Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

There are no clouds in the sky tonight. The streetlights get progressively dimmer as he goes, the concrete pavement losing its warmness. Whether or not it’s a trick of the moonlight, it doesn’t matter for now. Around him, everything moves slower than he does, passersby overtaken by his long strides. He doesn’t excuse himself, lips pressed together tight, fluently slipping through the cracks.

“Red brick on your left.”

Jeno doesn’t slow in his gait, doesn’t even pause to look at the building, heading straight for it. Hesitance, no matter how slight, is always a dead giveaway. He is light on his feet in spite of the combat boots, taking the stone stairs leading up to the double oak doors two at a time.

His hand lifts just as the voice in his ear says, “Twenty-four, sixty-three.”

He punches that into the number keypad lock, the metal cool under his thin gloves. It’s one of the Agency’s latest creations, meant really for security, not warmth; a cotton-lycra blend providing anonymity and enough freedom of movement to allow dexterity when needed. Jeno isn’t too impressed by it, but then again–his job description doesn’t really entail much other than pulling the trigger.

“Sixth floor. Stairs on your right.”

Inwardly, Jeno groans.

He takes them two at a time again anyway, swinging his arms to bring up that momentum. Thankfully, he doesn’t run into any meddling teenagers fooling around in the stairwell, and the sixth floor comes after seventy-two steps–he counts. He pushes the door open lightly, breathing harshly through his nose.

“6B. Left.”

The hallway, unexpectedly, is brightly lit. Its walls are an ugly green, disgusting almost, mold growing at the bottom where the rubber runs. He ignores it, eyes flashing at the consecutive letters on the withering hardwood doors.

6H. 6G. 6F.

“Movement.”

Jeno keeps walking.

The door to 6D opens and Jeno doesn’t expect it, but it doesn’t take him by surprise either. It’s hard to be surprised when he’s constantly waiting for something to jump out at him. He slows down and steps out of the way to let the elderly lady pass him. She thanks him and Jeno returns a courteous smile.

He keeps walking on down the hall, slow this time. The elevator dings just as Jeno approaches 6B. He waits until the doors slide shut before placing his hand on the knob.

A two second buffer, “Clear.”

The apartment is stale. His nose twitches at the smell of week-old food and some blend of rat crap and foul cheese. Nevertheless, he searches the one-bedroom apartment swiftly, checks the bathroom and closet, behind the curtains and under the bed. He returns to the main living area–though it hasn’t seemed lived in, or maybe too lived in; stacks of papers and pillows on the floor, dirty plates and mugs scattered on every surface, wadded up tissues shoved into the couch creases.

The place meant for one feels like it’s housed a thousand pigs. 

He settles to wait by the kitchen window.

It’s enough of a vantage point for the street outside, and it’s where the moonlight is steadily dripping in. He steps an inch to the left from the light, shrouding himself in the shadows.

“Five.”

Waiting, to Jeno, has always been the hardest. It by no means reflected impatience on his part, but it was more like–a bubble of nerves in his chest. If he waited too long in the quiet, it’d fizz and fizz and fizz, crawling up his throat, begging for release.

Tonight, he ignores the fizz, preoccupied instead with the slow drip of water from the closed tap.

“Three.”

He wonders if he should get pizza later. Or maybe some fried chow mein. He hasn’t had that recently; Doyoung says the oil content is enough to power a car and Jeno thinks maybe he could run as fast as a car if he ate enough chow mein. Doyoung disagrees.

“Two.”

The thoughts disappear then. It’s almost automatic now. Jeno’s mind clears into plain static, and everything else in the room is instantly brighter, clearer, even the things in the shadows. He reaches for the suppressor fit snug in the holster strapped to his waist, barely covered by his turtleneck sweater.

“One.”

And sixty seconds is a long time. Jeno pulls the Agency-assigned gun–the PHK 194–from the same holster, palm-print encoded, attaching the suppressor on with ease. It fits without a sound, but Jeno feels the click in his hands. There’s another forty seconds, he reckons. He counts down from ten, and at zero, he readies the gun. A soft whirr emits when the microdermal sensors read his palm, three dots of a faint blue light lining the barrel.

Now that, in the silence, is deafening, but Jeno doesn’t mind it.

Ten.

Or so.

He reaches to his side and closes the water tap tightly. Not for anything.

The door knob turns.

Jeno moves. Though, it’s almost like he hasn’t. There’s no sound from the floorboards, no sound from his boots. Other than the sight of him physically crossing the kitchen, there’s no indication of any disruption to the air, no movement whatsoever. Jeno’s good at that–moving without a sound.

A stream of light from the hallway leaks into the apartment; Jeno stays in the shadows. Grocery, he assumes, are dumped roughly to the ground and there’s the jingling of keys. A foreign language is being spoken, probably into a phone, so Jeno takes two steps back into the kitchen, waiting.

The phone call ends in the minute after, and the door is shut.

A switch is flipped and artificial light floods the apartment.

Jeno raises the PHK, preparing for contact. It takes a little longer than it usually does, but a middle-aged man eventually rounds the corner. In that same second, Jeno picks apart his target’s disguise (an abundance of facial hair, a pair of non-prescription frames perched on an awkward lump of a nose). It’s an exact match to the profile he’d spent the past week familiarizing himself with–money laundering, human trafficking, an Agency-identified threat to national security.

Jeno rests his forefinger gently on the trigger.

Groceries are dropped to the floor once more, hands raised in the air.

“Wait.”

Jeno waits for the command. He steps forward when the target starts to backpedal, eyes wide in frenzy. They adjourn in the main section of the apartment and Jeno meets again with the ridiculously disordered mess.

“I have money.” The words barely register to Jeno. He says nothing; he’s not allowed to speak. The man starts to hyperventilate, understanding his demise, “I have everything! I’ll give you anything you want!”

In his ear, the cool voice returns, “Disregard.” Then, “M command: Fire, Agent.”

Jeno kicks the throw pillow resting by the tip of his left foot. The target looks down at the sudden movement, and in that snap distraction, Jeno pulls the trigger. The body falls, a resounding thud sealing the deal, and the target’s head falls right onto the pillow–saving the extraction team the extra clean-up of splattered brain.

“Report.”

Jeno waits and checks for a sign of life. When there is none, he detaches the suppressor and tucks it away, gun along with it. The fizz disappears from his chest and the calmness returns. He lifts a hand to the earpiece, “Target eliminated.”

“Received. Extraction in two.” Then, “Are you coming over for dinner tonight?”

Jeno rolls his eyes. He returns to the kitchen and fits easily through the opened window, having thought of his way out earlier. The fire escape is about as sturdy as a fire escape could be, and heights aren’t exactly a fear of Jeno’s. Swiftly, he climbs down the steel ladder, careful of the slippery rungs.

Passing by warm homes and families lounging in front of televisions, he turns his head away to hurry down the side of the building.

“Well?”

“This line is meant for Contract information only.”

The voice of the line sighs, “Alright, fine. Are you coming over for dinner tonight, Seven?”

Jeno hops off the last rung, immediately finding his place in the shadows once more. Smoothly, he slides himself back to reality, joining the streets with practiced ease. He follows his gut and goes right.

“You’re going in the wrong direction.”

Jeno slows in his step when he reaches the corner, lifting his eyes to the street names, white against blue. He parts his lips in amusement, scratches the back of his neck, then turns back towards where he’d come from.

An act on the off chance he’s being followed.

The red brick building comes into view again, and Jeno doesn’t give it a second glance. Two figures in janitor outfits pass him to head up the stone stairs, carrying with them an array of janitorial materials.

Clean-up.

“We’re ordering pizza,” the voice says, brightly now.

Jeno shakes his head at it, in disbelief that it belongs to the very same boy that gave him an order to pull a trigger not more than five minutes ago. He’s been working with Chenle for two months at this point, but it still surprises Jeno nonetheless.

“Pepperoni,” Chenle says fondly. Jeno knows Chenle is still tracking him through the thermal satellites and sensors, “And maybe a few other flavors, I don’t know. Are you coming over or not?”

Jeno looks to the sky. Cloudless, still.

Empty.

He spots the entrance to the metro.

“Sorry, Z. Not tonight.”

Chenle sighs loudly, displeased.

—

The Agency, as all other intelligence agencies are, was built underground. Its primary entrance is through a nondescript lobby of a skyscraper in the heart of the city, where two lifts are hidden behind the main atrium. It works only via retinal and microdermal sensors, bringing Agents down fifty floors beneath ground level. After the thirty second ride, the lift doors will slide open to reveal first a long tunnel stretched for as far as a football field.

It’s the mouth to the Labyrinth–that’s what he’s told they call it–and it’s the start to an eight-minute stroll to the heart of the Agency. There are no patterns, no directions, no indication, and no secret codes of any such. Just white tiles for what could feel like miles, kept gleaming to a pristine condition.

It’s thanks to the winding loops and maze of a route that hides the exact location of the Agency. Even at the end of it, another set of sensors are hidden in the tiles on the left of the tunnel, and only after that are the bulletproof glass doors revealed.

At a jog, the Labyrinth takes three minutes to maneuver.

At a sprint, Jeno takes one.

“Good evening.”

Jeno nods curtly to the receptionist by the front desk. She pushes her palm forward and Jeno drops his ID badge into it. It’s fashioned to look like a regular driver’s license; Jeno carried it around on the back of his phone, overt. She scans it under the desk, the pleasant beep signaling the authenticity of his person.

“Welcome home, UA Seven.”

Jeno retrieves his ID and slides it back into its slot, nodding again.

Briskly, he crosses the main chamber. It branches out into three archways. Jeno takes the one on the left, stride lengthening with each foot forward. Offices start to roll by then, a handful of them lining the hallway as it continues to lead further into the Agency. Most of the offices have frosted glass high above, and all Jeno can make out is silhouettes of suit and ties when he passes.

It’s not until the end that he reaches another dome-like chamber, opening up to overlook a giant room below designed like a workshop.

From over the black railings, Jeno notes the handful of employees still working on the floor; gadgets laid out across long, white benches, target-shooting ranges on the far right corner, rubber mannequins on the left. There’s only quiet chatter as the scientists in white lab coats worked, punctured only by sharp pops of a gun being fired off every now and then.

“Seven.”

Jeno turns, standing a little straighter.

“No need to be so formal, it’s after hours, isn’t it?”

Jeno doesn’t crack a smile. The Agency never rests, there isn’t such a concept as after hours.

“Boy, tough crowd.”

“Long day,” Jeno says, somewhat apologetically. He glances around, “Where is SA Kim?”

“In his office.”

Jeno thanks UA Six and takes the stairs down to the workroom. He walks along the walls, out of anyone’s line of sight, heads towards a room he’s only ever been to at the ends of Contracts and Evaluations. He raises a closed fist over the steel door, and before his knuckles can rap against it,

“Come in.”

Of course.

Jeno forgoes knocking–for what would be the point now–and enters with a quick bow, “SA Kim.”

“It’s after hours, Jeno.”

Jeno lets his shoulders drop. He shuts the door and approaches the giant wooden desk, taking one of the two pleather seats. Across it, SA Kim settles back into his own chair, resting his clasped hands on his lap.

Black hair with soft curls, neatly pressed white shirt, full Windsor knotted black tie. Special Agent Kim Doyoung, Jeno’s Mentor and direct supervisor, has always been the perfect poster boy for the Agency. Tonight, however, the dark shadows under his eyes and the sunken dips on his cheeks are obvious enough signs to how he’s been kept up at the Agency lately, tarnishing his prime and perfect image.

Jeno isn’t too amused by it–he’s seen Doyoung through worse days.

“Hyung.”

Doyoung nods, then sits up to flick through a stack of files on his desk. He grumbles lowly about efficiency and going paperless and being environmentally friendly before finding the right file.

On the side of it, Jeno catches his title.

Unofficial Agent Seven LEE Jeno, Execution

“Contract 71b.”

Jeno lifts his eyes to see Doyoung already staring at him. “It was fine,” he says. “Easy in, easy out.”

“Good.” Doyoung reaches for a pen in the penholder and scribbles on the file, signing off at the bottom, “No complications?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Doyoung shuts the file and sets it on another towering stack on the floor. He stands and stretches his arms over his head, yawning widely. For a second, he seems to consider rearranging his files into a more organized tower, but waves it off dismissively.

Jeno says a quiet prayer for Doyoung’s personal assistant.

“Have you eaten?” Doyoung cracks his neck, drawing the tension from his body.

Jeno shakes his head, watches Doyoung start to neaten up his table.

Around his trim waist is the same holster Jeno has strapped to himself, but in a smaller pocket beside the gun is a hand knife–Doyoung’s pièce de résistance. Jeno still flinches at the sight of that silver grip; as part of his combat training, Jeno had been assigned to Doyoung, the lucky one out of five other Special Agents. The assignment had made Jeno nervous in the days leading up to the first session with his new Mentor, and it was nerves well warranted.

All the rumors Jeno were fed were true; Kim Doyoung was a menace to train under. During his first sparring session, Jeno’d kissed the foam mat more than he’d ever admit. By the end of it, his cheeks were an angry pink, his shoulders and elbows were bruised carrying most of the impact from all his falls, his back and knees aching in a way he never thought they could ache.

“Good,” Doyoung had said.

Jeno’s come to learn that Doyoung’s appraisals are delivered in that single word, Good. Silence otherwise meant, Do it again, What the hell was that? and Are you kidding me?

Falling, however, was barely the tip of the iceberg.

At that point, Jeno hadn’t thought himself to be terrible at combat. He’d beat out his peers countless of times, dodged and threw enough of his own punches to remain victorious at the end of every match. Based off sheer strength alone, he could probably beat Doyoung, no competition.

But Doyoung had said, “Strength is nothing without timing.” He had Jeno pinned face-down to the mat, knee firmly between Jeno’s shoulder blades, “You need instinct and you need to be quick, Seven.”

If Jeno crosses the Labyrinth in sixty seconds, Kim Doyoung does it in thirty.

He’s clever and sly, agile and without fail, constantly three steps ahead of Jeno. How he does it, Jeno didn’t know, he still doesn’t. Doyoung didn’t move much either, no, he’s just so quick. Jeno couldn’t block any of Doyoung’s attacks, couldn’t defend himself from the swipes of Doyoung’s hand knife. It’s only thanks to the Agency’s protective gear that he isn’t all marked up along the arms; Doyoung never nicked him in places that weren’t covered in armor.

By the third week, Jeno had improved. He was starting to predict Doyoung’s attacks, to register whenever he saw that glint of silver raised high, to jump away when Doyoung made a move to kick the dummy gun from his hands.

So, naturally–Doyoung had him spar with ankle weights on.

It was a long journey, but Jeno made it and he’s proud of not failing out. He’s quicker on his feet now, faster, stronger. His reflexes have improved, his senses heightened, his focus strengthened.

“Not many people make it under SA Kim.”

Jeno knows this. Graduating from his Training Agent status to an Unofficial Agent had been news that shocked the other Agents, Jeno himself included. No one wanted to be mentored by Kim Doyoung because no one had ever passed his stringent conditions or his high expectations.

It’d given Jeno a newfound fondness and attachment to Kim Doyoung. His once hatred-filled heart for their trainings soon turned into the best part about the Agency and no one could ever understand why. Jeno held a high regard for him, in his heart, even going so far as to pick the same specialization Doyoung served in.

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Doyoung asks now. Jeno smiles at the invitation; it isn’t often Doyoung shows his affection, but it’s off small things like these that Jeno really feels the honorary title of being Doyoung’s favorite apprentice.

“Would I be intruding?”

Doyoung shrugs his jacket on, dusts at the sleeves, “Yes.” Straightforward as always. He collects his phone and ID badge from the small, ceramic bowl on the left of his desk and Jeno stands to meet him when he rounds the corner, “But I’m sure you’ll be welcomed.”

Doyoung opens the door for him, “Thank you.” They start down the hallway, “But I think I’ll have dinner at home.”

“You don’t cook.”

“Neither do you.”

“And yet I have food waiting for me.” Doyoung’s legs are long and so are his strides. Jeno’s used to it by now, though he once was painfully constantly half a step slower than the senior agent, “Don’t compromise your diet.”

Which is Doyoung-speak for, Make sure you take care of yourself.

“I’ll figure something out,” Jeno tells him.

Doyoung casts him a glance, “You’ll be alright alone?”

“Yes.” Jeno understands where the concern is coming from; his first Contract had gone well, but pulling the trigger hadn’t always been as easy as it is now. It’s been more than a year since then, but Doyoung still hasn’t allowed him to forget it–refuses to.

Firmly this time, “I’m fine.”

“Good.” They return to the main atrium, to the front desk. Their ID cards are slid over the counter. Doyoung turns to him, “Are you coming in tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a Saturday.”

Jeno takes his ID from the receptionist, “I have paperwork to clear.”

Doyoung tuts, “We’re overworking all of you.”

When Doyoung flips his bifold wallet open, he catches sight of an old polaroid kept neatly in one of the card slots. He clears his throat, “Aren’t you coming in tomorrow too?”

Doyoung nods, then sighs, “We’re overworking me too.”

—

Jeno gets chow mein for dinner. He tells Doyoung he’ll settle for a salad, but the tantalizing smell of fried noodle and pork strips are his weakness, so he caves. He orders two servings to go–that’ll last him more than three days, if he didn’t have it all tonight–and carries them like precious gold the entire way home.

Home is an apartment building not far from the Agency. It’s a little outside the city center, which means quiet streets and dark alleys, but Jeno likes it. After living with thirty-five other TAs in the Agency’s quarters, a studio apartment on the fifth floor of a pleasant building is a gift.

The lobby is a small one. An elderly man sits at the front, and he smiled when Jeno walks in, “Good evening.”

“Good evening, Mr. Kim.” Jeno pulls out the herbal tea drink that’d come with his chow mein, “For the long night ahead.”

Mr. Kim chuckles, taking the drink and shaking his head, “Always the nicest boy, aren’t you, Jeno?”

Jeno smiles and says nothing more. He wonders what Mr. Kim would think if he knew how Jeno’d just put a bullet to another man’s head not two hours ago.

Granted, it was a man that posed threat to the nation.

Still.

“Have a good night, Jeno!”

“You too, sir.”

The lift is small and Jeno’s elbows are bumping against the walls of the ridiculous confined area, trying to push the right button to five. He manages it with terrible effort and exhales loudly when the doors start to slide shut.

“Wait!” Jeno opens his eyes. He didn’t know they’d been closed, “Wait wait wait! Please wait!”

On instinct, he shoves a foot forward to stop the doors from closing. It’s not too hard of a pressure–his boots are meant for much worse–and the doors jiggle before sliding open again.

“Thank you, thank you!”

A boy hurries into the elevator then. In his thin arms is a cardboard box and inside it, Jeno peeks, is a couple of textbooks, an alarm clock, a pen case and a small potted plant. The leaves stick out at all angles, covers half the boy’s face as he stumbles into the tiny space.

“Thank you,” he says. This time he turns to Jeno, and a leaf slides into his open mouth. His cheeks flush red immediately, spluttering and looking absolutely panicked when he looks back at Jeno again. He blinks, “Thank you.”

Jeno nods, “It’s fine.”

The boy huffs, still clearly trying to gather his bearings. He rests the heavy box on his hip and tries to make his way to the button panel without everything toppling to the ground. His hands flail around, and he groans quietly under his breath.

Jeno shifts to carry his chow mein on one arm, “Which floor?”

“Oh.” The boy breathes a sigh of relief, readjusting his grip on the box, “Fifth, please.”

“It’s already lit up.”

The boy stares at it, “Right.”

They return to an awkward, palpable silence. The boy stands as far away from Jeno as possible, nose nearly pressed against the lift doors. The back of his neck darkens vermillion with every floor they pass.

Jeno scrunches his nose and thinks not too much of it.

Once they arrive on the fifth, the boy is hurrying off again. Jeno goes–plainly because he has to in the same direction–slightly amused by how significantly wider the box is against the boy’s petite frame. He slows in his step to watch his new neighbor–for Jeno has done a mandatory background check on every tenant of his building and he’s never seen this boy on any file–fumble to find his apartment.

Finally, he jerks to a stop at the end of the hall.

502.

Right across Jeno’s apartment.

He doesn’t know how to feel or think about this because the boy is grumbling again to himself, struggling terribly with his box. Jeno waits, stumped as the boy tries to lean the box against the wall to free a hand.

Jeno moves to enter his own apartment–key having been at the ready in his hand since he left the restaurant–and it’s his neighbor’s quiet groan that makes him stop. He places his precious chow mein on the ground, turns to step back out into the hall.

“Do you need a hand with that?”

The boy looks up, pupils dark. They constrict under the hallway light. He hesitates, nodding only when the box slides further down the wall. Jeno takes it from him, the box unexpectedly lighter than it seems. The boy fishes his keys from his pocket, a small keychain holding them together. Jeno can’t make out what it is, but it seems to be an animated character of some sort.

He pushes the door open and holds it there with his foot, turning back to Jeno with a half-smile, “Thanks.”

Jeno hands him the box, “That’s alright.”

“Have a good night.”

Jeno nods, retreats back into his apartment. He leans against the door once it’s shut, staring into his empty home. His eyes take a couple of seconds to register the form of his bed, his desk. There’s only so much a studio can fit, but it’s fine. It fits all that’s necessary. Jeno included.

He thinks of getting a pet sometimes. Another living soul–human or not–in the apartment might make it less desolate of a place to call a home. But filing for an Agency-approved pet would take weeks, and while he could simply adopt one secretly, he’d really be looking at the end of the barrel if Doyoung were to catch wind of it.

As the only UA under Doyoung, the spotlight never really leaves Jeno at the Agency.

He picks the chow mein up and makes a mental note to make a report of this new neighbor to Human Resources tomorrow.

—

“Hello.”

Jeno straightens from where he’d been shoving his foot into his sneakers. Off-field days meant casual wear. Over skin-tight shirts and tights, Jeno preferred being in comfy sweaters and jeans–it made him less like an Agent and more like he belonged walking on the streets just like everyone else.

Across him stands his new neighbor from last night. His door left ajar, and while the gap isn’t too wide, Jeno still notes the cartoon-printed pajama shorts and the loose-fitting shirt he’s in. He averts his eyes from his neighbor’s bare legs.

“Good morning.”

Jeno nods, “Morning.”

“Sorry, I–” The boy slides further out into the hall, and Jeno wills his eyes not to wander. It’s not polite to stare and it sure isn’t polite to gape, “I heard you leaving, and I–wanted to thank you again for yesterday.”

Jeno feels his head tilt, just slight of a fraction, a subconscious reaction. He wasn’t aware he was making any noise.

The boy shrinks under the silence, “I mean, not that I was listening for you, I mean–I just–didn’t know when I’d see you again.”

Jeno releases the tension in his shoulders, “That’s okay.” He steps out to meet the boy halfway, “It was nothing.” And like an afterthought, “Welcome to the building.”

“Injun,” the boy pipes up. His cheeks tint pink again, and Jeno wonders if that’s just a natural occurrence that comes easy to his new neighbor, “Me, I mean. That’s me–I’m Injun. Hwang Injun.”

Jeno’s lips twitch at the corners, a sort of mirth bubbling in his chest from how endearingly innocuous Injun is. He clears his throat and sticks a hand out, “Jeno.”

Injun’s hand is small in his and the touch is cool. He smiles, reaching his eyes, “It’s nice to meet you, Jeno.” He pulls his hand away and Jeno lets his own drop, “May I–how–how old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Injun’s eyes go round, “So am I. March.”

“April.” Jeno tries not to let any of his surprise through. A boy as tiny as him can’t be of the same age, can he? He’s almost half a head shorter than Jeno. He nods, “That’s hyung to you then.”

“Oh, we don’t have to–you know,” Injun’s hands flutter about. “Formalities and all that, it’s okay! I–I’ll–see you around?”

Jeno notices a mole near the base of Injun’s neck.

“See you around, Injun hyung.”

—

“We missed you at dinner last night.”

Jeno blinks. He hadn’t seen Donghyuck walk up to him, “I was on a Contract”

Donghyuck snorts, “I know. Chenle was your Handler again, wasn’t he?” He follows when Jeno passes the reception desk, shoes clacking noisily against marble. How he performed in the field, Jeno doesn’t know–for all Unofficial Agent missions are solos–but he doubts Donghyuck walked like this while on Contract, “Didn’t he invite you over?”

“He did,” Jeno reassures. They take the route to another department hidden further in the Agency, “I just didn’t feel like having dinner out.”

“Lies,” Donghyuck hums. He presses his palm to the reader and the walls split to reveal the UAs’ Main Office.

It’s blocks of ten cubicles in two rows, assigned to each UA according to their agent number. Jeno being one of ten UAs from his year; number seven, exactly. Every UA gets a standard issue Agency-approved MacBook and a mug with the Agency logo on it. Doyoung says it’s a sorry attempt at community development but Jeno thinks it’s nice. That way, he doesn’t have to buy any extra mugs for work.

Donghyuck tosses the files in his arms onto his desk, trails after Jeno to desk seven, “I smell fried noodles on you.”

Jeno shoots him a look, “Are you saying I smell?”

Donghyuck nods, “Disgusting, really.”

Jeno ignores it and settles into his seat, groaning when Donghyuck moves to sit on his desk, effectively ceasing productivity. He tries to reach for the files behind Donghyuck but the boy leans back, still waiting on a valid reason for skipping out on dinner.

“I was busy.”

Donghyuck folds his arms across his chest, “What with?”

“I don’t know,” Jeno sighs. “Catching up on sleep, watching TV, reading a book, planting a beanstalk–”

“You read?”

Jeno glares at him, matches the tone, “I read.” He swats at Donghyuck’s hip and grabs the files roughly, “Why’re you bothering me, Hyuck, don’t you have work to do?”

“I do.” Donghyuck makes no move to leave, instead moving to rest his foot on armrests of Jeno’s chair. Jeno shoves them off roughly with an elbow, to which Donghyuck whines. He kicks Jeno’s chair in retaliation, “You’re in a terrible mood today.”

“I am not.” Jeno flicks open the case file, “I just–want to get this done.”

“You haven’t been over in a long time.” Donghyuck purses his lips, “What are you hiding?”

Jeno deflates. He clearly isn’t going to get any work done if Donghyuck insists on gracing him with his presence, “I’m not hiding anything.”

“Is it your last Contract?” Donghyuck probes, “Did you do something wrong? Bump into a witness? Accidentally left a print? Eliminate the wrong target?”

Jeno clicks the pen in his hand, “I’m disappointed you have such little faith in me.” He clicks it again, “I’m just thinking about my next Contract, Hyuck, don’t worry about it.”

Donghyuck takes the bait, “That’s not for a while, isn’t it?” He leans against the walls of Jeno’s cubicle, plucking out a pin pushed into the foam, “Besides, haven’t your other Contracts gone splendid?”

Jeno snorts, “You can’t mess up a Contract.”

Donghyuck sits up, “Don’t let Nine hear you say that.”

“That’s different,” Jeno says. He twirls the pen in his fingers, “Jaemin’s under a different specialization. And since when did you decide to stop pretending Jaemin doesn’t exist?”

“He’s the worst so yes, I’m still ignoring Na Jaemin, don’t you worry about that,” Donghyuck scoffs, “And I suppose you think Execution’s far easier than Intelligence?”

“Fancy term for a spy.”

“Fancy term for a murder.”

Jeno raises a brow, “Haven’t we agreed we aren’t murderers?”

“A life taken is a life lost.” Donghyuck’s hand goes to hover over his torso; Jeno knows that’s where his own gun lies, “We just murder in good conscience.”

Jeno tosses the pen into pen holder, a clean shot.

“Don’t suppose we’ll be doing this for the rest of our lives, hey.”

Jeno considers it, “We might if we graduate.”

Donghyuck sighs, “What a pain.” He pokes Jeno’s elbow with his foot, “At least have lunch with me today–I actually miss hanging out with you.”

“I see you every day.”

“Correction: you see me in training every day.” Donghyuck hops off the desk, landing near silently on his feet. Jeno’s gaze darts down, masking his reverence. “I’d like to have a proper conversation with my best friend. You know, in a proper restaurant and not when I’m trying to dodge paintball pellets aimed for my forehead.”

Jeno relents, never one to say no to good lunch anyway, “What about Jaemin?”

“What about him?” Donghyuck sniffs primly, “Nothing’s changed, Jeno–I’m not talking to him until he apologizes.”

“He’s not going to apologize,” Jeno says. Donghyuck pretends as if he’d never spoken, starts to walk away, “The quicker you get over it, the quicker we can all have lunch together again!” but the younger boy doesn’t acknowledge him in the slightest, pace picking up as he leaves the UAs’ office.

Jeno breathes a sigh of relief, soothed by the silence.

Lee Donghyuck. Unofficial Agent 2. Best friend.

They’ve been best friends since long before Jeno can remember, which isn’t saying anything because he barely remembers life before the Agency. It just so happens that one of his earliest memories is of meeting Donghyuck in the bathroom on the first day of their physical examination. Donghyuck had been washing his hands and Jeno had walked in, stopping by the door. Immediately, he’d sensed the hostility.

“You’re Lee Jeno.”

Jeno hadn’t thought to be recognized.

“I heard the Mothers talking about you. Said your physical was the best this year.” Donghyuck had dried his hands on the back of his shirt, sticking a damp hand out for Jeno to take, “We should be friends.”

Jeno took the hand, accepted the friendship. Then, he hadn’t known if he wanted to be Donghyuck’s friend–the boy seemed to be more interested in ranks and competition more than anything. It was after weeks of training did he realize how much stronger, how much quicker Donghyuck’d been–he’d botched his own physical on purpose, to sought out who’d be second best to him.

It was artful and Jeno respected it.

After they’d both graduated to UA status, the competition abated into something healthier and Jeno found himself relying on Donghyuck in more ways than one. Unlike Jaemin, who’d gone to specialize in Intelligence, both Jeno and Donghyuck had undertaken the Execution specialization, which meant more time spent together as a duo.

It was comfortable and natural and so easy for Jeno to depend on Donghyuck, who by his very essence, was and still is a very dependable character.

It’s only recent that a sense of bitterness began to grow.

One day, not too long ago, it’d all gone to dust; he remembered the first time Donghyuck gushed over one of the new Training Agents. It’d taken Jeno a full minute to even register what was happening. He didn’t think Agents were supposed to have feelings, much less be enamored by new Agents.

“You’re an idiot,” Donghyuck had told him, eyes still glued on the boy a full head taller than the other newbies, “We aren’t robots, Jen. We’re allowed to have feelings.”

And if Jeno were honest, he wondered if it was jealousy. He wondered if he were jealous his best friend’s time was so suddenly taken from him, if he were jealous his best friend’s affection no longer focused on him, if he were jealous his best friend didn’t depend on him as much as Jeno did on Donghyuck.

He remembers when it used to be just him and Donghyuck; late-night snacks by the river after a long day of training, sneaking glances at one another during official meetings and praying the other doesn’t get caught, walking back to the TA quarters after an evening run of trying to best each other’s timings.

The more he mulled over it, the more he believed it wasn’t so. He didn’t have any romantic inclinations towards Donghyuck, didn’t wish any ill on the boys Donghyuck did have his attention on, didn’t have any thoughts of, That should be me.

It was envy.

He was envious Donghyuck had someone to fawn over, envious Donghyuck had someone to look forward to seeing every day, envious Donghyuck had–that sort of companionship. He didn’t want his best friend. He wanted not to be lonely–the feeling of whatever it is they felt, wanted to know what it felt like to be part of it, but the idea of it feels so out of reach to him.

Jeno had to get used to the concept of seeing Donghyuck with Park Jisung, had to get used to the fact that Donghyuck had managed to create a home for himself, despite the Agency’s rules and the rigid lives they all led. It was barely past a month they’d gotten together that a third had entered their relationship of two and Jeno was positive he was losing his mind.

Through loopholes and enough pestering towards his own Mentor, SA Jeon Wonwoo, Donghyuck’d managed to acquire a two-bedroom Agency-approved apartment not far from Jeno’s place. In it houses Donghyuck, Off-Field Agent Zhong Chenle, and Training Agent Park Jisung, which meant a house full of life and, expectedly, an abundance of love.

In any case, it’s a plethora of thoughts and emotions that will plague Jeno for days after visiting their nest of love and happiness; it’s only easier on his heart and mind if he didn’t spend too much time around three of the happiest Agents in the Agency. As much as he enjoyed seeing Chenle and Jisung–who he doesn’t get to meet often due to their different status and specializations–some time away from their joyfulness is much needed to keep Jeno’s sanity.

—

The process is simple, in theory; Training Agents (TA) enter at sixteen, scouted specially by the Agency. More specifically, the Seoul Agency located in South Korea’s capital; Contracts cover all neighborhoods in their jurisdiction and certain islands surrounding the mainland.

Following the initial evaluation, successful candidates are trained hard for the first year–basic physical fitness, hand-to-hand combat, improvised weaponry, airborne training, language skills, in-field simulations–everything that could possibly happen–trained for.

Qualified TAs are then granted access out onto field missions for their second year, most of which are to gather data or to provide backup within a team. At the end of the TAs’ second year, another evaluation is set.

Competent TAs proceed on to earn the title of an Unofficial Agent (UA).

The Agency is split into four major directorates: Administration, Communications, Innovation, and Operations, each run by its own Mother–the acting overseer. UAs under the Operations’ directorate go through another two years of Contracts. These are individual missions based on an Agent’s specialization: Intelligence or Execution.

Then, graduation.

More like an embellished term for UAs’ Final Evaluation. It’s a final series of physical and psychological tests that are dealt out over the last year of being a UA. That’s age twenty for most of the Agents–Jeno and Donghyuck included.

Graduating meant signing on with the Agency for another three years as an Official Agent (OA). After that, OAs can choose a specialization to delve further into. They are then trained to become Mentors in their specific field and are entitled to the designation of a Special Agent (SA).

Not graduating meant remaining on with the Agency as an Unclassified Agent. Under Operations, it’s uncommon for failed Agents to remain at the Agency; most of them choose instead to return to the real world.

Jeno worries about that sometimes.

Without the Agency, he would be nothing. Without Donghyuck or Doyoung or anyone else he’s met through the Agency, he would have nobody else. Without this life, no matter the nightmares or the questionable morality, Jeno would have nothing. He knows nothing but the Agency, and if it’s the only thing that’s helping him stay away from an empty home–he sure is going to do his best to graduate the top of his year.

—

“A new neighbor?”

Jeno nods. He hands the report he’d readied to Doyoung, detailing both run-ins he’s had with Injun so far. Doyoung skims through it quickly, mumbling to himself, “I didn’t hear about this on my end.”

To protect Agents and their welfare, the Agency keeps a strict watch on the ins and outs of any apartment building holding any Agents. On the off chance a vengeful spouse comes after them, that is. Too many times has an Agent’s security been compromised due to information leaks within the Agency. It doesn’t happen as often as it used to anymore, but Doyoung still tells Jeno to sleep with his PHK under his pillow.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Jeno shrugs. He picks up an origami rabbit on Doyoung’s desk, flicking at its ears, “He seems like a regular university student or something.”

“You’ve had contact?”

Doyoung says it with surprise, which isn’t uncalled for. Jeno liked to keep to himself, he didn’t particularly see a need in keeping connections outside the Agency. They would only compromise his position anyway.

“Not exactly,” Jeno thinks of the mole on Injun’s neck. “I know only his name, helped him get into his apartment.”

Doyoung glances at him, “Red flags?”

Jeno thinks about how Injun had almost eaten a leaf. He sets the bunny back down, “None.”

“Good.” Doyoung shuts the file and places it aside, “I’ll hand it to Mother anyway–you know how he is about safety and things like that.”

Jeno does. Despite the maternalistic nickname–Mother–given, Supervisory Special Agent Seo holds a sound reputation for being hard-headed about the Agents’ well-being. It’s very well in-line with his caring disposition and affable grin, but Jeno’s had the displeasure of seeing UA Five be compromised on a Contract due to a mistake from the Administration’s directorate, and from that alone he knows–SSA Seo is most definitely not a force to be reckoned with.

“This is for you, by the way.”

Jeno takes the vanilla cream envelope from Doyoung. It’s of sturdy paper, lightly textured. His first thought is wedding invitation, but the deadpan look Doyoung gives him says not to breathe a word of that. Flipping it over, he sees that it’s addressed to him in attractive handwritten calligraphy, Jeno with a cute doodle of a puppy beside it.

“He’s throwing a Christmas party,” Doyoung says shortly. His excitement differs from the hearts and cat-printed stickers on the invitation. “Told me to hand it to you at once. Despite it being a months away.”

Jeno scans the invitation, picking out the date and time. A surge of warmth floods his chest when he sees the hearts and stars around the personalized invitation, his name standing out in big block letters. He slides the card back into the envelope and tucks it neatly into his notebook, “Thank you, hyung. I’ll be sure to be there.”

“A Christmas party,” Doyoung mumbles, shaking his head. “Twenty-four and he still wants to plan a Christmas party for three people, no less.”

Jeno tries not to smile at his Mentor’s despair. He bows to excuse himself, making it only halfway across Doyoung’s office before he’s called again.

“You should come by the bakery sometime next week,” Doyoung says. He doesn’t look up from his MacBook, “He says he hasn’t seen you lately–he misses you.”

That warmth returns to his heart. Jeno nods, and promises to visit soon.

—

“What do you have on later?”

Jeno pushes his salad around his plate, “Not much, I don’t think. Paperwork, I guess.”

“Fun,” Donghyuck hums. “I’ve got combat with Agent Jung.” He reaches over to spear his fork into the last of Jeno’s mushrooms, popping it between his lips before Jeno can knock it out of his best friend’s hand, “Anyway, the kids and I are thinking of having dumpling night tonight.”

Jeno hooks his ankles together, “That sounds nice.”

“You should come over,” Donghyuck says. He rests his elbows on the table and chews thoughtfully, “Chenle says he won’t have any of those frozen store-bought ones, so he and Jisung are at the fresh markets to get some of the ingredients for it.”

Jeno winces at the thought of spending the evening fourth-wheeling the happiest trio in the Agency, “Are you inviting Jaemin?”

“Not unless he apologizes before the sun sets.” Donghyuck waves his chopsticks in Jeno’s face, “Are you in?”

Jeno battles it internally. Over the past two weeks, Jeno’s been blatantly avoiding all three of them within the Agency, still trying to find it in him on how to adjust to this new change. Though it’s, frankly speaking, foolish of him to think he could ever succeed in avoiding Donghyuck–he sees Donghyuck more than anyone else in this life, even more than he does Doyoung. If he keeps this up, Donghyuck’s sure to suspect something–if he hasn’t already.

“Yeah,” Jeno yields. “I’ll come over.”

They stop by the grocer’s on the way back to the Agency. Chenle had called to complain about the lack of fresh chives at the market since Jisung’d woken up too late, and Donghyuck’d appeased them both by agreeing to get some before going home. It’s a small bodega-type place a couple of blocks from the Agency; Donghyuck tells Jeno to wait for him outside while he hopped in for a minute or two.

Jeno wanders to the restaurant next to the grocer’s, taking a lazy look at the menu, the Italian words intriguing. He sees a waitress approaching and leaves with a polite smile before she can address him. Venturing further, Jeno finds that he hasn’t been down this particular street recently. It’s a little hidden from the rows of commercial buildings and shops, but he remembers being by here when he wasn’t always cooped up in the Agency with Contracts and training.

There are several tea shops that weren’t here a year before, and a small café with a chalkboard by the entrance. Beside it, there’s a florist and flower shop; an array of potted plants and buckets of individually wrapped flowers lining the front, with the whole right side of the display showcasing beautifully pre-arranged bouquets.

Jeno approaches a particularly bright bouquet of sunflowers, gently caressing one of the sunny yellow petals. It’s soft under his finger, smooth and velvety. He touches the rest of the rest of the petals–roses, tulips, carnations. They feel the same, yet different.

If he closed his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“Oh.”

Jeno retracts his hand immediately, apology on the tip of his tongue when he looks up.

Injun stands, not far from where Jeno has his mouth wide open. He looks different from this morning; multi-colored woolen sweater and dark jeans partially hidden by an olive green apron tied to his waist, accentuating just how narrow his figure is. His hair–sandy in the sunlight–is tied into a small bun on the top of his head, keeping it out of his eyes. On the bridge of his nose are a pair of glasses, round and gold wire-rimmed.

Jeno keeps his curious hand into his pocket. He clears his throat, “Hyung.”

Injun blinks, “Hi.”

He’s carrying yet another potted plant in his hands, significantly larger and heavier looking than the one he was moving around the night before. All it takes is a second to notice how thin Injun’s arms are, enough to shatter under its staggering weight, shoulders too narrow to bear it. Without thinking, Jeno steps forward to take it from him. Injun lets go when their hands brush, mouth hanging open like it’s got a broken hinge.

“Where do you want this to go?”

“Huh?” Injun slams his mouth shut. He squeezes past Jeno, a whiff of lavender following him as he goes, to point at an empty corner of the display, “Here–here, please.”

Jeno strides over and sets it down carefully, helping Injun shift in into place with the side of his foot. He dusts his hands off, giving the tall plant with lilac flowers a long look before returning his gaze to Injun.

“What are you–” Injun tangles his fingers together in front of him, going on his tiptoes, then down. “What’re you doing here?”

Jeno points vaguely down the street, “I work nearby here.”

“Oh.” Injun’s cheeks are pink from the heat, “I–this is where I work too. Temporarily, I mean.” He seems to fluster constantly under Jeno’s gaze; Jeno doesn’t know how he should feel about it. “Did you–did you want to buy any flowers?”

Jeno moves to say No, sorry but his head turns to look at the display again. On one of the higher racks, a row of small potter plants–barely the size of a mug–sit elegantly. It’s a mix of succulents and some others Jeno doesn’t recognize, all fit prettily in pots that look to be handmade.

“Yes!” Injun reaches over the display, precariously on his toes. Jeno suppresses the urge to steady him by the arm, lest he falls face first into the bed of flowers. He picks a lilac-sage succulent in a beige ceramic holder, designs etched on the sides. “These are all handmade planters, glazed to help keep the moisture from the plants in. This is an echeveria. It’s a flowering plant.”

Jeno takes the plant from Injun, not quite understanding the jargon.

“It doesn’t need much water,” Injun goes on. “A spritz once a week is good enough.”

The plant is about the size of Jeno’s hand and the green would be a nice pop of color on desk. He wonders if he’s committed enough to raise a plant–though he supposes a pet would be a lot harder–and decides that maybe he should get one. Just to see if he’s parental material, for now.

“I’ll get this one,” Jeno says, turning the plant around to inspect it closely. “Did you make the–holder?”

“The planter?” Injun goes back to wringing his hands together. Jeno looks up at him through his lashes, tries not to stare too hard because Injun appears to ruffle up whenever he does. He supposes his gaze is a little too harsh on some days. Injun shakes his head, “No, I–I’ve only just been here a while, so I haven’t gotten the chance to–make any myself.”

Jeno nods, filing that bit of information away. He reaches for his wallet, but Injun steps back.

“It’s okay!” He holds a hand out, “You can take it for free.”

Jeno blinks, “What?”

“Treat it as a thank you,” Injun nods. He smiles, a shallow dimple on his cheek, “For last night and for helping me out earlier.”

Jeno looks at the succulent in his hand, “I can’t just take this without–”

“It really is okay,” Injun insists. He slinks past Jeno again, slowly backpedaling into the store, “It’s a gift.”

“But I–” Jeno frowns, “I have to pay you for this in some way, hyung.”

Injun stills. He licks his lips, just as he had the night before. His hands grip the edges of his florist apron, “Maybe–maybe a coffee together sometime?” He bites on his lip like he can’t believe he’s said what he said, “Or not!”

Jeno feels something shoot up in his throat. His gut, or his heart, maybe. It’s an odd feeling, the warmth in his chest now spreading across his back and up his neck, down his shoulders. The tips of his ears burn hot and his cheeks must match the roses in the display.

“Okay,” he says. It’s full of hesitance, but that doesn’t seem to affect Injun, who simply blushes harder. Jeno holds the plant closer to himself, a sudden fizz crawling up his throat. He wrangles out, “See you later, hyung.”

Injun perks up, “You really can drop the formalities, Jeno.” He smiles and the fizz vanishes. Snuffed out like a candle in a storm, “Just–Injun is fine. Or Jun.”

Jeno nods robotically.

“See you,” Injun says, then ducks back into the shop without another glance back.

Jeno stands outside the shop for an inappropriate number of heartbeats. Donghyuck is waiting for him by the bodega when his legs take him back.

“Where did you–” Donghyuck does a double take, “Is that a plant?”

Jeno stares at it too, “Yeah.”

“Why do you have that?”

“A friend gave it to me,” Jeno mumbles. He tucks it safely under his arm, “I bumped into him at that florist shop nearby.”

Donghyuck peers down the street, “I didn’t know there was a florist on this street.” He shrugs, beginning their walk back to the Agency, paper bag hanging from the crook of his elbow, “Then again, I don’t know the difference between chives and spring onions, so what do I know, really.”

—

The echeveria–Jeno googled–fits nicely on his desk. He rips a yellow post it note off the stack he has and scribbles, water once a week only, taking Injun’s advice seriously. He sticks it on the board above the plant, serving as a reminder. The green looks pleasant against the gray cubicle partitions and Jeno thinks he could get a couple more to brighten up his desk if this goes well.

Maybe one as a gift for Doyoung too.

“Agent Seven.”

Jeno stands at the sound of SSA Seo approaching, shoulders rolled back. SSA Seo is the only Agent who insists on giving UAs the title Agent; says it gives them a sense of motivation, to which Jeno can attest that it does, a little.

“At ease,” SSA Seo smiles. Jeno relaxes, but keeps a ready posture, one foot out in front of the other.

Supervisory Special Agent Seo Youngho, otherwise shortly known as Mother or SSA Seo, is a tall man with coal black hair and gentle features. His eyes are almond shaped, gaze soft when he’s speaking to TAs, hard when he’s addressing Agents. He’s all kinds of fit; solid muscles, good core, long legs–undoubtedly one of the best Agents currently under the Agency. He plays the acting Mother of the Operations directorate, and Jeno hears he’d used an Intelligence Agent.

“I’m just here to run by that new neighbor of yours,” SSA Seo nods. In his hand is the report Jeno had typed out earlier. He goes on to ask, “You reported it straight to SA Kim? Not HR?”

“He’s my Mentor, sir,” Jeno says. “I–I thought reporting it to SA Kim would be–fine.”

SSA Seo waves his hand dismissively, “It is, not to worry. SA Kim handed it to me for further checks. Good job on alert.”

Jeno’s heart beats a little quicker in his chest.

“But you don’t have to worry about this–Hwang Injun,” SSA Seo places the report on the table, hand over it for a second. He gives Jeno a reassuring smile, “He’s not in any of our databases and there’s no criminal record of any sort; he’s clear.”

Jeno holds a sigh of relief. He didn’t think Injun would bring up any warnings during the background check, but it’s still good to know that his new neighbor is as normal as Jeno thought to be.

“Thank you, sir.”

SSA Seo grins, “Great work you’re doing, Agent Seven.” He does a quick sweep of Jeno’s desk, pausing a moment at the echeveria before nodding, “SA Kim and I have great hopes for you.”

Jeno bows his head slightly, “Thank you, sir.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” SSA Seo hums. “I have a meeting with a few foreign dignitaries. Have you seen Agent Jung? He’s supposed to attend the meeting with me.”

Official Agent Jung Jaehyun, OA Jung. SSA Seo’s right-hand, or so the UAs refer to him as. One of the top all-rounders in the Agency with a perfect physique–which makes all the UAs envious–and an equally enamoring personality–which makes Agent Jung hard to dislike. Jeno’s had the opportunity to battle Agent Jung in a friendly-match of paintball with the other Agents–which turned out to be terribly unfriendly thanks to everyone’s collectively competitive nature.

“He’s in combat training with Agent Two, sir.”

“Skimping off on official duties, I see,” SSA Seo mumbles. He fiddles with the end of his tie (upon closer look, Jeno notices that it’s decorated with various tiny kittens), “Oh, well–I’ll have to go get him myself then. Keep it up, Agent.”

Jeno thanks him again, and waits until that tall frame of his is out of sight before he sinks back into his chair. Out of curiosity, he flips open the report, giving it a thorough scan. Nothing jumps out as unusual to Jeno; Enrolled in Seoul University, Major: Undecided, Employment: cists, Record of Offenses: None, Record of Arrests: None, Record of Court Appearances: None.

On the top right corner is an ID photograph of Injun. He’s in his glasses again, cheeks raised high for the picture. Jeno brushes his thumb over the glossy print, tracing over Injun’s smile. He’s in a nice blue and white striped shirt, the first two buttons undone. Jeno juts out his lower lip, thinking about how ugly all of his own ID cards are (including the one for his apartment, which he took himself a hundred times over).

He shuts the folder and tucks it into one of the drawers under his desk. Time to get to work, he laments, pulling up a new document and starting up his report for his previous Contract.

–

“I said not to put too much filling!”

“You said to use a tablespoon. I did use a tablespoon.”

“It’s more than a tablespoon if you pile it up like that Park Jisung. That’s a heap you’ve got there.”

“Then maybe you should be more precise about your instructions!”

“Yeah well, maybe you should just be quiet!”

Jeno sits up on the couch at the sound of bickering, “Should we do something?”

Donghyuck is lying on his back with an ice pack on the crook of his neck, nursing a minor injury he’d gotten over combat training. He winces while angling his head to where Chenle and Jisung are still arguing over the spread of ingredients, flour dotting their arms and noses.

“Leave them,” Donghyuck says. He groans, shifting back into a more comfortable position, eyes floating back to the TV playing a rerun of Running Man. “It’ll only make things worse if I go over there anyway,” he catches Jeno’s confused expression, sighing, “They’ll accuse me of taking sides.”

“Right.”

Jeno settles back onto the couch, says nothing when Donghyuck moves to rests his legs over his lap. The couch is too short to fit them both anyway, and considering how Donghyuck is mostly legs, Jeno finds no problem with the closeness. It used to be like this over the weekends, recovering from aches and bruises, letting their minds shut off for an evening, enjoying the quiet.

“Park Jisung! You seriously are making a mess!”

“You said the skin wouldn’t break!”

“Anything would if you’re squashing it up with your ridiculously monstrous hands!”

Jeno misses the quiet.

Donghyuck clicks his tongue loudly, throwing an arm over his eyes, “Kids.” Jeno sees both Chenle and Jisung simmer, glaring at one another silently. Donghyuck peeks from under his arm, “Will you help Le with the dumplings?”

Jeno nods.

“Ji,” Donghyuck calls. The tall boy scurries over, leaving a puff of flour in his wake. He takes Jeno’s spot and maneuvers Donghyuck’s legs to rest on his lap, looking quite pleased. “You’re like puppies, the both of you,” Donghyuck chides, “Can’t leave you both unattended even for a minute.”

“He started it,” Jeno hears Chenle grumble. He takes Jisung’s place, admitting inwardly that Jisung definitely was making quite a bit of a mess. Chenle seems to notice this, hastily clearing off Jisung’s failed dumpling for Jeno.

Jeno rolls up his sleeves, but pauses at the set-up, “I should probably wash my hands.”

Chenle looks at him, blinking owlishly, “You probably should, ge.”

Jeno gets up again to head for the kitchen, opens the tap and washes his hands thoroughly. Even in the kitchen he spots traces of three very distinct personalities–Donghyuck’s polka-dotted apron and matching set of baking tools; Chenle’s porcelain Chinese tea set with white and blue saucers, cups, and lids; Jisung’s array of fried snacks in the corner, all of them opened and half-eaten. Jeno shuts the water off and thinks not of his own empty kitchen.

“Okay, so what you’re going to want to do is take some of the filling and place it in the middle of the pi,” Chenle instructs him slowly, taking him through the steps. He demonstrates as he speaks, “As in the skin of the dumpling.”

Jeno dusts his hands with flour and gets to work.

“With some water, you can seal the side off here to make a pocket, or you could try making a pleat–like this.”

Jeno focuses on the unmade dumpling in his hand. Some part of him is registering how surreal it is for Chenle to be giving him directions that isn’t towards a Contract, but Jeno tunes that out.

Chenle’d transferred as an Off-Field Agent status a few months ago, working under the Innovations directorate. He was assigned to Jeno as part of his probation in February; they only have a few more Contracts together before Chenle is assigned to handle–assist in navigation and weaponry–another Agent, for training purposes.

“You’re doing great, ge,” Chenle enthuses, nodding encouragingly at the awkward, lumpy dumpling in Jeno’s palm. He raises his voice to say, “Unlike some people who don’t understand the consequences of greed.”

“You said one tablespoon!”

Donghyuck shushes them, and they quiet again obediently.

“How are your studies coming along?” Jeno asks, starting on his second dumpling, “Hyuck tells me you’re taking some linguistics courses.”

“They’re interesting,” Chenle says. His fingers are thin and his motions are polished; he finishes four dumplings at the time Jeno’s midway through his second. “SA Wen recommended I attend it for a couple of weeks, you know–to be prepared for if I ever have to go out on the field.”

Jeno unsticks and sticks the flaps carefully, “On the field?”

“Yeah.” Chenle purses his lips, finishing up his fifth dumpling, “If I let slip that I have a different native language, or if my accent’s too strong–it’d raise suspicion, wouldn’t it?”

The dumpling looks sad and inedible, but it’s past salvageable. Jeno sets it aside and looks at Chenle, “I wouldn’t find anything wrong with the way you spoke.”

“Thanks, hyung,” Chenle winks cheekily. “But I guess it’s good training. I’m learning all sorts of things I didn’t know existed.”

“I’m sure you know more than I do,” Jeno assures. His command of language is fine, but anything past technical terms is way over his league. He picks up another pi, “What else has the Agency got you doing?”

“I’ve been shadowing SA Im in Innovations. We’ve been working on a new season of gadgets for this year’s Final Evaluation.”

Jeno’s hands don’t falter at the mention of the Final Evaluation. It’s something that’s on the back of every UAs’ mind, but the secrecy over how these tests are dealt is one of the heaviest burdens over Jeno’s shoulders. Even Doyoung is tight-lipped about it, not sparing Jeno a hint of when these tests will be held.

Word on the Operations UAs grapevine is that the Final Evaluation comes in three parts: Physical, Psychological, and Performance. The physical aspect places UAs against the team of Mentors and SSA Seo–Mother of the Operations directorate–in the combat arena for a one-to-one, hand-to-hand assessment. The psychological aspect places UAs in a two-hour clinical interview with the Mothers of the Administration and Innovation directorates, SSA Yoon Jeonghan and SSA Kim Jiwon.

The performance component, however, is a mystery. Jeno guesses SSA Lee Jooheon from the Communication directorate handles performance.

He keeps his voice leveled, “You’re working on the Final Evaluation this year?”

“Yeah,” Chenle folds the dumpling in half, pleating the edges. His brown hair falls over his eyes in concentration, “But they don’t tell us about much–we’re on a need-to-know basis.”

Jeno dampens the edge of his pi with a little water, “I see.” He lightens his tone, “What kind of gadgets are you working on?”

“Oh–a whole new range of wearable tech,” Chenle bubbles excitedly. He adds his finished dumpling onto the plate, making a neat and even thirty dumplings so far–including Jeno and Jisung’s lumpy ones. “We’ve been getting some new innovations from other Agencies so there’s been quite a fair bit of information exchange lately.”

"Other Agencies?”

Chenle’s hands work without pause, “I hear our Seoul branch is looking into a more unified front with the other Agencies, being a capital and all that.”

Jeno nods, “I overheard SSA Seo mention something about meeting a few foreign notables.”

“I’m working with an Agent Xu now, who was my direct senior back in the Shanghai Agency.” Chenle beams, recalling memories, “We used to train in combat together–before I transferred over here.”

Jeno nods, listens attentively. Despite Chenle being his Handler, he’s never really had a proper conversation with the boy outside of Contract details. He did know Chenle transferred over from the Shanghai Agency as an Off-Field Agent, but not much other than that.

“Did you put the transfer in yourself?”

“No,” Chenle tucks a dumpling aside, starts another. “SSA Qian–he’s the current Mother of the Shanghai Agency–thought I’d be a better asset here.” For the first time since Jeno sat down, Chenle’s eyes drift over to where Jisung and Donghyuck are huddled on the couch, “I don’t think I regret any of it though.”

Jeno follows his gaze, murmuring to himself, “I wouldn’t think you did either.”

“Besides,” Chenle shrugs, “the Seoul Agency has far better food. Agent Xu disagrees, but I don’t know–I think I’ve gotten used to the food here. And all the desserts–those are really good.” He finishes sealing the dumpling in his palm, “Park, you’re needed now.”

There’s a soft grumble and Donghyuck’s authoritative, go, Jisung.

“Promise I won’t yell at you,” Chenle says, getting to his feet. He picks up the plate of uncooked dumplings in one hand, the other curling around Jisung’s waist when he draws near. Chenle lowers his voice, out of Donghyuck’s earshot, “Provided you don’t mess up, that is.”

“Hyung.”

“Fine, fine.”

Jeno keeps at the dumpling making, convincing himself that every one he makes looks better than the one before. It’s when he’s done with three more that Chenle returns, having taught Jisung how to pan-fry the dumplings. He takes a look at the remaining fillings, just as Donghyuck retires from his spot on the couch.

“Have you made enough for dinner?”

“Yeah,” Chenle sits back down and resumes his work. Donghyuck pulls out the wooden dining chair beside Jeno and settles in comfortably, warming ice pack in his hands, “There’ll be enough for leftovers tomorrow too.”

Donghyuck nudges Jeno, “You should take some home with you. Have some of it with those takeouts you’re so crazy over.”

“They’re good,” Jeno defends, and concedes, “but thank you.”

“I’ll have to take care of you too, my best friend,” Donghyuck sighs, dramatically falling over to lean on Jeno’s side. “What would you do without me?”

Jeno wonders the same thing. Wonders how he’ll feel tonight, going home to his empty apartment after hours in such a warm and loving nest. Wonders if he’ll toss and turn, thinking about how cold his bed his despite the three blankets piled on him. Wonders if he’ll wake on a Sunday morning to an empty home once again, wonders if he’ll wish he had more.

“I wonder,” Jeno hums.

Donghyuck pats him on the shoulder, then stands to go check on Jisung in the kitchen.

—

“Oh.”

Jeno looks over his shoulder, key halfway into the lock. The door to Injun’s apartment is slightly left open, and behind it is its owner, back in his pajamas once more. On his head is a fluffy headband with little cat ears on the top, pushing his hair back.

Jeno feels the corners of his lips twitch, “You seem to say that a lot.”

“Oh.” Injun fidgets, “I mean–not oh. I mean–yes. I guess I do.”

Knowing full well the time, Jeno makes a show of glancing at his wristwatch, “Up late tonight?”

“I was just watching some TV and I remembered I’d left my shoes out here so I was going to bring them in,” Injun babbles. His fingers curl along the side of the door, thin and dainty, “Did you–just get off work?”

Jeno unlocks his door, “No, I had dinner at my friends’ house.” He lifts the Tupperware in his hand, “Made some dumplings.”

“Oh.” He winces, “I mean–”

“I didn’t mean it to be a bad thing,” Jeno smiles. He steps into his home, “We’re having coffee together this week, right?”

“Yes!” Injun blinks rapidly, “Yes, coffee.”

“How’s Friday?”

“Okay.” Injun repeats, “Friday.”

Jeno smiles, points to Injun’s shoes with his free hand, “Don’t worry about your shoes–you can leave them out here. The building’s pretty safe.”

Injun looks down, then up at Jeno again, eyes impossibly wide, “Okay.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jeno.”

And he shuts the door.

Placing the dumplings into the fridge–beside his chow mein–and unstrapping his holster, Jeno wonders what this could be. Injun seems nice and pleasant, a little skittish and shy, but Jeno decides that he likes his new neighbor anyway. It sure beats the tenant who occupied 502 before Injun did–they hadn’t bothered to speak a word to Jeno the entire year he’s moved in.

Injun is sweet and friendly and kind and different.

Injun is different.

Maybe he should come out of his shell a little more. With Donghyuck and Doyoung–his closest confidants–living full and well lives with the people they love, maybe it’s time for Jeno to find some new friends outside the Agency.

He sighs, turning the PHK around in his hands, oddly unable to name the feeling in his chest.

                                                                                                               —           

On Wednesday, Donghyuck ships off to somewhere a two-hour plane ride away and he tells Jeno to please check-in on Chenle and Jisung once in a while (“Just make sure they don’t burn the apartment down.”) Jeno reassures his best friend that he’ll do just that, wishes him a smooth trip. With his afternoon free, he takes up on Doyoung’s offer for lunch and they leave the Agency at around half past noon.

“Have you received the details of your next Contract?”

“Yes.” Jeno sidesteps a crack on the ground; Doyoung frowns at his superstitiousness. “Saw them on my in tray this morning. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, but I will by the end of today.”

“Good.” Doyoung leads them down one of the quieter streets, taking a shortcut to the metro station, “It’s a high-profile mark so be familiar.”

Jeno nods.

It’s not so often the Agency deploys Execution Agents on high-profile targets. So much as the term assassin comes in to use, the Agency really only sends Execution Agents out to tie up loose ends; witnesses that might’ve seen too much, partners that’d escaped the initial hunt, family members actively plotting revenge. Jeno doesn’t know how the Agency determines who gets to live and who doesn’t–maybe they’re in contact with a higher power–but they do. Even without knowing the full extent of the Agency’s resources and power, Jeno knows it’s best to stay in the Agency’s good books.

Jeno hops down the last step and fishes his phone out, metro card lodged firmly between his ID and the back of his phone. He taps it onto the sensors, following Doyoung down Exit 9, “Are we going to the bakery?”

“Yes.” Doyoung slips his wallet back into his jacket pocket, takes the stairs, “I told him we’d come down for a visit today. Maybe bring him some lunch.”

Jeno holds back a teasing smile, “You actually are really sweet on him.”

Doyoung flashes him an unamused look, “He’s my fiancé, Jeno. It’s almost part of the job description.”

“You say that as if you don’t want to be doing these things for him.” Jeno sticks his tongue out between his teeth cheekily, watching Doyoung roll his eyes. If he’d said this anywhere near the Agency, Doyoung’d have him do at least a hundred laps around the indoor track, “You go home more often now. I haven’t seen you spend a night in your office ever since you’d gotten engaged.”

“That’s because he waits up for me,” Doyoung leads them to a secluded part of the platform, “He’ll stay up all night in retaliation if I don’t go home.”

Jeno hides his hands in his pockets, “That’s sweet.”

Doyoung huffs, “It’s dangerous. He works in the kitchen with ovens and pans and sharp knives, he can’t be moving around on an eight-hour shift with no sleep.”

Jeno lifts a brow, “You think working in a kitchen is dangerous?”

“To him it is,” Doyoung says. He folds his arms across his chest, “He’s always dropping and forgetting things–a complete hazard to himself and to everyone around him.”

“You sound like his mother.”

Doyoung snorts, “At this point, I might as well be.”

They take Line 2 up four stops. The bakery isn’t too far from the metro station but they take a detour to a fried chicken place nearby. Doyoung orders enough for them three–half-soy, half-fried, boneless with an assortment of radish and coleslaw as sides–and they carry two paper bags each to Yong’s Pâtisserie.

The shop stands out from even a mile away, its bright yellow exterior catching the eyes of many passersby. There aren’t many people on the street, but Jeno imagines it can get busy during peak hours and the weekends. He remembers the first time he’d visited the bakery; it was a month after he graduated under Doyoung’s teachings and Doyoung had offered to take him out for lunch. He’d later learned how Doyoung’d decided to trust Jeno, his one and only student, only then allowing Jeno in on his biggest secret–Lee Taeyong.

“Baby!”

The door is barely shut when a petite boy with fluffy purple-plum colored hair is peeking from behind the counter, bolting up to his feet and rushing to meet them excitedly. For twenty-four, Taeyong looks as if he’s barely passed eighteen with his bright eyes and stunning smile. He throws his hands around Doyoung’s neck, planting a wet kiss on Doyoung’s lips.

Jeno turns away politely.

“You kept your promise!”

“Of course I did,” Doyoung scoffs. His ears, however, are the brightest red Jeno’s ever seen them, a clear indication of Taeyong’s mere effect on the typically cold-hearted Special Agent. He moves to place the boxes of fried chicken one of the small tables, turning to gesture to Jeno, “And I brought your favorite kid with me.”

“So I see!”

Jeno holds himself steady when Taeyong hugs him too, big and welcoming. He notes how sweet Taeyong always smells, most certainly from being around baked goods and icing all day. Doyoung takes the bags of fried chicken from him for Jeno to return the hug, the older boy’s thin frame in his arms, “Hi, hyung. It’s nice to finally see you again.”

Taeyong pulls away, hands coming up to pinch Jeno’s cheeks, “Oh my gosh–you are such a sweetheart!” He squishes Jeno’s cheeks fondly, and Jeno lets him, quite pleased with being coddled, “And you’ve gotten so tall! You can’t still be growing, can you?”

Jeno speaks through mushed cheeks, “I don’t think I’ve grown lately–”

“What are they feeding you at the Agency!” Taeyong, even with the perfect features and stunning beauty, flawlessly embodies a middle-aged lady with four grandkids, “You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you!”

“Well, I–”

“He’s the same height,” Doyoung interjects flatly. He tugs on Taeyong’s elbow, brows furrowing together when Taeyong swats him off, intent on pampering Jeno more, “But I brought–”

“Doie said you’d be coming along today,” Taeyong goes on, as if Doyoung hadn’t spoken. Jeno shoots his Mentor an apologetic look, focusing his gaze back on Taeyong, “So I made a few cakes for you to bring home–you like green tea, don’t you? And chocolate? And red velvet?”

Jeno blinks, “Thank you, hyung, but I can’t accept–”

“I’ve already packed them up nicely for you to take home,” Taeyong smiles, patting Jeno on the shoulders. He’s not all that shorter than Jeno is, but the difference is still noticeable enough for Jeno to want to slouch a little, “Remind me to hand them to you before you leave, alright?”

Jeno nods, knowing when to concede, “Thank you, hyung.”

Taeyong gushes, “You really are the sweetest, oh goodness–why aren’t you wearing more layers, it’s so cold out today! I have an extra scarf you can take home with you, okay? Don’t catch a cold, you won’t–”

Behind him, Doyoung sulks, “I’m never bringing him over again.”

“Oh, you,” Taeyong scoffs, leaving Jeno, finally, to return to Doyoung’s side. He wraps his arms around Doyoung’s waist, the closest Jeno’s ever seen anyone stick to Kim Doyoung, kissing his fiancé on the cheek, “You’ve got no reason to be jealous, hm.”

“Right,” Doyoung hugs Taeyong by the shoulders, sneaking a kiss to Taeyong’s crown, “As I was saying–I brought you lunch.”

“My savior,” Taeyong hums. He slips away to check on the oven timer, directs Doyoung to set up at one of the tables closer to the back of the store lest a customer comes in.

“Are you sure I’m not intruding?” Jeno whispers this as they open the four boxes of fried chicken, invading the heavenly smell of sweet pastries.

“Taeyong likes you,” Doyoung says simply. He uncaps the radishes and coleslaw, “He’s always asking for you, worries over you.”

“Worries?”

Doyoung sets up a plastic bag for rubbish, “Being an Agent can be lonely at times.” He sits in one of the plastic chairs, motions for Jeno to do the same, “I know how it’s like and he knows how I used to be.” At Jeno’s silence, “Before meeting Taeyong, I knew only life at the Agency. I didn’t know anything else–and at one point, it was devastatingly lonely.”

Jeno unnerves at how familiar this sounds.

“He knows this, knows you,” Doyoung shrugs, picking up a pair of chopsticks. He breaks it apart and Jeno thinks him to start eating, but he sets it aside for Taeyong instead and picks up another pair for himself.

Sweet.

“You can stay, Jeno. You’re not intruding at all.”

Jeno shifts in his seat, “Thank you, hyung.”

Taeyong reappears with two bottles of iced tea in his arms, “Bought these on the way here earlier.” He sets them down and takes the seat beside Jeno over the one next to Doyoung, oblivious–or ignorant–of the hurt look on his fiancé’s face, “So, Jeno, how are things at the Agency? Still having those horrible trainings of yours?”

“They’re getting better,” Jeno says carefully. The only reason they were horrible in the first place is because he had to go up against the notorious Kim Doyoung in combat. He plates a piece of fried chicken for Taeyong, “I’m locking more sessions in with another SA Kim now since Doyoung hyung isn’t on training grounds as often as he used to be.”

Taeyong nods firmly, “Good.” He sounds exactly like Doyoung when he says just that, and Jeno can’t help but grin at the similarity. Across the table, Doyoung rolls his eyes, “He’s been complaining about how bad his back’s been hurting, yet hates it when I tell him to take a break from all the running around you kids do.”

“He’s been cooped up in his office a lot more lately,” Jeno reassures.

The Agency rarely sent Doyoung out; an asset as valuable as Kim Doyoung is reserved only for the most critical and complex of missions. In the entire time Jeno’s been with the Agency, he’s only seen Doyoung work a handful of cases; all of which required him to be away for weeks at a time, and to play both Intelligence and Execution, a testimony to the sheer difference of difficulty his Contracts are against Jeno’s.

That fact, he keeps mum from Taeyong.

“And how is Youngho?”

Jeno’s reflexes tell him to freeze at the casual mention of the Operations’ Mother, but enough training has ruled most–if not, all–indications of hesitation from his body, “SSA Seo?”

Taeyong pops a piece of chicken into his mouth, “Ah yes, him.”

“You know SSA Seo?”

“I’ve met him twice now,” Taeyong nods. He thinks back, “Or maybe thrice, if you count the time he came in to order that birthday cake for his niece.”

Jeno continues eating quietly; he was under the impression that he’d been the only soul at the Agency who knew about Lee Taeyong’s existence.

“Youngho hyung knows,” Doyoung fills in. He covers his mouth as he speaks, “It’s a recent development. For protection’s sake.”

Taeyong clicks his tongue, sighing loudly, “Every time you say that, I spend the entire rest of the day looking over my shoulder thinking I might have someone follow me around or something.”

It’s said jokingly, but Jeno’s eyes catch the way Doyoung’s shoulders drop. A movement so small that Doyoung doesn’t notice it either, not until he looks up half a second later to Jeno watching him. He shakes his head, just a tilt, and Jeno drops his gaze in understanding.

“It’s good that he knows anyway,” Taeyong continues, missing the exchange entirely. Jeno doesn’t fault him–a non-Agent would miss more than half the non-verbal cues Agents trade. “At least someone would know to call me if something were to happen to Doie.”

Doyoung bites on the end of his chopstick, “Nothing is going to happen.”

“Don’t say that,” Taeyong frowns. He waves his chopstick dismissively, “Ignorance isn’t bliss.”

“It’s not ignorance. It’s the truth.”

“The truth? Are you serious?”

“It is, hyung. Nothing’s going to happen, I’ll make sure of it.”

Taeyong’s lips press into a thin line. His gaze hardens and Jeno shrinks further into the plastic seat. Doyoung does the same, head bowing in a silent assent. It’s the first Jeno’s seen a demeanor of Taeyong’s other than bubbly and friendly and he thinks distantly he wouldn’t ever want to see this Taeyong turned against him.

Taeyong clears his throat, “I’m going to get us some water.”

He stands to leave, hip bumping into the table in a rush to get out. Doyoung follows immediately, and they disappear into the kitchen, leaving Jeno alone in the store. He breathes deeply, feeling as if he hadn’t ever since the conversation started.

“–told you yesterday–this conversation again, Doyoung, I said I don’t want to argue over it–”

Jeno winces when he catches bits and pieces of the very obviously private exchange happening not far from him. It’s the heightened senses of his, trained to pick up even the softest of whispers.

“Oh, yeah?” He hears Taeyong challenge, “What exactly are you going to do if something does happen? Huh? You’re always telling me nothing will ever happen to you–how sure are you of that? How sure are you that I won’t wake up one day to a call about how you got shot on a mission? Can you promise that will never happen?”

“Taeyong–”

“Don’t make sweeping statements. That’s all I ask, alright?” Jeno tries to shut his ears, but the words keep coming, “I don’t want–I don’t want to live thinking that you’ll never be taken from me, only to wake up one day to find that you have.”

“Okay–okay.”

Jeno shoves a piece of chicken into his mouth roughly, curses the Agency training for being so tremendously good at polishing Agents into tip-top shape. His hearing is near perfect, catching every word,

“I love you, Doyoung, that’s why I said yes. I said yes to everything. To the Contracts, to the hours away, to the danger. I said yes to you because I love you. So–don’t tell me nothing will ever happen because it will break me if something does.”

Jeno pauses mid-chew.

You’ll break me.

Is this how love is meant to be? If anything, Doyoung and Taeyong is Jeno’s first thought when it comes to love. Being in love and having a relationship, moving forward together in life–all of those seem absolutely unattainable to Jeno. He couldn’t ever put someone through that, could he? Every Contract has him leaving the Agency without knowing if he’ll ever come back; surely the stakes are doubled–tripled–for Doyoung.

The idea of love has never really plagued Jeno’s thoughts. It’s more often the mere feeling of loneliness or envy that he’s so experienced in bottling up. There’s never been that desire for love.

Is this what he been missing all this while? Playing envy to what Donghyuck managed to find? Love, is it?

He thinks of gold wire-rimmed glasses and echeverias.

Jeno blinks.

Doyoung’s voice enters his head once more, “Okay, I’m sorry–I’m sorry, I–understand. I’m sorry, and I–I love you too, hyung. I really do.”

It effectively clears all lingering thoughts away when they reappear, two glasses of water in Doyoung’s hands and one in Taeyong’s. There’s a red and green plaid scarf in Taeyong’s arms, to which Jeno accepts gratefully.

“So, Jeno,” Taeyong says, reclaiming his spot and speaking as if he’d never left. He clears his throat, “Tell me all about your training sessions–are they as tough it was with Doie?”

Jeno schools composure and smiles, “I don’t think anything could ever be how tough that was.” Taeyong’s lips part to form a surprised o and Jeno nods, feigning petulance, “He made me spar him with added weights.”

“With added–” Taeyong whips around to glare at his fiancé, “Doyoung!”

Doyoung gapes, “It’s made him so much quicker!”

Taeyong shakes his head, “You’re overworking these kids.”

Doyoung slumps in his chair, and Jeno moves to amend his answer before his Mentor dissolves further into despair, “Doyoung hyung’s actually one of the best at the Agency. I haven’t met anyone that’s been able to beat him in combat.”

Taeyong nibbles on a piece of radish, “I could beat him.”

Doyoung perks up at that, “What?”

“I could.” Taeyong shrugs when Doyoung stares, bewildered, “I’ve got tricks up my sleeves you don’t know about, honey.”

Jeno laughs, plays it off as a choking cough when Doyoung glares at him.

“That’d be cheating!”

A customer walks through the door then and Taeyong stands to greet them. Before he leaves however, he curls a hand around Doyoung’s neck and kisses the shell of Doyoung’s ear, making the younger boy cower once more, “I’ve never promised to play fair.”

Taeyong grins triumphantly and Jeno can’t help the laugh that bubbles through this time, blatantly enjoying the furious blush on Doyoung’s cheeks and the indignant look on his face. How love can so easily melt Doyoung, owner of one of the coldest souls to ever grace the Agency, Jeno finds that far too amusing.

—

Taeyong sends him home with enough slices of cake for more than Jeno could ever think of eating so naturally–naturally–he finds himself standing out in the hall. Which, retrospectively, is where he’s been standing a lot lately. In his left hand is a plate of three different kinds of cakes, specialties to Yong’s Pâtisserie, and his right hand is a fist hovering over the door to 502.

Jeno licks his lips, heart beating a little quicker in his chest. He doesn’t know if offering cake to his neighbor at eight in the evening fits within normal neighborly customs. Quite frankly, being locked away in the world of the Agency and Contracts has deadened Jeno’s sense on normality.

For one, he knows definitely that the PHK still strapped to his torso can’t possibly be a possession so ordinary.

Maybe I should leave it at home. Jeno lowers his fist, thinks to unarm himself before speaking with Injun. Another voice chimes in, But what if you need it?

Jeno debates it for a moment more, decides eventually that, in any case, there wouldn’t be a reason for Injun to come close enough to feel the telltale bump under his sweater. If it does ever get to that, Donghyuck once told an old lady that his PHK was a pacemaker–never mind that he’s seventy years younger than the average user of one–and ran off before she could voice her very reasonable concerns.

He could always say that too.

The door is answered fairly quickly after Jeno’s knocking, and Injun’s peeks out slowly. Once he sees it’s Jeno, however, a smile lights his face and the door is swung open. Unlike their last encounter in the hallway, Injun’s dressed comfortably in a large black shirt and shorts, glasses nowhere to be seen.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Jeno temporarily forgets his reason for knocking. Injun looks at him expectantly, kindly. He finds words, “A friend of mine made me some extra cakes and he gave me a few too many… I was wondering if–or well, I thought to share them with you.”

Injun looks at the assortment on the plate, then up at Jeno, “With me?”

Jeno pauses. He’d phrased that wrongly, Give them to you.

“Sure,” Injun beams, before Jeno can correct himself. He opens the door a little wider, “Would you–would you like to come in then?”

Jeno doesn’t see why not.

“Okay.”

Injun’s apartment is larger than Jeno’s. For one thing, it isn’t a studio. There’s a hallway down the left of the apartment that breaks into two rooms. The living room is only slightly bigger, enough to fit a proper two-seater couch and a coffee table. On the wall across it is a decent-sized flat screen TV, and a few gaming consoles hooked up to it.

An expensive, but otherwise average, apartment for a university student.

“Would you like something to drink?” Injun asks, rounding the marble-top island in the middle of the kitchen. His fingers are laced together, resting on the counter, an almost anxious smile on his lips, “Tea? Hot chocolate?”

Jeno shakes his head, “That’s fine, thank you.”

Injun pours him a glass of water anyway, “I thought I’d only be seeing you on Friday.”

Is he looking forward to that? Jeno’s ears warm up at the idea of Injun being–excited to see him again. As if their small encounters in the halls are leading up to something–more.

He marvels when Jeno rests the plate on the counter, eyeing each of the cakes, “These look so good–did your friend really make these?”

“He runs a bakery,” Jeno says, as Injun turns to get forks for them both.

“A bakery, that sounds really impressive.” Injun licks his lips, ponders, “Even with pre-mixes, I could never get the densities right for any kind of cake.”

On the tip his tongue, Jeno wants to say that it isn’t run by someone their age or in their season, but chooses otherwise. Doyoung’d told him to live as if Taeyong doesn’t exist, he should do as he’s told. Instead, he points at the cakes, “Do you have a favorite?”

Injun considers the question seriously, sighs, “I can’t pick. They all look equally too impressive to be eaten.”

“Chocolate then,” Jeno suggests. He pushes it to Injun, lets him have the first bite. Injun does, savoring it slowly, “Is it good?”

“Really good.” He gives it a thumbs up, turns it back to Jeno, “You should have some too.”

Jeno takes a bite himself, understanding immediately the craze over Yong’s Pâtisserie. He twirls the fork between his fingers, “Did you have to work today?”

“I did,” Injun nods. He scoops himself a bigger bite of the cake, “I usually only take a couple of afternoon and evening shifts after my classes, but a really large rush order came in over the weekend, so I told my manager I wouldn’t mind helping out a little more,” he shrugs, smiling.

“A rush order?”

“It’s for a wedding this weekend,” Injun explains. “From the centerpieces to the bride’s bouquet and the husband’s boutonnière, that’s all we’ve been working on at the store lately.” Jeno chips away at the cake diligently as Injun continues, “They’re all beautiful flowers we get to work with, but I just hope they’ll all be ready for the wedding.”

Jeno nibbles on the tip of his fork, “Did you need any help?”

Injun blinks, hand frozen where he’d been intent on staling the piece of white chocolate atop the cake. Jeno watches him swallow thickly, throat working, “Help?”

“I mean,” Jeno doesn’t know what he’s doing, “I have some free time on my hands… I don’t know much about flowers, but if you ever needed an extra set of arms to ferry plants–I could–uhm, help?”

Injun’s jaw drops, “You would do that?”

Somewhere in Jeno, he realizes that No, he would absolutely not do this. If he’d been in this spot two months ago, he wouldn’t have even considered the idea of being in his neighbor’s apartment. He would’ve been out with Donghyuck, or cooped up in the Agency, running through trainings, filing away at Contracts. He would’ve had dinner with Jaemin or any other UA unfortunate enough to still be stuck in the Agency past eight in the evening. His life revolves around the Agency, there’s nothing that could possibly matter, that could possibly be any important to him.

But Injun.

Injun has nothing to with the Agency. He has nothing to do with the executions, the training, the life Jeno’s come to know, the only thing he lets himself know. His interactions with Injun have been the only ones that aren’t tied to the Agency–even speaking to Taeyong had Jeno thinking about work. There is virtually no escape from the Agency, from the impending Contracts and Evaluations, there’s no living in the now.

“Jeno?”

He snaps his head back up, unaware that he’d been staring at the ground for too long a time. Injun brings him back to now. Without any ties to the Agency, Injun feels like a breath of fresh air, like Jeno had never thought he’d be able to breathe, never thought there was even a chance of it. 

“Sorry,” he says, cold sweat forming on his palms, “I don’t know what I’m saying, I–”

“No, no–”

In his haste, Injun’s fork goes flying out of his hand. Jeno ducks on instinct when it hurtles towards his face, and it hits the ground with a splatter of chocolate cake against the porcelain tiles. Jeno crouches to pick it up as Injun appears with a paper towel; their hands brush. Jeno doesn’t falter at the contact, but he does hover when Injun drops the paper roll, visibly surprised.

Slowly, Injun lifts his eyes. Jeno locks every limb, watching Injun with the same intent. Injun’s cheeks color a rosy pink when his eyes drop to Jeno’s lips, a drop so distressingly obvious that there was no chance Injun thought it would go by Jeno unnoticed.

“Uhm,” it comes out like a whisper. Jeno clears his throat, which effectively breaks the trance Injun seemed to be in, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Injun crushes the paper towel in his right hand, and Jeno spots a dark birthmark on the back of it. Injun turns away, “Yes, sorry–I was just–trying to thank you,” he breathes, still avoiding Jeno’s eyes, “for offering, and that I would really–appreciate it if you ever came by to help out.”

Jeno grips the fork a little tighter, “Really? Would that be okay?”

Injun nods, clearing up the bits of chocolate. When he stands, Jeno follows, catching Injun’s attention again, “I’ll have to ask my manager about it, but I think she’d be happy to have an extra set of hands on deck.” He hurries to add, “Of course, only if you still want to. And if you have the time, I mean.”

Over paperwork, avoiding hand-to-hand combat sessions with his current sparring partner SA Kim Rowoon (who towers easily over Jeno without question), and trying to find more ways to avoid Donghyuck, spending some time outside the Agency didn’t seem all that bad an idea.

Injun takes the fork from Jeno with a quiet thank you. He gives it a clean, then returns to the island, “Are you–do you have any experience with taking care of flowers?”

“Oh.” Jeno regards the slice of strawberry shortcake with interest, “I didn’t really think about that.”

“That’s okay,” Injun’s lips pull up at the corners. A weight lies heavy in Jeno’s chest, “I could teach you. How to put the flowers together for the centerpieces, it’s nothing fancy, really.”

Jeno takes a small bite of the shortcake, head spinning, “I’m looking forward to it.”

The blush returns. Injun offers timid smile, sparking a bloom of warmth in Jeno’s lungs. He forks another piece of cake into his mouth, suddenly at a loss of what to say.

–

Contract 42h.

Jeno hates it when he has to scale buildings, especially without harness, but Chenle doesn’t see any other opportunity for entry, so he goes. The window ledges on some floors are clean, the others covered in a thick layer of dust, but Jeno doesn’t mind it; he turns his brain off for the moment until he’s pulling himself up onto the rooftop, catching his breath.

“Target en route.”

Jeno hurries.

He pulls the sniper out of the sling behind him, doing a quick sweep before waiting on the next command.

“Hotel on your right.”

Crossing the rooftop, Jeno picks the corner and rests the end of the sniper on out, kneeling on one knee for stability. His palm print activates the microdermal sensors, the same blue lights coming alive on the side.

“Black SUV.”

Jeno pulls away from the scope, focused now on the car pulling up. It stops right by the entrance, a valet dressed in black suit coming forward to open the door on their behalf. Out alone walks a man, hair slicked back, shoes shined to the nines.

“No detail,” Chenle confirms, probably checking through the security cameras on the street and thermal satellites. There’s silence over the line as the figure disappears into the building, then Chenle’s cool voice, “Clear.”

Jeno adjusts his stance, recalling the profile of the top of his head–thirty-five-year-old male, one of the loose ends from another Contract the Agency has deemed too big of a threat to ignore; currently hiding out in one of the most expensive hotels on the outskirts of the city, level twenty-eight, corner window, his bedroom.

“Five.”

Through the scope, Jeno has a clear view of the man’s bed, neatly made with the sheets tucked under the mattress. He positions his aim to the foot of the bed, considering a replacement mattress would be easier for Extraction rather than having blood be scrubbed off by hand. He takes a deep breath, waits for Chenle to resume the countdown.

Jeno didn’t really like long-range executions. He didn’t like not being on the scene, unable to hear every click in the walls and every creak in the floorboards. There’s a different sort of power in his hands whenever he could see the target face-to-face, a smaller margin of error. It’s in his control, unlike a far shot, which constrained him to a single shot.

The man is in the room not long after Chenle says one. Jeno rests his forefinger on the trigger, the hum of the sniper against his chest. The bullets are ice, efficient and invisible, made of deaerated water and shaped to a point. Jeno wets his lips, unblinking as the man paces the room.

“Sight?”

Jeno steadies, “Affirmative.”

There’s a pause. Then, “M command: Fire, Agent.”

Jeno holds his breath. Unlike the blurry picture on his profile, Jeno notes the heavy-framed glassed, probably a weak attempt at a disguise.  The man takes two steps towards the bed, undoing the cuffs of his striped shirt. The blue and white and undone buttons stir something in Jeno, but the target is affirmed. He exhales–and pulls the trigger.

“Received. Extraction in two.”

—

“Who’re you texting?”

Jeno tucks his phone away and rises to his feet, “Nobody.”

Across him, Nine–or more warmly known as Jaemin–gives him an incredulous look. His bottle is hanging from his hand loosely, empty after their two-hour workout. It’s series of cardio and functional training that has them both tired out, but the sore muscles are always worth the pain by the end of it.

Jaemin rests his head against the row of metal lockers, staring up at Jeno in disbelief, “You just lied to me.”

Jeno sighs, pulling free a separate bag of clean clothes from his locker, “I’m not lying, Jaem.”

“You just lied to me again!” Jaemin shifts lazily along the bench to get a closer look at Jeno’s face.

It’s things like these that makes Jeno happy they’re in different specializations.

While most of his work revolved around physicality and most often required dealing with more tangible aspects, Intelligence Agentshandled mental games and focused on the intangibles–like facial expressions and behavioral cues. Intelligence UAs did more training on data surveillance and the reading of human behavior, the art of blending in and the skills needed for them to complete their Contracts without casualties; Execution UAs focused on familiarizing themselves with firearms and perfecting aim, hiding completely in the shadows and working forward without much context.

Na Jaemin–one of Jeno’s few and well-cherished friends–is one out of the five Intelligence UAs. Tall with platinum blonde hair–which he’d insisted on dyeing in order to assimilate into the environment his last Contract was based in–and sharp features that play into his wildly good looks; the asset he uses as a distraction on a daily basis.

He’d first been a friend of Donghyuck’s during their TA days, but after accepting Donghyuck’s friendship, Jeno found Jaemin warming up to him too. The three of them trained long and hard together, forging a friendship that’d become formidable and unbreakable–even with the current spat between Donghyuck and Jaemin.

“Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill,” Jeno says, keeping his tone leveled. Jaemin had a knack for picking up the slightest of leaks in expressions and words, making it quite often a Herculean task to keep anything from the perceptive Agent. He grabs a clean towel from the rack, throwing it over his shoulder, “I’m leaving.”

“How long have we been friends, hm?”

Jaemin asks this with purpose, grabbing a towel for himself and catching up to Jeno without much effort. He speaks with such animation and charm that Jeno pities all of Jaemin’s Contracts; falling into the unsuspecting hand of a pretty boy and divulging their deepest, darkest secrets to an Agent.

“I expected more from our friendship, Jen.” Jaemin sighs dramatically, large eyes imploring when Jeno glances at him, “Aren’t we friends? Best of friends?”

Jeno rolls his eyes, “I get now why Hyuck doesn’t like hanging out with you.”

“Please,” Jaemin snorts, “He’s just mad because I beat him in combat.” He taps his chin with a long, slender finger, “Which, by the way, has he yet mentioned when he’d be getting over that? I’ll have to put a mark on my calendar.”

“Well, it happened two weeks ago, so–I’d say you still have a couple more years to go.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Jaemin intones. He stretches his hands over his head with a small groan, “He sent me a text the other day, you know, about how happy you all were–making dumplings without me.” He pouts, “I was hurt.”

Jeno disregards it; he knows Donghyuck’d sent Jisung down to Jaemin’s department with a box of dumplings and a note from Chenle on how long to have it heated up in the microwave.

“Maybe you’d think about that the next time you decide to throw Lee Donghyuck down face first in front of the entire cohort.”

“It was a match. What did he expect me to do? Let him win?”

“I don’t know,” Jeno sighs. “You do know SSA Seo was watching, don’t you?”

Jaemin wrinkles his nose, “And?”

“And we all have Evaluations coming up.” Jeno twists the towel in his hands, “Getting smacked around isn’t going to make the assessment any easier. Hyuck’s been torturing himself with combat against Agent Jung over it.”

Jaemin groans, “I know. Jisung oh-so-casually mentioned it to me and told me of his boyfriend duties to ice Donghyuck’s bruises every night while Chenle was instructed to keep Hyuck’s feet elevated.”

“He’s the King, haven’t you heard?”

They map their way to the UAs’ shower room; an almost eerie similarity to the Labyrinth with its white walls and tiled floors. Jeno takes the corner stall and draws the plastic curtain before Jaemin can insist on stepping into the same one.

“Look, why don’t you just talk to him about it?” Jeno says. “I’m sure he’ll find some way to make you pay for the embarrassment you–and I quote–bestowed upon him.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” Jaemin wails, takes the shower beside Jeno’s. The water starts to run and their voices float above the steam, “He’s acting as if I died on a Contract and never made it back. I even sent him health packets and Ginseng and one of those expensive little plush toys they sell at pharmacies, but he’s dead set on not forgiving me–I don’t even know what to do anymore.”

“Seriously, give him a couple of years.”

“You’re so helpful.”

“Fine then–let’s have dinner together when Donghyuck gets back. All of us.” Jeno continues before Jaemin can think to interrupt, “I’ll convince him to it, and it’ll be nice to have everyone together again.”

“That’s more like it,” Jaemin approves. He goes on disdainfully, “But don’t think I haven’t realized how you’re trying to change the subject.”

Jeno frowns, “You asked about Hyuck.”

“And you answered. Now answer this–who were you texting?”

“Like I said,” Jeno sighs, “nobody.”

“Liar!” Jaemin accuses, “You’re just riddled with lies now, aren’t you, Seven?”

“You’re being ridiculous.” But he’s not a stranger to Jaemin’s insistent persistence, forcing Jeno to yield, “It’s just my neighbor, alright?”

“Your neighbor,” Jaemin echoes incredulously. “I wasn’t aware you knew of your neighbors’ existence, much less made contact with one of them.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Jeno says, for what feels like the hundredth time this hour. “I bumped into him a couple of times, and we’ve just–sort of became friends, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Yes,” Jeno shampoos his hair. It smells like peach; it used to be mango-scented, “Now stop asking about it, you’re going to give yourself a headache.”

“Lee Jeno, if you expect me to shut up after you’ve revealed the fact that you’ve gotten yourself a boyfriend for as long as I’ve known you, you really don’t know me and your best friend card has been revoked.”

Boyfriend.

“What are you–I said he’s just a friend, Jaem.” For once, Jeno’s glad he’s stuck in the shower because having this conversation while looking at Jaemin’s shit-eating grin would be downright impossible, “You’re being–”

“Oh, come on,” Jaemin interjects, “You’ve been glued to your phone since stepping into the Agency and you’ve been smiling to yourself like you’ve gone mad.”

“You’re insane.” Jeno shuts the water and dries himself off, rather vigorously, “He’s just someone I met, okay?”

“That’s exactly it! You, Lee Jeno, don’t meet people. You don’t even notice that boy working in the Starbucks across the street from here, flinging heart eyes at every chance he’s got–how did you of all people manage to befriend your neighbor?”

Jeno slips quickly into his clothes, towel slung across his shoulders, “What boy?”

“Case in point.” Jeno emerges from his stall first, moving to sit on the bench pushed up against the adjacent wall. Jaemin’s water runs, then closes, “For the sake of moving forward, let’s say that this new boy you’ve met is a friend and not a potential boyfriend–what’s he like? Is he taller, is that your type, Jen?”

“Is this really the place to have this discussion?”

“I’m sorry, did you want to wait until we were both old and graying?”

Jeno groans, “You can’t really want to know about him.”

Jaemin peeks from behind his shower curtain, hair slicked back, “I actually do.”

Jeno sighs, motions to dismiss him. Jaemin pops back into the stall and Jeno fiddles with the hem of the bath towel, “His name is Injun and he just moved into the building. I gave SA Kim a write-up and he cleared the background check.”

“What does he look like? Is he cute?”

Jeno rolls his eyes, “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“It’s sweet that you think I’m doing this for my own benefit.” There’s the sound of Jaemin’s towel flapping around, “How did you get his number?”

“I’m–I offered to help out at his work place.”

Jaemin pushes the shower curtain aside, revealing himself to be in a white cotton tee and comfy sweatpants. His expression distinctly unimpressed, “I’m going to need more information.”

In a single breath, Jeno recounts everything for Jaemin, worn down by Jaemin’s incessant questions to keep it to himself any longer. Besides, if he couldn’t go to Donghyuck for advice on this new addition in his life, Jaemin was equally profound in the art of processing thoughts and emotions.

Not of his own free will, the Agency did know of Jaemin’s boyfriend too; for his Mentor, SA Kim HB was notorious for being a perfectionist, and he’d dug through every single aspect of Jaemin’s life long before he was even assigned to the Agent. It was inescapable when SSA Seo sat Jaemin down one day, asked him politely if he really was dating Agent Lee over in Specialized Communications.

Official Agent Lee Minhyung, on his first year as an official employee of the Agency after just having completed his time as a UA. He currently operates in a different directorate, under Communications, as one of the liaisons to organizations outside the Agency. Minhyung, dark-haired with godly body proportions, is one of the most well-known Agents, thanks to the nature of his job, interacting with government officials and respected entities.

A lot like a glorified public relations specialist, Jaemin once said.

“You’re basically going out with him then,” Jaemin says, following Jeno back out into the hallway. He brushes off Jeno’s spluttering, “You’re not just helping out as a friend, Jen. There’s no way! I don’t see you clambering over desks to help me with paperwork.”

“That’s different,” Jeno points out, “I know just how much you love paperwork.”

“Avoid it all you want, but you know I’m right,” Jaemin sing-songs. Jeno rolls his eyes and lengthens his strides, beating Jaemin to the locker room, “Love doesn’t always start out like you’ve been hit by a truck, you know?”

Jeno unlocks his locker, “Is that how you felt when you first saw Minhyung?”

“He spilled scalding hot coffee on me,” Jaemin works on his own locker a compartment away, “I remember wishing he was run over by a truck.”

“How romantic.”

“All I’m saying is–it’s a lonely job, being an Agent.”

Why does everyone keep saying that to me? Jeno grouses internally. He tucks the bag of dirty workout clothes away and pulls free the holster, fastening it to his torso, thin leather over his cotton shirt.

“Aren’t you the least bit interested in him?”

“No.” Jaemin looks up from adjusting his own holster, smart eyes scanning Jeno intently. Jeno ignores it and slides his PHK into place, “At least, not in the way you’re expecting me to be.”

“I’m not expecting you to be anything,” Jaemin reveals his own PBH 119, fastening it on snugly, “As your best friend, I’m just telling you my honest opinion.”

“That you think it’s weird I’ve made a friend outside the Agency.”

Jaemin gives him a look, “Can you blame me?”

Jeno knows he really can’t. He throws on a sweater, carefully concealing the handgun. He’d agreed to heading by Xi’s to help Injun out for a couple of hours today. It’d been a debate against himself the entire night, but Jeno’d figured that with the shop so close to the Agency, he’d better be armed lest an emergency is called in and he’s found without his PHK.

“Why don’t you invite him to dinner with us? If he’s new to the area, he could use a couple more friends.”

Jeno shuts his locker, “Are you being serious?”

Jaemin shrugs, “I don’t see what the big deal is. He’s just a friend, isn’t he?”

“Donghyuck was right.” Jeno gives him one last scathing look, “You really are the worst.”

–

“–and you can lay them out along the table when you’re done.”

Jeno stares at the spread of flowers across the wooden workbench. The roses and peonies are easy to pick apart, but the others never existed to Jeno before this very second.

Injun laughs, “You look really worried.”

“I–” Jeno scratches the back of his neck, smiling anxiously, “I don’t want to mess up.”

“I trust you won’t,” Injun says.

Jeno doesn’t quite believe in Injun’s faith but continues to listen anyway as he’s brought around the backroom of Xi’s, learning of where the extra shears are kept, the first-aid box, and other miscellaneous things Jeno might need. Injun, on the other hand, seems oblivious to Jeno’s concern, enthusiastically showing Jeno the ropes for his temporary venture into botany.

“Before I forget!” Injun spins on his feet, rummaging through one of many boxes pied high. He turns back around with a brown apron, holding it out for Jeno, “This is for you.”

“Oh, I don’t really think I need a–”

“I know,” Injun says, but steps towards Jeno. He loops the top over Jeno’s head, “It really doesn’t seem like you’ll get your clothes dirty, but trust me–you will.”

The corner of Jeno’s lip twitch, “Are you speaking from experience?”

“Maybe.”

Injun steps closer, arms going around Jeno’s waist to tie the apron on. Jeno sucks in a deep breath, practically trying to have his PHK dissolve into his gut, and when he does, he takes in nothing but that same scent of lavender Injun always has on him, like new clothes and fresh laundry. Jeno eats the rock in his throat, eyes wandering down the curve of Injun’s nose as Injun finishes up tying the apron on for him.

From this close, Injun’s hair looks even softer to touch.

“There,” Injun says, moving away and tugging on the apron once. He gives Jeno a satisfied smile, blissfully unaware of the fact that Jeno has been holding his breath for the past fifteen seconds. “I’ll have to man the front; will you be okay alone back here?”

“Yes.”

Injun looks at him for a moment, thoughts flying behind his eyes that Jeno can’t read. He stretches out his hand, petite fingers curving around Jeno’s arm, squeezing it once, “Please don’t look so worried, you’re already doing us great help by being here.”

Jeno nods, unable to speak. Not with his heart in his mouth.

“Do you have any questions?”

Throat dry, he shakes his head.

Injun squeezes his arm again, offers another reassuring smile, “Just call me if you need me, okay?”

Jeno nods, and after Injun leaves, he curses Na Jaemin in his mind.

With the thought planted in his head, Jeno can’t help but react to the slightest movements Injun made, from his habit of licking his lips to the times he’s caught Injun humming under his breath. The blushes on his cheeks Jeno insists are thanks to the shining sun and the way he tugged on his sweaters whenever he spoke to customers, Jeno shoves them out of his mind and begins to work.

Trimming flowers while thinking about his neighbor five feet away is fine.

It’s absolutely fine.