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Chapter Text

The rain had started sometime in the early morning. Jongho hadn’t noticed it until the tapping against his apartment window grew louder, more insistent, like little fingers asking to be let in. It was the perfect weather for doing nothing, but Jongho, being who he was, already had his scarf on, coat buttoned, umbrella by the door. Routine mattered. So did coffee.

He wasn’t the type to stray from his regular café route. In fact, he had frequented the same bookstore-adjacent chain café for years. But today… today something itched at him. Maybe it was the fact that his usual place was unexpectedly closed. Maybe it was the light drizzle that softened the edges of the street. Or maybe it was fate, wrapped in the scent of freshly baked bread and something gently floral. That’s how he ended up on a quiet street tucked behind the main road, standing under the awning of a coffee shop he had never noticed before.

It didn’t even have a sign. Just a chalkboard leaning against the door with the words “Today’s Mood: Lavender & Vanilla” scribbled in careful cursive.

The bell above the door chimed when he stepped in. Warmth greeted him like a familiar hug. The interior was small but lovingly curated. Plants nestled in corners, dried flowers hung from shelves, a few mismatched chairs circled worn wooden tables. Indie music played quietly, as though it didn’t want to intrude.

He was about to approach the counter when he saw him.

Behind the counter, hands steady and precise, stood a man with soft, pin-straight black hair tucked neatly behind one ear. He wore a cream knit cardigan over a collared shirt and had a serene kind of stillness to him. His eyes were downcast, focused on the pattern he was dusting into the foam of a cappuccino.

Jongho blinked.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen beautiful people before. He lived in a city, for goodness’ sake. But there was something about this barista, this delicate little world he seemed to carry around him like a snow globe. Untouched. Quiet.

When the man finally looked up, his eyes met Jongho’s for a second too long.

Then the man immediately looked away, cheeks going pink.

“Uh, hi,” came a voice beside him. Jongho turned to see another barista, this one grinning mischievously. Slightly shorter, wavy hair, the type who looked like he knew every single customer’s name and their dog’s birthday. “You can ignore Yeosang,” the barista said with a wink. “He forgets how to human when strangers make eye contact.”

Yeosang turned an even deeper shade of pink but said nothing, busily turning away to adjust the pastry display.

Jongho chuckled softly. “That’s alright. I’m not great at the whole ‘human’ thing either.”

The barista looked delighted. “I like you already. I’m Wooyoung, and this is our little corner of cozy. You new in the area?”

Jongho gave his usual reserved smile. “Historian. Been here for a while. Just never noticed this place.”

“Historians and secret cafés. It’s giving main character energy.” Wooyoung leaned on the counter. “Well, now you’ve noticed. That’s all that matters.”

Jongho nodded and ordered a black coffee, watching as Wooyoung poked Yeosang gently in the ribs to get him to start the brew.

That became the first of many quiet visits.

Jongho kept coming back, sometimes with a book, sometimes just to sit by the window and people-watch. And each time, he noticed more. Like how Yeosang always wore socks with tiny designs on them. Or how he muttered instructions to himself under his breath when preparing drinks. How his hands trembled ever so slightly when he passed over a cup, but how his eyes softened every time he saw someone take a sip and smile.

There was something vulnerable about Yeosang’s quiet habits. Something so gentle in the way he existed, as if he didn’t want to disturb the air around him. Jongho found himself tuning in to the soft lilt of Yeosang’s voice when he thought no one was listening, how he’d hum along to the music when he was cleaning up, or how he’d smile, small and barely-there, at the regulars who remembered to say please and thank you.

Jongho didn’t speak much. But he watched. And he listened.

And he found himself waiting, almost impatiently, for that one moment each day. When Yeosang would glance up, catch his eye by accident, and then immediately look away like he’d just been caught stealing sunlight.

Sometimes, Wooyoung would catch Jongho’s lingering gaze and smirk, offering exaggerated winks or nudging Yeosang with a not-so-subtle, “Someone’s watching you again.” Yeosang would sputter, turn red, and nearly drop a saucer, much to Wooyoung’s delight.

It became a quiet rhythm, this soft orbit around each other.

Jongho had never believed in love at first sight.

But this felt suspiciously like the beginning of something that would one day be worth writing down.

Chapter Text

It had been three weeks since Jongho first stepped into the unnamed café. By now, he knew Yeosang’s shifts by heart. Tuesdays through Saturdays, mornings to early afternoons. Which was exactly when Jongho began scheduling his "writing time."

He’d bring a notebook, sometimes a laptop, but mostly he just sat by the window with a cup of whatever Yeosang recommended that day. Lavender matcha. Honey oat milk latte. A mysterious drink called "cloud on fire," which tasted like burnt sugar and cinnamon dreams. Jongho never questioned the names. He liked the way Yeosang said them, quietly, like he was letting Jongho in on a secret.

Yeosang had started talking more. Tentatively, like testing the temperature of deep water. Sometimes about the drinks he was experimenting with. Sometimes about the playlist. Once, about a pigeon that had tried to steal a croissant from their outdoor table.

Wooyoung, of course, was never far. He floated through the café like a breeze full of glitter and chaos, constantly stirring things up.

“Yeosang made that one special for you,” he said one morning, sliding a mug toward Jongho. “Even dusted a little cinnamon heart on top. Look at him being romantic.”

Yeosang choked on air behind the espresso machine.

“I, it’s just seasonal,” Yeosang muttered. “It’s February.”

Wooyoung winked at Jongho. “Uh-huh. And yesterday’s wasn’t a rose petal mocha just because it’s Tuesday?”

Jongho, amused and increasingly fond, simply sipped his drink and pretended not to notice Yeosang’s ears turning pink.

Over time, the conversations between Jongho and Yeosang became a kind of ritual. Never too much. Never too little. Safe. Familiar. Yeosang would ask about whatever book Jongho had brought, and Jongho would ask if the café plants had names. They did, and they were dramatic.

“Don’t water Persephone too much,” Yeosang had said once, nodding to a trailing ivy. “She gets jealous of Hades.”

Jongho had laughed for the first time in days. Yeosang had blinked at him, then smiled like he didn’t know he could make someone laugh like that.

Sometimes Jongho would bring him small gifts, local honey, a rare tea blend, once a handmade bookmark shaped like a cat. Yeosang accepted each one with a reverent kind of surprise, as if Jongho were handing him pieces of the moon.

One afternoon, Jongho lingered by the counter longer than usual, fingers tapping anxiously against the to-go menu. Yeosang was steaming milk, his focus entirely on the swirl of foam and the way it laced through the espresso. Jongho watched the tiny crease in his brow, the soft puff of his lips when he concentrated.

His heart thundered stupidly in his chest.

“Did you… maybe want to try that bakery down the street sometime?” he asked, words tumbling out quicker than he meant. “I heard they have a lemon tart that’s supposed to be really good. We could, go together? If you’d want to.”

Yeosang froze. Not in fear. More like buffering. His lips parted, eyes wide, the steam wand hissing faintly beside him.

Jongho instantly panicked. “Only if you want to! It doesn’t have to be a date. Or, it could be. Or not. Just… as friends?”

Then Wooyoung materialized out of thin air like a chaos demon summoned by the gods. “OH MY GOD. HE ASKED YOU OUT. HE ACTUALLY ASKED.”

Yeosang turned a brilliant shade of crimson, looking down at the counter like it had suddenly become the most fascinating object on Earth. Jongho looked like he might vanish into the floor.

“I, I mean as friends!” Jongho blurted, horrified.

Wooyoung practically cackled. “Oh sure, friends who look at each other like a Regency-era romance novel. This is my favorite episode.”

Yeosang made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a laugh, and glanced shyly at Jongho. He looked so small in that moment, but his smile, though soft, was steady.

“I’d like that,” he said quietly. “The bakery. With you.”

Jongho’s breath caught. He nodded, unable to keep the giddy smile from blooming on his face.

They never made it to the bakery that week. Schedules got in the way. But Jongho noticed the next day, Yeosang had drawn a tiny loaf of bread in the foam of his latte. A silent promise.

And still, Wooyoung watched it all unfold with the delight of someone watching their favorite slow-burn drama.

“You two are insufferable,” he sighed one rainy afternoon, flopping into the seat across from Jongho. “Do you know how many poetic sighs I hear from Yeosang when you're not here?”

Yeosang groaned from the back. “I do not sigh poetically.”

“You do. Like a Jane Austen heroine.”

Jongho didn’t mind the teasing. If anything, he liked how Wooyoung brought Yeosang out of his shell, how he gave the café its vibrant heartbeat. And he liked being part of that world, even if only in quiet ways.

One morning, Jongho arrived early. The café wasn’t open yet, but the door was slightly ajar. Inside, he found Yeosang standing in the middle of the room, staring at a broken mug on the floor, looking oddly shaken.

“Yeosang?”

Yeosang startled, and for a second something unreadable flickered across his face. Something fragile and unsure.

“Oh. I didn’t think you’d be here yet,” he said quickly, crouching to pick up the pieces. “I dropped it. It’s nothing.”

Jongho moved to help, gently brushing Yeosang’s hand as they reached for the same shard. Their eyes met, and this time, neither looked away. Jongho noticed Yeosang’s fingers trembled a little. Not from the heat of the coffee. Not from the cold. But something quieter. A panic, maybe. Or just the weight of too many thoughts kept bottled too long.

“It’s okay,” Jongho said softly. “You don’t have to pick it all up by yourself.”

Yeosang looked at him then, really looked. There was a flicker of something like gratitude in his gaze, something that made Jongho’s chest feel too small for his heart.

“I liked this mug,” Yeosang said after a moment, voice barely above a whisper. “It was the first one I ever bought when I opened the café. I don’t even know why I was using it this morning.”

Jongho set the shard in his palm aside carefully. “Sometimes we hold onto things because they remind us why we started.”

Yeosang blinked slowly. “That’s, kind of poetic.”

Jongho shrugged, trying to keep it casual. “I read a lot of books.”

The tension dissolved a second later when Wooyoung burst in from the back. “Are we having a moment? Do I need to leave? Or do you need me to officiate something real quick?”

Yeosang groaned, covering his face with both hands. “Wooyoung, please.”

Jongho just shook his head, smiling to himself.

Later, as they swept up the last of the ceramic dust and opened the café together, Jongho noticed a small note taped to the register. It was written in Yeosang’s careful handwriting:

thank you for being gentle with the pieces.

Every day, the moments grew a little longer. The silences a little warmer.

And Jongho, who once thought love was something loud and consuming, started to realize that maybe it could also be this. Soft. Slow. Steeped in the scent of vanilla and blooming lavender.

With the smallest twist of something deeper just beginning to bloom underneath it all.

Chapter Text

Yeosang didn’t sleep that night. Not really. He lay curled like a shrimp on Wooyoung’s couch, a blanket up to his nose, staring blankly at a rerun of some baking show neither of them were paying attention to.

“He asked me out,” Yeosang whispered for the tenth time.

Wooyoung, perched on the other end of the couch like a smug cat, hummed, “Yes, baby. He did. In the most painfully awkward, adorable way possible. I’m still swooning.”

Yeosang kicked his legs under the blanket. “But was it a date? He said it could be or not. He panicked. I panicked. I said yes. But I also panicked. Did I make it weird?”

“You make everything weird, sunshine.” Wooyoung reached over and poked his cheek. “That’s part of your charm.”

Yeosang groaned and buried his face under the blanket. “He’s so… calm. And tall. And nice. And he smells like old paper and bergamot.”

“Y’know,” Wooyoung said, stretching like a cat, “that’s how I always imagined you’d fall. Not crash, but like trip. Slowly. Embarrassingly. With cinnamon hearts and accidental eye contact.”

Yeosang peeked out from under the blanket, eyes wide. “What do I wear?”

“Oh my god, this is going to be the best morning of my life.”

Wooyoung leapt up and practically sprinted to Yeosang’s tiny closet. “Okay. Casual but cute. Soft sweater energy. You want him to think ‘I want to hug him and tell him about obscure Renaissance poetry.’”

Yeosang shuffled after him like a ghost. “But what if I sweat too much? What if my voice cracks? What if I say something wrong and he changes his mind?”

“You do that every day and he still likes you.” Wooyoung held up a pale blue cardigan like it was a sacred artifact. “This. With the soft cream turtleneck. Trust me.”

Yeosang touched the fabric hesitantly. “The tag is scratchy.”

“Scissors exist, angel.”

He nodded slowly, still clearly anxious. “And I should bring fidget things. The bakery might be loud. Or bright. Or both.”

“Good thinking.” Wooyoung softened, walking over and gently nudging Yeosang’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to do what makes you comfortable. He’ll understand. And if he doesn’t? You tell me, and I’ll key his bike.”

Yeosang gave a tiny smile at that. “He doesn’t ride a bike.”

“Then I’ll learn what he loves and ruin it. But we won’t need to, because this boy is clearly obsessed with you.”

Yeosang’s hands fluttered nervously at his sides, his gaze flickering between the cardigan and the pile of carefully arranged socks he’d brought over for emotional support. “Should I bring a list? Of questions? In case my brain blanks?”

“You can, but don’t overthink it. You’re not going to an interview. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being Yeosang.”

“That’s the scary part,” he mumbled.

Wooyoung wrapped him in a side hug. “You’re doing great. Be soft and scared but show up anyway, remember?”

Yeosang nodded slowly, then brightened just a little. “Do you think he’ll want to hold hands?”

Wooyoung’s grin turned absolutely feral. “Oh, baby. If he doesn’t, I’ll hold both your hands and walk you into that bakery myself.”

Yeosang squeaked and fled to the bathroom, the cardigan trailing behind him like a cape.

Meanwhile, across town, Jongho sat in Mingi’s apartment surrounded by books, stress-snacking on crackers while Mingi watched him with a knowing look.

“So,” Mingi said, plopping onto the couch beside him, “you finally asked him out.”

Jongho made a strangled noise. “It wasn’t supposed to be a date. Then it was. Then I said it wasn’t. Then Wooyoung screamed and now it definitely is.”

Mingi tried and failed not to laugh. “Congratulations. You’re an actual protagonist in a rom-com.”

“I panicked,” Jongho muttered. “I told him it could be as friends. Who says that?”

“Someone terrified of being rejected.”

“I wasn’t terrified.”

“You’re eating dry crackers like a war orphan, Jongho.”

Jongho glared but didn’t stop chewing. “What if I mess it up? He’s delicate. And quiet. And his hands shake when he passes me drinks. But he’s also so bright. Like this tiny hidden sun.”

“You’ve written six poems about his latte art,” Mingi deadpanned. “You’re in deep, my guy.”

“I don’t want to scare him off.” Jongho sighed, rubbing his temples. “I just want to get to know him more. Without it being weird.”

Mingi leaned back, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “Okay. Solution time. You need to stop thinking like a historian and start thinking like a person.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow. “Is that a real suggestion?”

“Yes.” Mingi sat up again. “You’re treating this like a research paper. You’ve over-analyzed every microsecond of your interactions. I love you, but you're insane.”

“I made a timeline of his smiles,” Jongho confessed, voice small.

Mingi blinked. “Okay, actually, I’m impressed. But also maybe chill?”

“I can’t. When I see him, everything gets all scrambled in my head. He looks at me and I forget how to function. And then I remember something dumb I said three days ago and want to crawl into the sea.”

“Buddy,” Mingi said gently, “I’ve seen you deliver a lecture on medieval calligraphy to a room of sleepy freshmen with the confidence of a man possessed. If you can survive that, you can survive a pastry date.”

Jongho snorted, finally letting out a little laugh. “It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not. It’s better. Because this time, your nervousness means something.” Mingi gave him a warm look. “You like him. And he likes you. Just show up. That’s all you have to do.”

Jongho sat in silence for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Okay. I can do that.”

“Wear the brown sweater,” Mingi added. “It makes your shoulders look trustworthy.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace. Go charm your tiny barista.”

Back at the café the next morning, Yeosang arranged the display pastries four different ways before Wooyoung shoved a muffin in his hand and told him to breathe.

And across the street, Jongho stared at his reflection in a dark shop window, took three deep breaths, and stepped off the curb.

They were about to step into their first maybe-date.

Two spiraling hearts. One little bakery. And the promise of lemon tarts and slow beginnings.

Chapter Text

Yeosang got to the café early.
He always did, but today it felt different. Today, his cardigan felt too soft and his fingers wouldn’t stop fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. He had worn the pale blue one Wooyoung picked out. It still felt like a costume.
He tried to line up the sugar packets evenly.
Then he tried again because the purple ones didn’t match the pink ones. He tucked his hair behind his ear. Then again. Then again. The lights were too bright. The music too loud. And the bell above the door sounded like a fire alarm every time someone walked in.
He wasn’t sure if he was breathing.
“Relax,” Wooyoung whispered behind him, appearing out of nowhere like a gremlin with a god complex. “You look soft. Like a dream sequence.”
Yeosang opened his mouth. Closed it. Whispered, “What if he hates lemon tarts?”
“He won’t.”
“What if he thinks I’m too quiet?”
“He already knows that.”
“What if I stim too much and make him uncomfortable?”
Wooyoung gently touched Yeosang’s wrist, grounding him. “If he’s worth it, he’ll love all of it. Even the flappy hands. Especially the flappy hands.”
Yeosang blinked quickly. His hands did flutter a bit then. “Okay,” he said, soft but determined. “Okay.”
Then the door opened.
And in walked Jongho.
Brown sweater. Soft smile. Holding a paper bag in one hand like he wasn’t sure if it was a gift or a shield. His hair was slightly tousled like he had run his fingers through it too many times. He looked like comfort.
Yeosang immediately forgot how to stand like a person.
“Hi,” Jongho said.
Yeosang nodded. “Hi.”
They stood there.
Silence.
Wooyoung coughed dramatically.
“I got these,” Jongho finally offered, holding out the bag. “They’re... um. Candied ginger. I read somewhere it’s good for nerves.”
Yeosang blinked. Then laughed, soft and startled, like it escaped without permission. “I like ginger.”
Jongho’s shoulders relaxed. “Good.”
“The bakery’s a short walk,” Yeosang said, voice still small.
“Perfect,” Jongho replied.
They stepped outside. Yeosang stayed close to the building, one hand pressed inside the pocket of his cardigan, fingers gripping a fidget stone he kept there. He didn’t speak at first. Jongho didn’t rush him.
The air was crisp, but not cold. The city buzzed quietly around them.
“You don’t mind if I don’t talk much sometimes,” Yeosang said suddenly.
Jongho shook his head. “Not at all. I like the quiet.”
Yeosang tucked his hair behind his ear again. “Sometimes I get overwhelmed. It doesn’t mean I’m not having fun.”
Jongho gave him a soft glance. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll try to be mindful.”
They walked a few more steps.
“I like walking with you,” Jongho added.
Yeosang smiled at the sidewalk. “I like walking with you too.”
The bakery came into view, a warm little place with frosted windows and tiny plants in the display. The kind of place that felt like a hug.
They sat at the corner table by the window. Yeosang tugged his sleeves down over his hands and smiled at his tea like it was performing for him.
Jongho didn’t rush. He didn’t talk too much. Just little things. A story about a grumpy professor. A fun fact about ancient libraries. He noticed when Yeosang’s eyes darted away from direct eye contact, and instead of pushing, he leaned his gaze toward the pastries instead.
Yeosang started relaxing halfway through a shared lemon tart. His fingers tapped the edge of his plate, rhythmic and grounding. Jongho pretended not to notice, but he noticed everything. Especially how Yeosang seemed to breathe easier with every tap.
Yeosang's lips curved up when he finally said something, quietly and nervously, about his favorite kind of music. He twisted his fingers around the edge of his sleeve as he spoke. Jongho leaned in, not too close, just enough to show he was listening.
"I brought a list," Yeosang admitted suddenly, pulling a folded paper from his pocket. "Of conversation topics. In case I blanked."
Jongho grinned, eyes warm. "Can I see it?"
Yeosang handed it over with a shrug and averted eyes. Jongho read it slowly, then smiled even wider. "You wrote down ‘Do you like frogs?’"
“They’re comforting,” Yeosang muttered, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve again.
“I do like frogs.”
Yeosang looked up then. Just a flicker. Their eyes met.
And for the first time, Yeosang didn’t look away immediately.
He smiled.
Jongho knew then. It didn’t matter how slow it started. Or how often they both spiraled. This was the kind of beginning worth every quiet breath.
They lingered over the lemon tart. Yeosang reached for another piece.
Their hands brushed.
Neither of them pulled away.
There was a moment, warm and tentative, that hovered between them, suspended like sugar in tea. Jongho didn't move, didn't speak, just let the back of his hand rest lightly against Yeosang's. He felt the way Yeosang trembled, barely perceptible, like a shy leaf in the wind.
"You can have the last piece," Jongho said gently.
Yeosang glanced at it, then back at him. "But you like lemon."
"Not as much as I like seeing you smile."
That did it. Yeosang ducked his head, ears pink. He tucked his hair behind his ear again, then bit his lip to suppress the grin threatening to bloom. His fingers tugged at his sleeve. He said nothing, but the look on his face was louder than any words.
Jongho leaned in a little, not enough to crowd, just to offer presence. "Do you want to go for a walk after this? No pressure. Just… if you want to."
Yeosang hesitated. Then nodded. Once, small. "I'd like that."
They stayed a while longer. Talking. Listening. Sitting in silence that didn’t feel awkward anymore. At one point, Yeosang even laughed, a soft, breathy sound that lit up his whole face.
Jongho was completely, helplessly gone.
As they stood to leave, Yeosang paused near the door, staring at the wall for a second too long.
"Everything okay?" Jongho asked, gentle.
Yeosang nodded. "Just… my brain's a little full. I do that sometimes. Pause."
"Take all the time you need. I'm not in a rush."
Yeosang turned to him, eyes round and vulnerable. "Thank you."
Jongho offered his hand.
Yeosang stared at it for a beat. Then slid his fingers into Jongho's palm.
They walked out like that, slow and steady.
Like something delicate finally daring to unfold.

Chapter Text

Yeosang practically collapsed onto the couch the moment he got back to his apartment, cardigan sleeves pulled over his hands, face tucked halfway into a throw pillow. He let out a long groan.
Wooyoung, who had been patiently pretending not to pace like an excited dog waiting for a treat, finally launched himself onto the couch beside him. “Okay. Spill. What happened? Did he kiss you? Did you kiss him? Did he cry? Did you cry?”
Yeosang groaned again. “No one cried.”
“That’s a shame. Crying is so romantic.”
Yeosang peeked over the pillow, his face a mess of pink. “We walked. We ate lemon tart. He held my hand.”
“HE HELD YOUR HAND?” Wooyoung squealed, grabbing Yeosang’s arm and flailing it like it had personally offended him. “AND YOU’RE BURYING THE LEDE?”
Yeosang flapped his hands in return, overwhelmed. “I didn’t know what to do. My brain was full the whole time. I forgot words. I repeated myself. I think I knocked over the sugar jar at one point.”
“And what did Jongho do?”
“He smiled at me like I’d told him he’d won the lottery. And he said it was okay. That I didn’t have to talk if I didn’t want to. That he liked the quiet.”
Wooyoung’s eyes softened. “He’s smitten.”
Yeosang nodded against the pillow. “I think I am too. But I’m also terrified.”
“That’s normal. You don’t have to change anything about yourself, you know.”
“I know. I just… I brought a conversation list. He read it. He liked it.”
“Of course he did,” Wooyoung said, tugging Yeosang into a hug. “Anyone who likes frogs is automatically trustworthy.”
Yeosang let himself be held, sleeves still over his hands. “My heart feels like it’s got bees in it.”
“That’s called having a crush.”
“Oh.”
They sat like that for a while, Wooyoung rubbing soft circles into Yeosang’s back.
“I kept stimming,” Yeosang murmured after a long pause. “With my sleeves. With the sugar packets. I tapped my plate until he noticed.”
“And did he say anything?”
Yeosang shook his head. “He just smiled. He kept the pace slow. Didn’t look me in the eyes too long. I think… I think he noticed. But he didn’t make it weird. He made it safe.”
Wooyoung’s eyes shimmered a little. “That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
Yeosang’s breath hitched, but he nodded. “He’s gentle. I like gentle.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Wooyoung kissed the top of Yeosang’s head. “You deserve gentle. And he’s lucky. So, so lucky.”
“I don’t know what comes next.”
“You don’t need to,” Wooyoung said softly. “You just need to keep being you. He’s already falling for that.”
Yeosang curled tighter under his friend’s arm. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Across town, Jongho stood in Mingi’s tiny kitchen, cradling a mug of tea he had already forgotten about.
Mingi was watching him like he was a particularly dramatic soap opera character. “So?”
“He’s beautiful,” Jongho said dreamily.
“...”
“What?” Jongho blinked. “He’s beautiful.”
Mingi laughed so hard he nearly dropped the mixing bowl he was holding. “You’re such a sap. Tell me everything.”
“We walked to the bakery. He told me he brought a conversation list. And he let me read it. It had frogs on it.”
“You love frogs.”
“I do love frogs. He remembered I like lemon tarts. And when I offered my hand, he took it.”
Mingi leaned on the counter, grinning. “You’ve got the look, you know.”
“What look?”
“The this man’s gonna haunt my dreams look.”
Jongho laughed softly. “He stims a lot. Plays with his sleeves, tucks his hair, taps on things. He got overwhelmed and froze for a moment, and I just… I didn’t want to move until he felt okay again.”
“God,” Mingi said, soft and fond. “You’re a goner.”
“I think I am. And I don’t mind.”
He smiled into his tea, the bees in his chest buzzing in harmony with Yeosang’s across town.
After a moment of quiet, Mingi sat across from him, serious now. “You really like him, huh?”
Jongho nodded, the dreamy look in his eyes still present but softer now. “It’s more than that. I… I feel calm around him. Like I don’t have to pretend I’m not tired, or serious, or just… me. And I can see he’s always trying so hard to make sense of the world. It makes me want to hold space for him.”
Mingi tilted his head. “You think this could be something real?”
“I hope so,” Jongho said, voice quiet. “But more than that, I want to make it real. I want to be careful. I want to be kind. I want to be the place where he doesn’t have to be afraid.”
Mingi reached across and squeezed his wrist. “Then you already are.”
Jongho exhaled, full of thought and warmth and a kind of hope that sat heavy in his chest. “I think I’m falling for him.”
Mingi grinned. “I think you already did.”

Chapter Text

The next time Jongho walked into the coffee shop, he was carrying a small box tied with a ribbon. He had agonized over it all morning, second-guessing everything from the color of the paper to whether or not a gift this early on was too much. He had even called Mingi twice, pacing in front of the mirror and mumbling about how maybe it was weird to give someone a frog after one date. But Mingi had only laughed and said, “If anyone would appreciate a frog, it’s the quiet boy with the soft eyes.”
And the moment Jongho saw Yeosang behind the counter, all soft sleeves, careful movements, and tucked-down gaze, he knew it was the right choice.
Yeosang looked up at the chime of the bell, his shoulders instinctively stiffening the way they always did when someone entered. But then he saw Jongho. And the tension softened like sugar in tea.
“Hi,” Jongho greeted, smiling in that slow, gentle way that always seemed to lower Yeosang’s defenses. He held the box out with both hands, carefully, like it was something precious.
Yeosang blinked at it, then at him. “What’s this?” he asked, voice a touch higher than usual.
“A small thank you. For the date. And… just because.”
Before Yeosang could process the gesture, Wooyoung, ever the barista and watchdog, leaned over the espresso machine, eyes narrowing like a cat who smelled something juicy. “Ooooh, is that a gift? Are we in the gift-giving stage already?”
Yeosang flushed immediately. Bright, vivid red spread from the tips of his ears down his neck. He shrank slightly, his shoulders tucking in as his fingers toyed with the edge of his apron. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the coffee grinder.
Jongho chuckled, a deep, warm sound. “Would you believe me if I said it’s not romantic unless you want it to be?”
Yeosang reached out carefully, his fingers brushing Jongho’s as he took the box. His hand trembled, but his grip was steady. “I want it to be,” he whispered, so quietly that it was almost lost beneath the steam hissing from the espresso machine.
Wooyoung made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a victorious giggle. “Well, I suddenly remembered I have to restock the napkins in the back. Don’t mind me vanishing into thin air like a good best friend.”
He was gone in seconds, his absence leaving behind a slightly too-loud silence.
Yeosang looked down at the box again, his fingers brushing over the ribbon like he was trying to memorize the texture. He tugged at it slowly, deliberately, as though any sudden movements would make the moment shatter.
Inside was a tiny ceramic frog, hand-painted in soft greens with wide eyes and a smiling mouth.
Yeosang’s breath hitched. “It’s… so cute.”
“I saw it and thought of you,” Jongho said simply. “You said frogs are comforting.”
Yeosang’s thumb gently rubbed over the frog’s little head. “They are. And this one’s happy.”
“So am I,” Jongho said softly.
They stood like that for a long moment, the ceramic frog between them, the café humming around them like a gentle heartbeat. Yeosang fiddled with the hem of his sleeve again, then tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, not once but twice, as if trying to reset his nerves.
“Would you… want to sit?” he asked, voice shaky. “I can take my break now.”
Jongho smiled, his whole face lighting up. “I’d like that.”
They moved to the corner table by the window, the one Jongho always picked. Yeosang set the frog gently on the table between them, like it was part of the conversation, a tiny third guest.
Neither of them spoke at first. Yeosang sat with his hands curled around his tea cup, eyes focused on the swirl of steam rising from it. He tapped his fingers against the ceramic in a rhythmic pattern, one two, one two, grounding himself. Jongho didn’t interrupt the silence. He just watched, with a kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred things.
“You know,” Jongho said after a while, his voice low and careful, “I wasn’t sure if I should bring a gift. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
Yeosang smiled down at his tea. “I like rules. But I like surprises too. Especially if they’re frogs.”
Jongho laughed, a soft puff of air. “Noted.”
The conversation began to flow in quiet trickles. Yeosang talked about a book he had started but hadn’t finished, how he always read the last page first just in case the ending was too sad. Jongho told a story about the time he fell asleep in a historical archives room and got locked in overnight.
Yeosang laughed at that, really laughed, covering his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater like he didn’t quite know what to do with the sound.
“Thank you,” he said eventually, voice small but steady.
“For what?”
“For being gentle. For noticing. For… not making me feel like I have to be someone else.”
Jongho reached out slowly, placing his hand near Yeosang’s on the table, not quite touching, just enough for Yeosang to feel the warmth.
“You never have to be anyone else with me.”
Yeosang’s smile trembled, but it stayed. His pinky edged forward, brushing Jongho’s gently.
The ceramic frog beamed up at them, forever frozen in its own quiet joy.
And somewhere between the hum of the café and the golden spill of sunlight through the window, something soft and steady began to bloom.

Chapter Text

Yeosang asked the next time.
It took him three days to rehearse it.
He tried once behind the counter but panicked and asked Jongho if he wanted extra foam instead. The second time, he wrote it down on a napkin and then chickened out before handing it over. The third time, he almost whispered it but swallowed the words when Jongho smiled too kindly and Yeosang’s brain short circuited.
It finally happened on a Thursday morning. The café was quiet, sunlight spilling through the windows in long stripes. Wooyoung was pretending to wipe down the same spot on the counter for five full minutes, very obviously eavesdropping.
Jongho sat at his usual spot by the window, sipping coffee and animatedly describing the recent discovery of a Roman bathhouse. His eyes were warm, his hands expressive, and Yeosang’s heart felt like it was caught in his throat.
He twisted the sleeves of his cardigan around his fingers and tapped his foot to a quiet rhythm only he could hear. His gaze darted between Jongho and the frog figurine now permanently living on a tiny shelf by the register.
“I was wondering,” Yeosang said finally, barely louder than the hum of the milk steamer, “if you’d maybe want to go out again?”
Jongho stopped mid sentence. He blinked. Then smiled, slow and wide, like sunlight breaking over his face. “I would love that.”
Yeosang blinked rapidly, like his brain needed a moment to process that he hadn’t, in fact, been rejected. “Okay,” he breathed. “Tomorrow?”
They met at the park the next afternoon, soft clouds above and a gentle breeze rolling through the budding spring trees. Yeosang had dressed carefully, his favorite cardigan, sleeves pulled long, an enamel frog pin shining softly on his collar. He double-knotted his shoelaces twice before leaving the house. Triple checked that he had his phone.
He fidgeted all the way to the park. Flapped his hands once behind a tree where no one could see. He had made a list of possible conversation topics again, though this time it was tucked deep into his pocket as a backup instead of a script.
Jongho was already waiting at the bench, holding two little paper bags from the bakery down the street. When he saw Yeosang, he stood up with a smile that could have melted a glacier.
Yeosang’s heart flipped.
They walked slowly to a nearby café patio, the same bakery Jongho had gone to before. Their steps fell into rhythm without effort. Yeosang matched Jongho’s pace, not too fast, not too close. He kept his hands hidden in his sleeves and tucked his hair behind his ears every time Jongho spoke to him directly.
At the café table, Jongho handed him a lemon tart. “I remembered you liked this one.”
Yeosang’s lips quirked up at the corners. “You remember everything.”
“Only the important stuff,” Jongho said, and Yeosang had to look away, ears flushing red.
Their conversation flowed in fits and starts, soft and hesitant, like dipping toes into cool water. Yeosang shared little things, how he always slept with a weighted blanket, how he used the same mug every morning because it made the tea taste right, how sometimes his brain got so noisy that he needed to line up pencils just to quiet it.
Jongho listened like every word was sacred.
“I like all of that,” he said eventually. “I like you.”
Yeosang’s eyes widened. Then he looked down at the tart, bit his lip, and reached out, deliberately, slowly. His hand touched Jongho’s. Slid fingers over his knuckles. Held.
His hand was cold but steady. Jongho’s breath hitched.
“I like you too,” Yeosang said.
They lingered at the café longer than planned, talking about small things that grew into big things. Jongho shared the story of his first trip to Greece, how he had cried in front of the Parthenon. Yeosang told him about a tea shop he used to visit with his grandmother, and how chamomile still made him feel like he was wrapped in her hug.
At one point, Yeosang started organizing the sugar packets by color without realizing. Jongho didn’t mention it, only gently moved his tea aside to give him more space.
When the sun began to lower in the sky and golden light spilled across the cobblestones, they stood to leave. Jongho offered his arm. Yeosang hesitated, then shyly slipped his hand into Jongho’s instead. Their fingers laced together.
Neither of them let go.
They strolled slowly back toward the park, their joined hands swinging ever so slightly. The world felt quiet in a peaceful way, not silent, but soft around the edges, like it had decided to tiptoe so they could enjoy their moment.
They paused beneath a flowering tree near the park’s edge. Blossoms fluttered in the breeze.
Yeosang turned to Jongho, playing with the hem of his sleeve, clearly thinking.
Then, gently and cautiously, he leaned in.
A quick, feather-light kiss landed on Jongho’s cheek.
Jongho froze. His entire face turned crimson in an instant, ears burning like twin lanterns.
Yeosang looked down, flustered. “Was that okay?”
Jongho cleared his throat, voice cracking a little. “It was perfect.”
Yeosang pulled his phone from his cardigan pocket. “We should exchange numbers,” he said, his voice more sure now.
They did, thumbs brushing over screens, laughing quietly when Jongho’s phone autocorrected Yeosang’s name to Yes Song.
They lingered for another moment before parting. Jongho waved softly, like he didn’t quite want to let go yet.
Yeosang walked away with a tiny skip in his step, cheeks warm and fingers brushing over his lips. Jongho stood still on the sidewalk, hand over his cheek, like he was trying to save the warmth forever.

Chapter Text

The morning after their second date, Yeosang sat cross-legged on his couch, phone clutched in both hands like it might disappear if he let go. His legs bounced slightly with nervous energy, and he kept rereading the last message on the screen. Wooyoung lounged beside him with a bowl of cereal balanced on his stomach, watching Yeosang with a grin that spelled trouble.

[Yeosang: I had a really nice time yesterday.]
[Jongho: Me too. Still thinking about that tart. And the kiss. :)]

Yeosang made a soft sound and pressed the phone to his face, his ears turning a bright shade of pink. "He used a smiley face."

Wooyoung snorted. "You're blushing like a cartoon character. Should I draw hearts around your head?"

Yeosang let out a faint whine and curled into a tighter ball, hiding behind his sleeves. "I don’t know how to do this. What if I text something weird? Or too much? Or not enough?"

"You’re doing fine, Yeo," Wooyoung said, setting his cereal aside and leaning over to nudge Yeosang gently with his shoulder. "He likes you. He said so. Just be yourself. The awkward, adorable, frog-loving you."

Yeosang peeked over his sleeves, brows furrowed. "Should I wait a few minutes before replying? I read online that spacing out replies makes you seem......"

Wooyoung grabbed the phone from him. "No. We are not playing dating strategy games. You’re asking him to a museum, not trying to negotiate a business merger."

Yeosang squirmed a little and finally nodded. He sat upright, smoothing out his cardigan and cracking his knuckles before typing.

[Yeosang: Would you want to go to the museum next week? There's an exhibit on old maps. I thought it might be... interesting.]

He didn’t hit send. He stared at the message for a full minute, then handed the phone to Wooyoung without looking. "Can you check it? Is it too formal? Should I add an emoji?"

Wooyoung read it, then grinned. "Nope, it's cute. Honest. Very you. Add a frog emoji and it's perfect."

Yeosang made a small noise of distress. "I don’t want him to think I’m joking."

"He won’t. He already knows how much frogs mean to you. Trust me."

After a dramatic pause for internal panic, Yeosang added the emoji and hit send. Almost immediately, the reply came.

[Jongho: That sounds amazing. I’d love that. 🗺️🐸]

Yeosang let out a tiny squeak, flapped his hands once, then buried his face in the couch cushion. Wooyoung patted his back soothingly.

"You’re doing great, sweetheart. Super proud. Also, I’m free Thursday if you need a distraction beforehand. I hear there's a new frog plush at the bookstore."

Yeosang peeked out, sheepish but smiling. "I might need it. I keep second-guessing everything. My brain won't stop running through all the ways I could mess this up."

Wooyoung's expression softened. He ran a gentle hand through Yeosang's hair. "Hey. You’re not going to mess it up. Jongho likes you. And I know this is new and scary and your brain is working overtime. But he sees you. And he likes what he sees."

Yeosang blinked hard and gave a little nod. "Okay. I’ll try."

Meanwhile, Jongho sat at his kitchen table, rereading Yeosang's message with a hand over his heart and a grin that refused to fade. His phone buzzed again with another frog emoji. Mingi leaned in from the fridge, watching him with exaggerated interest.

"Did he say yes?"

"He asked me," Jongho said, dazed.

Mingi’s jaw dropped theatrically as he closed the fridge door and approached with a tub of ice cream and two spoons. "My boy’s moving up in the world. Museum dates now? That’s real romance."

Jongho chuckled as he took a spoon. "It’s more than that. It’s… different. When I’m around him, everything slows down. I want to be careful with him. Intentional."

Mingi took a huge spoonful and nodded seriously. "You’re in love."

Jongho didn’t argue.

Because, truthfully, he was.

Chapter Text

The museum was quiet when they arrived, soft-spoken visitors drifting from exhibit to exhibit like ghosts of curiosity. The halls smelled faintly of old paper and polished wood, the perfect background for something slow and meaningful.

Yeosang stood just inside the entrance, fidgeting with the strap of his canvas bag and glancing around like the walls might judge him. He had arrived early, of course. He always did. There was comfort in knowing the layout ahead of time, in rehearsing the flow of his steps.

He wore his softest cardigan again, the one with hidden inner pockets he could tuck his hands into when he felt overwhelmed. His frog pin was back on his collar, and his shoelaces were perfectly symmetrical.

When Jongho arrived, five minutes early but still later than Yeosang, he lit up like he had stepped into sunlight. He wore a deep green sweater and a brown corduroy jacket that made him look effortlessly warm.

“Hey,” Jongho said, smile soft. “You look… wonderful.”

Yeosang flushed immediately and ducked his head. “Thank you. So do you. The color suits you.”

They exchanged tickets at the front desk and stepped into the first room together, side by side, their shoulders almost brushing. It was a temporary exhibit focused on ancient maps, faded parchments, sea charts with mythic beasts drawn in the corners, and delicate, looping scripts that told stories in whispers.

Yeosang moved slowly, eyes scanning every detail with laser focus. He paused at each display, sometimes leaning in just a bit, other times tapping his fingers against the side of his thigh. He kept pulling at the end of his sleeve, twisting it around his knuckles.

Jongho didn’t rush him.

He watched instead, letting Yeosang set the pace, sometimes reading the plaques out loud in a quiet voice just to fill the space. Yeosang would nod, occasionally humming in agreement, his lips quirking up when Jongho made an especially enthusiastic observation.

“This one’s my favorite,” Yeosang said at one point, stopping in front of a sixteenth-century map of constellations. “The shapes don’t match what’s actually in the sky. But they still made stories out of them. I like that.”

Jongho looked at him instead of the stars. “I like the way you see things.”

Yeosang’s ears turned pink. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and looked away, but there was a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

They moved from gallery to gallery, drifting into a room that showcased mapmaking tools. Compasses, rulers, and early printing presses. Yeosang lit up at a tiny glass case displaying ornate, centuries-old inkwells. “These are beautiful,” he murmured, pointing out a cracked ceramic one painted with koi fish. “They’re like little secrets that held stories before the stories existed.”

Jongho leaned closer. “You say the most beautiful things without trying.”

Yeosang’s hands twitched slightly, and he instinctively slipped them into his pockets, grounding himself. “Sometimes I think too much. And talk too little.”

“I like the way you think,” Jongho said, voice warm. “And I love when you talk.”

Halfway through the exhibit, they found a quiet bench tucked between two tall glass cases. They sat, close but not touching, the silence between them comfortable now.

Yeosang reached into his bag and pulled out a folded paper. Jongho raised an eyebrow.

“You brought a list again?”

“Just in case,” Yeosang murmured, unfolding it with care. “Some questions. Conversation ideas. I wanted to be prepared.”

Jongho’s smile softened. “May I see?”

Yeosang handed it over. The list was neatly written, bullet points adorned with tiny doodles. A frog, a star, a teacup.

Jongho read it slowly, then looked up. “Favorite museum artifact ever? That’s a good one.”

Yeosang tapped his chin. “Mine’s probably the tiny Egyptian cat statue from the natural history museum. It’s the size of my thumb but looks so smug.”

“Mine’s a carved marble relief of a myth I can’t pronounce,” Jongho said, chuckling. “I stared at it for an hour once. Got kicked out for standing too close.”

Yeosang laughed quietly, his shoulders relaxing.

They lingered there for a while, trading quiet questions from the list. Some silly, some strangely deep.

After exploring the map exhibits, they wandered into a newer wing of the museum, a place with interactive installations. One station let visitors layer transparent sheets over base maps to create imagined cities. Yeosang got so caught up designing a frog-shaped city park that Jongho just watched him, smiling like a man completely smitten.

“You’re very serious about frog infrastructure,” Jongho teased.

“It’s important,” Yeosang said gravely, though his eyes sparkled.

By the time they reached the gift shop, Yeosang had stopped fidgeting so much. His steps were steadier, his gaze lifted more often.

They each bought something small. Yeosang picked a bookmark shaped like a frog, and Jongho got a pin with a tiny globe on it. They traded the items at the exit without needing to say anything.

Outside, the breeze was cool, and the sky was streaked with the beginning of sunset. Jongho reached out, gently, not assuming, and Yeosang met him halfway. Their hands fit together like they had been doing this forever.

They walked a little further, across the museum plaza, until they found a spot near a small fountain. Jongho turned to say something, but Yeosang beat him to it.

He leaned in.

Another kiss. This time on the corner of Jongho’s mouth. Still brief, still shy, but this one lingered just a little longer. Yeosang pulled back, his cheeks blazing, but his eyes met Jongho’s and didn’t look away.

“I had a really nice time,” he said, voice just above a whisper.

Jongho smiled like he had just discovered treasure. “So did I.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Just sat on the edge of the fountain, hands laced, hearts thudding in sync.

Somewhere behind them, the museum lights flickered on. But the real story was here, unfolding gently between two people who were learning, slowly but surely, how to fall in love.

Chapter Text

The day after the museum date, everything felt a little more golden.

Yeosang stood behind the counter at his café, hands folded over one another, a soft smile pulling at his lips every time the bell above the door jingled. But today, he wasn’t watching for customers. He was watching for a notification.

His phone buzzed.

[Jongho 🍵: “I was thinking about the frog park again. You’re a visionary.”]

Yeosang's smile bloomed like sun through cloud. He tapped out a reply quickly, his thumbs pausing over the keys to make sure the wording was perfect.

[Yeosang: “Frogs deserve infrastructure. 🐸”]

From across the café, Wooyoung peeked up from where he was restocking cups, eyebrows raised like he had just caught a scandal.

“You’re smiling like a man in love,” Wooyoung said, leaning dramatically across the counter. “Spill. Right now.”

Yeosang blushed furiously. “I’m not. I’m just texting.”

“With Jongho,” Wooyoung said knowingly, his voice pitched high and teasing.

Yeosang pulled at his sleeves, fingers fidgeting. “He’s nice. We went to the museum yesterday.”

“I know. You wore the cardigan with the secret frog pin. You planned that.”

Yeosang huffed, embarrassed but not denying it.

Wooyoung’s grin softened. “You like him.”

“…Yes.”

The admission was quiet, but true. Yeosang traced the edge of a napkin with one finger. “He doesn’t make me feel too much. Or not enough. He just lets me be.”

Wooyoung rounded the counter and bumped his shoulder gently. “Because he sees you, angel. And that’s what you deserve.”

Yeosang looked down. “It’s still scary. I’m not always easy to understand. I say the wrong things or forget the right ones. And sometimes I freeze and don’t know why.”

“I know,” Wooyoung said simply. “But he’s still here, right? That means he’s not afraid of understanding.”

Yeosang’s phone buzzed again.

[Jongho 🍵: “Also, I miss you already. Is that dramatic?”]

[Yeosang: “Maybe. But I don’t mind.”]

Jongho was walking through the university courtyard with Mingi, who was sipping a smoothie far too loudly for the time of day.

“You’ve had that dreamy look on your face since last night,” Mingi said, squinting at Jongho. “Are you in love? Or did you finally organize your attic?”

Jongho chuckled. “Maybe both.”

“Talk to me, old man.”

Jongho adjusted the strap of his satchel and exhaled. “I think I’ve been in love for a while. I just didn’t have a name for it until now.”

Mingi blinked. “Whoa.”

“He’s gentle. And kind. And so sincere it makes my heart ache a little.”

Mingi slowed his steps, the teasing gone from his face. “You’re really serious about him.”

“I am.” Jongho looked out at the early spring trees, their branches budding. “I want to be someone he can trust. Someone steady. Someone who learns how to understand his silences as much as his words.”

“You’re already that,” Mingi said, bumping his shoulder. “You’ve always been the kind who loves with your whole chest.”

Jongho smiled, quiet and full. “He makes me want to be even better.”

“Then be better. And keep showing up.”

Jongho’s phone buzzed.

[Yeosang: “Maybe. But I don’t mind.”]

He stared at it for a long moment, heart full.

“Let’s go get coffee,” Jongho said suddenly. “I’ve got a favorite place.”

Mingi grinned. “Does it have a shy owner and the world’s best pastries?”

“It just might.”

They walked on, the sun warm against their backs, and a love growing slow and certain in the spaces between each step.

Chapter Text

The café was quieter than usual. A gentle hum of lo-fi music played through the speakers, and the warm scent of cinnamon lingered in the air. Jongho was already seated at his usual spot, nervously fidgeting with a wrapped package in his coat pocket.

Yeosang emerged from the back room, brushing flour off his hands, and when he spotted Jongho, his face lit up. His apron was slightly crooked, hair a little tousled, and there was a faint smudge of flour on his cheek. He came over, his steps shy but quick, and tucked his hair behind his ear twice before reaching the table.

“Hi,” he said, voice soft.

“Hi,” Jongho echoed. He stood, motioning to the seat across from him. “Do you… have a minute?”

Yeosang nodded and sat, pulling at the sleeves of his cardigan until the cuffs covered his palms. He clasped his hands together in his lap to stop the fidgeting, but his fingers still twitched, tapping silently.

Jongho took a breath. “I’ve been thinking. About us.”

Yeosang’s eyes widened. “Us?”

“Yeah,” Jongho said, reaching slowly across the table but stopping just short of touching Yeosang’s hand. “I know we’re both figuring this out. And there’s no rush. But I want you to know that I care about you. A lot.”

Yeosang’s breathing hitched. He lowered his gaze, his fingers trembling slightly where they gripped his sleeve. He blinked a few times, grounding himself with a quiet hum, then whispered, “Okay.”

“I was wondering…” Jongho hesitated, heart pounding. “Would you like to be my boyfriend?”

Yeosang froze.

His mind whirled. The word felt enormous. Too big. Like a spotlight suddenly glaring down on a moment he hadn’t prepared for, even though he had imagined it. He tapped his fingers in a pattern against his thigh, trying to organize his thoughts. He looked around the café, eyes flicking between details, the stack of menus, the crooked sugar jar, the light reflecting off the window, before settling back on Jongho.

“I…” he stammered, then pressed his hands to the tabletop to ground himself. His eyes darted away. “I need a second. I didn’t think you would ask today. Or at all.”

Jongho didn’t panic. He nodded gently. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer right now. Or ever, if it doesn’t feel right.”

Yeosang looked at him, eyes wide and vulnerable. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just… things rush in my head. All at once. Like too many tabs open. And I worry I’ll mess it up.”

“I get that,” Jongho said softly. “I’ll wait as long as you need.”

They sat in silence for a few beats, filled only by the faint shuffle of cups behind the counter and the soft chime of a wind bell by the door.

Then Yeosang closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and reached across the table.

His hand trembled as he placed it over Jongho’s.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’d like that.”

Jongho’s whole expression softened like the sun coming out.

“Are you sure?”

Yeosang smiled, nervous but real. “I’m scared. But I’m also… really happy. So yes.”

Jongho turned his hand and interlaced their fingers. “Thank you.”

Yeosang squeezed his hand. “You’re patient. That helps.”

“I care,” Jongho said simply. “That helps too.”

Behind the counter, Wooyoung watched with wide eyes and then promptly turned around, muttering to himself, “I knew it. I knew it.”

But neither of them noticed.

They were too caught up in the quiet moment that had finally unfolded between them, delicate and warm.

A beginning, again, but this time, with a name.

Yeosang stood up as Jongho did, both of them lingering beside the table.

And then, without quite looking at him, Yeosang leaned forward and pressed the lightest kiss to Jongho’s cheek.

Jongho went bright red. Absolutely crimson.

Yeosang smiled at the floor, his own ears flushed. “I wanted to try. The next step.”

Jongho could barely breathe, but he managed a soft, “That was perfect.”

Their hands found each other again.

And the warmth stayed, long after the moment ended.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since they had made things official. In that time, everything had changed, quietly, subtly, beautifully.

Yeosang still fidgeted when he was nervous, still avoided eye contact when words felt too big. He still hummed softly to regulate his breathing and tapped his fingers on tabletops to find rhythm in crowded moments. And Jongho? Jongho noticed every single thing. And never once asked him to change.

They sat on the back steps of Yeosang’s apartment after dinner, legs tucked close together beneath a thick blanket Jongho had brought with him. It smelled like cedar and old paper, like his study. Yeosang clung to one edge of it, his thumb rubbing circles into the fabric.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Jongho said gently.

Yeosang gave a tiny nod. “I’m happy. Just… thinking a lot.”

“About?”

Yeosang shrugged, eyes scanning the stars above. “How I didn’t think I’d ever have something like this. Someone like you.”

Jongho’s heart ached, soft and full. He reached out, letting his hand settle over Yeosang’s, warm and grounding. “You deserve it. All of it.”

Yeosang’s lips quirked up into the smallest smile. He turned toward Jongho, then stilled, a quiet hesitation settling between them.

“Can I try something?” he asked, voice barely audible.

Jongho nodded without hesitation. “Always.”

Yeosang leaned in, slow and unsure. His hand trembled where it rested against Jongho’s arm. But he closed the space between them, pressing the softest, gentlest kiss to Jongho’s lips.

It was brief. Chaste. A touch of warmth, gone as quickly as it came.

And it was everything.

Jongho blinked, stunned for a heartbeat, before smiling so wide it made his eyes crinkle. “You kissed me.”

Yeosang’s face flushed. “I did.”

“Can I kiss you back?”

Yeosang nodded, and this time, when Jongho leaned in, it was still soft, but more certain. Their second kiss lingered, wrapped in quiet affection and the soft night air.

When they pulled away, Yeosang’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket as he stammered, overwhelmed by the emotion curling in his chest. Without a word, he ducked his head and buried it into Jongho’s chest, hands clutching at the front of his coat.

Jongho chuckled quietly, the sound low and warm, and wrapped his arms around him with all the gentleness in the world. “You’re adorable,” he whispered.

Yeosang hummed in response, his cheek pressed to Jongho’s heartbeat, breath syncing slowly with the rise and fall of his chest.

Jongho rubbed soothing circles into Yeosang’s back with one hand, the other coming up to gently tuck Yeosang’s hair behind his ear. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Yeosang’s head, lips lingering there a little longer than necessary.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he murmured.

Yeosang nodded against him. “I really like you,” he whispered, voice muffled but sure.

“I really like you too,” Jongho murmured back.

They stayed like that for a while, entangled in the warmth of each other, with only the soft sounds of the night around them. When Yeosang finally pulled back just enough to look at Jongho, his eyes were glassy but calm, and a tiny smile lifted his lips.

Jongho returned the smile, brushing his thumb across Yeosang’s cheek.

And with the stars above them and a warmth blooming between their joined hands, everything settled into place.

Together.

Exactly as they were.

And exactly where they belonged.

THE END