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Haechan never believed in love.
Love was fickle, he thought. Love was built on borrowed time, on people’s whims, on feelings that changed with the seasons. He had seen it break, seen it fall apart. His parents’ marriage crumbled into silence. His past relationships wilted under the weight of expectations. And the worst of it—the way his last love had betrayed him, leaving him to pick up the piece of himself.
So no, Haechan didn’t believe in love.
But Mark did.
Mark believed in th e sunrise, in the certainty of morning light spilling over rooftops. He spoke about it like it was a living, breathing thing—tangible, real, constant.
Haechan had spent so much of his life avoiding love, but Mark made it possible to ignore. He showed it in ways that weren’t grand, and weren't theatrical. They were just… there. Just Mark.
It was in the way he always brought Haechan coffee in the mornings, even when Haechan grumbled that he could get it himself. “I know,” Mark would say, grinning, pushing the cup to his hands. “But I like doing it for you.”
It was in the way Mark reached for Haechan’s hands absentmindedly, even when no one was looking. A simple squeeze, a brush of fingers. Little things that made Haechan’s breath catch because Mark did them so naturally, like loving Haechan was second nature.
It was in his words, too—carefully chosen, yet effortless. “You look good today,” he’d say without hesitation. “I’m proud of you,” he’d whisper when Haechan accomplished even the smallest thing. And when Haechan doubted himself, Mark would tilt his head, with a soft expression, and say, “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”
Acts of service. Physical touch. Words of affirmation.
And then there were the gifts. Mark never showered him with expensive things, never tried to buy his love. Instead, he gifted Haechan small, thoughtful things—a book the younger mentioned in the past. A playlist named ‘ For When You Forget How To Breathe ’ filled with songs that sounded like home.
But maybe Haechan’s undoing, the thing that made his chest ache the most, was Mark’s time.
Mark gave it so freely, never asking for anything in return. He was there when Haechan needed to vent about a bad day, even if it was 2 AM. He sat with him in comfortable silence, legs tangled on the couch, just existing together. He made time, even when he was busy, even when he was tired, even when Haechan was pushing him away.
And when Haechan asked, he was even hesitant, “Why are you all doing this?” Mark just smiled at him, making his answer so obvious.
“Because I love you.”
No hesitation. No doubt.
Haechan felt it then, something shifting inside him something soft and terrifying all at once. Because Mark loved him, and Mark had never asked for anything in return. He didn’t demand Haechan to love him back, didn’t set a deadline, didn’t make it conditional. He just… loved.
And maybe that was what made Haechan want to try. That was what made Haechan want to believe in love again.
—
Mark’s arms are warm around him. They’re curled up on the couch, sharing a blanket, a movie playing in the background that neither of them are really watching. Haechan watches Mark instead, his head tilted back against cushions, his eyes half-lidded with sleep.
“You always do this,” Haechan murmurs.
Mark cracks one eye open, “Do what?”
“Give.”
A slow smile tugs at Mark’s lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Haechan sighs. “It’s not.” He hesitates before adding, “I just don’t know how to… do that. The way you do.”
Mark hums, shifting to face him, “You already do,” he says easily, “you just don’t realize it.”
Haechan frowns. “How?”
Mark reaches out, poking Haechan’s cheeks lightly before tapping his own chest. “The way you listen. The way you remember things about me. The way you check in when you know I’ve had a long day.” He grins. “The way you pretend you don’t like cats but stop to pet every single one we pass.”
Haechan groans, shoving Mark lightly. “That is not a love language.”
“It is if you’re the one doing it,” Mark’s voice softens, “Love isn’t just about big, grand gestures, Haechan. It’s in the details. The quiet moments.” He nudges their noses together, a playful eskimo kiss. “You already love. You just don’t know it yet.”
Haechan swallows. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t pull away either.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
—
It happens slowly, so slowly that Haechan doesn’t even realize it at first.
He starts bringing Mark coffee, memorizing exactly how he takes it. He starts reaching for Mark’ hand first, starts saying thank you instead of brushing off his affections. He finds himself smiling when Mark sends him a random “I miss you” text in the middle of the day, instead of overthinking what it means.
One night, when Mark is exhausted and half-asleep, Haechan murmurs, “I’m proud of you,” and Mark barely stirs but his lips twitch into a smile.
And then, one morning, Mark wakes up to Haechan standing at the foot of the bed, holding out a small, wrapped box.
Mark blinks sleepily. “What’s this?”
Haechan shrugs, suddenly shy. “A gift.”
Mark perks up instantly, tearing the wrapping off with excitement. Inside is a leather-bound journal, filled with blank pages. He runs his fingers over the cover before looking up. “You got me a journal?”
Haechan shifts on his feet. “You always say you want to write things down but never have a notebook.” He clears his throat. “So… now you do.”
Mark stares at him for a long moment. Then, a slow, soft smile spreads across his face, and he sets the journal down before stepping forward, wrapping his arms around Haechan’s waist.
Haechan stands there for a moment, frozen, unsure of what to do with the warmth spreading across his chest. Mark’ words hang in the air between them, soft but certain, like a promise that Haechan had never dared to make for himself.
“You love me,” Mark says, and there’s a quiet kind of wonder in his voice. It’s not a question anymore; it’s just a fact.
Haechan’s throat feels tight, like the simple words he wants to say are stuck behind a wall of uncertainty. But Mark’ hands are warm at his sides, and the way Mark is looking at him, with so much patience and affection, feels like it’s wrapping him up in a way that finally makes the weight of the word love feel less terrifying.
“Yeah,” Haechan murmurs, barely above a whisper. His voice cracks slightly, but there’s something freeing about it, like a weight lifting off his chest. “I think I do.”
Mark’ eyes brighten at the confession, and Haechan watches, breath caught, as his lips curve into a soft, knowing smile. He’s standing so close now, close enough that Haechan can feel the heat of his breath, the rise and fall of Mark’ chest in sync with his own.
Without a word, Mark closes the distance between them, his hands moving up to gently cup Haechan’s face. His touch is light, reverent, like he’s afraid Haechan might disappear if he holds him too tightly. But there’s no hesitation in the way Mark leans in, the way his lips hover just above Haechan’s.
And then, without warning, Mark presses a soft kiss to the corner of Haechan’s mouth—a gentle brush of his lips that feels like the beginning of something. Haechan’s heart flutters, his entire body reacting to the touch, but it’s not enough. He doesn’t want it to be just a fleeting moment.
Haechan, eyes fluttering closed, pulls Mark in closer, his hands threading through Mark’s hair as he finally meets Mark’s lips with his own. It’s slow at first, tentative, as if they’re both testing the waters, unsure but desperate to find the truth between them. Mark’s lips are warm, soft against his, and the kiss deepens, slow and steady, as if the world around them has stopped and there’s nothing left but the two of them.
Mark’s arms move around Haechan’s waist, drawing him even closer, and Haechan’s hand slides up to the back of Mark’s neck, holding him there, as if he’s afraid to let go, afraid of losing this feeling that’s too new, too real.
When they finally pull away, breathless and a little dazed, Mark rests his forehead against Haechan’s. His thumb traces over Haechan’s cheekbone, his gaze never leaving Haechan’s face.
“You’re not the only one who loves you, Haechan,” Mark says softly, his voice a tender whisper.
Haechan’s chest tightens at the sincerity in Mark’s words. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the moment wash over him. Maybe love didn’t have to be so complicated. Maybe it was just about being here—together, in this moment, with all the messy, imperfect parts of each other.
“I think I’m finally starting to understand,” Haechan replies, his voice steady now. He opens his eyes, meeting Mark’z gaze with the same certainty he’s finally found within himself.
Mark smiles, pulling Haechan in for another kiss, and this time, it’s not slow or careful. It’s deep, and hungry, and full of everything Haechan’s ever needed but never had the courage to ask for.
Maybe love was messy, maybe it was complicated, but in this moment, it was also simple. It was Mark, and Haechan, and everything that had led them here—together.
And Haechan was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, love could be the easiest thing in the world after all.