Chapter Text
Dunk isn’t exactly crying when Joong finds him curled up on his own couch. But he’s got that look in his eyes—blank, but also a little too shiny. The TV’s on mute. There’s an untouched glass of whiskey on the coffee table. And Dunk, always so put-together, is wearing mismatched socks and a hoodie Joong left behind weeks ago.
Joong closes the door softly behind him and toes off his sneakers. He doesn’t say are you okay? because he knows the answer.
Instead, he says, “Your fridge smells like something died in it, by the way.”
Dunk makes a sound—a soft, tired huff that might be a laugh. “Good. Maybe I’ll die too, and the vibe will match.”
Joong kicks the bottom of the couch. “Don’t say that.”
Dunk shrugs, pulling his knees closer to his chest. “It was a joke.”
“No, it was sad.”
“I’m allowed to be sad,” Dunk mutters, voice too flat for someone who used to light up every room without trying. “My mom told me I’m a disappointment this morning. My dad just forwarded me an article titled ‘How To Turn a Failing Life Around in 5 Steps.’ Step one was ‘stop being lazy.’”
Joong’s jaw tightens. “They’re assholes.”
Dunk doesn’t argue.
Joong walks over, takes the glass of whiskey, and downs it himself. Then he sets it back down and flops onto the couch beside Dunk, their thighs pressed together.
“You want to get drunk?” Joong asks. “Watch something dumb? Order food?”
Dunk leans his head on Joong’s shoulder. “I don’t want to talk.”
“Okay.”
“I just want to feel…not this.”
Joong’s heart skips a beat.
Dunk smells like coconut shampoo and low-level despair. The kind that lingers, like a ghost pressing fingers into your ribs from the inside. Joong knows the feeling. He’s known it for years. But seeing it on Dunk—it breaks something.
“I can help with that,” Joong says before he can stop himself.
Dunk’s head tilts up slightly. His black eyes are shiny in the dark.
“Yeah?”
Joong swallows. Nods.
And just like that, it begins.
---
They don’t kiss like a first kiss. There’s no hesitation, no shyness. Dunk pulls him in like he’s done it a hundred times, like he’s starving and Joong’s already home. Joong kisses back with more care than he wants to admit—less hungry, more gentle. Like he wants to remember this later.
Dunk pulls away first. “Don’t be nice,” he mutters. “I don’t want nice. I want to forget.”
Joong freezes.
Then he says, “Okay.”
---
It’s fast. Messy. A blur of hands and mouths and breathless curses. Dunk claws at Joong’s shirt like he wants to rip it, like he needs something to hold onto. Joong gives him everything.
When it’s over, Dunk doesn’t speak. Just curls into Joong’s side, sweaty and warm, face buried against his collarbone.
Joong stays very still.
If he moves, he might say something stupid like I love you.
If he breathes wrong, he might ask Do you feel better now? Do you feel anything for me at all?
Instead, he stares at the ceiling and lets the weight of Dunk’s body burn itself into his skin.
---
The next morning, Joong wakes up alone.
There’s a note on the kitchen counter in Dunk’s messy handwriting:
Thanks. I needed that. Let’s pretend it never happened?
Joong reads it five times.
Then he crumples it in his fist and throws it into the trash.
---
Later that day, Dunk texts him a meme.
Joong replies with a dumb GIF.
And the next time Dunk says I need to forget again, Joong doesn’t hesitate.
---
It becomes a pattern. No cuddling. No staying over. No talking about what it means. Dunk texts late at night, or shows up at Joong’s apartment unannounced. Always with that tired look in his eyes. Always with that same request.
Joong plays it cool.
He makes jokes. He acts like he’s fine. Like it’s just fun. Like this is what he wants, too.
But every time Dunk falls asleep beside him, Joong lies awake staring at the ceiling, trying not to love him more.
Spoiler: it never works.
---
One night, Dunk’s sprawled on Joong’s bed wearing nothing but Joong’s oversized t-shirt and socks, scrolling through his phone.
“You ever wonder if we’re messed up?” he asks.
Joong shrugs, turning over onto his side to face him. “Aren’t all the fun people messed up?”
“Yeah, but like. We’re specifically stupid. We hook up and pretend we’re not.”
Joong laughs, but his chest tightens. “It’s mutual therapy, babe. We’re being efficient.”
Dunk snorts. “Right. Sex therapy. Dr. Joong Archen, at your service.”
Joong props himself up on one elbow. “Want to roleplay that next time?”
Dunk throws a pillow at him. Joong catches it.
They both laugh.
And for a second, it almost feels like a real relationship. Until Joong remembers it’s not.
---
A week later, Dunk disappears.
No texts. No late-night knocks. Nothing.
Joong doesn’t ask. He wants to. He nearly does.
But Dunk made the rules. And Joong, idiot that he is, agreed to them.
He just didn’t expect to fall in love with every piece of a boy who only wants to feel nothing.
---
---
The silence lasts six days.
Joong doesn’t count—he just happens to know it’s six because he’s checked his phone way more than a chill person should. He tells himself Dunk’s probably busy. Or maybe sleeping. Or maybe he finally realized sleeping with your friend is a dumb, emotionally hazardous idea.
And honestly? Fair.
Still sucks, though.
When Dunk finally shows up, it’s with a plastic bag full of snacks and that sheepish look he wears when he’s about to ask for something he doesn’t think he deserves.
“I brought shrimp chips,” he says, holding up the bag like an offering. “Peace treaty?”
Joong leans against the doorway. “Was there a war I didn’t know about?”
Dunk shifts his weight. “No. I just—got weird. Needed to go quiet for a bit.”
Joong opens the door wider. “You want to talk about it?”
Dunk walks in. “Not really.”
Joong locks the door behind him and sighs. “Yeah. I figured.”
---
They sit on the floor of Joong’s apartment, surrounded by bags of chips, a half-finished soda, and a pile of unspoken things.
Dunk’s wearing his usual oversized hoodie, sleeves pulled over his hands. His knees are drawn up to his chest. He looks smaller than usual, like the world’s been pressing too hard on him again.
Joong nudges a snack toward him. “Your parents?”
“Yeah. And work. And life. And maybe I’m just clinically allergic to happiness.”
Joong hums. “That’s rough. You should sleep with someone hot about it.”
Dunk looks up at him. His expression is unreadable for a beat. Then: “You offering?”
Joong grins. “Always.”
---
They don’t even make it to the bedroom this time.
It’s quick, a little desperate, like they’re both afraid of thinking too much. Joong kisses him slow anyway. Out of habit. Out of love. Dunk pulls him closer and closes his eyes like Joong’s the only safe place left in the world.
When they’re done, Dunk buries his face in Joong’s chest and doesn’t move.
“You good?” Joong asks softly.
Dunk nods against his skin. “Better. Thanks.”
Joong closes his eyes. He wishes he could say something funny, something that would make this feel less serious. But there’s nothing to say that won’t give him away.
So instead, he just whispers, “Anytime.”
---
Three weeks in, they make rules.
“Just so we don’t get weird,” Dunk says, holding up three fingers like a boy scout.
Joong bites back a smile. “You’re already weird, but go on.”
“Rule one,” Dunk says, “no spending the night.”
Joong raises an eyebrow. “You fall asleep on me literally every time.”
“Fine. No intentionally spending the night.”
“Okay, rule one: don’t pretend this isn’t a sleepover with extra steps.”
Dunk snorts. “Rule two: no feelings.”
Joong’s smile tightens just a little. “Obviously.”
“Rule three: if either of us meets someone else, we stop. Immediately. No drama.”
Joong tries to laugh, but it feels like someone just cracked a rib inside his chest. “Sure. We’ll cross that heartbreak bridge when we get to it.”
Dunk flinches, just slightly.
“Bad joke,” Joong says quickly. “Ignore me.”
Dunk nods, but his eyes are too careful.
Joong forces a grin. “Rule four: no accidentally falling in love with me.”
Dunk laughs at that. “Please. You’d be the one catching feelings.”
Joong lies through his teeth. “Yeah, right.”
---
They don’t talk about the rules again.
But Joong thinks about them every damn night.
Especially when Dunk starts doing things that aren’t very casual hookup coded. Like bringing Joong his favorite smoothie on his way to work. Or texting good luck before Joong’s grad presentation. Or curling up in his lap post-sex, mumbling soft apologies for being “a little broken right now.”
Joong tells himself it’s fine. He can handle it.
He just has to remember the rules. Especially Rule Two.
No feelings.
---
One night, after too many drinks and a stupid movie marathon, they end up on Joong’s couch again.
Dunk is lying across him like a cat—head on his chest, legs dangling over the side, fingers idly tapping against Joong’s ribs.
Joong says, “You ever think we’re just making each other worse?”
Dunk hums. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—this. Us. Using each other as human emotional bandaids.”
Dunk shrugs. “Maybe. But it feels better than being alone.”
Joong’s heart sinks. “Yeah.”
Dunk shifts to look up at him. “Do you feel used?”
Joong meets his gaze. Lies again. “No. Do you?”
Dunk shakes his head. “No. I feel…safe.”
Joong has to close his eyes for a second.
He wants to say, You’re not using me. You’re breaking me in slow motion.
Instead, he says, “Good.”
And Dunk kisses him again.
---
Later that night, Dunk falls asleep first, face pressed to Joong’s chest.
Joong stays awake.
He counts the cracks forming under his ribs.
One for every time he lets Dunk use him to feel okay.
One for every time he lets himself hope Dunk will stay.
---
Joong wakes up to Dunk’s foot on his face.
This is not the romantic entanglement of his dreams.
“Hey,” he mumbles, shoving the leg off. “I’m not your pillow.”
“You were the warmest surface available,” Dunk replies without opening his eyes, voice raspy from sleep.
“Use a blanket like a normal human being.”
“I like the human heater I’ve got right here.” Dunk pats Joong’s chest like it’s a mattress. “You’re free. Efficient. And sometimes even nice to look at.”
Joong grins, even as something in his chest stings.
It’s dangerous, how easily Dunk can get away with saying things like that. How easily Joong lets him. How Dunk never means them the way Joong wants him to.
“Breakfast?” Joong offers, already swinging his legs over the couch.
Dunk yawns, flopping face-down into the cushion. “Only if you’re making eggs with that spicy soy sauce thing.”
“I always do.”
Dunk mumbles into the pillow. “You spoil me.”
Yeah, Joong thinks. And you don’t even know it.
---
They’re not dating.
Except Joong picks up Dunk’s favorite iced Americano on his way home.
And Dunk wears Joong’s hoodie to class, the one that hangs off his shoulders like it was made to fall off.
And they text all day—memes, complaints, the occasional "I can't breathe, help me" from Dunk when his family group chat gets too intense.
They’re not dating. But Joong’s neighbors have started smiling knowingly when they bump into the two of them at the mailboxes. Dunk never corrects them. He just loops an arm around Joong’s shoulder and leans in too close, all warmth and fake ease.
“You’re encouraging the rumors,” Joong grumbles one day after the lady in 3B winked at them.
“I like rumors,” Dunk says. “At least they mean people are paying attention.”
Joong can’t argue with that.
---
It happens one night after too much wine and not enough boundaries.
Dunk is pressed against Joong’s side, both of them half-dressed and flushed from too many slow touches. Joong’s thumb brushes over the dip of Dunk’s hip, and Dunk whispers, “Can I stay?”
It’s not the first time Dunk’s slept over.
But it feels different this time. Dunk isn’t already half-asleep. He’s looking at Joong like he wants to be chosen. Like he’s offering something he doesn’t know how to explain.
Joong’s heart lurches.
“Of course,” he says quietly. “You never have to ask.”
Dunk doesn’t say anything. Just buries his face in Joong’s neck, breathing in deep like Joong’s the only thing anchoring him to the planet.
Joong strokes a hand through Dunk’s hair, and thinks: I’m so screwed.
---
A week later, they’re at a party.
Dunk drags Joong out after Joong refuses to leave his apartment for two days straight.
“You’re becoming a hermit,” Dunk accuses, tugging him into a low-lit bar where everyone seems to know Dunk by name. “This is your intervention.”
Joong doesn’t say it, but the only reason he came was because Dunk asked.
They sit at the back, half-tipsy and leaning too close. At some point, someone tries to flirt with Joong—tall, pretty, confidently tipsy.
Joong smiles politely, deflects with a laugh, and glances at Dunk without thinking.
Dunk is watching. Chin propped in his palm, eyes unreadable.
Later, in the bathroom, Dunk corners him.
“Didn’t know you were looking.”
Joong blinks. “At what?”
“That guy.”
Joong frowns. “I wasn’t. I mean—I looked. But not like that.”
Dunk shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug that means something. The kind that hides too much under too little.
“You jealous?” Joong asks, half-teasing.
Dunk rolls his eyes. “No. It’s just—funny. Watching people try.”
Joong raises a brow. “Why’s that funny?”
“Because you’re mine when it matters.”
It’s a joke, clearly. Dunk says it with a smirk and that cocky little tilt of his head.
But Joong’s heart forgets it’s not supposed to believe in things like hope.
---
They leave early.
Joong has Dunk pinned to the door before it’s even fully shut, kissing him hard like that one sentence rewrote his whole night.
Dunk kisses back like he needs it to breathe.
They don’t talk after. Just lie there, skin against skin, too close to pretend it means nothing.
Joong says nothing.
He’s afraid if he opens his mouth, he’ll say Stay for real. Let’s break the rules.
---
The next morning, Dunk is already up, wearing nothing but Joong’s shirt and frying eggs like he’s done it a hundred times.
Joong watches from the hallway, heart stupidly full.
He tries to look away.
He can’t.
---
It starts with a gift.
Not the small kind Joong is used to—like when Dunk buys him bubble tea or leaves a protein bar on his desk during finals week. This one is… excessive.
Joong opens his locker at the gym and finds a brand-new pair of sneakers inside.
They’re the exact ones he once mentioned in passing. Limited edition. Sold out in half a day.
There’s no note, but the moment he slips them on, his phone buzzes.
Dunk: They look better on you than on the website.
Joong stares at the message for a solid ten seconds, then replies with a simple:
Joong: You can’t just buy me things like this.
Dunk’s reply comes fast.
Dunk: Why not? You needed new shoes. And I wanted to.
Joong grips the phone tighter.
He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. Maybe because it’s not just a gift. It’s thoughtful. It’s personal. It screams I pay attention to you in ways I don’t admit out loud.
And Joong doesn’t know how to process that when he’s still not allowed to want more.
---
Later, they meet at Joong’s apartment.
Dunk smells like his cologne—because of course he’s using it now—and drops onto the couch like he owns it.
He stretches, hoodie riding up to reveal soft, pale skin and those abs that Joong pretends not to look at. Joong stands in the doorway and watches him.
“You mad about the shoes?” Dunk finally asks.
Joong sits on the opposite end of the couch. “No. I just don’t get it.”
Dunk tilts his head. “What’s there to get? You needed something. I got it. End of story.”
“No, it’s not,” Joong says, sharper than he meant to. “You don’t do that for just anyone.”
Dunk frowns. “You’re not just anyone.”
Joong’s heart thuds. “Then what am I?”
A pause.
Then Dunk says lightly, “You’re my favorite person to make a mess with. Duh.”
Joong stares at him.
And maybe that’s the exact moment something breaks.
“You act like this is just casual,” Joong says quietly. “But you treat me like—like your boyfriend. Like someone you care about.”
“I do care about you,” Dunk snaps back, suddenly serious. “Why do you think I keep showing up, Joong? Why do you think I’m here every night? Why do you think I haven’t slept with anyone else in months?”
That last part hangs between them, loud and hot and impossible.
Joong’s voice comes out hoarse. “You haven’t?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Dunk runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. “I don’t know, okay? Because it doesn’t feel right. Because I’d rather be with you. Because everything else feels fake now.”
Joong’s mouth goes dry. “Then what is this, Dunk?”
Dunk doesn’t answer.
That’s what hurts the most.
---
Joong leaves his own apartment that night.
Not because he’s mad—but because he knows if he stays, he’ll say something he can’t take back. Like I love you. Like Please just choose me for real.
So he wanders the city for hours. Eats noodles alone at a 24-hour diner. Ends up sitting on a bench with cold fingers and a stupid ache in his chest.
---
When he finally comes home at 3 a.m., Dunk is still there. Curled on the couch. Eyes closed, but his hoodie hood still up—like he didn’t want Joong to see how worried he was.
Joong exhales slowly.
He walks over, kneels beside the couch, and gently brushes a thumb over Dunk’s cheekbone.
Dunk stirs. Opens one eye.
“You came back,” he mumbles.
“I live here.”
“Didn’t feel like it without you.”
Joong bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“You confused me.”
“I confuse myself.”
Joong sighs. “We can’t keep doing this.”
“I know,” Dunk whispers. “But I don’t want to stop.”
Joong’s throat tightens.
He rests his forehead against Dunk’s and says, very quietly, “Neither do I.”
---
They don’t kiss that night.
They just stay there, holding on, breathing together like they don’t trust the world to stay still otherwise.
---
Dunk shows up at Joong’s bar gig with a bouquet.
Of twenty-four blue hydrangeas.
Joong’s on stage mid-song, strumming a mellow acoustic version of “Say You Won’t Let Go,” and sees him instantly—standing at the back of the room, hair damp from the rain, holding flowers like he’s in a K-drama finale and forgot that this is real life.
Joong misses two chords.
Covers it with a smirk and finishes the set like his heart isn’t tap-dancing against his ribs. He doesn’t want to make eye contact. Doesn’t want to hope.
But Dunk waits. Like he always does.
When Joong heads off stage, towel around his neck, Dunk’s standing by the staff exit, bouquet still in hand, expression unreadable.
“I thought you hated public stuff,” Joong says, trying not to look impressed.
“I do,” Dunk replies. “But I also hate not telling you how I feel.”
Joong freezes.
Dunk steps forward. “You’re probably still mad at me. That’s fair. I’ve been confusing and cold and… cowardly.”
Joong’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You think?”
“But I’m trying now,” Dunk says. “I’m trying because I think if I don’t, I’ll lose the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Joong swallows. “We said this was just physical.”
“I lied,” Dunk says simply.
The words are blunt. Honest. Terrifying.
“I’ve been in love with you since the second time we hooked up,” Dunk goes on. “The first time was hormones. The second time? I stayed the night just to hear you breathe. I—” He swallows. “I didn’t want to leave.”
Joong’s throat is tight. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were so okay with things the way they were,” Dunk says. “I didn’t want to push you. I didn’t want to scare you off.”
Joong exhales shakily. “I wasn’t okay.”
“I know that now.”
Silence stretches.
Joong looks at the hydrangeas. “You know blue means apology, right?”
“Yeah,” Dunk says. “But twenty-four means ‘I think of you all day.’”
Joong blinks. “How do you even know that?”
“I googled flower meanings at like 4 a.m. last night,” Dunk says, sheepish. “I panicked and spiraled and maybe cried into a matcha latte.”
Joong lets out a helpless laugh.
Dunk steps closer. “You don’t have to forgive me. Or say anything right now. But I need you to know: I love you, Joong. Not just your body. Not just your music or your sarcasm or the way you hog the blanket when you sleep.”
Joong blinks fast.
“I love how you always tap the steering wheel to the beat of whatever song is playing. How you whisper your thoughts when you think no one’s listening. I love you when you’re being an ass. And I especially love you when you’re soft, even if you pretend you’re not.”
Joong lets out a breath that feels like a confession. “You really mean that.”
“I do.”
“And if I say I love you back?” Joong asks, quieter now. “What happens then?”
Dunk’s voice is gentle. “Then I’ll spend every day trying to deserve it.”
Joong stares at him for three full seconds.
Then he throws the towel aside, steps in, and kisses Dunk like he’s tired of waiting—like every second without this kiss was a mistake.
Dunk melts into it, arms looping around Joong’s waist, flowers crushed between them.
“You’re an idiot,” Joong murmurs into his mouth.
“Yours, though?”
Joong nods. “Mine.”
---
Later that night, they don’t hook up.
Instead, they lie in bed tangled in each other’s limbs, trading kisses and whispered truths.
Joong, who once said he didn’t believe in soulmates, now thinks maybe he was just afraid of finding his.
---
It’s been three weeks since the flower thing.
Three weeks of actual dating.
Of Joong waking up to Dunk pressed into his side, stealing all the covers and pretending not to be clingy.
Of Dunk holding Joong’s hand in public like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
(Which—maybe it is now.)
Of real conversations over breakfast and even realer ones after sex, when Joong is too tired to lie and Dunk is too in love to pretend he doesn’t notice.
---
Today, they’re at a garden party hosted by one of Dunk’s relatives. It’s the kind of event Joong normally avoids—rich people making polite conversation, pretending they’re not silently judging everyone’s shoes.
But Dunk had asked, “Will you come with me?”
And Joong, who once said he’d never be anyone’s arm candy, just shrugged and said, “Only if I get to wear sunglasses indoors and make fun of your uncle.”
So here they are.
Joong is in a loose button-down and black slacks, holding a glass of cucumber water and trying not to roll his eyes every five seconds. Dunk is beside him in cream linen, looking like the “dream boyfriend” Pinterest board Joong secretly hates because it reminds him that he somehow won.
They mingle. They smile. They survive two rounds of “So how long have you two been…?”
Joong is about to snap when Dunk says it first.
“This is Joong,” he tells someone. “My boyfriend.”
Joong stills.
Not because he doesn’t like it—but because Dunk’s voice went soft at the end. Like it means something. Like Joong isn’t just the person beside him, but the person he’s proud to stand next to.
Joong doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t have to. He already knows Dunk’s probably smiling like a dork.
Instead, he finishes his cucumber water and mutters, “You know I loved you first, right?”
Dunk turns sharply. “What?”
Joong finally meets his eyes. “You said it first. But I loved you first. Since, like, week two.”
Dunk’s mouth parts.
Joong shrugs. “I just thought… if I said anything, you’d stop coming around. So I kept quiet.”
Dunk blinks once. Twice. “You—? Joong, what the hell? You mean to tell me I spiraled for months while you were already halfway in love with me?”
Joong smiles into his drink. “Yup.”
“You absolute—!” Dunk pauses, then grabs Joong’s face with both hands and kisses him right there in front of everyone.
It’s ridiculous. It’s dramatic. It’s so public.
Joong kisses back anyway.
---
Later that night, they return to Joong’s apartment.
Joong kicks his shoes off and says casually, “You realize you just kissed me in front of your aunt who thinks I’m an escort.”
Dunk flops onto the couch. “Worth it.”
Joong rolls his eyes and joins him, head landing in Dunk’s lap. “You still gonna love me when I’m old and cranky?”
“I already love you cranky.”
“I meant crankier.”
Dunk laughs. “Then I’ll bring you snacks and pretend to agree with all your hot takes.”
Joong grins. “God, you’re whipped.”
Dunk brushes hair from Joong’s forehead. “Only for you.”
Joong catches Dunk’s hand and holds it against his cheek.
He doesn’t say “I love you” again.
He doesn’t have to.
---
THE END