Jeonghan carried that same wound. Did something happen after he left? Of course.

"Okay," Minghao clapped his hands softly. "So, the last one. Don't give him gifts. He hates gifts. Thinks they're transactional or manipulative. Don't do these things," he concluded, "and you'll be fine."

Joshua just stared, his mind reeling. In less than two days, he had managed to violate every single one of Minghao's cardinal rules. He had called him 'Hannie', invaded his home, triggered his religious trauma with his very presence, and given him a gift.

He wasn't just walking into a difficult professional partnership. He was walking into a minefield he had already, unknowingly, detonated. 

The air in the YSL lobby, already charged with Joshua’s private panic, crackled the moment the main elevator doors slid open with a hushed ping.

Yoon Jeonghan emerged.

He was a study in monochrome perfection, a living extension of the brand’s dark, romantic aesthetic. A tailored black blazer, no shirt underneath, just the stark plane of his chest and a cascade of silver chains. Tight black trousers, boots with a slight heel that added to his imperious height. He moved with a languid, predatory grace that commanded the room without a single word. His gaze, cold and assessing, swept over the space, acknowledging the art installation, the expensive furniture, and finally, the people.

His eyes skimmed right over Joshua as if he were a smudge on the polished concrete floor. No flicker of recognition, no lingering hatred—just absolute, utter void. It was a dismissal more complete than any glare could ever be.

But then, his icy composure shifted, just a fraction, as his eyes landed on Minghao. A slight, almost imperceptible nod. “Minghao.”

“Jeonghan,” Minghao replied, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Perfect timing. Gyu is also here today.”

Mingyu, who had been standing a polite distance away, stepped forward. He was tall, handsome in a classic, boy-next-door way that contrasted sharply with the ethereal beauty of the people in this room. He offered a warm, slightly goofy grin that seemed out of place amidst the high-fashion cool. “Hey, man.. Long time no see,” he said, his voice a friendly baritone.

Jeonghan offered a curt nod, his version of civility. “Mingyu.”

And then it happened.

Minghao, looking up at Mingyu with a fond, adoring expression, reached up and brushed a non-existent piece of lint from his boyfriend’s shoulder. “You had a little something,” he murmured, his voice dropping into an intimate register.

Mingyu’s grin softened into something tender. “Liar.” He leaned down, and Minghao met him halfway.

They kissed.

The kiss was slow, deep, unmistakably passionate, right there in the middle of the lobby, full of a comfortable, practised intimacy that spoke of a deep and well-established love.

Jeonghan, who had been standing with his arms crossed, visibly recoiled. His nose scrunched in pure, unadulterated disgust, as if he’d just smelled something foul. He looked away, his jaw tight, the picture of someone subjected to an unspeakable vulgarity.

Joshua watched, frozen, from his spot near the art installation. A strange, hollow ache bloomed in his chest. He saw the easy affection, the complete lack of fear or hesitation in their display. They were unapologetically in love, in a world that often demanded shadows and secrets. He felt a pang of yearning so sharp it stole his breath.

Then, Minghao broke the kiss, laughing softly against Mingyu’s lips. He turned his head, his eyes sparkling with mischief, and looked directly at Jeonghan’s disgusted profile.

“Don’t look so offended, Han,” Minghao teased, his voice a light, deliberate prod. He leaned against Mingyu’s side, a picture of impish comfort. “It’s just love. You should try it sometime. Might melt that permanent ice sculpture vibe you’ve got going on.”

Mingyu’s deep chuckle rumbled in agreement, his arm instinctively tightening around Minghao’s waist, pulling him into the solid, comfortable shelter of his side. “Yeah, come on, Jeonghan. It’s not contagious,” he added, his grin wide and easy.

Jeonghan’s glare could have flash-frozen the entire lobby. “I’d rather contract the bubonic plague,” he deadpanned, his voice so flat it sucked the warmth right out of the air.

“Boring,” Minghao sang, utterly undeterred. “You know we can go on double dates. How about you ask that bartender you keep making heart-eyes at? The one with the tattoos.”

“How about you two stop ruining everyone’s morning with your revolting PDA?” Jeonghan shot back, his nose wrinkling in a show of distaste that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

But the remarkable thing—the thing that struck Joshua with the force of a physical blow—was that he didn’t walk away. He stood there, an immaculately dressed statue enduring their affectionate bombardment, firmly held in this intimate little circle they had drawn him into. There was a history there, a deep and worn familiarity that allowed for this kind of ribbing. The insults were a language of care; the teasing, a form of belonging.

It was a side of Jeonghan Joshua had never seen—a man who had friends, who was part of a unit, who was subjected to good-natured harassment and, beneath all his theatrical protests, allowed it. He even leaned into it, his sharp retorts a performance they all understood. This was the man he’d shared a life with, yet he was a complete stranger. And watching him now, surrounded by this easy, uncomplicated love, felt like looking through a window into a warm room he himself had been locked out of.

And that was the thought that landed in Joshua’s gut like a lead weight, extinguishing the brief flare of yearning.

Is he the only miserable one after everything?

All these years, he had carried the weight of their shattered past alone. He had built his entire life on the foundation of that single, cataclysmic betrayal. He had assumed, in some deep, hidden part of his soul, that Jeonghan was carrying a similar weight. That the hatred was just the inverse of their love, that the ice was just frozen fire. It wasn’t a comforting thought, but it was a shared one. It meant the connection, however twisted, still existed.

But now, watching this…

Jeonghan had a life. He had a career he ruled with an iron fist. He had friends who could tease him and kiss in front of him. He had inside jokes and a place where he belonged. The pain of the past, it seemed, was a ghost that haunted only Joshua. For Jeonghan, it was just a closed chapter, a reason to despise a colleague, a minor footnote in his otherwise triumphant story.

The hollow ache turned into a yawning chasm of loneliness. He had spent a decade looking at Jeonghan, whether in person or in magazines, and seeing the boy from Busan, the boy who had looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered, the boy who was presumably as broken as he was, the boy who had made promises. He had seen a reflection of his own pain. 

But Jeonghan looked at Joshua and saw… nothing. A blank space. A professional obstacle. An invisible man.

Mingyu, ever the perceptive one, seemed to finally notice Joshua standing rigidly a few feet away. His friendly eyes flickered between Joshua and Jeonghan, sensing the Arctic chill emanating from the latter. “Oh, hey. You’re Joshua Hong, right? From Givenchy? Big fan of the last campaign, man. You looked incredible.”

It was a lifeline, a moment of recognition. Joshua grasped at it, forcing his professional mask back into place. “Thank you, Mingyu-ssi. That’s very kind.”

Jeonghan didn’t even turn his head. He examined a silver ring on his finger as if it were the most fascinating object in the world.

Minghao, picking up on the tension, tried to bridge the impossible gap. “Joshua, this is Jeonghan. Jeonghan, you know Joshua, obviously. You’ll be working together.”

Jeonghan finally lifted his gaze, but it went past Joshua to a point on the far wall. “The schedule is in my calendar,” he said, his voice devoid of any inflexion. “I assume we’re both professionals who can read.”

The dismissal was so absolute, so public, that even Mingyu’s easy smile faltered. Minghao raised an eyebrow, a silent question to Jeonghan that went ignored.

“Right,” Minghao said slowly, the playful atmosphere evaporating. “Well. We should get going. Gyu has a… thing.”

“A thing,” Mingyu nodded, playing along. “Very important thing. Nice to meet you, Joshua. Try to survive this one,” he added with a wink, gesturing with his head towards Jeonghan.

Jeonghan just rolled his eyes, but it was a familiar, almost fond exasperation directed at Mingyu. 

As Minghao and Mingyu walked away, their hands linked, their heads close together, whispering and laughing, Joshua was left alone in the lobby with Jeonghan. The silence was a physical presence, heavy and suffocating.

Jeonghan didn’t look at him. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through it with a focused intensity. He was a fortress, and Joshua wasn't just on the outside; he wasn't even on the map.

The thought solidified, cold and hard in his chest.

He is okay with it.

Jeonghan was perfectly fine with Joshua’s invisibility. He was not hurting. He was not haunted. He was not spending his nights staring at ceilings that smelled of a ghost. He was living his life, a lavish, successful, full life, and Joshua’s presence in it was nothing more than an inconvenient professional obligation to be endured and ignored.

All the fight, the hope, the desperation, the secret longing that had fueled Joshua for years—it suddenly felt foolish. Naive. He had been fighting a war against an enemy who had long since declared peace and moved on, leaving Joshua alone on the battlefield, clutching a flag for a country that no longer existed.

Joshua walked to the main conference room alone, which felt like a march to the gallows. Each click of Joshua’s dress shoes on the polished concrete floor echoed the frantic beat of his heart. The brief, devastating scene in the lobby had left him feeling flayed open, raw and insignificant. Jeonghan wasn’t just moving on; he was thriving in a world that had neatly excised Joshua from its narrative.

The conference room was a stark, theatrical space—a long, black marble table reflected the low-hanging industrial lights, and one entire wall was a window overlooking a gloomy Parisian sky that perfectly matched Joshua’s internal weather. He took a seat on one side, deliberately choosing a chair that wasn't at the head. A few minutes later, the door opened, and Jeonghan entered with the creative director, a fierce Italian woman named Alessia, and several other executives.

Jeonghan didn’t glance his way. He took the seat directly opposite Joshua, the vast expanse of polished stone between them feeling like an uncrossable chasm. He placed his phone, his notebook, and a single, expensive pen on the table with a quiet, precise finality. He was all business.

“Alright, let’s begin,” Alessia started, her voice sharp and energising. “We are here to build a world. ‘Legacy and Vision’ is not just a slogan; it is a story of tension, of past and future, of…” Her eyes flickered between the two men. “…of undeniable gravitational pull. We need to see that on camera.”

She began outlining the concepts, her hands painting pictures in the air. There were storyboards for the print campaign, mood boards for the short film, all steeped in an aesthetic of dark, brooding intimacy. Joshua tried to focus, to absorb the information, but his attention was constantly pulled to the man across from him.

Jeonghan was not just listening; he was dissecting. When Alessia described a shot where the two models would be reflected in a broken mirror, his low, calm voice cut through the room.

“The symbolism is heavy-handed,” Jeonghan stated, his English flawless, accented with a crisp, almost British precision that stole the air from Joshua’s lungs. It wasn't just good; it was commanding, elegant, and utterly confident. “A broken mirror suggests a fractured self. Our narrative isn’t about an internal fracture. It’s about an external push and pull. Two whole entities in a charged standoff. Perhaps two panes of glass, one clear, one smoked, overlapping.”

Alessia paused, her eyes lighting up. “Yes. Yes, that’s more nuanced. Make a note.”

Joshua could only stare. The boy who had struggled with English verb tenses, whom Joshua had patiently tutored in his room, sitting with their legs touching under the short table, was gone. In his place was a man who could reshape a creative director’s vision with a few, perfectly chosen words.

The meeting continued, a whirlwind of lighting concepts, wardrobe discussions, and location scouting. Jeonghan contributed frequently, his suggestions always sharp, intelligent, and delivered with an unnerving calm. He was in his element, the veteran completely at ease in the machinations of high fashion. Joshua, in contrast, felt like an imposter, his contributions feeling soft and inadequate in comparison.

During a discussion about the key dialogue—a single, whispered line each of them would deliver in the film—Jeonghan again interjected.

“The proposed line, ‘Do you remember?’ is weak,” he said, tapping his pen lightly on the table. “It’s sentimental. Our conflict isn’t rooted in nostalgia; it’s rooted in consequence. Something like, ‘You can’t rewrite this,’ holds more weight. It’s an accusation and a challenge.”

The room murmured in agreement. He was right. He was always right.

The comparison was paralysing. Joshua felt the ghost of the boy he used to be screaming inside him, the boy who knew a different Jeonghan—a softer, clumsier, more real one. The dissonance was so loud he could barely hear the discussion about colour grading.

When there was a momentary lull, a pause as Alessia searched for a file on her tablet, the words fell from Joshua’s lips before he could stop them. They were quiet, meant almost for himself, a reflex of pure, unvarnished awe.

“You got really good at this.”

The moment the words were out, he wanted to claw them back. The room, which had been filled with a low hum of professional chatter, fell into a dead, ringing silence. Every head turned to him, then slowly, as if drawn by a magnetic force, to Jeonghan.

Jeonghan, who had been looking down at his notes, slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes, those shards of ice, locked onto Joshua. The air grew cold. A faint, cruel smirk twisted the corner of his perfectly sculpted mouth.

“What?” Jeonghan’s voice was deceptively soft, a whisper that carried the weight of a shout. “Expect me to stay illiterate my whole life?”

The word was a deliberate, vicious bomb.

Illiterate.

It wasn’t just an insult to his past language skills. It was a dismissal of his entire past, of the boy he had been. It reduced their shared history, the hours of patient tutoring, the shared laughter over mispronounced words, to a narrative of Jeonghan’s own superior evolution, leaving the ‘illiterate’ boy—and everything associated with him—behind in the dust.

The silence in the room was absolute. Alessia looked frozen, her eyes wide. A junior producer looked down at their hands, embarrassed.

Joshua felt the heat of a violent blush scorch his neck and face. Jeonghan held his gaze for a second longer, letting the humiliation sink in, savouring it. Then, he turned back to Alessia as if nothing had happened, the smirk gone, replaced by cool professionalism.

“As I was saying, Alessia, the line needs to function as both a threat and a confession. The ambiguity is key.”

The meeting stumbled forward, but the atmosphere was irrevocably broken. Joshua didn’t hear another word. He sat through the remaining twenty minutes in a state of catatonic shock, his body present but his spirit thoroughly shattered.

When Alessia finally dismissed them, Joshua was the first to bolt from the room, his movements jerky. He couldn’t get to the restroom fast enough. He pushed through the door and stumbled to the sink, gripping the cool porcelain, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stared at his reflection in the mirror—pale, wide-eyed, humiliated.

Illiterate.

The word echoed, each repetition a fresh lash. He had offered a compliment, a moment of genuine, helpless admiration, and Jeonghan had taken it and weaponised it, using it to remind Joshua of his place: in the past, as a forgotten, inferior footnote in the glorious story of Yoon Jeonghan.

He heard the restroom door open, but didn’t have the strength to look up. In the mirror’s reflection, he saw Minghao leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed. His expression wasn’t pitying; it was grim.

“I did warn you,” Minghao said softly, his voice devoid of its earlier teasing. “But I see now I didn’t warn you enough.” He pushed off the door and came to stand beside Joshua, their eyes meeting in the glass. “What you just walked into… that wasn’t just professional rivalry. That was personal. What did you do to him, Joshua? To make him hate you that much?”

Joshua finally tore his gaze from his own broken reflection to look at Minghao. The truth was a boulder in his throat. He had no answer. Because in his mind, he hadn’t done anything. He had only loved him. And then he had failed to meet him a day late, but he had waited every single day after. And that, it seemed, was the greatest sin of all.

“I don’t know,” Joshua whispered, the lie tasting like ash. “I really don’t know.”

Minghao studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “Be careful. Whatever that is… it’s a live wire. And you’re standing in water.” He gave Joshua’s shoulder a brief, firm squeeze before turning and leaving him alone once more with the echo of that devastating word.

Illiterate.

It wasn’t just about English. It was Jeonghan’s way of telling him he could no longer read him, understand him, or access him. The chapter was closed. The book was shut. And Joshua was left outside, with only the memory of a story he could no longer comprehend.

Jeonghan was the first to leave the building, of course, sweeping out without a backward glance, his manager falling into step beside him. The tension dissipated by a fraction the moment he was gone, replaced by an awkward, sympathetic energy directed at Joshua.

He managed a few polite, hollow goodbyes before escaping to the sanctuary of a private elevator. The schedule for the next two days was mercifully light: final clothing alterations tomorrow and a simple demo photoshoot the day after to test lighting concepts. A brief respite from the war.

Back in his hotel room, the silence was a welcome relief. He shrugged off his jacket, the fine wool suddenly feeling like a heavy costume. He was about to call room service when his phone buzzed. It was Seokmin.

Seokmin: Survival day 1: Status report?

A small, genuine smile touched Joshua's lips for the first time in hours.

Joshua: He said he’d rather contract the bubonic plague than be in love. So, you know. Progress.

Seokmin: LMAO. See? He has a personality. A horrifying one, but it's there. Did he speak to you?

Joshua's smile faded. He typed, deleted, and typed again.

Joshua: He said I probably expected him to stay illiterate his whole life. So. Yeah.

Three bouncing dots appeared immediately.

Seokmin: I'm coming over. I'm bringing disgusting amounts of greasy American food, and we're going to watch bad reality TV until you forget how to speak English. Do not argue.

Joshua didn't argue. He looked around the pristine, lonely suite. Tomorrow, he would have to face Jeonghan again, standing under the lights while tailors pinned fabric around him, a living mannequin for a story of desire and history that felt more like a documentary of his own personal hell.

But for tonight, he had a friend, greasy food, and the blessed, mind-numbing escape of terrible television. It wasn't much, but it was a lifeline. And right now, it was everything.

Seokmin had arrived like a knight in a wrinkled t-shirt, bearing the holy trinity of American comfort: a cardboard box of pepperoni pizza, a greasy bag of cheeseburgers, and a cold six-pack of soju. "I bought out the diner," he'd announced, his voice a cheerful promise of forgetfulness.

The greasy food had been devoured. The empty containers littered the coffee table, a testament to their shared comfort. The bad reality TV show played on, a blur of dramatic music and shouting, but neither of them was watching. The second bottle of soju was nearly empty, and the room had taken on that soft, hazy quality that only severe intoxication could bring.

Seokmin was slumped against the sofa, giggling at nothing. Joshua felt untethered, the sharp edges of the day sanded down by the alcohol, but the hollow ache in his chest remained, a void that the soju couldn't fill.

"You know," Seokmin slurred, his head lolling towards Joshua. "Back in college. I had... I had such a massive crush on you."

Joshua blinked, the words taking a moment to swim through the fog in his brain. "What?"

"Yeah," Seokmin nodded, his expression goofy and sincere. "For like, a whole semester. I thought, 'He's so quiet. So pretty. So sad. I can fix him with my love!" He let out a loud, self-deprecating laugh. "So stupid. You were so hung up on... on him. You always have been. I was not even in the league."

The words, meant as a drunken confession between friends, landed on Joshua with the weight of a profound truth. You always have been. He was. He was a satellite stuck in the orbit of a star that had long since burned out, a ghost tied to a memory.

He looked at Seokmin—solid, kind, real Seokmin. His best friend. Someone who had never looked through him, never made him feel invisible. Someone whose presence was a comfort, not a confrontation.

A desperate, reckless need surged up in Joshua, fueled by alcohol and a soul-deep loneliness. He needed to feel something, anything, that wasn't the crushing weight of Jeonghan's indifference. He needed to anchor himself to something present, something that was unequivocally his.

"Seokmin," Joshua whispered, his voice thick.

"Yeah, Josh?"

"Kiss me."

The air in the room stilled. The giggly, drunk expression melted from Seokmin's face, replaced by a startled, sobering clarity. He stared at Joshua, his eyes searching his friend's face.

"Joshua..." he said, his voice gentle but firm, the slur gone. "No."

The rejection was soft, but it was a bucket of cold water. Joshua flinched.

"Why not?" he asked, the plea pathetic even to his own ears. "You said you had a crush..."

"Because I'm your friend," Seokmin said, sitting up straighter. He reached out and put a hand on Joshua's knee, a grounding, platonic touch. "And you're my best friend. And you're drunk and heartbroken and you're trying to use me as a bandage for a wound I can't fix."

He looked at Joshua, his gaze full of a painful empathy. "You don't want to kiss me. You just want to prove to yourself that someone does. And I do, Josh. I love you. But not like that. Not when you're like this."

"Please," Joshua breathed, the word a desperate plea. He leaned forward, his hand coming up to cradle Seokmin's jaw. The touch was all wrong. It wasn't the sharp angle he was used to; it was soft, unfamiliar. "Just... make me feel something else. Just for a second."

Seokmin's resolve, weakened by alcohol and a deep, enduring care for his friend, fractured. He saw the raw agony in Joshua's eyes, the sheer desperation. It was a terrible idea, but in that moment, it felt like the only lifeline he could throw.

He closed the small distance between them.

The kiss was nothing like Joshua had imagined it would be with someone else. It was soft, careful, and tasted like soju and salt. It was wrong. Every cell in his body screamed it was wrong. This wasn't like the electric, shuddering through each vein in his body type kiss, nothing like his first kiss with Jeonghan or the ghost of their stolen childhood kisses. This was just... warm. And empty.

He pulled back after only a second, his eyes wide with instant, sobering regret.

Seokmin looked heartbroken. Not for himself, but for Joshua. "See?" he whispered, his voice rough. "It's not me you want."

The truth of it was a physical pain. Joshua scrambled back, pressing himself into the corner of the sofa, wrapping his arms around himself. "I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm so sorry, Seokmin. I shouldn't have—"

"Shhh," Seokmin interrupted, his own eyes shining. "It's okay. It's okay, Josh." He didn't try to touch him again. He just sat there, giving him space, his presence a painful reminder of the good, real thing Joshua had just tried to tarnish in a futile attempt to escape his own heart. 

Joshua had gotten what he asked for, and in doing so, had only proven to himself how utterly and completely lost he truly was.

He woke up alone in bed. Through the half-open bedroom door, he could see the outline of Seokmin, a blanket-clad lump on the living room sofa, still asleep. The silence in the hotel suite was heavy, charged with the ghost of the night before.

Moving quietly, Joshua shed the clothes that smelled of soju and regret. In their place, he constructed his armour: a sharply tailored designer shirt in a flashy, almost aggressive cobalt blue, and trousers that broke perfectly over his boots. The clothes felt like a costume, a declaration of a person he wasn't sure he was anymore.

The soft click of the bedroom door must have woken him. By the time Joshua emerged, fully dressed, Seokmin was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. The morning light felt too bright, exposing everything.

"Morning," Seokmin said, his voice rough with sleep. There was a careful distance in his tone, a politeness that was worse than anger.

"Morning," Joshua echoed, his own voice tight.

An awkward pause stretched between them, filled with everything they wouldn't say.

"I'll... call my driver," Seokmin finally said, not meeting his eyes. "He can take you to YSL. I'll, uh... I'll get home a different way."

"Okay," Joshua replied, the single word feeling inadequate and hollow. There was nothing else to say. He gave a tight nod, avoiding Seokmin’s gaze, and turned to leave the apartment without another word.

The silence felt heavier than any hangover.

Downstairs, the city air was crisp. As promised, a car was waiting—a sleek, obsidian Mercedes-Maybach that looked less like a vehicle and more like a moving vault. The driver, dressed in immaculate livery, simply nodded and held the door open. Joshua slid into the cold, supple leather of the backseat, the scent of money and polish enveloping him. The quiet thunk of the door closing felt final, sealing him in a bubble of expensive isolation for the short, silent ride to his own personal battlefield.

All too soon, the car glided to a perfect, silent halt outside the YSL headquarters. The thudding in Joshua’s head was now a brutal, percussive counterpoint to the whisper-quiet hum of the YSL elevator he knew awaited him inside. Each pulse behind his eyes was a stark reminder of the soju, the tears, and the catastrophic misstep. The memory of the kiss—soft, wrong, and suffused with a profound sense of betrayal—flashed behind his eyelids every time he blinked. He felt raw, flayed open.

Taking a sharp breath, he stepped out of the car. The driver melted away. He was here.

He walked inside and stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, and he was alone with his reflection—a vision of sharp, flashy cobalt and impeccable tailoring, a perfect lie. The prospect of facing the cathedral-like silence of the YSL atelier, of facing Jeonghan, was its own special kind of torture.

The elevator chimed. The doors opened. 

He stepped out into the main lobby, the dark marble and sharp angles feeling more oppressive than ever. To his surprise, it wasn't empty. Leaning against the stark, modern reception desk, deep in conversation with a tall, familiar figure, was Minghao.

“—and I told him, if he thinks I’m wearing that neon monstrosity, he can find another muse,” Minghao was saying, his voice a blend of amusement and absolute finality.

The tall man—Mingyu—chuckled, a low, warm sound that seemed to vibrate through the cold air. “You said the same thing about the sequined jumpsuit, and it ended up on the cover of Vogue Paris.”

“That was different. The jumpsuit had artistic merit. This is just… radioactive.” Minghao’s eyes, sharp and perceptive, flickered away from Mingyu and landed on Joshua. A genuine smile, softer than the one he’d offered yesterday, touched his lips. “Joshua. You’re early. And you look like you fought a truck and lost.”

Joshua managed a weak, wincing smile. “Something like that.” His gaze drifted to Mingyu, who offered a friendly, slightly sheepish wave.

“Don’t mind him, he’s my shadow today,” Minghao said, following his gaze. “My schedule is light, so he’s decided to be my personal nuisance.”

“I’m moral support,” Mingyu corrected, his voice fond.

“You’re a distraction,” Minghao retorted, but he reached out and casually adjusted the collar of Mingyu’s jacket, his fingers lingering for a moment. The gesture was so intimate, so effortlessly domestic. 

Their dynamic was fascinating. Yesterday, they had been a whirlwind of playful teasing and public affection. Today, they were a quiet, solid unit. Mingyu, for all his sunny, puppy-like energy, stood with the grounded posture of someone who knew how to handle himself. His eyes constantly scanned their surroundings, not with paranoia, but with a calm, practised awareness.

“Come on,” Minghao said, pushing off the desk. “Your fitting isn’t for another hour. Let’s hide in one of the viewing rooms. They have the comfy chairs, and the coffee is marginally better than the swill they serve in the canteen.”

It wasn’t an offer so much as a gentle command. Joshua, too emotionally depleted to refuse, simply nodded and followed them down a hushed corridor to a small, darkened room lined with plush velvet seats, used for reviewing footage.

Mingyu immediately took charge of the coffee situation, disappearing and returning with three cups, handing one to Joshua with a quiet, “Careful, it’s hot.” He then settled into a seat a few rows back, pulling out his phone, giving them the illusion of privacy while maintaining a watchful presence.

For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, sipping the bitter, strong coffee. Joshua was grateful for the lack of pressure to perform, to be ‘Joshua Hong’. Minghao seemed to understand the sanctity of quiet.

“He used to be my bodyguard, you know,” Minghao said suddenly, his voice conversational, as if commenting on the weather.

Joshua choked slightly on his coffee. “Mingyu? Your bodyguard?”

Minghao nodded, a sly smile playing on his lips as he glanced back at the man in question. Mingyu looked up, hearing his name, and rolled his eyes affectionately before returning to his phone.

“For about six months,” Minghao continued, turning back to Joshua. “My father… well, let’s just say he has a lot of opinions on my safety, and my ‘lifestyle’.” He said the word with a delicate sarcasm. “He hired the best. Which, apparently, was a six-foot-tall, disarmingly handsome former special forces recruit from Seoul who had a degree in art history.”

Joshua’s eyes widened. The pieces clicked into place. The quiet vigilance, the protective but non-intrusive posture, the way he seemed to both blend into the background and command it effortlessly. “Special forces?”

“Mmhmm. He doesn’t like to talk about it much. Too many bad memories, he says.” Minghao’s tone was light, but his eyes held a deep, unwavering respect. “It was a disaster from the start. I was a nightmare—arrogant, rebellious, determined to shake him off. I’d try to lose him in crowded markets, give him the wrong addresses for shoots, the works.”

He took a sip of coffee, a nostalgic glint in his eye. “And he… he never rose to the bait. Never got angry. He was just… immovably competent. He’d always be there, a few steps behind me, a calm presence in the chaos I was trying to create. One day, I was being particularly insufferable at a gallery opening, and some drunk, entitled heir to a shipping fortune wouldn’t take no for an answer. Got handsy.”

Joshua found himself leaning forward, captivated.

“I didn’t even see Mingyu move,” Minghao said, his voice dropping. “One second, the guy was in my space, the next, he was three feet away, looking dazed, with Mingyu’s hand on his shoulder, speaking to him in a voice so quiet and cold it could freeze hell. He didn’t throw a punch, didn’t make a scene. He just… neutralised the threat. Completely. Efficiently. And then he turned to me and asked if I was alright, and his voice was back to being… warm. Like nothing had happened.”

Minghao shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “That was it for me. I was a goner. All my stupid attempts to push him away, and it was his sheer, unshakeable goodness that undid me. The strength he had, not just physically, but the strength to be so kind in a world that had clearly given him reasons not to be.”

“So you… fired him?” Joshua asked, mesmerised.

“I tried,” Minghao grinned. “The next day, I told him his services were no longer required. He just looked at me, with those stupidly perceptive eyes of his, and said, ‘You can’t fire me. I quit.’ And then he asked me out for coffee. My father nearly had an aneurysm. It was hilarious..”

He gestured behind him. “And now, he parades around with me everywhere, whenever he has time. My former bodyguard. My personal nuisance. My moral support.” The love in his voice was a tangible thing, warm and bright in the dark room.

Joshua was silent, processing the story. It was a romance novel come to life, a tale of fierce protection evolving into even fiercer love. It was everything his own life wasn’t. It was security, certainty, a love that was seen and celebrated, even if parts of it had to be kept from a disapproving father.

“It sounds… perfect,” Joshua finally said, and he meant it, even as the words tasted like ash in his mouth, highlighting the stark desolation of his own situation.

Minghao’s sharp eyes softened. He studied Joshua for a long moment, taking in the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with caffeine, the way he seemed to be holding himself together by sheer will alone.

“It’s not perfect,” Minghao corrected gently. “We fight. He’s stubborn. I’m a diva. My family is a perpetual headache. But it’s… real. It’s built on something solid.” He paused, then added, “It’s different from whatever toxic, beautiful mess you and Jeonghan have going on.”

The directness was like a splash of cold water. Joshua flinched.

Minghao didn’t apologise. “I’m sorry, I’m an empath. A nosy one, but an empath nonetheless. I can feel the static around you two from a mile away. It’s a whole symphony of pain.” He set his coffee down and stood up. “Your fitting is soon. You should go.”

Joshua nodded, feeling exposed and strangely comforted at the same time. He stood, his limbs heavy.

As he moved to pass Minghao, the Chinese model stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. Then, without another word, he pulled Joshua into a firm, warm hug.

It wasn’t a brief, polite embrace. It was a full, proper hug, one that spoke of understanding and a shared, unspoken language of heartache. Minghao held him tightly for a long moment, a solid anchor in Joshua’s stormy sea.

“I’m sorry,” Minghao murmured, his voice quiet near Joshua’s ear. “I can see you needed a hug.”

And that simple, profound act of kindness was Joshua’s undoing. The hug was everything the kiss with Seokmin wasn’t—it was pure, platonic, and filled with a compassion that asked for nothing in return. It was a momentary shelter. He didn’t cry, but he felt the tight coil of anxiety in his chest loosen, just a fraction.

He pulled back, his throat too tight to speak. He just nodded, his gratitude shining in his eyes.

Minghao gave him a small, knowing smile and a gentle push towards the door. “Go. Face the ice prince. Just remember, even icebergs melt from the inside out.”

As Joshua walked out into the hallway, the lingering warmth of the hug a shield against the cold, he glanced back. Mingyu had come to stand beside Minghao, his arm slipping naturally around his waist. They stood together, a united front against the world, a testament to a love that had been forged in fire and had emerged stronger for it.

Joshua turned and walked towards the atelier, towards the inevitable, painful proximity with Jeonghan. The lingering warmth from Minghao’s hug evaporated the second Joshua pushed open the heavy, soundproofed door to the main YSL atelier. It was like stepping from a sun-drenched meadow into a cryogenic chamber. The air was frigid, thick with the scent of starch, expensive perfume, and a tension so sharp it felt like the atmosphere itself could shatter.

And at the centre of it all, a frozen monument to disdain, was Yoon Jeonghan.

He was already on the central dais, a vision in head-to-toe black, his silhouette sharp enough to cut glass against the room’s muted grey walls. A senior tailor and two assistants were circling him, their movements hushed and reverent, pins clamped between their lips. Jeonghan’s eyes, however, were not on his own reflection in the triple-panel mirror. They were fixed on the door, on Joshua, having tracked his entrance with the unnerving precision of a predator.

The clock on the far wall showed Joshua was precisely three minutes early. It didn’t matter.

Jeonghan’s voice sliced through the quiet, cold and flat, devoid of any real inquiry. It was an accusation.

“Now being late? Are we?”

The five words landed like individual slaps. Every head in the room—the tailors, the stylists hovering by a rack of garments, the production assistant sipping coffee in the corner—snapped towards Joshua. The silence became profound, broken only by the soft hum of the ventilation system.

Joshua felt his face heat, the fragile composure he’d scraped together crumbling instantly. “I’m not late,” he managed, his voice sounding small and defensive in the vast space. “The schedule said 10 AM.”

“The schedule,” Jeonghan repeated, his tone dripping with mock contemplation as he finally turned his head to regard his own reflection, dismissing Joshua visually once more. “The schedule is for employees. Ambassadors understand that presence is required for preparation. But I suppose Givenchy operates on a more… relaxed timeline.”

It was a masterclass in public evisceration. In one sentence, he had positioned Joshua as an unprofessional outsider, a mere employee, while reinforcing his own superior status. The head tailor, Pierre, looked deeply uncomfortable, his eyes darting between them.

“My apologies,” Joshua forced out, the words tasting like bile. He walked towards the second, smaller dais, feeling every eye on him. “It won’t happen again.”

“Make sure it doesn’t,” Jeonghan said, his attention seemingly absorbed by the drape of his own sleeve. “We have a great deal of work to do, and I don’t have the patience to waste time waiting for people to find their way.”

The fitting began anew, but the atmosphere was now irrevocably poisoned. For Joshua, it became a special kind of hell. Every interaction was filtered through Jeonghan’s icy commentary, a running critique disguised as professional feedback.

When Joshua stood for his own measurements, Jeonghan, without looking up from his phone, murmured, “Ensure the jacket is taken in at the waist. We wouldn’t want it looking boxy. The camera adds ten pounds, as they say.” It was a subtle, vicious dig at his physique, implying he was on the verge of looking soft.

The head tailor for Joshua, a kind-eyed woman named Annette, nodded nervously. “Of course, Monsieur Jeonghan.”

Joshua stood rigid, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He felt objectified, reduced to a mannequin whose flaws were being catalogued by his chief tormentor.

When the creative director, Alissia, bustled in, clutching her tablet, the dynamic shifted into something even more unbearable.

“Excellent!” she declared, looking between them. “The contrast is perfect. Jeonghan, you are the blade. Joshua, you are the scabbard. The sharpness and the sheath.”

Jeonghan offered a thin, humourless smile. “Let’s hope the scabbard is sturdy enough. Blades can be… damaging.”

Alissia, either missing or choosing to ignore the venom, clapped her hands. “Yes! Exactly that energy! Now, for the first concept shoot tomorrow, we want to play with this idea of ‘restraint’. We’ll have you, Joshua, seated. And Jeonghan, you will be standing behind him, your hand on his shoulder. A gesture that could be protective. Or possessive. Or a warning.”

Joshua’s blood ran cold. The idea of Jeonghan’s touch, even a staged one, after the cold hatred of the last twenty-four hours, made him feel faintly nauseous.

Jeonghan, however, merely raised an eyebrow. “My hand on his shoulder? Wouldn’t it be more impactful if I had my hand around his throat?”

The room went dead silent. Even Alissia looked momentarily stunned.

Jeonghan let the silence hang for a beat too long before giving a casual shrug. “A joke. Maybe too literal.”

It wasn’t a joke. Everyone in the room knew it. It was a threat, delivered with a chilling smile.

The final straw came during a discussion about fabrics. Alissia was showing them a heavy, black wool. “This is for the main campaign shot. It’s weighty. It carries history.”

Jeonghan ran a hand over the fabric on his own dais. “It needs to be strong. To withstand pressure.” His eyes lifted and pinned Joshua across the room. “Some elements are more fragile than they appear. We wouldn’t want anything to tear.”

That was it. The accumulated humiliation, the sleep deprivation, the hangover, the memory of Seokmin’s pitying look and Minghao’s empathetic hug—it all coalesced into a white-hot point of rage. He was so tired of being passive, of absorbing the blows.

“Is there a specific problem you have with the way I look, Jeonghan-ssi?” Joshua’s voice cut through the room, clear and sharp, startling everyone, including himself.

Jeonghan went very still. He slowly turned his head, his gaze finally meeting Joshua’s fully. It was like staring into a blizzard. “I have a problem with unprofessionalism. I have a problem with a lack of discipline. The way you look is a direct reflection of those things. If you can’t handle the standards of this house, perhaps you should have stayed where you were comfortable.”

The directness was breathtaking. Joshua felt as if he’d been gutted. He saw Annette flinch, saw Pierre look at the floor. He was being publicly flayed.

“My work has never been questioned before,” Joshua retorted, his voice trembling with a fury he could no longer contain.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Jeonghan replied coolly. “Even for mediocrity.”

The word hung in the air, final and devastating. Mediocrity.

Joshua couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t be here. He looked at Alissa, who was watching the exchange with a fascinated, almost clinical horror. He looked at the pity in the tailors’ eyes. He was a spectacle.

Without another word, he stepped down from the dais. The heavy velvet of the sample trousers swished around his ankles.

“Where are you going?” Jeonghan’s voice was a whip crack.

Joshua didn’t turn around. He kept walking towards the door, his back straight, every ounce of his will focused on not breaking into a run.

“The fitting isn’t over,” Jeonghan stated, a note of incredulous anger creeping into his icy tone. “You do not walk out.”

The silence Joshua left behind in the atelier was more explosive than any shout. It was a vacuum, sucking the air and sound from the room, leaving only the stunned, rapid heartbeat of every person present. Jeonghan stood frozen on the dais, his perfectly sculpted face a mask of cold fury. No one had ever walked out on him. Not in a decade at the pinnacle of this industry.

He didn’t move for a full thirty seconds, his knuckles white where they gripped the fabric of his sample jacket. The head tailor, Pierre, dared to clear his throat. “Monsieur Jeonghan, perhaps we should—”

“Leave,” Jeonghan interrupted, his voice dangerously low. “All of you. Get out.”

There was no argument. Within sixty seconds, the room was empty save for him and his own furious reflection in the triptych of mirrors. The sight of Joshua’s empty dais was an accusation. A challenge.

Joshua didn’t remember the elevator ride down. He found himself in a deserted, concrete-lined service corridor, the industrial hum of the building a stark contrast to the opulent silence upstairs. He braced his hands on his knees, gulping in air, his entire body trembling with adrenaline and humiliation. Mediocrity. The word echoed, a toxic mantra.

The service door slammed open with enough force to echo against the bare walls.

Joshua jerked upright.

Yoon Jeonghan stood there, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that was anything but calm. The controlled ice-prince was gone, replaced by something raw and livid. He’d shed his jacket, his white shirt stark against the grey concrete.

“What the hell was that?” Jeonghan’s voice was a low, seething growl, stripped of all its polished coolness.

Joshua straightened up, his own anger flaring to meet the challenge. “What did it look like? I was leaving.”

“You don’t get to just leave,” Jeonghan shot back, taking a step forward. The space in the corridor was narrow, forcing them into uncomfortable proximity. “You don’t get to disrupt my schedule, disrespect the entire team, and just walk out because your feelings are hurt.”

“My feelings?” Joshua let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Is that what you call it? You’ve done nothing but insult me, belittle me, and question my professionalism since the moment I walked in! You called me mediocre in front of everyone!”

“If the shoe fits,” Jeonghan retorted, his eyes blazing. “A true professional would have taken the feedback and used it. A true professional wouldn’t crumble at the first sign of criticism. But you’ve always been soft, haven’t you? Always needed coddling.”

The words were a direct hit, aimed at the deepest insecurities Joshua had carried since childhood. The anxious boy who needed quiet and reassurance.

“Coddling?” Joshua’s voice rose, echoing in the cavernous space. “Is that what you think this is? You call that feedback? Telling the tailor I’m getting boxy? Suggesting you put your hands on my throat? That’s not feedback, that’s targeted harassment!”

“It’s called creating a dynamic!” Jeonghan shouted back, the sound raw and startling. “It’s called building a narrative! Something you’d understand if you were thinking about the work instead of your own fragile ego!”

“My ego? This from the man who throws a tantrum if someone looks at him wrong! The man who’s so obsessed with his own ‘legacy’ he can’t stand the idea of sharing a room with anyone else!”

“I don’t have to share a room with just anyone,” Jeonghan snarled, stepping so close Joshua could see the flecks of silver in his stormy eyes, could feel the heat of his anger. “I have to share it with you. A man who built a career on being a blank slate, a mystery with nothing underneath. A man who deletes his past because he’s too weak to face it!”

It was the closest they’d come to the heart of the matter, a glancing blow against the decade-old wound, but they both veered violently away from it, too terrified of what its opening would unleash.

“Oh, that’s rich!” Joshua shoved at Jeonghan’s chest, a weak, futile push that did nothing but make Jeonghan’s eyes widen in shock at the physical contact. “You, who’s built a fortress of ice around yourself! You, who’s so terrified of anyone getting close that you have to preemptively destroy them! You call me weak? You’re a coward, Jeonghan! A coward who hides behind snide remarks and a reputation for being an asshole because you’re too scared to be anything else!”

The word ‘coward’ seemed to vibrate in the air between them. Jeonghan’s face went pale with a rage so profound it was almost quiet.

“You know nothing about me,” he whispered, the words lethally soft. “You have no idea what I am or what I’ve had to become. You left. You created this… this persona and you left everything else behind. So don’t you dare stand there and pretend you have any right to analyse me.”

“I didn’t leave!” Joshua screamed, the truth he couldn’t fully explain, tearing out of him. “You have no idea what happened! You have no idea what I lost! You just decided I was the villain in your story because it was easier than considering anything else!”

“What was I supposed to consider?” Jeonghan roared, his composure completely shattered. “What other brilliant theory was I supposed to entertain? You think I enjoyed it? You think I wanted this?” He gestured wildly between them. “You think I wanted to see your face everywhere, a constant reminder of—“

He cut himself off, his chest heaving. The unspoken words—of you, of us, of what I lost—hung in the air, a ghost they were both desperately fighting.

“Of what?” Joshua pressed, his voice cracking, tears of frustration and rage now streaming down his face unchecked. “A reminder of what, Jeonghan? Say it!”

But Jeonghan couldn’t. He just shook his head, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “This is pointless. You’re hysterical.”

“I’m hysterical? You’re the one who chased me down into a service corridor to scream at me!”

“Because you can’t do your job!” Jeonghan fired back, latching onto the safer, uglier ground. “You’re not cut out for this. You never were. You’re a pretty face for pretty clothes, but when it comes to real work, to real pressure, you break. You always break.”

“Go to hell,” Joshua spat, wiping his face with a furious, jerky motion. “You want me off this campaign? Fine. Fire me. Go to Madame Laurent and tell her you can’t work with me because I’m too ‘mediocre’ and ‘fragile’ for the great Yoon Jeonghan. See what she says.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Jeonghan shot back, but the fire was fading from his voice, leaving behind the cold, bitter ashes of their mutual destruction. They were both panting, standing inches apart in the grim, utilitarian hallway, their expensive clothes and perfect hair a grotesque contrast to the raw, ugly pain on their faces.

They had bickered, they had screamed, they had hurled every weapon in their arsenal except the one that mattered. They had carved each other up with surgical precision, exposing every insecurity, every flaw, but they had meticulously avoided the single, bleeding wound that was the source of all the poison.

Jeonghan took a step back, the movement stiff. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, disheveling it. He looked, for the first time, not like an ice prince or a furious god, but like a tired, angry man.

“Be on set tomorrow,” he said, his voice hollow, all the fight gone out of it. “On time. And do your job.”

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the long, empty corridor, leaving Joshua alone amidst the dust and the hum of the building, surrounded by the wreckage of their words, feeling more broken and lost than ever. They had said everything and nothing at all.

The silence on set the next day felt like a wet blanket rather than any argument. It was a thick, suffocating that smothered the usual chaotic energy of a photoshoot. Joshua arrived precisely on time, his face a carefully neutral mask. Jeonghan was already in hair and makeup, his eyes closed, giving no indication he was aware of Joshua’s presence.

There were no barbs, no icy comments, no pointed critiques. When the stylist handed Joshua his first outfit, a severe black leather harness over a sheer shirt, Jeonghan said nothing. When Joshua emerged from the changing room, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the harsh lights, Jeonghan’s gaze swept over him with the detached appraisal of a geologist examining a rock sample. There was no heat, no hatred, not even disdain. It was nothing. It was worse.

The photographer, a renowned Italian artist named Giovanni, was a whirlwind of passion. “Bellissimo! The two faces of my coin! Now, Joshua, I want you to look at him not as a rival, but as a reflection. A reflection you desire but cannot touch!”

Joshua tried. He looked at Jeonghan, who was posed with an effortless, languid grace against a backdrop of crushed black velvet. He tried to conjure desire, tension, anything. But all he saw was the man from the service corridor, his face contorted in rage, the man who had called him mediocre and fragile. His expression remained politely engaged, but his eyes were empty.

“Jeonghan, my king!” Giovanni called. “Your turn. Look at him as if he holds a secret you must possess. A hunger!”

Jeonghan’s eyes met Joshua’s. They were flat. Polished obsidian. There was no hunger, no possession. There was a profound, impenetrable boredom. He was following the instruction to the letter, but the soul behind it was absent. It was a technical performance, a masterclass in emptiness.

“Okay… good,” Giovanni said, his enthusiasm dimming slightly. He clicked away, the shutter a rapid, frantic sound. “Now, let’s try the seated pose. Joshua on the floor, Jeonghan standing over him. A power dynamic, yes? But twisted! I want the ambiguity!”

Joshua settled onto the cool, hard floor, folding his legs beneath him. Jeonghan moved to stand behind him, his shadow falling over Joshua, a cold eclipse. The directive was for Jeonghan to place a hand on Joshua’s shoulder.

Jeonghan’s hand descended. It was cool, his fingers resting lightly on the sheer fabric of Joshua’s shirt. There was no pressure. No sense of protection, possession, or warning. It was as if he were touching a piece of furniture. Joshua flinched internally, his skin crawling with the sheer impersonality of it. This was the touch he had dreaded, and it was worse than any violent grip. It was nothing.

“Joshua, your face! Look up at him! What do you feel?” Giovanni urged, peering from behind his camera.

What did he feel? He felt the ghost of that hand from years ago, warm and certain, lacing its fingers through his. He felt the memory of Jeonghan’s breath against his ear, whispering secrets. He felt the devastating coldness of the present. His expression in the resulting Polaroid test shot was one of pure, unadulterated grief.

“No, no, no,” Giovanni muttered, tossing the Polaroid aside. “This is a funeral. I asked for a seduction, a battle! Not a wake!”

They cycled through more outfits, more concepts. A shot where they were back-to-back, supposed to show a united front against the world, came out looking like two strangers forced to share an elevator. A shot where they were instructed to almost-kiss, their faces a breath apart, was so devoid of chemistry it was comical. Joshua could feel the frustration growing in the crew. The stylists whispered. The assistants avoided eye contact.

During a lighting change, Joshua overheard Giovanni speaking in low, frustrated Italian to his assistant. “It’s like shooting two magnificent statues. Beautiful, but dead inside. There is no thread. There is no… story. They are two separate pictures forced into one frame.”

The assistant nodded grimly. “The tension from the fitting yesterday was electric. I don’t know what happened, but they’ve killed it.”

They had. In their desperate attempt to avoid another explosive confrontation, they had built a wall of professional civility so high and so thick that not even a flicker of genuine emotion could escape. The very thing that made their dynamic so potent—the raw, bleeding history—was the thing they were now suppressing, and without it, they were just two handsome men in expensive clothes.

The final set-up was the simplest. They were to stand facing each other, a few feet apart, under a single, stark spotlight. The theme was “The Silence Before.”

“No direction,” Giovanni said, throwing his hands up. “Just stand there. Look at each other. Forget the camera. Forget me. Whatever is there, whatever is not there, I will capture it.”

This was it. The moment of truth.

Joshua took his mark. He lifted his gaze to meet Jeonghan’s.

For a long moment, they just looked. Into the flat, polished obsidian of Jeonghan’s eyes, Joshua tried to project everything. The confusion of the boy he was, the betrayal he felt, the longing that had never died, the rage from yesterday, the profound hurt of being called mediocre. He poured it all into his gaze, a silent, desperate plea. See me. See what you’ve done. See what we’ve lost.

Jeonghan’s eyes did not change. They did not soften with memory or harden with renewed anger. They remained impenetrable. He was looking at Joshua, but he was not seeing him. He was looking at a problem to be solved, a variable in an equation that wouldn’t balance. He was working.

He was giving Giovanni nothing. And in doing so, he was forcing Joshua to give everything, alone. Joshua’s carefully constructed mask began to fracture. The grief from the first Polaroid returned, mingled with a deep, weary resignation. This was their reality. Not enemies, not lovers, not even rivals. Just two ghosts haunting the same space, unable to interact, forever trapped on either side of an uncrossable chasm.

Giovanni clicked the shutter. Once. Twice. A dozen times.

Then he lowered his camera. The silence stretched. He didn’t look at the digital screen. He just sighed, a long, weary sound.

“Cut,” he said, his voice flat. “We’re done.”

He walked over to the monitor, the crew gathering around him. Joshua and Jeonghan remained standing under the spotlight, the centre of attention for a failure they both owned.

On the large screen, the images flashed up. They were technically perfect. The lighting was sublime. Their features were sculpted by shadow and light. They were two of the most beautiful men in the world.

And the photos were utterly, completely dead.

There was no story. No push and pull. No legacy and vision. There was only a void. A beautiful, expensive, meticulously crafted void.

Giovanni turned to face them, his expression not angry, but deeply disappointed. “I do not know what is between you,” he said, his accent thick. “And frankly, I no longer care. But whatever it is, you must find a way to use it. Or this campaign… it will be the most beautiful failure of my career.”

He walked away, leaving them standing there in the devastating silence, surrounded by the evidence of their mutual failure. The fight had been ugly, but it had been real. This… this polite, professional truce was a far greater disaster. They had proven they could work together without fighting. And in doing so, they had proven they had nothing left to give at all.

Jeonghan could feel the disappointed glances from the crew, the stylists who had worked for hours to make them look like kings, only for them to embody empty thrones. He needed to fix this. He was Yoon Jeonghan. He didn’t fail. He recalibrated.

A plan formed, cold and pragmatic. They needed to be seen together outside of this toxic set. They needed to fabricate a truce, a narrative of professional respect that could be sold to the public and, more importantly, to the disappointed creative team. The entire crew was going to a dinner at a notoriously exclusive restaurant, a bonding exercise orchestrated by a desperate PR team. He would ask Joshua to go. Not as an apology, not as an olive branch, but as a strategic necessity. He would be civil. He would be the bigger man. He would salvage this wreck.

He turned, his mind already constructing the terse, impersonal invitation. “Hong Joshua-ssi, the team is gathering for dinner. It would be… nice if we both attended.”

But the space where Joshua had been standing was empty.

Jeonghan’s eyes snapped towards the studio’s main exit. The heavy soundproofed door was just swinging shut. He had left. Without a word, without a glance, without waiting to be dismissed or to discuss the catastrophic failure they had just authored together. The sheer audacity of it, the absolute disregard, sent a fresh, white-hot spike of fury through Jeonghan’s veins. It was a repeat of the fitting room walkout, but this was worse. This was in front of everyone, a final, silent verdict on their collaboration.

He moved without thinking, his long strides eating up the distance to the door. He would catch him in the hallway. He would drag him back by his perfectly styled hair if he had to. He would—

He pushed the door open and stepped out into the vast, marble-floored reception area of the studio complex. And the scene that greeted him stopped him dead.

There, bathed in the soft, golden light of the setting sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, was Joshua. And he was not alone.

Seokmin was there.

Lee Seokmin, the heir to a fortune so vast it made even Jeonghan’s wealth look like pocket money, was standing before Joshua, a brilliant, unrestrained smile on his face. He was holding a ludicrously large, exuberant bouquet of sunflowers and white daisies—a burst of vibrant, cheerful colour in the monochrome world of YSL. It was the antithesis of everything the brand, and Jeonghan himself, represented.

And he was hugging Joshua.

It wasn’t a brief, back-slapping friend hug. It was a full-bodied, enveloping embrace. Seokmin’s arms were wrapped tightly around Joshua’s shoulders, pulling him close. Joshua, whose body had been a rod of tense, unyielding stone for the entire photoshoot, had melted into the embrace. His face was buried in Seokmin’s shoulder, his own arms coming up to clutch at the back of Seokmin’s expensive cashmere sweater. His shoulders, which had been held with rigid control for hours, slumped in what looked like profound relief.

They held the pose for a beat too long. Two beats. It was a lifetime.

Jeonghan stood rooted to the spot, just outside the studio door, shielded by a large potted plant. He felt like a voyeur to a private moment of solace, and the intimacy of it was a physical blow. This was the man who, just yesterday, had been screaming at him in a service corridor, whose eyes had been filled with a tempest of pain and rage directed solely at him. Now, in Seokmin’s arms, he looked… peaceful. Saved.

Seokmin pulled back slightly, his hands coming up to cradle Joshua’s face. He said something, his voice too low for Jeonghan to hear, but the tone was unmistakably tender. Joshua shook his head, a small, weary smile finally touching his lips—a real smile, one that reached his eyes and lit them from within. It was a smile Jeonghan hadn’t seen in ten years. A smile that had once been reserved for him.

A possessive, irrational fury, so violent it made him dizzy, clawed its way up Jeonghan’s throat. He was the one who was supposed to be the source of Joshua’s extremes. The anger, the pain, the history—it was all his. It was their twisted, private kingdom. And now this… this trust fund puppy with his gaudy flowers and his easy affection was waltzing in and offering comfort? Was erasing the marks Jeonghan had just spent the day carving?

He watched as Joshua took the flowers, burying his nose in the blooms, the gesture one of genuine gratitude. He watched as Seokmin slung a casual arm around Joshua’s shoulders, steering him towards the exit, already chattering away, undoubtedly about some vapid, cheerful plan to distract Joshua from his terrible day. From him.

The studio door opened behind Jeonghan, and a few crew members spilt out, chatting about the dinner plans. They saw him standing there, his back rigid, and followed his gaze to the retreating figures of Joshua and Seokmin.

“Ah, looks like Joshua has other plans,” one of the producers said with a light laugh. “Lucky him. Lee Seokmin knows all the best places in Paris. That’s quite the rescue party.”

Rescue party. The words were a final twist of the knife. Jeonghan was the monster from which Joshua needed to be rescued. Seokmin was the knight.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He simply turned and walked back into the darkened, empty studio, the ghost of the failed photoshoot still haunting the air. The plan for a strategic dinner was ash in his mouth. The hollow victory of their silent, professional truce was now a complete and utter defeat.

He was left with nothing. No successful shoot. No path to salvage the campaign. And the devastating, undeniable image of Joshua Hong finding comfort in another man’s arms, while the mere sight of Jeonghan made him turn to stone. The ice around his heart didn’t just crack; it shattered, and what poured out was a torrent of something dark, jealous, and terrifyingly familiar. He was losing him all over again. But this time, it was infinitely worse, because this time, he had no one to blame but himself.

The silence in Jeonghan’s penthouse was deafening. He stood in the centre of the vast living room, the city of lights sprawling beneath him, a panorama of life and connection that felt like a mockery. He could still see it—the way Joshua’s body had gone pliant in Seokmin’s embrace, the way he had buried his face in those stupid, cheerful sunflowers. A rescue party. He was the disaster from which Joshua needed rescuing.

The controlled, icy fury that usually sustained him had evaporated, leaving behind a hollow, aching void. The images from the photoshoot flashed behind his eyes—their dead, empty expressions, the profound disappointment on Giovanni’s face. They were a perfect mirror of what was inside him. A beautiful, empty shell.

He had spent a decade building this shell, fortifying it with ambition and bitterness. He had told himself the story of Joshua’s betrayal so many times it had become gospel. But the foundation of that story was crumbling, shaken by the raw, unvarnished pain in Joshua’s eyes during their service corridor fight, and now, utterly demolished by the sight of him finding solace in someone else.

The need to talk, to finally release the poison that had been festering inside him for ten years, became a tidal wave, overwhelming his every instinct for self-preservation. He didn’t think. He just picked up his phone, his fingers moving on their own accord, and pressed the call button next to Seungcheol’s name.

It rang. And rang. Just as he was about to hang up, to retreat back into the silence, a breathless, slightly muffled voice answered.

“Han? This better be good, I’m—”

Jeonghan didn’t let him finish. The words tumbled out, raw and stripped bare, his voice a low, gravelly thing heavy with a weight he could no longer carry alone.

“Do you wanna know what happened between me and Jisoo?”

The name. Jisoo. It hung in the silent penthouse, a ghost given voice. It was a name from a different lifetime, a name spoken in classes, in the warmth of his own house. A name he had locked away in the deepest, darkest vault of his soul, never to be spoken, not even in the privacy of his own nightmares. Saying it aloud felt like breaking a sacred law of his own existence.

Across the city, in Seungcheol’s high-rise apartment, the world froze.

Seungcheol had been stretched out on his plush sofa, Junhui a warm, welcome weight half on top of him. They had been in the middle of a lazy, deep kiss, a quiet celebration of a rare evening with no obligations. Jun’s fingers were tangled in Seungcheol’s hair, and Seungcheol’s hands were splayed possessively on Jun’s back.

At the sound of Jeonghan’s voice and the name that followed, Seungcheol went completely still. He broke the kiss, pulling back to look down at Jun, his eyes wide with shock. He held the phone away from his ear for a second, as if it had bitten him.

Jun, his lips kiss-swollen and his eyes hazy with affection, blinked up at him. “Cheollie? What is it?”

Seungcheol brought the phone back to his ear. Jeonghan wasn’t speaking. He was just breathing, a ragged, waiting sound on the other end of the line.

“Han?” Seungcheol said, his voice now completely clear, all traces of passion replaced by sharp, immediate concern. “Where are you?”

“Home,” came the monotone reply.

Seungcheol looked back at Jun, a silent, frantic conversation passing between them in a single glance. He saw the understanding dawn in Jun’s beautiful eyes. This was it. The vault was cracking.

“I’m coming over,” Seungcheol said, already gently extricating himself from Jun’s limbs and getting to his feet.

Jun sat up, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t complain, didn’t pout. He just looked at Seungcheol with unwavering support. “Go,” he said softly.

Seungcheol leaned down, cupping Jun’s face and planting a hard, quick kiss on his lips. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, baby.”

Jun managed a small, understanding smile, though a flicker of worry shadowed his eyes. “You better. And… take care of him, Cheol. Whatever it is.”

Seungcheol nodded, grabbing his keys and wallet from the console table. “I will. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He was out the door in under sixty seconds, the image of Jun’s concerned face burned into his mind. As he jabbed the elevator button, he brought the phone back to his ear. Jeonghan was still silent.

“I’m in the elevator, Han. Just… stay put. Don’t do anything stupid. I’m on my way.”

There was a soft, hollow sound on the other end that might have been a laugh, or a sob. “What’s left to do?” Jeonghan whispered, and then the line went dead.

Seungcheol sprinted through the lobby and into his waiting car, his heart hammering against his ribs. He’d known Jeonghan for over a decade. He’d seen him cold, furious, arrogant, and ruthlessly ambitious. He’d seen him drunk and melancholy. But he had never, ever heard his voice sound like that—shattered. And he had never, ever heard him say that name with such tenderness. 

Jisoo. 

This was the epicentre. This was the buried trauma that had created the ice prince. And whatever had happened tonight had finally, after ten long years, blown the lid off. As he sped through the Parisian streets, Seungcheol knew he wasn’t just driving to comfort a friend. He was driving into the eye of a storm that had been building for a decade, and he had no idea what devastation he would find when he arrived.

Chapter Text

The salt-kissed air of Busan was a shock to the system after the dry, smoggy haze of Los Angeles. For eleven-year-old Joshua Hong, this move was his parents’ desperate hope for a clean slate, a new beginning orchestrated by his father’s sudden company transfer. For Joshua, it was just profoundly lonely.

The sprawling, modern apartment overlooking the sea felt cavernous and empty. Haeundae Elementary School was a cacophony of sounds where the guttural, rapid-fire Busan satoori of the other children might as well have been a code he’d never crack. He moved through those first weeks like a ghost, his American-accented Korean marking him as an outsider. The only consistent ritual was Sunday morning, when his devout parents would usher him into their stiff church clothes and the solemn, echoing space of a new Korean church, where he understood the hymns but felt none of the connection his parents so fiercely sought.

His only solace was the small, tiered garden plot his mother had rented on the city's outskirts, a tangible piece of the rural life she’d quietly mourned leaving in America. It was there, his hands buried in the familiar feel of soil, tending to neat rows of cabbage and spring onions, that he first met the woman who would change everything.

Halmeoni, as she insisted he call her, was a force of nature contained within a small, wiry frame. Her face was a beautiful roadmap of sun and time, but her eyes held a fierce, youthful spark that missed nothing. She worked the plot next to theirs, her movements a study in quiet, economical grace. For a week, she had simply watched the quiet, overseas-bred boy with his hesitant hands before finally approaching. Her voice, when she spoke, was like the rustle of dried herbs—raspy, but kind.

“You’re holding that trowel like it’s going to bite you, son,” she’d said, not unkindly. Her own hand, leathery and strong, covered his to adjust his grip. “Here. You hold it like a friend. Like this.”

Under her patient guidance, the foreign soil of Busan began to feel like home. Joshua didn't just learn the difference between a weed and a seedling; he learned to feel it. He learned the right amount of water for peppers, and the secret to growing the sweetest strawberries—a pinch of salt at the roots, she’d whispered, like a shared conspiracy. It was a quiet, unspoken friendship, built in the space between words. He’d help her with the heavier work, and in return, she’d feed him slices of pear and tell him stories. Stories of the sea that crashed nearby, of her own fiery youth, and most often, with a particular glint in her eye, stories of her grandson.

“My Hannie,” she’d say, her voice softening into a pool of pure adoration. “He’s a good boy. A heart too big for his own good, that one. Gets into fights, but only when the other boys pick on the smaller ones. He’s smart, you know. So smart. But his English… ah, it’s like a bird with a broken wing. And his numbers, they dance away from him.” She’d sigh, a sound full of love and worry. “He tries so hard at school, but it doesn’t stick. The teachers don’t see his heart. They just see the wrong answers.”

Joshua listened, captivated. This “Hannie” sounded like a character from a storybook—a rebellious knight with a hidden softness. He pictured a boy with scraped knees and a fierce scowl, nothing like the polished, academic rivals he was used to.

“I’m good at English and maths,” Joshua offered shyly one afternoon, wiping sweat from his brow. “I… I could help him. If he wanted.”

Halmeoni’s eyes had lit up as if he’d offered her a chest of gold. “You would? Oh, you are a good boy, too! An angel sent to us!” She’d clapped her dusty hands together. “It’s settled. You will come for dinner on Saturday. I will make japchae. Hannie will be so pleased.”

Joshua had his doubts about the “so pleased” part, but the thought of a real connection, of using his one talent for something that felt meaningful, sent a thrill through him.

Yoon Jeonghan, at twelve, was a storm contained within a too-skinny body. Life had already taught him that the world was an uneven playing field, a lesson seared into him the day his parents left for a "short business trip" and never came back. The phone calls grew less frequent, then stopped altogether, until the only thing they’d left behind was their son and a silence that was heavier than any door slamming shut.

He had his halmeoni, who was his entire world, and he had the fierce, protective love he felt for her—a love that was as much about ensuring she never disappeared too as it was about affection. Everything else was a battle. School was a particular kind of torture. The letters in English jumbled themselves into nonsense, and numbers on a page seemed to taunt him with their elusive logic. He saw the impatient disappointment in his teachers’ eyes, heard the whispers of “slow” and “troublemaker” from other kids who had mothers to pack their lunches and fathers to help with homework, and it all fueled a defensive, simmering anger. He wasn't stupid; the world was just unfair.

He came home from another frustrating day, his knuckles scraped from a shoving match with a boy who’d made a comment about his worn-out sneakers, to a home filled with the incredible aroma of japchae and fried mandu.

“Hannie! You’re home!” Halmeoni greeted him, her smile brighter than usual. “Wash up quickly. We have a guest.”

Jeonghan froze, suspicion immediately clouding his features. “A guest? Who?” They never had guests. Their small, modest home wasn’t for entertaining.

“A very nice boy from my garden plot. His name is Joshua. His family just moved from America. He’s top of his class! And he’s agreed to help you with your studies!”

The world tilted. Humiliation, hot and sharp, washed over him. She’d invited a stranger, some elite scholar from America, to witness his failure. To pity him. His jaw tightened. “I don’t need help,” he muttered, his voice a low growl.

“Yoon Jeonghan,” Halmeoni said, her tone shifting into the one he couldn’t argue with—the one that held the weight of all her sacrifices. “You will be polite. Be kind. Now, wash up.”

Grudgingly, he scrubbed the dirt from his hands and face, changing into a clean, if slightly faded, t-shirt. He walked into the main living area with the demeanour of a prisoner heading to the gallows.

And then he saw him.

The boy wasn’t what he’d expected. He wasn’t smug or preppy. He was sitting neatly on the floor by the low table, his hands folded in his lap. He had soft, chestnut-brown hair and eyes that held a gentle, nervous warmth. He was… pretty. The thought startled Jeonghan, making his scowl deepen.

“Hannie, this is Jisoo,” Halmeoni said brightly. “Jisoo, this is my grandson, Jeonghan.”

Joshua stood up immediately and bowed, a perfect, respectful 90-degree angle. “Hello, Jeonghan-ssi. It’s nice to meet you.” His Korean was formal, textbook-perfect, with only a faint, melodic hint of an American accent.

Jeonghan gave a curt, barely perceptible nod, refusing to speak. He slid into his seat at the table, his shoulders hunched.

The lunch was a quiet, awkward affair. Halmeoni chattered away, trying to fill the silence, asking Joshua about America and his school. Joshua answered politely, his voice soft. He kept sneaking glances at Jeonghan, who was shovelling food into his mouth as if it were a race, his eyes fixed on his plate.

“Jisoo has the top scores in English and mathematics in his entire year,” Halmeoni said, her voice full of pride as if Joshua were her own. “He’s going to tutor you, Hannie. Twice a week.”

Jeonghan’s chopsticks clattered against his bowl. “I don’t need a tutor.”

“You failed your last two exams,” Halmeoni said, her voice gentle but firm. “This isn’t a suggestion.”

The rest of the meal passed in a tense silence. When they were finished, Halmeoni shooed them both towards Jeonghan’s small room. “Go! Start with English. I’ll bring you some fruit.”

Jeonghan stomped into his room, leaving Joshua to hover uncertainly at the doorway. The room was small and sparse, but clean. A faded poster of a basket ball player was tacked to the wall, and a small, rickety desk was piled with textbooks.

“You can… sit there,” Jeonghan grunted, pointing to the desk chair while he flopped onto his bed, putting as much distance between them as possible.

Joshua sat down carefully. He pulled out a pristine English workbook from his bag and placed it on the desk. “So… Halmeoni said you’re having trouble with verbs. The past tense?”

“I’m having trouble with all of it,” Jeonghan snapped, staring at the ceiling. “It’s stupid. Who cares what some people in a country far away are saying?”

Joshua was quiet for a moment. “It’s not about the country,” he said, his voice so soft Jeonghan had to strain to hear it. “It’s like a code. Once you learn the code, you can understand all these new stories… new songs. It’s like a superpower.”

Jeonghan turned his head, looking at Joshua for the first time. The other boy wasn’t looking at him with pity or condescension. He looked… earnest. As if he genuinely believed this ridiculous statement.

“A superpower,” Jeonghan repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Joshua met his gaze, and a small, tentative smile touched his lips. It was a little lopsided, and it did something strange to Jeonghan’s stomach. “Yeah. Like Spider-Man. But with grammar.”

A sound, something suspiciously close to a choked laugh, escaped Jeonghan’s throat before he could stop it. He quickly covered it with a cough. “Spider-Man is cooler.”

“Obviously,” Joshua agreed, his smile growing a fraction. He opened the workbook. “Okay, Superpower 101. Let’s start with ‘to be’. It’s the most irregular one, so we just have to memorise it. I am. You are. He is…”

He began to write on a piece of paper, his handwriting neat and clear. Jeonghan, despite himself, found his eyes drifting from the ceiling to the boy at his desk. The late afternoon sun streamed through the window, catching the gold highlights in Joshua’s hair. He wasn’t like the other kids. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t trying to prove anything. He was just… there. Patient. And his voice, explaining the bizarre rules of ‘was’ and ‘were’, was strangely calming.

An hour later, when Halmeoni came in with a plate of sliced pears, she stopped in the doorway, her hand flying to her mouth to cover her gasp.

Jeonghan was no longer in his bed. He was sitting at the desk, right next to Joshua, their shoulders almost touching. He was scowling in concentration at the paper, his brow furrowed, while Joshua pointed at a word, his voice a soft, steady murmur.

“—so if it’s yesterday, you always use ‘was’ for I, he, she, and it. You just have to remember that.”

Jeonghan grunted in acknowledgement, scribbling something down.

Halmeoni backed away silently, a tear of pure, unadulterated joy tracing a path through the wrinkles on her cheek. She had known it. Her Hannie, with his heart too big for his own good, had just met the one person whose quiet presence could finally calm the storm.

They fell into the routine of studying together twice a week. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Joshua would arrive after lunch, his backpack full of books and a quiet determination to make the confusing English words make sense for Jeonghan. It was on one of those Thursdays, the air warm and thick with the scent of blooming evening flowers from Halmeoni's garden, that Joshua asked him.

They were at the desk, shoulders almost touching. Jeonghan was glaring at a list of verbs, his pencil gripped tightly as if it were a weapon.

“For the future, you use ‘will’ before the verb,” Joshua explained gently, pointing to the page. “So ‘I eat’ becomes…”

“‘I will eat’,” Jeonghan finished, the words foreign but correct on his tongue. A flicker of pride crossed his face before he schooled his features back into a scowl.

In the comfortable silence that followed the small victory, Joshua’s gaze drifted to a single, framed photo on the desk. It showed a younger Jeonghan, smiling widely, held by a man and woman whose faces were bright and unfamiliar.

His voice was barely a whisper, hesitant. “Jeonghan-ah… where… where are your parents?”

The pencil in Jeonghan’s hand stilled. His entire body went rigid, the brief moment of triumph evaporating instantly. He didn’t look up, his eyes fixed on the words ‘I will eat’ as if they were a lie. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Joshua held his breath, fearing he had shattered their fragile new world.

Then, Jeonghan’s shoulders slumped, not in anger, but in a deep, old weariness.

“They’re dead,” he said, the words so flat and final they left no room for argument. It was a shield, a story he’d built to protect himself from the more complicated, painful truth of abandonment. To him, it was the same thing.

A wave of immediate regret washed over Joshua. He hadn't meant to pry so deeply, to reopen a wound that was clearly still so raw. His eyes softened with genuine empathy.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet, sincere remorse. "I shouldn't have asked. I'm really sorry, Jeonghan-ah."

He finally looked at Joshua, and the storm in his eyes was no longer one of anger, but of a loss so profound. But this time, Joshua’s gentle apology was there to meet it, a quiet anchor in the tempest.

Outside the door, Halmeoni, who had come to offer them slices of apples, froze. The words, meant to be a shield for her grandson, felt like a knife twisting in her own heart. A tear, not of joy, but of a deep, aching sorrow, traced a path through the wrinkles on her cheek. She had given him every ounce of love she possessed, but in that moment, she felt the crushing weight of her own inadequacy. She could never be his parents. She could never give him the life, the security, the uncomplicated future he truly deserved. Her love, it seemed, was not enough to fill the chasm of that lie.

The fragile truce forged over irregular verbs slowly, almost imperceptibly, warmed into a real friendship. It was a quiet revolution that took place in the small, sunlit confines of Jeonghan’s room, on the dusty path to the garden plots, and under the vast, open sky of the local basketball court. And Joshua, with an empathy that ran deeper than his years, never asked about Jeonghan’s parents again. The single, stark word "dead" had built a wall around that part of Jeonghan's history, and Joshua, unlike everyone else, never tried to scale it. He simply accepted the boundary, and in doing so, built a different kind of bridge between them—one of trust, of shared silences. 

The mangas came first. It was a hesitant offering from Jeonghan, a week after the tutoring began. He’d shoved a well-worn, slightly crumpled copy of "Slam Dunk" across the desk, avoiding Joshua’s eyes.

“Here. If you’re gonna talk about superpowers, this is a real one. It’s about basketball.”

Joshua, who had never read a manga in his life, took it with the reverence of a scholar receiving an ancient text. That weekend, he devoured it. On Tuesday, he arrived for their study session with stars in his eyes.

“Hanamichi Sakuragi is incredible! He’s so… loud. And he fails so much! But he never gives up!” Joshua’s usual quiet demeanour was replaced with an animated excitement that left Jeonghan staring, utterly captivated.

A slow grin spread across Jeonghan’s face. It was the first genuine, unguarded smile Joshua had seen from him. “Told you. He’s a genius.” And just like that, a bridge was built. They spent more time debating the merits of Rukawa versus Sakuragi than they did on past participles. Jeonghan’s entire collection, from "One Piece" to "Naruto," was gradually transferred to Joshua’s bookshelf in a silent, shared library.

The music exchange was Joshua’s idea. He’d noticed the cheap, cracked MP3 player Jeonghan carried, loaded with the same few K-pop songs. One afternoon, he brought his own sleek device and, with a nervous glance, offered one of the earbuds.

“This is… it’s called pop-punk. It’s kind of angry, but also… free? I don’t know. You might hate it.”

The opening, frantic guitar riff of a Fall Out Boy song blasted into Jeonghan’s ear. He flinched, about to yank it out, but then the driving beat and the raw, emotional vocals pulled him in. It was chaos, but it was a chaos that resonated with the storm he often felt inside. He listened, his scowl softening into an expression of intense focus.

“Again,” was all he said when the song ended.

Soon, their study sessions were soundtracked. Joshua introduced him to the angst of My Chemical Romance and the yearning of Jeff Buckley, while Jeonghan shared the powerful ballads of BIGBANG and the energetic beats of SEVENTEEN. They were two boys from different worlds, finding a common language in the shared space between a guitar solo and a rap verse.

But the real transformation happened on the basketball court. It was a cracked asphalt patch behind the community centre, its nets frayed and rusted. For Jeonghan, it was a sanctuary. It was the one place where his body understood the logic that his mind struggled with in the classroom. The geometry of a bounce pass, the physics of a jump shot—it was all instinctual.

Joshua, for all his academic prowess, was hilariously, tragically uncoordinated. He’d shown up one Saturday in pristine white sneakers and shorts that were too neatly pressed.

“You really don’t have to,” Joshua had said, watching Jeonghan effortlessly spin the ball on his finger.

“You read ‘Slam Dunk’ ten times. You have to at least try,” Jeonghan retorted, a challenge in his eyes. “Unless you’re scared.”

That was all it took. Joshua’s jaw set in a rare show of stubbornness. “I’m not scared.”

The first lesson was a disaster. Joshua couldn’t dribble without looking at the ball, which immediately bounced off his foot and rolled into a thorny bush. His shooting form was a stiff, awkward parody, the ball clanging pathetically off the backboard, nowhere near the rim. Jeonghan doubled over, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

“Yah! Hong Jisoo! You look like a baby deer on ice!”

His name slipped out so naturally that Jeonghan didn’t even notice. But Joshua did. It felt… right. It felt like belonging.

“Shut up and help me,” Joshua grumbled, his face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and determination.

And Jeonghan, to his own surprise, did. The teasing remained, but it was now layered with a patient, almost tender guidance.

“No, not like that. You’re all arms. It’s in your legs, here,” Jeonghan said, coming up behind him. He placed his hands on Joshua’s hips, adjusting his stance. The contact was electric, sending a jolt through both of them. Jeonghan pulled his hands back as if burned, his ears turning pink. “Just… bend your knees more.”

Joshua, his heart hammering for a reason that had nothing to do with exercise, nodded mutely.

Day by day, week by week, Joshua improved. The baby deer learned to run. He learned to dribble without staring, to make a halfway decent pass, and once, under the setting sun with Jeonghan cheering him on, he sank a shot from the free-throw line. The swish of the net was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He threw his hands up in triumph, and Jeonghan tackled him in a celebratory hug, their laughter echoing across the empty court.

It was during these moments, sweaty and breathless, sitting on the curb and sharing a single bottle of water, that their walls came down completely. They talked about everything. Joshua confessed his anxiety about never fitting in, the pressure of being the “elite scholar” who felt like a fraud. Jeonghan, in halting sentences, spoke of the kids who mocked him for his grades, the deep-seated fear that he was a disappointment to his hardworking grandmother, the lonely anger that had been his only companion for so long.

“You’re the smartest person I know, Hannie,” Joshua said quietly one evening, the stars beginning to pepper the twilight sky. “School smart isn’t the only smart. You understand people. You understand… me.”

Jeonghan looked at him, the fading light catching the earnestness in Joshua’s eyes. No one had ever said anything like that to him. No one had ever looked at him and seen something worthy, beyond the failed test scores. The constant, defensive knot in his chest began to loosen, replaced by a warm, unfamiliar feeling of being truly seen.

His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "They're not really dead," he admitted, the words torn from him. He stared at the cracks in the pavement, his shoulders tense. "I lied. They just... left. Went to Seoul for a new life and decided an old kid and his halmeoni didn't fit in it." The confession hung in the air, raw and painful. "Being dead is easier to explain. People feel sorry for you. They don't look at you like you're trash they forgot to take out."

Joshua didn't offer empty platitudes. He didn't gasp or pity him. For a moment, he was silent, the weight of the confession settling over them. Then, without a word, he shifted on the rough concrete and wrapped his arms around Jeonghan. It wasn't a dramatic gesture, but a firm, steady hold.

"You listen to me, Yoon Jeonghan," Joshua said, his voice quiet but fierce with conviction. "You are not trash. You never were. And you will always have a home with me and Halmeoni. Always."

Jeonghan, who usually shied away from touch, didn't pull back. He stiffened for a second, then slumped against Joshua, his head bowing. It was the first time in years he had allowed someone to share the weight of that particular hurt. In that moment, their friendship sealed itself in a new, unbreakable way.

One rainy afternoon, trapped indoors, they were huddled under a blanket fort they’d constructed in Jeonghan’s room, listening to a mix of American rock and K-pop. A slow, melancholic song came on, and the mood shifted. They were lying on their stomachs, facing each other, the space between them feeling both incredibly small and infinitely vast.

“Do you ever think about… you know. Liking someone?” Joshua whispered, his voice barely audible over the rain and the music.

Jeonghan’s breath hitched. He’d been thinking about it a lot lately. The thoughts always, inevitably, circled back to the boy lying across from him. The way his nose scrunched up when he concentrated, the sound of his laugh, the way his hand had felt on his hip on the basketball court.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan admitted, his own voice a low rumble. “Sometimes.”

“Me too,” Joshua said. He was looking at Jeonghan, really looking, and his eyes were full of a question.

The air grew thick, charged with a tension more terrifying and exhilarating than any exam. Jeonghan’s gaze dropped to Joshua’s lips, then flickered back up to his eyes. The unspoken thing between them was suddenly a living, breathing entity in the tiny, blanket-draped space.

The song ended, and the spell was broken. Joshua quickly looked away, his cheeks flaming. “We… we should probably study. That math test is next week.”

“Right. The test,” Jeonghan said, his voice rough. He didn’t move.

They didn’t study. They just lay there in the fort, listening to the rain, both acutely aware of the new, terrifying, and beautiful frontier that had just opened up between them. The shared mangas, the exchanged music, the basketball lessons—it had all been leading here. To a precipice. And they were both standing on the edge, too scared to jump, but unable to imagine walking away.

The summer before eighth grade unfolded like a dream drenched in golden light and the salty tang of the Busan sea. It was the summer Joshua Hong, after weeks of relentless, tear-filled pleading that shocked his usually reserved parents, was granted his wish: a transfer to Jeonghan’s public school.

The morning of the first day, Joshua’s stomach was a frantic hive of bees. He stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his new uniform—a slightly cheaper, less prestigious version of his old one—a dozen times. The fear of being the outsider, the “fancy Seoul kid,” was a cold stone in his gut.

He was so lost in his anxiety that he didn’t hear the soft whistle from outside his window. When he finally looked, his heart did a funny little flip.

Leaning against the brick wall across the street, looking impossibly cool in his own uniform with the tie loosened and the top button undone, was Yoon Jeonghan. He had one hand in his pocket, the other holding two cartons of banana milk. He raised one in a silent question.

Joshua’s anxiety melted away, replaced by a warm, giddy feeling. He grabbed his bag and practically flew down the stairs.

“What are you doing here?” Joshua asked, breathless, accepting the milk. “You live in the opposite direction.”

Jeonghan shrugged, a studied nonchalance that didn’t quite hide the pleased glint in his eyes. “The bus route is boring. This way is nicer.” He gave Joshua a slow, appraising look. “You look… like a student.”

“That’s the general idea,” Joshua laughed, the sound light and free.

As they walked, Jeonghan’s demeanour subtly shifted. The easygoing boy from the basketball court was replaced by someone more… vigilant. His eyes scanned the groups of students heading towards the school gates. He’d nod curtly at some, his gaze lingering just a second too long on others, a silent communication passing between him and his classmates.

Joshua noticed the looks he was getting. They weren’t the hostile, curious stares he’d feared. They were… respectful. Almost wary. A few of the bigger boys, the ones who looked like they should be picking on someone, actually gave him small, nervous smiles.

“What did you do?” Joshua whispered as they entered the school gates.

“Do?” Jeonghan feigned ignorance, but a tiny, proud smirk played on his lips. “I just had a few conversations. Told everyone we had a new student. A friend of mine. Told them his name is Jisoo, and that he’s kind of a genius, but in a quiet way. And that if anyone gives him a hard time, they’ll have to answer to me.”

Joshua’s eyes widened. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Jeonghan said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. “And I meant it.” He stopped walking and turned to face Joshua, his expression uncharacteristically earnest. “This is my territory, Jisoo. No one messes with you here. Ever.”

The declaration was so fiercely protective it made Joshua utterly speechless. He felt a blush creep up his neck. No one had ever fought for him like this. 

The lie about Jeonghan being a scholar started within the first hour.

In homeroom, their teacher, a stern woman named Ms. Kwon, was taking attendance. “Yoon Jeonghan.”

“Here,” Jeonghan said, his voice clear.

Ms. Kwon looked up, peering over her glasses. “I have a note here from the principal. It says you’ve been selected for the advanced mathematics study group due to your ‘marked improvement and latent potential.’ Congratulations.”

A stunned silence fell over Joshua. Jeonghan? Advanced math?

Jeonghan just nodded, a picture of humble acceptance. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Joshua, sitting two rows over, stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. Jeonghan caught his eye and gave a barely perceptible wink.

Later, in the hallway, a group of girls surrounded Joshua.

“You’re Jeonghan’s friend, right? The one from America?” one of them asked, her eyes wide.

“Um, yes,” Joshua said.

“Is it true?” another girl whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. “Is it true he’s been secretly tutoring you in Korean? Because he’s a total language genius? We heard he reads classical literature in Hanja for fun!”

Joshua almost choked. He looked over the girls’ heads and saw Jeonghan leaning against a locker, casually discussing the latest soccer match with some guys. He was playing the part perfectly—the undisputed, secretly brilliant king of the school.

Their eyes met across the bustling hallway. A silent conversation passed between them, full of shared, delirious amusement.

You’re insane, Joshua’s look said.

You’re welcome, Jeonghan’s smirk replied.

The lie became a running gag, a beautiful, shared secret that bound them even closer. In the cafeteria, when Joshua was struggling to open a stubborn yoghurt lid, Jeonghan would take it from him, open it with a deft twist, and hand it back with a solemn, “You have to apply precise torque, Jisoo. It’s basic physics.” The table would erupt in whispers about Jeonghan’s hidden intellect. All of this just to impress a very precious American boy. 

After school, they’d collapse in a fit of laughter under their tree by the basketball court, the site of their first real connection.

“Classical literature in Hanja?” Joshua wheezed, tears streaming down his face. “You can barely read the subtitles on anime!”

“Hey, it adds to my mystique,” Jeonghan retorted, shoving him playfully. “And you! Your face when Ms. Kwon said ‘latent potential’! I thought you were going to pass out.”

“I nearly did! You’re a menace!”

But he was Joshua’s menace. And in this new school, under the shield of Jeonghan’s fabricated reputation and very real protection, Joshua blossomed. The anxious, quiet boy from LA began to relax. He made friends, real ones, who liked him for his gentle humor and his willingness to help with homework, not because of his family’s status. He joined the art club, and Jeonghan would wait for him outside the classroom, leaning against the wall, pretending to be engrossed in a textbook (always held upside down, just for Joshua’s benefit).

Their friendship deepened into something more profound, something unbreakable. They spent afternoons at Halmeoni’s, where she’d feed them until they were stuffed, watching them with a knowing, joyful glint in her eyes. They’d do their homework sprawled on Jeonghan’s floor, their shoulders and knees touching, a comfortable, constant point of contact. They shared a single pair of headphones, the cord stretched between them, as they lay on their backs in the garden, pointing out shapes in the clouds.

One particularly humid afternoon, they sought refuge in the cool, dark cave of a local video rental store. Browsing the horror section, Joshua shivered, his arm brushing against Jeonghan’s.

“Scared, Jisoo?” Jeonghan teased, his voice a low murmur in the quiet aisle.

“A little,” Joshua admitted, his heart hammering for a reason that had nothing to do with scary movies.

Jeonghan’s smile softened. He didn’t move away. Instead, he shifted closer, his warmth a solid, comforting presence against Joshua’s side. “Don’t be. I’m here.”

It was in these small, stolen moments that the world fell away. During a school trip to the beach, they’d broken away from the group, chasing each other into the waves. Joshua, who was a terrible swimmer, had been knocked over by a surprise wave. He came up sputtering, salt water stinging his eyes, to find Jeonghan’s arms around him, holding him steady, a look of pure panic on his face.

“I’ve got you,” Jeonghan had said, his voice rough with concern, his grip tight. “I’ve always got you.”

Standing chest-deep in the cool ocean, with the sun setting behind Jeonghan, painting him in hues of gold and orange, Joshua knew. This was more than friendship. The feeling was a tidal wave, terrifying and wonderful, and it had been building since the day they met over a plate of japchae.

That night, as Jeonghan walked him home, the streets were quiet. The air was still warm, filled with the chirping of crickets. They stopped under the familiar streetlamp near Joshua’s apartment, the same one Jeonghan had waited under that first morning.

“Today was fun,” Joshua said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan agreed. He was looking at Joshua, his usual bravado gone, replaced by a vulnerable softness. “It’s always fun with you, Jisoo.”

The space between them crackled with the same tension from the blanket fort. The unspoken thing was back, bigger and more real than ever.

Jeonghan took a half-step closer. “I…”

He was cut off by the squeal of a car door. Joshua’s father was home, getting out of his car. “Jisoo-ah! It’s late!”

The moment shattered. Joshua took a quick step back, his face flooding with heat. “I have to go.”

Jeonghan nodded, his own face a mask of frustrated disappointment. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He watched Joshua run inside, then turned and walked away, kicking a pebble in frustration. But as he walked, a slow, determined smile spread across his face. He knew what he felt. And for the first time, he wasn’t scared of it. He had claimed Joshua as his territory to the whole school. Now, he just had to find the courage to claim his heart.

The high from the previous day, the almost-confession under the streetlamp, still thrummed through Jeonghan’s veins like a live wire. He’d replayed the moment a thousand times in his head—the way the lamplight had caught the gold in Joshua’s eyes, the soft intake of his breath, the way the world had narrowed to just the two of them. Today felt different. Lighter. The sun seemed brighter, the air sweeter. He felt invincible.

He was on the basketball court during lunch break, showing off as usual. He’d just executed a perfect behind-the-back dribble and sunk an effortless three-pointer, earning a chorus of whoops and cheers from his friends. He grinned, chest heaving, and scanned the small crowd that had gathered, his eyes instinctively searching for one person.

He found him. Joshua was standing at the edge of the court, a small, fond smile on his face as he watched. He held up the water bottle he’d brought for Jeonghan, a silent gesture of support. Jeonghan’s grin widened. This was perfect. Everything was perfect.

And then he saw her.

Choi Soobin, a girl from the class next door, was approaching Joshua. She was pretty, popular, and known for being the crush of every single boy in their grade. She was clutching a pale pink envelope in her hands, her fingers nervously twisting the edges.

Jeonghan’s blood ran cold.

The world’s volume, which had been turned up to eleven with his triumph, suddenly muted. He watched, frozen, as Soobin said something to Joshua, her cheeks flushed. Joshua, ever polite, listened with a kind, attentive expression. Then, she gestured towards the back of the school building, towards the secluded area behind the playground that was infamous for two things: fights and confessions.

And Joshua, the traitor, nodded.

He gave a small, apologetic shrug in the direction of the basketball court—a shrug meant for Jeonghan—and then followed Soobin as she led him away, out of sight.

The pink envelope. The secluded spot. It was a scene so cliché it was laughable. But Jeonghan wasn’t laughing. His blood ran cold. The invincibility he’d felt moments ago shattered, replaced by a cold, sharp panic that felt dangerously close to fear.

The ball, forgotten, bounced away. The cheers of his friends became a distant, muffled hum.

“Hey, Jeonghan! You okay?” one of them called.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His entire world had just narrowed to the empty space where Joshua had been standing. The image of the pink envelope was burned onto his retinas. It was a love letter. It had to be. And Joshua was back there, reading it. Maybe he was smiling. Maybe he was blushing. Maybe he was saying yes.

The thought was a physical pain, a white-hot brand searing through his chest. His Jisoo. The boy he’d spent the last year protecting, teaching, and sharing secrets with. The boy he’d almost kissed last night. The boy who held his heart, fragile and terrified, in his soft, scholar’s hands.

And now he was behind the school with Choi Soobin and her pink fucking envelope.

A red haze descended over his vision. The rational part of his brain, the part that knew Joshua was just too kind to say no, was completely drowned out by a primal, possessive roar. This was his. Joshua was his.

He didn’t remember making the decision to move. One moment he was rooted to the spot on the court, the next he was striding, then running, across the schoolyard. He ignored the confused calls of his friends. He shoved past a group of freshmen without a second glance. His focus was singular, predatory.

He rounded the corner of the main building, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The back of the playground was a patch of scraggly grass and a few ginkgo trees, mostly deserted during lunch.

And there they were.

They were standing under the largest tree, partially hidden by its thick trunk. Soobin was talking animatedly, her hands fluttering, the pink envelope now extended towards Joshua. And Joshua… Joshua was just standing there. He hadn’t taken the letter. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders were hunched, and he had that look on his face—the polite, slightly pained expression he wore when he was uncomfortable but didn’t want to be rude.

But Jeonghan, in his blind, jealous fury, didn’t see the discomfort. He only saw the proximity. He only saw the offered letter.

“What’s going on here?”

His voice cut through the air, cold and sharp as a shard of glass. Both Joshua and Soobin jumped, spinning around to face him.

Soobin’s eyes widened in fear. Jeonghan’s reputation, don’t-mess-with-me one, was formidable. “Jeonghan-ssi! I—we were just—”

Jeonghan ignored her. His eyes were locked on Joshua, who looked startled, and then, seeing the storm on Jeonghan’s face, deeply worried.

“Hannie, it’s not—” Joshua started, taking a step towards him.

“Not what?” Jeonghan interrupted, his voice dangerously quiet. He took a step forward, entering their space, his presence overwhelming. He pointed a finger at the pink envelope. “What is that? A love letter?” He spat the words out like they were poison.

Soobin flinched, clutching the letter to her chest. “It’s none of your business!” she squeaked, a brave but foolish attempt.

That was the wrong thing to say. Jeonghan’s gaze snapped to her, and the full force of his glare made her take a physical step back. “Everything about him,” he snarled, jabbing his thumb towards Joshua, “is my business. Now get lost.”

Tears welled in Soobin’s eyes. Humiliated and terrified, she shot a desperate, apologetic look at Joshua and then fled, the pink envelope crumpled in her fist.

The moment she was gone, the tension between the two boys snapped taut. The quiet clearing was suddenly charged with the aftermath of Jeonghan’s explosion.

“What was that?” Joshua demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of shock and anger. “You can’t just talk to people like that! You scared her to death!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jeonghan bit out, his sarcasm laced with venom. “Did I interrupt your little romantic moment? Should I have waited for you to say yes?”

Joshua stared at him, utterly bewildered. “Say yes to what? Hannie, she was just giving me a letter for the art club fundraiser! She wanted me to design the flyer because she heard I was good at it!”

The world tilted on its axis. The roaring in Jeonghan’s ears ceased abruptly. A fundraiser flyer. Not a love letter. The red haze cleared, leaving behind the stark, embarrassing truth. He had made a colossal fool of himself.

But the shame was quickly burned away by the residual panic and a fresh wave of anger—anger at himself, and now, anger at Joshua for being the cause of it.

“You were following her back here!” Jeonghan accused, doubling down, too deep in his own humiliation to back down. “You were smiling at her!”

“I was being polite!” Joshua shot back, his own temper, a rare and beautiful thing, finally igniting. “And what if it was a love letter? What if I wanted to say yes? What business is it of yours, Jeonghan?”

The challenge hung in the air, stark and undeniable.

Jeonghan took another step forward until they were chest to chest. The air crackled with the same energy from the blanket fort and the streetlamp, but now it was twisted, sharpened by hurt and fury.

“You know why,” Jeonghan growled, his voice low and raw. His eyes bored into Joshua’s, demanding, pleading, accusing all at once. “You know exactly why it’s my business.”

Joshua held his ground, his breath coming in short gasps. The anger in his eyes began to melt, replaced by a dawning, terrifying understanding. He could see it now—the jealousy, the possessiveness, the raw, unvarnished fear in Jeonghan’s gaze. It wasn’t just about a territorial friend. This was something else entirely. He felt it too. 

“Hannie…” Joshua whispered, his defiance crumbling.

The sound of his name, spoken in that soft, broken way, was Jeonghan’s undoing. All the fight drained out of him, leaving only a devastating vulnerability. The mask of the tough, untouchable Yoon Jeonghan was gone. In its place was just a scared boy, terrified of losing the one person who made him feel whole.

“Don’t,” Jeonghan choked out, his voice cracking. He looked away, unable to bear the intensity in Joshua’s eyes any longer. “Just… don’t.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, his shoulders slumped, leaving Joshua standing alone under the ginkgo tree, the truth of what had just happened settling over them both like a heavy, irreversible weight. The almost-confession had finally happened. It hadn’t been with soft words under a streetlamp. It had been screamed in a jealous rage in a deserted schoolyard. And neither of them knew what to do next.

For three days, Joshua didn't come to school. Each morning, Jeonghan’s heart would leap with a fragile hope when he looked towards the school gate, only to plummet when Joshua’s familiar, gentle figure failed to appear. The emptiness in the classroom, on the basketball court, in the space next to him during lunch, was a physical ache.

After school on the first day, he’d gone straight to Joshua’s apartment, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Joshua’s mother had answered the door, her smile tight and strained.

“Ah, Jeonghan-ah. Jisoo’s… not feeling well. He’s sleeping.”

The next day, it was, “He’s resting, Han. Maybe tomorrow.”

On the third day, a Thursday, it was a simple, “He’s out.”

The finality in her tone was a door slamming shut. Jeonghan would nod, his throat too tight to speak, and walk away, the weight of his own stupidity crushing him with every step. He’d replayed the scene a thousand times, each time cringing at his own brutishness. He’d scared away Soobin, he’d yelled at Joshua, he’d laid his own chaotic, terrified heart bare in the worst possible way. He’d taken their beautiful, fragile thing and smashed it against the rocks of his own insecurity.

But today was different. Today was Joshua’s fourteenth birthday.

They’d been talking about it for weeks. Joshua, who had spent the last two birthdays in Korea, still got a little homesick around this time. He’d mentioned once, offhandedly, how his grandmother in America always sent him a specific box of ridiculously expensive American chocolates, the kind with gold foil and fancy fillings.

“They taste like home,” he’d said with a wistful smile.

That sentence had lodged itself in Jeonghan’s heart. He’d decided then and there that he would get them for him. It became a secret mission, a tangible way to show Joshua what he was too scared to say with words: I see you. I listen to you. I care about you so much it terrifies me.

The chocolates were exorbitantly priced, a fortune for a boy like him. His halmeoni’s hard-earned money was for necessities, not frivolities. So, Jeonghan had saved every won of his meagre pocket money. He’d taken on small, gruelling jobs after school—helping a local shopkeeper haul stock, washing cars in the neighbourhood, anything that would pay a few thousand won. He’d foregone his own snacks, his own small pleasures, for a month. Every time he felt tired or resentful, he’d picture Joshua’s face lighting up at the sight of the familiar box, and it would fuel him to keep going.

Finally, he had enough. The day before the birthday, he’d gone to the fancy international grocery store in the city centre, the one he usually avoided. He’d walked in, feeling out of place among the well-dressed shoppers, and found the display. The box was even more beautiful than he’d imagined, dark and glossy. He paid for it with a stack of crumpled bills, his heart swelling with pride.

At home, he’d stared at the stark, masculine box. It didn’t feel right. He remembered a scene from an American movie Halmeoni had been watching, where a man gave a woman a gift in a delicate, pink bag. It had seemed so… caring. So intentional. He’d rummaged through Halmeoni’s sewing supplies and found a piece of leftover pink silk from an old project. It was soft and shimmering. With clumsy, careful hands, he fashioned a small bag, tying the top with a silver ribbon he’d salvaged from a holiday decoration. He placed the heavy box of chocolates inside. It was imperfect, a little lopsided, but it was made with his own hands. It was full of every unspoken word.

On the morning of Joshua’s birthday, Jeonghan dressed with more care than usual. He tucked the pink silk bag safely in his backpack, a secret, hopeful weight. Today, Joshua would have to come to school. It was his birthday. He’d walk through those gates, and Jeonghan would be waiting. He’d shove the gift into his hands, mumble a gruff “Happy Birthday,” and maybe, just maybe, things would start to mend.

He waited at the school gate, his eyes fixed on the approaching path. The stream of students thickened and then thinned. The warning bell rang. Joshua was never late.

But he wasn’t there.

The final bell rang, signalling the start of homeroom. Jeonghan stood alone, the hopeful weight in his backpack now feeling like a leaden stone. He trudged to his classroom, his eyes automatically going to Joshua’s empty seat. It was like a punch to the gut.

The day dragged on, an eternity of silence and sideways glances. Their friends knew something was wrong, but no one dared ask. Jeonghan moved through his classes like a ghost. During lunch, he didn’t go to the court. He sat on the steps near the back playground, staring at the ginkgo tree, the site of his greatest failure.

He took the pink silk bag out of his backpack. The delicate fabric looked absurdly out of place in his rough, scraped hands. He untied the ribbon and looked at the expensive box of chocolates inside. They were supposed to taste like home for Joshua. Now, they just tasted like Jeonghan’s own profound loneliness.

He couldn’t give them to him at his house. He’d been turned away three times. The message was clear: he wasn’t welcome.

As the final bell rang, signalling the end of the school day, a cold resolve settled over Jeonghan. He wouldn’t be turned away again. He marched out of the school gates, not towards home, but towards Joshua’s apartment, the pink bag clutched tightly in his hand. He didn’t care if Joshua’s mother said he was sleeping, resting, or out. He would wait on the doorstep all night if he had to.

He rounded the corner onto Joshua’s street, his heart hammering. He looked up at the familiar window.

And there he was.

Joshua was standing at his window, looking down at the street. He was pale, and there were shadows under his eyes, but he was there. Their eyes met across the distance.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other. The anger and hurt from days before were still there, but they were muted now, overshadowed by a vast, aching chasm of missing each other.

Jeonghan stopped walking. He lifted the pink silk bag, holding it up for Joshua to see. It was a silent offering. An apology. A plea.

He saw Joshua’s breath hitch. He saw his eyes, wide and shimmering, fix on the small, lopsided pink bag—a gesture so un-Jeonghan-like it was its own language.

Joshua didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. But he didn’t look away either. He just stood there, watching, as Jeonghan stood alone on the street below, holding his heart in a pink silk bag, hoping it would be enough to bridge the distance he himself had created. 

Chapter Text

Joshua was lying under a heavy, fever-thick blanket. For three days, the world had shrunk to the four walls of his bedroom, the rhythm of his own ragged breaths, and the relentless ache in his bones. The flu had hit him like a freight train the morning after the disastrous confrontation with Jeonghan, as if his body had decided to manifest the emotional turmoil into a physical plague.

His mother had been a constant, worried presence, bringing him broth and cool cloths for his forehead. She would whisper soft verses from the Bible, her voice a gentle hum meant to soothe him back to health. But every time the doorbell chimed, a different kind of fever would spike in Joshua—a panic, sharp and cold.

“It’s Hannie again,” his mother would say, peeking into his room after turning away his friend. “He looks so worried, Jisoo-ah. Are you sure you don’t want to see him? Just for a minute?”

“No, mom,” Joshua would croak, turning his face into the sweat-damp pillow. “Tell him I’m sleeping. Tell him I’m out. Just… don’t let him in.”

It wasn’t the anger or the humiliation that kept him away. It was the memory of Jeonghan’s face in that moment under the ginkgo tree—the raw, unguarded terror in his eyes. The confession that hadn’t been a confession, but a scream of possession and fear. Joshua had replayed it until the memory was worn smooth, and underneath the initial shock, he had found a terrifying, beautiful truth: Jeonghan felt it, too. This dizzying, impossible thing between them.

And that was why he couldn’t see him. Not like this.

He was a mess. His nose was raw, his eyes were glassy with fever, and he smelled of menthol and sickness. The image he wanted to project—the one he’d crafted so carefully over two years of gentle smiles and quiet competence—was in tatters. He was just a sick, pathetic boy. How could he face the hurricane that was Yoon Jeonghan when he could barely lift his head from the pillow?

But worse than his own vanity was a deeper, more profound fear. Jeonghan’s grandmother was everything to him. Their small, warm home was a sanctuary built on her relentless, back-breaking work. The thought of Jeonghan catching this flu, of him being laid up and unable to help her, of his strong body being laid low… the guilt would have been worse than any fever. He couldn’t be the reason Jeonghan suffered. He couldn’t bear the weight of that.

So he suffered alone. The days bled together in a haze of chills and fever dreams. In his delirium, he was back on the basketball court, the sun warm on his skin, Jeonghan’s laugh ringing in his ears. Then the dream would twist, and he’d be under the ginkgo tree again, but this time Jeonghan was the one who was sick, pale and shivering, and it was all Joshua’s fault.

On the morning of his birthday, he woke up feeling marginally better. The fever had broken, leaving him weak and hollowed out, but his mind was clear. The clarity was a curse. It brought the memory of the pink envelope—no, the fundraiser flyer—and Jeonghan’s shattered expression back with excruciating sharpness. He’d ruined everything. Their easy companionship, the secret language of their friendship, was gone, replaced by this awkward, painful chasm.

He heard the doorbell ring, followed by the familiar, low murmur of Jeonghan’s voice. His heart clenched. He dragged himself out of bed, his legs feeling like jelly, and stumbled to the window. Peeking through the blinds, he saw him. Jeonghan was standing on the sidewalk below, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his face tilted up towards Joshua’s window. He looked… lost. The usual swagger was gone, replaced by a hesitant hope that made Joshua’s chest ache.

He watched Jeonghan walk away, his shoulders slumped, and a wave of such profound loneliness washed over Joshua that he had to clutch the windowsill to stay upright. He spent the rest of the day in a miserable limbo, drifting between his bed and the window, hoping for another glimpse, terrified of actually being seen.

When the final school bell would have rung, he stationed himself at the window again. He didn’t have to wait long.

There he was. Jeonghan, marching down the street with a determination Joshua knew all too well. This time, he wasn’t going to be turned away.

Their eyes met. Joshua’s breath caught in his raw throat. He saw the resolve in Jeonghan’s gaze, and then he saw it shift to something else—to a vulnerable, heartbreaking hope as he lifted his hand.

He was holding a small bag. A pink bag. It was clumsily made, from some shimmering, silky fabric, tied with a ribbon. It was the most un-Jeonghan-like object Joshua had ever seen. It was a gesture so tender, so deliberate, it shattered the last of Joshua’s defences.

This wasn’t a peace offering from the fierce, territorial boy who had yelled at him in the schoolyard. This was an offering from the other Jeonghan—the one who shared his headphones, who taught him to shoot a basket with infinite patience, who listened to his fears in the dark. The one he loved.

Tears, hot and sudden, welled in Joshua’s eyes. All his reasons for hiding seemed stupid and small in the face of that lopsided pink bag. He wasn’t protecting Jeonghan by pushing him away; he was just making them both miserable.

He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He was too overwhelmed. But he held Jeonghan’s gaze, letting him see the tears, letting him see the sickness and the vulnerability, and most importantly, letting him see that he was still here. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He watched as Jeonghan’s expression softened, the hard edges of worry melting into a quiet, understanding sadness. He didn’t move to come closer. He didn’t shout or demand. He just stood there, holding his heart in a pink silk bag, offering it up to the boy in the window who was too afraid to make him catch his flu, but was suddenly, desperately willing to catch whatever else he was throwing.

After a long, silent moment, Jeonghan gave a single, slow nod. Then he carefully placed the pink bag on the cleanest part of the curb, right under Joshua’s window. He turned and walked away, but this time, his shoulders weren’t slumped in defeat. They were straight. He had been seen. His message had been received.

The moment he turned the corner, Joshua flew down the stairs, ignoring his mother’s startled call. He wrenched the front door open and rushed to the curb, his bare feet cold on the concrete. He snatched up the pink bag, clutching it to his chest as if it were a lifeline.

Back in the safety of his room, with the door closed, he untied the silver ribbon with trembling fingers. The box of chocolates inside was the exact American brand his grandmother sent. The one that tasted like home.

A sob finally broke free from his chest. He wasn’t alone. He hadn’t ruined everything. Jeonghan had been listening. He had been saving. He had been fighting for them, even when Joshua was too scared to.

He broke off a piece of chocolate and put it in his mouth. It didn’t taste like home. It tasted like something better. It tasted like being found.

The day after the pink bag appeared on the curb, a new routine began. It was a quiet, wordless dance, a ritual of care and atonement.

Jeonghan no longer rang the bell. He no longer asked for Joshua. He simply came, a silent shadow in the late afternoon. The first time, it was a new volume of "Slam Dunk," the one Joshua had been anxiously awaiting. It was left neatly on the top step of the apartment building's entrance, sheltered from the elements. There was no note. It didn't need one.

Joshua, peeking through the blinds, watched him go. His heart did that familiar, painful squeeze. He waited until Jeonghan had turned the corner before he crept downstairs, his body still weak, and retrieved the manga. The cover was cool against his fever-warm hands. He spent the rest of the evening lost in the fictional basketball games, the familiar characters a comfort, the gesture a balm.

The next day, it was a small container of his grandmother's kimchi, the spicy, pungent smell a welcome assault after days of bland sick food. Halmeoni’s kimchi was a legend, a taste of Jeonghan's own home, offered up without condition. Joshua ate it with tears in his eyes, the heat clearing his sinuses and the love mending something deep inside.

Then came a video game. A role-playing game they’d talked about for months, one that was too expensive for either of them to buy on their own. Joshua had no idea how Jeonghan had afforded it. He thought of the skipped snacks, the small jobs, the relentless saving, and his throat closed up. He held the game case, a simple, unmarked bag left in the same spot, and felt the weight of Jeonghan's devotion more powerfully than any shouted confession.

He never tried to catch Jeonghan in the act. He understood the rules of this new, fragile peace. This was Jeonghan's language. This was how he was saying everything he couldn't voice aloud. I'm sorry. I'm here. I remember what you like. You are important to me.

They never spoke of the playground. The jagged memory of the pink envelope-that-wasn't, the jealous rage, the raw, terrified confession—it was left under the ginkgo tree, a ghost they both agreed to ignore. To speak of it would be to risk breaking the delicate truce they were building, gift by silent gift.

For Jeonghan, this was enough. The burning, possessive need that had terrified him that day had been tempered in the cold fear of Joshua's absence. He had faced the real possibility of a life without Joshua Hong in it, and it was a bleaker, emptier world than he could bear. So if this was what it took—if he had to become a silent patron saint of small comforts, a ghost who left pieces of his heart on a doorstep—then so be it. Having Joshua in his life, even at this careful, arm's-length distance, was infinitely better than not having him at all. The form didn't matter. The presence did.

One afternoon, about a week after Joshua had finally returned to school (their interactions there were polite, careful, a return to the public facade they had once worn so easily), Jeonghan left something different. It wasn't a manga or food, or a game. It was a single, perfect daisy from Halmeoni's garden, its white petals a stark, gentle promise against the grey concrete of the step. It was tucked into the spine of a notebook.

When Joshua found it, he didn't immediately understand. Then he opened the notebook. Inside, on the first page, in Jeonghan's messy, determined handwriting, were English vocabulary words. Simple ones. "Friend." "I am sorry." "Thank you." "I miss you." And at the bottom of the list, carefully printed: "Stay."

Joshua closed the notebook, the daisy held gently in his hand. He looked down the empty street, knowing Jeonghan was long gone. He brought the flower to his nose, inhaling its faint, clean scent.

It was more than enough. It was everything. The playground was forgiven. The silence was understood. Jeonghan had simply wanted Joshua in his life, in whatever form he may stay.

And for Joshua, that was finally, perfectly, fine.

He kept every single thing. The paper bags were carefully folded and stored in a box under his bed. The manga was added to his own tiny library. The notebook with a daisy in it had a dedicated spot on his desk. The game cases were lined up neatly next to his console. They were a physical chronicle of Jeonghan’s devotion, a map of a heart that was trying so hard to love without causing any more damage.

One rainy Saturday, about a month into their new normal, Joshua found a particularly poignant offering. It was a small, potted succulent, a resilient little plant with plump, green leaves. It was sitting on his doorstep, sheltered from the rain by the awning. There was no note, but the message was clearer than any words could have been. I know you’re anxious. I know you feel fragile. But look, you can be like this. You can endure. You can thrive.

He brought the plant inside, placing it on his windowsill where it could catch the light. He cared for it meticulously, a silent reciprocation of the care he was receiving.

The turning point came on a sweltering afternoon at the end of the school year. They were at their spot by the basketball court, seeking shade under their tree. The air was heavy and still. They were both sweating, sipping from their water bottles, the silence between them comfortable for the first time in weeks.

Joshua was watching Jeonghan, who had his head tilted back, his eyes closed against the sun dappling through the leaves. He saw the familiar slope of his nose, the determined set of his jaw, the faint scar above his eyebrow from a long-ago fall. He saw the boy who had fought the world for him, and then, when he’d gotten scared, had quietly rebuilt the world around him, piece by careful piece.

The words came out before he could stop them, soft but clear in the humid air.

“You know it was never about her, right?”

Jeonghan’s eyes snapped open. He turned his head, his body going very still. He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. The ‘her’ was Park Soojin. The ‘it’ was everything.

Joshua held his gaze, his heart pounding. “The fundraiser flyer… it was just paper. It didn’t mean anything.” He took a shaky breath. “What you said… what you did… that meant something.”

The air crackled, not with the angry electricity of their fight, but with the terrifying, hopeful energy of the blanket fort and the streetlamp. The unspoken thing was back in the room, but this time, it wasn’t a monster. It was a fragile, newborn creature.

Jeonghan looked at him, his eyes wide, searching Joshua’s face for any sign of fear or retreat. He found none. All he found was the same quiet courage Joshua used to have when facing a difficult math problem—a determination to see the truth, no matter how complicated.

“I know,” Jeonghan whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I know it didn’t mean anything. I was just… I was so scared, Jisoo.”

“I was scared, too,” Joshua admitted, his own voice barely a whisper. “I’m still scared.”

Jeonghan slowly, giving Joshua every opportunity to pull away, reached out his hand. He didn’t touch him. He just laid his palm open on the grass between them, an invitation.

Joshua looked at the offered hand—the same hand that had thrown a basketball with such force, that had crafted a clumsy pink silk bag with such care, that had left a trail of quiet offerings on his doorstep. He looked at the boy who had chosen to stay, in whatever form he was allowed.

He didn’t take the hand. Instead, he shifted closer, until their shoulders were touching, just like they used to do during homework sessions. It was a small point of contact, but it sent a current of pure, undiluted relief through both of them.

Jeonghan let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for a month. He didn’t move, letting the warmth of Joshua’s shoulder seep into his own.

They sat like that for a long time, as the sun began its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t declare their love. They didn’t define what they were or what they would become.

They just were.

Jeonghan had simply wanted Joshua in his life. And Joshua, by staying, by speaking the truth, by leaning into his side, had given him his answer. It was not the dramatic, all-consuming romance of Jeonghan’s fantasies. It was something quieter, something stronger. It was a choice, reaffirmed in the silence under their tree. It was a promise to navigate the terrifying, beautiful thing between them, together, one careful step at a time. And for now, for Jeonghan, that was more than enough. It was everything. 

It was during these study sessions that Jeonghan first noticed it—Joshua’s quiet ritual. Whenever he was stuck on a difficult English sentence for Jeonghan to parse, or before a big test, Joshua’s breathing would change. His eyes would fall shut for a moment, and his thumb would press firmly into the pad of each finger on his left hand, counting a silent, rhythmic pattern: Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for eight.

He did it under the desk, thinking no one saw. But Jeonghan saw everything. He never mentioned it, but he started placing a glass of water by Joshua’s right hand before they began, a small, tangible anchor in a world that sometimes asked for more than Joshua felt he could give.

The flyers went up around the neighbourhood, bright and garish, announcing the annual Busan Sea Festival. It was a sprawling, chaotic event down by the waterfront—a world of flashing lights, shouting vendors, and the overwhelming smell of fried food and salt air. It was the kind of place Jeonghan usually avoided, preferring the controlled chaos of a basketball court. But he saw the way Joshua’s eyes lingered on the poster, a flicker of wistful curiosity in their depths.

“We should go,” Joshua announced that afternoon, as they walked home.

Jeonghan looked at him, surprised. “Really? You hate crowds.”

Joshua shrugged, a studied nonchalance that fooled no one. “It might be fun. We can eat disgusting amounts of food and lose all our money on rigged games. It’ll be a cultural experience for me.”

A small, genuine smile touched Jeonghan’s lips, the kind that still made Joshua’s heart stutter. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”

The night of the festival, the air was thick with the smells of sizzling takoyaki, sweet candied apples, and the salty tang of the sea. Lanterns in a thousand colours cast a warm, magical glow over the bustling crowds. Joshua arrived feeling a familiar flutter of social anxiety, but it vanished the moment he saw Jeonghan waiting for him under the torii gate at the entrance.

Jeonghan was leaning against the post, hands in his pockets, looking effortlessly cool in a simple black t-shirt and jeans. But his eyes, when they found Joshua, held a nervous energy that mirrored Joshua’s own.

“You’re late,” Jeonghan said, pushing off the post. The old accusation was there, but it was soft now, fond almost.

“By two minutes,” Joshua laughed, the sound swallowed by the festival’s din. “You’re worse than my dad.”

They fell into step together, a comfortable silence settling between them as they were swept into the river of people. The festival was a sensory overload in the best way. Jeonghan was a man on a mission. He dragged Joshua from stall to stall, a determined glint in his eye.

“Here. Takoyaki. You have to try it,” he said, shoving a paper boat of the sizzling, sauce-drenched octopus balls into Joshua’s hands. “This. Grilled squid on a stick. Don’t be scared, it’s good.” “Bungeoppang! The red bean one, not the custard. The custard is for tourists.”

Joshua laughed, his anxiety about the crowd melting away in the face of Jeonghan’s relentless, guided tour of street food. He tried everything, his eyes widening at each new taste. Jeonghan watched him more than he watched the festival, his chest swelling with a peculiar pride at being the one to introduce Joshua to this messy, vibrant part of his world.

Then they reached the game stalls. This was where Jeonghan’s competitive spirit ignited.

“Step right up! Win a prize for your pretty girlfriend!” a carny bellowed, leering at them.

Jeonghan’s face darkened. “He’s not my girlfriend,” he growled, but he stepped up to the stall anyway. It was a shooting gallery with air rifles and wobbly, rotating targets.

“Three tries for five thousand won!”

Jeonghan slapped the money down. He took the rifle, his posture shifting into something focused and deadly serious. He’d never held a real gun, but the principles of aim and concentration were the same as on the basketball court. Breathe in. Hold. Squeeze.

Pop. A target down. Pop. Another. Pop. A third.

The carny looked mildly annoyed. “Congratulations. Pick a prize from the second row.”

The second row was filled with cheap, garishly colored plush toys. Jeonghan’s eyes scanned them dismissively. Then he saw it. Tucked away in the back, almost hidden, was a single, pristine, white stuffed toy. It was a cartoon dog… or maybe a rabbit? It had long, floppy ears, a small black nose, and a serene, sleepy expression. It was utterly, completely adorable.

“That one,” Jeonghan said, pointing.

The carny grumbled but retrieved it. It was a Cinnamoroll, Sanrio’s little white puppy character, though neither boy knew its name.

Jeonghan turned and thrust the plush toy into Joshua’s arms. “Here.”

Joshua stared at it, then at Jeonghan, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and delight. “For me? But you won it.”

“It looks like you,” Jeonghan stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “All… white and soft and… with the ears.” He gestured vaguely at Joshua’s hair, which was looking particularly fluffy in the humid night air. 

Joshua hugged Shuamon tightly. “It does not look like me.”

“It totally does,” Jeonghan insisted, his grin widening. “Same dumb, sweet face.”

A brilliant, unreserved smile broke out on Joshua’s face, the first one Jeonghan had seen since before the playground incident. It was like the sun coming out. He hugged the plush toy to his chest again. “Thank you, Hannie.”

The name, spoken so freely, felt like a gift in itself. Jeonghan’s gruff exterior softened. “Whatever. Don’t get all mushy. Let’s go find the goldfish scooping.”

But Joshua wasn’t listening. He was cradling the toy, examining its little face. “I’m going to call him Shuamon,” he declared.

Jeonghan stopped dead. “What? Why?”

“Because you won him for me,” Joshua said, as if it were the most logical name in the world. “Shua-mon. Get it?”

Jeonghan stared at him, at the utterly sincere, happy expression on his face, and felt something in his chest crack open, flooding him with a warmth more potent than any summer sun. He shook his head, a slow, fond smile finally gracing his own lips. “You’re so weird, Jisoo.”

They spent the next hour at the goldfish scooping stall, a study in contrasts. Joshua was patient and delicate, his hands steady as he tried to manoeuvre the flimsy poi paper net under the glittering orange fish. Jeonghan was all aggressive, impatient energy, his nets tearing instantly.

“You have to be gentle, Hannie,” Joshua chided softly, his brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s not a battle.”

“It’s a fish. It’s supposed to be caught,” Jeonghan grumbled, but he watched, mesmerised, as Joshua finally managed to scoop a single, wriggling goldfish into his bowl. The triumph on Joshua’s face was worth a thousand torn nets.

“See? It’s all in the wrist, Jisoo. Not everything can be learned from a book.”

“I’ll stick to the books,” Joshua retorted, but he was beaming, holding the bag with the two darting orange fish and a very fluffy, soft cinnamon roll stuffed toy as if it were a treasure.

As the night deepened, they found a slightly quieter spot on a stone wall overlooking the water, away from the worst of the crowds. The fireworks were due to start soon. Joshua sat, cradling his goldfish bag in one arm and Shuamon in the other. Jeonghan sat beside him, their thighs pressing together comfortably.

“Today was fun,” Joshua said, his voice soft with contentment.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan agreed, his voice rough. He wasn’t looking at the water or the lights. He was looking at Joshua, at the way the festival lights danced in his eyes, at the peaceful smile on his lips. The frantic energy of the evening had settled into a deep, profound calm.

He reached out, not with the intention of winning a prize or guiding him through a crowd, but just to touch. His fingers, calloused from basketball and work, brushed against Joshua’s, which were wrapped around the goldfish bowl.

Joshua stilled. He didn’t pull away. He slowly turned his hand, just enough to let their pinkies link together. It was a small, hidden gesture, invisible to the world, but it felt more intimate than any hug.

The first firework shot into the sky with a sharp whump, exploding into a shower of brilliant blue sparks that reflected in the dark water below. The crowd oohed and aahed.

Neither boy looked up. They were looking at each other, their pinkies locked, the world narrowing to the space between them. The explosions of colour in the sky were nothing compared to the silent, dazzling explosion happening in their chests.

Another firework, this time a cascade of gold. In its fleeting light, Jeonghan saw everything he’d ever wanted reflected in Joshua’s eyes: understanding, forgiveness, and a love so deep and certain.

Joshua gave Jeonghan’s pinky a gentle, almost imperceptible squeeze. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Jeonghan squeezed back. I know. Me neither.

“Jisoo…” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Joshua didn’t let him finish. He leaned forward, closing the small, impossible distance between them.

The kiss was not like in the manga. It wasn’t dramatic or perfect. It was a little clumsy, off-centre, and tasted like the candied apple they’d shared. It was soft, and hesitant, and over almost as soon as it began.

They pulled apart, their faces mere inches from each other, their linked pinkies now a desperate, tight grip. The world had narrowed to the space between them, the booming fireworks a distant, irrelevant soundtrack.

Jeonghan’s eyes were wide, searching Joshua’s face for regret, for panic.

He found neither. He found only a mirror of his own wonder, his own relief.

A slow, breathtakingly beautiful smile spread across Jeonghan’s face, the most unguarded expression Joshua had ever seen on him. He didn’t say a word. He just squeezed Joshua’s pinky tighter.

They turned back to the fireworks, their shoulders pressed together, their hands secretly linked. They didn’t need to speak. The unspoken thing was no longer buried. It was right there, glowing between them, brighter and more real than any firework in the sky. Jeonghan had won him a stuffed toy, and in doing so, had finally, truly, won his heart. 

The walk home was a silent, dreamlike procession. The roaring cacophony of the festival faded behind them, replaced by the gentle hush of a summer night and the rhythmic chirping of crickets. The air was still warm, carrying the distant, salty breath of the sea. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The space between them, once a chasm of misunderstanding and fear, was now filled with a tangible, humming warmth.

Their pinkies, which had been secretly linked during the fireworks, were now properly, openly intertwined. Jeonghan’s hand was calloused, a stark contrast to Joshua’s softer one, but they fit together perfectly. Joshua clutched the giant Cinnamoroll, “Shuamon,” in his other arm, the plush fur soft against his cheek, a physical anchor to the surreal perfection of the evening.

Every so often, Jeonghan would glance sideways at him, a slow, dazed smile tugging at his lips, as if he couldn’t quite believe Joshua was still there, walking beside him, holding his hand. Joshua would meet his gaze, his own face flushing with a happiness so profound it felt like a physical pressure in his chest, and he’d give a small, shy squeeze to Jeonghan’s hand in response.

They reached the familiar streetlamp near Joshua’s apartment, the same one that had witnessed their first almost-confession. This time, they didn't stop underneath it with nervous tension. They slowed, turning to face each other, their joined hands swinging gently between them.

The world was quiet. The only light came from the lamp, casting a soft, golden halo around them. Shuamon, wedged between them, seemed to be smiling his serene, stitched smile.

“So,” Jeonghan said, his voice a low, warm rumble in the quiet. He was looking at Joshua with an expression of such open, unguarded affection it made Joshua’s breath catch.

“So,” Joshua echoed, his voice barely a whisper.

Jeonghan’s free hand came up, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from Joshua’s forehead. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a shiver through Joshua’s entire body. “Was it… okay?” Jeonghan asked, with uncharacteristic vulnerability in his eyes. “The… you know.”

He couldn’t say the word. Kiss. It was too new, too monumental.

Joshua’s answer was to lean forward, rising on his toes, and press his lips against Jeonghan’s once more. This kiss was different from the first. It wasn’t a question or a frantic, fireworks-induced impulse. It was an answer. It was soft, and sure, and lasted just long enough to feel the ghost of Jeonghan’s surprised gasp against his mouth before he pulled back, his face burning.

“It was more than okay,” Joshua breathed.

Jeonghan’s eyes darkened, the vulnerability replaced by a warm, possessive glow. He brought their joined hands up, pressing a quick, firm kiss to Joshua’s knuckles. “Good.”

They stood there for a long moment, just smiling at each other like fools, the silent street their witness. There were no grand declarations, no promises of forever. Those would come later. This was enough. This simple, profound rightness.

“I should…” Joshua gestured vaguely towards his apartment building, though every fibre of his being screamed to stay.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan nodded, his thumb stroking the back of Joshua’s hand. “Halmeoni will worry.”

Neither of them moved.

Finally, with a sigh that was more content than reluctant, Jeonghan let his hand slip from Joshua’s. The loss of contact felt like a small death. “See you tomorrow?” he asked, and it was filled with so much hope it was almost a plea.

“Tomorrow,” Joshua confirmed, his heart swelling. “Always.”

He watched as Jeonghan turned and walked away, his steps light, almost bouncing. He didn’t look back, but Joshua knew he was smiling. He waited until Jeonghan had disappeared into the night before he floated up the stairs to his apartment.

Inside, the lights were low. His parents were already in their room. The familiar space felt different, charged with a new, secret magic. He tiptoed to his room, closing the door softly behind him. He placed Shuamon carefully on his bed, propping him up against the pillows. The fluffy white toy seemed to watch him with its kind, black eyes, a permanent reminder of the boy who had fought a carnival game into submission for him. And placed the goldfish on his desk. 

He changed into his pyjamas, his movements slow and dreamy. The scent of the festival—fried food, smoke, the sea—still clung to his clothes and hair. He could still feel the ghost of Jeonghan’s lips on his, the solid warmth of his hand.

He crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and turning to face Shuamon. He reached out and poked its cheek, just as Jeonghan had done.

“Shuamon,” he whispered into the quiet room, testing the silly name. A giggle bubbled up in his chest. It was perfect.

He replayed the entire night in his head, frame by frame. The determined set of Jeonghan’s jaw as he threw ring after ring. The triumphant, unguarded grin when he’d finally won. The way the fireworks had painted his face in bursts of colour. The feel of his pinky, hooking onto his own. The clumsy, perfect kiss. The second, surer one under the streetlamp.

There was no anxiety. No second-guessing. No fear. For the first time in his life, everything felt exactly as it was supposed to be. The world, which had so often felt too loud, too sharp, too demanding, had softened into a warm, comfortable embrace.

Across the neighbourhood, Jeonghan let himself into his own quiet home. Halmeoni was already asleep. He stood in the dark of his small room, the same room where Joshua had first tutored him in English verbs. He could still smell Joshua on his jacket—a faint mix of clean soap and the sweet candied apple.

He didn’t turn on the light. He just stood there, a slow, irrepressible smile spreading across his face until his cheeks hurt. He replayed the moment Joshua had leaned in and kissed him. Not during the dramatic fireworks, but in the quiet aftermath, under a simple streetlamp, because he wanted to. Because it was more than okay.

He had spent so long fighting—fighting at school, fighting his own inadequacies, fighting the terrifying depth of what he felt for Joshua. And now, he had nothing left to fight. He had won. He had won the stuffed toy, he had won the kiss, but more than that, he had won the right to hold Joshua Hong’s hand as they walked home under the stars.

He finally crawled into bed, his body thrumming with a peaceful, exhausted joy. He fell asleep with the memory of Joshua’s shy smile etched behind his eyelids, and the certain knowledge that tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, Joshua would be there.

In their separate beds, miles apart, both boys drifted into the deepest, most contented sleep of their lives. The silence in their rooms was no longer empty or lonely. It was full. It was warm. It was the sound of everything finally, beautifully, being right.

The end of middle school approached not with a bang, but with a slow, sweet unravelling. The air itself seemed to thicken with nostalgia, every shared glance in the hallway, every lazy afternoon on the basketball court, feeling more precious, more fleeting. It was in this tender, twilight time that a small revolution occurred in the Yoon household.

Jeonghan came home from his final part-time job of the week to find a small, rectangular box waiting for him on the low table. Halmeoni sat beside it, her hands folded in her lap, her expression a mixture of pride and a faint, sad understanding.

“For you, Hannie-ah,” she said softly. “For high school. So you can… be connected.”

With reverent, slightly trembling hands, Jeonghan opened the box. Nestled inside was a cell phone. It wasn’t sleek or thin like the ones he saw in magazines. It was a clamshell model, sturdy and practical, its dark blue plastic casing showing a few minor scuffs even fresh out of the box—a refurbished model, he realised, chosen for its durability and affordability. But to him, it was the most beautiful piece of technology he had ever seen. It was a key to a new world.

He spent the evening with Halmeoni, the instruction manual spread between them, painstakingly learning how to navigate the menus, save a contact, type a text message. His big, calloused fingers, felt clumsy and oversized on the small rubber keys. His heart hammered with a strange, nervous excitement. This was independence. This was a tether.

Later, in the quiet of his room, the phone felt heavy and alien in his palm. The glow of its small screen was the only light. He knew Joshua had gotten a phone months ago—a slim, expensive-looking smartphone, a gift from his parents for his stellar grades. They’d never exchanged numbers. It felt too formal, too adult for their world of whispered secrets and linked pinkies.

But now, holding his own, he felt a boldness surge through him. The first call. The first text. It had to be for Joshua. There was no other possibility.

He carefully typed out the number he’d memorised from seeing it on Joshua’s phone screen weeks ago, his thumb pressing each button with deliberate care. He stared at the glowing digits, his thumb hovering over the green call button. A wave of irrational shyness washed over him. What would he say? What if Joshua was asleep?

He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. 9:58 PM.

He’d wait until 10. It felt like a significant time. A proper time for a first call.

The two minutes stretched into an eternity. He could hear the frantic beating of his own heart. This was ridiculous. He’d faced down bullies, won impossible carnival games, bared his soul. Why was a phone call so terrifying?

Finally, the digital clock flipped to 10:00.

He took a deep breath and pressed ‘call’.

The line rang once, twice. Each tone was a miniature explosion in the quiet room. He was just about to lose his nerve and hang up when the line connected.

There was a beat of silence, then a soft, hesitant, “…Hello?”

It was Joshua’s voice, but filtered through the tiny speaker, it sounded different. More intimate. It was a voice for the dark, for pillows and secrets.

Jeonghan’s own voice caught in his throat. He had to clear it twice before he could speak, and even then, it came out as a hushed, almost conspiratorial whisper.

“Hey…”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. “Hannie?”

The sound of his name, spoken in that familiar, gentle tone, but through this new, magical device, sent a shiver down Jeonghan’s spine. He tightened his grip on the phone, pressing it closer to his ear as if to absorb every decibel.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“Is everything okay?” Joshua’s voice was laced with immediate concern. “Did something happen?”

“No, no, everything’s fine,” Jeonghan rushed to assure him. He closed his eyes, picturing Joshua in his own room, probably sitting up in bed, the city lights casting soft patterns on his walls. “I just… I got a phone. Halmeoni.”

The silence on the other end was thoughtful, then understanding. “Oh.” A soft rustle, as if Joshua was shifting, getting more comfortable. “You got a phone.”

“Yeah.” Jeonghan felt a foolish grin spread across his face. He was glad Joshua couldn’t see him. “It’s… it’s not as fancy as yours. It’s one of those flip ones.”

“I like the flip ones,” Joshua whispered back, his voice warm. “They feel… solid. Like, you can really say something important with them.”

Jeonghan’s heart swelled. Of course, Joshua would say that. He never made him feel less than for the things he didn’t have.

Another comfortable silence settled between them, but this one was different from their shared silences on the beach or under the tree. This was a silence woven from hundreds of kilometres of cable and radio waves, a silence that connected rather than separated.

“So…” Jeonghan began again, his voice still a low murmur. He rolled onto his back on his bed, staring at the dark ceiling. “Can you believe it? We have phones now.”

He heard Joshua’s soft, airy laugh, a sound that was somehow both clear and muffled by the technology. It was a sound meant only for him in this moment.

“No,” Joshua breathed. “I can’t. It feels… weird. You sound so close.”

“You too,” Jeonghan said. “It’s like you’re in the room.”

They talked then, not about anything important. They talked about the mind-numbing boredom of their last few classes, about a new song Jeonghan had heard that he thought Joshua would like, about how Halmeoni’s tomato plants were finally fruiting. The conversation was the same as a hundred they’d had before, but the medium transformed it. Every word felt deliberate, cherished. There was no need to fill the space. They could just breathe together, two boys connected by a fragile, electronic thread in the vast sleeping city.

After twenty minutes, Jeonghan heard a faint, sleepy yawn from the other end.

“You should sleep, Jisoo,” he said, his voice softer than ever.

“Mmm. You too.” A pause. “Hannie?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m… really glad your first call was to me.”

The simple statement landed in Jeonghan’s chest with the force of a physical touch. He squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of emotion so strong it threatened to overwhelm him.

“There was never anyone else,” he whispered, the truth of it absolute and unshakeable.

He heard Joshua’s soft, contented sigh. “Goodnight, Hannie.”

“Goodnight, Jisoo.”

Jeonghan waited until he heard the faint click of the line disconnecting before he slowly lowered the phone from his ear. He held it in his hands, the dark blue plastic still warm from his grip. He looked at the blank screen, then flipped it open again, just to see Joshua’s number saved there. Hong Joshua.

He placed the phone carefully on his nightstand, a sentinel for his dreams. He had a phone. And Joshua’s number was in it. However wide the world became, however far apart they might be, he now held a tiny, powerful magic in the palm of his hand. A magic that could, with a press of a button, bring the sound of his Jisoo’s voice right into the dark, quiet safety of his room. And for now, that was enough. It was more than enough.

The golden, honeyed days of late spring bled effortlessly into the lush, vibrant heart of summer. With final exams behind them and the daunting threshold of high school still a comfortable distance away, they were granted a precious, unburdened expanse of time. It was a season suspended in amber, and they filled its every moment with a quiet, joyful intensity.

Their world remained small, and that was its greatest perfection. It was the shade of the ginkgo tree on the basketball court, the familiar, comforting weight of a shared blanket, the secret language of their intertwined pinkies.

One afternoon, they commandeered Jeonghan’s small living room. Halmeoni was out visiting a friend, leaving them in a pool of sunlight that streamed through the window. A classic Ghibli film played on the television, its gentle, whimsical music filling the room. But neither of them was watching.

Joshua was lying on his stomach on the floor, a thick textbook on art history open in front of him, his brow furrowed in concentration. Jeonghan was sprawled on the sofa directly above him, one hand dangling off the side, his fingers idly combing through Joshua’s soft chestnut hair. It was an absent-minded gesture, as natural as breathing. Every few minutes, Joshua would unconsciously lean into the touch, like a cat seeking sunbeams.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Joshua mumbled, tapping a picture of a complex Baroque painting. “There’s too much happening. How is this beautiful?”

Jeonghan leaned over, his chin nearly resting on Joshua’s head. He smelled of fresh air and the faint, clean scent of his soap. “It’s a mess,” he declared after a cursory glance. “Like that time you tried to cook ramen for Halmeoni and put in every spice packet you could find.”

Joshua elbowed him gently in the ribs. “That was one time! And you ate it.”

“I was being polite,” Jeonghan retorted, his fingers tracing the shell of Joshua’s ear, making him shiver. “And I was starving.”

They lapsed back into a comfortable silence, the movie forgotten, the art history text abandoned. The only sound was their breathing and the soft rustle of pages as Joshua eventually gave up and closed the book, rolling onto his back to look up at Jeonghan. The sun lit Jeonghan’s brown hair from behind, creating a hazy halo. He was looking down at Joshua with an expression of such profound, uncomplicated fondness that it made Joshua’s heart ache.

“What?” Jeonghan asked softly.

“Nothing,” Joshua whispered. “Just looking.”

Jeonghan’s smile was a slow, sunrise event. He slid off the sofa to join Joshua on the floor, the worn rug soft beneath them. They lay side-by-side, shoulders and hips touching, staring up at the ceiling where a lazy fan spun slow circles.

“Remember,” Joshua began, a smile in his voice, “when you tried to teach me how to skateboard?”

Jeonghan groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Don’t remind me. You looked like a newborn fawn on ice. I thought I was going to have to take you to the hospital.”

“I was not that bad!”

“You clung to a lamppost and refused to let go for twenty minutes. I had to promise you two servings of bingsu to get you down.”

Joshua laughed, the memory now fond instead of embarrassing. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Jeonghan turned his head, his face inches from Joshua’s. His gaze was warm, his voice a low murmur. “Everything works with you, Jisoo.”

The air grew thick and sweet. Joshua could feel the warmth of Jeonghan’s breath on his skin. He reached out, his fingers finding Jeonghan’s, lacing them together on the floor between them. The fan whirred above. On the screen, Totoro was bouncing on his umbrella, but they were in their own world, a universe contained within the space of their linked hands and shared breath.

Another day, they found themselves at their secluded spot on the beach as the sun began to set. The crowds had thinned, leaving the shore to the gulls and the two of them. They’d taken off their shoes, letting the cool, wet sand squelch between their toes.

Jeonghan, as always, was drawn to the water, skipping flat stones across the glassy surface of the incoming tide with practised ease. Joshua sat on the dry sand a few feet away, hugging his knees, sketching the scene in a small notebook—the curve of Jeonghan’s back as he bent down, the focused line of his profile, the way the dying sun set his skin on fire.

After a while, Jeonghan abandoned his stones and came to sit behind Joshua, wrapping his arms around him and resting his chin on Joshua’s shoulder to look at the drawing.

“You made me look too good,” he murmured, his voice a vibration against Joshua’s back.

“I draw what I see,” Joshua replied simply, leaning back into the solid warmth of him.

They sat like that as the sky bled from orange to deep purple, the first brave stars pricking the heavens. The only sounds were the rhythmic shush of the waves and the steady, comforting beat of Jeonghan’s heart against his back. It was a silence that spoke volumes, a conversation of shared peace and unshakeable belonging.

When the air grew cool, they walked back along the water's edge, their shadows long and merging into one in the twilight. Jeonghan’s arm was slung casually over Joshua’s shoulders, and Joshua’s was wrapped around his waist. There was no one to see, no one to perform for. It was just them, and the vast, forgiving night.

Back at Joshua’s doorstep, their goodbyes had evolved, too. They were no longer hesitant or fraught with unspoken tension. Now, they were soft and lingering.

“I’ll call you,” Jeonghan said, his hands resting on Joshua’s hips.

“Okay,” Joshua whispered, his arms looped around Jeonghan’s neck.

Jeonghan leaned in and pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to Joshua’s lips. It was chaste and sweet, over in a second, but it held the warmth of the entire day, the promise of all the days to come.

“Goodnight, Jisoo.”

“Goodnight, Hannie.”

Joshua floated up the stairs, the taste of salt and Jeonghan on his lips. In his room, Shuamon was waiting. He picked up the fluffy toy and spun around once, a quiet, joyful whirl, before collapsing onto his bed, hugging it tightly.

He was fourteen. The future was a giant, unknown map. But in this moment, cocooned in the warmth of a summer that belonged only to them, Joshua Hong knew he was the luckiest boy in the world. He had his books, the sea, and his Hannie. It was, without a doubt, more than enough. It was everything.

Chapter Text

The final year of middle school settled over Busan like a warm, golden haze. The frantic energy of entrance exams for high school loomed on the horizon, but for now, in the last days of their shared sanctuary, there was a quiet, precious peace. The sharp edges of their past conflicts had been worn smooth by time and tenderness, polished into something strong and unbreakable.

On a Saturday drenched in late spring sunlight, Joshua arrived at Jeonghan’s home, a familiar leather camera bag slung over his shoulder. It was a gift from his father, a sophisticated piece of equipment that felt both important and intimidating in his hands. But today’s mission was simple and heartfelt: he wanted a photograph. A proper one. Of Jeonghan and his grandmother.

Halmeoni fussed happily, smoothing down her best hanbok, a deep cobalt blue embroidered with silver cranes. “A picture? For me? Jisoo-ah, you spoil this old woman.”

“Of course, Halmeoni,” Joshua said gently, setting up his tripod in their small, sun-drenched garden. The vegetable plots were thriving, a testament to their shared labour. He adjusted the lens, his movements careful and deliberate. “And for Hannie, too. So you can have a new family picture to hang on the wall.”

He didn’t say the rest. He didn’t say that he’d noticed the faded, slightly crooked photograph on their mantelpiece was nearly a decade old, from a time when Jeonghan’s smile was smaller, his eyes holding a weight no child’s should. He didn’t say that he wanted to give them a new memory, frozen in light and laughter, to prove how far they’d come. He wanted Jeonghan to have a picture of the family that mattered most to him—the one he had fought so hard to protect—a testament to their survival and their joy. 

Jeonghan emerged from the house, looking endearingly awkward in a crisp, white button-down shirt Halmeoni had insisted on. He scowled at the camera. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Joshua and Halmeoni said in unison.

Joshua arranged them in front of the blooming azalea bush, Halmeoni seated on a small stool, Jeonghan standing behind her with his hands resting on her shoulders. He looked through the viewfinder, his heart squeezing at the sight. Halmeoni’s face was a network of joyful wrinkles, her eyes crinkled shut with her smile. Jeonghan, despite his grumbling, was looking down at her with a love so profound it was almost painful to witness.

But as Joshua focused, he noticed something. Jeonghan, ever so subtly, was rising onto the very tips of his toes. A tiny, almost imperceptible effort to gain an extra centimetre in height against Joshua, who had recently experienced a growth spurt of his own.

A soft, fond smile touched Joshua’s lips. He lowered the camera. “You’re so so tall, my Hannie,” he said, his voice a gentle, teasing murmur. “You don’t need to tiptoe.”

Jeonghan’s ears flushed a brilliant red. He dropped his heels back to the ground with a soft thud and let out a dismissive, “Hmph.” But the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement. Halmeoni cackled, reaching up to pat his hand.

“My proud grandson. Always competing, even with his Jisoo.”

Joshua lifted the camera again. “Ready? Smile.”

The shutter clicked, capturing the moment forever: a beaming Halmeoni, and a flustered but deeply happy Jeonghan, his pretend-annoyance unable to mask the pure adoration in his eyes for both the woman in front of him and the boy behind the camera.

Joshua looked down at the digital preview, a warm feeling spreading through his chest. "It's perfect," he whispered.

Jeonghan, seeing his moment, broke from his pose and bounded over, peering at the small screen. "Let me see, let me see. Did you get my good side?"

"You only have one side," Joshua retorted automatically, tilting the camera so he could see.

Jeonghan ignored him, scrutinising the image. "Hmm. Not bad. Halmeoni looks like a queen. I, of course, look stunning despite the sabotage about my perfectly average height." He squinted, then looked from the picture to Joshua and back again. A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes.

"So..." Jeonghan began, his voice dripping with faux innocence. "Is this a family picture?"

Joshua, still wrapped in the warmth of the moment, nodded. "Yeah. It is."

"Then..." Jeonghan poked him sharply in the ribs, making him yelp. "Shouldn't you be in it, too, dummy?"

The logic, delivered with Jeonghan's characteristic blend of affection and provocation, was irrefutable. Joshua blinked. "Oh."

" 'Oh,' he says," Jeonghan mocked, turning to his grandmother. "Halmeoni, he takes a family picture and doesn't even include himself. What are we going to do with him?"

"He's a silly boy," Halmeoni agreed, her eyes twinkling. "A very sweet, silly boy. Now, Jisoo-ah, come here."

"But who will take the picture?" Joshua asked, gesturing to the camera on its tripod.

Jeonghan let out a long-suffering sigh, as if Joshua had just asked the most obvious question in the world. "We'll use the timer, you technologically challenged grandpa. It's what, the 2000s? Keep up." He began pushing Joshua toward the azalea bush. "Go on. Get in the frame. You're part of this, aren't you?"

Joshua allowed himself to be manhandled into place, standing beside Halmeoni's stool. 

Jeonghan tried to slot himself in on Halmeoni's other side, but Joshua caught his wrist.

"Here," Joshua said softly, pulling Jeonghan to stand directly behind him, his hands on Joshua's shoulders, mirroring the first pose. It felt natural, right.

The camera began its rapid beeping, the little red light blinking a countdown.

"Quick, Halmeoni," Jeonghan whispered dramatically, leaning his chin on Joshua's shoulder. "Look at the camera and think about how much you love your two favourite grandsons."

"Of course!!" she chuckled, but she was already beaming.

Joshua felt Jeonghan's laughter vibrate through his own back. As the final beep sounded, he turned his head just slightly, his cheek brushing against Jeonghan's hair. The shutter clicked for the second time that afternoon.

This picture captured something different: Halmeoni, radiant with joy; Joshua, looking over his shoulder with a look of such open, tender affection it could power the sun; and Jeonghan, his eyes crinkled shut in a genuine, unreserved laugh, perfectly framed and held by the boy who had, against all odds, become his home.

The camera, now silent, held two perfect truths. One of the grandsons and his grandmother. And another, just as true, of a family.

After a lunch where Halmeoni piled their plates high until they could barely move, they escaped to their sanctuary—the cracked asphalt basketball court behind the community centre. The rhythm of their afternoons had become a cherished ritual. Jeonghan would play, his body a language of effortless grace and focused intensity—dribbling, feinting, shooting, the ball a natural extension of his will. And Joshua would sit on the weathered wooden benches under the shade of a large tree, a book open on his lap.

But the book was often forgotten. Today, it was a well-thumbed copy of a novel for his literature class. The words blurred as his gaze, again and again, drifted from the page to the court.

He watched the way the sun caught the sweat on Jeonghan’s brow, making him gleam. He watched the fluid power in his muscles as he drove towards the hoop, the focused determination in his eyes as he lined up a jump shot. It was a different kind of beauty from the fragile boy he’d once tutored in English. This was strength, honed and confident.

And Jeonghan, in turn, stole his own glances. Between plays, as he caught his breath, his eyes would find Joshua on the bench. He’d see the way the dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, painting shifting patterns on Joshua’s face and the pages of his book. He’d see Joshua’s brow furrow in concentration, his finger tracing a line of text, and then the way his expression would soften as he looked up, their eyes meeting across the distance.

A warm, pleasant current flowed between them, as real and tangible as the summer breeze. There were no grand gestures needed, no desperate, whispered words. The simple act of existing in the same space, of sharing the quiet afternoon, was enough.

After a particularly strenuous play, Jeonghan jogged over to the bench, his chest heaving. He collapsed onto the space next to Joshua, his warm arm pressing against Joshua’s cooler one. He reached for the water bottle Joshua had brought for him, his fingers brushing against Joshua’s as he took it.

“Thanks,” he breathed, taking a long swallow.

Joshua marked his page and closed the book. “You’re getting faster.”

“Gotta be,” Jeonghan said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “High school tryouts are in a few months. The competition will be tougher.”

There was a brief, comfortable silence. The future was a topic they approached carefully. They knew they might not get into the same high school. The possibility hung in the air, a quiet, unspoken fear.

“You’ll make it,” Joshua said, his voice firm with certainty. “They’d be stupid not to take you.”

Jeonghan looked at him, his expression softening. “Yeah? And what about you? Still aiming for that science and arts academy?”

Joshua nodded, a small, wistful smile on his face. “It’s the best for what I want to do.”

Jeonghan didn’t say anything. He just leaned back, tilting his face up to the sun, and let his hand fall to the bench, his pinky finger finding Joshua’s and linking with it, hidden from the world by the bulk of his body. It was their secret signal, their tiny, physical tether.

“Wherever you go,” Jeonghan said, his eyes still closed, his voice low and sure, “you’re still my Jisoo.”

The words were simple, but they held the weight of a vow. They promised that no distance, no new school, no new friends, could break what they had built.

Joshua’s heart felt too big for his chest. He tightened his pinky around Jeonghan’s. “And you’re still my Hannie.”

They sat like that for a long time, as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and lavender. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a lone basketball from a court down the way was the only sound, a lazy, comforting percussion to their shared silence.

Finally, as the light turned to gold, they gathered their things. Jeonghan slung his gym bag over his shoulder, and Joshua shouldered his camera bag. They walked home, their steps in sync, their shoulders brushing. The conversation was light, filled with plans for the following week, a new manga volume that was releasing, and a song Joshua wanted Jeonghan to hear.

When they reached the familiar spot under Joshua’s streetlamp, they didn’t stop for a dramatic goodbye. They had moved past that. Now, their goodbyes were as warm and comfortable as their afternoons.

“See you tomorrow,” Joshua said, smiling.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan replied, his own smile easy and bright. “Tell Shuamon I said hi.” He winked, then turned and walked away, his whistle cutting cheerfully through the twilight.

Joshua watched him go, the warmth of the day lingering in his bones. He climbed the stairs to his apartment, the memory of the camera click, of Jeonghan’s tip-toeing, of their linked pinkies on the sun-warmed bench, playing in his mind like a perfect, endless film. He entered his room and looked at the fluffy white Cinnamoroll on his bed.

“He says hi,” Joshua whispered to the toy, his heart so full he thought it might burst.

He knew that things would change. High school was coming. But as he lay in bed, the pleasant exhaustion of the sun-soaked day pulling him toward sleep, he knew with a certainty that felt as solid as the earth itself, that some things were permanent. The photograph he’d taken was proof. The love he felt was his anchor. And no matter what the future held, the memory of this warm, golden, perfect day would be with him always.

The golden, carefree haze of their final middle school summer had evaporated, replaced by the sharp, metallic taste of impending change. It clung to the air in Jeonghan’s small home, a constant, low-grade hum of anxiety that even the vibrant shouts from the basketball court couldn’t quite drown out.

Jeonghan sat at the rickety desk in his room, a formidable stack of high school application forms spread before him. The crisp white papers felt alien and hostile under his hands, which were more accustomed to the rough grain of a basketball or the smooth handle of a garden trowel. His brow was furrowed, his pencil tapping a frantic, restless rhythm against the wood. Every blank space felt like a judgment. Family Income. Parental Occupation. He wrote “N/A” for parent and “Homemaker” for his grandmother, his chest tightening. Extracurricular Activities. He wrote “Basketball.” It felt pathetically inadequate next to the imagined lists of his future competitors: debate team, robotics club, orchestra.

The brochures for the schools Joshua was considering were like artefacts from another planet. Glossy pamphlets showed students in pristine blazers conducting science experiments in state-of-the-art labs, or debating in sun-drenched libraries. The tuition fees listed on the back made his stomach lurch. They were more than Halmeoni made in a year.

A different, more worn stack of papers represented his own reality. Technical high schools with strong basketball programs. Public schools with work-study options. Places where the fees wouldn’t cost them everything. Where he could get a part-time job, contribute, and still hopefully play the sport that felt like his only real talent. It was a practical, grim calculation, and it made him feel a thousand years old.

The sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by Halmeoni’s cheerful greeting, pulled him from his thoughts. A moment later, his bedroom door creaked open.

Joshua stood there, backlit by the hallway light. He looked like he’d stepped right out of one of those glossy brochures—neatly dressed, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. But his face, usually a canvas of gentle calm, was pinched with a mirror of Jeonghan’s own stress.

“Hey,” Joshua said softly, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hey,” Jeonghan grunted, slumping back in his chair and running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “How was the tour? See any labs that can turn lead into gold?”

Joshua didn’t smile at the weak joke. He just walked in, dropping his bag and coming to stand behind Jeonghan’s chair. His hands came to rest on Jeonghan’s shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the knotted, tense muscles there.

Jeonghan flinched at first, then melted into the touch with a low groan. He let his head fall forward, the weight of it suddenly unbearable.

“It was… a lot,” Joshua murmured, his fingers working with a surprising strength. “So many people. So… competitive.” He paused, his hands stilling. “What about you? Any progress?”

Jeonghan gestured helplessly at the two distinct piles on his desk. “Yeah. Progress. I’ve successfully divided my future into ‘impossible dream’ and ‘practical misery’.”

Joshua’s hands resumed their gentle kneading. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. He didn’t say It’ll be okay or You’ll get in somewhere great. He knew the landscape of Jeonghan’s life too well for that.

Instead, he leaned down, his voice a soft whisper near Jeonghan’s ear. “Remember the ring toss?”

A faint, weary smile touched Jeonghan’s lips. “How could I forget? I nearly went bankrupt for a stuffed toy.”

“You were relentless,” Joshua said, his tone fond. “You kept buying those baskets, even when everyone said it was impossible. Even when I told you to stop.” His fingers dug in a little deeper, finding a particularly stubborn knot. “You didn’t listen to any of us. You just kept going until you won.”

Jeonghan closed his eyes. He could still feel the weight of the rubber rings in his hand, the sting of failure with each miss, the explosive triumph when one finally, miraculously, landed.

“This is different, Jisoo,” he sighed. “This isn’t a game. I can’t just stubborn my way into a school I can’t afford.”

“I’m not talking about the school,” Joshua said, his voice firm yet gentle. He turned the chair around so Jeonghan was facing him. He crouched down, his hands on Jeonghan’s knees, forcing him to meet his gaze. Joshua’s eyes, usually so soft, were blazing with a fierce, unwavering certainty. “I’m talking about you. That boy on the court, the one who doesn’t know how to give up. That’s the boy they’ll be lucky to have. Any school. I don’t care if it’s the most prestigious academy in Seoul or the technical school down the street. They will be lucky to have you.”

The words landed not as a compliment, but as a fact. Joshua stated them with the same simple conviction he used to explain a math formula. It was a truth he believed in so completely that, for a moment, Jeonghan almost believed it too.

The tight, panicked knot in his chest began to loosen. The grim stacks of paper on his desk seemed to recede, becoming just paper again, not verdicts on his entire worth.

He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the worried line between Joshua’s brows. “What about you? You look more stressed than I am.”

Joshua’s shoulders slumped, the brave front crumbling. “It’s… a lot of pressure. Everyone expects… everything. Sometimes I just…” He trailed off, unable to articulate the weight of it.

“Hey,” Jeonghan said, his voice dropping into the low, protective rumble that was reserved only for Joshua. He cupped Joshua’s face in his hands. “Look at me.” Joshua’s anxious eyes met his. “You’re Hong Joshua. You’re the smartest, kindest person I know. You drew a perfect freehand circle in seventh grade because you said the compass was ‘unreliable’. You can do this. You were built for this.”

He saw the tension drain from Joshua’s face, replaced by a look of profound relief. This was their anchor. This was how they comforted each other. Not by pretending the obstacles weren’t there, but by reminding each other of who they were at their core—the relentless fighter and the gentle genius. They were each other’s compass in the confusing storm of growing up.

Jeonghan pulled him up and into a tight hug. Joshua buried his face in Jeonghan’s shoulder, his arms wrapping around his waist. They sat like that for a long time, in the quiet of the small, cluttered room, holding each other up as the uncertain future loomed large outside the window. The applications were still there. The pressure hadn’t vanished. But in that moment, anchored to each other, they both knew, with a certainty that went deeper than fear, that they would find a way through it. Together.

The air in Joshua’s room was thick with the scent of sharpened pencils, eraser dust, and a low, musical tension. The high school entrance exams loomed just days away, a monolithic, life-altering event that cast a long shadow over everything. Textbooks and practice exams were strewn across the floor, a chaotic archipelago of academic anxiety.

Joshua was a live wire of nerves. He sat cross-legged on the rug, clutching a practice test for the prestigious Busan Science and Arts Academy, his knuckles white. His knee bounced with a frantic, uncontrollable rhythm. He’d read the same question about quadratic equations three times, and the numbers still swam meaninglessly before his eyes.

“I’m going to fail,” he whispered, his voice thin and reedy. “I’m going to blank. I know it. My mind is just… empty.”

Jeonghan, who had been quietly reviewing his own notes for the technical high school’s physical aptitude test, looked up. He wasn't built for this kind of studying; his mind rebelled against the passive absorption of facts. But he was built for Joshua.

He didn’t offer a hollow “You’ll be fine.” He didn’t try to explain the quadratic formula again. Instead, he set his notes aside and moved to sit directly behind Joshua on the floor. He settled in, wrapping his legs around Joshua’s torso and his arms around his chest, pulling him back against his own solid frame. He rested his chin on Joshua’s shoulder.

“Breathe, Jisoo,” he murmured, his voice a low, steady vibration against Joshua’s back. “Just breathe. In for four. Hold. Out for eight.”

Joshua’s body was rigid, a bowstring pulled too tight. But the feel of Jeonghan’s warmth, the solid wall of his chest, the familiar, grounding scent of him, began to work its slow magic. He let his head fall back against Jeonghan’s shoulder and tried to match his breathing to the slow, even rhythm he could feel against his back.

In… two, three, four. Hold… Out… two, three… eight.

The frantic bouncing of his knee began to slow. The panicked static in his mind receded, just a little.

“Okay,” Jeonghan said softly, his lips close to Joshua’s ear. “Now read me the question. Just the words. Don’t think about the answer.”

Joshua’s voice was shaky, but he complied. “‘If a parabola is defined by the equation y = 2x² - 8x + 6, what are the coordinates of its vertex?’”

“Okay. Good.” Jeonghan’s arms tightened around him. “What’s the first thing you look for with a parabola?”

“The… the vertex form,” Joshua said, his mind beginning to clear, the pathways of logic re-establishing themselves now that the fog of panic was lifting. “Or the axis of symmetry. x = -b over 2a.”

“Right. So what’s ‘a’ and ‘b’ here?”

Slowly, painstakingly, with Jeonghan acting as a calm, unwavering anchor, Joshua worked through the problem. Jeonghan didn’t know the math himself, not really. But he knew Joshua. He knew how to ask the right questions to guide him back to his own brilliant mind. He was the lighthouse, not the ship.

When Joshua finally scribbled down the correct coordinates, a shaky but genuine smile touched his lips. “I got it.”

“Of course you did,” Jeonghan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He pressed a quick, proud kiss to Joshua’s temple before releasing him. “You’re a genius. You just sometimes forget.”

The roles shifted as effortlessly as the tide. Later, it was Jeonghan’s turn to struggle. He was staring at a section on the general knowledge exam about Korean history, a dense paragraph about the Joseon Dynasty’s administrative policies. The words blurred into an impenetrable wall of text.

“This is pointless,” he grumbled, shoving the paper away. “My brain doesn’t work like this. It’s just… words.”

Joshua, now calm and centred, scooted over. He picked up the discarded paper. “It’s not just words, Hannie. It’s a story.” He scanned the paragraph. “Okay, look. It’s like a game. The king is the coach. These administrative policies? They’re his playbook. He’s trying to manage his team—the country—and these are his strategies. Some worked, some didn’t. You just have to remember the key plays.”

He began to break it down, not as dry facts, but as a narrative. He used analogies from basketball, from the dynamics of their own school, making the centuries-old policies feel immediate and relatable. Jeonghan, who learned through action and metaphor, listened, his brow furrowed in concentration. Where a teacher’s lecture failed, Joshua’s quiet, patient explanation succeeded. A light went on in his eyes.

“Oh,” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “So it’s like a full-court press, but for taxes. I get it.”

They fell into a rhythm, a perfectly balanced symbiosis. Joshua, the calm navigator, steering Jeonghan through the treacherous waters of academia. Jeonghan, the steadfast anchor, holding Joshua firm when the waves of his anxiety threaten to pull him under. The pristine room, usually a place of solitary study, was filled with the soft murmur of their voices, the shared warmth of their bodies, the unshakeable certainty of their partnership.

As the afternoon light softened into evening, painting Joshua’s room in shades of gold and orange, they took a break. The textbooks were set aside. They were sitting side-by-side, leaning against Joshua’s bed, shoulders pressed together, simply breathing in the quiet.

The high-stakes tension of the exams was still there, a persistent hum in the background. But in this bubble they had created, it felt manageable. The future was still a giant, intimidating question mark, but they were facing it from a place of shared strength.

Jeonghan turned his head to look at Joshua. The golden light caught the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, making them look like liquid honey. He saw the faint remnants of stress around them, but also a deep, resilient peace. He looked so beautiful it made Jeonghan’s chest ache.

Joshua felt the weight of his gaze and turned to meet it. He saw the intensity there, the fierce protectiveness, but also a soft, overwhelming tenderness that was reserved only for him. The air between them, which had been filled with the pragmatic energy of study, suddenly grew still and charged.

Without a word, Jeonghan reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair from Joshua’s forehead. The touch was electric. It was a question.

Joshua’s answer was in his eyes, which softened, yielding and warm. He gave a barely perceptible nod.

Jeonghan leaned in slowly, giving Joshua every opportunity to pull away. He didn’t. He met him halfway.

The kiss was soft, and searching, and achingly sweet. It tasted of peppermint tea and shared vulnerability. Jeonghan’s hand came up to cradle Joshua’s jaw, his thumb stroking his cheekbone with a reverence that made Joshua’s breath hitch. Joshua’s hands found their way to Jeonghan’s shoulders, holding on not for stability, but for connection, to pull him closer, to deepen this silent, perfect understanding.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting together. Their eyes were closed, sharing the same air, the same space, the same profound, wordless truth.

The entrance exams were still coming. Their schools were still different. The future was still unknown.

But in that quiet, golden moment, none of that mattered. They had this. They had the anchor of Jeonghan’s arms and the compass of Joshua’s mind. They had the silent, steadfast promise of a kiss that felt less like a moment and more like a beginning. 

The morning of the results felt like the entire city was holding its breath. A heavy, oppressive silence had fallen over Busan, broken only by the nervous patter of a light rain against the windows. Jeonghan stood under the awning of a dim, slightly grimy internet cafe, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The air smelled of stale cigarette smoke and damp concrete. This was where he would check his fate—a world away from the quiet, orderly study in Joshua’s pristine room.

His own physical exam for the technical high school had been days ago. He’d felt good about it—his body knew that language fluently. But this, the academic results, was the true hurdle. He had Joshua’s patient tutoring etched into his mind, but standing here, the doubt was a cold, slithering thing in his gut.

He couldn’t go in. Not yet.

His phone, the sturdy blue clamshell, felt heavy in his pocket. He had a different mission first. He pulled it out, his thumb finding the single speed-dial number. It rang once before it was picked up.

“Hannie?” Joshua’s voice was a tight, thin wire of anxiety. He was undoubtedly sitting at his own computer at home, the screen glowing in the dark of his room, his parents a silent, hopeful presence somewhere in the apartment.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan said, his voice rough. He stared at the rain-slicked street. “You ready?”

A shaky exhale. “No. Are you?”

“No.” A pause. “You first.”

He could hear Joshua’s trembling fingers on the keyboard through the phone. The click of the mouse. A sharp, arrested gasp. Then, a silence so profound and long that Jeonghan’s heart plummeted straight into the wet pavement at his feet. He’d failed. Joshua had worked so hard, and the pressure had been too much, and he’d—

“I… I passed.”

The words were a whisper, disbelieving and fragile. Then they came again, stronger, brimming with a relief so potent it was almost painful. “Hannie, I passed! I got into the Science and Arts Academy!”

Jeonghan sagged against the brick wall of the cafe, a wave of dizzying, euphoric relief washing over him so fiercely his knees felt weak. The tight coil of fear in his own chest loosened, just for a moment, eclipsed by a pride so bright and fierce it burned.

“I knew you would, you genius,” he breathed, a real, wide smile breaking across his face for the first time in weeks. “I told you. I fucking told you.”

On the other end, Joshua let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob. “Okay. Okay, your turn. Go. Now.”

“Right. Yeah.” Jeonghan pushed himself off the wall. The internet cafe door seemed less intimidating now. “I’m going in. Don’t hang up.”

“I won’t.”

Jeonghan shouldered the door open, the bell jingling a discordant note. The air inside was thick and warm. He ignored the curious glances from the few other patrons, beelining for an open terminal in the back. He fed coins into the slot, his hands steady now. Joshua’s success had lent him borrowed courage.

He navigated to the website, his heart hammering against his ribs again. He entered his student number, his date of birth. The screen flickered, processing. It felt like an eternity.

“It’s loading,” he whispered into the phone.

He heard Joshua’s soft, encouraging hum on the other end. “It’s okay. No matter what.”

The screen refreshed.

His eyes scanned the page, skipping over the formal language, searching for the one word that mattered.

And there it was.

STATUS: ADMITTED.

Yoon Jeonghan was in. He had been accepted into the Busan Technical High School with a partial athletic scholarship for basketball. He was going to high school.

For a second, he just stared, the word not quite computing. Then, a sound escaped him—a choked-off, disbelieving laugh. “Jisoo.”

“Yeah?”

“I… I got in.”

The silence on the other end was different this time. It was a soaring, shared triumph. He could practically feel Joshua’s brilliant, beaming smile through the phone.

“I knew you would,” Joshua echoed his own words back to him, his voice thick with emotion. “I never doubted it for a second.”

They stayed on the line for a few more minutes, not speaking, just listening to each other breathe, the shared, giddy reality of their success settling over them. They had done it. They had crossed the first great chasm of their young lives.

But as Jeonghan stepped back out into the damp grey morning, the euphoria began to crystallise into a new, more complex feeling. The reality of their paths, now officially diverging, settled with the rain.

Joshua was going to the Busan Science and Arts Academy. A place of blazers, advanced labs, and a future that stretched out like a straight, paved highway towards university and a brilliant career.

He was going to Busan Technical High. A place of workshops, trade skills, and a future that was practical, grounded, but whose map was far less clear.

They met up later that afternoon, the rain having softened to a fine mist. They walked through their familiar neighbourhood, the world looking the same but feeling irrevocably altered. The celebration was quiet, tinged with a bittersweet awareness.

“You’ll have to wear a blazer,” Jeonghan said, bumping his shoulder against Joshua’s. “You’ll look like a little lawyer.”

Joshua bumped him back. “And you’ll be in coveralls, covered in engine grease.”

“I’ll still be better looking.”

“Debatable.”

They lapsed into silence, their hands finding each other’s, fingers lacing together. The unspoken truth hung between them. Different schools. Different worlds. Different schedules. The lazy, sun-drenched afternoons on the basketball court were numbered.

“It’s going to be different,” Joshua whispered, giving voice to the fear they both felt.

Jeonghan stopped walking, turning to face him. The mist clung to their hair and eyelashes. He looked at Joshua—his best friend, his anchor, the boy he loved—and felt a fierce, protective determination surge through him.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan said, his voice low and sure. “It’s going to be different.” He squeezed Joshua’s hand. “But we aren’t. You’re still my Jisoo. I’m still your Hannie. They can put us in different buildings, in different uniforms, in different cities, and that won’t change.”

He saw the anxiety in Joshua’s eyes soften, replaced by a slow-building trust. Jeonghan was making a promise, not just about now, but about all the unknown tomorrows.

“Okay,” Joshua breathed, a small, sure smile finally touching his lips. “Okay.”

They started walking again, their joined hands a bridge between their two newly defined futures. The path ahead was split, a fork in the road they had always walked together. But as they moved forward, side-by-side through the soft grey mist, they both knew the most important thing:

They had passed. They had made it. And no matter how far apart their schools were, the space between their hearts would always, always be the same.

The world, for a glorious, sun-drenched stretch of time, found a new and perfect rhythm. The daunting spectre of high school had been faced and conquered, and in its place settled a golden, effortless era—a sweet, lazy river of days that flowed into one another with a gentle, joyful consistency.

Their worlds were officially different. Joshua now navigated the hushed, polished hallways of the Science and Arts Academy, his backpack heavy with textbooks on calculus and physics. Jeonghan’s domain was the echoing, concrete-and-steel workshops of the Technical High, his hands learning the language of wrenches and wiring diagrams.

But these differences didn't pull them apart; they became the fuel for their reunions. The moment the final bell rang, they were two satellites pulled by an irresistible gravity back to their shared centre—sometimes Joshua’s pristine room, sometimes Jeonghan’s cosy, lived-in home, often the now-nostalgic basketball court.

The rhythm was as natural as breathing.

They would meet after school, often at the old court. Joshua would be waiting on the sun-warmed bench, a book open but unread, his face lighting up the moment Jeonghan appeared, his technical high uniform already looking comfortably worn. They’d walk home, their shoulders bumping, their hands finding each other’s in a silent, automatic gesture.

And they would kiss.

It was no longer a nervous, earth-shattering event. It was punctuation. A hello kiss, soft and smiling, just outside Joshua’s apartment building. A goodbye kiss, lingering and sweet, under the familiar streetlamp. A just-because kiss in the middle of explaining a complex math problem, when Jeonghan would get so overwhelmed by the focused curve of Joshua’s brow that he’d have to lean over and stop his words with his lips. Joshua would laugh against his mouth, swat him away playfully, and then pull him back for one more.

They studied. Or, Joshua studied, and Jeonghan sat with him, his presence a steadying force. Joshua would patiently walk him through the general education coursework he still had to complete, using the same patient metaphors that had worked in middle school. In return, Jeonghan would quiz Joshua for his science exams, mangling the complicated terminology so spectacularly that Joshua would collapse in giggles, the stress momentarily forgotten.

Sometimes, the studying would be interrupted. Jeonghan, frustrated with a particularly dense passage, would groan and flop onto his back, pulling a laughing Joshua down on top of him. “My brain is full. Kiss me instead. It’s more productive.”

And Joshua would, gladly, his textbooks forgotten, the only thing that mattered was the feel of Jeonghan’s smile against his own.

Other days, they’d forgo studying entirely. They’d pile onto Joshua’s bed, shoulders pressed together, and boot up a video game. The competitive fire would ignite in Jeonghan’s eyes, his reflexes lightning-fast. Joshua, more methodical, would play a careful, strategic game, and they’d bicker and cheer, their laughter echoing through the room. A victorious win would be celebrated with a triumphant, smacking kiss from Jeonghan. A frustrating loss would be soothed by Joshua pressing a soft, consoling kiss to his pouting lips.

One rainy Saturday, inspired by a cooking show Halmeoni loved, they decided to bake. The kitchen became a flour-dusted war zone. Jeonghan, all brute strength, over-mixed the batter while Joshua, with scientific precision, meticulously measured the vanilla extract.

“It says ‘fold gently,’ Hannie, you’re assaulting it!” Joshua cried, laughing as flour poofed into the air.

“It needs to know who’s boss,” Jeonghan retorted, but he slowed his movements, letting Joshua guide his hands, showing him the gentle, circular motion. Their bodies were close, the warmth between them a comfortable counterpoint to the cool kitchen air. When the cupcakes finally emerged from the oven, lopsided and a little too brown, they were the most delicious things either of them had ever tasted, eaten over the sink with sticky fingers, sharing kisses that tasted of vanilla and sugar.

And there were the quietest moments, the most precious ones. Curled up on opposite ends of the sofa, each lost in a different volume of the same manga series. The only sound was the soft rustle of pages and the contented sigh one of them would occasionally make. Jeonghan would look up from his page, his gaze softening as he watched Joshua, his brow furrowed in concentration, completely absorbed in the story. He’d wait until Joshua turned a page, and then he’d simply say, “Jisoo.”

Joshua would look up, his eyes questioning.

“Nothing,” Jeonghan would murmur, a slow, tender smile gracing his lips. “Just wanted to look at you.”

And Joshua would smile back, a flush of happiness warming his cheeks, before they both returned to their books, the simple, profound rightness of the moment settling around them like a blanket.

“A scout talked to me today,” he said, his tone casual, as if commenting on the weather. “Outside the convenience store. Said I had a ‘unique visual’ for modelling.”

Joshua lowered his book, his interest piqued. “Really? What did you say?”

Jeonghan snorted, flopping his head back against the cushions. “I said no, obviously. Sounds exhausting. Letting a bunch of strangers tell you what to wear, how to stand, how to smile… all to sell clothes that cost more than my textbooks.” He made a face. “It’s so shallow. I’d rather wear my own comfortable, ugly things, thanks.”

A small, understanding smile played on Joshua’s lips. He knew this wasn’t just about the clothes; it was about Jeonghan’s fiercely guarded autonomy, his refusal to be packaged and presented for consumption. “I get it,” Joshua said softly, closing his own manga. “I don’t think I’d appreciate it either. Feeling like a mannequin for other people’s ideas. It sounds… restrictive.”

Jeonghan’s eyes met his, and a look of deep, unspoken understanding passed between them. In a world that constantly tried to pin labels on them—the scholarship student, the boy from the wrong side of the tracks—this space they had built together was theirs to define. No directors, no scouts, no expectations.

“Exactly,” Jeonghan said, his voice dropping to that soft, intimate register reserved only for Jisoo. “A mannequin. I’d rather be right here.”

This was their life now. A perfect, seamless thread woven from the threads of their two different worlds. The blazer and the coveralls. There was only Hannie and Jisoo. There was studying, and video games, and baking, and manga.

And there were kisses. A constant, gentle punctuation to their shared sentences. A silent promise that no matter how different their days were, their evenings would always, always end the same way: together, anchored in a love that felt as natural and essential as breathing.

The evening had been a perfect, carbon copy of so many that had come before it, each one a treasured pearl on the string of their new life. The soft glow of the desk lamp in Joshua’s room pooled over their shared homework. Jeonghan was frowning at a physics problem, his brow furrowed in a way Joshua found endearing, while Joshua was quietly annotating a history text. The only sounds were the scratch of pencil on paper and the comfortable silence that existed between them, a silence that was never empty, but full of unspoken understanding.

Then, the jarring, polyphonic ringtone of Jeonghan’s clamshell phone shattered the peace.

Jeonghan flinched, pulled from his concentration. He fumbled for the phone, a slight frown on his face. Calls were rare. It was usually just texts from Joshua or his basketball coach.

“Yeah?” he answered, his voice casual.

Joshua watched his face, his own pencil stilling. He saw the casual expression melt away, replaced by a blank, terrifying stillness. The colour drained from Jeonghan’s face so completely that he looked like a marble statue, bleached and cold. His knuckles, gripping the phone, turned white.

“What?” The word was a choked whisper. “Where? Is she— Okay. I’m… I’m coming. Now.”

He ended the call, his hand dropping to his side, the phone clattering onto the textbook, forgotten. He didn’t move. He just stared at the wall, his eyes wide and unseeing, his breath coming in short, ragged pants.

“Hannie?” Joshua’s voice was soft, alarmed. He’d never seen Jeonghan like this. Not even during the most stressful exams. This was a different kind of terror. A primal one. “Hannie, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Jeonghan’s gaze slowly, painfully, dragged itself to Joshua. The vibrant, confident boy was gone. In his place was a terrified child.

“It’s… it’s Halmeoni,” he rasped, the words seeming to tear his throat on the way out. “She collapsed. At the market. A neighbour… they took her to the hospital. They said… they said I need to come.”

The world tilted on its axis. Halmeoni. The foundation of Jeonghan’s entire world. The woman who was his sun and his moon. The words ‘collapsed’ and ‘hospital’ hung in the air, toxic and suffocating.

Jeonghan began to tremble, a fine, full-body shiver that looked like he was freezing to death in the warm room. He tried to stand, but his legs buckled, and he sank back onto the floor, his head dropping into his hands. A broken, guttural sound, something between a sob and a gasp, escaped him. He was completely unravelling, the strong, steady anchor reduced to shattered pieces.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” Joshua’s voice was firm, a lifeline thrown into the storm. He scrambled over, kneeling in front of Jeonghan. He pried his hands away from his face, holding them tightly in his own. Jeonghan’s hands were ice-cold. “Breathe, Hannie. You have to breathe.”

But Jeonghan was beyond breathing exercises. He was drowning in a tsunami of pure, undiluted fear. His eyes were wild, glassy with unshed tears of panic. “I can’t… Jisoo, I can’t lose her. I can’t. She’s all I have.”

The raw, desperate confession shattered Joshua’s heart. He did the only thing his own panicking heart knew to do. The thing that had become their language of comfort, of reassurance, of love. He leaned forward, cupped Jeonghan’s cold, ashen face in his hands, and pressed his lips firmly against Jeonghan’s.

It wasn’t a kiss of passion. It was a kiss of desperation. A silent scream of I’m here! I’ve got you! Please, come back to me! He poured every ounce of his own fear and his fierce, protective love into the contact, trying to warm the icy terror that had seized the boy he loved.

It was in that exact, suspended moment—their lips pressed together, a desperate attempt to anchor a sinking soul—that the bedroom door swung open.

“Jisoo-ah, I made some—“

The voice, cheerful and light, cut off with the sharp finality of a guillotine.

Joshua and Jeonghan sprang apart as if electrocuted.

Joshua’s mother stood frozen in the doorway, a tray holding two mugs of hot chocolate in her hands. Her smile was still etched on her face, a ghost of an expression that hadn’t yet received the news from her eyes. Her gaze was fixed on them, on the intimate, undeniable space that had just existed between her son and his best friend. On her son’s hands, which had been cradling Jeonghan’s face. On their lips, which had just been connected.

The tray tipped. The mugs crashed to the floor, splattering dark brown liquid and shattering ceramic across the wooden boards. The sound was violently loud in the dead silence.

No one moved.

Joshua felt the blood drain from his own face now. His heart wasn’t just hammering; it was trying to escape his chest. The world narrowed to his mother’s horrified, uncomprehending expression.

Jeonghan seemed to shrivel. The panic over his grandmother was now eclipsed by a fresh, searing wave of shame and terror. He looked from the broken mugs on the floor to Joshua’s mother’s stunned face, and then to Joshua’s pale, horrified one. He was an intruder. He had brought his disaster into their perfect, orderly home and defiled it.

Joshua’s mother remained frozen, her hand still outstretched from where the tray had been. The initial shock on her face was morphing, twisting into something hard and unrecognisable. Her eyes, usually so gentle when they looked at him, were wide with a kind of holy horror.

“Jisoo,” she repeated, her voice a low, trembling wire. “What. Was. That?”

Joshua couldn’t speak. His throat had sealed shut. He could still feel the ghost of Jeonghan’s cold lips against his, the desperation of the kiss, the sheer terror in his eyes. Jeonghan had to go. He took a jerky step towards the door.

“Don’t you move.” Her voice cracked like a whip.

He froze.

That’s when Joshua’s mother moved. It was a sudden, livid surge of motion. She crossed the room in two swift strides, her hand connecting with Jeonghan’s cheek with a crack that echoed in the small space.

The sound was sickening.

Jeonghan’s head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed instantly on his pale skin. He didn’t make a sound. He just stood there, absorbing the blow, his shoulders slumping in utter defeat.

“NO!” Joshua screamed, lurching forward.

“Stay away from him, Jisoo!” his mother shrieked, shoving a hand out to block his path, her eyes wild. She turned her fury back on Jeonghan. “You… you devil. You corrupted my son. In my own house!”

“Please,” Jeonghan whispered, his voice broken. A single tear traced a path through the redness on his cheek. “My halmeoni… she’s sick. I need to go. Just let me go. I’ll take whatever punishment you want to give me. Just let me go right now.”

“Sick? This is the sickness!” she spat, pointing a trembling finger between the two of them. “This abomination! This is the devil’s work!” Her voice rose, taking on a chanting, fervent quality. “Therefore God gave them up in the lusts of their hearts to impurity, to the dishonouring of their bodies among themselves!”

Joshua stared, his mind reeling. This wasn’t his mother. This was a stranger, a zealot spouting scripture he’d only ever heard in the sterile context of a church pew.

“Mom, stop it!” he cried, tears now streaming down his own face. “He needs to go! His grandmother is in the hospital!”

She ignored him completely, her gaze locked on Jeonghan as if he were a serpent. “For this reason God gave them up to dishonourable passions. For their women exchanged natural relations for those that are contrary to nature; and the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with passion for one another!”

“Please,” Jeonghan begged again, his voice a raw sob. He tried to step around her, towards the door.

She moved to block him, her body a rigid, unyielding wall. “Men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in themselves the due penalty for their error!”

“LET HIM GO!” Joshua screamed, trying to push past her, but she was surprisingly strong, fueled by a righteous, terrifying energy.

Jeonghan looked at Joshua, his eyes filled with a despair so profound it seemed to swallow all the light in the room. It was the same look he’d had when he’d gotten the call, but now layered with a new, searing humiliation. He was trapped. Trapped between the physical emergency of his grandmother and the spiritual emergency Joshua’s mother was enacting upon him.

He sank to his knees, not in prayer, but in utter hopelessness. “I just want to see my halmeoni,” he wept, the words barely audible. “She’s all I have. Please.”

Joshua’s mother stood over him, her chest heaving. She looked from her sobbing, kneeling son’s best friend to her own son, who was crying and pulling at her arm.

“This is your doing,” she hissed at Jeonghan. “You filled him with this… this filth. You are a plague, Yoon Jeonghan. A sickness. And I will not let you infect my son any further. Jisoo, you will stay away from him. Do you hear me? You will not catch this Satan from him!”

The words were like shards of glass. A plague. A sickness. Catch the Satan.

Joshua felt nausea so intense he thought he would vomit. This was the woman who had welcomed Jeonghan into their home for years, who had fed him, who had smiled at his jokes. And now she was calling the boy he loved a demon.

The standoff felt like it lasted an eternity, there on the floor of the bedroom, surrounded by the ruins of their perfect evening. Jeonghan on his knees, broken. Joshua held back by his mother, his own world fracturing. And his mother, a vengeful angel, blocked the door, holding them both captive in a nightmare of her own making, while the real, tangible nightmare of a hospital and a sick grandmother waited just beyond the walls.

Jeonghan finally lifted his head, his eyes meeting Joshua’s. The desperation was gone, replaced by a chilling, hollow emptiness. He had given up.

“It’s okay, Jisoo,” he whispered, his voice a dead thing. “Just… stay away.”

And in that moment, Joshua knew a part of Jeonghan had broken in a way that might never be fixed. The phone call had shattered his present, and his mother had just obliterated any hope he had for a future.

The world had shrunk to the single, desperate imperative: Get out. Get to her.

The chanting scripture, Joshua’s tear-streaked face, the crushing weight of the shame—it all fused into a single, high-pitched scream in Jeonghan’s mind. The door was blocked by a wall of righteous fury. There was no way out. But there was the window.

Joshua’s room was on the second floor.

He didn’t think. There was no room for thought, only a primal, animal need to escape the suffocating horror and reach the only person in the world who truly mattered.

As Joshua’s mother advanced, her voice rising in another verse of damnation, Jeonghan moved. It wasn’t a calculated decision; it was a spring uncoiling. He lunged for the window, fumbling with the latch. Behind him, he heard Joshua’s sharp cry of “HANNIE, NO!”

The latch gave way. He shoved the window open, the cool night air a slap after the room’s stifling heat. He didn’t look down. He just threw himself out.

The fall was a brutal, jarring rush of air and terror. It was shorter than it felt, but long enough for his mind to register the sheer insanity of the act. He hit the neatly trimmed shrubbery below with a sickening crunch of branches and a searing, white-hot pain that exploded in his right ankle and shot up his leg. His hands, thrown out to break his fall, scraped raw and bloody against the brick wall and the dirt.

For a moment, he lay there, stunned, the wind knocked out of him, the world spinning. The pain was a distant, secondary thing. The primary sensation was the cold, damp earth beneath him. Freedom.

He heard Joshua’s horrified scream from the window above, followed by his mother’s sharp, panicked shout. He didn’t look back. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he pushed himself up. His right ankle screamed in protest, refusing to take his weight. It was broken. He knew it with a certainty that went beyond the physical. It was a clean, final snap.

He ignored it. Using his arms, dragging his useless leg, he hauled himself out of the bushes and onto the pavement. Blood dripped from his shredded palms, leaving dark, spattered stains on the concrete. He was a mess of dirt, blood, and broken parts. But he was moving.

He half-ran, half-hopped, a grotesque, limping sprint fueled by pure adrenaline and terror, towards the main road. He didn’t know how he’d get to the hospital. He just knew he had to.

He flagged down a taxi, his breathing ragged, his face a mask of dirt, tears, and blood. The driver’s eyes widened in alarm, but Jeonghan shoved a crumpled wad of bills—his bus fare money for the week—through the partition. “Busan General. Now. Please.”

The ride was a blur of streetlights and searing pain. He clutched his throbbing ankle, his bloody hands leaving prints on his jeans. He didn’t feel the pain in his hands. All his focus was on the deep, nauseating throb in his leg, a constant, brutal reminder of the price of his escape.

He burst through the hospital’s emergency room doors, his entrance causing a stir. A nurse rushed towards him, her face a mask of professional concern.

“My grandmother,” he gasped, his voice raw. “Hong Myung-Hee. She was brought in. Where is she?”

They tried to steer him towards a bed, to look at his ankle, his hands. He fought them off with a surprising, feral strength. “My grandmother first! Tell me where she is!”

Finally, a doctor was summoned. He led the limping, bleeding boy to a room on the third floor.

The sight that greeted him stole what little breath he had left.

Halmeoni lay in the stark white bed, looking smaller and more fragile than he had ever seen her. Her skin was pale, almost ashen, against the bleached pillowcase. Wires and tubes snaked from her arms to beeping machines. Her eyes were closed. She looked… gone.

A sound, a wounded animal’s whimper, escaped Jeonghan’s throat. He stumbled to the bedside, collapsing into the chair, his broken ankle twisting awkwardly beneath him. He didn’t feel it. He reached out a trembling, blood-caked hand and wrapped it around her cool, papery one.

“Halmeoni,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’m here.”

He bowed his head, pressing his forehead against their joined hands, and finally, the tears came. Not the silent tears of panic from Joshua’s room, but great, heaving, body-wracking sobs that seemed to tear him apart from the inside. He cried for her, for the fear of losing her. He cried for the fall, for the searing pain in his leg. He cried for the slap, for the scripture, for the look of utter devastation on Joshua’s face. He cried for the kiss that had started it all, the desperate, loving kiss that had been twisted into something sinful and ugly.

He cried until he had nothing left.

A doctor came in later, after Jeonghan’s sobs had subsided into silent, exhausted shudders.

“Yoon-ssi?” the doctor said gently. “Your grandmother suffered a severe fainting spell due to exhaustion and dehydration. Her blood pressure dropped dangerously low. It was a very close call. But she is stable now. With rest and proper care, she will recover. She can likely go home in a couple of days.”

The relief was so immense it was a physical blow. He slumped in the chair, the tension draining from his body, leaving only the profound, bone-deep ache of his injuries and his grief.

Only then did he allow the nurses to tend to him. They cleaned and bandaged the deep, ugly scrapes on his hands and palms. Then they took him for an X-ray.

The diagnosis was as he’d known it would be. A clean, complex fracture of the talus bone in his right ankle. The doctor explained it in gentle, sombre tones. It was a severe injury. It would require surgery, a long, difficult recovery, and extensive physical therapy.

And then came the words that carved the final, hollow space inside him.

“I’m sorry, son,” the doctor said, his face full of pity. “A fracture like this… high-impact sports are most likely out of the question. Basketball… I don’t think that will be possible anymore.”

Jeonghan just nodded. He felt nothing. The part of him that would have cared, that would have raged and screamed at the injustice, had been left behind on the pavement below Joshua’s window. Basketball, his refuge, his talent, his scholarship… it was gone. Another casualty of that night.

He was discharged with a temporary cast and crutches, refusing to be admitted himself. He returned to Halmeoni’s room and took up his post at her feet.

For two days, he didn’t move. He slept in fits and starts in the hard plastic chair, his crutches leaning against the wall. He barely ate. He didn’t speak unless it was to a nurse or to Halmeoni when she drifted in and out of consciousness. He was a statue of silent vigilance, his bandaged hands resting on the rails of her bed, his broken ankle propped up, his eyes never leaving her face.

He was there to make sure she had water before she could ask. He adjusted her blankets. He listened to the steady, reassuring beep of the heart monitor. He was anchoring himself to her, the only solid thing left in his shattered world. The boy who had jumped from a window was gone. In his place was a quiet, hollowed-out young man, whose future had narrowed to this single room, this single purpose: to ensure the one person he had left in the world did not slip away.

School was a memory, a privilege for boys with unbroken ankles and untarnished futures. Jeonghan’s life was now a relentless cycle: the pre-dawn shift at a 24-hour convenience store, his movements stiff and careful around his still-healing ankle; the bus ride to the market to buy the cheapest, most nutritious food he could find for Halmeoni; the long, quiet afternoons spent cleaning their small home, doing the laundry, ensuring Halmeoni took her medication and rested, rested, always resting.

He was seventeen going on forty. The vibrant, swaggering boy from the basketball court had been sanded down into a quiet, perpetually tired young man. His hands, once calloused from a ball, were now chapped from bleach and cold storage freezers. His eyes, which had once held a mischievous fire, were now shadowed with exhaustion and a deep, settled grief.

His route home from his second job, stocking shelves at a late-night supermarket, always took him past Joshua’s street. It was a form of self-flagellation, a daily reminder of the paradise he had lost. He never saw him. The window from which he’d jumped was always dark, the curtains drawn. The entire building seemed to hold its breath, a monument to a before-and-after. It was obvious, of course. Joshua’s mother had won. She had successfully quarantined her son from the plague.

He accepted it. The pain of that night—the slap, the scripture, the fall—had been so cataclysmic that the ensuing silence felt like a natural law. Joshua was part of a world of blazers and bright futures, a world Jeonghan had been violently ejected from. He was a ghost in his own life, and ghosts didn’t get to have Jisoos.

Then, one Tuesday evening, as he was wiping down the sticky counter at the convenience store, his old, battered clamshell phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a sound so rare it made him jump. No one called him except telemarketers or his boss. He pulled it out, the blue plastic casing feeling alien in his rough hand.

It wasn’t a call. It was a text. From a number he had deleted but whose digits were burned into his soul.

Unknown: Let’s meet in the church. No one's there, they're not gonna suspect us.

The world tilted. The humming of the freezers, the flicker of the fluorescent lights, the distant sound of traffic—it all receded into a dull roar. He stared at the screen, the simple, unpunctuated message feeling like a message from another dimension. Jisoo.

His first instinct was a cold, sharp fear. A trap. It had to be. His mother had found his number, was luring him back to finish the job, to scream more scripture at him in the house of God itself.

But it was the last part—they're not gonna suspect us—that undid him. It was their old language. The language of secret glances and hidden handholds. The language of us.

His hands trembled so violently he almost dropped the phone. The carefully constructed walls of his numb existence cracked, and a torrent of everything he’d been suppressing for weeks came flooding back. The memory of Joshua’s face, the taste of his lips, the sound of his laugh, the feel of his hand in his. The sheer, unadulterated missing him was a physical pain, sharper than the ache in his ankle.

He couldn’t. It was too dangerous. For him, for Halmeoni. He had a duty. A broken life to manage.

His thumb hovered over the ‘delete’ button.

But then he thought of the fall. He had jumped from a window for a chance to get to his grandmother. Was he really so cowardly now that he wouldn’t even walk through a door for a chance to see Joshua?

He didn’t reply. He couldn’t form the words. But when his shift ended at 11 PM, he didn’t turn towards home. He turned towards the old, stone chapel on the hill at the edge of their neighbourhood. It was always unlocked, a relic from a more trusting time.

The walk was agony, each step a reminder of the price he’d paid. The crutches were gone, but a pronounced, permanent limp had taken their place. He pushed the heavy, wooden door open, the creak echoing in the vast, empty silence.

The church was dark, lit only by the faint, colored light from the stained-glass windows, cast by the streetlamps outside. It smelled of old wood, wax, and dust. And there, in the very first pew, sat a silhouette he would have recognised anywhere.

Joshua.

He was sitting perfectly still, his hands clasped in his lap, his head bowed as if in prayer. He looked up as the door creaked, and the dim light caught the sheen of tears on his cheeks.

Jeonghan stood frozen at the entrance, a trespasser in this sacred space and in Joshua’s life.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other across the cavernous space. The distance between them felt infinite, filled with all the unspeakable things that had happened.

Then, Joshua slowly stood up. He didn’t run to him. He just stood there, his body trembling slightly.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” he whispered, his voice echoing softly in the hollow of the church.

Jeonghan found his voice, though it was rough from disuse. “I shouldn’t have.”

He took a hesitant step forward, his limp pronounced in the quiet. Joshua’s eyes dropped to his leg, then to his hands, taking in the permanent changes, the visible scars of that night. A fresh wave of pain crossed his face.

“Your ankle…” he breathed.

“It’s fine,” Jeonghan said, the lie automatic. He stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the anguish in Joshua’s eyes, but too far to touch. The space between them was a minefield of memory and hurt.

“I’m so sorry, Hannie,” Joshua choked out, the tears falling freely now. “I tried to stop her. I tried to come after you. She… she took my phone. She watched me every second. She sent me to stay with my aunt in Jeju for a month. I just got back. I only just got my phone back today.”

The pieces clicked into place. The silence hadn’t been a choice. It had been an imprisonment.

“Your grandmother?” Joshua asked, his voice full of a desperate hope. “Is she…?”

“She’s okay,” Jeonghan said, the words feeling strange on his tongue. “She’s home. She’s… she’s okay.” It was the only good thing he had to hold onto.

The relief on Joshua’s face was profound. He took a step closer, then another, closing the gap until they were standing inches apart, in the same way they had under the streetlamp a lifetime ago.

“I thought I lost you,” Joshua whispered, his gaze searching Jeonghan’s face, seeing the new hardness there, the shadows under his eyes. “I thought you hated me.”

Jeonghan shook his head, the motion slow and heavy. “I could never hate you, Jisoo.” The name, their name, felt like a prayer on his lips after so long. “I just… I can’t. Your mother… she was right. I am a plague. Look at me.” He gestured to his leg, to his own worn-out appearance. “I bring ruin. I broke my ankle. I lost my scholarship. I had to leave school. This… this is what I am now. And you… you’re still you. You have your future.”

Joshua reached out then, his hand trembling as he gently cupped Jeonghan’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the spot where his mother’s hand had landed. The touch was so gentle, so familiar, it was agony.

“You listen to me, Yoon Jeonghan,” Joshua said, his voice trembling but fierce. “You are not ruin. You are the strongest person I know. You jumped out of a window for your family. You work day and night to take care of her. That’s not a plague. That’s love. That’s who you’ve always been.” His eyes blazed with a conviction that left no room for argument. “And my future… it’s empty without you in it.”

The last of Jeonghan’s resistance crumbled. A sob broke from his chest, harsh and ugly in the holy silence. He leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against Joshua’s, their tears mingling.

They stood there in the dark church, two broken boys holding each other up, their quiet sobs a confession and a prayer. The world outside had tried to tear them apart with scripture and violence and silence. But here, in the shadows of the very institution that had been wielded against them, they had found their way back. They were scarred, and changed, and the road ahead was terrifying. But they were together. And for now, in the sacred, stolen silence, that was a miracle in itself.

The fragile peace Jeonghan had scraped together after the meeting in the church was a house of cards. For a few days, the memory of Joshua’s touch, his fierce, whispered words—“You are not ruin”—had been a small, warm ember in the frozen tundra of his existence. He went to his job, he cared for Halmeoni, and he allowed himself, for fleeting moments, to remember what it felt like to be seen, to be loved.

Then, the text came again. A week later, late at night, after his supermarket shift. The same number. The same chillingly simple message.

Unknown: The church. Now. Please.

His blood ran cold. It felt wrong. The first message had been a desperate plea. This one felt like a command. The ‘please’ at the end was a discordant note, a clumsy attempt at mimicry. But the ember in his chest, the desperate, stupid hope, flared. What if Joshua was in trouble? What if he needed him?

He was a moth to a flame, his own need making him reckless. He told Halmeoni he was going for a walk to clear his head. She’d looked at him with those wise, tired eyes, a silent worry in their depths, but had only nodded.

The walk to the church was a study in dread. The night was cold, the wind biting through his thin jacket. Every shadow seemed to move. His ankle, a permanent barometer of his misery, throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. He pushed the heavy door open, the familiar creak now sounding like a warning.

The church was not empty this time.

A single candle flickered on the altar, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed up the stone walls. And standing in the centre of the aisle, her arms crossed, was not Joshua, but his mother.

Her face was not contorted in rage as it had been in the bedroom. It was a mask of cold, pitiless resolution. She looked at him not with hate, but with the clinical detachment of a surgeon about to remove a tumour.

Jeonghan’s heart seized. Trap. It was a trap. He took a stumbling step back, his bad ankle twisting, a spike of pain shooting up his leg.

“I’m leaving,” he stammered, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

“It’s too late for that, Yoon Jeonghan,” she said, her voice calm, horribly calm. “The healing must begin.”

From the shadows of the pews, two figures emerged. Men from her church, broad-shouldered and grim-faced. Deacons or elders. They moved with a purposeful, silent efficiency, blocking the door, cutting off his escape.

Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. This was beyond a confrontation. This was something else.

“What are you doing?” he cried, his voice rising in pitch. “Let me go! I have to get home to my grandmother!”

“Your grandmother is being prayed for,” one of the men said, his voice a low rumble. “As are you.”

They advanced on him. Jeonghan turned to run, to find another exit, but his leg betrayed him, a sharp, blinding pain making him cry out as he collapsed to one knee. In an instant, they were on him. Their hands were like iron manacles on his arms, hauling him back to his feet. He fought, a wild, frantic struggle, his worn-out body no match for their brute strength. He kicked, he thrashed, he screamed, the sound raw and terrified in the holy space.

“JISOO! JISOO, HELP ME!”

His screams were met with only the echo of his own terror and the beginning of Joshua’s mother’s voice, rising in a chanting prayer.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come!”

They dragged him, kicking and screaming, down the aisle towards the front of the church. Towards the baptismal font, a small, stone pool set into the floor near the altar. The water within looked black and icy in the candlelight.

Realisation dawned, a horror so profound it stole his breath. They weren’t just going to yell at him. They were going to cleanse him.

“NO! PLEASE! DON’T!” he begged, his struggles becoming more frantic, more desperate. He was sobbing now, great, heaving gasps of pure, undiluted terror. “You can’t do this! Let me go!”

The men’s grips only tightened, their faces set in stony determination. They were servants of a higher purpose, and he was the sin that needed washing away.

Joshua’s mother stood over the font, her Bible held open in her hands. Her voice was a relentless, hammering drone, each verse a nail in his coffin.

“Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who practice homosexuality—”

The word, spoken with such venomous clarity in the house of God, felt like a physical blow. It wasn’t an accusation; it was a label, a diagnosis of a sickness he was supposed to have.

“—will inherit the kingdom of God.”

“That’s not what I am!” Jeonghan screamed, tears and snot streaming down his face. “I love him! I just love him!”

His confession, the most vulnerable truth of his soul, was met with a harder, more fervent prayer.

“And such were some of you! But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God!”

He was at the edge of the font now. The cold stone bit into his knees as they forced him down. The black water shimmered, a hungry mouth waiting to swallow him whole.

“Submit, boy,” one of the men grunted in his ear. “Submit to God’s grace.”

“This isn’t grace!” Jeonghan wept, his body trembling violently. “This is… this is torture!”

He looked up, his vision blurry with tears, and saw Joshua’s mother looking down at him. There was no mercy in her eyes. Only a fervent, terrifying certainty.

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,” she intoned, her voice rising to a crescendo. “And the wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord!”

With a final, brutal shove from the men, his head was forced down, down, into the freezing water.

The world vanished in a shock of cold and panic. The candlelight was gone, replaced by a swirling, dark chaos. Icy water filled his nose, his ears, his mouth. He held his breath, his lungs burning, his body convulsing, trying to fight, to push back, but the hands on the back of his head were immovable.

The words weren’t silenced by the water; they seemed to amplify, echoing inside his skull, searing themselves into his very being.

…men who practice homosexuality…

He saw Joshua’s face, the way he smiled when he was reading. …you were washed… He felt the ghost of their first kiss under the fireworks. …sanctified… He remembered the warmth of Joshua’s hand in his as they walked home. …the wages of sin is death…

His lungs were on fire. Black spots danced behind his eyelids. This was it. They were going to drown him here. They were going to kill him in the name of their God, and he would die with the taste of chlorinated holy water in his mouth and the sound of damnation in his ears.

Just as his consciousness began to fray, the hands yanked him back up.

He exploded from the water, gasping, choking, vomiting water onto the stone floor. He dragged in huge, ragged, shuddering breaths, his body wracked with violent tremors from the cold and the terror. He was disoriented, broken.

Joshua’s mother looked down at him, a strange, serene light in her eyes.

“Behold,” she whispered, her voice dripping with a twisted triumph. “The new has come.”

The men released him. He collapsed onto the cold, wet stone, curling into a fetal position, coughing and sobbing, a soaked, shattered wreck. The rough stone scraped against his cheek. He could still feel the phantom hands holding him under. He could still hear the verses, a permanent, screaming chorus in his mind.

He didn’t know how long he lay there. When he finally found the strength to move, the church was empty. The candle on the altar had burned out. He was alone in the dark, shivering violently, the smell of damp stone and his own vomit filling his nostrils.

He crawled, then stumbled to his feet, his wet clothes clinging to him, weighing him down. He limped out of the church and into the cold, uncaring night. The physical scars from his fall had been bad enough. But this… this was different. They hadn’t just broken his body this time. They had tried to drown his soul. And as he began the long, agonising walk home, the icy water still dripping from his hair, Yoon Jeonghan felt a part of himself die in that font, leaving behind a hollow, haunted shell, forever baptised in shame and terror.

The days after the baptism were a new kind of hell. A silent, internal one. The physical chill had left his bones, but a deeper, more profound cold had taken up residence in his soul. He moved through his life—the convenience store, the market, Halmeoni’s bedside—like an automaton. His eyes, once shadowed with grief, were now utterly vacant. The screaming verses had quieted to a constant, low hum in the back of his mind, a permanent radio broadcast from his own damnation.

He endured it. He endured the phantom sensation of hands on his head, the taste of chlorinated water at the back of his throat, the way he would flinch at the touch of any unexpected water. He endured it because a terrible, final calculus had been completed in his shattered mind.

One of them had to be punished for their sin. The world, God, Joshua’s mother—they had all made that brutally clear. And he would be damned—he already was, according to them—before he let that punishment fall on Joshua.

Joshua was light. He was brilliant and a pristine future. He was meant for labs and libraries and a life untouched by the filth and violence that clung to Jeonghan like a second skin. Jeonghan was ruin. He was a broken ankle, a dead scholarship, a plague. He was the one who had been held under the water. He was the designated sacrifice.

The plan formed with a cold, grim clarity. It was the only way to save Joshua. To sever the tie completely, so cleanly and finally that Joshua’s mother would have no reason to ever look at her son with that holy horror again. So that Joshua could be free.

He couldn’t use his phone. He was sure it was being monitored, if not by Joshua’s mother, then by some divine, punishing eye. So he used the oldest currency he knew. He found a young kid from the neighbourhood, one who still looked up to him despite his limp and his quietness, and paid him his last few won to deliver a message.

“Tell Hong Joshua. The old bus stop. 3 AM. Tell him it’s from Hannie.”

The boy had nodded, wide-eyed, and run off. The die was cast.

Jeonghan spent his last day in a state of eerie calm. He cleaned the house from top to bottom. He cooked a week’s worth of meals for Halmeoni and packed them neatly in the fridge with labels. He wrote her a letter, a simple, heartbreaking note telling her he loved her more than anything in the world, that he had to go away for a while to find work, that he would send money, that she was not to worry. He left his clamshell phone on the table beside her bed. He packed a single, small bag with a change of clothes, the small amount of cash he’d managed to save, and the faded, slightly damp photo of him, Halmeoni, and Joshua from Joshua’s camera.

He kissed her forehead as she slept, memorising the feel of her skin, the soft sound of her breathing. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

The city at 3 AM was a ghost town. The air was bitingly cold, the silence broken only by the hum of a distant generator. The old bus stop, the site of their childhood promise, was just a rusted shelter and a faded sign. It felt like the edge of the world.

He stood there, his bag at his feet, his body trembling not from the cold, but from the enormity of what he was about to do. He was going to break both their hearts to save one.

He didn’t have to wait long. He heard the frantic patter of footsteps on the pavement. And then Joshua was there, emerging from the shadows, his face pale and desperate in the weak glow of the single streetlamp. He was breathing heavily, his eyes wide with a mixture of hope and terror.

“Hannie? What’s going on? Are you okay? What happened? After the church, I—“

Jeonghan held up a hand, cutting him off. His voice, when it came, was flat, devoid of all the emotion that was tearing him apart inside. “We’re leaving.”

Joshua stared at him, bewildered. “Leaving? What… what do you mean? Leaving where?”

“Away from here,” Jeonghan said, his gaze fixed on some point over Joshua’s shoulder. He couldn’t look him in the eye. If he did, he would shatter. “We’re running away. The bus to Daegu comes at 3:30. We’ll figure it out from there.”

He saw the hope bloom in Joshua’s eyes, a beautiful, terrible thing. “We… we are? Together?”

“Yes,” Jeonghan lied. The word felt like ash in his mouth.

Joshua took a step forward, his hand reaching out. “Hannie, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me. Talk to me. What happened at the church? My mother… she came home that night, she was… strange. Calm. She said you had been… ‘saved’. What did she do to you?”

The question was a knife twisting in the wound. Saved. He had been held underwater until he believed he was drowning. He had been scrubbed raw with scripture until he believed he was filth.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jeonghan said, his voice hardening. He finally met Joshua’s gaze, and he made sure his own eyes were as cold and empty as he felt. “All that matters is that we can’t stay here. We have to go. Now.”

He saw the doubt warring with the desperate hope on Joshua’s face. Joshua, who trusted him with his whole heart. Joshua, who was ready to throw away his brilliant future because Jeonghan asked him to.

“Okay,” Joshua whispered, his voice trembling. “Okay, Hannie. If that’s what we have to do. Just… just let me go back. I’ll pack a bag. I’ll leave a note for my parents. I can’t just… disappear. Let me handle some things.”

Yes, Jeonghan’s soul screamed. Go. Pack. Leave a note. Be the good son you are. Stay in your clean, safe world.

But his mouth said, “There’s no time.” He gestured to the empty road. “The bus will be here soon. It’s now or never, Jisoo.”

It was the ultimate test. The final, cruellest part of his plan. He was forcing Joshua to choose, in an instant, between his life and him.

He saw the struggle play out across Joshua’s face—the fear, the love, the crushing weight of the decision. He saw Joshua’s eyes dart back in the direction of his home, of his life.

“I… I can’t,” Joshua choked out, fresh tears springing to his eyes. “Not like this, Hannie. It’s too cruel. Let me just go—“

“Then it’s never,” Jeonghan interrupted, his voice final and cold as a slab of granite. He picked up his bag. “I’m going. With or without you.”

He turned his back on Joshua, on the boy he loved more than life itself, and started walking towards the imaginary bus stop down the road, his limp a painful, rhythmic punctuation to his lie.

“Hannie, wait!” Joshua cried, his voice breaking. “Please! Don’t do this!”

Jeonghan didn’t turn around. He kept walking, each step an agony, each one taking him further from the only source of light he had ever known. He listened for the sound of footsteps following him. He prayed for them. He prayed that Joshua would be reckless, would choose him.

The only sound was Joshua’s ragged sobs, fading behind him.

The touch was like a lightning strike. Just as Jeonghan had taken his another, soul-crushing step away, Joshua’s hand shot out, yanking him back with a desperate strength. Jeonghan stumbled, his bad ankle screaming in protest, and was spun around to face him.

Joshua’s face was a torrent of tears and frantic determination. “No! You don’t get to just decide this for both of us!” he cried, his voice raw. “Just… just give me a week. A week to make it right. To pack, to… to say goodbye. I have things that need to be taken care of. I’ll come back. I promise you, Hannie. I will come back, and we’ll go together. For real.”

The ember of hope, which Jeonghan had tried so hard to extinguish, flared into a dangerous, agonising flame. A week. It was a reprieve. A chance. Joshua’s eyes, blazing with a love so fierce it was almost violent, made the lie of the bus to Daegu feel flimsy and pathetic. Joshua wasn’t choosing his old life; he was asking for a week to bridge the impossible gap between his world and Jeonghan’s.

He was offering a thread back from the ledge.

Jeonghan, whose entire being was built around Joshua’s faith in him, felt his resolve fracture. He couldn’t say no to that face. Not when it was offering him everything.

“A week,” Jeonghan whispered, the words a surrender. “I’ll be here. Every night. At 3 AM.”

Joshua nodded, a frantic, relieved motion. He leaned in, pressing a hard, desperate kiss to Jeonghan’s lips—a kiss that tasted of salt and promises. “A week. Wait for me.”

And then he was gone, running back into the shadows from which he’d come, leaving Jeonghan standing alone at the bus stop, the ghost of the kiss burning on his lips, the promise of “a week” echoing in the silent, pre-dawn air.

The week that followed was a special kind of torture. Hope was a far more painful master than despair. Despair was a heavy blanket you could learn to carry. Hope was a needle, jabbing him with every passing hour.

He went through the motions of his life, but his mind was always at the bus stop. He counted down the hours until 3 AM. He endured the long, grey days at his job, the careful tending to Halmeoni, with a new, frantic energy. He was building a future. A future with Joshua. He started secretly packing a second bag. He mapped out bus routes from Daegu to smaller, cheaper towns. He allowed himself to dream of a tiny room, just for the two of them, where no one could find them, where no one could scream scripture or hold them under water.

He told Halmeoni nothing. The lie he had written for her was still tucked under his pillow. He would use it when the week was up, when Joshua was by his side.

The first night, he was at the bus stop at 2:45 AM, his heart hammering. The 3:30 bus to Daegu rumbled past, empty. Joshua didn’t come. He’s planning. It’s only the first day, Jeonghan told himself, the cold seeping into his bones.

The second night. The third. The fourth. Each night, he stood in the same spot, his small bag of hope at his feet, watching the empty street. The silence was a physical weight. The doubt began to creep in, a venomous whisper. He changed his mind. His mother got to him.

But he remembered the fire in Joshua’s eyes, the feel of his desperate kiss. He promised. He held onto that.

The fifth night, it rained. A cold, miserable drizzle that soaked through his jacket and plastered his hair to his forehead. He stood there, shivering, water dripping down his neck, his ankle throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. The bus came and went. The street remained empty. The hope was beginning to curdle, turning into a sick, gnawing fear.

The sixth night. The second-to-last night. The air was clear and bitterly cold. The stars were sharp, icy pinpricks in the vast blackness. Jeonghan’s hope was a frail, flickering thing, barely alive. He clung to it with the desperation of a drowning man. Just one more night after this. Joshua would come. He had to.

He was leaning against the rusted frame of the bus shelter, his eyes fixed on the road, when he heard the familiar, rattling cough of Mr. Kim’s ancient truck. Mr. Kim, their neighbor, was an early riser, heading to the fish market. The truck slowed as it passed the bus stop.

Mr. Kim’s face, usually gruff but kind, was etched with a profound pity. He rolled down the window.

“Jeonghan-ah,” he said, his voice unusually gentle. “I… I was coming to find you.”

A cold that had nothing to do with the night air seized Jeonghan’s heart. “Find me?”

Mr. Kim looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “It’s your Halmeoni, son. She… she passed in her sleep last night. The doctor said it was her heart. It was peaceful. She just… didn’t wake up.”

The world did not tilt. It shattered.

The words didn’t make sense. They were sounds, meaningless noises. Passed. Heart. Peaceful. They were words from a language he didn’t speak.

“No,” Jeonghan whispered. The word was a puff of air, invisible in the cold.

“I’m so sorry, boy,” Mr. Kim said, his voice thick. “We tried your phone. It was off. We didn’t know where you were…”

He wasn’t there.

The thought was a cleaver, severing him in two. He hadn’t been there. He had been here, at this stupid, cursed bus stop, waiting for a boy who was never coming, while the only person who had ever truly, unconditionally loved him had taken her last breath alone.

He had left her a note. A lie about going away to work. Her last memory of him would have been that betrayal.

A sound tore from his throat, a raw, animalistic keen of agony that ripped through the silent night. He collapsed to his knees on the cold concrete, the impact jarring his broken ankle, but he didn’t feel it. The pain was everywhere, in every cell, in every shattered piece of his soul.

Mr. Kim was saying something about arrangements, about coming with him, but the words were a distant buzz. All Jeonghan could hear was the roaring in his ears and the two facts crashing into each other with annihilating force.

Halmeoni was gone.

And Joshua had abandoned him.

The promise of a week had been a lie. A cruel, final joke. Joshua had known. He must have known. He had bought himself a week of freedom from Jeonghan’s mess, a week to let Jeonghan’s world collapse completely, so he wouldn’t have to be burdened with the wreckage.

He was truly, utterly alone.

There was no family. No future. No love. The baptism had drowned his spirit, and now his heart had been ripped out. He was an empty vessel, a ghost condemned to walk the earth with the weight of his failures and his losses.

He didn’t remember getting home. He found himself standing in the doorway of their small, silent house. It was already different. It was no longer a home. It was a tomb. Halmeoni’s knitting was still on her chair. Her favourite cup was on the table. Their picture, together with Joshua, was still hanging on the wall. 

He walked to her room. The bed was neatly made. She looked like she was sleeping, but the profound, absolute stillness of her was a horror he could not comprehend.

He sank to the floor at the foot of her bed, in the same position he had held for two days in the hospital. But this time, there was no vigil to keep. No hope for recovery. There was only the final, deafening silence.

He didn’t cry. The sobs that had wracked him at the bus stop were gone. There was nothing left to expel. He was hollowed out. He sat there as the sun rose, painting the room in a light that felt like an insult. The world was still turning. The universe was profoundly, cruelly indifferent.

He was seventeen years old. He had no family. No money. No education. A broken body. A soul scoured clean by holy water and despair.

Yoon Jeonghan had lost everything. And the one person he had thought would be his shelter from the storm had been the one who handed him the final, killing blow. He was alone in the universe, anchored to nothing and no one, a solitary star drifting into an infinite, cold, and silent dark.

Chapter Text

The golden light of the setting sun should have felt warm. It streamed through the vast windows of the YSL headquarters, gilding the marble floors and the stark, beautiful faces in the lobby. But to Joshua, it felt like the final, cold light of an autopsy. He stood alone, the phantom weight of Jeonghan’s disdain still clinging to him like a shroud. Every muscle ached from the hours of holding himself in a pose of serene indifference, a performance that had been more draining than any runway walk.

The shoot had been a catastrophe. He had felt it in the silence of the crew, seen it in the frustrated pinch of the photographer’s mouth. He had looked at Jeonghan, trying to project every ounce of their shared, painful history into the lens, and had been met with a wall of polished obsidian. Nothing. Jeonghan had given the camera nothing, and in doing so, had forced Joshua to give everything, alone. The resulting images would be a beautiful, empty lie.

He was so lost in the reverberating silence of his own failure that he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until a familiar, cheerful voice cut through the haze.

“Well, you look like you just went ten rounds with a particularly philosophical brick wall.”

Joshua blinked, the world swimming back into focus. Lee Seokmin stood before him, a brilliant, unrestrained smile on his face that seemed to defy the very gloom clinging to Joshua. In his hands was a ludicrously large, exuberant bouquet of sunflowers and white daisies—a burst of vibrant, cheerful colour that was the absolute antithesis of the monochrome world of YSL, of Jeonghan, of the entire crushing day.

And then, before Joshua could form a word, Seokmin was moving. He didn’t offer a polite, back-slapping friend hug. He stepped forward and wrapped Joshua in a full-bodied, enveloping embrace. His arms were solid and sure around Joshua’s shoulders, pulling him close.

For a moment, Joshua remained rigid, the tension of the day a carapace around him. But then, the sheer, uncomplicated warmth of the gesture, the familiar, safe scent of Seokmin’s cologne, broke through. The dam holding back his exhaustion and humiliation cracked. His body, which had been a rod of unyielding stone for hours, finally, helplessly, melted. He buried his face in the soft cashmere of Seokmin’s sweater, his own arms coming up to clutch at his back. His shoulders, which had been held so tight he thought they might splinter, slumped in a wave of profound, shuddering relief.

They held the pose for a beat too long. Two beats. In that silent, anchored space, the world and its agonies receded.

Seokmin pulled back slightly, his hands coming up to cradle Joshua’s face. His thumbs, gentle and sure, brushed away the traitorous moisture Joshua hadn’t even realised was gathering at the corners of his eyes.

“Hey,” Seokmin murmured, his voice low and tender, a balm on Joshua’s raw nerves. “That bad, huh?”

Joshua shook his head, a small, weary, but genuine smile finally touching his lips. It felt strange on his face, like using a forgotten muscle. It was a smile that reached his eyes, lit them from within with a flicker of the person he was outside of this war with Jeonghan. It was a smile he hadn’t felt in what seemed like a lifetime.

“Worse,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

It was then, over Seokmin’s shoulder, that his gaze inadvertently swept the lobby and snagged on a figure half-hidden by a large potted plant near the studio door.

Jeonghan.

He was frozen, his posture rigid, his face a pale, unreadable mask. But his eyes… his eyes were fixed on them with an intensity that was anything but unreadable. It was a look of pure, undiluted shock, followed by a wave of something so dark and possessive. He was a voyeur to this moment of solace, and his presence turned it into something else entirely. A betrayal.

For a dizzying second, a treacherous, hopeful part of Joshua’s heart leapt. See? it screamed. See what you’re doing? See what you’re losing?

But as quickly as the look had appeared, it vanished. Jeonghan’s expression iced over, the shutters slamming down. He didn’t move. He just stood there, a monument to his own coldness, and Joshua felt the fragile warmth Seokmin had offered seep away, replaced by a colder, more final understanding.

The car ride back to his hotel was a silent, grim affair. The chasm between him and Jeonghan wasn't just emotional; it was a tangible force field, and Joshua had finally accepted that he would never be allowed to cross it.

He walked into his suite, the opulent silence pressing in on him. He went to the window, looking out at the city of lights, a city built for lovers and new beginnings. It just looked like a collection of cold, distant stars.

And he knew, with a clarity that felt like shards of glass in his chest, that they were never going to be the same.

The boys from Busan were dead, their memory a ghost that haunted only him. Jeonghan was a fortress, and he had made it brutally clear that Joshua was the enemy at the gate. He would make sure they did not move. He would ensure they remained locked in this agonising, static dance.

He had been orbiting Jeonghan like a wounded moon around a cold, dead star, hoping for a flicker of the old warmth. He had offered apologies, compliments, and professional courtesy. He had taken every icy barb, every dismissive glance, and absorbed it, thinking if he just endured enough, the real Jeonghan would eventually emerge from the permafrost.

But he saw it now. He had been the one sitting in the snow, still waiting at the bus station like a fool, watching as each bus—each chance, each hope—passed him by. Letting the cold seep into his bones until his blood ran icy, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He had starved himself of comfort, of peace, of other people, so that Jeonghan would see his suffering and understand the depth of his pain.

But people sitting in the warmth of their houses, well-fed and content, will never understand the cold. They can’t comprehend the numbness, the ache, the way the silence of a deserted street can feel like a scream. Jeonghan, safe in the fortified castle of his own making, would never feel the sting of each passing bus, a fresh betrayal as it carried on without him.

The pain you endure is only yours to carry.

It’s yours and yours only.

He had been carrying it for so long, this boulder of grief and love and hope, that he had mistaken its weight for a part of himself. But watching Jeonghan’s cold, retreating back, he finally understood. He was the only one still carrying it. Jeonghan had put his down years ago. He had built a kingdom from it.

A soft knock at the door broke the silence. It was Seokmin, holding two cups of steaming tea, his expression a quiet, unassuming apology for the earlier awkwardness with the kiss, a simple offering of friendship.

Joshua let him in. He didn’t talk about Jeonghan. He didn’t talk about the shoot. He just accepted the tea, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into his hands, a small, manageable heat. It wasn’t the conflagration he’d once had with Jeonghan. It wouldn’t burn down cities or leave him in ashes. It was just… warm.

And as he sat there in the quiet company of his friend, Joshua Hong made a decision. He was done waiting in the snow. The orbit was broken. The star was dead. The pain was his to carry, yes, but he no longer had to carry it to that empty bus stop. He could carry it somewhere else. He could, finally, begin to walk away. 

A silence fell over Jeonghan's penthouse so absolute it felt violent. It was dense with the unspoken: the spectre of Joshua's devastation, the corpse of their promise, and the profound, solitary silence of a grandmother's deathbed.

Seungcheol just stared. The polished marble floor, the minimalist furniture, the breathtaking view of Paris—it all seemed like a grotesque film set now, a beautiful lie built over a foundation of rot and grief. The pieces of the enigmatic, icy Yoon Jeonghan finally clicked into a picture so devastating it made Seungcheol’s stomach clench.

The relentless ambition, the refusal to get close to anyone, the flinches at unexpected touches, the way he only ever did yoga—a controlled, low-impact practice that wouldn’t aggravate the old, brutal injury that had stolen his future. It all made a terrible, heartbreaking sense.

He’d just unspooled a decade of pain in a flat, monotone voice, as if reading from a clinical report. The childhood friendship that bloomed into a first love. The homophobic mother. The forced baptism. The desperate plan to run away. The bus stop. The promise of a week. And then, the two killing blows, delivered in that same, dead tone: his grandmother’s death, and Joshua’s abandonment, all crashing down on him in the same, frozen night.

He didn’t cry. He just sat there on the pristine white sofa, looking smaller and more fragile than Seungcheol had ever imagined possible, his walls not just cracked but completely demolished, leaving only the raw, pulsing nerve of a trauma that had shaped him into the man he was.

Seungcheol’s mind raced, searching for the right thing to say. An apology felt insultingly inadequate. A promise that it would be okay was a lie. There were no words in any language that could balm a wound that deep.

So, he fell back on the only thing that felt real. Action.

He cleared his throat, the sound awkward in the profound quiet. “You know,” he began, his voice rough with emotion. “We have a pretty strict no-hug policy between us. A lot of broody scowling and sarcastic comments. It’s part of our friendship.”

Jeonghan’s vacant eyes flickered towards him, a faint hint of confusion breaking through the numbness.

Seungcheol stood up. “But I don’t care about bullshit like that right now.”

He crossed the short distance and pulled Jeonghan into his arms, cutting off any chance of retreat. This was no gentle hug. It was an anchor, a full-bodied claim of support, meant to ground a soul that was threatening to shatter and fly apart.

He braced for a shove, for a cold, sharp remark, for Jeonghan to freeze up and push him away.

It didn’t happen.

Instead, a tremor went through Jeonghan’s frame. For a second, he remained rigid, a statue in Seungcheol’s arms. Then, all at once, the fight—the decade-long fight to hold himself up, to be untouchable, to be strong—just… evaporated.

He slumped forward. His head, usually held so high with regal indifference, dropped heavily onto Seungcheol’s shoulder. A long, shuddering sigh escaped him, a sound of such profound exhaustion it seemed to drain the last of his strength. He didn’t raise his arms to hug back; they lay limp at his sides, as if the simple act of accepting comfort was all he could manage.

And he was so, so still.

Seungcheol just held him. He could feel the sharp line of Jeonghan’s shoulders, the surprising delicacy of his frame beneath the expensive sweater. He could feel the faint, almost imperceptible tremors that still ran through him. He said nothing. There was nothing to say. He just stood there, an anchor in the storm of silent grief, letting Jeonghan lean on him for the first time in what was probably seven years.

He thought of the boy Jeonghan had described—the fierce, protective teenager who loved his grandmother and played basketball with a joyful intensity. He thought of that boy waiting in the cold, night after night, his hope slowly freezing into despair. He thought of him receiving the news of his grandmother’s death while standing at that cursed bus stop, his entire world collapsing in a single, brutal moment. He thought of the shattering of bone, the end of a dream, all endured alone.

The image of the cool, untouchable ice prince he’d known for years completely dissolved, replaced by this: a devastatingly lonely man, finally allowing someone to see the ruins.

They stood like that for what felt like an eternity, the only sound their breathing and the distant hum of the city. The expensive penthouse no longer felt like a fortress; it felt like a very large, very empty cage.

Finally, Jeonghan stirred. He didn’t pull away abruptly. He just slowly, wearily, lifted his head from Seungcheol’s shoulder. His eyes were dry, but the emptiness in them was gone, replaced by a deep, weary sorrow that was somehow even more painful to witness.

Seungcheol released him, taking a small step back to give him space.

“The campaign…” Jeonghan began, his voice regaining a shred of its usual business-like edge, though it was brittle.

“Screw the campaign,” Seungcheol said, with more force than he intended. “Forget the campaign for one night, Han. Just… be here. You don’t have to be okay.”

Jeonghan looked at him then, a long, searching look. It was as if he was seeing Seungcheol—truly seeing him, as an anchor, not just as a friend—for the first time.

“Okay…” he said, the words quiet but sincere.

Seungcheol’s mind was a whirlwind. He studied his friend—the sharp, beautiful lines of his profile, the way his long fingers worried at a loose thread on his sweatpants. The infamous Yoon Jeonghan armour was in pieces on the floor, and the raw truth was a terrifying thing to behold.

He had to ask. He couldn’t not.

“So?..” Seungcheol began, his voice cautious. He fumbled for the right words. “Do you still…?”

The sentence hung there, unfinished. Words like ‘like ’ or ‘hate’ felt too simplistic, too high-school for the epic tragedy he’d just been told. ‘Love’ felt too small to contain the enormity of their history, and yet too big, too dangerous, to speak aloud in this shattered space.

But Jeonghan understood. His eyes, which had been fixed on the cityscape, flickered closed for a brief second. A muscle tensed in his jaw.

“I don’t,” he said. The words were quiet, but they fell into the room with the finality of a guillotine.

Seungcheol waited. He knew there was more. There was always more with Jeonghan.

Sure enough, Jeonghan’s gaze dropped to his own hands, as if searching for the scars that were no longer visible on his skin, only on his soul. “I shouldn’t,” he added, the words even softer, laced with a self-directed venom that was painful to hear.

“Shouldn’t… or don’t?” Seungcheol pressed gently. He wasn’t going to let him off with a simple, clean answer. Not after everything.

Jeonghan let out a short, humourless breath that was almost a laugh. “What’s the difference? The result is the same.” He finally looked up, meeting Seungcheol’s gaze. The emptiness was back, but it was a chosen emptiness now. A defensive measure. “He is a reminder of everything I lost. Of the person I was before… all of this.” He gestured vaguely around the penthouse, a sweeping motion that encompassed his career, his isolation, his pain. “Every time I look at him, I don’t see Joshua Hong, the Givenchy model. I see the boy who promised to meet me at the bus stop. I see the reason I wasn’t there when my grandmother took her last breath.”

“Han,” Seungcheol said, his voice firm. “That’s not fair. You can’t blame him for that.”

“Can’t I?” Jeonghan’s eyes flashed with a sudden, old anger. “He asked for a week. He promised. And he never came. He left me there, waiting, while my world ended. He chose his comfortable life, his pristine future, over me. He proved what I’d always feared—that I wasn’t enough. That I was just… a phase. The poor, troubled boy from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“You don’t know that,” Seungcheol argued, leaning forward. “You said his mother was… extreme. What if she locked him away? What if he tried to come and couldn’t? You only have your side of the story.”

“I have the only side that matters!” Jeonghan’s voice rose, sharp and brittle. “My side! The side where I was left alone! The side where I had to identify my grandmother’s body and plan her funeral with a broken ankle and no one to help me! Where was he then? Sending a bouquet of sunflowers?” The words were a sneer, dripping with the bitterness of the memory he’d witnessed outside the studio.

He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of the window like a caged panther, his limp barely noticeable in his agitation. “You think I enjoy this? This… this hatred? It’s exhausting, Cheol. It’s a full-time job. But it’s the only thing that keeps me from…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of pure frustration.

“From what?” Seungcheol asked softly.

Jeonghan stopped pacing, his back to Seungcheol. His shoulders were tense. “From remembering,” he whispered. “From remembering what it felt like. Before. When it was just us. When he looked at me like I was… everything.” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the memory. “That’s a dangerous memory. It makes you weak. It makes you hope. And hope is a luxury I can’t afford.”

Seungcheol watched him, his heart aching. This wasn’t just about a past betrayal. This was a survival mechanism. The hatred, the ice, the public rivalry—it was all a meticulously constructed dam holding back an ocean of grief and a love that had never actually died. It had just been frozen solid.

“So you’ll just keep punishing him?” Seungcheol asked. “And punishing yourself? For the rest of your lives?”

Jeonghan turned around, his expression once again a carefully neutral mask, though his eyes still held a turbulent storm. “It’s not about punishment. It’s about distance. It’s about making sure he understands that the boy he knew is gone. That there’s nothing left for him here. So he can stop looking at me with those… those eyes.”

“What eyes?”

“The ones that still see the boy at the bus stop,” Jeonghan said, his voice barely audible. “The ones that think there’s something left to save.”

The confession hung in the air, the most honest thing he’d said all night. He wasn’t pushing Joshua away because he hated him. He was pushing him away because he was terrified that if Joshua got too close, he’d see that the boy was still in there, shattered and frozen, but still there. And that boy was too vulnerable to survive being broken again.

Seungcheol sighed, leaning back in his chair. There was no winning this argument. The walls were too high, the scars too deep. “Okay,” he said, surrendering to the grim reality. “Okay, Han. I hear you.”

Jeonghan gave a curt nod; the conversation was clearly over. The moment of raw vulnerability had passed, sealed shut once more. He walked towards his kitchen. “You want a drink? I’m having a drink.”

It was a dismissal, a return to their usual script. Broody scowl, sarcastic comments, alcohol.

“Yeah,” Seungcheol said, getting up. “Yeah, I’ll have one.”

As he watched Jeonghan pour two fingers of amber whiskey into crystal glasses, Seungcheol understood the truth. Jeonghan didn’t ‘not’ feel anything for Joshua Hong. The opposite of love wasn’t hate; it was indifference. And the searing, possessive, exhausting emotion Jeonghan carried for Joshua was anything but indifferent. It was a love that had been twisted by trauma into a weapon, a shield, and a life sentence. And he had no intention of seeking a pardon.

Seungcheol accepted the heavy crystal glass, the amber liquid within catching the city lights. The silence now was companionable, a stark contrast to the emotional devastation of minutes before. But one question still burned in Seungcheol’s mind, cutting through the haze of shared grief and expensive whiskey.

He took a sip, the burn a grounding sensation. “Han,” he began, his voice quieter now. “What made you tell me? Now, after all these years of keeping it locked away?”

Jeonghan didn’t answer immediately. He leaned against his kitchen island, swirling the whiskey in his glass, his gaze distant. The confession had drained him, leaving behind a strange, hollowed-out calm.

“Because,” he said finally, his voice a low, gravelly thing, “I was about to beat the living shit out of a very rich man in the middle of a public street. And I wanted you to be there to either stop me, or at least understand why I did it.”

Seungcheol’s glass froze halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it. “A rich man? Who?”

A dark, humourless smirk twisted Jeonghan’s lips. It was an ugly, unfamiliar expression. “Lee Seokmin.”

The name landed between them. The pieces clicked into place with brutal, sickening clarity. The scene Seungcheol had witnessed outside the studio—the hug, the sunflowers, the easy comfort—hadn’t just been a painful sight for Jeonghan. It had been a trigger. A detonator.

“Why?” Seungcheol asked, his voice flat.

“I saw him,” Jeonghan corrected, his eyes glinting with that same dark fire from earlier. “I saw him putting his hands on him. I saw Joshua… melting into it. After a day I had spent carving him into stone, that trust fund bastard just waltzes in with his gaudy flowers and his… his ease, and undoes it all in five seconds.” He took a sharp gulp of his whiskey. “He was touching him, Cheol. Holding his face. And Joshua was letting him.”

The possessive fury was back, vibrating through his carefully controlled posture. It was primal, irrational, and after hearing the full story, completely understandable.

“I wanted to break his hands,” Jeonghan whispered, the confession stark and violent in the quiet penthouse. “The ones he dared to put on what’s mine.”

The words hung in the air, shocking in their raw possessiveness. What’s mine. Even after a decade of hatred and silence, the core of it was still this: a fundamental, unshakable claim.

“He’s not yours, Han,” Seungcheol said gently, though the statement felt flimsy in the face of such conviction.

“I know that!” Jeonghan snapped, slamming his glass down on the counter, the sound cracking through the room. Whiskey sloshed over the rim. “Don’t you think I know that? He made his choice! He chose his warm house and his full belly and his goddamn sunflowers!” He was breathing heavily now, the calm shattered. “But that doesn’t change what I feel. It doesn’t stop the… the noise in my head when I see someone else near him. It’s like a fucking siren. It’s the same noise I heard when I saw that pink envelope in middle school. It’s the same feeling I had waiting at that bus stop, watching every person walking by that wasn't him.”

He pushed off the counter, resuming his agitated pacing. “I have spent ten years building a life where I don’t feel that. Where I am in control. Where nothing and no one can get close enough to make me feel that desperate, that insane. And he… he just exists, and it all comes rushing back. And now there’s this… this puppy with more money than God, who can offer him the comfort and the simple, uncomplicated affection that I can’t. That I’m incapable of.”

He stopped, turning to face Seungcheol, his expression one of tortured honesty. “So yes, I wanted to smash his perfect, smiling face into the pavement. I wanted to make him bleed for daring to touch what I can’t have. And I called you because I knew if I went after him, it wouldn’t just be a scuffle. It would be a bloodbath. And I’d end up in a French jail, and my career would be over, and it would all be for nothing.” He let out a shaky breath. “I called you because you’re the only one who might be able to talk me off that ledge.”

Seungcheol stared at him, the full weight of the confession settling on him. This wasn’t just about the past. It was about a very present, very volatile danger. Jeonghan was a pressure cooker of unresolved trauma, and Joshua Hong was the flame. Seokmin had just gotten too close to the heat.

“Okay,” Seungcheol said, setting his own glass down and walking over to his friend. He didn’t try to hug him again, but he stood close, a solid, grounding presence. “Okay. I’m here. I’m on the ledge with you. And I’m not letting you jump.”

He looked Jeonghan directly in the eye. “But you have to hear me, Han. You can’t go near Seokmin. Not like that. It wouldn’t just ruin you; it would prove every terrible thing you believe about yourself. That you’re just the violent, troubled kid from Busan. Is that what you want?”

Jeonghan held his gaze for a long moment, the storm in his eyes slowly receding, leaving behind a weary, bleak acceptance. He shook his head, a barely perceptible movement.

“No,” he murmured. “It’s not.”

“Then we find another way,” Seungcheol said, his voice firm. “We get through this campaign. We maintain the professional distance. And you… you find a way to put the goddamn siren on mute. Because you can’t live like this. You’ll self-destruct.”

Jeonghan gave a slow, exhausted nod. The fight was gone, for now. He looked past Seungcheol, out at the glittering, indifferent city.

“He’s a ghost,” Jeonghan whispered, more to himself than to Seungcheol. “He’s a ghost, and I’m the one who’s haunted.”

Seungcheol didn’t have an answer for that. He just stood beside his friend, two men in a ridiculously expensive apartment, staring out at the night, both understanding that the real battle wasn’t against a rival model or a rich heir. It was against a memory. And memories, especially the ones carved into your bones, were the hardest enemies to fight.

The silence stretched, thick with the remnants of Jeonghan’s violent confession. The image of him, poised on the edge of tearing Seokmin apart, was a chilling one. Seungcheol watched his friend, this beautiful, broken man who had built a fortress only to become its most miserable prisoner.

The whiskey had done little to warm the cold truth settling in the room. Seungcheol knew that platitudes were useless. Telling Jeonghan to “be happy” or “let go” would be an insult to the decade of pain he’d just laid bare. But he also knew, with a certainty that gripped his heart, that the current path led only to ruin. 

“Jeonghan-ana,” Seungcheol began, his voice low and deliberate, cutting through the quiet. “You have to stop letting him control the narrative of your life.”

Jeonghan’s head, which had been bowed, snapped up. A flicker of defensive anger sparked in his eyes. “What are you talking about? He’s the one who—“

“I’m not talking about what he did then,” Seungcheol interrupted, holding up a hand. “I’m talking about now. Every decision you make. Every wall you build. Every time you look at someone and feel that… that siren… it’s a reaction to him. Your entire life, for ten years, has been a reaction to Hong Joshua.”

He took a step closer, his gaze intense. “You left school. You took these brutal jobs. You built this…” He gestured around the penthouse. “…this entire persona. The untouchable ice prince. Was any of it for you? Or was it all to prove something to the ghost of a boy who wasn’t there? To show him you could be someone without him? To armour yourself so that no one could ever hurt you like he did?”

Jeonghan opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out. The truth of the words hit him with the force of a physical blow. He had never framed it that way. His survival, his ambition, his entire identity… had it all been a protracted, desperate message to a person who wasn’t listening?

“He doesn’t get to have that power,” Seungcheol pressed, his voice softening but losing none of its intensity. “He doesn’t get to be the reason you can’t have a real conversation, the reason you nearly assaulted innocent men, the reason you live in this… this beautiful, empty museum of a life. You have to take the narrative back.”

“How?” The word was a raw scrape of sound from Jeonghan’s throat. It wasn’t a challenge; it was a plea. “How do I do that, Cheol? You think I haven’t tried? The memory is in my bones. It’s in this.” He gestured bitterly to his ankle. “It’s in every fucking photograph they take of us. How do I ‘take the narrative back’ from that?”

“By making a choice that has nothing to do with him,” Seungcheol said firmly. “A choice for you. Not the you that’s reacting to him, but the you that existed before the bus stop. The you that Halmeoni loved. The one who was fierce, and loyal, and loved basketball.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “That boy is still in there, Han. I saw him tonight when you talked about her. He’s buried under a mountain of shit, but he’s there.”

He walked over and picked up his whiskey glass again, taking a slow sip. “Moving on doesn’t mean you have to forgive him. It doesn’t mean you have to be friends. Hell, it doesn’t even mean you have to stop hating him. But it does mean you have to stop letting that hate be the engine of your life.”

Jeonghan stared into his own glass, the amber liquid holding no answers. “It’s the only thing that keeps the pain away,” he whispered. “The anger… it’s cleaner. It’s easier than the grief.”

“Is it?” Seungcheol challenged gently. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like the anger is the pain. It’s just the pain of wearing a mask. And it’s eating you alive.”

The truth of it was undeniable. The constant vigilance, the emotional isolation, the simmering rage—it was an exhausting, full-time occupation. It had made him successful, yes, but it had also made him profoundly lonely.

“So what’s the choice?” Jeonghan asked, his voice weary. “What’s the grand, narrative-changing decision I’m supposed to make?”

“I don’t know,” Seungcheol admitted with a sigh. “That’s for you to figure out. Maybe it’s finally seeing a therapist who isn’t paid by the label to keep you ‘functional’. Maybe it’s picking up a basketball again, just for ten minutes, just to see if it still feels like yours. Maybe it’s calling me the next time you feel that siren, instead of plotting a murder.” He offered a small, wry smile. “It starts small. But it has to be a choice you make for Yoon Jeonghan. Not for the ghost of Joshua Hong.”

He set his glass down, the finality of the gesture signalling the end of his lecture. “The campaign is a nightmare. Fine. Let it be a nightmare. But do your job, collect your paycheck, and then come home and do one thing, just one tiny thing, that reminds you who you are without him.”

Jeonghan was silent for a long time, absorbing the words. They were terrifying. The idea of dismantling the defences he’d spent a decade building was akin to asking him to walk unarmed into a warzone. But the alternative—a lifetime of this hollow, reactive existence—suddenly seemed even more frightening.

He wouldn’t forgive. He wouldn’t forget. The bus stop and the funeral would always be there, scars on his timeline.

But maybe, just maybe, they didn’t have to be the entire story.

He looked up at Seungcheol, his expression still guarded, but the absolute despair had lifted, replaced by a flicker of something else. Something that looked unnervingly like the beginning of a very difficult, very necessary thought.

“One thing,” Jeonghan repeated, the words tasting foreign.

“One thing,” Seungcheol confirmed. “For you.”

Jeonghan gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a transformation. It was simply an acknowledgement. A crack in the fortress wall, not large enough for anyone to get in, but perhaps, just perhaps, large enough for a trapped man to finally see a sliver of sky.

The flicker of resolve Seungcheol had seen in Jeonghan’s eyes just moments before vanished, extinguished by a wave of pure, unadulterated terror. The raw, logical argument had made sense, but it had crashed against the unyielding bedrock of a deeper, more primal fear.

“Cheol…”

The name was a whisper, so fragile it seemed to break on the air. Jeonghan wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was staring at his own hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists on his knees, as if they were the only things holding him together.

“I’m afraid,” he breathed, the admission more terrifying than any confession of rage or hatred.

Seungcheol stayed silent, letting the words hang in the heavy air.

“If I… if I forgive him,” Jeonghan continued, his voice trembling, “even a little. If I let that wall down… it would be a betrayal. Of her. Of Halmeoni.” He finally looked up, and his eyes were wide with a childlike horror. “I wasn’t there for her because I was waiting for him. My head was full of plans to run away with him. And she died alone. If I let go of this anger… it’s like I’m saying what he did was okay. That her death… that my failure… was acceptable. I can’t do that. I can’t betray her like that.”

The logic was twisted, born from a grief that had never been allowed to heal properly. He had fused his grief for his grandmother with his anger at Joshua, creating a single, monstrous entity. To release one felt like dishonouring the other.

But it was his next words that truly shattered Seungcheol’s heart.

“And I’m afraid… I’m so afraid to become the boy I was before.” A single, traitorous tear escaped, tracing a slow path down his cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. “Because that boy… he had truly, irrevocably, irresistibly, loved him.”

The way he said it—irresistibly—wasn’t with fondness. It was with terror. As if describing a fatal disease he’d once contracted.

“That boy was all in,” Jeonghan whispered, his voice cracking. “He had no walls. No defenses. He gave Joshua everything. His trust, his secrets, his heart… his future. And he was left with nothing. He was shattered.” He shook his head, a frantic, desperate motion. “I can’t be that person again, Cheol. I can’t. Because if I am… if I let myself feel even a fraction of that again… he’ll do it again. He’ll abandon me. Just like he did back then. Just like my own parents did.”

The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place for Seungcheol. It wasn’t just Joshua. It was the foundational abandonment by his parents, a wound that had never closed, which Joshua’s perceived betrayal had ripped wide open. Jeonghan’s entire worldview was built on a single, brutal premise: everyone leaves. The only way to survive was to make sure you were the one who pushed them away first.

“The only person who ever really cared,” Jeonghan choked out, his body beginning to tremble, “the only one who stayed… she’s gone. And she’s gone because I was choosing him over her. I was at that fucking bus stop, waiting for a boy who never came, while she was taking her last breath alone in her bed.”

The guilt was a live wire, electrocuting him from the inside out. It was the core of his pain, the unshakable belief that his love for Joshua had directly led to the ultimate loss. Forgiving Joshua wouldn’t just be letting him off the hook; it would be absolving himself of his own self-imposed crime.

He looked at Seungcheol, his expression one of utter devastation. “So you see? I can’t. I can’t move on. The anger… the hatred… it’s my penance. It’s the only thing I can give her now. It’s the only thing that proves I remember what I did. What I lost.”

Seungcheol felt tears prickle at his own eyes. He had no answer for this. This wasn’t about narrative control or healthy coping mechanisms. This was about a boy who believed, in the deepest, most broken part of his soul, that he had killed the only person who ever loved him by loving someone else.

He didn’t try to argue. He didn’t try to tell Jeonghan that his grandmother wouldn’t want this for him. He simply stood up, walked over, and sat down on the sofa beside him. He didn’t touch him. He just sat there, a solid, silent presence in the face of an unfathomable grief.

After a long time, when Jeonghan’s trembling had subsided into exhausted shudders, Seungcheol spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

“Then don’t forgive him,” he said. “Maybe you never can. And that’s okay.”

Jeonghan looked at him, surprised.

“But the penance…” Seungcheol continued, choosing his words with the care of a bomb disposal expert. “Does it have to be a life sentence? Does it have to mean you can never feel a moment of peace? Never let anyone else in? Halmeoni loved you, Han. She loved that fierce, loving boy. Do you really think she would want her memory to be a chain that keeps you in this much pain? Do you think that’s the legacy she would have chosen for you?”

He let the question hang there, a soft challenge to the bedrock of Jeonghan’s suffering.

“You don’t have to be that boy again,” Seungcheol said softly. “That boy is gone. He had to be, to survive. But you can… you can build a new man. One who carries the memory of Halmeoni not as a weapon against himself, but as a reminder of the love he is capable of. One who acknowledges the past without letting it dictate every single second of his future.”

It was a monumental task. A journey of a thousand miles starting from a place of absolute zero.

Jeonghan didn’t reply. He just leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes, the tear tracks drying on his pale skin. The fear was still there, a monstrous thing in the room with them. But for the first time, someone had seen it, had named it, and had not looked away. And in the silent, shared space between two friends, that felt like a beginning. A terrifying, painful beginning, but a beginning nonetheless.

The first thing Jeonghan registered was the relentless, buzzing hum. It wasn't his alarm. It was the sound of a digital hive, angry and insistent. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, his head throbbing from the emotional hangover of the night before and the dregs of whiskey.

The screen was a solid wall of notifications. Missed calls from his manager, Park Minsu. Dozens of texts. Hundreds of tags and mentions on Instagram. His publicist. The head of YSL's PR department. The sheer volume was a five-alarm fire.

His heart, still raw and vulnerable from his confession to Seungcheol, immediately seized with a cold, professional dread. What now? Had photos of him looking shattered outside the studio leaked? Had someone seen Seungcheol leaving his place at an ungodly hour?

He tapped on a text from Park Minsu. Park Minsu: Jeonghan. Call me the second you wake up. Do not speak to anyone. Do not post anything. We have a situation.

With a sinking feeling, he opened his Instagram. The top trending tag in Seoul fashion circles was #LegacyVsNewEnergy. His stomach dropped. He clicked on a link shared by a fashion news aggregator.

It was a video interview from a late-night talk show, "Café de Paris," known for its chic, slightly provocative atmosphere. And there, sitting in a sleek velvet chair, looking effortlessly elegant in a soft cream Givenchy sweater, was Joshua. He was smiling, that gentle, enigmatic smile that had once felt like a secret just for Jeonghan. Now, it looked like a perfectly polished weapon.

The host, a sharp-witted woman named Elodie, leaned forward. "So, Joshua, the buzz around you and Yoon Jeonghan for the YSL campaign is undeniable. The 'clash of the titans,' they're calling it. After your first joint shoot, what are your thoughts on working with such an… established figure?"

Joshua’s smile widened slightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He took a deliberate sip of water, letting the anticipation build. The camera loved him. He looked serene, thoughtful, and utterly deadly.

"It's certainly been an experience," Joshua began, his voice as smooth and warm as honey. "Jeonghan-ssi is, without a doubt, a commanding presence. A true legend. His work ethic, his dedication to the craft… it's something I can only admire."

It was the kind of bland, diplomatic praise that was standard in their industry. But Jeonghan, who had spent years learning to read the micro-expressions on Joshua’s face, saw the glint in his eye. The trap was being set.

Elodie, sensing blood in the water, pressed. "But? There's always a 'but,' isn't there?"

Joshua let out a soft, airy laugh, the sound both charming and dismissive. "No 'but,' really. Just an observation. I’ve been thinking a lot about what ‘legacy’ means. It’s a powerful word, isn’t it? It speaks to history, to a body of work. But sometimes,” he paused, tilting his head as if considering a complex philosophical concept, “I wonder if clinging too tightly to a ‘legacy persona’ can become… a limitation. A little… dated."

Jeonghan’s blood ran cold. He sat up straighter in bed, his knuckles white around the phone.

On screen, Elodie’s eyebrows shot up. "Dated? You're calling Yoon Jeonghan dated?"

"Oh, not at all!" Joshua protested with a performative gasp, his hand fluttering to his chest. The picture of innocence. "I would never. His legacy is iconic. It’s just… the fashion world moves so quickly, doesn’t it? It thrives on new perspectives, fresh energy. It needs to breathe." He looked directly into the camera, and his gaze, though still smiling, was like shards of ice. "And frankly, I think the industry is starving for that new energy. As Jeonghan-ssi himself so… pointedly… mentioned to me, I am, after all, just a ‘new face.’ So perhaps it’s my role to provide it."

He delivered the final blow with the grace of a ballet dancer executing a perfect pirouette. "The 'legacy' is timeless, of course. It suits a certain… maturity. But for the future? Well, the future has always belonged to the new, hasn't it?"

The studio audience erupted in a mix of gasps and delighted applause. He had taken Jeonghan’s own condescending words from their first meeting—“I don’t pay attention to the new faces”—and thrown them back in his face, polished into a gleaming dagger. He had called him old, dated, and out of touch, all while maintaining the veneer of the polite, thoughtful ‘Givenchy Gentleman.’

The interview continued, but Jeonghan didn’t hear it. The phone slipped from his numb fingers and landed on the duvet with a soft thud.

The sheer, breathtaking audacity of it. The petty, calculated brilliance.

This wasn't the Joshua who had screamed at him in the service corridor. That had been raw, unfiltered pain. This was different. This was cold. Strategic. This was Joshua Hong, the business, fighting back. He had finally stopped trying to bridge the distance. He had accepted the war Jeonghan had declared, and he had just fired the first, devastating shot across the bow.

The #LegacyVsNewEnergy hashtag wasn't just a trending topic; it was a battle line. Joshua had publicly framed their rivalry not as a clash of equals, but as a generational shift. The timeless, aging king versus the vibrant, necessary heir.

A bitter, incredulous laugh bubbled up in Jeonghan’s throat. After last night—after baring his soul, after confessing his deepest fears and his unshakable, terrible love—to be met with this? It was the most profound rejection imaginable.

Seungcheol’s words from last night echoed in his mind. “You have to stop letting him control the narrative of your life.”

Well, Joshua had just seized the narrative with both hands and was now running the entire show.

His phone buzzed again. Park Minsu. Park Minsu: The YSL board is FURIOUS. They wanted tension, not a civil war. Call me NOW.

Jeonghan picked up the phone. The raw, terrified man from last night was gone, packed away once more. In his place was Yoon Jeonghan, the Ice Prince. The King. And a king did not retreat when his throne was challenged.

He dialled his manager. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, cold, and razor-sharp.

“Minsu-ssi,” he said, his eyes fixed on the frozen image of Joshua’s smiling face on his screen. “Cancel all my appointments for this morning. And get me on the line with Vogue Paris. It seems I have a few thoughts on the nature of ‘legacy’ myself.”

The cold fury that settled over Jeonghan was a familiar, almost comforting cloak. It was cleaner than the gut-wrenching vulnerability of the night before, sharper than the aching grief. This was a language he understood. War.

He ended the call with a seething Park Minsu, his mind already racing, mapping the battlefield. Joshua hadn't just insulted him; he had fundamentally misjudged him. He thought he was attacking a weary king on a crumbling throne. He didn't realise he was poking a dormant dragon.

His phone buzzed again. Seungcheol. 

Cheol: Saw the interview. What the actual fuck. Are you okay?

Jeonghan’s thumbs flew over the screen, his movements precise and cold. 

Jeonghan: I'm perfect. He just made this interesting.

He didn't wait for a reply. He threw off the duvet, his body moving with a purpose it hadn't possessed in days. The hangover and the emotional exhaustion were burned away by the pure, white-hot fuel of spite. In his pristine, minimalist bathroom, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The shadows under his eyes were still there, the pallor of a sleepless night. But his gaze… his gaze was pure, undiluted ice. Joshua wanted a war of words? A battle of perception? He would get one.

An hour later, he was in his living room, a cup of black coffee in hand, on a secure video call with Isabelle Laurent, the formidable editor-in-chief of Vogue Paris. She was a woman who valued power, spectacle, and unapologetic audacity. She was the perfect ally.

"Yoon Jeonghan," she said, her voice a smoky, appreciative purr. "I assume this is about your… spirited new colleague."

"It is," Jeonghan replied, his voice calm, a stark contrast to the storm in his eyes. "It seems Joshua Hong believes legacy is synonymous with a museum piece. I'd like to offer a correction."

Isabelle leaned forward, her interest palpable. "Go on."

"Legacy isn't a static thing you cling to, Isabelle," he began, his words measured and deliberate. He was not reacting; he was dictating. "It's not a dusty portrait on a wall. A true legacy is a living, breathing force. It's the foundation upon which everything new is built. You cannot have 'new energy' without the power grid to fuel it. You can't have a revolution if you don't understand the empire you're trying to overthrow."

He took a slow sip of coffee, letting the metaphor hang in the digital space between them. "What Mr. Hong calls 'dated,' I call foundational. What he dismisses as 'old,' I call enduring. The house of YSL wasn't built on 'new energy.' It was built on the relentless, revolutionary vision of one man. A legacy. My work, for the past several years, has been a part of adding to that foundation. It's not a persona; it's a pedigree."

He looked directly into the camera, his gaze unwavering. "The fashion industry doesn't just 'need' new energy. It needs informed energy. It needs those who respect the shoulders they stand on. Otherwise, it's just noise. And noise, no matter how loud, eventually fades. Legacy… legacy echoes."

It was a perfect counter-strike. Where Joshua had been sly and petty, Jeonghan was regal and dismissive. He hadn't called Joshua names; he had positioned him as an ignorant, noisy upstart, a temporary trend in an industry built on permanence.

Isabelle’s lips curved into a slow, delighted smile. "I want this. An exclusive op-ed. 'The Echo of Legacy.' We'll run it tomorrow."

After an hour, when the call ended, his phone lit up again. Park Minsu. 

Park Minsu: The Vogue piece is brilliant. Damage control is underway. But Jeonghan… the board is still nervous. They want a public display of unity. A joint appearance. They’re insisting.

Jeonghan’s first instinct was a visceral refusal. The thought of sharing a space with Joshua, of having to perform a truce after that interview, made his skin crawl.

But then, a colder, more calculating thought emerged.

A joint appearance.

He could feel the gears turning in his mind, the strategist taking over from the wounded animal. Joshua had chosen the battlefield of media and perception. Fine. But Jeonghan still held the home-field advantage. He knew Joshua in a way no publicist or reporter ever could. He knew the cracks in that serene facade, the tells of his anxiety, the way he bit his lower lip when he was nervous.

A slow, predatory smile touched Jeonghan’s lips. A public display of unity wasn't a setback; it was the perfect stage.

Jeonghan: Tell them I agree. But I choose the venue.

The venue was the opening of a hyper-exclusive, members-only art gallery in the Marais district. It was a den of old money, established power, and whispered conversations—a world far removed from the bright, trendy talk shows Joshua frequented. This was Jeonghan’s territory.

That evening, as Jeonghan stepped out of his car, the flashbulbs erupted. He was dressed in head-to-toe YSL, a sharp, severe black suit that was both armour and a declaration. He moved through the crowd with the languid, predatory grace of a panther, acknowledging the crowd with slight, regal nods. He was the king arriving at his court.

He didn't have to wait long for the main event. A ripple of excitement went through the crowd as Joshua’s car arrived. Joshua emerged, looking stunning in a deconstructed Givenchy blazer, his smile soft and approachable. The perfect "new energy."

Their eyes met across the red carpet. The air crackled. It was the first time they had seen each other since the service corridor, since the failed shoot, since the interview.

Jeonghan didn't look away. He let Joshua see the absolute, glacial calm in his eyes. There was no anger, no hurt. There was only the cool assessment of a general survey of the opposition.

The crowd and the photographers went wild, screaming their names, begging for a picture together. It was the moment the YSL board was desperate for.

Joshua, ever the professional, began to move towards him, his public smile firmly in place.

But Jeonghan didn't move. He remained where he was, a fixed point, forcing Joshua to cross the entire length of the carpet to reach him. It was a subtle power play, but in this world, every step was a message.

When Joshua finally stood before him, the cameras clicking like a swarm of mechanical insects, Jeonghan extended his hand. Not for a hug. Not for a cheek kiss. A handshake. The most formal, distant, and corporate of gestures.

"Joshua-ssi," Jeonghan said, his voice just loud enough for the closest reporters to hear. It was flat, polite, and utterly devoid of warmth. "Interesting perspective you shared in your interview."

Joshua’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly at the corners. He took Jeonghan’s hand. His grip was firm, but Jeonghan could feel the slight tremor in it. "Jeonghan-ssi. I'm glad you watched. It's important to have these conversations, don't you think?"

"Conversations are the lifeblood of the industry," Jeonghan agreed, his tone implying that Joshua’s comments had been anything but a conversation. He held the handshake a moment too long, his gaze locked on Joshua’s, a silent, challenging stare that the cameras ate up.

He leaned in, as if to share a confidential word. The cameras went into a frenzy. Joshua instinctively leaned in too, his body tensing.

Jeonghan’s voice was a whisper, a blade meant only for Joshua’s ears. "You want new energy, Jisoo?" he murmured, using the old name like a curse. "Then try to keep up."

He pulled back, released his hand, and turned to face the wall of cameras, a cool, triumphant smirk playing on his lips as he slung a possessive arm around Joshua’s stiff shoulders for the photos. He had taken the "unity" moment and turned it into a public display of dominance. He had drawn a line in the sand of the red carpet.

The narrative was no longer just about legacy versus new energy. It was about control. And as the flashes lit up Joshua’s forced smile, Jeonghan knew, with a deep, savage satisfaction, that he had just seized it back. The war was on, and the first blood drawn in the interview had been neatly, publicly, avenged. The ice prince was back on his throne, and he was just getting started.

The air in the television studio was frigid, a carefully controlled climate at odds with the bright, conversational set of "Avenue des Rêves," a popular daytime talk show. Jeonghan and Joshua sat in opposing, but deceptively friendly, armchairs, a low glass table between them. They were a vision of sartorial warfare: Jeonghan in YSL’s signature sharp, androgynous black, a look of cool amusement on his face. Joshua in soft, creamy Givenchy tailoring, his smile gentle and approachable.

The host, a charming man named Antoine, beamed at them. "The two most talked-about faces in fashion! The campaign, the buzz… and let's be honest, the little… tension… has everyone captivated. But today, we see two professionals, two kings of their respective houses, sharing a couch. Can we call a truce for thirty minutes?"

Jeonghan offered a slow, elegant smile that didn't reach his eyes. "There's no need for a truce, Antoine. A little creative friction is what makes art interesting, don't you think, Joshua-ssi?" He turned his gaze to Joshua, the term ‘ssi’ a deliberate, formal dart.

Joshua’s smile was a masterpiece of serene deflection. "Absolutely, Jeonghan-ssi. It’s the contrast that creates the spark. The established foundation and the… new interpretation." He met Jeonghan’s gaze, his own eyes soft but unyielding.

And so the dance began. For twenty minutes, they were the picture of diplomatic, mutual respect. They complemented each other’s work with the precision of surgeons, each praise laced with a subtle, undermining qualifier.

"Jeonghan-ssi's command of the camera is legendary," Joshua said, his tone dripping with honeyed admiration. "It's so potent in consistency. You always know exactly what you're going to get."

Translation: You’re predictable. A one-trick pony.

Jeonghan’s smile was a razor blade. "And Joshua-ssi's rise has been… meteoric. It's fascinating to watch someone capture the industry's attention so… completely… in such a short time." He paused, letting the implication of fleeting trends hang in the air. "The ability to be a blank slate for any brand is a rare talent."

Translation: You have no identity of your own. You’re a clothes hanger.

Antoine, thrilled by the undercurrent of venom, pushed on. "The famous joint photoshoot! The rumours say it was… intense. Any truth to that?"

"We're both perfectionists," Jeonghan stated smoothly, crossing his legs. "We have a shared commitment to the vision of the house. Isn't that right?"

"Of course," Joshua agreed, his smile tightening. "Though our methods can differ. Jeonghan-ssi prefers a more… directed approach. While I believe in allowing the moment to breathe."

Directed. As in controlling. Tyrannical.

The interview was a minefield of impeccably dressed hostility. They were playing to the cameras, to the public, but the real battle was in the micro-expressions, the slight tightening of a jaw, the almost imperceptible flare of nostrils.

Finally, Antoine clapped his hands. "Well, gentlemen, we must end on a high note! The world needs to see that YSL and Givenchy can share a frame. A photograph for our social media, if you please?"

The moment the cameras were off for the segment break, the polished masks slipped. The air between them crackled with a different kind of energy—raw, personal, and vicious.

They were directed to stand against a neutral backdrop. The photographer started giving instructions, but neither man was listening. They moved into position, their bodies rigid.

"Closer, please! A little smile! Look like you don't want to murder each other!" the photographer joked nervously.

Jeonghan took a half-step closer. Then, in a move that was both intimate and aggressive, he slid his hand around Joshua’s waist. His touch was firm, possessive, his fingers splaying across the small of Joshua’s back through the fine wool of his blazer. It was a gesture a lover would make. It was also a cage.

Joshua jolted at the contact, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. His whole body went taut.

"Smile, Jisoo," Jeonghan whispered, his own face arranged into a perfect, photogenic smirk for the camera. His voice, however, was a low, venomous murmur meant only for Joshua. "Or do you need me to direct you on how to do that, too?"

Joshua’s smile was brilliant and brittle. He leaned his head slightly towards Jeonghan’s, a parody of camaraderie. "Your hands are cold, Hannie," he whispered back, the old name a dagger. "But I suppose that's to be expected. Everything about you is cold these days. Must be the permafrost of your 'legacy.'"

The camera clicked, capturing the image of two devastatingly handsome men in a seemingly intimate, charged embrace.

"Wonderful! Just like that!" the photographer called out.

Jeonghan’s grip tightened infinitesimally. "You gave a very… chatty interview. All that talk about 'new energy.' It sounded a bit desperate. Like a small dog yapping at the heels of a wolf."

Joshua’s laugh was a soft, airy sound for the cameras, but his words were gritted out. "A wolf? Is that what you are now? You look more like a museum guard, Jeonghan. Polishing the same old exhibits, terrified someone might bring in something new."

"New isn't always better, Joshua-ssi," Jeonghan purred, his thumb pressing a subtle, punishing point into Joshua’s spine. "Sometimes, 'new' is just untested. Unreliable. It promises a week and doesn't show up."

The blow landed with the force of a physical punch. Joshua’s flawless smile faltered for a split second, his eyes flashing with a pain so acute it was almost visible.

"You don't get to talk about that," Joshua breathed, his voice trembling with rage. "You have no idea what happened. You built your entire kingdom on a story you told yourself because the truth was too hard to bear."

"Did I?" Jeonghan’s smirk widened. "Or did I build it on the ashes of your broken promise? I'm the king of the ashes, Jisoo. And you're just a tourist, complaining about the view."

"Keep your hands to yourself," Joshua snapped under his breath, trying to subtly shift away, but Jeonghan’s hold was like iron.

"Or what?" Jeonghan challenged, his whisper a soft, dangerous caress against Joshua’s ear. The camera caught the moment, the image unbearably intimate. "You'll run to your friend with the sunflowers? He can't help you here. This is between you and me. It always has been."

"That's enough! We have it! Perfect!" the photographer announced, oblivious to the silent, seething war that had just taken place.

The moment the shoot was over, Jeonghan dropped his hand as if Joshua were coated in acid. They stepped apart, the space between them instantly reverting to a frozen tundra.

They turned, offering Antoine and the crew identical, polished smiles of thanks.

"Such a pleasure," Joshua said, his voice smooth as silk once more.

"A fascinating conversation," Jeonghan added, his tone cool and detached.

They walked off the set in opposite directions, not a single glance exchanged. The public display was over. The narrative of "tense but professional" had been successfully sold.

But in the quiet of their separate dressing rooms, the echoes of their whispered battle remained. The names they'd called, the old wounds they'd ripped open. The photograph, when it was released, would be dissected by millions—a stunning image of two rivals in a moment of charged connection.

Only they would know the truth. It wasn't a connection. It was a collision. And the aftershocks were just beginning.

Chapter Text

The Gala des Étoiles was the most exclusive, notoriously decadent event of Paris Fashion Week. Held in the opulent ballroom of a former royal palace, it was a world of whispered fortunes, clandestine affairs, and alliances forged over glasses of vintage champagne. It was the perfect hunting ground.

Yoon Jeonghan arrived alone. He had dismissed his driver a block away, preferring to make his entrance on foot, a solitary wolf entering the fold. He was a vision of lethal elegance in a custom YSL tuxedo that was more art than clothing. The jacket was sharply tailored, the trousers a perfect break over patent leather loafers. No tie. The first three buttons of his stark white shirt were undone, revealing a tantalising glimpse of collarbone. His dark hair was artfully dishevelled, and his eyes, sharpened by a flicker of cold, deliberate intent, scanned the crowd like a predator. Seungcheol’s words echoed in his mind: “Do one thing for you.”

Tonight, that one thing was simple. He was going to get laid. He was going to find a beautiful, willing, and most importantly, uncomplicated person and lose himself in the mindless, physical oblivion of a one-night stand. No history. No pain. No Joshua Hong. Just sensation. It was a rebellion against the torment of his own heart, a way to reclaim a piece of himself he felt Joshua still owned.

The champagne flute was cool and slender between his fingers, a prop acquired from a passing waiter with a silent nod. He didn't drink. He was working. The effervescent bubbles climbing the glass were a mockery of the flat, still plane of his focus.

He melted back against a gilded column, a study in curated nonchalance. The pose was one of indolent grace, but every muscle was a live wire, his senses tuned to the frequency of the room—a low hum of avarice and ambition masked by the clinking crystal and Vivaldi. His gaze, a practised, languid sweep, catalogued everything: the insecure grip of a newly minted tech billionaire on his wife's arm, the desperate gleam in a starlet's laugh, the subtle power plays disguised as casual conversation.

Then, he found his mark.

His eyes locked with a familiar pair across the room—a stunning Brazilian model he’d been tenuously, profitably linked to years ago. He held the connection, a beat beyond polite, a beat into provocation. He saw the flicker of recognition in her gaze, then the spark of intrigue, and finally, the slow-burning ember of a challenge accepted. A silent, predatory smile played at the corner of his mind, though his expression remained a mask of bored elegance. He let his gaze drift away first, a deliberate dismissal that was more alluring than any sustained stare.

Good, he thought, the single word crisp and clear in the quiet of his mind. Let the game begin.

The ice prince was on the prowl, and the hunt, he knew, was the only thing that made the gilded cage feel like a throne room.

Across the vast, glittering ballroom, a new kind of energy shifted the atmosphere. Joshua Hong made his entrance, and if Jeonghan was the wolf—lean, calculating, and silver-eyed in the shadows—then Joshua was the panther. He moved with a sleek, inherent grace that suggested both immense power and a quiet, contained stillness.

He wore a deep burgundy Givenchy tuxedo, a masterstroke of sartorial daring. The velvet lapels, plush as a whisper, seemed to drink the light, casting shadows that deepened the rich, wine-like hue. It was a colour of sensual confidence, a deliberate and breathtaking departure from the sea of predictable black. His hair was softly styled, a few artful strands falling across his brow, and his smile as he greeted acquaintances was a gentle, inviting curve that reached his warm, brown eyes.

But it was in his carriage that the true allure lay. Where others postured, Joshua simply was. He carried himself with an elegant, approachable sexiness that was both disarming and utterly magnetic. He didn't need to issue silent challenges or prowl the perimeter; people were naturally drawn into his orbit, disarmed by the genuine warmth in his gaze, only to find themselves captivated by the subtle, potent magnetism that simmered just beneath the surface. He was a quiet storm in a velvet suit, and every eye in the room, whether they admitted it or not, was tracking his movement.

He, too, had come with a singular, liberating purpose. The petty warfare, the whispered barbs on the talk show, the constant, exhausting tension with Jeonghan—it all felt like a cage. He was tired of being the “Givenchy Gentleman,” the wounded puppy, the object of a decade-long feud. He needed to feel desired for himself, to be someone other than Jeonghan’s rival or victim. He needed to be just Joshua. And if that meant finding a warm body and a few hours of anonymous pleasure, then so be it.

He moved through the crowd with a different energy than Jeonghan. Where Jeonghan was a stationary predator, Joshua was a graceful current, engaging in light, flirtatious conversation, his laugh soft and genuine. He let his fingers brush the arm of a handsome French actor, his gaze lingering just a moment too long on a well-known artist. He was casting a wide, subtle net, his gentle charisma a potent lure. He wasn’t looking for a challenge; he was looking for an escape.

For the first hour, their orbits didn’t cross. The ballroom was too vast, the crowd too thick, a deliberate chasm of silk and chatter between them.

Jeonghan had successfully cornered the Brazilian model, Isabella, in a secluded alcove veiled by a cascading fern. The air around them was close, perfumed with her jasmine scent and his calculated charm. “So you tell them you’re considering a hiatus,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate vibration meant only for her. He swirled the untouched champagne in his flute. “The mystery alone will double your asking price. Desire is always about the unattainable.” 

Isabella’s lips curved, her eyes locked on his. “And are you? Unattainable?” 

Jeonghan offered a slow, razor-blade smile. “That, querida, is the only question worth asking.”

As she laughed, a low, throaty sound, he discreetly slipped his phone from his pocket under the guise of adjusting his stance. His thumb flew across the screen in a single, practised motion, a message to the one person who would understand the farce of it all.

To: Cheolie. She keeps trying to look at my lips. Thinks she’s being subtle. This is what I get for wearing the glittery gloss.

He pocketed the phone without waiting for a reply; the secret shared mission was accomplished. The real connection was made, the performance for the model now laced with a layer of private amusement.

Across the room, bathed in the warm glow of a curated art light, Joshua was the picture of engaged fascination. He stood with Leo, a charismatic gallery owner from Milan, before a sprawling, chaotic canvas. “It’s not about what you see,” Leo said, his hand gesturing animatedly close to Joshua’s arm. “It’s about the emotion it evokes. The chaos of the modern psyche!” 

Joshua tilted his head, his smile a gentle, inviting curve. “I see discipline, actually,” he countered, his voice a warm counterpoint to the artwork’s frenzy. “All this controlled chaos. It takes immense control to look this wild, don’t you think? It’s a performance.” He took a slow sip of his water, his eyes glinting with playful insight. “Much like this entire evening.” Leo laughed, delighted, and leaned in closer. “Joshua, you see right through everything, don’t you?”

Two separate games, played with two different sets of rules. The wolf in the shadows, and the panther in the light. And the entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the moment their paths would inevitably, and explosively, collide.

It was the universe, it seemed, that decided to intervene with a cruel sense of irony.

The string quartet began a new, sweeping waltz. The crowd on the dance floor shifted and parted. And across that sudden, cleared space, their eyes met.

Jeonghan, his hand resting on the small of his companion’s back, froze. His cold, predatory focus shattered.

Joshua, mid-laugh at something the gallery owner said, felt the sound die in his throat. His carefully constructed aura of easy sensuality evaporated.

For a long, suspended moment, the glittering gala, the music, the hundreds of people—all of it faded into a dull roar. There were only the two of them, standing on opposite sides of the dance floor, their identical, secret intentions laid bare in the shock of their mutual gaze.

Jeonghan saw the burgundy velvet, the soft smile that had been meant for someone else, the undeniable intention in Joshua’s relaxed posture. A possessive, irrational fury, hotter and sharper than any he’d felt on the talk show, ignited in his gut. He was supposed to be the one finding solace in someone else’s arms. He was the one moving on. The sight of Joshua doing the same felt like the ultimate betrayal.

Joshua saw the undone buttons, the artfully messy hair, the beautiful woman hanging on Jeonghan’s every word. The cold, calculating look in Jeonghan’s eyes, which had once been so full of warm, boyish adoration, was a fresh wound. He was really going to do it. He was going to take someone else to his bed, erasing whatever faint, stupid hope Joshua hadn’t even realised he was still clinging to.

Isabella, sensing the shift, whispered something to Jeonghan. He didn’t hear her.

Leo, following Joshua’s gaze, asked, “A friend of yours?”

Neither of them answered.

The silent stand-off was a nuclear explosion contained within the space of a glance. Their separate missions of liberation had just collided, annihilating each other on impact. The hunt was over. The only prey either of them could see now was the other. The ballroom, which moments before had been a playground of possibility, had suddenly become the smallest room in the world. And they were trapped in it, together.

The spell was broken by the sharp clink of a champagne flute hitting the marble floor, shattering somewhere in the distance. The noise jolted them back into the crowded, noisy reality of the gala.

A cold, mocking smile slowly spread across Jeonghan’s face. He dismissed the Brazilian model with a curt nod, his eyes never leaving Joshua. He began to move, cutting through the crowd with a predator’s grace, straight towards him.

Joshua, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, instinctively took a step back, but the gallery owner’s presence at his side created a fragile barrier. It was useless.

“Joshua-ssi,” Jeonghan’s voice was a silken purr, laced with venom. He ignored the other man completely. “I see you’re… networking. A new ‘energy’ for your collection?”

The gallery owner, sensing the lethal tension, mumbled an excuse and melted away into the crowd.

Joshua’s gentle facade hardened. “Jeonghan-ssi. I could say the same. Though your approach seems a bit more… direct. A little desperate, even.”

“Desperate?” Jeonghan let out a low, humourless laugh. He snagged two full glasses of whiskey from a passing tray, thrusting one towards Joshua. “I’m celebrating. Embracing new experiences. Something you wouldn’t understand, being so devoted to your… gentlemanly persona.”

Joshua’s fingers tightened around the proffered glass. He normally savoured good whiskey, but tonight, he threw it back in one burning gulp, the heat doing little to melt the ice in his veins. “And what exactly are you celebrating? The continued success of you being ‘dated’?” he sneered, the word now a weapon in his own arsenal.

“The freedom of not giving a damn,” Jeonghan retorted, downing his own whiskey with a grimace. He wasn’t a drinker. The liquor was a means to an end—to fuel the fire, to numb the ache that seeing Joshua like this had caused. He immediately signalled for two more.

And so the dance began. They drifted away from the main crowd, finding a marginally quieter corner near a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the illuminated gardens. It became a grim, liquid-fueled ritual. A snide remark, a pointed barb, followed by the clink of glasses and the burn of alcohol.

“You know,” Joshua slurred slightly, his elegant composure beginning to fray at the edges. The whiskey was his old friend, loosening his tongue and blurring the sharp edges of his pain. “For a man who doesn’t pay attention to new faces, you were certainly paying a lot of attention to hers.”

“Jealous, Jisoo?” Jeonghan taunted, his words starting to slur as well. The room was taking on a soft, hazy quality. “You can’t have it both ways. You can’t preach about ‘new energy’ and then get possessive about the old.”

“I’m not possessive,” Joshua shot back, his voice rising. “I just find it pathetic. This whole… performance. The ice prince, melting for the first pretty face that bats her eyelashes at him. It’s transparent.”

“Better transparent than a liar!” Jeonghan’s control snapped. The alcohol had demolished his carefully constructed walls. “At least I’m honest about what I want tonight! What’s your excuse? Hiding behind that… that soft act, luring people in with your sad eyes and your quiet charm? Is that how you got your friend with the flowers? Did you show him your tragic past?”

The mention of Seokmin was a red rag to a bull. “Don’t you dare talk about him! He’s a good person! Something you wouldn’t recognise!”

“Oh, I recognise a useful distraction when I see one!” Jeonghan laughed, a raw, ugly sound. He was deeply drunk now, his movements unsteady, his eyes glassy with liquor and rage. “Just like I was for you, right? A fun little secret until things got too real. Until your mommy found out.”

The past was in the room now, a ghost they were both poking with sticks.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Joshua whispered, his own drunkenness making him unsteady on his feet. “You built this entire… this fortress of self-pity on a story you made up! You never even let me explain!”

“Explain what?” Jeonghan roared, drawing stares from nearby guests. He leaned in close, his breath hot against Joshua’s face, smelling of expensive whiskey and cheap anger. “Explain why you promised me a week and then left me waiting in the cold? What explanation could possibly cover that, Joshua? Tell me! What magical words make that okay?”

Tears, fueled by alcohol and a decade of heartbreak, welled in Joshua’s eyes. “I tried! I tried to come! but一”

It was the truth, the truth he’d been screaming into the void for ten years.

But Jeonghan was too far gone, too poisoned by his own narrative of betrayal. He was teetering on the edge of a drunken abyss, and the only way he knew to stop himself from falling was to push Joshua in first.

He looked at Joshua, at the tears streaking his beautiful, anguished face, and instead of seeing the truth, he saw the boy who had broken him. The boy who got to have a life, a career, and friends with sunflowers, while he was left with nothing but ashes and a broken ankle.

A cruel, devastating calm settled over him. His voice dropped, losing its shout but gaining a cutting, precise sharpness that was worse than any scream.

“You know,” he said, his words perfectly enunciated despite the liquor. “It doesn’t even matter anymore. All these years, I thought the worst pain was you leaving. But it’s not.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch, his icy gaze raking over Joshua’s crumbling form.

“The worst pain,” Jeonghan whispered, the final, killing blow, “is realising I wasted all that love on someone so… ordinary.”

The words landed not like a slap, but like a guillotine.

Ordinary.

After everything—the history, the passion, the pain—that was all he was. Not worth the wait. Not worth the grief. Just… ordinary.

Joshua’s breath hitched. The tears stopped, frozen in their tracks. The fight drained out of him completely, leaving a hollow, devastating emptiness. He looked at Jeonghan, at the man who had once been his entire world, and saw only a stranger filled with contempt.

He didn’t say a word. There was nothing left to say.

He simply turned and walked away. His steps were unsteady, his body numb, but he moved with a finality that was more absolute than any slammed door. He pushed through the glittering crowd, a ghost in a burgundy tuxedo, leaving Jeonghan alone amidst the broken glass and the echoing silence of his own cruel words.

The world had dissolved into a nauseating, golden-hued blur. The music was a distant throb, the laughter of the crowd a mocking echo. Joshua stumbled through the opulent ballroom, Jeonghan’s final, devastating word—ordinary—echoing in his skull on a loop, each repetition a fresh scalpel to his soul.

He found the bar, a long, polished slab of obsidian, and slammed his palm down. “Whiskey. The strongest you have. Neat.” He didn’t wait for the glass, just took the bottle the startled bartender offered and poured a generous measure, downing it in one searing gulp. He poured another. And another. The burn was the only thing that felt real, the only sensation strong enough to momentarily eclipse the hollow, aching void inside him.

Ordinary.

He was so lost in his self-annihilating mission that he didn’t notice the man approaching until a heavy, bejewelled hand landed on his shoulder.

“Rough night, mon ami?”

Joshua blinked, swaying slightly as he turned. The man was older, perhaps in his late fifties, with a deeply tanned, leathery face and eyes that held a predatory gleam. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored but ostentatious suit, the kind worn by men who owned things—yachts, companies, people. Joshua recognised him vaguely as a Swiss financier with a notorious reputation for collecting beautiful young things.

“You could say that,” Joshua slurred, his words thick. He tried to focus, but the man’s face swam in and out of view.

“A tragedy, for one so beautiful to look so sad,” the man purred, his grip on Joshua’s shoulder tightening. “Such a waste. A little… distraction, perhaps? My suite is just upstairs. The view is magnificent. We could… talk.”

The offer was anything but subtle. It was a transaction, laid bare. In his sober state, Joshua would have recoiled, offered a polite but firm refusal. But he wasn’t sober. He was drowning, and this man, with his expensive cologne and his promise of a “distraction,” felt like a lifeline. A way to prove he wasn’t ordinary. A way to feel something—even if it was just the physical sensation of being used—that wasn’t this soul-crushing pain.

He looked at the financier, his vision blurry. He saw the avarice in his eyes, the casual ownership. It should have repulsed him. Instead, it felt like a strange kind of honesty. This man didn’t want his heart or his history. He just wanted his body. It was simple. Uncomplicated.

A slow, wobbly, and utterly broken smile touched Joshua’s lips. He nodded, the movement clumsy. “Yeah,” he breathed, the word tasting like ash and surrender. “A distraction sounds… perfect.”

The financier’s smile widened, a shark seeing blood in the water. He slipped his arm around Joshua’s waist, his touch possessive and slick. “Excellent. Let’s get you out of here.”

Across the room, the cold fury that had fueled Jeonghan’s cruelty was rapidly curdling into a sick, churning regret, amplified by the torrent of whiskey in his system. He watched Joshua walk away, the sight of his retreating back feeling like a permanent amputation. The word ‘ordinary’ echoed in his own mind now, a taunt. He’d said it to wound, but hearing it aloud had made it feel true in the worst way. It made their entire epic history feel cheap and small.

He was about to go after him, to… he didn’t know what. Apologize? Scream some more? But then he saw it.

His blood ran cold, the alcohol in his veins turning to ice.

He saw the older man—a vulture he knew by reputation—approach Joshua at the bar. He saw the heavy hand on his shoulder, the predatory lean. And he saw, with a horror that stopped his heart, Joshua’s drunken, broken nod. The wobbly, devastating smile of acquiescence.

He saw the financier’s arm slide around Joshua’s waist, steering him away from the bar, towards the private elevators that led to the hotel suites.

A primal, protective roar erupted in Jeonghan’s soul, so loud it drowned out every other thought, every ounce of drunkenness. This wasn’t about possession or jealousy anymore. This was about something far more basic. This was a lamb being led to slaughter.

“JISOO!”

The name tore from his throat, a raw, guttural scream that sliced through the polite hum of the gala. Every head turned.

Joshua, half-led, half-carried, flinched but didn’t look back.

The financier did. He shot Jeonghan a look of irritated disdain. “This is none of your concern,” he sneered.

Jeonghan was already moving, shoving past startled socialites and models, his movements fueled by a blinding, sobering rage. He crossed the distance in seconds, his hand clamping down on the financier’s arm, yanking it away from Joshua with a force that made the older man yelp.

“Get your fucking hands off him,” Jeonghan snarled, his voice low and deadly, his face a mask of pure, undiluted violence.

The financier, though startled, puffed up with indignation. “How dare you! He came with me willingly!”

Jeonghan’s gaze snapped to Joshua, who was staring at the floor, trembling, looking utterly lost and young. “Did you?” Jeonghan demanded, his voice cracking. “Did you go with him willingly, Jisoo?”

Joshua didn’t answer. He just shook his head, a tiny, pathetic movement, a silent admission of his own despair.

That was all the confirmation Jeonghan needed. He turned back to the financier, his eyes promising murder. “He’s coming with me. And if you ever so much as look in his direction again, I will personally ensure the only thing you own is a lawsuit that bankrupts your entire bloodline. Do you understand me?”

The raw threat, delivered with such conviction by one of the most famous faces in the world, was enough. The financier’s bravado deflated. He muttered a curse, shot a last, frustrated look at Joshua, and melted back into the crowd.

The moment he was gone, the fight drained out of Jeonghan. He looked at Joshua, who was now crying silent, drunken tears, his body swaying dangerously.

All the hatred, the years of bitterness, evaporated, leaving behind a devastating, clear-eyed truth. He couldn’t let this happen. He could never let this happen.

Without a word, he slipped his own arm around Joshua’s waist, his touch firm but gentle this time, a support, not a cage. “Come on,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m taking you home.”

The gentleness in Jeonghan’s touch was the final insult. It was a mockery of the cruelty he’d just spewed, a confusing, dizzying shift that shattered Joshua’s last remaining shred of composure.

He yanked his arm away with a violence that sent him stumbling back against the wall. “Don’t fucking touch me!” he screamed, his voice raw and cracking. The tears were flowing freely now, mixing with the sweat and despair on his face. “I’m not going anywhere with you! What the fuck do you want from me, Jeonghan?!”

He was hysterical, the alcohol and emotional whiplash tearing down every wall. “One moment you look at me like you want me to die, and the next you’re… you’re this! You call me ordinary and then play the fucking hero? Make up your mind! Or better yet, just leave me the hell alone!”

The financier, seeing an opportunity, stepped forward again, his voice slick and smug. “You heard the man. He wants to come with me. It’s his choice.” He reached for Joshua’s arm. “Come, darling, let’s leave the drama behind.”

In that moment, through the blinding haze of pain and whiskey, Joshua made a choice. The worst possible choice. A choice of pure, self-destructive defiance. He wanted to hurt Jeonghan. He wanted to prove he wasn’t some fragile thing that needed saving. He wanted to be the ‘grown ass person’ he’d just claimed to be.

He looked at Jeonghan, his eyes blazing with a broken, reckless fire. “He’s right,” Joshua spat, his voice trembling but clear. “I know what I want to do. And it’s not you. It’s never going to be you again. So fuck you, Yoon Jeonghan.”

He turned and let the financier lead him away, this time not with a resigned nod, but with a deliberate, spiteful stride. He didn’t look back.

Jeonghan stood frozen, rooted to the spot, watching them disappear into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a final, deafening click. Joshua’s words—“It’s never going to be you again”—echoed in the sudden silence, a verdict more absolute than any he could have imagined. He had pushed, and Joshua had finally, truly, fallen. And he had chosen to fall into the arms of a vulture just to spite him.

A cold, dead numbness spread through Jeonghan’s limbs. There was no rage left. No fight. Just a hollow, devastating understanding. He had lost. He had destroyed the last, fragile bridge between them with his own two hands.

Inside the suite, the reality of his choice crashed down on Joshua the moment the door closed. The financier’s hands were on him immediately, greedy and practised, pulling at his burgundy jacket, his mouth descending towards his neck.

“Such a beautiful bird,” the man murmured, his breath hot and reeking of cigars.

Joshua’s body went rigid. The defiant fire extinguished, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. The touch felt wrong. Invasive. The expensive cologne, which had seemed sophisticated moments before, now smelled cloying and suffocating. The man’s words were empty, transactional. This wasn’t a distraction. This was an erasure.

“Wait,” Joshua mumbled, trying to push him away, but his arms felt like lead, his drunkenness now a prison. “I… I need a minute.”

“Nonsense,” the financier chuckled, not stopping his advances, his hands sliding under Joshua’s untucked shirt. “You’ve had enough minutes. Let’s not waste this beautiful night.”

He manoeuvred Joshua towards the massive bed, pushing him down onto the silk duvet. The world tilted. The chandelier above swam in and out of focus. The man’s weight was heavy, pinning him. Joshua could feel the frantic, panicked flutter of his own heart, a trapped bird beating against his ribs.

This was it. This was the point of no return. The physical act that would seal his own degradation, that would prove, once and for all, just how ‘ordinary’ and broken he truly was.

And his body rebelled.

A wave of pure, unadulterated anxiety, more powerful than any alcohol, washed over him. His breath hitched, coming in short, useless gasps. The room began to spin violently. The financier’s face above him blurred into a monstrous, leering mask. The feeling of those hands on his skin wasn’t arousing; it was violating. It was everything he had ever feared—being used, being nothing more than a beautiful object.

He couldn’t breathe. He was going to be sick. He was going to die here, under this stranger, and the last person he’d spoken to was Jeonghan, who hated him.

“Stop,” he gasped, his voice a weak thread. “Please, stop.”

But the financier was past listening. He was a man used to getting what he paid for, and in his mind, he had already paid with his suite and his attention.

With a surge of adrenaline born of pure terror, Joshua shoved with all his might. The man, caught off guard, grunted and rolled slightly to the side. It was all the space Joshua needed. He scrambled off the bed, his legs buckling, and stumbled towards the door, his vision tunnelling. He didn’t think. He just needed out. He needed air. He needed to be anywhere but here.

He fumbled with the lock, his hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the handle. He yanked the heavy door open and practically fell out into the blessedly cool, quiet hallway.

He collapsed against the opposite wall, sliding down to the floor, his body wracked with violent, silent sobs. He hugged his knees to his chest, trembling uncontrollably, the panic attack holding him in its vicious grip. He was safe. He was out. But he was also utterly, completely shattered.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in the storm of his own panic. But gradually, the roaring in his ears subsided enough for him to become aware of a presence.

He slowly, painfully, lifted his head.

And there, standing a few feet away, leaning against the wall as if he had been there for hours, was Jeonghan.

He wasn’t looking at Joshua with anger or pity. His expression was unreadable, a complex thread of exhaustion, regret, and a profound, weary sadness. His own makeup was smudged, his expensive tuxedo wrinkled. He looked as broken as Joshua felt.

He hadn’t left. He had stayed. He had waited outside the door the entire time.

Their eyes met in the dimly lit hallway. No words were spoken. There were no words left. There was only the aftermath: the silent, shared wreckage of a night that had torn down every last pretence between them, leaving nothing but the raw, unbearable truth of their mutual destruction.

Joshua’s sobs had subsided into ragged, hitching breaths, the violent tremors slowly receding, leaving him hollowed out and numb on the cold marble floor. He couldn’t look at Jeonghan. The shame was a living thing, coiling in his gut.

With a monumental effort, he pushed himself up, his legs feeling like water. He kept his gaze fixed on the ornate carpet pattern, intending to simply walk past the man who had witnessed his complete and utter collapse. He had no destination, no plan. Just away.

He took one shaky step, then another.

A hand shot out, not grabbing, but simply blocking his path. Jeonghan’s arm was a barricade of wrinkled white silk.

Joshua flinched, stopping dead.

“I know you’re mad or whatever,” Jeonghan’s voice was rough, stripped of its usual icy precision. It was just tired. Deeply, profoundly tired. He didn’t look at Joshua either, his own gaze fixed on some distant point down the empty corridor. “Get inside.”

He gestured with his head towards a door just a few feet away from the financier’s suite. It was slightly ajar.

Joshua stared at the door, then at Jeonghan’s profile. The anger was there, a dull ember, but it was smothered by a wave of crushing exhaustion and confusion. “What? No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“It’s not with me,” Jeonghan said, the words clipped. He finally turned his head, and the look in his eyes was not one of victory or pity, but of a shared, desperate survival. “It’s an empty room. I bought it. You can have it. Lock the door. I don’t care. Just… don’t sit out here in the hallway where anyone can see you.”

The practicality of it, the sheer, unemotional logistics, cut through Joshua’s haze. He wasn’t being offered comfort or an apology. He was being offered a hiding place. A bunker in which to lick his wounds away from prying eyes. It was the most cynical form of care imaginable, and yet, in that moment, it was the only thing that made any sense.

He was too tired to fight. Too humiliated to be seen by a hotel maid or a late-night guest. The memory of the financier’s hands on him made his skin crawl. The thought of going back to his own hotel room, of being truly alone with the reverberating horror of the last hour, was unbearable.

Without a word, he turned and shuffled towards the open door. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

It was an identical suite to the one he’d just fled—all gold and cream, with a breathtaking view of the sleeping city. It felt sterile and safe.

He heard the soft click of the door closing behind him. He didn’t turn around. He stood in the centre of the vast living area, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, staring at nothing.

He could hear Jeonghan’s presence on the other side of the door. He hadn’t left. He was just… there. A silent sentinel.

Minutes ticked by, marked only by the frantic thumping of Joshua’s heart slowly returning to a normal rhythm. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the cold, sharp clarity of what had almost happened.

Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for eight.

He walked to the mini-bar on unsteady legs, bypassing the whiskey that had started this descent, and pulled out a small bottle of water. He drank it greedily, the cool liquid a balm on his raw throat.

He could still leave. He could open the door, walk past Jeonghan, and find a cab. But the thought of the cold night air, the impersonal hotel lobby, the lonely ride home… it felt like an impossible journey.

Defeated, he stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed onto the king-sized bed, not even bothering to take off his ruined burgundy tuxedo. He curled into a tight ball, his face buried in the pillows that smelled faintly of expensive hotel laundry soap.

Outside, leaning against the wall next to the door, Jeonghan slid down to sit on the floor, mirroring Joshua’s position from earlier. He pulled out his phone, his fingers hovering over Seungcheol’s number. But what would he say? I called the love of my life ordinary and then had to save him from being assaulted by a rich pervert? He shoved the phone back into his pocket.

He didn’t know why he was staying. He had done his part. He’d provided a safe room. His job, by his own cold calculus, was done.

But the image of Joshua’s face, contorted in pure terror as he fell out of that suite, was burned onto the back of his eyelids. The sound of his broken, drunken sobs in the hallway was a hook in his chest, pulling him back from the edge of his own self-destruction.

So he stayed. He sat on the hard floor, his head in his hands, and listened to the absolute silence from the other side of the door. Two ruins, separated by a few inches of polished wood, each drowning in their own private ocean of regret. There were no answers here. No grand reconciliations. Just the quiet, desperate aftermath of a battle where there were no winners, only survivors. And for tonight, survival meant not being alone in the dark.

Time lost all meaning. For Joshua, it was measured in the slow, painful return of sensation to his limbs, the gradual ebbing of the panicked tremors, the crushing weight of humiliation settling into a dull, permanent ache. He lay on the bed, fully dressed, staring at the intricate pattern on the ceiling, replaying the night’s horrors on a loop. Jeonghan’s cruel words. The financier’s greedy hands. The suffocating terror. And then… Jeonghan, waiting in the hallway.

Why? Why had he stayed? It was the one question that wouldn’t fit into the narrative of hatred and betrayal he’d clung to for a decade. The man who had called him ordinary, who had seemed to relish his pain, had then become a silent, immovable guardian outside his door. The contradiction was a splinter in his mind, impossible to ignore.

The suite was too quiet. The silence was a vacuum, sucking him back into the memory of the other suite, the other man. He couldn’t stay curled in this ball forever. With a groan that came from the depths of his soul, he pushed himself up. His head throbbed, his mouth tasted like ash, and the elegant burgundy tuxedo felt like a costume from a play that had ended in tragedy.

He walked unsteadily to the living area, his eyes automatically going to the door. The need for… something… anything other than this oppressive silence propelled him forward. He needed to know if the world outside this room still existed. He needed to prove that he hadn’t completely dissolved.

He turned the handle and pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Jeonghan was still there. He wasn’t leaning against the wall anymore. He was sitting on the floor, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his head resting back against the wallpaper. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep. The tension in his jaw, the tight line of his shoulders, spoke of a wakeful, weary vigil. He looked younger like this, stripped of his usual arrogant posture. He looked… exhausted.

The sound of the door made his eyes snap open. They were bloodshot, the silver usually so sharp now dulled with fatigue and what looked suspiciously like regret. He didn’t move, just watched as Joshua stood in the doorway, a silent question in his gaze.

Joshua’s own anger felt distant, a theoretical concept compared to the raw, immediate reality of the man sitting on the floor. The man who had waited.

He turned without a word and walked back into the suite, leaving the door open. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a… cessation of hostilities. A temporary, fragile truce born from mutual devastation.

He went to the mini-bar, his movements slow and deliberate. He pulled out two bottles of cold water. Then he walked back to the doorway.

Jeonghan hadn’t moved. He was just watching him, his expression unreadable.

Joshua held out one of the bottles. “Here.”

Jeonghan’s eyes flickered from the bottle to Joshua’s face. After a beat, he reached up and took it, his fingers brushing against Joshua’s. The contact was brief, electric, and strangely grounding.

Joshua took a sip of his own water, the cold liquid a stark contrast to the lingering burn of whiskey in his system. He leaned against the doorframe, not looking at Jeonghan, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall of the hallway.

“You should come inside,” Joshua said, his voice hoarse. The words felt foreign. “Sitting out here… it’s pathetic.”

It wasn’t a kind offer. It was blunt, almost rude. But it was real. It was the first honest thing either of them had said to the other that wasn’t designed to wound.

Jeonghan let out a short, humourless breath that was almost a laugh. He looked down at the water bottle in his hands, then back up at Joshua. The war in his eyes was visible—pride warring with exhaustion, the instinct to refuse battling the profound need to not be alone.

Slowly, stiffly, he pushed himself up from the floor. He didn’t say thank you. He just gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod.

He stepped past Joshua into the suite, his presence immediately making the large room feel smaller. He walked to the far end of the living area and sat in a large armchair, as far from the bedroom as possible, placing his unopened water bottle on the glass table beside him.

Joshua closed the door, the click of the lock this time feeling like a seal on their bizarre, temporary alliance. He didn’t join Jeonghan. He remained standing near the door, as if ready to bolt.

The silence returned, but it was different now. It was no longer the silence of two people ignoring each other. It was the heavy, charged silence of two people who had run out of weapons, who had nothing left to fight with, forced to share the same lifeboat in the middle of a stormy sea. They didn’t speak. They didn’t look at each other. They just existed in the same space, two shattered pieces of a broken whole, drinking their water and waiting for the dawn to break on the ruins of their lives.

The silence was a fragile thing, a thin sheet of ice over a deep, dark lake of unsaid things. They had been sitting in it for what felt like an eternity, the only sound their breathing and the distant hum of Paris. The water bottles were empty, condensation rings marking their temporary truce on the glass table.

Then, Joshua moved.

It wasn't a gentle shift. It was a deliberate, almost violent uncoiling from his spot by the door. The numbness in his eyes was gone, replaced by a dark, turbulent intensity. He crossed the room in a few swift strides, his movements sharp with a purpose that made Jeonghan tense in his armchair.

Before Jeonghan could speak could question, Joshua was on him. Not with an embrace, but with a claiming. He didn't kneel. He loomed over the chair, his hands coming down on the armrests, caging Jeonghan in. His body, usually so graceful and gentle, was rigid with a raw, desperate energy.

"I need you to erase his touch," Joshua whispered, his voice a ragged, low thing. His eyes burned into Jeonghan's, wide and a little wild. "I need you to remove his touch. I can still feel his hands on me."

Jeonghan stared up at him, shock rendering him motionless. This wasn't the broken, sobbing man from the hallway. This was someone else. Someone feral.

"Jisoo—" he started, his voice rough.

"Don't," Joshua cut him off, his voice gaining a sharp, commanding edge Jeonghan had never heard before. "Don't call me that. Not right now." He leaned in closer, his face inches from Jeonghan's. "And don't look at me like I'm going to break. I'm not the same fifteen-year-old Joshua you could manhandle to your own liking back in Busan."

A flash of memory—basketball courts, guiding hands, a possessive arm around shoulders—hit Jeonghan, but it was warped, reframed by Joshua's bitter words.

"I'm strong enough for the both of us now," Joshua declared, and with a surprising, fluid strength, he moved. In one decisive motion, he swung a leg over Jeonghan's lap, straddling him in the large armchair. He didn't settle gently; he locked his thighs around Jeonghan's torso, pinning him in place, using his own body as a cage. 

He looked down at Jeonghan, a strange, twisted mix of dominance and desperation in his eyes. "So you can just sit there," he murmured, his breath hot against Jeonghan's face. "You can just look pretty, like you always do, and let me handle the rest."

He was trying to rewrite the script. To take the power back. To use Jeonghan's body as an eraser for the violation he'd just endured.

He leaned in, his lips parting, his intention clear. He was going to kiss him.

Jeonghan’s head snapped to the side, avoiding the contact. The movement was instinctive, a defence honed over years of building walls. His voice, when it came, was cold, a desperate attempt to re-establish the distance that was rapidly collapsing.

"I don't," he bit out, his jaw tight, "kiss the mouths I fuck."

The words were meant to be a bucket of ice water. A reminder of the transactional, meaningless encounter Joshua had been seeking minutes ago. A way to push him away and protect his own shattered heart.

For a second, it worked. Joshua froze above him, the raw need in his eyes flickering with hurt. But then, it hardened into something else. Resolve.

"Fine," Joshua breathed, the word a challenge. "Then don't kiss me."

His hands, which had been gripping the armrests, moved to the buttons of Jeonghan's pristine white shirt. His fingers, though trembling slightly, were deft and sure. He didn't ask. He didn't plead. He simply began to undress him, his movements purposeful, almost clinical. He was taking what he needed, on his own terms.

Jeonghan should have stopped him. He should have shoved him off, reminded them both of the chasm of pain between them. But he was paralysed. Paralysed by the shocking reversal of their dynamic, by the raw pain in Joshua's eyes, and by a deep, treacherous part of himself that had been starving for this closeness for a decade.

He let it happen. He let Joshua unbutton his shirt, his cool fingers brushing against the skin of his chest, leaving trails of fire. He let Joshua's hands roam, mapping his torso with a possessiveness that was both alien and intoxicating. He was a passive participant in his own undoing, his own body betraying him, responding to Joshua's dominant, desperate energy.

Joshua was methodical, his touch firm and demanding, as if he was trying to brand Jeonghan, to overwrite every memory, every hurt, with this new, searing contact. He leaned down, his mouth finding the juncture of Jeonghan's neck and shoulder, not with a kiss, but with a sharp, claiming bite that made Jeonghan gasp.

It was working. The world was narrowing to this chair, to this man on top of him, to the sensation of being wanted, needed, used in the most primal way. The financier, the cruel words, the ten years of silence—it was all being burned away in this crucible of desperate passion.

Jeonghan’s hands, which had been lying limp at his sides, finally came up, gripping Joshua's hips, his fingers digging into the rich fabric of the burgundy tuxedo trousers. A silent surrender. A plea for more.

And that was when it broke.

The moment Jeonghan’s hands touched him, the moment he felt that surrender, Joshua’s fierce, dominant facade shattered.

A ragged, broken sob tore from his throat. The frantic, possessive movements stilled. His entire body went limp, the strength draining out of him as if a plug had been pulled.

He collapsed forward, his forehead coming to rest heavily against Jeonghan's bare chest, right over his frantically beating heart. The tears came then, not the silent tears of the hallway, but deep, body-wracking sobs that shook them both. He wasn't the strong one. He wasn't handling anything. He was just a boy, terrified and violated, trying to use sex as a weapon against his own trauma and failing miserably.

His arms, which had been holding him up, wrapped around Jeonghan's torso, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that had turned to quicksand.

"I'm sorry," he wept, the words muffled against Jeonghan's skin. "I'm so sorry, Hannie. I couldn't... I couldn't let him... I just wanted to forget..."

All the fight, the anger, the posturing, was gone. The "grown ass person" was gone. In the chair was just Jisoo, the boy from Busan, scared and heartbroken, finally breaking apart in the arms of the only person who had ever truly known him.

And Jeonghan, his own defences in ruins, his carefully constructed ice palace melted by tears and shared desperation, could do nothing but hold him. He brought his arms up, wrapping them tightly around Joshua's trembling back, holding him as he cried. He rested his cheek against the top of Joshua's head, closing his eyes against the storm of his own emotions.

There were no words of forgiveness. No promises for the future. There was only this: the violent, messy, heartbreaking reality of two shattered souls clinging to each other in the dark, the lines between love and hate, punishment and solace, so blurred they no longer existed.

The storm of Joshua’s sobs eventually subsided, leaving behind a hollow, trembling exhaustion. He lay slumped against Jeonghan’s chest, his breathing still hitching, his body heavy and spent. The frantic energy that had possessed him was gone, leaving only the vulnerable, raw truth of his collapse.

And Jeonghan… Jeonghan was paralysed.

His arms were locked around Joshua, a rigid cage of muscle and bone. Every instinct screamed at him to soften his hold, to stroke a soothing hand down Joshua’s back, to murmur something, anything, that wasn’t a weapon. But he couldn’t. A deeper, more primal terror had him in its grip.

To offer comfort was to acknowledge the pain. To touch him with gentleness was to cross a line they had spent a decade fortifying with barbed wire and landmines. It was to admit that the boy he had sworn to hate, the man he had called ordinary, still had the power to shatter him. Comfort was a surrender. It was a white flag raised over the ruins of his own defences, and he was terrified of what would happen if he let it fly.

He was terrified of feeling it. The simple, human act of offering solace felt more intimate, more dangerous, than the desperate, clinical sex Joshua had just initiated. That had been about power and erasure. This… this was about care. And care was the one thing he had sworn never to give Joshua Hong again.

So he held him, but his touch was stiff, almost awkward. He was a statue providing shelter, not a man offering warmth. He could feel the dampness of Joshua’s tears cooling on his skin, a brand of shared misery. He could feel the frantic, rabbit-quick beat of Joshua’s heart slowly calming against his own. He could feel the absolute trust in the way Joshua’s body had gone completely limp against him, a total surrender.

And it terrified him.

He stared blankly over Joshua’s shoulder at the opulent, impersonal hotel room. The first faint hints of dawn were painting the skyline outside a pale, sickly grey. The night was over. The gala, the fight, the near-assault, the desperate, failed seduction—it was all over. And they were here, trapped in this silent, painful limbo.

Joshua stirred slightly, a soft, broken sound escaping his lips. It wasn't a word, just a sigh of pure exhaustion. The sound, so small and helpless, finally broke through Jeonghan’s paralysis.

Slowly, so slowly it was almost imperceptible, the rigid tension in his arms began to ease. His right hand, which had been clenched into a fist against Joshua’s back, uncurled. His fingers, hesitant and clumsy, brushed against the rumpled fabric of Joshua’s tuxedo jacket. It wasn't a caress. It was a tremor. A barely-there touch, a ghost of the comfort he was too afraid to fully give.

It was enough.

A fresh, silent tear traced a path from Joshua’s closed eye, but this one felt different. It wasn't a tear of panic or humiliation. It was a tear of recognition. He felt the subtle shift in Jeonghan’s body, the minute softening of his hold. He felt the feather-light brush of his fingers.

He didn't open his eyes. He didn't speak. He just pressed his forehead a little more firmly against Jeonghan’s chest, a silent acceptance of the fractured, terrified comfort being offered.

They stayed like that as the room grew lighter, two wounded animals huddled together for warmth, unable to heal each other, but too broken to face the coming dawn alone. The gulf between them was still there, vast and filled with unspeakable history. But for now, in the quiet aftermath of their mutual destruction, the simple, terrifying act of not letting go was the only language they had left.

The first light of dawn was a reluctant intruder, seeping through the windows and illuminating the devastation in the suite. The silence was no longer charged; it was hollow, the quiet after a bomb has detonated. Joshua was a dead weight against him, his breathing finally even and deep, the kind of sleep that comes only after total emotional exhaustion.

Jeonghan sat frozen for a long time, the reality of their situation settling over him like a fine dust. They couldn't stay here. The hotel staff would come. The world would intrude. The fragile, desperate bubble they were in would pop.

With immense care, as if handling a piece of priceless, cracked porcelain, he shifted. Joshua didn't stir. Jeonghan manoeuvred himself out from under him, laying the sleeping man gently back against the armchair. Joshua’s face, even in sleep, was pale and tear-streaked, his beautiful burgundy tuxedo a wrinkled mess. He looked heartbreakingly young.

Jeonghan’s own reflection in a gilded mirror caught him by surprise. He looked just as wrecked—shirt hanging open, hair a disaster, eyes shadowed with a fatigue that went deeper than bone. Two ruins staring at each other.

He called his driver, his voice a low, hushed command. Then, he did something he never thought he would do again. He bent down and, with a grunt of effort, slid one arm under Joshua’s knees and the other behind his back, lifting him. Joshua was solid, a warm, heavy weight in his arms. He murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, his head lolling against Jeonghan’s shoulder, seeking the familiar warmth.

The walk through the silent, pre-dawn hotel corridors felt like a dream. The ride in the back of the black sedan was a surreal, silent procession through a sleeping city. Jeonghan stared out the window, Joshua’s head a heavy, trusting weight against his side, and felt the walls around his heart, which had just begun to fissure, threaten to collapse entirely.

He carried Joshua into his penthouse, the stark, minimalist space feeling more like a sanctuary than it ever had before. There was no guest room. Jeonghan had never needed one. He had never allowed anyone close enough to require one.

He carried Joshua straight into his own bedroom, a space so private that even his cleaning staff were only allowed in under strict supervision. It was as severe as the rest of the penthouse—a large, low platform bed with crisp white linens, no clutter, no personal effects. A fortress within a fortress. Joshua was once again here. 

He laid Joshua down on the bed as gently as he could, the white duvet swallowing his crumpled form. He stood there for a moment, just looking. Joshua, in his bed. The thought was so monumental it barely registered.

He reached down and, with trembling fingers, began the methodical task of undoing the rest of the buttons on Joshua’s ruined tuxedo jacket. He slipped it off his shoulders. He untied his shoes and pulled them off. He didn't dare go further. Removing the trousers felt like a violation of a different kind. He pulled the duvet up over him, tucking it around his shoulders, a gesture so domestic and tender it felt alien in his own hands.

Joshua sighed in his sleep, curling slightly onto his side, his face pressing into Jeonghan’s pillow.

Jeonghan retreated to the doorway, his own breath shaky. He felt like he’d just performed a sacred, terrifying ritual. He looked at the figure in his bed—the man who was his greatest love and his most profound wound, now sleeping in the most intimate space he possessed for the second time. 

He walked to the kitchen, his movements on autopilot. He filled a glass with cold water and carried it back to the bedroom. He placed it on the nightstand within easy reach.

He stood there again, a sentinel in the dim room. The city was waking up outside, but in here, time was suspended.

“Jisoo,” he whispered, the name a ghost on his lips. He didn’t expect an answer.

Joshua didn’t stir.

“Do you want water?”

Silence.

It was a stupid question. He was asleep. But he had to ask. He had to perform the act of care, even if it went unheard. It was a penance for the cruelty, a balm for his own terrifying, burgeoning need to protect.

When it was clear Joshua was lost to the world, Jeonghan finally turned away. He didn’t leave the penthouse. He couldn’t. He went to the living room and sank onto the sofa, the same one he’d sat on with Seungcheol just a night before, when his past was a locked box and his future a straight, cold line.

The late morning sun was streaming aggressively into Jeonghan’s penthouse, a stark contrast to the emotional murk that had settled over everything. Jeonghan was slumped on his sofa, still in his ruined tuxedo trousers and unbuttoned shirt, staring at a single dust mote dancing in a sunbeam. He hadn’t moved for hours. He felt… post-apocalyptic.

The electronic lock beeped. Seungcheol let himself in, a bag of what smelled like fresh croissants in one hand and his usual exasperated energy radiating from him.

“Alright, you dramatic bastard, I come bearing fuel and…” He stopped dead, his eyes scanning Jeonghan’s dishevelled form. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. “Well, well, well. Look at you. Did the ice prince finally thaw? Got someone new warming up the royal chambers?” He waggled his eyebrows. “Who is she? That Brazilian model from the gala? Please tell me it’s the Brazilian model, I had money on her.”

Jeonghan didn’t look up. He just continued to stare at the dust mote as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Seungcheol’s grin widened. “Oh my god, you do! You finally took my advice! You did one thing for yourself! I’m so proud!” He dropped the croissants on the counter and clapped his hands. “Okay, details. I need details. Is she still here? Don’t tell me you already kicked her out. You have to at least offer them breakfast, Han, it’s basic human decency.”

He started striding purposefully towards the bedroom. “Let me just pop my head in, say a quick hello, assure her you’re not a complete sociopath despite all evidence to the contrary—”

“Cheol, don’t,” Jeonghan said, his voice a gravelly rasp. It was too late.

Seungcheol pushed the bedroom door open, his cheerful, nosy expression firmly in place. “Good morning! Sorry to intrude, I’m just Jeonghan’s… oh.”

The word died in his throat. His jaw went slack. His eyes widened to comical proportions.

There, in the centre of Jeonghan’s obsessively minimalist bed, buried under the pristine white duvet, was a mop of chestnut brown hair. A man’s hair. And poking out from the top of the duvet, resting on Jeonghan’s pillow, was a face. A very specific, very familiar, devastatingly handsome face. The scene felt like a deja vu. 

Hong Joshua.

Seungcheol slowly backed out of the room, pulling the door shut with a soft, precise click, as if he’d just discovered a sleeping dragon. He turned to face Jeonghan, who was now burying his face in his hands.

The silence in the living room was deafening.

Seungcheol pointed a trembling finger towards the bedroom. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out. He looked like a goldfish that had just been told the meaning of life was actually a bicycle.

Finally, he found his voice. It was a strangled whisper. “Jeonghan. What. The. Fuck.”

Jeonghan just groaned into his palms.

“I TOLD YOU,” Seungcheol hissed, striding over and gesturing wildly at the closed door, “to do ONE THING for yourself! ONE! I gave you a simple, straightforward assignment! ‘Pick up a basketball,’ I said! ‘Call a therapist,’ I said! ‘Punch a wall!’ ‘Get laid by a nice, uncomplicated stranger who DOESN’T HAVE A DECADE OF SOUL-CRUSHING HISTORY WITH YOU!’”

He was pacing now, running his hands through his hair. “But no! You, Yoon Jeonghan, you look at the menu of healthy life choices and you order the one thing that is literally ON FIRE and served with a side of emotional grenade! ‘Get laid?’ NO! You go and get Hong Joshua! You bring the human embodiment of your entire traumatic backstory into your home, and you tuck him into your bed! YOUR bed! The bed that has probably been sterilised and blessed by priests to ensure no one ever gets that close to you!”

Jeonghan peeked through his fingers. “It’s not… it’s not what you think.”

“NOT WHAT I THINK?” Seungcheol’s voice shot up an octave. “I think there is a sleeping beauty in there who, last I checked, you wanted to either a) publicly humiliate or b) commit minor assault against! Which part of that is ‘not what I think’? Did you two have a lovely, therapeutic chat about your feelings? Did you hold hands and sing To you? Or did you just skip straight to the part where you defile the one person who can destroy you with a single sentence?”

“He was drunk,” Jeonghan muttered, defensive. “And upset.”

“OH, HE WAS UPSET?” Seungcheol threw his hands up. “What a shocking, unprecedented turn of events! I can’t imagine what could have possibly upset him!” 

Jeonghan winced. “I… handled it.”

“You HANDLED it? You ‘handled’ a nuclear meltdown by climbing into the reactor core and giving it a hug! This isn’t handling, Han, this is arson! You’ve poured gasoline on your entire life and lit a match shaped like Joshua Hong!”

Under the weight of that fury, the whole, messy story of the night came tumbling out of Jeonghan in a low, rushed confession.

When he finished, Seungcheol stopped his frantic pacing. He braced his hands on the back of a chair, his knuckles white, and leaned in, his face a mask of utter, profound disbelief.

He stopped pacing and leaned in, his face a mask of utter disbelief. “So, let me get this straight. Your plan for ‘moving on’ and ‘taking back the narrative’ was to have a catastrophic public fight, nearly get him assaulted, rescue him, have angry, confusing almost-sex, and then bring him home for a slumber party? Is that the timeline? Am I missing a step? Did you stop for ice cream?”

Jeonghan finally lifted his head, his expression one of utter misery. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Seungcheol stared at him for a long moment, the anger slowly deflating, replaced by a dawning, horrified pity. He sighed, a long, weary sound, and collapsed onto the sofa next to him.

“Han,” he said, his voice now quiet and defeated. “You have the self-preservation instincts of a moth flying into a bug zapper. A very handsome, very expensive moth, but a moth nonetheless.”

He looked towards the bedroom door, then back at Jeonghan’s shattered face. “So. What’s the plan now? When Sleeping Beauty wakes up, are you going to serve him croissants and pretend last night was a weird dream? Or are you just going to hide in here until he leaves and then have a nervous breakdown?”

Jeonghan just shook his head, his gaze drifting back to the bedroom door. He had no plan. He had no answers. All he had was a sleeping Joshua in his bed, a best friend on the verge of a coronary, and the terrifying, undeniable knowledge that the one thing he absolutely should not be doing was the only thing he seemed capable of.

Seungcheol had given up on his lecture and was now just watching Jeonghan with the fascinated horror of a naturalist observing a previously unknown, and clearly deranged, species.

Jeonghan, meanwhile, had moved to the kitchen. This in itself was an event. Seungcheol had known him for almost a decade, through poverty and extreme wealth, and the most culinary artistry he’d ever witnessed from Yoon Jeonghan was the ability to dial for takeout in five different languages. The kitchen was a pristine, stainless-steel showroom, untouched by human hands.

Which is why Seungcheol’s jaw practically unhinged when Jeonghan opened the refrigerator, pulled out a container of rice, eggs, and a jar of kimchi that looked suspiciously homemade, and set them on the counter.

“What…” Seungcheol managed, his voice a whisper. “What the fuck are you doing now?”

Jeonghan ignored him. He found a pan—Seungcheol hadn’t even been sure he owned one—and placed it on the stove. He poured oil. He cracked eggs with a sharp, precise tap that was somehow both furious and practised. The sizzle was unnaturally loud in the quiet.

Seungcheol watched, mesmerised, as Jeonghan diced the kimchi with a terrifying focus usually reserved for negotiating multi-million dollar contracts. He fried the rice, the grains popping in the hot oil, then added the kimchi, filling the sterile air with the pungent, comforting, and utterly bizarre scent of a Korean home kitchen.

“Is that… kimchi?” Seungcheol asked, recognising the distinct, fiery aroma from the container. 

Jeonghan didn’t answer. He just kept stirring, his movements economical and sure. It was a side of him Seungcheol had never seen. This wasn’t the ice prince or the broken man. This was someone… domestic. It was the most unsettling thing he’d witnessed all morning, and that was including finding Joshua in the bed.

Soon, a plate of perfectly prepared, glistening kimchi fried rice sat on the counter. Jeonghan plated it with a neatness that bordered on obsessive, even garnishing it with a single, perfectly fried egg and a sprinkle of sesame seeds. He found a notepad and a pen, scrawled two words, and placed it next to the plate.

Eat this. And leave.

He then turned, grabbed Seungcheol by the elbow with a grip like steel, and began physically dragging him towards the penthouse door.

“Whoa, hey! Han! What the hell?” Seungcheol sputtered, stumbling along. “The food! Joshua! What are you—“

Jeonghan shoved him out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind them, the lock engaging with a definitive thud.

They stood in the silent, carpeted corridor. Seungcheol stared at the closed door, then back at Jeonghan, who was leaning against it, looking pale and breathing heavily as if he’d just run a marathon.

“Okay,” Seungcheol said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Start talking. What was… all of that?” He gestured vaguely towards the penthouse. “The cooking. The note. The manhandling. Explain it to me like I’m a very confused, very invested five-year-old.”

Jeonghan closed his eyes, his head thumping back against the door. “I don’t know,” he groaned.

“Bullshit. You don’t cook for people you’re trying to get rid of. That’s, like, the opposite of ‘get out.’ That’s ‘I care about your digestive health while I evict you’ energy.”

“It’s just food,” Jeonghan muttered, but the protest was weak.

“It’s kimchi fried rice, you emotionally constipated lunatic!” Seungcheol cried. “It’s comfort food! It’s ‘I’m sorry you had a terrible night, and I don’t know how to use my words, so here are some carbs and fermented cabbage’ food! You made him a goddamn care package with an eviction notice attached!”

Jeonghan’s shoulders slumped. The fight went out of him. “What was I supposed to do, Cheol? Wake him up? Have a conversation? About what? ‘Sorry I called you ordinary and then you almost got assaulted and then we had confusing almost-sex?’ Should we hold a seminar?”

“I don’t know! But maybe something between that and leaving a cryptic note like a culinary Batman! You made him food. You, Yoon Jeonghan, who considers pouring cereal a culinary challenge, made kimchi fried rice from scratch. That means something. Even you have to see that.”

Jeonghan was silent for a long moment, staring at the pattern on the hallway carpet. “I couldn’t just let him wake up hungry,” he finally said, his voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. “In a strange place. After… everything.”

Seungcheol’s exasperation softened. He saw it then, the sheer, terrified panic behind the bizarre domestic performance. Jeonghan was so far out of his depth that he was inventing entirely new, dysfunctional ways to tread water.

“So you cooked him a peace offering and then fled the scene,” Seungcheol summarised, a slow smile tugging at his lips despite the insanity of it all. “Classic Jeonghan. Maximum effort, minimum emotional vulnerability.”

“Shut up.”

“No, no, it’s genius, really. It’s like you’re trying to communicate through interpretive dance, but the dance is making fried rice and the message is ‘I have the emotional intelligence of a rock but I don’t want you to be hungry.’ It’s… it’s art.”

Jeonghan shot him a withering glare, but there was no heat behind it. He just looked exhausted and lost.

Seungcheol sighed, leaning against the wall opposite him. “Okay. Fine. You’ve fed him. You’ve evacuated. What’s the next move in Operation Emotional Trainwreck?”

“I have no idea,” Jeonghan admitted, the confession seeming to cost him dearly. “I just… I needed to not be in there when he woke up.”

“Yeah, I got that part.” Seungcheol looked at his friend, this beautiful, brilliant, utterly broken man hiding in a hallway from his own heart. “Well, you can’t stay out here forever. Eventually, you have to go back in. And he’s either going to be gone, or he’s going to be there, waiting, with a plate of empty fried rice and a million questions.”

Jeonghan visibly paled at the thought.

“Come on,” Seungcheol said, pushing off the wall and clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go get a real coffee. And you’re buying. You owe me for the therapy session and the croissants you abandoned.” He started leading a shell-shocked Jeonghan towards the elevator. “We’ll figure out the rest of your life-altering crisis after caffeine. One catastrophic life choice at a time.”

Chapter Text

The first thing that Joshua registered was the scent.

It wasn’t the sterile, expensive cedar and bergamot of Jeonghan’s cologne, though that was there too, a ghost on the pillows. No, this was something else, something deeper, woven into the very air of the penthouse. It was pungent, fermented, spicy, and achingly familiar. It was the smell of home.

Joshua’s eyes fluttered open. He was in a vast, minimalist bed, wrapped in a duvet so white and crisp it felt like a cloud. The late afternoon light streamed through windows, painting the room in shades of gold and grey. For a disorienting moment, he had no memory of how he’d gotten here. Then, it all came crashing back in a nauseating wave.

The gala. The whiskey. Jeonghan’s voice, cold and sharp: “The worst pain is realising I wasted all that love on someone so… ordinary.”

The financier’s hands. The panic. The hallway.

And then… Jeonghan. Waiting. Carrying him. The silent car ride. Being laid in this bed.

A hot flush of shame washed over him. He buried his face in the pillow, which smelled overwhelmingly of him—a scent that had once been his sanctuary and was now a testament to his own spectacular collapse. He had been hysterical, pathetic. He had tried to… God, he had tried to use sex as a weapon, as an eraser, and had instead shattered into a million pieces in Jeonghan’s arms.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the memory away. But the other scent, the one from the kitchen, persisted. It was a lifeline. A tether to a reality that wasn’t this humiliating present.

His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and ash. Thirst, a desperate, physical need, finally propelled him out of bed. His body ached with a deep, emotional hangover. He was still wearing his trousers from the tuxedo, but his jacket, shoes, and socks were gone. He had a vague, hazy memory of Jeonghan’s hands, surprisingly gentle, removing them.

He padded barefoot out of the bedroom and into the stunning, sterile living area. The penthouse was a study in monochrome perfection, all sharp angles and cold surfaces. It was the complete opposite of the warm, cluttered, lived-in home he remembered from Busan. And yet, that smell… it didn’t belong here. It was like finding a wildflower growing through a crack in a marble floor.

On the stark, polished concrete kitchen island, a single plate sat under a glass cloche, placed with an almost ceremonial precision. Next to it was a note, written on a heavy, cream-colored card.

He approached slowly, his heart doing a strange, nervous flutter in his chest. He recognised the handwriting instantly—the same messy, determined scrawl from the English vocabulary notebook Jeonghan had left on his doorstep a lifetime ago.

Eat this. And leave.

Joshua let out a soft, shaky breath. Of course. A command wrapped in a gesture. Nourishment and dismissal in the same breath. So quintessentially Jeonghan. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He lifted the cloche.

And the world stopped.

On the plate was a perfect mound of kimchi fried rice. It was glistening, a vibrant mosaic of white rice, fiery red kimchi, and flecks of green onion. A single, perfectly fried egg sat atop it, its yolk a rich, liquid sun. It was garnished with a sprinkle of roasted sesame seeds and thin strips of roasted seaweed. It wasn't just a plate of kimchi fried rice. It was the plate. The one he knew better than any dish in the world.

His hands trembled as he picked up the fork that had been laid neatly beside the plate. He scooped up a small bite, the grains of rice clinging together perfectly. He brought it to his mouth.

The flavour exploded on his tongue, a symphony of memory and sensation.

It was exactly Halmeoni’s.

Not similar. Not a vague imitation. It was a perfect, precise replica. The specific balance of sour and spicy from her homemade kimchi, the depth of flavour from the sesame oil she toasted herself, and the slight crispness of the rice at the bottom of the pan. It was her recipe, down to the very last grain.

A sob, sudden and violent, tore from his throat. He dropped the fork, the clatter echoing in the silent penthouse. He braced his hands on the cold island, his head bowing as the tears came, hot and fast.

The memory hit him with the force of a physical blow, pulling him under. He was fifteen again, curled up on the worn floor of his room in Busan, the flu wracking his body with violent chills. Just a year earlier, when he was fourteen and sick, he had banished Jeonghan for a full week, terrified of passing on even a single germ. He’d endured the fever and the loneliness, convinced it was the price of caring for someone.

But this time was different.

The door had creaked open, and Jeonghan had stood there, backlit by the hallway light, holding a steaming plastic container of his grandmother's kimchi fried rice. This time, Joshua hadn't pushed him away. This time, he had let down the walls, too weak and too yearning to maintain them. He had let Jeonghan see him—pale, trembling, and vulnerable—because Jeonghan had insisted on seeing him. Because Jeonghan had always insisted on seeing him. 

And Jeonghan had simply sat beside him on the floor, his shoulder a solid, warm weight against Joshua's trembling one, and stayed.

“Halmeoni sent this,” he’d mumbled, his ears pink. “She said it’ll scare the sickness right out of you.”

Joshua had been too weak to even sit up properly. Jeonghan had sat on the floor beside him, opening the container. The incredible, pungent aroma had filled the room. He’d scooped up a spoonful and, with a surprising, clumsy tenderness, held it to Joshua’s lips.

“Here, dummy. Open up.”

Joshua had eaten it, bite by bite, as Jeonghan fed him, his brow furrowed in concentration. The spicy, comforting food had seeped into his bones, warming him from the inside out. It was more potent than any medicine. It was love, made edible.

He remembered Halmeoni in her small, steam-filled kitchen, her back to them as she chopped vegetables with a rhythmic, practised speed. She’d hummed an old trot song, her voice a soft, raspy comfort. Jeonghan would be leaning against the counter, stealing pieces of kimchi when he thought she wasn’t looking, and she’d swat his hand with a wooden spoon without even turning around.

“For the pot, Hannie-ah! Not for your bottomless stomach!”

And Jeonghan would grin, unrepentant, his eyes crinkling in a way they never did for anyone else.

The taste was a time machine. It was the ghost of every happy moment, every shared secret, every unspoken promise. It was the physical proof that the boy he’d loved—the real Hannie, not the ice prince—was still in there somewhere, preserving this sacred recipe, this tangible piece of their shared history.

He cried for the loss of that boy. He cried for the warmth of that small kitchen, a warmth that felt a million miles away from this cold, beautiful prison of a penthouse. He cried for the simplicity of a time when love was a shared container of fried rice and a hand to hold when you were sick.

He cried for Jeonghan, who carried this taste, this memory, like a secret burden, who could make this with such perfection and then tell him to leave.

The sobs eventually subsided, leaving him hollowed out and raw. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and looked at the plate again. It was a message. A complicated, painful, beautiful message. It said, I remember everything. I remember us. And I want you to go.

But it also said, I fed you. I took care of you. Even now.

He picked up the fork again. This time, his hand was steady. He ate the entire plate, every last grain of rice. He ate the egg, the yolk bursting and mixing with the rice, a golden, rich sauce. He ate the little strips of seaweed. He consumed the memory, letting it fortify him, letting it anchor him in a past that felt more real than the painful present.

When he was done, he felt… clean. Purged. The shame was still there, but it was quieter now, overshadowed by a deep, resonant ache of nostalgia and a dawning, determined hope.

He washed the plate and fork carefully, drying them and placing them back in the pristine kitchen, erasing any trace of his presence. He found his jacket and shoes neatly placed by the door. As he put them on, his mind was already racing, forming a new, fragile plan.

He didn’t know how to fix things with Jeonghan. The chasm between them was too wide, filled with too many unsaid things and too much fresh pain. But this… this was a thread. The taste of that rice was a key.

He needed to see her.

Halmeoni.

The thought was a sudden, brilliant sunbeam cutting through the fog of his misery. Of course. She was the answer. She had always been the answer. She was the one who had brought them together. She was their North Star. If anyone could help Jeonghan remember who he was, it was her. If anyone could help Joshua understand, it was her.

He could ask her about Jeonghan. He could tell her he was sorry for not being there when she got sick, and for the way things had ended. He could sit in her garden again and just… breathe. He could ask her for a bowl of this fried rice, and this time, he would tell her how much it meant to him.

A small, genuine smile touched his lips for the first time in days. It felt strange on his face. This was a purpose. A mission born not from spite or desperation, but from love.

He wouldn’t ask Jeonghan over the phone. That felt too crude, too transactional. He would wait. He would find the right moment, when the dust from last night had settled. He would look Jeonghan in the eye and say, “I need to see her. Please. Can you tell me how she is? Can I visit?”

He let himself out of the penthouse, the door clicking shut with a soft, final sound that echoed in the empty hallway. The silent elevator ride down felt like a descent from a dream, and when he stepped out into the bright, bustling Parisian evening, the city's energy seemed to warp around him. He felt insulated, wrapped in the warm, spicy ghost of a memory that was already beginning to curdle. Unaware that the path ahead led not to reconciliation, but to a gravesite. He didn’t know that the question taking root in his mind was the one that would finally, completely, shatter the man once he so desperately tried to save.

The city's noise was a cold splash of reality. The grandeur of the street felt alien, and the ghost of that warmth began to curdle into a stark, lonely chill. The brilliant, sunlit certainty of his plan suddenly seemed naive, a desperate fantasy constructed on a foundation that had crumbled a decade ago. Would Jeonghan even tell him? They had crossed every single line in the book. There was absolutely nothing left. 

The world tilted on its axis. Feeling utterly untethered—a satellite severed from its guiding signal, spinning into silent, dark space—Joshua stumbled to a halt on the grimy curb. The golden, sun-drenched memory of Halmeoni's kitchen, with its sacred, savoury smells, shattered against the cold, sharp image of last night's leering faces and grabbing hands. The collision was deafening, a silent explosion that left only wreckage in its wake. He was adrift in the aftermath. 

He needed an anchor. He needed a friend.

His fingers were clumsy with the lingering chill of the morning as he pulled out his phone. He didn't have to scroll far. Seokmin’s name, uncomplicated light and steadfast normalcy, was right at the top of his recent calls. Taking a shaky breath, he pressed the name and lifted the phone to his ear, the ringtone a lifeline thrown into the roaring silence of his own despair.

It rang only once. “Josh? Hey, are you okay? I’ve been worried.” Seokmin’s voice was warm, immediate, and laced with genuine concern. It was the antithesis of the icy silence he’d just left.

“Can you…” Joshua’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying to sound more composed than he felt. “Can you come get me?”

“Where are you? Of course. I’m in the car. Just give me the address.”

Joshua recited the address of Jeonghan’s building, the words feeling like a betrayal of some unspoken rule.

There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end. “You’re… there?”

“It’s a long story,” Joshua whispered, the exhaustion seeping into his bones. “Please, Seokmin.”

“Don’t move. I’m five minutes away.”

True to his word, a sleek, obsidian Mercedes-Maybach glided to a perfect, silent halt at the curb just a few minutes later. The driver, dressed in immaculate livery, emerged and opened the rear door. Seokmin was already scooting over, making space, his face a canvas of worry and confusion.

Joshua slid into the plush, cold leather, the scent of a new car and Seokmin’s expensive cologne enveloping him. The door closed with a hushed, expensive thud, sealing them in a quiet, rolling vault.

“Okay,” Seokmin said, his voice gentle but firm. He didn’t bombard him with questions. He just looked at Joshua, taking in his rumpled clothes, his pale face, the shadows under his eyes that spoke of a sleepless, traumatic night. “Start from the beginning. Or don’t. But I’m here.”

The car pulled away from the curb, the city blurring into a stream of light and motion outside the tinted windows. The movement, the safety, the non-judgmental presence of his friend, broke the last of Joshua’s reserves.

He told him everything.

He started with the gala, the decision to find a “distraction,” the way he’d used his gentle charm as a lure. He described the moment his eyes had met Jeonghan’s across the dance floor, the nuclear explosion of mutual recognition and fury. He recounted the grim, liquid-fueled ritual at the edge of the crowd, the snide remarks traded like gunfire, the way they’d both used whiskey as both fuel and coolant for their rage.

And then, he came to the heart of it. His voice dropped to a broken whisper.

“He said… he said the worst pain wasn’t me leaving back then.” Joshua’s throat tightened, the words feeling like shards of glass. “He said the worst pain was realising he’d wasted all that love on someone so… ordinary.”

The word hung in the air of the car, ugly and final.

Seokmin sucked in a sharp breath, his face hardening. “He what? That son of a—”

“I lost it, Seokmin,” Joshua interrupted, his eyes burning with the memory. “I just… broke. I drank more. So much more. And then… this man. Older. A financier. He came up to me. He was… slick. Predatory. And I was so drunk, and so hurt, and I just… I thought, ‘Fine. If that’s what I am. Ordinary. Disposable.’ I thought if I went with him, it would prove I didn’t care. That I was a grown ass person making my own choices.”

He described the financier’s hand on his shoulder, the leaden feeling in his limbs as he was steered away from the bar. The ride in the elevator, the opulent suite, the feeling of the man’s hands on him, greedy and violating.

“I panicked,” Joshua confessed, his voice trembling. “It was so wrong. I couldn’t breathe. I shoved him off and I just… ran. I fell out into the hallway, and I couldn’t stop shaking. I thought I was going to be sick. I thought I was going to die there, and the last person I’d talked to was Jeonghan, who hates me.”

He looked at Seokmin, his eyes wide with the residual terror of it. “And then… he was there.”

Seokmin’s brows furrowed. “The financier?”

“No. Jeonghan.”

Seokmin stared, utterly bewildered. “Jeonghan was in the hallway?”

“He never left,” Joshua whispered, the realisation still stunning him. “He must have followed us. He was just… waiting. He didn’t say a word.. Just asked me to go inside a suite he had bought. ” He swallowed hard. “And then he brought me to his penthouse.”

The story tumbled out—the hysterical fight in the hallway, his own spiteful decision to go back with the financier, the subsequent, even more profound panic that had sent him fleeing. And Jeonghan, again, waiting. The silent offer of the empty suite. The bottle of water. The eventual, fragile truce that led them both inside.

He skipped over the desperate, confusing, almost-sex, the collapse, the raw vulnerability that had followed. That felt too private, a wound too fresh to expose even to Seokmin. He simply said, “We talked. Or, we didn’t. It was… a mess. I fell asleep. And when I woke up…”

He described the smell. The perfectly plated kimchi fried rice. The note. Eat this. And leave.

“It was her recipe, Seokmin,” Joshua said, his voice thick with emotion again. “His grandmother’s. Exactly. It tasted… it tasted like being fifteen and sick and loved. It tasted like home. He made it for me. After everything. After calling me ordinary, after all of it… he made me this.”

He fell silent, finally, the entire, catastrophic narrative laid bare in the quiet luxury of the car. He felt drained, hollowed out, but also lighter, as if confessing the poison had diluted its power.

The car pulled up to Joshua’s hotel. The driver opened the door, and they stepped out into the cool air. Seokmin slung a supportive arm around Joshua’s shoulders as they walked through the lobby and rode the elevator up to his suite.

Inside, the familiar space felt like a sanctuary after the surreal drama of Jeonghan’s penthouse. Joshua collapsed onto the sofa, while Seokmin went to the kitchenette and came back with two glasses of water.

Seokmin was quiet for a long moment, studying his friend. He saw the deep, decade-old weariness in Joshua’s eyes, the scars of a battle he’d never fully understood.

“Okay,” Seokmin said, his voice dropping into a softer, more serious register. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze intent. “I’ve held my tongue for a long time, Josh. I’ve watched this… whatever this is… eat you alive for years. I see the way you look at him—like he’s the sun and a black hole at the same time. And I see the way he looks at you—like he wants to either worship you or strangle you. There’s no in-between.”

He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “You just told me about a night that sounds like it was ripped from a psychological thriller. But it all circles back to one thing. The same thing it’s always circled back to since the day I met you at UCLA, and you’d get that look in your eye.”

He fixed Joshua with a firm, loving, and unwavering gaze.

“So I’m asking you now, as your best friend who is seriously worried about your mental and physical safety.” He paused, letting the weight of the question settle in the quiet room. “What happened? Not last night. Back then. What happened between you and Jeonghan that was bad enough to cause… this?”

He gestured around, as if the entire chaotic, painful, decade-long war was visible in the air between them.

The question hung in the silence, simple, direct, and monumental. Joshua looked at his friend, his anchor, his shelter. The words felt lodged in his throat, a boulder of grief and guilt he’d been carrying for most of his life. But Seokmin’s gaze was a lifeline, and the memory of Jeonghan’s face—both the cruel and the caring one—demanded an answer.

He took a shaky breath, his eyes drifting to the window, to a past that felt both a million miles away and just yesterday.

“It wasn’t because he meant less to me,” Joshua began, his voice soft and distant, as if pulled from a place deep within. “It was the exact opposite.”

He closed his eyes, and the sterile room around him dissolved. He was sixteen again, the biting cold of the pre-dawn air seeping through his jacket, standing at the old, rusted bus stop. Jeonghan’s face, illuminated by the single, jaundiced streetlamp, was a map of desperation and a fragile, terrifying hope.

“When he said we had to run away… to just get on a bus to Daegu with nothing… my heart was screaming yes,” Joshua confessed to Seokmin, the memory so vivid it tightened his chest. “Every part of me wanted to say yes right then and there. To just disappear with him. To leave all the preaching and the pressure and the fear behind.”

He opened his eyes, looking at his friend with a painful clarity forged in the fires of that long-ago night. “But I looked at him, Seokmin. I saw how thin his jacket was, how it did nothing against the chill. I saw the desperate, wild hope in his eyes, a hope built on nothing but sheer, stubborn will. And I knew. I knew with absolute, chilling certainty that if we left like that, with nothing, we would drown. He had already lost so much. His scholarship, his ankle was broken. He had his grandmother, but he had no safety net. No future that wasn’t a daily, grinding struggle.”

He swallowed hard, the memory of that cold, adult calculation still a bitter taste in his mouth. “I was the planner. The one who thought ten steps ahead. That was my role. Hannie… he was the heart. The fierce, beautiful, reckless heart. He would have burned down the whole world for us, but he wouldn’t have known how to build a shelter from the ashes.”

A sad, fond smile touched his lips, a ghost of the love that had defined them. “So I asked for a week. But it wasn’t a week to say goodbye to my parents or pack my favourite sweaters. It was a week to build that shelter.”

He leaned forward, his intensity matching Seokmin’s rapt attention. “I had a plan. A real one. I had been secretly saving my allowance for months, ever since things with my mother started getting more tense. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. More importantly, I had just been accepted into the Busan Science and Arts Academy on a full scholarship. It was my ticket. Our ticket.”

Seokmin’s eyes widened in dawning understanding.

“I wasn’t going to give it up,” Joshua said, his voice firm with the conviction of his younger self. “I was going to use it. I could apply for an immediate transfer to a sister school in Daegu. It was a long shot, but it was possible. With my grades and the scholarship, there was a chance. If I could secure that, then we wouldn’t be two runaway kids. We would be two students transferring cities. One of us had to have an education, a real path.”

He looked down at his hands, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And I knew, with every fibre of my being, that if I had told him any of that… he would never have agreed. His pride… his fierce, stubborn pride… he would have seen it as charity. As me ‘slumming it’ with him. He would have refused. He would rather we starved together than accept that I was bringing the very ‘privilege’ he felt so alienated by. So I lied. I let him think I needed a week for sentimental reasons. I let him think I was hesitating. Because the truth was too complicated, and I was afraid it would break the fragile chance we had.”

He was pulled back into the frantic energy of that night, the feeling so potent he could almost smell the cold, clean air. “I ran home after I left him. My mind was a whirlwind of plans. I would talk to my father first. He was stricter, but he was pragmatic. I could make a case—a better school in Daegu, a more focused environment. I would tell my mother I was going on a school trip. I would empty my secret savings. I would fill out the transfer forms. In a week, I would go back to Jeonghan, and I wouldn’t just be bringing myself. I would be bringing a plan. A future.”

He was so lost in the memory, he could almost feel the weight of that secret hope, a buoyant, terrifying thing in his chest.

“I was so sure,” Joshua whispered, the words laced with a grief that had never faded. “So sure it would work. I felt like a spy, a revolutionary, working in the shadows for the greater good. For our good.”

He finally looked up at Seokmin, and the pain in his eyes was raw and unvarnished.

“I got to my street. I was almost running, my head full of plans, my heart full of him. And then I saw them.”

His breath hitched. “They were standing on the front step, under the porch light. Both of them. My mother and my father. They weren’t waiting for me. They were waiting on me. Like judges.”

The memory was a cold blade pressed against his throat. “The look on my mother’s face… it wasn’t anger. It was this… cold, terrifying resolution. My father just looked… disappointed. Defeated.”

Joshua’s voice became very small. “I stopped running. The fire in my chest just… went out. I knew. I don’t know how they knew, but they knew.”

He could still hear her voice, quiet and final, which was so much worse than any scream. “Jisoo-ah. Come inside.”

“I… I was just out for a walk,” the sixteen-year-old Joshua had stammered, the lie pathetic and transparent even to his own ears.

His father’s voice, heavy as stone. “We know where you were. We know about Yoon Jeonghan.”

The world had tilted on its axis. How? A vigilant neighbour? A mother’s intuition honed to a razor’s edge? 

“I tried to push past them, to get to my room, to my savings, to my plan.” Joshua’s fists clenched on the cushion, his knuckles white. “But my mother moved to block the door. And in her hand… she was holding my phone. My private, secret phone that Jeonghan and I used. The one I thought I’d hidden so well in a tear in my mattress.”

The betrayal was a physical blow, even now, years later. “She must have searched my room while I was at the bus stop. Or perhaps that kid told her everything. The point is, she knew everything. Our texts. Our calls. Our… our love.” The word, once so sacred between them, felt tainted on his tongue in this memory.

His mother’s voice from that night echoed in his mind, not a shout, but a chillingly calm pronouncement. “It ends tonight. This filth. This sickness. It ends.”

“It’s not a sickness!” the sixteen-year-old Joshua had screamed back, panic and fury finally shattering his composure. “I love him! We’re leaving! You can’t stop us!”

That was when she did it. The thing that sealed their fate. She didn’t hit him. She didn’t scream. She looked him dead in the eye, her voice dropping to a venomous, chilling whisper that bypassed his ears and went straight to his soul.

“If you take one step out of this house to go to that boy, Jisoo, I will call the authorities. I will tell them Yoon Jeonghan is a corrupting influence and that he is unstable. That he lured my son. With his record at school, with his background… who do you think they will believe?”

Joshua looked at Seokmin, his face ashen with the memory. “She wasn’t bluffing, Seokmin. I knew it. She had the means, the connections, the… the fervent belief to do it.” He took a shaky breath. “And then she said the words that truly broke me. ‘I will make sure he never sees his grandmother again. I will have her declared an unfit guardian. I will bury them both.’”

The air left Joshua’s lungs. “She would have destroyed Jeonghan and his grandmother just to keep us apart. She would have called it ‘saving’ them.”

The choice, in that moment on the doorstep, was not between his love and his family. It was not between his love and his own future. It was a brutal, impossible calculus: his love for Jeonghan versus Jeonghan’s entire world. His love versus the well-being of the frail, kind woman who was Jeonghan’s only anchor.

“So I made a choice,” Joshua said, his voice hollow, scraped clean of emotion. “The only choice I could make. I chose his grandmother. I chose the only family he had left. I let her believe she had won.”

He described the next few days in a flat, emotionless tone, as if reciting a report on someone else’s life. It was a prison. His phone was confiscated, his connection to Jeonghan physically severed. His bedroom door was locked from the outside. His father, cowed and defeated by his wife’s unshakeable religious fervour, became a silent accomplice, his disappointment a heavier weight than any lock.

He was allowed out for school, escorted like a criminal, and then immediately returned to his room afterwards. He was a ghost in his own home, moving through the motions of a life that was no longer his. Every minute was agony, not for his own confinement, but because he knew what Jeonghan must be thinking. He knew Jeonghan was at that bus stop every night, waiting, his hope curdling into the very despair Joshua had tried so desperately to prevent.

He had asked for a week to build a shelter. Instead, he had been forced to become the wrecking ball that demolished the last of Jeonghan’s fragile hope. He had traded his own freedom for the safety of Jeonghan’s grandmother, and in doing so, he had handed Jeonghan the cruellest betrayal imaginable. He had chosen to become the liar, the abandoner, the final, confirming proof to Jeonghan that he was truly and utterly alone.

The silence in the hotel suite was heavy, saturated with the weight of Joshua’s sacrifice. Seokmin’s face was a mask of pained understanding, his usual bright energy completely subdued. But Joshua wasn’t finished. The memory, once unlocked, was a floodgate, and the most agonising, damning part was yet to come.

“But I couldn’t just… give up,” Joshua whispered, his eyes glazing over, staring into the past as if he could rewrite it. “I couldn’t. The thought of Jeonghan waiting at that bus stop, night after night, thinking I didn’t care… it was eating me alive from the inside. My compliance was a lie. A temporary, strategic surrender.”

He took a shaky breath, the air in the modern suite feeling thin and inadequate. “For three days, I was the model prisoner. I ate the food they gave me without complaint. I nodded along, hollow-eyed, when my mother read scripture at the dinner table. I didn’t fight. They had me baptised again. I let them think they had broken me, that the ‘devil’ had been cast out. And on the fourth day… my father had a critical business meeting across town. My mother had her weekly prayer group at her friend’s place. They would be gone for at least a day.”

A flicker of his old, determined fire returned to his eyes, a ghost of the boy who had believed he could outmanoeuvre fate. “It was my only chance. The moment the front door clicked shut behind them, I moved. I wasn’t reckless. I was calculated, cold. I went to my room and I packed a single backpack. Not with sentimental things. With practical things. Sturdy clothes. My secret stash of won, every single bill I’d saved from birthdays and holidays. And the most important thing: the acceptance letter and full scholarship papers for the Busan Science and Arts Academy. That was my weapon. My proof that I wasn’t just a runaway; I was a transfer student. That I was running towards something. For both of us.”

He described the frantic, silent efficiency of those minutes—the pounding of his heart a deafening drumbeat of terror and wild, defiant hope. He knew he was burning every bridge behind him. There would be no reconciliation, no forgiveness after this. He was choosing exile.

“I slipped out the back door. I didn’t run; I walked quickly, my head down, the backpack feeling like it contained the entire weight of our future. I didn’t go to the bus stop. It was the middle of the day. He wouldn’t be there. I went to the only place I thought I could find a piece of him, a piece of the truth. I went to his home.”

The memory of that walk was etched into his soul—the feeling of the unseasonably warm sun on his skin, the cheerful, ordinary sounds of the neighbourhood, all while his own life was being systematically torn apart at the seams.

“I knocked on the door, my heart in my throat. I didn’t know what I would say to Halmeoni. How could I explain the backpack, my haunted eyes? But I had to try. I needed her to know… I needed someone in the world to know that I was fighting for us.”

The past finally thudded open, a heavy, rusted vault door swinging inward on shrieking hinges to reveal a truth more agonising than any silence.

The door creaked open. And there she was. She looked smaller than he remembered, paler, as if the worry of the last few weeks had physically diminished her. There were new, deeper lines of worry around her eyes, but they crinkled instantly with a warmth that made Joshua’s chest ache with a profound, homesick longing.

“Jisoo-ah,” she breathed, her voice a soft, raspy welcome. She didn’t look surprised to see him. She looked… relieved. She reached out, her work-worn hand, cool and dry, cupping his cheek. “My Jisoo. Come in, come in.”

He stepped into the warm, familiar space that smelled of garlic, sesame oil, and unconditional love. It was a stark, painful contrast to the cold, tense atmosphere of his own house, which now felt more like a religious institution than a home.

“Halmeoni,” he began, his voice trembling. “I… I need to talk to Jeonghan. It’s important.”

She just smiled, a sad, knowing smile that seemed to see right through him, and patted his arm, leading him to the small living area. “Sit, sit. Hannie is out. He’s… working. Always working these days.” She sighed, a sound full of a mother’s weary, boundless love. She sat beside him on the worn sofa, her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t ask why he was there in the middle of a school day with a backpack on. She simply accepted his presence as a gift.

She just looked at him, her gaze so full of pure, uncomplicated affection that Joshua felt the tears he’d been holding back for days begin to well up, hot and insistent.

“Jisoo-ah,” she said, her voice soft but clear, each word a deliberate benediction. “I am so glad you came into our lives.”

The words, so simple and sincere, shattered the last of his composure. He bowed his head, a single tear escaping to trace a path down his nose and onto his jeans.

“Before you,” she continued, her hand coming up to gently stroke his hair, a gesture so maternal and intimate, “my Hannie… he was such a lonely child. The world had been so hard on him. He built walls around his heart so high and so thick, I feared he would live his whole life behind them, never letting anyone in.” Her fingers were gentle, soothing. “But you… you saw the boy inside the fortress. You were never afraid of his sharp edges. You saw his heart.”

She paused, her own eyes growing misty. “Lately… these past weeks… he has seemed different. Not the angry boy, but a man. A man with a weight on his shoulders that I cannot lift for him. He is so quiet, so determined. It frightens me.”

Joshua’s heart clenched into a frozen knot. He was the weight. Their plan was the burden she could sense but not name.

Halmeoni’s hand stilled on his head, her touch firm and full of a profound, heartbreaking trust. “But seeing you here today… it brings an old woman peace.” She looked him directly in the eye, her gaze piercing and clear, passing a silent, monumental responsibility. “Please, Jisoo-ah. Whatever happens. Wherever you two go. Please take care of my Hannie. He is my entire world. His heart is so much bigger and more fragile than he lets anyone see.”

She gave a small, resolute nod, as if sealing a sacred pact. “You are a good boy. A kind boy. You have a good head on your shoulders. Knowing he has you… it brings me comfort.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, filled with a strange, final certainty. “I know now, I can rest well, knowing he is with you.”

The words were a blessing and a curse. They were an anointing, a passing of the torch. She was entrusting him with her most precious treasure. She saw in him the stability, the goodness, the future that she feared her grandson lacked on his own. In her eyes, their union was not a rebellion or a sin, but a salvation. A completion.

She had no idea that her blessing was being given on the eve of a catastrophe she could never have imagined.

“I will, Halmeoni,” Joshua whispered, the promise torn from the deepest, most sincere part of his soul. It felt more binding than any vow spoken in a church. “I will always take care of him. I promise.”

He didn’t tell her about the threats, the locked door, the imminent escape. He couldn’t burden her with that knowledge, couldn’t tarnish her faith in him. In that moment, wrapped in her unconditional love and absolute trust, he felt invincible. Her faith was a shield. He would protect her. He would protect Jeonghan. He would be the man Halmeoni believed him to be.

He stayed for a little while longer, drinking the barley tea she offered, the simple normalcy of the ritual a balm on his frayed nerves. But the clock was ticking in his head, a relentless countdown. He had to go.

He left her house with her blessing ,warming him like a physical cloak, her words—I can rest well—a mantra that fortified his resolve. He felt lighter, stronger, purified by her love. He had a mission. He had a partner, even if that partner was, at this very moment, drowning in the belief that he had been abandoned.

He arrived back at his own house, his resolve hardened to steel. The plan was simple, clean. He would wait until dark. He would take his backpack, and he would walk out the front door. He would go to the bus stop at 3 AM, just as they had agreed. And this time, he wouldn’t be empty-handed. He would be bringing a future, a plan, a scholarship, and the sacred, unwavering blessing of Halmeoni.

He slipped back inside, the house still and silent. He went to his room and placed his packed backpack by the door, a sentinel of his impending freedom. He sat on his bed, watching the afternoon sunlight move slowly across the floorboards, counting down the hours, the minutes, until he could claim his life.

The sound of the front door opening and closing downstairs jolted him out of his trance.

They were home. Early.

His blood ran cold, freezing the hopeful warmth Halmeoni had given him. He hadn’t heard the car. He’d been too lost in his dreams of escape.

He heard his mother’s voice, sharp and clear, slicing through the silence of the house, laced with a new, terrifying emotion he couldn’t immediately place.

“Jisoo-ah! We’re home!”

He stayed frozen on his bed, his breath held so tight his lungs burned. He prayed to a god he no longer recognised that she would just assume he was studying, that the click of the lock had been meaningless.

Her footsteps on the stairs were measured, deliberate. They didn't hurry. They were the steps of a warden making her rounds. They stopped outside his door. The handle turned.

The door didn't budge.

He had locked it from the inside. A feeble, automatic act, a habit born from a desperate need for a space that was truly his.

A moment of silence, thick and suffocating. Then, a soft, chilling laugh that had no humour in it, only a bone-deep contempt.

"You think a lock can keep me out of my own son's room?" his mother said, her voice dripping with a venomous, terrifying calm.

He heard the jingle of keys. The master key. The one that proclaimed that nothing in this house was truly his—not his room, not his thoughts, not his heart. The metal slid into the lock. The tumblers turned with a definitive, soul-crushing click that echoed like a gunshot in the silent house.

The door swung open.

His mother stood there, a silhouette of righteous fury. Her eyes, burning with a holy fire, didn't even glance at him. They went straight to the backpack, sitting plainly, damningly, by the door. Her gaze swept over it, taking in its bulging form, its readiness, and then slowly, inevitably, lifted to his face. The feigned disappointment she’d worn for days was gone, stripped away to reveal the raw, flat, terrifying fury beneath.

His father stood behind her in the hallway, a ghost in his own home, his face a pale, grim mask of complicity.

"Going somewhere, Jisoo?" his mother asked, her voice deceptively soft, each word a shard of ice.

Joshua stood up, his legs trembling so violently he thought they would buckle, but his voice, when it came, was steady with a defiance that felt like his last possession. "Yes. I am."

He saw the moment her composure shattered. It wasn't a dramatic explosion. It was a slow, chilling crack, like ice giving way underfoot, revealing the black, killing water beneath.

"After everything," she whispered, the words trembling with a rage so profound it seemed to suck the air from the room. She took a step into his space, her presence an oppressive weight. "After the prayers. After the guidance. The cleansing. You would still choose that… that filth? You would spit on your family? On God?"

"It's not a sin to love someone!" Joshua cried, his own anger and desperation finally breaking free in a torrent. "I'm not spitting on anyone! I'm choosing my life! Mine and Jeonghan's! I have a plan! A good plan! I have a full scholarship! We can transfer to Daegu! We can have a future! A real one!"

He was pleading now, his words tumbling out, desperate for them to see the logic, the hope, the sheer rightness of it. "It doesn't have to be like this! We don't have to be a secret! We can be good, we can be successful, we can make you proud! Just… just let me go."

His mother stared at him as if he were speaking in tongues. The words 'scholarship,' 'future,' 'successful'—they were just noise, meaningless syllables obscuring the one, undeniable truth she saw. They were layers of the devil's beautiful, intricate deception.

"There is no future in damnation," she stated, her voice flat and absolute, a judge delivering a verdict from which there was no appeal. She walked over to his desk, yanked open a drawer with a violent jerk, and pulled out a long, white envelope he had never seen before. She threw it onto the bed in front of him as if it were a verdict.

"Your future is here."

Joshua looked down. It was an airline ticket. Los Angeles. One way. Departing tonight.

His world didn't just tilt; it inverted, dumping him into a cold, alien reality. "LA?" he breathed, his mind struggling to catch up. "What… what is this?"

"Your aunt and uncle in Los Angeles have agreed to take you in," his father said, his voice hollow, stripped of all emotion. "You will finish high school there. You will start a new life. A clean life. Away from these… influences."

It was an exile. A permanent, gilded erasure. They weren't just sending him away; they were deleting him from the narrative of their lives and starting a new, sanitised chapter on another continent.

"No," Joshua breathed, shaking his head, a frantic denial. "No. I'm not going."

"You are," his mother said, her voice rising, losing its false calm, becoming a blade. "You will get on that plane, Jisoo, and you will thank God for this opportunity. Or you will walk out that door right now, and you will never, ever be my son again." She took a step closer, her eyes blazing. "You will be dead to me. Dead to this family. You will have nothing. No name. No home. Is that what you want? To be nothing? For him?"

Well, it was a goddamn pleasure to be nothing for Yoon Jeonghan.

The ultimatum hung in the air between them, more violent than any physical blow. It was the same threat she had used before, but now refined, amplified, made absolute. It was disownment. It was spiritual murder.

He looked at his father, his eyes pleading silently for an ally, for a voice of reason, for a father to protect his son. But his father just looked away, his shoulders slumped in a final, cowardly defeat. The message was clear: it was her way, or it was no way at all.

In that suspended, agonising moment, Joshua saw his life split into two diverging, impossible paths. One led to a comfortable, gilded cage in Los Angeles, a life of pristine loneliness and a soul-deep lie. The other led into the cold, terrifying dark with the boy he loved, armed with nothing but a backpack of hope and a scholarship.

He looked at the backpack. He felt the ghost of Halmeoni's hand on his head, her trust a physical weight. Please take care of my Hannie. He saw Jeonghan's face under the streetlamp, full of a hope so fragile it could shatter with a single breath. Wait for me.

He made his choice.

He didn't say a word. He didn't argue. He didn't cry. He simply bent down, the movement slow and deliberate, and picked up his backpack. The straps felt familiar in his hands, the weight of his planned future a comfort. He slung it over his shoulder.

The sound his mother made was not human. It was a raw, guttural scream of pure, unadulterated rage and a grief so profound it seemed to tear the very air. "JISOO!"

He walked towards the door. She moved to block him, her body a trembling wall of righteous fury.

"If you walk out that door," she screamed, her face a contorted mask of pain and fury, "you are no son of mine! You are choosing hell! You are dead to me! DO YOU HEAR ME? DEAD!"

He looked her right in the eye, and for the first time, he wasn't afraid of her. He was just immeasurably, infinitely sad for the woman who would rather have a dead son than a living one who loved differently.

"Then I'm dead," he said, his voice quiet, final, and utterly devoid of emotion.

He pushed past her. He didn't run. He walked, step by deliberate step, down the stairs, through the meticulously clean living room, and out the front door. He didn't look back. He heard his mother's wailing screams follow him down the quiet street, a horrifying funeral dirge for the son she had just murdered with her own words.

He was disowned. He was penniless, save for the crumpled won in his pocket. He was homeless. He was, in her eyes, dead.

But he was free.

And he had a promise to keep.

He walked through the gathering dark, his heart a frantic, hopeful drum against his ribs. He was early. He had hours until 3 AM. He found a secluded bench in a small, deserted park a few blocks from the bus stop and waited, the backpack held on his knees like a sacred offering. He went over the plan again and again in his mind. The transfer forms. The savings. Halmeoni's blessing. He imagined the look on Jeonghan's face when he told him. The shock. The dawning relief. The joy that would finally, finally, replace the despair.

As the night deepened and the city grew still and silent around him, he made his way to the bus stop. 2:45 AM. He stood under the rusted shelter, the same one from their childhood, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He was shivering, but it was from a wild, desperate anticipation, not the cold. He was here. He had done it. He had crossed the Rubicon. And he was ready to build their shelter from the ashes.

He watched the road, his gaze so intense it felt like he could summon the familiar silhouette from the darkness. Every distant set of headlights, a block away, two blocks away, sent a jolt through him, a painful surge of hope that crested and then broke as the car sped past, leaving him in deeper silence. He rehearsed the words in his head, a frantic, silent mantra. I’m sorry I’m early. I couldn’t wait. Hannie, I have a plan. Look. I have it all right here. We’re going to be okay.

3 AM came. The appointed hour. The street was empty. Profoundly, mockingly empty.

He frowned, lifting his wrist to check the glowing digits of his watch. He was sure. He had counted the seconds. Maybe his watch was fast. He held his breath, straining his ears for the sound of footsteps, for the rhythm of Jeonghan’s gait, even with the limp. He waited.

3:15 AM. Nothing.

A trickle of cold dread, entirely separate from the night’s chill, began to seep into his veins, poisoning the hopeful adrenaline. It was a slow, insidious freeze.

3:30 AM. The bus to Daegu itself rumbled into view, a lumbering beast with glowing yellow eyes. It slowed as it approached the stop. Joshua’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. This was it. The bus was here. They had to get on. But the bus stopped, its doors hissed open, revealing a cavern of empty, plastic seats. The driver looked at him, expectant. Joshua could only stare, his mind refusing to process the simple, brutal reality. There was no one else here. The driver shrugged, the doors hissed shut, and the bus pulled away, continuing its route to a city that was now a monument to a broken dream.

Joshua stared after its retreating taillights until they vanished, swallowed by the gloom. He’s late. He’s never late. Something’s wrong. The rationalisation was a life raft. Halmeoni. Maybe she got sick again. He’s at the hospital. Of course. He’s at the hospital. He’ll come. He’ll come as soon as he can. He promised.

He wrapped his arms around himself, his knuckles white, his fingers digging into his own arms as if he could physically hold his fracturing hope together. But the hope was curdling now, turning rancid in his chest, becoming a sick, gnawing fear that ate away at his insides.

4 AM. The sky began to lighten, not with the warmth of dawn, but with a slow, sickly seep from black to a deep, bruised grey. The world was utterly, terrifyingly silent. The night creatures had gone to bed. The day had not yet begun. He was suspended in a void.

He’s not coming.

The thought started as a whisper in the back of his mind, a treacherous little voice. Then it grew, fed by the silence, fed by the empty street, fed by the memory of his mother’s scream. DEAD TO ME.

He changed his mind. He realised I wasn’t worth it. He saw the mess, the drama, the pious mother and the cowardly father, and he decided to spare himself the trouble. He saw the scholarship and he thought, ‘He’ll be fine without me.’ He left without me. Just like he said he would when he tried to push me away. He was giving me an out, and I was too stupid to take it.

The iron-clad conviction he’d felt just hours ago, the invincible strength granted by Halmeoni’s blessing and his own desperate courage, evaporated like mist in the harsh, rising light. It left him exposed, naked, and utterly, completely alone on the cold concrete. The magnitude of his own actions crashed down on him, a physical weight threatening to drive him to his knees. He had been disowned. He had been thrown out like garbage. He had willingly, deliberately, abandoned everything—his family, his home, his meticulously planned future—for a promise.

And the person he had abandoned it for had abandoned him.

He stood there, rooted to the spot, as the sun finally rose, a pale, sickly orb in the vast, indifferent grey sky. It illuminated the empty, desolate street, the cracked pavement, the rust on the bus shelter. There was no magic here. The bus stop was just a bus stop. The promise was just words, evaporated into the morning air. The future he had so carefully packed into his backpack was a lie, a pathetic collection of papers and dreams that now felt absurd.

He had given up everything. Everything. And he had nothing. Nothing to show for it. Nothing to hold onto. Nothing but the clothes on his back and the crushing, suffocating weight of his own catastrophic miscalculation.

Slowly, mechanically, as if his joints were rusted, he bent down and picked up his backpack. It felt impossibly heavy now, a sack of stones, a monument to his own stupidity and trust. He didn't know where to go. He couldn't go home. He had no home. The word itself had lost all meaning.

He started walking, his body numb, his mind a perfect, silent void where hope had once lived. He had gambled his entire life on a single, fragile thread of faith in another person.

And he had lost. 

For two days, he had been in a state of suspended animation, a ghost haunting the periphery of his own shattered life. After the dawn had broken on the empty bus stop, he had wandered the familiar streets of Busan, his mind a broken record skipping on the same, desperate grooves. He’s at the hospital. There was an emergency with Halmeoni. He’ll find me. He has to. The hope was a stubborn, tenacious weed, its roots sunk deep into the bedrock of his love, refusing to be pulled.

But by the second evening, as the shadows lengthened and the gnawing in his stomach became a sharp, physical pain, cold, hard reality began to seep through the cracks of his denial. The hope was a lie. He had to know. He had to see with his own eyes.

And now he saw. The house was empty. Not just quiet, but hollowed out. The small, tiered garden plot where Halmeoni had taught him the difference between a weed and a seedling was a tangled mess of neglect. The windows, which had always glowed with a warm, welcoming light, were dark, vacant eyes staring out at a world that had moved on without them.

A kid, no older than ten, whizzed past on a scooter, the plastic wheels clattering noisily on the quiet street, a burst of chaotic life in the stillness. Joshua’s body moved before his mind could catch up, a last, reflexive twitch of the hopeful creature he used to be.

“Hey!” he called out, his voice rough and unfamiliar, scraped raw from silence and unshed tears.

The kid skidded to a halt, kicking up a small cloud of dust, and looked at him with the blunt, uncurious eyes of childhood.

“This house,” Joshua gestured weakly towards the silent structure. “The people who lived here… Yoon Jeonghan? And his grandmother? Do you know where they went?”

The kid shrugged, a gesture of supreme, effortless indifference that was more devastating than any direct answer. “There was no halmeoni.”

The words were a physical blow, so blunt and casual they stole the air from Joshua’s lungs. He actually took a half-step back. No halmeoni? The statement was too vast, too horrific to comprehend. It wasn't that she was sick. It was that she moved too.

“And… the hyung?” Joshua managed to choke out, the words a strangled whisper. “Jeonghan-hyung?”

The kid kicked at a pebble with the toe of his scuffed sneaker. “He left. Didn’t say anything to anyone. My mom said he looked like a ghost.” He looked up at Joshua, his brief moment of storytelling over, his duty to the strange, pale teenager fulfilled. “That’s all I know. The hyung left.”

And with another kick, he was off, the clatter of his scooter fading down the street, leaving Joshua alone in the silent, crushing, absolute truth.

The hyung left.

The hope, the stubborn, foolish weed that had clung to life through disownment and homelessness, was finally, violently, ripped out by its roots. There was no emergency. No hospital vigil. Jeonghan had packed a bag and vanished into the world, without a word, without a backward glance. And took halmeoni with him. 

Joshua didn’t remember walking away from the house. He found himself at the old bus stop, the site of his greatest hope and now his most profound humiliation. He sank onto the rusted bench, the cold of the metal seeping through his jeans, a feeble echo of the ice that was forming around his heart. He didn’t cry. The pain was too deep, too fundamental for tears; it was a tectonic shift happening inside him, rearranging the very core of who he was, grinding the boy he had been into dust.

The boy who had believed in promises, in grand gestures, in love that could conquer all… that boy was gone. The boy who had packed a backpack with a scholarship and a plan, who had defied his family for a future built with his best friend… that boy was a fool. In his place was a hollowed-out shell, filled with the cold, grey ashes of a future that had never been anything more than a mirage.

He had gambled everything. His family, his home, his security, his name. For what? For a boy who had seen him as so ordinary, so disposable, that he hadn’t even warranted a goodbye. The promise of a week, the whispered "wait for me"—it had all been a lie. Or perhaps it had been real in the moment, but Joshua’s love had been so overwhelming, so complicated, that it was easier for Jeonghan to just… disappear.

A new routine began, a grim, solitary parody of his old life.

He found a gosiwon, a tiny, single-room occupancy cubicle in a dilapidated building on the wrong side of the city. It was cheap, and it was anonymous. The room was barely large enough for a single bed and a small, wobbly desk. The walls were thin, painted a sickly beige, and he could hear the intimate sounds of his neighbours’ lives—a wet, rattling cough that went on for hours, the muffled murmur of a television game show, the sizzle of someone cooking a meagre dinner on a hotplate. But he was utterly, completely alone. He used the last of his secret savings to pay for the first month, the envelope of won feeling pathetically thin in his hands.

During the day, he went to school. The Busan Science and Arts Academy, with its gleaming halls and ambitious students, felt like a cruel, elaborate joke. The scholarship he had fought for, the future he had meticulously planned to share, was now just a piece of paper, a meaningless credential. He moved through the halls like an automaton, his body present but his spirit extinguished. His perfect grades were a mechanical function, achieved through a cold, detached intellect, devoid of passion or pride. He was the quiet, transfer student from America who kept to himself, who never joined clubs, who ate his lunch alone. No one knew he was effectively homeless. No one knew that the heart that beat in his chest had been carved out and left at a bus stop.

After school, he worked. He found a job washing dishes in the steamy, chaotic back kitchen of a bustling seafood restaurant near the port. The work was brutal, mind-numbing labour. His hands, once accustomed to holding a camera and turning the pages of books, were now perpetually raw, red, and pruned from the scalding, soapy water. He scrubbed pans caked with burnt-on fish guts and shrimp shells, the pungent, briny smell clinging to his skin, his hair, his one set of work clothes, a scent he could never fully wash away. The other kitchen workers were older, hardened men with forearms like knotted rope, who spoke in the thick, guttural Busan satoori he’d never fully mastered. They ignored the silent, efficient boy, and he was profoundly grateful for their indifference.

He would return to his gosiwon late at night, his body aching, his mind blessedly numb from exhaustion. He’d collapse onto the thin, lumpy mattress that smelled faintly of mildew and stare at the water-stained ceiling, tracing the patterns as if they were a map to a different life.

And every night, without fail, as if pulled by a phantom limb, his feet would carry him back to the bus stop. He wouldn’t wait. There was nothing to wait for. He would simply stand there for a few minutes in the dark, the site of his personal ground zero, letting the silence and the emptiness confirm the new, terrible truth of his existence. This was his life now. This was all there was.

It became a pilgrimage, a penance. He would sit on the same bench, at the same time, and wait. He knew, logically, that it was insane. Jeonghan was gone. The kid had said so. The empty house confirmed it. But a fractured, desperate part of his psyche refused to believe it. This was the site of the rupture, the place where his world had ended. If he just waited long enough, if he showed enough devotion, perhaps the universe would rewind. Perhaps Jeonghan would step out of the shadows, his face not cold and hateful, but soft and apologetic. I’m sorry, Jisoo. I’m here now.

But the bus stop remained empty. The 3:30 AM bus to Daegu came and went, night after night, a rolling monument to his foolishness.

The seasons changed. The bitter cold of that first night gave way to a damp, chilly spring, then a sweltering, humid summer. Joshua’s life was a closed loop: school, work, the bus stop, his tiny room. He existed in a state of profound loneliness, but he was never alone with his thoughts. The moment he was, the memories would ambush him.

He’d be scrubbing a pot, and he’d remember Jeonghan’s hands, guiding his on the basketball court. It’s in your legs, here. He’d see a couple sharing a single pair of headphones on the bus, and he’d remember the feel of Jeonghan’s shoulder against his, the shared music a secret language. He’d catch the scent of kimchi from a street vendor, and his stomach would clench with the memory of Halmeoni’s kitchen, her kind eyes, her trust. Please take care of my Hannie.

That memory was the most painful of all. He had failed her. He had promised, and he had failed.

A year bled by, a blur of grey days and long, silent nights. The sharp, agonising pain of the initial betrayal had dulled into a constant, low-grade ache, a companion as familiar as his own reflection. The boy who had been Hong Jisoo was gone, buried under layers of grief and survival. In his place was Joshua Hong, a quiet, self-sufficient ghost.

One evening, as he was walking back to his gosiwon after his dishwashing shift, the smell of the sea and fried food heavy in the air, a black sedan, sleek and out of place in the narrow, working-class street, pulled up beside him. He paid it no mind, assuming it was lost.

The rear window slid down with a quiet hum.

“Jisoo.”

The voice was older, wearier than he remembered, but unmistakable. His father.

Joshua froze, his body going rigid. He hadn’t seen or spoken to his parents since the night he’d walked out. He’d become a non-person, erased from their family history.

He turned slowly. His father was in the back seat, dressed in a simple but expensive business suit. He looked tired. The stern, unyielding expression was gone, replaced by a deep, weary sadness.

“Get in the car, son,” his father said, his voice not demanding, but pleading.

A year ago, Joshua would have spat a refusal. A year ago, the fire of his defiance was all he had. But now, he was just tired. So incredibly tired. He was seventeen years old, but he felt a thousand.

Without a word, he opened the door and slid inside. The interior was cool and quiet, the world outside suddenly muted. The scent of leather and his father’s cologne was a violent assault of memory, of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the car navigating the bustling port streets.

“Your mother doesn’t know I’m here,” his father finally said, staring straight ahead. “

Joshua said nothing. He just watched the city he’d grown up in, the city that had broken him, pass by the window.

“I hired someone,” his father continued, his voice low. “To… make sure you were alive.” He glanced at Joshua, taking in his worn clothes, the tired slope of his shoulders. “He told me you were working in a restaurant. That you live in a… a single room. That you go to that cursed bus stop every night.”

A hot flush of shame and violation washed over Joshua. He had been watched. His pathetic, private vigil had been a spectacle for a stranger.

“Why?” Joshua asked, his voice a dry rasp.

“Because you are my son!” The words burst from his father with a sudden, raw emotion that startled Joshua. He turned in his seat to face him fully. “I failed you, Jisoo. I let her… I let fear and dogma dictate my actions. I was a coward. I watched her drive you out of our home, and I did nothing.”

Tears welled in the older man’s eyes, but he did not let them fall. “I have lived with that failure every day for a year. Watching reports of you… wasting away here. Chasing a ghost.”

“He’s not a ghost,” Joshua whispered, the automatic defence a reflex. “He’s just… gone.”

“He is gone,” his father said, his voice firming with a painful gentleness. “And you need to be gone, too, Jisoo. From this place. From this memory.”

The car had come to a stop at a lookout point overlooking the vast, dark expanse of the sea, the lights of the city glittering in the distance. It was a view meant for lovers and tourists, not for this painful, long-overdue conversation between a father and a broken son.

“I am not asking you to come home,” his father said. “The bridge there is burned, and the ashes are too toxic to rebuild on. But I will not stand by and watch you destroy the rest of your life in penance for a sin you never committed.”

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a long, white envelope. It was eerily familiar. He held it out to Joshua.

It was a plane ticket. Los Angeles. One way. Just like the one his mother had thrown at him a year ago. But this one felt different. It wasn’t an ultimatum. It was a lifeline.

“Your aunt and uncle know the truth,” his father said. “Not all of it, but enough. They are good people. They will give you a room. This ticket is for next week.” He then produced a second, smaller envelope, thick with promise. “And this is for you. To open an account. To pay for your first semester at a good college. UCLA, perhaps. Your test scores are still valid. The scholarship… it can be transferred.”

Joshua stared at the envelopes in his hands. They felt impossibly light, yet they held the weight of an entirely new future.

“This is not your mother’s money,” his father clarified, as if reading his mind. “This is from me. From an account she knows nothing about. It is yours. No conditions. No demands about church or who you… who you love.” He stumbled over the last words, but he said them. “It is simply a father’s wish for his son to have a chance to build a life. A real one. Not this… half-life of waiting.”

Build a life. The words echoed in the hollow space inside Joshua. He looked from the tickets to his father’s face, etched with regret and a desperate, determined love.

He thought of the empty bus stop. The empty house. The hyung left. He thought of the steamy dish pit, the smell of old fish, his raw hands. He thought of Halmeoni’s voice. You have a good head on your shoulders.

He had been using that good head to meticulously torture himself. To preserve his pain like a museum exhibit. He had been waiting for a boy who had not only moved on but had erased him so completely he hadn’t even left a forwarding address.

The bus stop was a grave. And he had been keeping vigil at a tombstone with no name.

A single, hot tear finally escaped, tracing a clean path through the grime of the restaurant on his cheek. It wasn’t a tear of sadness for Jeonghan, not anymore. It was a tear of release. Of farewell.

He looked at his father, really looked at him, and saw not the stern patriarch of his youth, but a flawed, regretful man trying, in the only way he knew how, to make amends.

Joshua took a deep, shuddering breath, the first full breath he felt he’d taken in a year. The salt-kissed air of Busan filled his lungs—the air of his first home, his first love, his first great loss.

He nodded, a slow, deliberate motion.

“Okay,” he whispered. The word was small, but it was the most powerful thing he had ever said.

He was done waiting.

He was going to LA. He was going to become Joshua Hong. He would shed Jisoo like a skin, bury him in the soil of this port city alongside the ghost of Yoon Jeonghan. He would be polished, pleasant, and perfectly, utterly, empty. A beautiful mystery box with nothing inside. It was the only way to survive.

He would build a life. A pristine, successful, lonely life. A life where no one could ever again hold his heart so completely that its breaking could destroy him.

The gold for his Kintsugi heart would not be love. It would be ambition. It would be control. It would be the serene, untouchable smile of the Givenchy Gentleman.

He looked out at the dark, endless ocean, toward a future he could not imagine.

“Okay,” he said again, louder this time, sealing the vow.

The hyung had left. And now, finally, so would he.

Seokmin had not moved from his spot on the edge of the sofa, his body a statue of stunned comprehension. The final, devastating image Joshua had painted—of a father’s regretful offer and a son’s hollow acceptance on a cliff overlooking the sea—hung in the air between them, a masterpiece of tragedy.

Joshua was curled into the opposite corner of the sofa, knees drawn to his chest, looking impossibly small. He had spoken for what felt like hours, his voice a monotone river carrying the wreckage of his youth. Now, he was spent, his gaze fixed on a distant point on the carpet, as if he could see the ghost of his eighteen-year-old self staring back.

Seokmin finally stirred. He didn’t speak. He simply stood up, the movement slow and deliberate, and walked to the mini-bar. He bypassed the alcohol, pulling out two bottles of cold water. He uncapped one and brought it to Joshua, pressing it into his hands.

“Drink,” he said, his voice rough with an emotion too complex to name.

Joshua’s fingers, cold and limp, closed around the bottle. He took a small, obedient sip.

Seokmin returned to his spot, but he didn’t sit. He stood there, a solid, reliable pillar in the centre of the room, and ran both hands through his hair, gripping the strands as if he could physically pull the story out of his head.

“A year,” he finally breathed out, the words a low, disbelieving gust. “You waited at that bus stop for a year.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, a measurement of a grief so profound it defied logic.

Joshua gave a barely perceptible shrug, his shoulders barely moving. “Where else was I supposed to go?”

The simplicity of the answer shattered Seokmin’s heart all over again. He began to pace, the plush carpet muffling his steps. The cheerful, easygoing heir was gone, replaced by a man vibrating with a protective, furious energy.

“All this time,” Seokmin muttered, gesturing wildly, though there was no one to gesture at but the ghosts in the room. “All this time, he’s been walking around, building his goddamn empire, wearing his pain like a crown, and he never once… he never once considered that there might be another side to the story? That you weren’t just sipping cocktails in LA without a care in the world?”

He stopped and pointed a trembling finger at Joshua, though his anger was not directed at him. It was a fury aimed at a universe that could allow such a catastrophic misunderstanding.

“You were washing dishes, Joshua. You were living in a gosiwon. You were disowned. And he… he what? Decided you were ‘ordinary’? He built a whole personality around being the victim while you were actually living the consequences?” The word ‘ordinary’ was spat out like a curse.

“He didn’t know,” Joshua whispered, the old defense a weak, automatic reflex. “He thought I’d chosen my family over him.”

“AND HE’D CHOSEN TO ABANDON YOU!” Seokmin’s voice rose, not in anger at Joshua, but in sheer, frustrated anguish at the injustice of it all. “Don’t you see? You were both victims! You were kids! Your mother… that woman…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence, his face contorting in disgust. “She didn’t just break you up. She weaponised your love for each other and used it to destroy you both.”

He collapsed back onto the sofa, this time closer to Joshua, the fight draining out of him to be replaced by an overwhelming wave of pity.

“The food,” Seokmin said, his voice softening into a hush. “The kimchi fried rice. My god, Joshua. He wasn’t telling you to leave. He was… he was sending you a message in a bottle. The only one he had left. He was saying, ‘I remember our home. I remember her. And it hurts so much I can’t look at you, but I also can’t let you go without giving you this piece of my soul.’” He shook his head, a slow, sad motion. “It wasn’t a dismissal. It was a confession.”

A fresh tear, silent and clean, traced a path down Joshua’s cheek. He had been so mired in his own pain, in the humiliation of the gala and the cruelty of Jeonghan’s words, that he hadn’t allowed himself to see it that way.

“I failed her, Seokmin,” Joshua choked out, the confession more painful than any about the bus stop or the dish pit. “Halmeoni. She trusted me. She asked me to take care of him. I tried when we met again, but he was just so cruel. I didn’t know how to reach his heart.”

“Stop.” Seokmin’s voice was firm, brooking no argument. He shifted, turning his whole body to face Joshua. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Joshua lifted his gaze. His eyes were red-rimmed, swimming in a decade of unshed tears.

“You were a sixteen-year-old boy,” Seokmin said, his words measured and clear. “You were up against a fanatic with the resources of your entire family. You made a choice to protect the only family he had left. You chose his grandmother over your own happiness. That’s not failure. That’s… that’s the most brutal, self-sacrificing act of love I have ever heard of. Even now you took his bullshit, his mistreatment. I don't know what else to say!”

He reached out, not to hug him, but to place a hand firmly on Joshua’s knee, a grounding weight. “You did not fail her. You honoured her. You tried to protect her son by protecting her. The fact that it all went to hell because of a locked door and a plane ticket isn’t your fault. It’s the fault of a world that is sometimes cruel and senseless.”

He leaned in closer, his gaze intense. “And Jeonghan… he failed you, too. Not by leaving—God, who knows what hell he was going through, thinking you’d abandoned him. But he failed you by never looking back. By building this… this monument to his own pain and enshrining you as the villain. He failed you by not giving you the chance, all these years later, to explain. He’s so trapped in his own story he can’t see the truth staring him in the face.”

Seokmin’s hand tightened on Joshua’s knee. “You have carried this alone for too long. You have carried the weight of his misunderstanding, your family’s rejection, and Halmeoni’s memory all by yourself. You built a new life, but you built it on a foundation of grief. It’s time to put that weight down.”

“How?” The word was a broken plea.

“I don’t know,” Seokmin admitted honestly. “I don’t know if you ever tell him. The wound is so deep, so infected… I’m not sure it can bear the surgery of the truth right now. It might kill whatever fragile, terrible thing is left between you.”

He sighed, his own shoulders slumping with the weight of it. “But you have to stop letting his version of the story define you. You are not the boy who abandoned him. You are the boy who fought for him until there was no fight left. You are the man who survived. Who built a career, who has friends who love him.” He managed a small, wobbly smile. “Who has me, who is currently so mad on your behalf I might actually go punch a wall.”

A tiny, choked sound that was almost a laugh escaped Joshua. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“The narrative ends now, Joshua,” Seokmin said, his voice final. “Right here, in this room. The story of the boy at the bus stop is over. It’s a sad story, a tragic one. But it’s not the whole story of you. It’s just one chapter. A long, painful chapter. But it’s over.”

He finally moved then, opening his arms. It wasn’t the dramatic, engulfing hug from outside the YSL studio. This was an offering. A safe harbour.

After a moment’s hesitation, Joshua unfurled himself and leaned forward, collapsing into Seokmin’s embrace. He didn’t sob hysterically this time. He just rested his head against Seokmin’s shoulder, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his confession. Seokmin held him tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head, his own eyes squeezed shut against the painful reality of his friend’s past.

They sat like that for a long time, as the light began to soften outside the window.

“I don’t know who I am without it,” Joshua murmured into his shoulder. “The pain… it’s been my compass for so long.”

“Then we’ll find out,” Seokmin said, his voice a steady rumble against Joshua’s ear. “Together. One day at a time. And for now, that starts with not letting him have so much power over you. That starts with you looking in the mirror and seeing the survivor, not the ghost.”

He pulled back slightly, his hands on Joshua’s shoulders. “You are Hong Joshua. You are kind, and you are strong, and you are so much more than a boy who was left at a bus stop. It’s time to start believing that.”

Joshua looked at his friend, at the unwavering certainty in his eyes, and for the first time in ten years, he felt the heavy, iron chain around his heart loosen, just a fraction. The path forward was still shrouded in mist. The war with Jeonghan was still raging. But he was no longer fighting it alone, armed with only a broken shield and a story that was never true.

He had an ally. He had the truth. And for now, that had to be enough.

Chapter Text

At eight in the morning, the YSL headquarters exuded a sanctified calm. The space, typically a vortex of frantic motion, was now steeped in the low thrum of concentrated preparation. Joshua entered, the definitive tap of his heels against the polished marble floor the only sound in the expansive foyer. His timing was exact. Or rather, it was premature—a conscious, calculated act of provocation.

The ghost of kimchi fried rice still lingered in his senses, a phantom comfort that now felt like a battle standard. Seokmin’s words from the day before were a mantra in his mind: The narrative ends now. You are the survivor, not the ghost. He had clung to those words through a sleepless night, using them to rebuild the walls around his heart, to reforged his composure into a weapon. The Givenchy Gentleman was not just a persona today; it was a suit of armour.

He had texted Minghao, hoping for a sliver of that sharp, grounding wisdom, but the reply had been swift and disappointing.

Minghao: Already on a plane, xiao-di. Crisis in Shanghai. A ‘neon monstrosity’ must be defeated. You’ll have to face the dragon’s den without your favourite knight. Good luck. Don’t die.

A small, genuine smile had touched Joshua’s lips. 

The atelier, Minghao had added. Go straight there. Don’t linger in the lobby like a lost puppy. Own the space before he does.

So he did. He bypassed the reception, his steps sure and quiet as he moved through the hushed corridors towards the heart of the beast—the main atelier. He pushed the heavy, soundproofed door open and stepped inside.

The space was vast and cool, lit by the soft, grey morning light filtering through the north-facing windows. Clothing racks stood like silent soldiers, bearing dark, intricate garments. The central dais was empty. He was alone.

He walked to a long metal table, shrugging off his jacket and laying it neatly over a chair. He didn’t sit. He stood near the windows, looking out at the waking city, his hands in his pockets, projecting a calm he didn’t entirely feel. He was claiming the territory, just as Minghao had advised.

He didn’t have to wait long.

At 8:02 AM, the door opened again.

Yoon Jeonghan entered.

He was a portrait in black and grey, wearing his own dark trousers and a simple sweater, his hair still wet from a shower. He moved with his usual slow grace, but a new tension gripped his shoulders and tightened his eyes, betraying a sleepless night. He didn't look at Joshua, his gaze instead sweeping the room like a scout.

Joshua stood by the window. He could feel Jeonghan’s gaze on his back, a physical weight. He took a slow breath, the ghost of last night’s simple, comforting meal a stark contrast to the man now entering the room. He decided to break the silence first, his voice carefully measured, but allowing a sliver of the previous night’s vulnerability to show.

“The food. Yesterday. Um.. it was nice.” He paused, his voice softening further, a hesitant probe into the carefully guarded territory of Jeonghan’s life. “And I wanted to ask.. how’s Halmeoni?”

The reaction was instantaneous. Jeonghan stopped dead. The practised mask of icy indifference shattered, replaced by a look of stunned, raw pain, as if Joshua had reached out and pressed on a bruise he didn't know was there. A short, sharp, humourless laugh escaped him—a sound of pure defensive reflex.

“What?” he bit out, the single word laced with a pained venom that made Joshua finally turn from the window.

Jeonghan’s eyes were wide, not with fury, but with a kind of wounded disbelief. The question about his grandmother, the sacred, fragile centre of his world, felt like a violation. It was a name from a past life, a subject so entwined with his deepest love and most profound loss that hearing it from Joshua’s lips—especially after the painful intimacy of the night before—was unbearable. It was a trespass into the one sanctuary he had left.

He didn’t answer. He couldn't. He just stared, the brief flash of anguish cooling rapidly back into a familiar, protective coldness. The fragile moment of connection from the night before was not just gone; it felt like it was being used as a key to a lock he kept sealed for a reason, and the betrayal of that was a fresh wound.

Seeing the wall slam back down, Joshua’s own posture shifted. The hesitant gratitude vanished from his face. He didn’t turn back to the window. He kept his voice low, dry, and utterly devoid of the hysterical emotion that had choked him in the hallway, in the penthouse, in his own suite. It was a tone he had never used with Jeonghan before—cool, detached, almost bored.

“Aren’t you late?”

The words hung in the air, a perfect, polished echo of the accusation Jeonghan had thrown at him during their first fitting. Now being late? Are we?

Jeonghan froze mid-stride. His head snapped towards Joshua, his eyes—those shards of polished ice—narrowing. A flicker of something raw and surprised flashed in their depths before it was ruthlessly suppressed. He hadn’t expected this. He had expected shame, avoidance, perhaps more tears. He had not expected this cool, counter-offensive.

He didn’t reply to the jab. Instead, his gaze raked over Joshua, from his perfectly styled hair to his relaxed posture. “You look… rested,” he remarked, his own voice a low, careful neutral. It was neither a compliment nor an insult. It was a probe.

“I am,” Joshua said, finally turning to face him. He met Jeonghan’s gaze squarely, his own eyes clear and steady. The ghost of ‘ordinary’ was banished from them. “It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do for one’s perspective.”

The subtext was a minefield. A good night’s sleep away from you. Away from your drama.

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He walked to the opposite side of the table, placing his own leather folio down with a soft thud. “Let’s hope it translates to the set today. We have a great deal of lost time to make up for.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Joshua replied, his tone light, almost dismissive. He picked up a stray fabric swatch from the table, running his thumb over the textured wool. “We’re both professionals, after all. As you’re so fond of reminding me.”

The air crackled with unspoken history. The gala, the scream, the rescue, the fried rice—it was all there, a chasm between them, but Joshua was no longer standing on the edge, begging to be seen. He had taken a step back. He was observing the chasm, studying its dimensions.

Jeonghan watched him, a faint, confused frown marring his perfect brow. This was… not what he had prepared for. He had braced himself for a different Joshua entirely—the one from last night, shattered and trembling, the one whose vulnerability had compelled him to drop his own armor and offer a sliver of care. He had expected to see the aftermath of that raw exposure: perhaps averted eyes, a voice still thick with emotion, a lingering need for the comfort Jeonghan had, for one night, permitted himself to give.

He was prepared to be the steady one, the anchor. He was ready to handle Joshua's tears, his apologies, his gratitude. He had his own walls fortified to manage that familiar, painful dynamic.

He was not prepared for this. Not this unnerving composure. Not this Joshua who stood across from him, cool and collected, his gaze clear and direct, throwing Jeonghan’s own caustic words back at him with a detached, almost clinical precision. The man before him had neatly sidestepped the entire emotional minefield Jeonghan had been ready to navigate, leaving him standing there, his carefully constructed defences suddenly facing empty air. The ground felt unsteady, not out of anger, but out of a profound and unsettling confusion. Who was this, and where had he put the broken boy from last night?

“The concept for today is ‘Alchemy’,” Jeonghan said, abruptly shifting to business, his voice regaining its customary authority. “The transformation of base elements into gold. Through tension. Through fire.”

Joshua looked up from the fabric swatch, a slow, knowing smile playing on his lips. It wasn’t a warm smile. It was sharp, almost challenging. “Fire. How… appropriate.”

Before Jeonghan could retort, the door burst open and the room flooded with the day’s energy. The creative director, Alessia, swept in, followed by Giovanni, the photographer, his eyes already alight with a manic glee, and a small army of stylists, assistants, and makeup artists.

“My kings! My beautiful, complicated kings!” Alessia announced, clapping her hands. “Today, we make magic! Today, we create the image that will define this campaign! No more silence. No more emptiness. Today, we have… this!” She gestured wildly between Joshua and Jeonghan, who were still standing on opposite sides of the table, the air between them so thick it was a miracle the lights didn’t flicker.

Giovanni circled them like a shark, his head tilted. “Yes… yes. The energy is different. Good. No more dead statues. Today, I see… lightning in a bottle.” He pointed a finger at them. “You. You look at each other like you want to devour each other. Or destroy each other. I do not care which. Just give it to me.”

The next hour was a whirlwind of preparation. They were shepherded into separate areas for hair and makeup. Joshua sat patiently as his face was dusted and his hair was artfully tousled. He closed his eyes, not to escape, but to focus. He built the character in his mind. Not the wounded lover. Not the guilty friend. He was the catalyst. The element that would provoke the reaction. He was calm, centred, and utterly in control.

When he emerged, he was wearing the first outfit. It was a deconstructed harness of supple black leather over a mesh shirt that left little to the imagination. The trousers were tight, made of a fabric that looked like liquid shadow. He felt exposed, but he also felt powerful. The clothes were a second skin, a declaration of intent.

Jeonghan was already on the set, which had been transformed. It was no longer a sterile white space. The backdrop was a wall of distressed, dark metal, reflecting the light in dull, smoky shards. The floor was covered in a fine, black sand. It was an industrial wasteland, a forge.

Jeonghan was wearing a similar ensemble, but where Joshua’s was sleek and sensual, his was sharper, more aggressive. His harness had metallic studs, and his trousers were heavier, almost armoured. He stood under a single, hot spotlight, his profile a blade against the dark metal. He was the base element. Unyielding. Cold.

He didn’t look at Joshua as he approached.

“Alright, my beauties!” Giovanni called, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “We start simple. Joshua, you against the wall. Jeonghan, you stand here, facing him. A few feet apart. I want to see the space between you. I want to feel it crackle.”

Joshua took his position, leaning back against the cold, rough metal. He crossed his arms loosely over his chest, not defensively, but with an air of casual invitation. He lifted his gaze to Jeonghan.

Jeonghan finally looked at him. And the moment their eyes met, something shifted in the atmosphere. It was no longer the cold war of the morning. It was a live wire.

Giovanni’s camera began to click, a rapid, hungry sound.

“Jeonghan! Look at him! See him! What do you see? An enemy? A rival? A ghost?” Giovanni’s voice was a coaxing, provocative whisper.

Jeonghan’s eyes narrowed. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing half the distance between them. His gaze was intense, searching, trying to find the broken boy from the hallway, the one who had sobbed in his arms. He found only the cool, challenging man.

“He doesn’t see me at all,” Joshua said, his voice low, but clear enough for the microphone to pick up. He wasn’t breaking character; he was speaking the truth of the moment. “He sees a story he wrote a long time ago.”

The click of the camera intensified. Giovanni was practically vibrating. “Yes! Talk! Use the words!”

Jeonghan’s lips parted in surprise. This was new. This was dangerous. Joshua was not just participating; he was leading. He was steering their dynamic into uncharted waters.

“And what story is that?” Jeonghan asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He took another step. They were now close enough to touch.

“The story of the boy who left,” Joshua replied, his eyes never leaving Jeonghan’s. “It’s a good story. Very dramatic. Very tragic. It’s served you well, hasn’t it? Built you an empire on a foundation of righteous pain.”

The words were a direct hit, so close to the truth they stole the air from Jeonghan’s lungs. His mask of icy control faltered, revealing a flash of pure, unadulterated fury. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Joshua’s smile was a razor’s edge. He uncrossed his arms, letting one hand rest against the metal wall beside him. The movement was fluid, predatory. “I know the protagonist is very compelling. The abandoned hero. But every story has another side. Maybe it’s time for a rewrite.”

Jeonghan was in front of him now, so close Joshua could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. The scent of his cologne—cedar and something darker, smokier—filled Joshua’s senses, a painful, familiar intoxication.

“There is no other side,” Jeonghan hissed, the words meant only for Joshua, the camera forgotten.

“There’s always another side,” Joshua whispered back, his gaze dropping to Jeonghan’s mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to his eyes. The gesture was deliberate, a spark thrown onto tinder. “Sometimes the hero is just a boy who made a choice. And sometimes the villain is just a boy who was left waiting in the cold.”

The reference to the bus stop, so oblique yet so specific, was a nuclear detonation. Jeonghan’s eyes widened. The fury was still there, but it was now mixed with a dawning, terrifying confusion. How could he know? How could he possibly…?

Giovanni was in ecstasy. “YES! THIS! THIS IS ALCHEMY! THIS IS FIRE! DON’T STOP!”

Jeonghan’s hand, which had been clenched at his side, came up. It wasn’t a violent movement. It was slow, almost hesitant. He pressed his palm flat against the metal wall, just beside Joshua’s head, caging him in. His body was a hair’s breadth from Joshua’s, not touching, but the proximity was its own kind of contact. Electric. Unbearable.

“You don’t get to rewrite my past,” Jeonghan breathed, his voice thick with an emotion he could no longer name. Hatred, desire, grief—it was all a tangled, molten mess.

“I’m not rewriting it,” Joshua said, his voice dropping to a hushed, intimate register that vibrated through Jeonghan’s very bones. He didn’t back away. He leaned in, his lips nearly brushing Jeonghan’s ear. “I’m just asking you to read between the lines.”

He could feel Jeonghan shudder. A full, involuntary tremor ran through the arm braced next to his head. The control was shattering. The ice was melting under the force of a heat it had never been designed to withstand.

Joshua pulled back slightly, his eyes dark and knowing. He brought his own hand up, not to push Jeonghan away, but to gently, almost reverently, trace the line of the leather harness where it crossed Jeonghan’s chest. The touch was a brand.

Jeonghan’s breath hitched. His eyes glazed over, the storm in them quieting into something else, something raw and hungry. He was completely disarmed. The carefully constructed narrative of the last ten years was collapsing under the weight of Joshua’s calm defiance and this shocking, deliberate touch.

“Look at that…” Giovanni whispered, his voice filled with awe as he kept clicking, capturing every micro-expression. “The transformation… It’s happening.”

The crew was utterly silent, mesmerised. This was no longer a photoshoot. It was an exorcism. A seduction. A war fought with glances and whispered truths.

“Good,” Alessia murmured, her eyes gleaming. 

“Now… kiss him.”

The command, when it came, was not from Giovanni, but from Joshua.

His eyes locked with Jeonghan’s, a world of challenge and promise in their depths. The air was so charged it hummed. The memory of the gala, of the almost-kiss that had been an act of desperation, was a ghost between them. This was different. This was a choice.

Jeonghan stared at him, trapped, his chest heaving. Every instinct told him to pull away, to re-freeze, to punish this audacity. But he was paralysed by the closeness, by the scent of Joshua’s skin, by the devastating simplicity of the request, and by the terrifying, thrilling realisation that he wanted to.

He didn’t move.

Joshua’s smile was a slow, victorious curve. He leaned in, closing the minuscule distance.

But he didn’t kiss Jeonghan’s mouth.

He turned his head at the last second, his lips brushing against the skin of Jeonghan’s jaw, just below his ear. It was a whisper of a touch, feather-light, yet it sent a jolt through both of them that was more powerful than any full-on kiss could ever be.

“See?” Joshua murmured against his skin, his breath a warm caress. “Not so ordinary after all.”

He pulled back, his expression unreadable once more, the moment of intense intimacy sealed and put away. He turned and walked away from the wall, leaving Jeonghan standing there, breathless, shaken to his core, his palm still pressed against the cold metal, the ghost of Joshua’s lips burning on his skin.

The set was silent for a full five seconds before Giovanni finally lowered his camera, a look of pure, religious reverence on his face.

“We got it,” he breathed. “My God. We got it.”

The alchemy was complete. The base elements of their pain and history had been placed in the crucible of that charged moment, and what had emerged was not gold, but something far more valuable and dangerous: the undeniable, terrifying, and breathtaking truth of a connection that had never, not for a single second, died. It had only been waiting for the right kind of fire.

The crew moved around them in a hushed, reverent daze, packing away equipment with the careful movements of people who had just witnessed something sacred and volatile. The air still crackled with the residue of their performance, a thick, sensual haze of leather, sweat, and unsaid words.

Joshua had retreated to his designated corner, a small space near the coffee station that had become his unofficial refuge. He accepted a bottle of water from a wide-eyed assistant with a quiet “thank you,” his hands steady, his expression once again a placid, unreadable mask. The catalyst was gone; the Givenchy Gentleman was back, polished and serene. But inside, his heart was a frantic, wild thing, beating against his ribs like a trapped bird. He could still feel the phantom heat of Jeonghan’s body, the whisper-soft touch of his own lips against that stubbled jaw. Not so ordinary after all. The words echoed in his mind, a reckless gamble that had paid off in a way that terrified him.

He saw Jeonghan across the room, being spoken to in low, earnest tones by Alessia. He was nodding, his posture rigid, his face a carefully constructed blank slate. But Joshua, who had spent a lifetime learning the micro-expressions of that face, saw the fissures. The slight tremor in the hand holding his own water bottle. The way he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, meet Alessia’s eye for more than a second. He was shattered. Joshua had looked into the heart of the ice prince’s fortress and lit a match, and now the walls were smouldering.

The crew began to filter out, the stylists taking the heavy garments with them, the assistants wheeling away the light rigs. Soon, only the two of them and the lingering, industrial scent of the set remained. The vast space felt cavernous, the shadows in the corners seeming to pulse with the memory of what had just transpired.

Joshua finished his water, crumpled the bottle, and tossed it into a recycling bin with a quiet, final thud. He picked up his jacket, ready to make his escape, to process the nuclear fallout in the privacy of his own hotel room.

That was when Jeonghan moved.

He crossed the space between them not with his usual predatory grace, but with a hesitant, almost clumsy urgency. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that Joshua could see the frantic pulse at his throat, the faint sheen of sweat still on his temple.

“Joshua.”

The sound of his name—his real name, not ‘Jisoo’ spat like a curse, not ‘Hong Joshua-ssi’ delivered with icy formality—stopped him in his tracks. It was just his name. But the way Jeonghan said it… it was stripped bare. A plea.

Joshua turned, his face a carefully neutral question. “Yes?”

Jeonghan’s throat worked as he swallowed. He looked… young. Lost. The invincible facade was gone, leaving behind a man who was clearly drowning. “If you’re done acting…” he began, his voice low and rough, scraping over the words. “Can you please tell me? Exactly. How are you feeling?”

The question was so absurd, so monumentally inadequate given the cataclysm they had just enacted, that a dry, humourless laugh almost escaped Joshua. He quashed it. He tilted his head, his gaze cool and assessing.

“Why?” he asked, his tone flat. “Is my emotional state relevant to the campaign now? Do you need to calibrate your disdain accordingly?”

A flash of pain, raw and unguarded, crossed Jeonghan’s face. It was there and gone in an instant, but Joshua saw it. He saw it, and a treacherous part of him, the part that was still the boy from Busan, wanted to reach out and soothe it.

“That’s not—” Jeonghan cut himself off, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, thoroughly disheveling it. The gesture was one of pure, unvarnished frustration. His hands anchoring Joshua’s arm, “At the gala. After… after I…”

He couldn’t seem to say the words. After I called you ordinary. After you ran into the arms of a predator. After I carried you home.

A cold, bitter smile touched Joshua’s lips. He finally turned, his movement slow and deliberate, forcing Jeonghan’s hand to fall from his arm. The loss of contact felt like a minor amputation.

He looked at Jeonghan, really looked at him. The perfect, imperious mask was gone. In its place was a face etched with fatigue and a bewildered kind of anguish. His hair was mussed from the stylist’s hands and his own frantic gestures during the shoot. His eyes, usually shards of polished obsidian, were stormy, turbulent. He looked… human. He looked lost.

And for a single, heart-stopping fraction of a second, Joshua saw it. Not the ice prince. Not the ruthless mogul. Not the vindictive ghost from his past.

He saw Hannie.

He saw the boy from the basketball court, the one who would get a frustrated, vulnerable crease between his brows when he couldn’t solve a math problem. He saw the boy who had called him first when he got his first phone. He saw the boy who had pleaded Joshua’s mother to let him go. He saw the boy whose bravado was a paper-thin shield for a heart that felt everything too deeply.

It was there, in the slight tremble of his lower lip, in the raw, unguarded plea in his eyes. Hannie.

His Hannie. 

The sight was a physical blow, so potent it stole the air from Joshua’s lungs. It was a glimpse of the sun after a decade in a frozen wasteland, and it was so beautiful it was agony.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

Jeonghan’s eyes shuttered closed. A muscle in his jaw ticked, and when his gaze met Joshua’s again, the walls were back up, higher and thicker than ever. The vulnerability was replaced by a defensive, simmering anger. The Hannie was buried once more, a prisoner in the fortress of Yoon Jeonghan.

The loss was so acute, so devastating, that it ignited a fury in Joshua that was white-hot and pure.

He let out a short, sharp, humourless laugh. The sound was ugly in the hushed space between their cubicles.

“Oh,” Joshua said, his voice dripping with a sarcasm so cold it could freeze mercury. “So you wanna talk now? All of a sudden?” He took a small step forward, invading Jeonghan’s space, mirroring the pose from the photoshoot but stripping it of all its artifice. This was real. This was venom. “After the photos are in the can? After you’ve gotten what you needed from me for the campaign? After you’ve called me ordinary and told me you wasted your love on me?” He spat the words out, each one a carefully aimed bullet. “I thought you were good at making me the villain in your little story. Why break character now?”

Jeonghan flinched as if struck. The colour drained from his face. “That’s not—“

“That’s not what?” Joshua interrupted, his voice rising, though he kept it low enough not to attract the attention of the lingering crew. “Not fair? Don’t you dare talk to me about fair, Jeonghan. You don’t get to stand there with your… your confusing acts. One minute you’re so concerned about me, and the other you’re pushing me away. You don’t get to ask me how I’m feeling.”

He was shaking now, the carefully constructed composure of the last few hours crumbling under the weight of that fleeting glimpse of Hannie and the crushing reality of his loss. “You lost that right. You gave it up when you decided that your pain was the only pain that mattered. That your version of our story was the only one that was true.”

“You have no idea what my pain is!” Jeonghan shot back, his own voice cracking, the anger a thin veil for something much more fragile. “You have no idea what I lost!”

“I KNOW WHAT I LOST!” Joshua’s control finally snapped. The words were a raw, torn-from-the-soul scream, a whisper so full of agony it was louder than any shout. It silenced the distant chatter of the crew. A few heads turned, but they quickly looked away, sensing a private cataclysm they were not meant to witness.

Tears, hot and furious, welled in Joshua’s eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He would not give him that. Not again.

“I lost everything,” Joshua whispered, the fight draining out of him, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion that was infinitely more devastating. “I lost my home. I lost my family. I lost… I lost him. The boy I knew. The boy you buried so deep I doubt even you can find him anymore.”

He looked at Jeonghan, his vision blurry with unshed tears, and saw only the impenetrable fortress. The Hannie was gone. He had imagined it. It had been a trick of the light, a desperate mirage born from his own starving heart.

“I don’t want anything to do with you,” Joshua said, his voice flat, final. It was not a heated declaration; it was a statement of fact, as simple and as irreversible as a stone dropping into a deep, dark well. “I don’t want your questions. I don’t want your confused concern.”

He took a step back, creating a chasm between them that felt wider than the ocean he had crossed to escape his past.

“Let’s keep it that way,” he continued, his tone devoid of all emotion now. It was the voice of a man who had given up. “Let’s not do this anymore. Let’s just… finish this campaign. Take the pictures. Shoot the film. Collect our paychecks. And then let’s go back to being strangers. It’s easier that way. It’s cleaner.”

He turned his back on Jeonghan. It was a dismissal more absolute than any door slam.

For a long moment, there was only silence behind him. He could feel Jeonghan standing there, frozen, the weight of his presence a heavy, suffocating thing. Joshua waited, half-expecting another touch, another desperate plea, another explosion.

But nothing came.

There was only the sound of Jeonghan’s ragged, indrawn breath, a sound that was itself a wound.

And then, the soft, retreating sound of his footsteps, walking away.

Joshua stood there, his forehead pressed against the cool metal frame of the cubicle, listening until the footsteps faded completely. The studio around him had gone quiet, the crew having wisely decided to give them a wide berth.

He had won. He had held his ground. He had spoken his truth, or a sliver of it. He had pushed Jeonghan away with a finality that should have felt like a victory.

So why did it feel like he had just carved out his own heart and handed it to him?

He leaned against the flimsy wall, his legs buckling, and slid down to the floor, his head in his hands. The tears came then, silent and relentless. They were not the hysterical sobs of the gala night. These were quieter, deeper, the tears of a profound and utter grief. He cried for the boy he had been, for the love he had lost, for the man he had become, and for the fleeting, beautiful ghost of Hannie that had looked out of Jeonghan’s eyes for one single, heartbreaking second, only to be swallowed by the darkness again.

He had gotten what he asked for. An end to the war.

And it felt like a death sentence.

Outside, in the now-empty main area of the studio, Yoon Jeonghan stood alone in the centre of the set, surrounded by the debris of their shoot—the black sand, the harsh lights, the discarded props.

He felt… eviscerated.

Joshua’s words echoed in the cavernous space, each one a precise, surgical cut.

I thought you were good at making me the villain.

You don’t get to ask me how I’m feeling.

I don’t want anything to do with you.

Let’s not do this anymore.

The finality in his voice had been absolute. It wasn’t the hot, messy anger of their previous fights. This was cold. This was reasoned. This was a decision.

And the most devastating part, the part that was currently tearing him apart from the inside, was the raw, unvarnished truth in Joshua’s eyes when he’d screamed, I KNOW WHAT I LOST!

He had always seen Joshua’s pain as a performance. The consequence of a guilty conscience. He had never once considered that Joshua’s loss might be as profound, as catastrophic, as his own. He had built his entire identity on being the one who was left behind, the one who was betrayed. The narrative was his armour, his fuel, his raison d'être.

Now, Joshua had taken a sledgehammer to that narrative.

The boy you buried so deep I doubt even you can find him anymore.

The words were a key, turning in a lock he had thought was rusted shut. Hannie. The name was a ghost in his mind, a memory of a boy who was soft, and hopeful, and so, so scared. A boy who had loved Hong Jisoo with a ferocity that had terrified him. A boy who had waited at a bus stop for a week, his heart shrinking with every passing night, until it had turned into a hard, cold stone.

He had buried Hannie the day he’d identified his grandmother’s cold body in the warmth of their house. He had buried him when he’d packed a single bag and walked away from Busan, from the empty house, from the empty bus stop, from the ghost of a promise that had turned to ash in his mouth. Hannie was a liability. Hannie felt too much. Hannie got left behind.

So he had become Jeonghan. Sharp, cold, untouchable Jeonghan. He had built a fortress where Hannie’s heart used to be, and he had stationed his pain as a permanent guard at the gate.

And for ten years, it had worked.

Until Hong Joshua had walked back into his life.

He brought the chaos. He brought the memories. He brought the ghost of Hannie screaming to be let out.

And today, on set, for one terrifying moment, Hannie had almost won. Standing there, with Joshua’s breath on his skin, his gaze seeing straight through the ice to the boy trapped underneath, he had felt the walls tremble. He had felt a surge of something so primal, so overwhelming, that it had short-circuited every defence mechanism he possessed. It wasn’t just desire. It was a terrifying, soul-deep recognition.

And his first instinct, his only instinct, had been to slam the walls back up. To retreat behind the familiar, safe anger.

But Joshua hadn’t taken the bait. He hadn’t engaged in the old battle. He had simply looked at the fortress, declared it impenetrable, and walked away.

Let’s not do this anymore.

Jeonghan felt a cold dread seep into his bones. This was different. Joshua wasn’t fighting with him anymore. He wasn’t trying to be seen or understood. He was… surrendering. And in doing so, he was taking away the very foundation of Jeonghan’s world. If Joshua stopped being the villain, what did that make Jeonghan? If the war was over, who was he without the battle?

He thought of the kimchi fried rice. The desperate, stupid, impulsive act of a man who had no other language left. I remember. I remember her. I remember us. And it hurts so much I can’t stand it. It wasn’t a dismissal. It had been a plea. A message in a bottle thrown into a stormy sea.

And Joshua had received it. He had eaten it. He had understood. And then he had left.

A wave of nausea washed over Jeonghan. He had been so busy protecting himself from a betrayal that he had become the betrayer. He had taken the boy he had once loved more than life itself and systematically broken him, over and over again, all to prove a point to a ghost.

Ordinary.

The word now felt like a curse he had placed on himself. He was the one who was ordinary. He was the one who was too cowardly, too trapped in his own story, to see what was right in front of him.

He had to fix this. He had to talk to him. Not here, not like this, surrounded by the ghosts of their professional performance.

He didn’t know what he would say. The words were a tangled mess in his throat. I’m sorry felt pathetic, inadequate for a decade of warfare. I was wrong, felt like it would unravel the very fabric of his being.

But he knew, with a certainty that was as terrifying as it was absolute, that if he let Joshua walk out of this studio with those final words hanging between them, it would truly be over. The chasm would become permanent. The silence would become eternal.

He couldn’t let that happen.

The decision brought no peace. Only a fresh, more profound terror. The terror of vulnerability. The terror of being truly seen. The terror of Hannie.

But the terror of losing Joshua forever was now greater.

He stood there, a statue in the ruins of their set, and waited for him to emerge.

Joshua had left in a hired car. He leaned his head against the cool window, watching the Parisian streets blur into a stream of grey stone and muted autumn colour. The confrontation with Jeonghan played on a relentless loop in his mind, each word a shard of glass turning in his gut.

I don’t want anything to do with you.

Let’s not do this anymore.

He had meant it. Every syllable. The exhaustion was a physical weight, a leaden fatigue that had settled deep into his bones. It was over. The hope, the fight, the desperate, secret longing—it was all extinguished. The glimpse of Hannie had been the final, cruel twist of the knife, showing him what he had lost so completely that it was worse than never having had it at all. It was easier to live in the darkness than to be shown a fleeting glimpse of light, only to have it snatched away.

The car glided to a halt outside his hotel, a grand, old-world establishment that usually felt like a sanctuary. Today, its ornate facade felt imposing, almost threatening. He paid the driver and stepped out onto the curb, the crisp air doing little to clear the fog in his head.

And that’s when he felt it.

A prickle on the back of his neck. The unmistakable, primitive sensation of being watched.

He stopped, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag. He turned casually, his gaze sweeping the busy sidewalk. Tourists with maps, businesspeople on phones, a couple arguing in rapid French. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one was looking directly at him.

You’re just paranoid, he told himself, shaking his head slightly. It’s the adrenaline crash. The emotional hangover. Jeonghan has you seeing ghosts.

He took a deep breath and pushed through the revolving doors into the opulent, marble-floored lobby. The scent of expensive perfume and polished wood usually calmed him. Today, it felt cloying. He walked towards the elevators, his footsteps echoing too loudly in the vast space.

The prickling sensation returned, stronger this time. A cold finger tracing a path down his spine.

He glanced over his shoulder. The lobby was bustling. A family checked in at the front desk. A bellhop carried luggage. An elderly man sat in a plush armchair, reading a newspaper. His eyes were fixed on the print. He wasn't looking at Joshua.

Get a grip, Hong, he chastised himself, stabbing the elevator call button. You’re losing it.

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. He stepped inside, turning to face the closing doors. For a split second, just before the brass doors slid shut, his eyes met those of the elderly man in the armchair.

The man’s gaze was no longer on the newspaper. He was looking directly at Joshua. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were sharp, focused, and utterly devoid of the vague curiosity of a tourist. They were the eyes of someone who was observing. Noting.

The doors closed, sealing Joshua in the silent, mirrored box. His reflection stared back at him—pale, wide-eyed, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked terrified.

Coincidence, his mind insisted, a frantic, desperate mantra. He was just looking around the lobby. You just happened to be in his line of sight.

The elevator climbed, the numbers lighting up one by one. The silence was oppressive. He could hear the frantic thud of his own heart. He kept his eyes fixed on the digital display, refusing to look at his panicked reflection anymore.

Ding.

His floor. The doors slid open onto the hushed, carpeted corridor. It was empty. He stepped out, the plush pile swallowing the sound of his footsteps. He walked quickly towards his suite, his key card already in his hand, his senses on high alert. Every closed door felt like a threat. The hum of a distant vacuum cleaner sounded like a warning growl.

He reached his door, fumbling slightly with the card. The green light flashed. He pushed the door open, slipped inside, and immediately engaged the deadbolt and the security chain. He leaned back against the solid wood, breathing heavily, as if he had just run a marathon.

Safe.

He was safe.

The suite was exactly as he had left it—pristine, spacious, and silent. The late afternoon sun streamed through the large windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. He dropped his bag by the door and walked to the mini-bar, pulling out a bottle of water with trembling hands. He drank deeply, the cold liquid doing little to quench the sudden, dry thirst of fear.

He tried to rationalise it. The shoot had been intensely psychological. He had spent hours channelling raw, predatory energy with Jeonghan. It made sense that his nerves were frayed, that his fight-or-flight response was stuck in the ‘on’ position. He was projecting. Transferring the emotional stalker vibe from Jeonghan onto a random, innocent stranger in a hotel lobby.

He walked into the bedroom, intending to collapse onto the bed and sleep for a year. But he stopped at the window, drawn to the view. His suite looked out over a quiet, internal courtyard, but to the side, he had a sliver of a view of the street below.

His eyes scanned the scene automatically. The usual Parisian traffic. People walking dogs. And then, his gaze snagged.

There, standing in a recessed doorway across the street, partially obscured by a potted plant, was a figure.

He was wearing a dark jacket and a cap pulled low. He wasn't moving. He was just… standing there. Looking up.

Looking up at the hotel.

A cold fist closed around Joshua’s heart. He took a step back from the window, his pulse hammering in his ears. It can’t be. It was a different man. The one in the lobby was elderly. This one, from what he could see, was younger, broader. A coincidence. A thousand people stood on Parisian streets every day.

But why was he just standing there? Not on his phone. Not smoking. Just… standing. And waiting.

Driven by a morbid curiosity, Joshua moved to the side of the window, using the heavy curtain for cover. He peered out, his body tense.

The man was still there. He hadn’t moved an inch.

Okay, Joshua thought, a hysterical bubble of laughter rising in his throat. Okay. This is happening.

He needed to talk to someone. He needed to hear a sane, rational voice. He needed Seokmin.

He practically ran back into the living room, grabbing his phone from his bag. His fingers were so clumsy that he misdialed twice. Finally, he heard the ringtone.

It rang. And rang.

Pick up, pick up, pick up, he chanted silently, pacing the length of the room.

The call connected. “Josh! Hey, what’s up?” Seokmin’s voice was cheerful, loud, and blessedly familiar. There was a faint echo, the sound of a PA system in the background.

“Seokmin,” Joshua breathed, the relief so potent it made his knees weak. “Where are you? You sound… far away.”

“I’m at Incheon,” Seokmin said, his voice shifting to a slightly harried tone. “Sorry, I meant to text you. Dad summoned. Some kind of ‘urgent board-level emergency’ which probably translates to him wanting to yell at me about my life choices in person. I’m about to board the connecting flight to New York. What’s going on? You okay? You sound weird.”

Jeju. He was on the other side of the world.

The words Joshua had been about to say—I think I’m being followed, I’m scared, can you come over—died in his throat. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t make Seokmin get on a plane and fly back across twelve time zones because of a feeling. A paranoid, probably ridiculous feeling.

“Josh? You there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Joshua said, forcing a lightness into his voice that felt like a physical strain. “Bad connection. I’m fine. Just… the shoot was intense. Wanted to decompress.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

“Ah, right.” Seokmin said, and Joshua could hear the eye-roll in his voice. “How did it go with the ice prince? Want me to send people to.. You know, erase him?”

Joshua’s gaze flickered back towards the window. “No, it’s fine” He couldn’t get into it. Not now. “Listen, don’t worry about me. Go handle your dad. Give him hell.”

“Always do,” Seokmin chuckled. “Alright, they’re calling my flight. I’ll be back in a couple of days, okay? Stay out of trouble. And call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

“I will. Thanks, Seokmin. Have a safe flight.”

He hung up before his friend could hear the tremor in his voice. The line went dead, and the silence in the suite rushed back in, louder and more profound than before. He was alone. Truly alone.

He walked back to the window, moving slowly this time, with a dreadful sense of inevitability. He peered around the curtain.

The man in the dark jacket was gone.

The recessed doorway was empty.

A wave of relief, so strong it was dizzying, washed over him. See? You idiot. You imagined it. It was just a guy waiting for someone. He’s gone now. It’s over.

He let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. The tension began to leach from his body. He was tired. So incredibly tired. He decided to take a shower, to wash the day—the photoshoot, the confrontation, the paranoia—from his skin.

The bathroom was a palace of white marble and gleaming chrome. He turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the room, clouding the mirrors. He undressed, the clothes feeling like a costume he was finally shedding. The hot water was a blessing, pounding on his tight shoulders, washing away the sweat and the phantom feeling of Jeonghan’s gaze, the stylist’s hands, the leather harness.

He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool tile, and just let the water run over him. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of the spray and the warmth seeping into his bones. The fear began to feel distant, silly.

He turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping a thick, white towel around his waist. The room was thick with steam, the mirrors completely fogged. He reached for a hand towel to wipe one clear, just to check his reflection, to reassure himself that he was still there, still solid.

His hand froze midway.

There, in the centre of the fogged mirror, a message had been written. The letters were crude, drawn by a finger in the condensation.

JISOO

His blood ran cold.

He stumbled back, his hip hitting the sink with a painful thud. His heart was a wild, trapped bird beating against his ribs. He stared, unblinking, at the name. His name. His real name. The one only a handful of people in the world ever used. The one Jeonghan had weaponised.

The steam swirled, already beginning to erode the edges of the letters, making them bleed into the fog. It was fresh. Written while he was in the shower.

Someone was in here.

The thought was an ice-cold spike of pure terror. He wasn’t paranoid. He wasn’t imagining it.

He spun around, his back to the sink, his eyes darting around the bathroom. It was empty. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar, just as he’d left it. The steam poured out into the cooler air of the suite.

He was not alone.

His mind raced, a frantic, disjointed slideshow. The elderly man in the lobby. The man in the dark jacket across the street. They were a team. A distraction and a watcher. And while he was focused on the one outside, the other had gotten in.

How? The door was locked. Chained.

The balcony.

He hadn’t checked the balcony.

His suite was on the fifth floor. It wasn't impossible. Not for someone determined.

He moved on trembling legs, grabbing the heavy, metal towel rack like a club. It was a pathetic weapon, but it was all he had. He pushed the bathroom door fully open, stepping back into the bedroom.

The room was empty. The bed was still made. His discarded clothes were where he’d left them. Nothing was out of place.

His eyes went to the glass doors leading to the small, private balcony. They were closed. The vertical blinds were drawn.

But were they locked?

He couldn’t remember. He never used the balcony.

He stood frozen in the middle of the room, clutching the towel rack, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He was a statue of fear, too terrified to move, to check, to confirm the violation.

The silence was no longer empty. It was a living, breathing entity. It was watching him. Waiting.

He had to call someone. The front desk. The police.

But what would he say? I think someone was in my room? There was no proof. The message in the mirror was gone now, evaporated. They would think he was a hysterical celebrity, a diva seeing stalkers in every shadow. They might even call the press.

Jeonghan.

The name surfaced in his panic-stricken mind. Jeonghan, with his cold competence, his ruthless efficiency. He would know what to do. He had bodyguards, security, and resources.

But the thought of calling him, of hearing that cold voice after the things he’d said, was unbearable. It would be a surrender of a different kind. It would shatter the fragile finality he had fought so hard to establish.

I don’t want anything to do with you.

He couldn’t call him.

He was trapped. Alone in a five-star cage, with an invisible threat that knew his name.

He slowly backed towards the door to the living room, his eyes fixed on the balcony. He fumbled behind him for the deadbolt, his fingers slipping on the cool metal. He finally slid it home, the solid thunk a small, pathetic comfort.

He retreated into the living room, dragging a heavy armchair and wedging it under the doorknob of the suite’s main entrance. It was a flimsy barricade, but it was something.

He sat on the sofa, pulling his knees to his chest, the towel still wrapped around him. He was shivering violently, though the room was warm. He felt exposed, violated in the most intimate way. His sanctuary had been breached. His past, in the form of that name, had been used to terrorise him.

He stared at the balcony doors, waiting for a shadow to fall, for a handle to turn.

The sun began to set, painting the Parisian sky in beautiful, bloody hues of orange and purple. The room plunged into twilight, and then into darkness. Joshua didn’t move to turn on a light. He sat in the growing dark, a silent, terrified sentinel, listening to the sounds of the city—a siren in the distance, the laughter of people from a nearby café, the normal, everyday life that felt a million miles away.

He was alone with his fear, and the name ‘Jisoo’ hanging in the air like a ghost, a threat, and a promise of something he couldn’t yet understand. The war with Jeonghan was over. But a new, more terrifying one had just begun, and he was utterly unprepared for the battlefield.

He couldn't stay here. The logic was primal, bypassing all higher thought. The walls were no longer safe. The locked door was a joke. The person, or people, who had done this knew his room, his movements, his name. They could be in the walls, in the vents, waiting for him to fall asleep, to let his guard down.

A frantic energy seized him. He couldn't call the police—the explanations, the language barrier, the inevitable press. He couldn't call Seokmin—he was over the ocean, unreachable, and the guilt of pulling him back was a heavier weight than the fear. There was no one else. In the glittering, anonymous city of Paris, he was a beautiful, isolated island, and the sharks were circling.

He moved like an automaton, his movements jerky and silent. He didn't turn on the light. He dressed in the dark, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of a simple black shirt and pulling on a pair of jeans. They felt like a flimsy costume, offering no protection. He grabbed his wallet, his phone, and a dark, hooded jacket, pulling the hood up over his still-damp hair. It was a pathetic disguise, but it made him feel less visible.

He listened at the main door for a full minute, hearing nothing but the frantic thud of his own heart. He slowly, carefully, moved the armchair he’d used as a barricade. The scrape of wood on marble was deafening in the silence. He disengaged the chain and the deadbolt, the clicks echoing like gunshots.

He pulled the door open a crack, peering into the corridor. It was empty, lit by soft, golden sconces. He slipped out, pulling the door shut behind him, and practically ran for the emergency stairwell, eschewing the elevator with its mirrored walls and its potential for doors opening onto an unknown threat.

The stairwell was cold, concrete, and echoing. His footsteps were too loud, a frantic rhythm of his panic. He took the steps two at a time, his breath coming in ragged gasps, not stopping until he burst out through a service exit into a dimly lit alley behind the hotel.

The cold night air hit him like a physical blow, but it was a clean, cold, scented with damp stone and garbage, not the cloying, violated air of his suite. He leaned against the rough brick wall, gulping in deep breaths, his body trembling with adrenaline and relief. He was out.

And then the sky opened up.

It wasn't a gentle Parisian drizzle. It was a sudden, torrential downpour, a biblical deluge that soaked him to the skin in seconds. Icy water sluiced through his hair, down his neck, plastering his clothes to his body. The world dissolved into a grey, roaring curtain of water. The streetlights became blurry halos, and the sounds of the city were drowned out by the drumming of rain on cobblestones and overflowing gutters.

He pushed himself off the wall and started to run. He had no destination, only a blind, panicked need to put distance between himself and the hotel. He slipped on the wet pavement, his shoulder slamming into a lamppost, but he barely felt the pain. The rain was a blessing and a curse—it hid his tears, washed away any potential tracks, but it also isolated him, turning the familiar streets into a labyrinth of shadows and distorted reflections.

He felt the eyes again.

Not a prickle this time, but a certainty. A pressure between his shoulder blades. He glanced over his shoulder, his vision blurred by rain and panic. A dark car, its windshield wipers slapping back and forth, slowed as it passed him. Was it the same one from earlier? He couldn't tell. A figure standing under an awning a block back seemed to turn its head as he ran past.

They're everywhere. The thought was a scream in his mind. It was a network. A trap closing in. The lobby, the street, his room—they were all connected. 

He ducked into a narrow, deserted side street, pressing himself into a recessed doorway, trying to make himself small. He was shaking uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. The cold was seeping into his bones, a deep, penetrating chill that had little to do with the rain. He fumbled for his phone, his wet fingers slipping on the screen. The list of contacts was a blur.

Seokmin… no. The agency… they’d send a publicist, it would become a story. The police… Jisoo.

His thumb hovered, trembling, over another name. The last name on earth he wanted to call. The name that represented a different kind of danger, a different kind of pain. But it was also the only name that represented a fortress. A place of undeniable, impenetrable security.

Yoon Jeonghan.

He had mocked that fortress, declared it a prison, and sworn to never approach it again. But now, with terror as his compass, it was the only landmark he could see in the drowning city.

The choice was made not in his mind, but in his gut. A primal instinct for survival overrides a decade of heartbreak.

He didn't call. A call could be ignored. A call gave Jeonghan the power to reject him, to leave him out here in the cold and the wet and the fear. He couldn't bear that. Again. Not right now.

He would go there. He would present himself, a drowned, terrified rat on his doorstep, and he would see what happened. It was a gamble with the highest possible stakes.

Pushing away from the doorway, he stumbled back out into the downpour, his body moving on autopilot. He knew the address. He’d been carried there, half-unconscious, just a day before. The memory was a humiliating blur, but the location was seared into his mind. It was his north star, his only possible harbour in this storm.

The journey was a nightmare montage. Slipping on slick cobblestones, the hood of his jacket doing nothing to keep the rain out, his breath misting in the cold air. Every shadow was a pursuer. Every set of headlights was the dark car from before. The city of love had become a city of terrors, each beautiful, rain-swept corner a potential ambush.

Finally, he saw it. The imposing, modern building, a stark monolith of glass and steel rising against the stormy sky. The penthouse. 

He hesitated for a moment at the entrance, his courage faltering. What was he doing? Was this not jumping from the frying pan into the fire? But the memory of the name on the mirror, the feeling of unseen eyes, propelled him forward.

He used the intercom, his voice a hoarse, shaky whisper he barely recognised. "It's… it's Joshua Hong."

There was a long, agonising pause. He was sure he would be turned away. Then, the lock buzzed, releasing the door.

The elevator ride to the penthouse was an eternity. He watched his reflection in the polished doors—a pale, drowned spectre, water pooling at his feet, his eyes wide with a terror that was all too real. He looked insane. He felt insane.

The doors slid open directly into the foyer.

The penthouse was exactly as he remembered—a vast, open space of cool minimalism, all concrete, glass, and sharp angles. It was warm, silent, and smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean linen. A sanctuary.

And it was not empty.

Sitting on the low, modern sofa in the living area were two people. Choi Seungcheol, Jeonghan’s oldest friend, his an expression of easygoing relaxation. And next to him, curled into his side with a familiar, comfortable intimacy, was Wen Junhui, his boyfriend. They had a board game open on the coffee table between them, half-finished glasses of wine beside it.

The scene was so normal, so domestic, it was like a physical slap.

All three of them froze.

Seungcheol and Junhui stared at Joshua, their jaws slack with identical looks of pure, unadulterated shock. They took in his drenched, dishevelled state, the water dripping from his hair and clothes onto Jeonghan’s pristine floor, the wild, hunted look in his eyes.

Jeonghan, who had been standing by the kitchen island, a glass of water in his hand, had gone completely still. His eyes, wide and uncomprehending, scanned Joshua from head to toe, taking in the utter wreckage before him. The cold anger from the studio was gone, replaced by a bewildered, dawning alarm.

The silence was absolute, broken only by the soft drip, drip, drip of water from Joshua’s jacket onto the polished concrete.

Joshua’s gaze was locked on Jeonghan. The words he had rehearsed, the explanations, the pleas, all evaporated in the face of this unexpected audience and the sheer, overwhelming relief of being inside, of being safe. The last of his composure was shattered.

His breath hitched, a ragged, broken sound. He wrapped his arms around himself, a futile attempt to stop the violent trembling that wracked his frame.

"I…" he began, his voice a raw, torn whisper. He looked at Jeonghan, his eyes swimming with a mixture of terror, shame, and desperate, helpless need. "I'm sorry. I didn't… I don't know where else to go."

The confession hung in the air, more vulnerable and devastating than any accusation or scream could ever be. It was a complete and total surrender.

For a moment, no one moved. The tableau was frozen: the two shocked guests on the sofa, the stunned host by the kitchen, and the drowned, trembling intruder in the foyer.

Then, Seungcheol moved. He was a man of action, of reading a room and reacting with swift, decisive empathy. He slowly placed his wine glass on the table and stood up. He didn't look at Jeonghan for permission. His eyes were on Joshua, filled with a deep, immediate concern.

"Jun," he said softly, his voice calm and firm, cutting through the tension. "I'm suddenly not feeling so well. I think that cheese we had earlier is staging a rebellion."

Junhui, who had been staring at Joshua with wide, startled eyes, blinked and looked up at Seungcheol. It took him a second to process the cue, but then understanding dawned. He was no actor, but he knew a scene that required an exit when he saw one.

"Oh!" he said, his voice a little too high, playing along with a convincing wince. He placed a hand on his stomach. "Yes. Me too. A real… pain. In my gut. We should… we should probably go. Right now."

He scrambled to his feet, grabbing his jacket from the back of the sofa. He didn't look at Joshua again, his focus on a swift and graceful retreat.

Seungcheol was already ushering him towards the elevator, his hand a steadying presence on Jun’s back. As he passed Jeonghan, he didn't stop, but he met his friend’s stunned gaze and gave a single, sharp, almost imperceptible nod. A silent communication that passed between them in an instant. Handle this.

Jeonghan gave no indication he had seen it. His eyes were still fixed on Joshua, a storm of conflicting emotions warring in their depths—confusion, residual anger, and a protective instinct so primal it was terrifying him.

Seungcheol pressed the elevator button. The doors, which Joshua had just exited, slid open immediately. He guided Junhui inside, and without another word, without a backward glance, the doors closed, swallowing them and the last vestige of normalcy.

The silence they left behind was profound. The penthouse felt vast and echoing again, but now it was charged with a new, electric tension. It was just the two of them. The wreckage and the fortress.

Joshua stood rooted to the spot, water pooling around his shoes, his arms still wrapped tightly around himself. The adrenaline that had carried him here was receding, leaving him hollow, exposed, and mortified. He had run from one nightmare directly into the heart of another.

Jeonghan finally moved. He placed his glass of water down on the kitchen island with a quiet, precise click. The sound was unnaturally loud in the silence. He walked towards Joshua, his steps slow, measured. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of him, close enough to feel the chill radiating from his soaked body.

He didn't touch him. He just looked at him, his gaze a physical weight, taking in every detail: the pallor of his skin, the tremble in his hands, the absolute, animal fear in his eyes that no actor could ever fake.

Jeonghan's voice, when he finally spoke, was low, hushed, and stripped of all its usual ice. It was just… a voice. A human voice, laced with a concern so stark it was unsettling.

"Joshua," he said, the name a soft exhalation. "What happened?"

The simple question, asked without accusation, without mockery, was the final straw. The dam broke.

A sob, harsh and ragged, tore from Joshua’s throat. The tears he had been holding back since he saw his name on the mirror finally fell, mingling with the rain on his cheeks. His knees buckled, the strength leaving his body all at once.

He didn't collapse to the floor because Jeonghan was there.

In a single, fluid motion, Jeonghan’s arms were around him, catching him, holding him up. The contact was electric, a jolt that went through both of them. Joshua stiffened for a second, a lifetime of defences screaming in alarm, but his body was too exhausted, too broken to listen. He melted into the hold, his face pressing against the soft, dry wool of Jeonghan’s sweater. He smelled of sandalwood and safety.

He was sobbing in earnest now, great, wracking shudders that shook his entire frame. He clutched at the back of Jeonghan’s sweater, his fingers twisting into the fabric, anchoring himself to the only solid thing in his spinning, terrifying world.

Jeonghan held him. He didn't say, It's okay.  He just held him, his arms a firm, unyielding band around his back, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Joshua’s wet head, his fingers tangling in the soaked strands of his hair. His own heart was hammering, a frantic, confused rhythm against Joshua’s cheek.

He could feel the cold seep from Joshua’s clothes into his own, feel the violent tremors that wracked his body. This was not an act. This was not a manipulation. This was pure, undiluted terror.

And it was directed at him.

He held Joshua as he cried, as the storm of his fear finally broke against the shores of Jeonghan’s silent, stunned fortress. The war was forgotten. The past was irrelevant. There was only this: the devastating, undeniable reality of Joshua Hong, broken and terrified, seeking shelter in the arms of the man he had sworn to never need again.

And Jeonghan, the ice prince, the untouchable Yoon Jeonghan, found that his walls, for the first time in a decade, had no defence against this.

After a long while, Jeonghan shifted. It wasn’t a move to push him away, but a gentle adjustment. His voice, when he spoke, was so soft it was barely a whisper, a tone Joshua had not heard in ten years. It was the voice he used to use when Joshua was sick or scared, a sound that could soothe frayed nerves and quiet nightmares.

“You’re freezing,” Jeonghan murmured, his breath stirring Joshua’s damp hair. “You need to get out of these wet clothes.”

Joshua could only nod, a weak, exhausted motion. He didn’t trust his own voice, didn’t trust his legs to hold him.

Slowly, carefully, Jeonghan guided him away from the foyer, one arm still firmly around his back, supporting most of his weight. They moved through the living area, past the kitchen island where two abandoned wine glasses stood as silent witnesses to the interrupted domesticity. Jeonghan led him down a short, dark hallway and into his bedroom.

It was exactly as Joshua remembered from his drugged, hazy awakening: severe, minimalist. A large, low platform bed with crisp white linens. A single nightstand. There were no personal touches. No photographs. No clutter. It was the bedroom of a person who slept here but did not live.

“The bathroom is through there,” Jeonghan said, his voice still that unnervingly soft murmur. He gestured to a door. “There are towels. Take a hot shower if you want. I’ll… find you something to wear.”

He seemed almost hesitant to let him go, his hand lingering on Joshua’s arm for a moment before he turned and walked to a sleek, floor-to-ceiling cabinet that blended seamlessly into the wall. He slid a panel open, revealing his wardrobe.

Joshua stood frozen in the center of the room, dripping onto the dark hardwood floor. He watched as Jeonghan began to methodically look through his clothes. The gesture was so bizarrely domestic, so utterly surreal given their history, that he felt disoriented. This was the man who had looked at him with pure contempt hours ago. Now, he was rifling through his sweaters, looking for something for Joshua to wear.

“Just… anything is fine,” Joshua managed to croak out, his voice raw.

Jeonghan didn’t respond. He was focused on his task, his back to Joshua. After a moment, he pulled out a pair of soft, grey sweatpants and a simple, long-sleeved black t-shirt made of a luxuriously thick cotton. They were simple, comfortable clothes, but even in his shocked state, Joshua could tell they were exorbitantly expensive. The entire wardrobe was a curated collection of silent wealth—rows of impeccably tailored shirts in shades of white, black, and grey, sweaters of cashmere and fine-gauge merino, trousers hanging with a perfect, sharp crease.

It was a universe away from the small cabinet filled with only a handful of clothes in Busan, where Jeonghan would steal his sweaters because they smelled like him.

Jeonghan turned and held the clothes out. “Here. These should… they should be okay.”

Their fingers brushed as Joshua took them. A spark, small but undeniable, passed between them. Jeonghan’s eyes flickered up to meet his, and for a second, the air in the room felt charged again, thick with all the things they weren’t saying.

“Thank you,” Joshua whispered, looking away, breaking the contact.

He turned and hurried into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, his heart pounding. The bathroom was as stark and impersonal as the bedroom—grey stone, chrome fixtures, a single, white towel folded with geometric precision. He felt like an intruder, a messy, chaotic stain on this perfect, ordered world.

He didn’t take a shower. The memory of the last one, of the steam and the message on the mirror, was too fresh, too terrifying. He just stripped off his soaking, cold clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and used a towel to roughly dry his hair and body. The feeling of the soft, dry fabric against his skin was a profound relief. He pulled on the sweatpants and the t-shirt. They were too long in the arms and legs, and they swam on his slimmer frame. Jeonghan loved wearing oversized garments. They smelled overwhelmingly of him—that clean, expensive scent of sandalwood and cedar, with a faint, underlying note that was just… him. It was like being enveloped in his ghost.

He stood there for a moment, just breathing in the scent, feeling both comforted and profoundly upset. He needed a moment. A moment to collect the shattered pieces of himself before he had to walk back out and face the man who was, for reasons he couldn’t comprehend, offering him shelter.

He opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the bedroom. Jeonghan was no longer there. He must have given him privacy. The room was empty, silent save for the muffled sound of the rain against the window.

His eyes fell again on the open wardrobe. The neat, colour-coded rows of wealth were almost hypnotic. It was a physical manifestation of the chasm between them—the boy from the struggling household in Busan and the man who now owned a walk-in closet worth more than most people’s homes.

And then, his gaze snagged on something that didn’t belong.

Tucked away on the top shelf, pushed far into the corner as if trying to hide, was a small, rectangular box. It wasn't a sleek, modern storage box. It was made of cheap, flimsy cardboard, the kind used for storing old photographs or documents. The lid was a faded blue, and one corner was crushed. It was battered. Worn. It looked ancient, a relic from a different lifetime, completely out of place amidst the pristine, expensive perfection of the rest of the closet.

A cold curiosity, entirely separate from his earlier terror, prickled at him. What was that? Why was it here, in this temple of curated perfection? It looked like something that should have been thrown away a decade ago.

He told himself to ignore it. It was none of his business. He was a guest here, a terrified refugee, not an archaeologist. He should walk out of the room, find Jeonghan, and… and what? Talk about the weather?

He took a step towards the door, then stopped. His eyes were drawn back to the box. It was a dissonant note in the symphony of control that was Jeonghan’s life. A crack in the ice.

Hesitantly, moving as if in a dream, he walked back to the wardrobe. He reached up, his fingers brushing against the soft cashmere of a sweater, and carefully pulled the small, flimsy box from its hiding place. It was light.

He carried it over to the bed and sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. He stared at the box for a long moment, his heart thumping a slow, heavy rhythm. This felt like a violation. But after the violation he had just endured, it felt like he was owed a truth, any truth.

He lifted the lid.

The first thing he saw was the phone.

It was an old, clamshell-style cell phone, the kind that was ubiquitous a lifetime ago. Its plastic casing was a faded, chipped blue. The screen was tiny and dark. Joshua’s breath caught in his throat. He knew this phone. He had held it a thousand times. He had sent countless texts to it, his thumbs flying over the number pad. It was Jeonghan’s first phone. The one his grandmother had scrimped and saved to buy him. The one they had used to send their secret, late-night messages. The one Joshua had called, over and over again in Busan during that one year, only to get a disconnected tone.

He reached into the box with a trembling hand and picked it up. It was cool and light. He pressed the power button, knowing it was futile. It was a dead thing. A fossil.

Beneath the phone, nestled in the cardboard, was a photograph.

It was a printed, physical photo, the edges slightly curled and faded. He pulled it out.

The air left his lungs in a rush.

It was the three of them. Halmeoni, radiant with joy; Joshua, looking over his shoulder with a look of such open, tender affection it could power the sun; and Jeonghan, his eyes crinkled shut in a genuine, unreserved laugh, perfectly framed and held by the boy who had, against all odds, become his home, a rare, full, unreserved smile on her face, her eyes crinkled at the corners. 

There was another photo. She had an arm around each of them, pulling them close. On her right was Jeonghan—Hannie—dark hair a shocking contrast to his pale skin. And then there was Joshua. Jisoo. He was looking at the camera, but his expression was soft, happy, and his shoulders relaxed. He looked young. He looked loved. He looked like he belonged.

They were the only photos Joshua had ever seen of the three of them together. He hadn’t even known it existed. The sight of Halmeoni’s smiling face, of Hannie’s unguarded joy, of his own peaceful contentment, was a physical ache so profound it brought fresh tears to his eyes. This was the home he had lost. This was the family that had been shattered.

He stared at the photo until the faces blurred, his thumb gently stroking the faded image of Halmeoni’s cheek.

Beneath the photo, at the very bottom of the box, was a bundle of papers, held together by a brittle rubber band.

His hands were shaking so badly he could barely get the band off. When he did, the papers fanned out on the white duvet.

They were tickets.

Not for concerts or movies. They were travel tickets. Boarding passes. Train stubs.

His eyes, still blurry with tears, scanned the dates. The one on top was the oldest. It was a one-way bus ticket. Seoul to Busan. Dated just over a year after he had left Busan. After he had given up waiting at the bus stop. After he had gone to LA.

He shuffled through the tickets with numb fingers. They were a chaotic timeline of movement. Train tickets from Seoul to Busan. Then back to Seoul. Then to Busan again. It was a pattern of someone searching, someone restless, someone lost. The dates spanned two, three years. A ghost haunting the places they had once talked about, the escape routes they had planned.

And then, the tickets changed.

About six years ago, the pattern stopped. There was a single, stark ticket.

An airline ticket. Incheon International Airport to Los Angeles, California.

Joshua’s blood ran cold. LA. He had come to LA. The city where Joshua had been, building his new life, polishing his new identity, trying to forget.

He frantically looked through the rest of the tickets. After the LA ticket, the trail exploded. It was a map of the United States, meticulously documented. A flight from LA to New York. A train from New York to Chicago. A bus from Chicago to Austin. A flight from Austin to Seattle. A rental car receipt for a vehicle picked up in Miami.

It was a pilgrimage. A frantic, desperate, and utterly silent pilgrimage across the entire country. He had been to every major city, every state Joshua had ever mentioned in passing, every place he had ever done a campaign. He had been a ghost on Joshua’s trail, moving through the same country, the same cities, perhaps even walking the same streets, all without ever making contact. Without ever letting Joshua know he was there.

The final ticket was the most recent. It was dated just three months ago. A first-class ticket from Korea to New York. Joshua had been in New York for Fashion Week three months ago.

All the cruelty, the ice, the bitter barbs… they were not the actions of a man who was fine. They were the actions of a man who was still that boy waiting at the bus stop, whose heart had not just broken, but had been pulverised, and who had built a fortress of anger around the dust that remained.

Ordinary.

The word echoed in his mind, but now it had a different taste. It wasn’t a judgment on Joshua. It was a reflection of Jeonghan’s own world. In his narrative, Joshua had chosen a comfortable, ordinary life over their extraordinary, messy love. The search, these tickets proved that he had never believed Joshua was ordinary. He had believed he was worth crossing oceans to find.

He had just believed that Joshua hadn’t thought the same of him.

The misunderstanding was so vast, so catastrophic, it was almost laughable. A lifetime of pain, built on a foundation of two different, equally devastating lies.

Joshua sat there on the floor of the walk-in wardrobe, surrounded by the evidence of a grief that mirrored his own, and felt the last of his anger dissolve, leaving behind a profound, bottomless sorrow. For Jeonghan. For himself. For the two boys they had been, and the broken men they had become.

He didn’t know how long he sat there. With hands that were now steady, but felt like they belonged to someone else, he began to carefully gather the scattered pieces of Jeonghan’s past. He placed the faded blue phone back in the box. He smoothed out the photograph of the three of them, his thumb tracing over Halmeoni’s smiling face, over his own carefree grin, over Jeonghan’s teenage scowl. He gathered the tickets, the brittle paper feeling like ancient parchment, and placed the bundle back inside.

He closed the lid of the box, sealing the ghosts away once more. He pushed it back into its hiding place on the shelf, behind the stack of sweatpants, exactly as he had found it.

Jeonghan could never know he had seen this. This was a sacred, secret pain, a vulnerability so profound that exposing it would be a violation worse than any Joshua had ever experienced. To acknowledge it would be to acknowledge the depth of the wound, and Joshua wasn't sure either of them could survive that.

He looked at himself in the full-length mirror embedded in the wardrobe door. He looked like a guy playing dress-up in his girlfriend’s clothes. Drowned, pale, and swamped in the physical evidence of Jeonghan’s success and his hidden, desperate grief.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose himself. The terror of the stalker was still there, a cold knot in his gut, but it was now overshadowed by this new, devastating understanding.

He had come here for shelter from a physical threat. He had found himself at the epicentre of an emotional one that was infinitely more dangerous.

He opened the bedroom door and stepped out.

Jeonghan was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window in the living room, his back to the bedroom. He was holding a steaming mug in his hands, staring out at the rain-washed city. He turned as he heard Joshua approach.

His eyes scanned him, taking in the borrowed clothes, the way they dwarfed him. A flicker of something unreadable—perhaps pity, perhaps something softer—crossed his face before it was schooled back into a mask of neutral concern.

“Better?” he asked, his voice still quiet, but with an edge of the old formality returning. The moment of raw, holding-him-while-he-cried intimacy was receding, and they were both awkwardly navigating the new, uncertain territory.

Joshua nodded, not trusting his voice. He wrapped his arms around himself, the soft black t-shirt a poor defence against the chill inside him.

“I made tea,” Jeonghan said, gesturing towards the kitchen island where another mug sat steaming. “It’s just… tea. Nothing in it.”

It was a peace offering. A small, simple gesture in a world that had just become impossibly complex.

Joshua walked over and picked up the mug. The heat seeped into his cold hands. He took a small sip. It was just herbal tea, chamomile maybe. It was warm. It was something to do.

They stood there, in the vast, silent penthouse, two ghosts haunted by the same past, one holding the evidence of the other’s secret grief, both trapped in a present that was suddenly, terrifyingly, fragile.

The storm outside had lessened to a steady drizzle. The immediate danger had passed.

But Joshua knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that the real storm was just beginning. And he was standing right in the eye of it.

Jeonghan remained by the window, his profile a sharp, tense line against the city’s glittering, rain-soaked lights. He took a slow sip from his own mug, his gaze fixed on some distant point, but Joshua could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the ceramic. The casual ease from before Seungcheol and Junhui’s departure was gone, replaced by a watchful, coiled stillness.

He finally turned, his eyes—those stormy, unreadable eyes—finding Joshua’s across the room. The neutral concern was still there, but beneath it, Joshua could see the questions swirling, the confusion he had planted with his desperate, tear-streaked arrival.

“Joshua,” he began, his voice low and careful, as if navigating a field of landmines. He took a step closer, but stopped, maintaining a careful distance. “What happened tonight?”

The question hung in the air, simple and direct. 

Joshua looked down into his mug, watching the steam curl and vanish. He could lie. He could give a vague answer about feeling unsafe, about a creepy fan. It would be easy. It would preserve the fragile, awkward truce. It would allow him to keep the secret of the box, to avoid dragging the rotting carcass of their past into this already fraught present.

But the memory of the fogged mirror, the crude, chilling letters of his name, rose up in his mind with terrifying clarity. The fear was a live wire in his gut, more immediate and potent than any heartbreak. He had come here for a reason. He had run through the rain, driven by a primal need for safety. And safety, in this moment, required truth. Not the whole truth, but this truth.

He took a shaky breath and lifted his gaze to meet Jeonghan’s.

“Someone was in my hotel room,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it echoed in the silent space.

Jeonghan went perfectly still. The careful neutrality on his face solidified into something harder, sharper. “What?”

“While I was in the shower,” Joshua continued, the words feeling foreign and terrifying as he gave them voice. “I came out… and the mirror was fogged. And someone had… had written on it.” He swallowed, his throat tight. “They wrote ‘JISOO’.”

The name, his real name, landed in the penthouse with the force of a physical blow.

Jeonghan’s face lost all its colour. The storm in his eyes didn’t just intensify; it froze over, turning into something deadly and absolute. The carefully maintained distance between them vanished as he took two quick strides forward, his body radiating a sudden, violent energy.

“What?” he repeated, the word a sharp, disbelieving crack. “Are you sure?”

“I saw it,” Joshua insisted, his own voice gaining a desperate strength. “It was there. Drawn with a finger. The steam was already making it fade, but I saw it.” He wrapped his arms tighter around himself, the borrowed sleeves swallowing his hands. “And before that… in the lobby. An old man was watching me. And when I left, there was someone across the street, just standing there, staring up at my window. I thought I was paranoid, but I wasn’t. They were working together. One to watch me outside, the other to get in.”

He watched as the information processed behind Jeonghan’s eyes. He saw the moment the personal history between them—the anger, the bitterness, the almost-kisses—was violently shoved aside and replaced by a cold, pragmatic fury. This was no longer about them. This was a threat. A violation.

“The balcony?” Jeonghan’s voice was clipped, professional.

“I don’t know. I didn’t check. I just… I ran.”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened. He gave a short, sharp nod, his mind clearly racing, assessing, planning. The vulnerability Joshua had glimpsed, the ghost of Hannie, was completely gone. In its place was Yoon Jeonghan, the strategist, the man who commanded empires and didn’t tolerate insubordination or threats.

Without another word, he turned and strode to a sleek console table by the sofa, picking up his phone. His movements were swift, efficient, devoid of any hesitation. He scrolled through his contacts and put the phone to his ear, his back to Joshua.

Joshua stood frozen, watching him. The shift was jarring. The man who had held him as he cried was gone, replaced by a general preparing for war.

The call was answered on the first ring. Even from across the room, Joshua could hear a crisp, alert, “Yes, sir?” on the other end.

“Kim,” Jeonghan said, his voice dropping into a tone Joshua had never heard before—it was flat, authoritative, and utterly cold. It was the voice he used to dismantle creative directors and negotiate million-dollar contracts. “I have a situation. A security breach. Priority one.”

He paused, listening. “Hong Joshua. He’s at the Hôtel de Crillon. Suite 512. Someone gained unauthorised entry to his suite this evening, approximately two hours ago. They left a message. A direct, personal threat.” He didn’t elaborate on the message. “There were also two potential accomplices. One male, elderly, in the hotel lobby. Another, male, younger, build unknown, wearing a dark jacket and cap, stationed across the street from the hotel’s main entrance at the same time.”

Jeonghan’s recall of the details Joshua had frantically spilt was perfect, clinical. “I want the hotel’s security footage from the lobby, the corridors on his floor, and the service entrances from 4 PM onwards. I want it cross-referenced. I want to know how they got in. I want identities. I want to know who they are, who they work for, and what they want.”

He listened for another moment, his posture rigid. “No. Do not involve the hotel management. Not yet. This stays with us. Use our people. I want a full threat assessment on Joshua. Everything. His travel history, his public appearances, any fan mail, any… any unresolved personal issues from his past.” He said the last words with a particular weight, and Joshua felt a fresh chill. Was he including their past in that assessment?

“He is not returning to that hotel,” Jeonghan continued, his voice leaving no room for argument. “He’s with me. I’ll send you the penthouse details. I want a security detail on this building immediately. Discreet. And I want an update the moment you have anything. Anything at all. Understood?”

There was a final, affirmative sound from the other end of the line, and Jeonghan hung up without a goodbye.

The cold fury was still in his eyes, but it was now directed outwards, at the unknown threat. When he looked at Joshua, the expression was different. It was… protective. Fiercely, possessively protective.

“It’s handled,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

Joshua could only stare. The speed and efficiency of it all was breathtaking. In the space of a sixty-second phone call, Jeonghan had mobilised a private army, commandeered security footage, and effectively placed him under his personal protection. The helpless, terrified feeling that had consumed him for hours began to recede, replaced by a strange, numb awe.

“Mr. Kim…?” Joshua managed to ask, his voice hoarse.

“My head of security,” Jeonghan said, walking back towards him. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze sweeping over Joshua as if reassessing him for damage. “Former Korean National Intelligence Service. The best. If there’s a trail, he’ll find it.”

He said it with such absolute certainty that Joshua almost believed him. The fear was still there, a cold stone in his stomach, but it was no longer alone. It was now accompanied by a dawning realisation of the power Yoon Jeonghan wielded. This wasn’t just about fashion shows and photoshoots. This was about a man who had the resources to make problems—and people—disappear.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” Jeonghan stated. It wasn’t an offer. It was a decree. “You can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Safe. The word echoed in the room. It was the reason he had come. But now, standing here, surrounded by the evidence of Jeonghan’s hidden pain and his very real, very present power, Joshua wasn’t sure what safety meant anymore. Was it safety from the stalker? Or was it the more terrifying safety of being completely, utterly under Jeonghan’s control?

He simply nodded, unable to form words.

Jeonghan’s eyes softened a fraction, seeing the shell-shocked expression on his face. The general receded, and for a fleeting moment, the man who had made him kimchi fried rice surfaced.

“Get some rest,” he said, his voice gentler. “I’ll… I’ll be right out here if you need anything.”

It was a dismissal, but a kind one. Joshua nodded again, setting his half-finished tea down on the island. He turned and walked back towards the bedroom, his mind a whirlwind of terror, revelation, and a confusing, treacherous sense of relief.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he did, he might see the ghost of the boy with the bus tickets in his eyes, and he might do something stupid, like try to comfort him.

The first thing Joshua registered was the scent. Not the sterile, expensive cedar of the penthouse, but something deeper, more foundational. Sandalwood, yes, but underneath it, the faint, clean smell of Jeonghan’s skin on the pillows. 

The room was flooded with the pale, clear light of a Parisian morning. The storm had passed. For a moment, disoriented and wrapped in the profound silence of the penthouse, he felt a strange, tentative peace. The terror of the previous night felt distant, a bad dream washed away by the rain and the shocking safety of this fortress.

He had slept. Deeply, for the first time in days. The exhaustion and the emotional whiplash had finally pulled him under into a dreamless void. Now, awake, the memories returned, but they were ordered, compartmentalised. The stalker. The name on the mirror. The frantic run through the rain. The box. The tickets. The phone call.

He pushed himself up, the sheets—crisp, Egyptian cotton—whispering around him. He was still wearing the borrowed sweatpants and shirt. He padded quietly to the bedroom door and opened it a crack.

The living room was illuminated by the morning sun, stark and beautiful. And on the large, low-slung sofa, still in his clothes from the night before, lay Yoon Jeonghan. He was asleep, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting on his chest. His posture was not relaxed; even in sleep, there was a tension in his frame, a readiness. He had given Joshua his bed and taken the couch. The gesture was so at odds with the man who had called him ordinary that it made Joshua’s chest ache.

He was about to retreat, to give him privacy, when a soft, insistent buzzing broke the silence. It was Jeonghan’s phone, vibrating on the coffee table where he’d left it.

Jeonghan stirred instantly, his arm falling away from his face. He was awake in a heartbeat; his eyes, though heavy-lidded, were immediately clear and alert. He reached for the phone, his movements fluid and silent. He didn’t see Joshua watching from the doorway.

“Parkssi,” he answered, his voice a sleep-roughened murmur. He listened, and Joshua saw his body go rigid. It was a different kind of tension from the night before. This wasn’t the coiled fury of a protector; this was the icy stillness of a man receiving a mortal wound.

“What?” The word was sharp, disbelieving.

He listened for another long moment, his face hardening into a mask of pale stone. His free hand clenched into a fist on his chest.

“How?” he bit out. “How is that possible?”

Another pause. Joshua could almost feel the temperature in the room drop.

“No,” Jeonghan said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “No, you do not ‘contain’ it. It’s already out. I can see it from here.” He had shifted, his eyes now fixed on a tablet that lay beside his phone. He tapped the screen, his jaw so tight it looked like it might crack.

“Find the source,” he commanded, his voice low and venomous. “I don’t care what it takes. I want a name. And I want to know how they got those pictures.”

Pictures? Joshua’s blood ran cold. What pictures?

Jeonghan listened again, his expression growing darker, more closed off. The vulnerability of sleep was gone, the brief, soft concern from the night before had vanished. The fortress walls were not just up; they were being reinforced with steel and ice.

“Handle it,” he finally said, and ended the call without another word.

He sat up, swinging his legs off the sofa, and ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. He looked exhausted, but it was a deep, soul-level exhaustion that no night’s sleep on a couch could fix. He picked up the tablet, his thumb scrolling, his face a grim study in controlled rage.

Joshua couldn’t stand it any longer. He pushed the door open fully. “Jeonghan?”

Jeonghan’s head snapped up. For a split second, seeing Joshua standing there in his clothes, sleep-soft and concerned, something in his eyes flickered—a strange, complicated mix of relief and a fresh wave of anguish. Then it was gone, shuttered away.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice flat. He placed the tablet face down on the coffee table, a deliberate gesture.

“What’s going on?” Joshua asked, taking a tentative step into the room. “Was that Mr. Park? About… about last night?”

Jeonghan let out a short, humourless breath. “No. This is something else.” He stood up, avoiding Joshua’s gaze. “Something… messier.”

He walked to the kitchen and started making coffee with a quiet, furious efficiency. The normalcy of the action was a stark contrast to the tension radiating from him.

Joshua’s phone, which he had left charging on a side table, buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again. A rapid, frantic staccato. A sense of dread, cold and familiar, began to pool in his stomach. He walked over and picked it up.

The screen was flooded with notifications. Texts from his manager, his publicist, even a few from distant acquaintances he hadn’t heard from in years. The subject lines were variations of a single, frantic theme.

Have you seen this? Call me immediately. Joshua, what the hell is going on?

His thumb, suddenly clumsy, opened his news aggregator app.

And there it was. Splashed across the screen, from three different major fashion and celebrity gossip sites, were the headlines.

“FROM THE GUTTER TO THE GLITTER: THE RAGS-TO-RICHES LIE OF YOON JEONGHAN”

“EXCLUSIVE: SHOCKING PAST OF FASHION’S ICE PRINCE REVEALED – POVERTY, SCANDAL, AND A BROKEN DREAM”

“YSL AMBASSADOR’S ‘LEGACY’ BUILT ON A BED OF LIES”

Joshua’s heart stopped. He clicked on the first link.

The article was brutal. It was a character assassination disguised as an exposé. It detailed a childhood of profound poverty in the “forgotten industrial districts of Busan.” It spoke of a struggling single grandmother, of utility shut-offs, of hand-me-down clothes. It was all true, Joshua knew, but the language was lurid, designed to humiliate, to strip away the aura of untouchable elegance Jeonghan had so carefully cultivated.

Then, it got worse.

There were pictures. Grainy, but unmistakable. A teenage Jeonghan, his hair longer, his face thinner and bruised, being escorted out of his high school by two stern-looking administrators. The caption read: “Expelled for repeated violent altercations and academic failure, a far cry from the ‘visionary’ he claims to be today.”

Another picture: a hospital intake form, his name clearly visible, with a diagnosis listed: “Severe ankle fracture, ligament damage.” The article sneered, “The end of a promised basketball scholarship, the first of many failed dreams before he learned to trade on his looks.”

The final blow was a photograph of Halmeoni’s small, humble house, the one Joshua had been in multiple times. The article used it as a blunt instrument: “This is the ‘legacy’ Yoon Jeonghan so desperately hides. Not one of old money and refinement, but one of struggle and shame.”

Joshua looked up from the phone, his vision blurring with a mixture of horror and white-hot rage. He looked at Jeonghan, who was standing perfectly still by the espresso machine, his back to him, watching the dark liquid drip into the cup.

He knew, with a chilling certainty, that every word of this was a twisting of the truth. The “violent altercations” – he’d been in fights, yes, defending himself and Joshua from bullies who targeted them. The “academic failure” – he’d struggled, but he’d worked tirelessly, with Joshua tutoring him for hours. The ankle… the ankle was the night Joshua’s mother had locked him in, the night everything had shattered.

This wasn’t just an attack on Jeonghan’s reputation. It was a violation. It was digging up a grave and parading the corpse. It was taking the most painful, private parts of his history—their history—and selling them for clicks.

“Jeonghan…” Joshua whispered, his voice thick.

Jeonghan didn’t turn around. “I told you it was messy.” His tone was so carefully controlled it was more frightening than any shout.

“This is… this is insane,” Joshua said, his hand trembling as he held the phone. “How did they get this? The pictures… the medical form?”

“Someone talked,” Jeonghan said, his voice devoid of emotion. He picked up the small cup of espresso but didn’t drink it. Just held it, the heat presumably searing into his palm. “An old teacher with a grudge. A nurse from the hospital who needed money. It doesn’t matter. The source is irrelevant now. The damage is done.”

He finally turned. His face was a pale, beautiful mask, but his eyes were the eyes of the boy in the expulsion photo—wounded, defiant, and filled with a simmering, helpless rage.

“The narrative of Yoon Jeonghan is a very specific, very valuable brand,” he said, his words clipped and precise. “It is built on mystery, on cold, unassailable perfection. This…” he gestured vaguely towards Joshua’s phone, “…this turns me into a sob story. A cliché. It makes me relatable. It makes me human. And in this world, Joshua, being human is the same as being weak.”

The cynicism in his voice was a shield, but Joshua could see the cracks. He could see the sheer, gut-wrenching humiliation. Jeonghan had spent his entire adult life running from that boy in Busan, and now, the world had been given a front-row seat to his origins.

“What are you going to do?” Joshua asked, his mind reeling. The stalker, the leaked past—it was too much. It felt coordinated, like a multi-pronged attack designed to destroy him.

“My PR team is drafting a statement,” Jeonghan said, placing the untouched espresso back on the counter. “A bland, non-denial denial. Acknowledging a ‘challenging youth’ while focusing on ‘the strength forged in adversity.’ The usual corporate bullshit.” He walked towards the window, looking out at the city that was now reading about his deepest shames over their morning croissants. “It won’t work. The image is cracked. The ice prince has been revealed to have feet of clay. The vultures will circle. YSL will be… concerned.”

He said the last word with a chilling finality. The campaign, the “Legacy and Vision,” was now a cruel joke. How could he represent a legacy he was publicly exposed for hiding?

Joshua’s own phone rang. It was his manager. He ignored it. His publicist called immediately after. He sent that to voicemail, too. His world was shrinking to this penthouse, to the devastated, proud man standing by the window.

He thought of the box in the wardrobe. The bus tickets. The desperate search. This public humiliation was a thousand times worse. This was having the most tender, broken parts of yourself held up for global ridicule.

Without thinking, driven by an impulse he didn’t understand, Joshua crossed the room. He stopped a few feet behind Jeonghan.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Jeonghan didn’t turn. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” Joshua insisted. “I knew that boy. The one in those pictures. I knew him. And he wasn’t weak. He was the strongest person I’d ever met.”

Jeonghan’s shoulders stiffened. A tremor ran through his frame. He said nothing.

“They can write whatever they want,” Joshua continued, the words coming from a place of fierce, protective certainty he didn’t know he possessed. “They can twist it and sell it. But it doesn’t change the truth. It doesn’t change who you are. Or who you were.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the city. Jeonghan remained motionless, a statue against the light.

When he finally spoke, his voice was so low Joshua almost missed it, stripped bare of all its defences, raw and unbearably young.

“Everyone will see it now,” he whispered, not to Joshua, but to the city, to the ghosts of his past. “They’ll all see the poor, stupid kid from Busan who got kicked out of school. They’ll always see it. No matter what I do. No matter what I build. It’s all they’ll see.”

It was the core of his terror. Not the professional fallout, not the corporate concerns. It was the shame. The deep, ingrained childhood shame of never being enough, of being an outsider, and now having that identity broadcast to the entire world.

Joshua’s heart broke for him. All the anger, the years of bitterness, felt small and insignificant in the face of this naked pain.

He took a final, hesitant step forward. He didn’t touch him. He just stood there, a silent presence at his back.

“Then let them see,” Joshua said softly. “But they don’t get to define it. You do.”

Jeonghan didn’t reply. He just stood there, watching his old life burn in the headlines of his new one, while the man who had shared that old life stood behind him, holding a secret that was both a burden and a key, in the quiet, sunlit ruins of the morning.

The silence in the back of the armoured Mercedes-Maybach was deafening, thick and heavy with the weight of the morning’s revelations. Joshua sat stiffly, his gaze fixed on the rain-cleaned streets of Paris passing by in a blur. He was wearing his own clothes now, retrieved by a silent, efficient Mr. Park from his violated hotel suite. They felt like a costume, the familiar fabric unable to shield him from the new reality.

Jeonghan sat beside him, a study in contained storm. He was dressed for war in a sharply tailored black YSL suit, his hair perfect, his expression an impenetrable mask of cold composure. But Joshua could feel the tension radiating from him in waves. The brief, raw vulnerability he had witnessed by the window was gone, locked away behind layers of steel and ice. The fortress was on high alert.

The drive was different from any they had shared before. Jeonghan’s driver, a large, impassive man Joshua hadn’t seen before, navigated the traffic with a predatory awareness, his eyes constantly scanning mirrors and side streets. Another car, a nondescript sedan, followed them at a precise distance. Mr. Park’s doing. The stalker’s threat had been seamlessly integrated into the new crisis, creating a suffocating atmosphere of dual sieges.

Jeonghan’s phone buzzed incessantly—emails, calls from his PR team, his agent, the YSL board. He answered only the most crucial, his responses clipped and cold. “No comment.” 

“Stick to the draft.” 

“I’ll handle it at the meeting.”

He never once looked at Joshua, but his awareness of him was absolute. When the car took a sharp turn, Jeonghan’s hand, which had been resting on his knee, twitched, as if to steady him. When a motorcycle sped past too closely, his body tensed, his eyes flicking to the window, assessing the threat before dismissing it. 

It was unnerving. This careful, silent vigilance was more intimate and confusing than any argument. It spoke of a responsibility Jeonghan had shouldered without being asked, a debt incurred not from their shared past, but from the simple, brutal fact of Joshua’s present danger. He was no longer just Hong Joshua, the rival, the ghost. He was a protected person. A liability. A ward.

They arrived at the YSL headquarters not through the usual grand entrance, but through a subterranean garage, the car gliding into a reserved bay away from the main parking area. The driver and the security detail from the trailing car emerged first, scanning the concrete cavern before opening their doors.

“Stay close,” Jeonghan said, his first words to Joshua since they’d left the penthouse. His voice was low, a command, not a request.

Joshua nodded, falling into step just behind him as they moved towards a private elevator. The small security team flanked them, a human shield. The air in the garage was cold and smelled of exhaust. Every echo of their footsteps felt like a potential trigger.

The elevator opened directly into a hushed, carpeted executive corridor on the top floor. The usual hum of the headquarters was absent here, replaced by a tense, anticipatory silence. Alessia, was waiting for them, her face pale and pinched with stress.

“Jeonghan,” she said, her voice a strained whisper. “They’re all in the boardroom. It’s… a full house.” Her eyes darted to Joshua, filled with a mixture of pity and apprehension. “Joshua. I’m… we’re glad you’re both safe.”

Safe. The word felt hollow. They were walking into a den of lions.

Jeonghan just gave a curt nod and pushed open the heavy, double doors to the main boardroom.

The room was a stark, modernist space of black marble and white leather, with a panoramic view of the Paris skyline. Seated around the long, monolithic table were a dozen of the most powerful people in the fashion industry. The CEO of YSL, a severe-looking man in his sixties with silver hair and icy blue eyes. The global head of PR, a woman with a razor-sharp bob and a perpetually worried expression. Several stern-faced board members. And at the head of the table, connecting via a large monitor on the wall, was the formidable figure of Madame Laurent, the matriarch of the brand’s parent company, her expression unreadable.

Every head turned as they entered. The scrutiny was a physical force. Joshua felt it like a blast of heat, seeing right through his own professional facade to the terrified, stalked man underneath, and then moving past him to land squarely on Jeonghan. The air was thick with judgment, anxiety, and the cold calculation of damage control.

Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He walked to his designated seat with a predator’s grace, his posture radiating an authority that momentarily silenced the room. Joshua took the empty seat beside him, feeling like a piece of driftwood caught in a tidal wave.

“Yoon Jeonghan,” the CEO began, his voice cool and devoid of warmth. “We’ve seen the headlines. We are facing a significant reputational crisis. This ‘revelation,’ as they call it, is in direct contradiction to the image of this house. We trade in fantasy, in aspiration. Not in… gritty, realist biography.”

A board member, a woman with sharp features, chimed in. “The timing is catastrophic. The ‘Legacy and Vision’ campaign is meant to launch in a matter of weeks. How can we sell a narrative of timeless elegance and power when our lead ambassador is being portrayed as a… a troubled youth from the slums?” She spat the last word as if it were a curse.

Joshua’s hands clenched under the table. He saw Jeonghan’s jaw tighten, but his expression remained impassive.

“The past is the past,” Jeonghan said, his voice calm and measured, though Joshua could hear the steel underneath. “It has no bearing on my ability to represent this brand. My work, my legacy within this industry, speaks for itself.”

“Does it?” the CEO countered. “The public’s perception is your legacy. And right now, the public perceives a fraud. A man who built a castle on a foundation of lies.”

“They were not lies,” Joshua heard himself say.

The room fell silent again, all eyes swivelling to him. He hadn’t meant to speak. The words had just come out, fueled by a hot, defensive anger on Jeonghan’s behalf.

The CEO raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Hong? You have something to add?”

Joshua felt a flush creep up his neck, but he held the man’s gaze. “He never claimed to be from old money. He never spoke about his past at all. The mystery was created by the press, by all of you. He just… let it exist. Hiding something isn’t the same as lying about it.”

He felt Jeonghan’s gaze on him, a sharp, surprised weight. He didn’t look at him.

Madame Laurent’s voice crackled through the speaker, calm and ancient as stone. “The semantics are irrelevant, Mr. Hong. The perception is the reality. We must now manage that reality.” Her eyes, even through the screen, were piercing. “Jeonghan. Your proposed statement is weak. It admits failure. It admits shame.”

“What would you have me do?” Jeonghan asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “Hold a press conference and weep for the cameras? Show them my childhood home and talk about how poor we were?”

“No,” Madame Laurent said, a slow, cunning smile touching her lips. It was a terrifying sight. “We do not apologise. We do not explain. We reframe.”

She leaned forward, her image dominating the room. “This ‘gritty, realist biography,’ as Philippe so delicately put it, is not a liability. It is a backdrop. The perfect, dramatic backdrop for our campaign.”

A ripple of confusion went around the table.

“I don’t understand,” the head of PR said, frowning.

“ ‘Legacy and Vision’,” Madame Laurent quoted. “What is a legacy? It is not something you are born with. It is something you seize. It is something you build from nothing. It is the fire forged in adversity.” Her voice gained a theatrical, persuasive power. “Yoon Jeonghan is not a fraud. He is the embodiment of the modern vision. He took the nothing he was given and he built an empire. He took his pain and he turned it into power. That is not a sob story. That is the greatest success story of our time.”

The room was utterly silent, processing her words.

Jeonghan was staring at the screen, his expression unreadable.

“We release a new statement,” she continued, her tone becoming brisk and decisive. “We do not deny a single fact. We embrace them. We say that these ‘revelations’ are, in fact, a carefully orchestrated leak. A teaser. The first chapter of the story we are about to tell the world through our campaign.”

Joshua felt a chill. It was brilliant. And it was utterly ruthless. She was taking the most painful, humiliating moments of Jeonghan’s life and branding them. Turning his trauma into a marketing tool.

“We say that the raw, unfiltered truth of Jeonghan’s past is the ‘Legacy,’” she elaborated, her eyes gleaming. “And the man he is today—the king of fashion, the ice prince—that is the ‘Vision.’ The transformation. The alchemy. We were going to hint at tension, at a dark past. Now, we give it to them. We make it the entire narrative.”

She looked directly at Jeonghan through the screen. “You will not be shamed. You will be deified. The boy who was expelled, who was poor, who was broken… he is the foundation of the god we have created. It is perfect.”

The board members began to murmur, seeing the twisted genius of it. It was a complete inversion. It robbed the scandal of its power by claiming ownership of it.

Jeonghan was silent for a long, long time. He looked down at the polished surface of the table, his face a mask. Joshua could only imagine the war raging inside him. To agree to this was to sanction the violation. It was to let them use his deepest wounds to sell clothes. It was to become a willing participant in his own exploitation.

But the alternative was professional annihilation. To refuse would be to let the narrative of the “fraud” stand. It would mean losing everything he had built.

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting Madame Laurent’s on the screen. There was no emotion in them. Only a cold, calculating acceptance.

“It’s a bold strategy,” he said, his voice flat.

“It is the only strategy,” she replied.

He gave a single, slow nod. “Then we proceed.”

The meeting shifted instantly into a whirlwind of logistics. The PR team began drafting the new statement. The marketing department brainstormed how to integrate the “real” story into the campaign visuals. The board members, now energised, threw out ideas, their earlier anxiety replaced by a ghoulish excitement.

Through it all, Jeonghan sat perfectly still, contributing when asked, his answers sharp and intelligent. He was the professional. The ice prince. But Joshua, sitting beside him, could see the faint tremor in his hand where it rested on the table. He could see the almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes.

He had just agreed to sell his pain to the highest bidder. And he had done it with the same cold efficiency with which he did everything.

As the meeting drew to a close, the CEO stood. “Very well. We have our path forward. Jeonghan, your cooperation is, as always, invaluable.” He then turned his gaze to Joshua. “And Mr. Hong. This… situation with you. The stalking. It must not become public. We cannot have two simultaneous scandals. You will be discreet. You will continue with the campaign as if nothing is wrong. Is that understood?”

It was not a question. It was an order.

Joshua nodded, feeling numb. “Understood.”

The meeting adjourned. People filed out, already on their phones, putting the new, brutal plan into motion.

Jeonghan stood, smoothing his suit jacket. He didn’t look at Joshua as they walked out of the boardroom, back into the silent corridor. The security detail fell into step around them once more.

They rode the elevator down to the garage in silence. The doors opened onto the cold, concrete space.

And then, as they walked towards the car, it happened.

A flash. A rapid, paparazzi burst of light from behind a concrete pillar.

Joshua reacted instantly. He didn’t hesitate. In one fluid, decisive motion, he stepped in front of Jeonghan, turning his back to the camera, using his own body as a shield. His arm came up, not around Jeonghan, but creating a barrier, blocking the photographer’s line of sight.

“Get in the car,” he commanded. 

The security team was already moving, one heading towards the pillar while the other ushered them quickly into the back seat of the Mercedes. The door slammed shut, sealing them in the quiet, insulated interior.

Jeonghan leaned back, his breath coming out in a short, sharp exhale. He ran a hand over his face, the mask of cold composure finally cracking to reveal a glimpse of the sheer, relentless pressure he was under.

The car pulled out of the garage, leaving the chaos of YSL behind. They were heading back to the gilded cage of the penthouse, to the waiting storm of public opinion, to the unseen eyes of a stalker.

And Joshua Hong sat in the silent, rolling vault, more confused, more terrified, and more hopelessly, devastatingly bound to Yoon Jeonghan than he had ever been in his life.

The reprieve was brief. The drive back to the penthouse was a silent, pressurised journey. Jeonghan had retreated into a deep, impenetrable silence, his gaze fixed on some internal horizon of damage control and strategic planning. Joshua could almost see the equations scrolling behind his eyes: public statements, media buys, the recalibration of an entire global campaign. He was building a new fortress, this one constructed from the very ruins of his old life.

Joshua, meanwhile, felt adrift. The confrontation in the boardroom, the chilling brilliance of Madame Laurent’s plan. The world had tilted on its axis, and he was struggling to find his footing. The terror of the stalker was now a dull, constant hum in the background, overshadowed by the monumental, public evisceration of Jeonghan’s past.

Jeonghan immediately went to his study, the door closing with a soft, definitive click, the sound of a general retreating to his war room. Joshua was left alone in the vast living area, the morning sun feeling accusatory now, illuminating the sterile perfection of a life built on a foundation of secrets.

He paced, too restless to sit. He checked his phone, against his better judgment. The new YSL statement had been released. It was a masterclass in audacious spin.

“YSL EMBRACES THE RAW NARRATIVE OF TRANSFORMATION. ‘LEGACY & VISION’ CAMPAIGN TO REVEAL THE TRUE ORIGINS OF YOON JEONGHAN.”

The article quoted the statement directly: “The recent speculation regarding Ambassador Yoon Jeonghan’s youth is not a scandal, but the first glimpse into the profound story of resilience and alchemy that defines the ‘Legacy and Vision’ campaign. We believe that true legacy is not inherited; it is forged in fire. Jeonghan’s journey from adversity to becoming a global icon is the most powerful embodiment of this vision. We invite you to look deeper when the campaign launches.”

The comments were a battlefield. Some praised the “bravery” and “genius” of the move. Others called it cynical and exploitative. But the narrative had undeniably shifted. The story was no longer about a fraud; it was about a phoenix. Madame Laurent had been right.

Joshua felt a sickening sense of admiration mixed with profound disgust. They had taken a knife wound and turned it into a fashion accessory.

He was about to put his phone away when a new push notification flashed, this one from a more notorious, less reputable gossip site known for its viciousness.

“ICE PRINCE’S COLD HEART: NEW SOURCE REVEALS JEONGHAN ABANDONED DYING GRANDMOTHER FOR MODELING GIG.”

Joshua’s blood ran cold. He clicked on it, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The article was even more brutal than the first. It featured a grainy, long-lens photo of a young Jeonghan, looking tired and dishevelled, entering a modelling agency in Seoul. The date on the photo’s timestamp was circled in red.

It was the day Joshua last met Halmeoni.

The article seethed with manufactured outrage. “While his beloved grandmother, the woman who raised him, lay on her deathbed in a Busan hospital, Yoon Jeonghan was already in Seoul, chasing fame and fortune. A source close to the family reveals he left her side in her final days, more concerned with his portfolio than with the woman who sacrificed everything for him. The ‘devoted grandson’ image is yet another lie from the man who has built his life on them.”

Joshua stared at the screen, his breath caught in his throat. The world seemed to narrow to the pixels on his phone. It was a lie. A monstrous, grotesque lie. He knew, with every fibre of his being, that it was a lie.

Jeonghan had loved his grandmother with a ferocity that was absolute. She was his entire world. The idea that he would abandon her…

And then, the final, devastating piece of the puzzle clicked into place with the force of a physical blow.

The timestamp on the photo. The date of her funeral.

He thought of the timeline. The night of their planned escape. Jeonghan, waiting at the bus stop. Joshua, locked in his room. Halmeoni… Halmeoni had been in her home. She was sick. But she hadn’t died then. Joshua had seen her, spoken to her, the day of the failed meeting. She had been pale, worried, but alive. She had blessed him.

The realisation was an ice-cold deluge, washing away a decade of his own misunderstanding.

Halmeoni wasn’t alive. She had died that night. The night he was supposed to meet Jeonghan at the bus stop.

The night Joshua was locked in his room, choosing her safety over their love, she was already gone.

Jeonghan hadn’t just been left waiting by Joshua. He had been left waiting, and then his grandmother, his only family, had died. In the space of a single, cataclysmic night, he had lost everything. Joshua. Halmeoni. His entire world.

And he had believed Joshua knew. He had believed that Joshua, safe in his comfortable home, had chosen not to come, even after hearing the news. He had built his entire narrative of betrayal on the foundation of that belief.

“Oh, God,” Joshua whispered, the phone slipping from his numb fingers and clattering onto the marble floor. The sound echoed in the silent penthouse.

He felt dizzy, nauseous. The room tilted. He stumbled to the sofa, collapsing onto it, his head in his hands. The sobs that wracked his body were silent, dry heaves of pure, unadulterated grief and horror. For Jeonghan. For the unimaginable pain he had carried, alone, for ten years.For Halmeoni. 

He had thought his own sacrifice was the greater one. He had thought he was the tragic hero, giving up his love to protect Jeonghan’s family, giving up his family, his normal life. But he had been protecting a ghost. He had made his choice for nothing. And in doing so, he had inadvertently delivered the final, cruellest blow to the boy he loved.

The study door opened. Jeonghan stood there, his own phone in his hand, his face a grim mask. He had clearly seen the same headline.

“They’re digging deeper,” he said, his voice hollow, drained of even the cold anger from before. This was a new level of exhaustion. “There’s no bottom to this.”

He looked at Joshua, who was still hunched over on the sofa, his shoulders shaking. For a moment, Jeonghan’s expression remained remote, assuming Joshua was just reacting to the fresh ugliness of the press.

But then he took a step closer, his brow furrowing slightly. “Joshua?”

Joshua couldn’t speak. He could only shake his head, a desperate, helpless motion.

Jeonghan came and stood over him. “It’s just more noise,” he said, the words meant to be dismissive, but they came out sounding weary. “They’ll say anything. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Joshua choked out, finally lifting his head. His face was streaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed and full of a pain so profound it stopped Jeonghan dead. “Jeonghan… Halmeoni… when did she die?”

The question, asked in that broken, desperate tone, changed everything. The professional mask on Jeonghan’s face shattered. His eyes widened, then shuttered closed, as if struck by a physical pain. He took a step back, his body going rigid.

“Why?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

“The article… it said you left her…” Joshua’s voice broke. “But it’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. You would never… Please. Just tell me. When did she die?”

Jeonghan stared at him, a storm of confusion and old, festering rage in his eyes. He looked like a cornered animal. “What does it matter to you? You were already gone.”

“I wasn’t!” Joshua cried, the truth finally forcing its way out. “I wasn’t gone! I was in Busan! For a whole year after! I waited for you! I went to the bus stop every night for a year!”

The confession landed between them, stunning and absolute.

Jeonghan stared at him, his face a canvas of utter, bewildered shock. “What?” The word was a breath, barely audible.

“The week we were supposed to meet,” Joshua rushed on, the words tumbling out in a torrent he could no longer stop. “My mother found out. She locked me. She said she would have Halmeoni declared unfit, that she would have you both buried. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let that happen. I had to choose. I chose to protect her. To protect you from that.”

He was sobbing openly now, the decade of guilt and grief pouring out. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was saving the only family you had left. But on the sixth day, I gave up. I saw the perfect timing. I…. I met Halmeoni that day… She…. When I came back to my home to leave. My parents returned early. We had a whole fight. I was disowned that night. But I came to the bus stop and… I thought… I thought you had just left without me. I thought you’d decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.”

He looked up at Jeonghan, his vision blurred by tears. “I never knew she died. I never knew, Hannie. I swear to God, I never knew.”

The old name, spoken in that context, with that devastating truth, was the final key.

Jeonghan’s composure broke. Completely. It didn’t crack; it shattered. He stumbled back, bracing himself against the wall, his knuckles white. He bowed his head, his entire body trembling. A raw, ragged sound was torn from his throat, a sound of such profound, agonising loss that it was almost inhuman.

“She died that night,” he whispered, the words ripped from the deepest, most wounded part of his soul. He lifted his head, and his face was streaked with tears he made no effort to hide. The ice prince was gone. In his place was just Hannie, the heartbroken boy. “Uncle Kim told me at the bus stop. I was waiting for you… and he told me that she was gone.”

The silence that followed was the most profound sound Joshua had ever heard. It was the silence of a universe collapsing, of a decade of hatred built on a foundation of sand washing away to reveal the brutal, simple, tragic truth beneath.

They had both been there, in Busan. One waiting at a bus stop, receiving a death sentence. The other preparing for a funeral. Two satellites in the same terrible orbit, forever missing each other in the dark.

Jeonghan looked at Joshua, and for the first time, there was no filter of anger, no wall of ice. There was only the naked, unbearable pain. “I thought you knew,” he breathed. “I thought you heard she was gone and you… you just didn’t care enough to come.”

The misunderstanding was so vast, so stupid, so heartbreakingly simple. It had cost them everything.

Joshua stood up, his legs weak. He took a hesitant step towards Jeonghan, then another. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to bridge an agony this wide, filled with ten years of wasted grief.

He reached out, his hand trembling, and gently placed it over Jeonghan’s, where it gripped the counter. The contact was electric, a jolt that went through both of them.

Jeonghan flinched, but he didn’t pull away. He looked down at their hands, then back up at Joshua’s face, his eyes wide and lost.

“I’m so sorry,” Joshua whispered, the words utterly inadequate. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

It wasn’t an apology for leaving. It was an apology for not being there to hold his hand during the funeral. For not being there to help him bury the only mother he’d ever known. For not being there to share the weight of a grief so colossal it had twisted him into the man he was today.

Jeonghan didn’t speak. He just stared at him, the tears continuing to fall, silent and unending. The headlines, the stalker, the campaign—it all faded into insignificance. There was only this. The devastating, long-overdue collision of their truths.

They stood there for what felt like an eternity, anchored only by that single point of contact, the air thick with a grief so long suppressed it had become a physical presence in the room.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy with the ghosts they had just named. It wasn't the hostile silence of the past weeks, nor the tense quiet of two rivals circling each other. This was different. This was the resonant, aching silence of a chasm that had finally been measured and found to be, against all odds, crossable.

Jeonghan’s hand was still under Joshua’s on the cool marble. He didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers shifted, a slow, tentative movement, until they were no longer being covered, but were lacing with Joshua’s. The touch was a bolt of lightning and a blanket all at once—a decade of static discharge and the simple, shocking comfort of skin on skin.

Joshua let out a shuddering breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He didn't look at their joined hands. He looked at Jeonghan’s face, at the tracks of tears he would never have allowed anyone else to see.

"I'm sorry," Joshua whispered again, the words now meaning something else. I'm sorry for all of it. For the years. For the pain. For not knowing.

Jeonghan’s throat worked. He gave the smallest, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Stop. It's done. The anger that had been his armor for so long had melted away, leaving behind a profound, exhausted grief. But in its place was not emptiness. There was a flicker of something else. A recognition.

Jeonghan flinched, his body tensing as if from a physical blow. The spell was broken. He slowly, wearily, pulled his hand away from under Joshua's and picked up the phone from the counter.

“Kim-ssi,” he answered, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.

Joshua watched as Jeonghan listened, his posture shifting from one of grief to one of sharp, focused attention. The ice prince didn’t return, but the strategist did. His eyes, still red-rimmed, narrowed.

“A businessman?” he asked, his voice low. “What name?”

He listened, his brow furrowing in frustration. “No. It doesn’t ring a bell. The description is half the men in this city.” He paused, then his gaze flickered to Joshua, a dawning, cold realisation in his eyes. “Send me the picture. Now.”

He hung up and stood perfectly still, waiting. A moment later, his phone chimed. He looked down at the screen.

And Joshua saw the colour drain from his face. A different kind of shock, one laced with pure, undiluted fury, replaced the grief.

“No,” Jeonghan breathed, his voice a disbelieving whisper. “It can’t be.”

“What is it?” Joshua asked, his own fear resurfacing. He quickly brushed off the ghost of his tears. “Who is it?”

Wordlessly, Jeonghan turned the phone screen towards him.

The image was a candid shot, taken at some charity gala. The man was older, with a deeply tanned, leathery face, expensively dressed, with a smug, possessive smile that didn’t reach his cold, calculating eyes. He was holding a glass of champagne, but his gaze was fixed on something—or someone—just outside the frame with a look of avid hunger.

Joshua’s blood ran cold. He knew that face. The memory, hazy from alcohol but sharp with terror, slammed into him. The after-event party. The slick voice. The hand on his arm, steering him away from the crowd. The feeling of being prey.

“Rough night, darling?”

“Let's find you someplace quieter to... recover.”

“A pretty thing like you shouldn't be alone.”

And then, Jeonghan’s voice, a scalpel in the dark. “Get your hand off of him.”

It was him. The businessmen. From the after-event party. (Chapter 1)

“Him,” Joshua choked out, taking an involuntary step back. “The one from… that night.”

Jeonghan’s eyes were burning with a cold fire. “His name is Karlsson. Sven Karlsson. Swedish. Old money, new cruelty. He made his fortune in hostile takeovers and crushing smaller companies. A collector.” He spat the last word. “He collects art, companies… and people he finds beautiful.”

The pieces began to click into place with horrifying clarity. The stalking. The violation of his hotel room. The name JISOO written on the mirror. It wasn’t just random terror. It was a message. A punishment.

“He’s doing this?” Joshua asked, his voice trembling. “The stalking… the leaks… it’s all him?”

“Kim is certain,” Jeonghan said, his voice dropping into that deadly calm Joshua had heard on the phone with his security chief. “The men watching you were on his payroll. The ‘elderly man’ in the lobby was one of his private investigators. The one who broke into your room was a specialist he uses for corporate espionage. Coercing a former teacher and a nurse to talk would be child’s play for him. This is his signature. He doesn’t just defeat his rivals; he humiliates them. He destroys them utterly.”

He looked at Joshua, and the fury in his eyes was now mixed with a fierce, protective certainty. “He couldn’t have you that night. And I publicly humiliated him when I intervened. In his twisted world, that’s an unforgivable slight. This is his revenge. He’s not just coming for me; he’s coming for you because you’re the thing he couldn’t have, and because hurting you is the most efficient way to hurt me.”

The scale of it was breathtaking. A petty, vindictive rich man, slighted at a party, was using his vast resources to systematically dismantle their lives. He had weaponised their past, their deepest traumas, for sport.

The grief and vulnerability of moments before were instantly cauterised by a white-hot rage. Joshua saw it happen in Jeonghan’s posture, in the set of his jaw. The broken boy was gone. The general had returned to the war room, and this time, he knew the exact location of the enemy.

“What do we do?” Joshua asked, his own fear solidifying into a hard, cold resolve. He was tired of being a victim. He was tired of being a pawn in other people’s games.

A slow, cruel smile—the first genuine expression Joshua had seen on his face in days, though it was devoid of any warmth—touched Jeonghan’s lips. It was the smile of a predator who had finally caught the scent of its quarry.

“We don’t do anything,” Jeonghan said, picking up his phone again. “I do.”

He dialled. “Kim-ssi. I know who it is. Sven Karlsson.” He listened for a moment. “I don’t care about his holdings. I want his life. I want every skeleton in his closet. Every dirty deal, every bribed official, every mistress he’s hidden from his wife, every offshore account. I want the names of every person he’s ever ruined. I want it all. And I want it in the next two hours.”

He paused, his eyes locking with Joshua’s. “And Kim? There’s a bonus for you. A very large one. I want you to personally hand-deliver a dossier to Interpol and the financial regulatory boards in Sweden, Switzerland, and the United States. I want it to be so comprehensive, so damning, that he’ll be spending his fortune on lawyers for the next twenty years instead of on private investigators and hired thugs.”

He listened to the affirmation on the other end. “Good. And one more thing. I want a message delivered to him. Directly. Tell him… tell him that Yoon Jeonghan remembers. And he doesn’t take kindly to people who touch what’s his.”

He hung up.

The silence that followed was electric. The air crackled with the unleashed power of a man who had been pushed too far. This wasn’t the cold control of the boardroom. This was something more primal, more personal.

“He’ll be ruined,” Joshua said, his voice barely a whisper.

“He’s already ruined,” Jeonghan corrected, his voice flat. “He just doesn’t know it yet.” He hesitantly reached out for Joshua’s hands, “We’ll talk.. Once this dies down. I promise. I want to know everything. Everything that had happened to you in that year and… what Halmeoni was like when you talked to her the last time.”

Joshua laid his own hands over his, “We have all the time in the world. I want deflect this time. I wanna know everything too.” 

For the next two hours, the penthouse was a hive of silent, digital activity. Jeonghan worked from his study, making calls, sending emails. Joshua stayed in the living room, too wired to sit still. The fear was still there, but it was now overshadowed by a grim sense of anticipation. He was witnessing a master at work. This was the real Yoon Jeonghan, not the ice prince of fashion, but the ruthless architect of his own destiny, and he was deploying every weapon in his arsenal.

Finally, Jeonghan emerged from the study. He looked tired, but there was a grim satisfaction in his eyes.

“It’s done,” he said. “Kim has the dossier. The deliveries are being arranged as we speak.”

As if on cue, Joshua’s phone buzzed. It was a news alert.

“BREAKING: SWEDISH FINANCIER SVEN KARLSSON UNDER MULTINATIONAL INVESTIGATION FOR FRAUD, BRIBERY, AND EXTORTION.”

The article detailed a stunning array of charges, citing a “comprehensive, anonymously submitted dossier” provided to authorities. It mentioned shell companies, manipulated stocks, and the systematic destruction of several small, family-owned businesses.

Joshua looked up at Jeonghan, a stunned realisation dawning. “The ‘anonymous’ dossier…”

Jeonghan gave a small, sharp nod. “The first volley. The public story will destroy his reputation. The private legal battles will destroy his fortune. And the message… the message will destroy his nerve.”

He walked to the window, looking out at the city. “He wanted to play a game of shadows. I just turned on all the lights.”

The relief that washed over Joshua was so profound it left him weak. The stalker, the terrifying, invisible threat, had been given a name, a face, and was now being systematically annihilated. The violation of his privacy, the fear that had dogged his steps—it was over.

But the cost… the cost had been their past, laid bare and bleeding on the global stage.

“And the other thing?” Joshua asked quietly. “The articles about you? About Halmeoni?”

Jeonghan’s shoulders tightened. He didn’t turn around. “That damage is done. Karlsson lit the match, but the fire was built with our own history. We can’t un-burn it.” He was silent for a long moment. “Madame Laurent’s plan is the only way forward now. We own the narrative or we are destroyed by it.”

It was a bitter pill. To have the most sacred, painful memory of his life—his grandmother’s death—turned into a marketing tool was a fresh violation. But Joshua understood. It was survival.

“Then we own it,” Joshua said, his voice firm.

Jeonghan finally turned to look at him. The fury was gone, the strategist was receding. The man who remained looked weary, haunted, but there was a new clarity in his gaze. The ghosts had been named. The enemy was being routed.

“Joshua,” he said, his voice quiet. “What you said… about that year. About waiting.”

Joshua’s breath hitched. “It was the truth. We’ll talk after this.”

“Okay,” Jeonghan said. The three words were simple, but they held the weight of a decade. It was an absolution. A laying down of arms.

They stood there, in the quiet aftermath of the storm, the city lights beginning to twinkle in the twilight. The war with Karlsson was as good as won. The war with the past was… not over, but a truce had been declared, built on the devastating foundation of the truth.

The path ahead was still fraught. There were campaigns to shoot, headlines to manage, a world to face. But the invisible walls were gone. The minefield had been mapped.

Jeonghan took a step towards him, then hesitated, as if unsure of his footing on this new, uncharted ground.

Joshua didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance between them, not with a dramatic gesture, but simply by standing his ground, by meeting his gaze, by being present.

His phone buzzed again, but this time it was a different tone. He looked down. It was a message from Mr. Kim.

The individuals watching Mr. Hong have been neutralised and are cooperating with authorities. The threat is considered eliminated. The hotel room has been swept and cleared. You are safe to return, though I would advise against it for the next 24 hours as a precaution.

Safe. The word finally felt real. The phantom eyes that had haunted him, the chilling violation of his sanctuary—it was over. The monster had a name, and that name was being dragged through the mud of international finance and criminal investigations. A weight he hadn't fully acknowledged lifted from his shoulders, and he took his first full, clean breath in what felt like days.

He looked up to find Jeonghan watching him, his expression unreadable.

"It's done," Joshua said softly, holding up his phone. "Kim-ssi says the threat is eliminated."

Jeonghan gave a single, slow nod. "Good."

That was all. No triumph. No gloating. Just a simple acknowledgement. The destruction of a man like Karlsson was, for him, just another day's work. The true cost had been paid in the currency of their past.

His own phone rang, breaking the quiet. He glanced at the screen. "It's the PR team," he said, his voice regaining a sliver of its professional flatness. He accepted the call, putting it on speaker.

"Jeonghan. We're monitoring the Karlsson fallout. It's a spectacular distraction, but it doesn't erase our original problem." It was the voice of the razor-sharp PR head, Isabelle. "The narrative about your grandmother is still trending. We need to move. Now."

"I'm aware," Jeonghan replied, his gaze drifting to Joshua. "What's the play?"

"The pre-recorded interview with Le Monde. We bump it up. It airs tonight in one hour. We've already re-cut it to incorporate the new angle."

Jeonghan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "And?"

"And you need to sell it, Jeonghan," Isabelle said, her voice crisp and unsentimental. "You need to look into that camera, and you need to own this story. Not as a victim. Not as a subject of pity. You are the phoenix. You are the vision. You took the coal of your past and you turned it into a diamond. That is the only story the public will accept now. Do you understand?"

Joshua watched the conflict play out on Jeonghan's face. To do this was to perform his grief, to commodify his most profound loss. It was a sacrilege. But it was also the only shield they had left.

"I understand," Jeonghan said, his voice low.

"Good. A car will be at your buildin soon to take you to the studio. And Jeonghan…" Isabelle paused. "Be compelling."

The line went dead.

The silence returned, heavier now. The brief respite was over. The next battle was already beginning.

Jeonghan let out a long, slow breath, running a hand through his hair. He looked towards his bedroom. "I need to change."

He walked away, leaving Joshua alone in the living room. The sense of being adrift returned. His immediate danger was gone, but he was still here, in Jeonghan's fortress, a witness to the brutal machinery of reputation management. What was his role now?

Thirty minutes later, Jeonghan emerged. He had changed into a severe, black YSL suit, the lines sharp and unforgiving. His makeup artist must have been waiting downstairs, as any trace of exhaustion or tears had been expertly concealed. His hair was perfect. He was the ice prince once more, but the ice, Joshua could see, was thinner now, with deep, dangerous fissures running through it.

He stopped in the foyer, his hand on the door. He didn't look at Joshua. "The security detail will remain. Don't answer the door for anyone."

"Jeonghan," Joshua said, taking a step forward.

Jeonghan paused, his back still turned.

"Look at me," Joshua said, his voice firm.

Slowly, Jeonghan turned. His eyes were guarded, the storm locked away behind a wall of professional necessity.

"You don't have to do this alone," Joshua said. It wasn't a plea. It was a statement of fact.

A flicker of something—surprise, vulnerability—crossed Jeonghan's face before it was smoothed away. "It's my past. My burden."

"It's our past," Joshua corrected softly. "And it became our burden the moment Karlsson decided to use it as a weapon. Let me come with you."

Jeonghan stared at him, his expression unreadable. "To what end?"

"To show them it's not just a story," Joshua said, the idea forming as he spoke, born from a place of fierce, protective certainty. "To show them that the 'legacy' isn't just pain. It's also…" He searched for the word, the truth he had seen in the battered cardboard box. "It's also loyalty. It's a boy who searched an entire continent for a ghost. Let me sit next to you. Let them see that the past isn't something you're running from. It's something you carried with you. And that I'm a part of it."

The silence stretched. Jeonghan's gaze was intense, searching, as if trying to discern a trap, a manipulation. But all he found was Joshua’s steady, determined gaze.

"You would do that?" Jeonghan asked, his voice barely a whisper. "After everything? You would sit beside me and legitimise this… this circus?"

"It's not about legitimising the circus," Joshua said. "It's about controlling the narrative. Our narrative. Together."

It was the same ruthless calculus Jeonghan lived by, but applied to their shared heart. It was a gamble. It would tie their public images together inextricably. There would be no more Hong Joshua and Yoon Jeonghan, rivals. There would only be "them," a unit, a story.

Jeonghan held his gaze for a long moment, a silent, profound communication passing between them. Then, he gave a single, curt nod.

"Thirty minutes," he said. "Wear the burgundy Givenchy from the gala."

The television studio was a bubble of controlled chaos. The interview wasn't live, but the pressure was just as intense. Joshua waited in the green room, the rich velvet of his tuxedo jacket feeling like a suit of armour. He could see the monitor showing the set—a stark, modern space with two chairs facing the renowned, severe interviewer from Le Monde.

Jeonghan was already in his chair, a picture of detached elegance. But Joshua, who had spent a decade studying his every micro-expression, could see the tension in the line of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tightness around his mouth.

The producer gave a signal. The interview began.

The questions started predictably, circling the "revelations" with a faux-concerned gravity. Jeonghan answered with practised, polished deflection, steering the conversation towards the themes of the campaign: strength, transformation, vision.

Then, the interviewer leaned in, her voice dropping to a more intimate, probing tone. "Monsieur Jeonghan, these reports speak of a profound loss. Your grandmother. They suggest you were… absent in her final moments. That you chose your career over family. How do you reconcile that with the image of 'legacy' you present now?"

It was the question. The knife, twisted.

On the monitor, Joshua saw Jeonghan’s mask remain perfectly in place, but he saw the faint tremor in the hand resting on his knee. He saw him take a slow, deliberate breath, and in that breath, Joshua saw the boy at the bus stop, receiving the phone call that shattered his world.

And then, Jeonghan did something extraordinary. He didn't get defensive. He didn't recite a prepared line. He let the mask slip, just a fraction. The ice in his eyes didn't melt, but it became transparent, revealing the vast, dark ocean of grief beneath.

"The reports are wrong," he said, his voice quiet, but clear and resonant in the silent studio. "I was not absent. I was there. The night she died, I was where I was supposed to be, waiting for someone… waiting for a future that never came. And the call came there." He paused, letting the weight of that statement settle. "The idea that I would choose anything over her… is the most profound lie of all. She was my entire world. Her legacy isn't one of absence. It is one of profound presence. She taught me resilience. She taught me that dignity has nothing to do with wealth, and that love is the only currency that truly matters."

The interviewer, for once, seemed momentarily speechless. Jeonghan had taken her loaded question and disarmed it with a raw, painful truth that was far more powerful than any denial.

It was then that the director in the control room, seeing the electric shift in energy, spoke into Joshua's earpiece. "Mr. Hong. You're on. Go now."

Joshua didn't hesitate. He stood and walked onto the set.

Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for eight

The lights were blinding. He could feel the surprise in the room, the frantic, silent communication between the crew. He ignored it all. His eyes were fixed on Jeonghan.

Jeonghan looked up as he approached. His expression didn't change, but Joshua saw the flicker of surprise, followed by a dawning, intense focus. He hadn't been sure Joshua would actually do it.

Joshua didn't ask permission. He simply took the empty seat beside him, turning to face the interviewer with a calm, polite smile.

The interviewer recovered quickly, her journalistic instincts kicking in. "Mr. Hong. This is an… unexpected surprise. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Joshua turned his gaze to Jeonghan, holding it. "I'm here because Monsieur Jeonghan's story isn't just his. It's mine, too." He looked back at the camera, his expression open and sincere, the "Givenchy Gentleman" persona deployed with perfect precision. "We knew each other. A long time ago. In Busan."

The air in the studio went still. This was uncharted territory.

"The 'legacy' you're talking about," Joshua continued, his voice gentle but firm, "it isn't a solitary one. It's about the people who shape you. His grandmother shaped him. She was a formidable, kind, incredible woman." He smiled, a real, fond smile at the memory. "She made the best kimchi fried rice in all of Busan."

Next to him, he felt Jeonghan go perfectly still.

"And the 'vision'?" Joshua said, turning his gaze back to Jeonghan. This time, he let his own mask slip, allowing a glimpse of the old, shared history, the pain, and the dawning, fragile hope to show in his eyes. "The vision is what you build from that legacy. It's the strength you find to keep going, even when the world tries to break you. It's the choice to transform pain into power. And sometimes…" he added, his voice dropping to a more intimate register, "sometimes the vision is also about finding your way back to the people who were a part of that legacy all along."

He reached out, not touching Jeonghan, but laying his hand on the armrest between them, a hair's breadth from Jeonghan's own. A public gesture of solidarity. A claim.

The gesture was a nuclear bomb. It would spawn a thousand think-pieces, a million social media posts. It would redefine their public identities forever.

On the monitor, Joshua saw the close-up shot of their two hands, so close yet not touching, the image screaming with unspoken history and a future that was suddenly, electrifyingly, possible.

The interviewer was visibly thrown. The script was in ashes. She stumbled through a final, softball question, but the interview was over. The story had been stolen and rewritten, live on set.

The moment the "cut" was called, the studio erupted into a frenzy of activity. But Joshua and Jeonghan remained in their chairs, trapped in the bubble of the moment they had just created.

Jeonghan slowly turned his head to look at Joshua. The professional mask was gone. The ice had melted, leaving behind a look of stunned, bewildered awe. He looked at Joshua as if seeing him for the very first time.

"You…" he began, but no other words came out.

Joshua just looked back at him, his heart pounding, not with fear, but with a terrifying, exhilarating sense of rightness.

They had done it. They had taken the weapon meant to destroy them, and they had turned it into a shield. They had owned the story. Together.

The cleanup was far from over. There would be consequences, negotiations, and a lifetime of untangling the knots of their past. But as they sat there, under the blinding lights, with the world watching a new narrative being born, one thing was abundantly clear.

Joshua’s phone vibrated in his pocket with a frantic, insistent rhythm, a stark contrast to the slow, thunderous beat of his own heart. He pulled it out, his fingers feeling numb. The screen was a constellation of notifications, but one name was flashing repeatedly at the top: Seokmin.

Beside him, he heard the identical, frantic buzzing from Jeonghan’s phone. Jeonghan, who was still staring at Joshua with that shell-shocked, awe-struck expression, blinked and looked down at his own screen. Seungcheol.

It was as if their two anchors in the real world had synced up across the globe, their panic transmissions arriving simultaneously in the surreal aftermath of the bomb they had just detonated.

Jeonghan was the first to move, his professional instincts re-engaging a fraction of a second before Joshua’s. He stood up, turning his back to the chaos of the studio and putting the phone to his ear.

“Cheol,” he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the storm. It was the voice he’d used to calm nervous designers and furious investors. “Breathe. I’m fine.”

Joshua could only hear one side of the conversation, but Seungcheol’s voice was so loud and frantic that it practically leaked from the receiver.

“FINE? JEONGHAN, I AM WATCHING YOU ON INTERNATIONAL TELEVISION WITH JOSHUA HONG TALKING ABOUT KIMCHI FRIED RICE AND SOULMATES OR SOME SHIT AND YOU TELL ME YOU’RE FINE?! WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HELL IS HAPPENING? I LEAVE FOR TWO DAYS AND YOU DECIDE TO RE-WRITE YOUR ENTIRE BIOGRAPHY AND COME OUT OF THE CLOSET—OR WHATEVER THAT WAS—ON LIVE TV? ARE YOU HAVING A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN? SHOULD I CALL A DOCTOR? JUN IS HYPERVENTILATING INTO A PAPER BAG!”

Jeonghan listened, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. It was the first genuine, uncomplicated expression Joshua had seen on his face in days. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not… it wasn’t live. And it wasn’t a breakdown. It was a strategic repositioning.”

“STRATEGIC REPOSITIONING? YOU LOOKED AT HIM LIKE HE HUNG THE MOON AND INVENTED THE FUCKING WHEEL, YOU LUNATIC! YOU CAN’T ‘STRATEGICALLY REPOSITION’ THE WAY YOU LOOK AT SOMEONE! THAT’S CALLED HAVING A SOUL! WHICH I WASN’T SURE YOU STILL HAD, BY THE WAY!”

“I have a soul, you dramatic bastard,” Jeonghan retorted, but there was no bite to it. It was fond. Exhausted. “It’s… a long story. A very long story. We’re on our way back to the penthouse. I’ll explain everything. Tell Jun to stop hyperventilating and open a bottle of wine. The expensive one I keep for emergencies.”

“THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!” Seungcheol yelled. “MY BEST FRIEND’S FROZEN HEART JUST THAWED ON NATIONAL TELEVISION AND I MISSED IT! I’M ON THE NEXT PLANE. DON’T DO ANYTHING ELSE CATASTROPHICALLY LIFE-ALTERING UNTIL I GET THERE!”

“Just get on the plane, Cheol,” Jeonghan said, his voice softening. 

The simple gratitude seemed to stun Seungcheol into momentary silence. “...Yeah. Okay. Just… be safe. Both of you.”

The call ended. Jeonghan lowered his phone, his shoulders slumping slightly as he let out a long, weary breath. The brief moment of normalcy with his oldest friend had grounded him.

Meanwhile, Joshua had finally managed to swipe answer on his own phone. “Seokmin?”

“JOSHUA HONG, IF YOU ARE NOT IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE OR BEING HELD HOSTAGE BY A DERANGED SUPERMODEL, YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO EXPLAIN WHY I JUST SAW YOU DECLARE YOUR UNDYING DEVOTION TO YOUR MORTAL ENEMY ON FRENCH TELEVISION!”

Seokmin’s voice was a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated panic, so loud Joshua had to hold the phone away from his ear. In the background, he could hear airport announcements and the chime of a boarding gate.

“I’m not in a ditch,” Joshua said, his own voice shaky with a bizarre mix of hysterical laughter and overwhelming emotion. “And he’s not… it’s not what you think.”

“NOT WHAT I THINK? JOSHUA, HE WAS TALKING ABOUT HIS DEAD GRANDMOTHER AND YOU WALTZED IN LIKE A KNIGHT IN BURGUNDY VELVET AND FINISHED HIS SENTENCES! YOU TALKED ABOUT HER KIMCHI! YOU HAVE ONLY TOLD ME ABOUT HER KIMCHI FRIED RICE LIKE A WEEK AGO AND NOW THE ENTIRE WORLD KNOWS?//! I AM YOUR BEST FRIEND! I BRING YOU SUNFLOWERS! WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

Joshua closed his eyes, trying to find the words. How could he possibly explain the last 48 hours? The stalker, the box of tickets, the devastating truth about Halmeoni’s death, the coordinated attack by a vengeful billionaire, the strategic decision to publicly intertwine their lives? It was an impossible story.

“Seokmin, listen to me,” Joshua said, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “I’m okay. I’m safe. The… the person who was stalking me? He’s been dealt with. It’s over.”

“DEALT WITH? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? DID JEONGHAN HAVE HIM WHACKED? IS THAT WHAT THIS IS? IS HE A FUCKING MAFIA OR WHAT?”

A laugh, genuine and startled, burst from Joshua’s lips. “No! No, he’s not with the mafia. It’s… it was a business rival. Jeonghan handled it. Legally. Mostly.”

He looked over at Jeonghan, who was watching him now, a complex, unreadable expression on his face. The chaos of their two separate, frantic phone calls was creating a bizarre, overlapping reality.

“So you’re safe?” Seokmin asked, his voice finally dropping from a scream to a worried tremble. “The stalker is gone?”

“Yes. I’m safe.”

“And you and Jeonghan… you’re… what? Friends now? More than friends? What was that, Joshua? That wasn’t acting. I’ve seen you act. That was… real.”

Joshua met Jeonghan’s gaze across the short distance. The studio lights were dimming around them, leaving them in a pool of relative shadow. The crew was giving them a wide berth, sensing the profound, private shift that had just occurred.

“It’s complicated,” Joshua said softly, his eyes still locked with Jeonghan’s. “But I don’t know. I don’t want to bother about that.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. He could almost hear Seokmin’s brain whirring, trying to process a decade’s worth of animosity being rewritten in a single, televised moment.

“Okay,” Seokmin finally said, his voice quiet and resolute. “Okay. I’m at the gate. My flight to Paris boards in ten minutes. I’m coming. I don’t care if you’re safe and sound and having a lovely reconciliation. I’m your best friend. I’m bringing more sunflowers. And I demand a front-row seat to whatever this… this… beautiful, terrifying mess is.”

Tears pricked at Joshua’s eyes. “You don’t have to come back. Your father…”

“My father can wait. The fate of my best friend’s clearly very fragile mental state and his apparently rekindled epic romance takes precedence. I’ll see you in a few hours. Don’t do anything stupid until I get there.”

The call ended. Joshua lowered his phone, a watery smile on his face. He looked at Jeonghan. “He’s on his way. With sunflowers.”

Jeonghan’s lips quirked. “Of course he is.” He paused. “Seungcheol is coming too. He thinks I’ve had a nervous breakdown.”

A beat of silence, and then a sound escaped Joshua—a choked giggle that turned into a full-blown, helpless laugh. It was all too much. The terror, the grief, the global humiliation, the nuclear counter-strike, the public declaration, and now their two best friends descending upon them like frantic, loving mother hens convinced they’d lost their minds.

Jeonghan watched him laugh, and a moment later, a low, rough chuckle escaped his own throat. It was a rusty, unfamiliar sound, but it was real. Soon, they were both leaning against the studio furniture, laughing—not with joy, but with the sheer, absurd, overwhelming release of it all. The sound was jarring in the professional space, a burst of chaotic, human life in the midst of the carefully orchestrated media storm they had just created.

Their security detail, led by a stoic Mr. Kim, materialised at the edge of the set, ready to whisk them away. The laughter died down, leaving them breathless and raw, staring at each other in the semi-darkness.

The drive back to the penthouse was shrouded in a silence that was no longer charged with fear or unspoken anger, but with a profound, heavy anticipation. The city lights streamed past the tinted windows, a river of gold against the deep velvet of the Parisian night. They sat in the back of the Mercedes, not touching, the space between them a chasm they were both now staring into, knowing they had to cross it.

Mr. Park saw them into the elevator with a silent nod, his job for the night complete. The threat was neutralised. The public narrative was set. All that remained was the private wreckage.

The penthouse doors closed, sealing them in the stark, quiet sanctuary. The evidence of their chaotic morning was gone—the discarded tea mugs, the scattered tension—everything had been restored to its pristine, minimalist state. It was a blank slate, and the weight of what they had to write upon it was immense.

Jeonghan shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the sofa. He looked tired, the expertly applied makeup unable to conceal the shadows of emotional exhaustion under his eyes. He walked to the kitchen, not for tea or coffee, but for two glasses and a bottle of amber whiskey. He poured two generous measures and carried them back, handing one to Joshua.

Their fingers brushed during the exchange, a spark of static in the still air. Neither flinched.

Jeonghan took a sip, his gaze fixed on the glittering cityscape. "We have a couple of hours before our babysitters get here," he said, his voice low and rough. "I think we should talk. About… everything. Something we should've done a long time ago."

Joshua cradled the glass, the warmth seeping into his cold hands. He looked at Jeonghan’s profile, at the man who was no longer a monster or a myth, but a collection of devastating truths and a decade of hidden grief. He nodded, his throat tight.

"Yeah," he whispered. "We should."