Chapter Text
As Wonwoo sat in the back seat of their sleek, black car, he could still feel the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat echoing in his ears. He stared out the tinted window, the university buildings slowly fading behind them, the city skyline beginning to blur into a smear of light and motion.
Is that... real?
The question echoed quietly in his mind like a whisper too afraid to be spoken aloud.
He exhaled slowly, trying to steady the swirl of thoughts inside him, but Mingyu’s face kept reappearing—eyes wide, that playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the way his voice somehow still lingered like the warmth of late afternoon sun. No matter how hard Wonwoo tried, he couldn’t push the boy out of his thoughts.
The ride home felt both long and fleeting, like time itself couldn’t decide whether to stretch or race forward. The city outside the window flickered past in snapshots—pedestrians crossing, neon lights blinking, a father holding his child’s hand. A pang bloomed in his chest. He looked away.
Eventually, the car slowed down in front of their family estate—imposing gates, manicured hedges, and a silence that felt too polished, too rehearsed. As the vehicle stopped, the driver stepped out and opened the door for him. Wonwoo murmured a quiet "thank you" before stepping onto the pavement.
“Welcome home, Wonwoo,” greeted their long-time nanny, her voice warm, the crinkles near her eyes deepening as she smiled.
He bowed politely. “I’m home, Nanny Lina.”
She ushered him in with a gentle pat on the back, a gesture of comfort so subtle yet familiar. He walked into the house, greeted by the scent of food cooking and the low hum of life. Their living room was pristine, the lights dimmed to a gentle amber glow. His father was already at the dining table, sitting stiffly with his tablet in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
His mother, in a soft pastel blouse, was standing in the kitchen alongside Nanny Lina, plating the last of the dishes. The clinking of ceramic and cutlery somehow made the house feel less like a museum.
“Hello, Dad. Hello, Mom,” he greeted, pausing just past the threshold of the dining room.
His father didn’t glance up—just gave a small nod, eyes still fixed on the screen, maybe because of his some clients or works again.
His mother turned around, her smile instantly bright. “Oh, baby, you’re home. Go freshen up, alright? Come down when you’re ready to eat,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel.
Wonwoo gave her a faint smile and obliged. He walked upstairs, slowly, footsteps echoing down the hallway. The second floor was quieter—emptier. When he reached his bedroom, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling.
He stripped off his uniform, letting it pool onto the floor, and changed into a comfortable oversized shirt and joggers. After splashing cold water on his face and patting it dry with a towel, he stared at himself in the mirror for a moment too long.
Why can’t I get him out of my head?
Even now, when he had so many things to worry about, when his parents were home for once—when he should feel a shred of warmth—his mind drifted back to Mingyu.
He shook his head, trying to will the thoughts away. Once he felt somewhat presentable, he headed back downstairs.
When he entered the dining area again, both his parents were already seated. The table was neatly set, dishes placed at equal distances—fish fillet, sautéed vegetables, a warm bowl of soup, and rice. It looked delicious. He hadn’t realized how much he missed his mother’s cooking until now.
“The food looks great, Mom,” he said softly as he took a seat across from them.
“Thanks, baby. I missed cooking for you.” Her eyes sparkled a bit, and for a second, he felt something familiar. Almost like warmth.
“Same here, Mom.” He offered a small smile before picking up his utensils and starting to eat, taking measured, polite bites.
“How’s school, Wonwoo?” his father’s deep voice cut through the gentle sounds of eating, making Wonwoo look up.
He blinked. “It’s fine, Dad.”
His father nodded, lifting his glass but not drinking from it.
“And your grades?” Now, his father looked directly at him—sharp, appraising.
Wonwoo’s throat felt dry. He swallowed, putting his spoon down. “All good too, Dad.”
“Good.”
The silence returned, tense and fragile, only broken by the occasional clinking of forks against ceramic and the low murmurs between his parents about business—mergers, stockholders, market forecasts.
It was always like this.
He used to try joining their conversations when he was younger—asking questions, telling them about his day, trying to impress them with trivia he learned at school. But he stopped when he realized they’d only smile and change the topic.
“Oh, honey, I forgot to tell you,” his mother said suddenly, her voice light, “your dad and I will be heading to China by the next day. Might be gone for a month or two.”
Wonwoo paused mid-bite, his stomach curling.
“A month or two?” he repeated, trying to keep his tone neutral.
“Yes, sweetie. It’s for business,” she said with a cheerful hum, as if it was the most natural thing to say during dinner.
“But... you and Dad just got back yesterday,” he said, voice quieter now, unsure if he should’ve spoken at all.
His father didn’t even let the silence linger.
“It’s important, Wonwoo,” he said firmly. “You’re not a child anymore. While we’re gone, focus on school and make us proud. That’s all we ask.”
Wonwoo nodded slowly. “Yes, Dad.”
He tried to smile, though it felt more like a grimace. He looked down at his plate again, but somehow, everything on it lost its flavor. His appetite disappeared, replaced by a weight in his chest.
“Good,” his father muttered, already back to skimming through his phone.
Their voices turned back to business again. Stock prices, logistics, partnerships. As always.
Wonwoo sat there in silence, pushing his rice around his plate. He wondered what it would feel like to have dinner where they didn’t talk about work. Where his parents asked him about the things he loved—his sketchbook, the plants he was growing on the balcony, or even how nervous he felt during his last exam.
But they didn’t. They never did.
And he knew—he knew—that he should be grateful. That’s what everyone said. He lived in a beautiful home, wore designer clothes, studied in a prestigious school. He could have anything he wanted, anytime he wanted it. His parents reminded him of that all the time.
"We’re doing this for you, Wonwoo."
"It’s all for your future."
But no one ever asked him what kind of future he actually wanted.
He tried not to think about the memories that still stung. His tenth birthday—blowing out the candles with only Nanny Lina clapping for him. Family Day in middle school—standing awkwardly in the crowd, holding a paper flower meant for a parent who didn’t show up. His elementary graduation—standing on the stage alone while his classmates smiled brightly with their proud mothers and fathers pinning medals on their uniforms.
That day, Nanny Lina rushed from the bus just in time to give him a hug and take a blurry photo with him. He didn’t cry on stage. But he cried that night, under the covers, silently.
He never told them.
He never told anyone.
He just learned to stop expecting.
After what felt like hours, he finally put down his spoon. “I’ll head upstairs now. Exams are near, so I need to study,” he said, rising from his seat.
“Sure, baby. Don’t forget to rest, alright?” His mother smiled at him again, as if her presence could fill the void she would leave behind again soon.
His father simply nodded, already focused on his device.
Wonwoo nodded back quietly, excusing himself.
As he finally arrived at his bedroom, Wonwoo gently closed the door behind him. The soft click echoed in the silence, sealing him inside the four walls that had become both a sanctuary and a quiet witness to many of his lonely nights. He didn’t pause. Didn’t let himself breathe too deeply. Instead, he walked straight to his study desk, flicking on the warm yellow lamp that cast soft shadows on the books neatly arranged in rows.
He sank into his chair and pulled out his notes, the familiar rustle of paper a temporary comfort. Without thinking twice, he began to review everything—from architectural design theories to the math-heavy technicals he had almost memorized. He read, re-read, and scribbled notes in the margins, flipping pages, reciting concepts in his head, trying to keep his mind sharp.
But really, he was just trying to dull everything else.
Because the moment he stopped, the silence would scream. The quiet would remind him how empty the house really was. How the scent of dinner had already faded from his skin. How the warmth of having his parents home lasted only long enough for them to remind him of their next flight.
He didn’t even realize how much time had passed. Hours blurred into each other like the lines on the pages he kept underlining again and again. His back began to ache, his fingers cramped slightly from holding the pen too tight, but he didn’t care. Studying was the only thing that made him feel like he was in control.
If he could be perfect—if he could be the son they wanted, the student they expected, the boy who didn’t need anyone—then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much when they left. Again.
It wasn’t until his vision began to blur from exhaustion that he blinked back to the present. His hand dropped the pen. He leaned back in his chair and stared blankly at the wall in front of him, the soft ticking of the clock above barely registering.
Eventually, he rose from his seat and dragged himself to the bed, letting his weight sink into the mattress. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling as if it held answers. But all he saw was a blank canvas. Just like his chest felt—hollow, still, unanswered.
He thought about earlier—about how fast his heart raced in the backseat of the car. About the boy who had invaded his thoughts all throughout dinner. That face, that voice, those stupidly warm eyes. Why now? Why him?
But even those thoughts couldn’t push away the deeper ache. The ache of being left behind, again. Of pretending he was okay. Of being reminded that love from his parents came in the form of expectations and good intentions, not presence.
His chest rose and fell slowly as he blinked, waiting. For what, he didn’t know. Maybe for someone to knock on his door. Maybe for a text. Maybe just for the silence to break.
But it didn’t.
So he turned onto his side, curled in on himself like he did when he was younger, and closed his eyes.
And in the stillness of the room—where the only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and the soft rustle of the trees outside his window—Wonwoo finally drifted off into sleep, swallowed by a darkness that, for once, offered a bit of peace.
His brows furrowed in his sleep as he felt something... odd. There was a shift in the air, something unfamiliar brushing over his senses. It made his skin feel cold, and his heart pick up pace.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the soft light filtering into the room.
What?...
He jolted up immediately, heart hammering in his chest as he looked around, disoriented. He expected to see the familiar dull cream walls of his bedroom, the shelf with his textbooks, the messy pile of notes beside his bed. But what he saw... wasn't his room at all.
The bedroom was spacious. Warm. Not like his. The walls were painted in muted green and soft lavender — two colors that didn’t belong to his original room but somehow felt oddly comforting. The bed he had woken up in was enormous — definitely bigger than the twin-sized one back at home — and the sheets smelled like fresh cotton and something else that was faintly nostalgic, like sandalwood and rain.
On the nightstand was a small stuffed bear wearing glasses and a bowtie. Cute, but also... oddly familiar. He noticed little details. A pair of slippers neatly arranged near the bed. A phone charging on the nightstand. Framed photos on the wall.
He couldn’t make out the photos clearly — he wasn’t wearing his glasses — but he could tell there were two people in them.
Where... where am I?
Still squinting, Wonwoo swung his legs off the bed and padded barefoot across the wooden floor. The coldness of it grounded him a little.
He made his way to the door and stepped into the hallway. The house was quiet, though he could faintly hear the sound of someone talking — low voices, laughter. The scent of brewed coffee lingered faintly in the air.
"Mrs. Lee?" he called out, still rubbing one of his eyes, hoping to find his nanny somewhere. Maybe he had sleepwalked to someone else's house? Maybe this was a prank?
He walked toward the source of the noise, following the soft hum of conversation into what looked like a living room.
"Hello—" Wonwoo froze.
Seated on the plush gray couch were two men. One had dark, tousled hair and wore thick-rimmed black glasses. The other was tan-skinned, dressed in a white tank top, his toned arms wrapped casually around the former’s shoulders. Both were laughing — clearly in the middle of a comfortable, intimate conversation — until they both turned toward him.
And everything stopped.
Wonwoo's eyes grew wide.
What the...
The man with glasses — he looked... just like him. But older. Sharper jawline, broader shoulders, but unmistakably him.
And the other?
Wonwoo blinked again. Mingyu.
That tall frame, that warm tan skin, that playful smile. There was no mistaking it.
He stared, stunned, as the older Mingyu's eyes lit up.
"Woah, this is so awesome!" the tall man beamed, eyes wide in amazement.
"It really is. I never expected that the young me would travel here too," said the pale man — the one that looked like an older version of himself.
"W-What..." Wonwoo croaked.
"Oh my gosh! You're so cute, Wonu-hyung!" the older Mingyu suddenly sprang up from the couch and marched toward him.
Wonwoo took a hesitant step back, overwhelmed.
"You're scaring the kid, Mingyu," the other man chided with a roll of his eyes.
W-Wonu-hyung?
Mingyu...?
His thoughts were spiraling.
"W-Who are you guys...?" he managed to stammer, voice trembling. His knees felt weak, like they were going to give out any second.
"Uh... hello?" older Mingyu beamed, unfazed by the panic in his voice.
Before he could say more, the tall man suddenly reached out and squished his cheeks. "You're so tiny and squishy! I forgot how cute you were back then."
Wonwoo stumbled backward, caught off guard. "Yah! Kim Mingyu! Stop that!" the other man — older Wonwoo? — called from the couch, his tone exasperated but affectionate.
Mingyu finally let go, pouting like a scolded puppy. "You’re no fun."
Wonwoo took a deep breath, trying to process.
"Okay — who are you guys, and where am I?!" he demanded, voice rising slightly in panic.
The man on the couch, still calm, crossed his legs. "Our home."
"What?! What do you mean 'our'?"
"I mean, this is mine and Mingyu’s house."
"Mingyu...?!" Wonwoo turned to the tall man again.
Mingyu offered a sheepish grin and waved. "Hi."
Wonwoo looked between the two of them, absolutely lost.
"Okay, what is going on? This is a dream, right? I’m dreaming? Or dead? Did I die?!"
The older version of himself sighed. "No, you’re not dead. But yes, this is the future. You somehow traveled here — no idea how. "
"Is this a joke?"
"No. But, long story. But basically, yes. You’re... me. Just younger. And this is Mingyu. Your—I mean also my—"
"Husband!" Mingyu cut in with a grin.
Wonwoo choked on his own breath. "H-Husband?!"
The two older men nodded.
Wonwoo took a step back, blinking rapidly. He looked again at the house. At the shared photos on the walls. The coordinated color palette. The two toothbrushes in the holder beside the bathroom he passed earlier.
"M-Me and M-Mingyu... got married?!"
Mingyu grinned, clearly enjoying this. "Yep. Married. Partners for life. Soulmates."
Wonwoo’s brain short-circuited. He stared at the older version of himself, who merely shrugged, as if this wasn’t a life-altering revelation.
His face heated. He glanced again at older Mingyu, who somehow looked even more attractive — more confident, more filled out — than the Mingyu he saw in the classroom every day.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be real. I’m dreaming. This is just another dream.
When he opened his eyes again, his heart was still pounding.
But everything was different.
He was back in his room. Back in his bed. The dim glow of his digital clock read 3:21 a.m.
He blinked up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling.
"What the..."
He sat up slowly, scanning the familiar outlines of his room. The textbooks, the night lamp, the untouched notes. He was really back.
A dream.
Just a dream.
But then why did it feel so real? Why could he still feel the weight of that huge bed, the softness of the future-Mingyu’s eyes, the quiet warmth in the way they looked at each other?
He groaned and buried his face in his hands.
"This is insane..."
A dream, maybe.
But somehow... he didn’t want to forget it. Not yet.
He lay back down, heart still thumping erratically.
Mingyu. His husband. In the future.
He groaned again.
Why couldn’t he stop smiling?