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Chapter Text

The bathroom was quiet, the kind of stillness that came before a storm, or maybe after one. The mirror, slick with steam from the too hot shower, only showed Yeosang in fragments. His silhouette was ghosted at the edges, clear in the middle, and he could pretend for a moment that the reflection didn’t belong to him.
The bruise throbbed beneath the layers of makeup.
It all felt so heavy.

Fingers moved with practiced grace, though they trembled at the tips. The concealer was a shade too warm for his undertone, but it was the best he could find in short notice. He dabbed it gently over the bruise blooming across his collarbone, faintly purple, barely painful now. It would be invisible beneath his shirt, beneath his smile. No one would know. No one ever did.
Not even Jongho
The bruise throbbed beneath the layers of makeup.
It all felt so heavy
The thought struck a chord somewhere deep, somewhere hollow. Yeosang inhaled, shallow and quick, and pressed the sponge in tighter.
Another layer. Another lie.
He let his gaze drift toward the mirror again. The man staring back wore a polite smile ,tight lipped, eyes hollow. A mask. It suited him better than the truth.
Yeosang sat at the edge of their neatly made bed after breakfast, staring at the sunlight dancing on the hardwood floor. It looked soft, innocent, so at odds with the weight lodged in his chest. His hands rested limp in his lap, fingers twitching now and then like they were searching for something to hold on to.
He wanted to scream.
To cry.
To shake Jongho and tell him everything.
But every time he tried, the words caught behind his teeth, thick and wet like blood. Guilt curdled in his stomach. He should be happy. He should feel safe. He had a husband who adored him, a beautiful apartment, a life people envied.
So why did it feel like he was drowning?
His eyes burned as he stared at the floor.
He had grown too good at pretending.
There were nights when he stood in the hallway outside their bedroom, hand pressed to his mouth to muffle the sobs. Mornings when he couldn’t look at himself without wanting to scrape his skin off. Days at work when he smiled and nodded while every word spoken to him cut deeper than the last.
They all hated him. And he couldn’t even tell Jongho.
He clenched his hands together. Tight. Tighter. Until his knuckles went white.
“You okay, love?”
Jongho’s voice drifted in from the other room, calm, concerned. Yeosang blinked quickly, eyes drying on instinct. He pulled in a breath and smoothed down his sweater, pasting a smile on his face like a patch over a wound.
“Yeah,” he called back, voice barely cracking. “Just thinking.”
“Don’t think too hard,” Jongho said playfully as he stepped into the doorway, holding up a bag with Yeosang’s lunch. “You’ve got enough brilliance to burn through the day already.”
Yeosang stood slowly, feet cold against the floor, and crossed the room to take the bag. Jongho leaned in and kissed his cheek, gentle, like a prayer.
The contact made Yeosang ache.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want the love. He just didn’t know how to hold it without breaking.
He clutched the lunch bag like it was a lifeline, like it might tether him to the part of himself that still believed in better days.
“I love you,” Jongho whispered, forehead resting against Yeosang’s. “Whatever’s going on up here?” he gently tapped Yeosang’s temple, “you don’t have to go through it alone.”
Yeosang swallowed hard, nodding. But he still couldn’t speak.
Because the truth was heavy.
And he didn’t know if he could carry it one more day.

The car smelled like Jongho’s cologne and the vanilla air freshener Yeosang had picked out last month. Familiar, calming, like home. But this morning, even comfort felt like a lie.
The leather seats were warm against his back, chasing away the early morning chill that clung to the edges of his sleeves, but inside him, the cold lingered. He sat perfectly still, posture flawless, eyes trained on the window as the city slipped by in streaks of gold and steel. The buildings looked soft in the morning haze, almost blurred by distance or memory. Like he wasn’t really here at all. Like he was watching someone else live his life.
Jongho’s cologne should have soothed him. It usually did. But today, it made his throat tighten.
“Sang?”
His name, gentle, concerned cut through the quiet like a knife wrapped in velvet.
He turned his head slowly, schooling his face into something pleasant. Something functional. The smile touched his lips but never his eyes. “Hm?”
“You’re quiet today.” Jongho’s eyes didn’t leave the road, but Yeosang heard everything in the careful pause between words. Worry. Love. The kind of love that always made it harder to lie. “Everything okay?”
“Just tired,” Yeosang replied smoothly. The lie came with practiced ease. “Didn’t sleep well.”
That part, at least, was true. He hadn’t slept. Not really. He’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, heart pounding with the echo of whispered insults, fists slamming into lockers, laughter that tasted like venom. His ribs still ached not from bruises, but from the effort it took to stay silent. To stay small.
Jongho reached over, his hand a comforting weight as it squeezed Yeosang’s thigh. “Want to take a nap in my office later? I’ll kick San out.”
Yeosang let out a soft laugh, because it was what Jongho expected. Because if he didn’t laugh, he might start crying. “You can’t just exile your own brother.”
“I can when he’s annoying,” Jongho said easily, with a fond little smirk in his voice. “And especially when my husband needs peace and quiet.”
Husband.
The word felt like glass in Yeosang’s chest beautiful, fragile, and cutting. Every time Jongho said it, it sounded like a promise. Like safety. But it was also a weight. A reminder of everything Yeosang was hiding. Of how deeply he was failing to live up to the love Jongho gave so freely.
Jongho deserved someone whole. Someone brave. Someone who wasn’t constantly drowning in shame, lying with every smile, flinching at every compliment because it only reminded him how unworthy he felt.
“You spoil me too much,” he murmured, the words thin and hollow.
“Not possible,” Jongho replied, warm and certain. “You deserve all of it.”
Yeosang didn’t answer. His throat was tight again, chest constricting like the seatbelt had been cinched too tight. He stared at the skyline until the buildings blurred. Not from speed, but from tears he refused to let fall.
He reached for Jongho’s hand, fingers trembling slightly as they laced together. His thumb traced the familiar ridges of Jongho’s knuckles, desperate for something to anchor him. Jongho squeezed his hand back without question, like always.
But Yeosang couldn’t feel it.
He tried, tried to let the warmth in. But all he felt was the ache. The guilt. The unbearable pressure of holding himself together so tightly, for so long, that he didn’t know how to be anymore. He didn’t know how to exist without the mask.
And worse, he didn’t know what would happen if he took it off.
Because Jongho was good. Jongho was love made real. And if he ever found out.
If he ever saw the bruises beneath Yeosang’s shirt, or heard the cruel words that had been hurled at him for months.
If he ever knew how often Yeosang stood in the elevator and counted his breaths, repeating mantras in his head just to survive another floor
Yeosang knew Jongho would burn the world down.
He’d rip apart the company. He’d confront everyone, expose everything, protect him with the full fury of a man in love.
But the truth wouldn’t just destroy the bullies. It would destroy the fragile bubble of safety they’d built together. Their home, their peace, their perfect mornings. The illusion that Yeosang was okay.
So he stayed quiet.
He smiled when Jongho glanced at him at a red light. He tightened his grip just enough to reassure him. He breathed. He endured.
Because that’s what he’d been trained to do.
Because if Jongho ever knew…
Yeosang wasn’t sure he’d survive what came next.

The sleek black car pulled into the private garage beneath Choi Entertainment’s headquarters, its tires gliding to a quiet stop in the CEO’s reserved space. The moment the engine went silent, so did the warmth. The hush inside the car, once soft and comforting, now felt like the calm before a storm.
Yeosang let his fingers slide from Jongho’s hand, slowly, as if reluctant to leave the only place he still felt safe. His other hand moved to adjust the collar of his coat, tugging it up just slightly to make sure the faint shadow beneath his jaw remained hidden. The bruise wasn’t visible. The mask was on. His smile had been rehearsed in mirrors for years. Flawless.
“Ready, Sang?” Jongho’s voice was soft, unaware.
Yeosang turned to him and offered the gentlest of smiles. “Always.”
They stepped into the executive lobby marbled floors pristine and polished to a cruel gleam, towering glass walls casting sharp reflections. The moment they crossed the threshold, the shift was immediate.
The temperature dropped.
So did the pretense.
Two interns by the elevators froze mid-conversation. One girl’s eyes widened, lips parting like she might speak, before quickly pressing them into a thin line. The other narrowed her eyes slightly, then looked away with a scoff just quiet enough not to echo.
“Clingy,” one muttered behind a hand. “He’s always trailing behind him like a lost puppy.”
Yeosang didn’t flinch. Not visibly.
But his throat tightened.
The elevator arrived, and they stepped in. A tall man with slicked-back hair stood waiting inside, Jongho’s assistant, polished and proper, always eager to impress.
“Morning, sir,” the man greeted Jongho, his smile practiced and crisp. Then his gaze slid to Yeosang.
A beat.
Just long enough to register the subtle curl of disdain in the corner of his mouth. The smile thinned, turned brittle.
Yeosang gave a polite nod.
The assistant didn’t return it.
“Board’s waiting on the ambassador contracts,” he said, eyes locked on Jongho. “And Mingi’s got the budget revisions. Yunho requested time later to go over the PR report.”
“Perfect,” Jongho said. “Sang, you okay to head to your shoot from here?”
Yeosang’s smile was paper-thin. “Of course. I’ll stop by wardrobe first.”
“Good.” Jongho leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple, fingers briefly brushing his cheek. “Text me if you need anything.”
That little moment soft, real, his was fleeting. As the elevator doors opened, it vanished into the cold air of the executive floor.
“Good morning, CEO Choi!”
“You’re early today, sir.”
“Sharp suit, sir!”
Like clockwork, the greetings poured in. Polished, precise. Every head turned. Smiles bloomed.
Then Yeosang stepped out behind him.
The temperature dropped again.
The smiles died.
A few nodded out of obligation, like acknowledging a distant relative they disliked. One woman glanced up, then immediately looked down and began typing furiously, as if his presence alone was a disruption. Another rolled her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking.
"Is he even needed here?" someone whispered, not bothering to wait until he passed.
"Just a pretty face. Waste of space."
“He’s only here because he married the CEO. Everyone knows it.”
“And let’s not pretend that face hasn’t aged.”
The words were soft. Sharp. Cruel. Like razors under silk.
Yeosang kept walking, each step a calculated movement in this theater of thinly veiled contempt. Jongho turned the corner toward his office, oblivious to the glares Yeosang gathered in his wake.
A few staff turned to watch the CEO disappear behind his glass door—faces warming with admiration, even laughter. The moment Jongho vanished, the chill returned tenfold.
One junior producer, leaning against the breakroom wall, didn’t even lower his voice: “I’d quit before I ever let someone hand me a job like that out of pity. God, I’d at least try to earn it.”
Yeosang’s pace didn’t change.
He had long mastered the art of not reacting. Of becoming invisible without ever vanishing. But inside, every comment stuck like barbs beneath the skin.
He reached the hallway that led toward the shoot. The corridor was quieter here, more professional—but not kinder. A makeup artist brushed past him without a word, shoulder bumping his with a cold “Sorry,” that held no sincerity.
A stylist gave him a once-over and didn’t bother to hide the disapproval in her eyes. “He’s early,” she muttered to someone beside her. “Maybe trying to prove he actually works for once.”
He turned into the dressing room.
Closed the door.
And let the silence settle around him like a shroud.
There were cameras waiting. A set, lights, a role he needed to embody. He would be graceful. Beautiful. Controlled. He’d make them choke on their words, if only for a few fleeting hours.
But the sting of them still clung to his ribs.
And deep inside, Yeosang wondered just how much longer he could keep carrying it alone.

The sharp scent of studio-grade hairspray hung in the air like smoke, clinging to Yeosang’s throat as he stood under the heavy lights. His skin already glistened with the faint sheen of effort, not from the work, not yet, but from the sheer intensity of every gaze that dug into him like needles.
“Pull his jacket in,” one stylist muttered behind him, fingers jerking at the fabric near his spine. “It bunches weird around the shoulders. Probably his posture.”
Another laughed under her breath, not bothering to keep her voice down. “He always stands like that—like he thinks he’s some kind of prince.”
“More like a porcelain doll,” a third chimed in. “Pretty, but fragile. Breakable.”
Yeosang didn’t react. He stood still, let them adjust him like he was nothing more than a mannequin on display. He stared at the glowing red dot of the camera, focusing on its warmth, its simplicity. The camera didn’t sneer. The lens didn’t judge.
But the room did.
Director Han stepped forward again, flipping through a tablet of thumbnails with thinly veiled frustration. “God, this lighting still isn’t helping. Can someone dim it by ten percent? His features are too sharp it’s throwing the balance.”
Yeosang heard the pause in the assistant’s movements. Then a muttered, “Maybe it’s just his face.”
Wooyoung’s hand tensed slightly where it rested on Yeosang’s waist. His mouth parted like he might say something, but Yeosang’s fingers curled gently against his side, a silent signal: Don’t. Not now.
Because if Wooyoung fought for him, it would only make things worse.
He lifted his chin a fraction higher. Pushed his shoulders back. Relaxed his jaw just enough to bring softness to his profile. He could do this. He had done this. Again and again and again.
“Okay,” Han barked. “Let’s go for the brand concept now. Wooyoung, a bit more energy. Yeosang, try not to look so… distant. You’re meant to look desirable, not haunted.”
That one landed like a punch to the chest. Still, he didn’t break.
Instead, he turned toward Wooyoung, let his lips part just a little, let his gaze go soft—not glassy, not cold. Soft, like honey over ice. He imagined Jongho’s hand in his. The way Jongho whispered good morning against his shoulder. The warmth of their apartment. The blanket he loved too much.
He imagined home.
And from that, he carved out a smile. Shallow but convincing. Beautiful in the way they wanted him to be.
Wooyoung leaned closer again, their faces inches apart for the next frame. He whispered beneath the flash of the bulbs. “Let’s just get through it. You’re doing great.”
“Thanks,” Yeosang murmured, but he didn’t believe it.
One assistant, supposedly fixing the angle of a prop beside him, leaned close enough that Yeosang caught her voice, razor-sharp and low.
“Bet he cried his way into this job. Or something else.”
Yeosang’s vision swam briefly at the edges, but he didn’t move. He just stared ahead, perfectly composed.
The photographer’s voice rang out again. “Yeosang, tilt your chin to the left, no, your other left.”
He obeyed. Effortless. Precise.
He could feel them circling like vultures around a still-warm body. All these people who pretended he wasn’t worth the air he breathed in this building. They thought he didn’t notice. That he didn’t hear. That he was too soft, too spoiled, too fragile to fight back.
But Yeosang wasn’t here to fight.
He was here to endure.
“Good,” Han finally muttered. “That’s better. Let’s run another set, this time with the new suit line. Someone get him changed. Quickly, we’re losing light.”
A junior stylist stepped forward, already grabbing Yeosang’s sleeve to lead him back to wardrobe. Her grip was too tight. Her words clipped.
“This way. Try not to wrinkle the fabric again.”
Again.
As if it had been his fault last time.
Yeosang let himself be led. He didn’t look at anyone, didn’t return the glares or the whispered smirks. He let it all wash over him like cold water.
Because when the cameras turned back on, when the flashbulbs went off again, all they would see was perfection.

The final shutter clicked. The set lights dimmed.
“That’s a wrap,” the assistant called. “Models can head to wardrobe.”
Yeosang exhaled slowly, lowering his arms as the tension in his shoulders settled into a deep, aching fatigue. His skin felt stretched tight under layers of makeup, and his legs nearly buckled when he stepped off the platform.
Behind him, Wooyoung was already slipping out of his jacket, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked on Yeosang.
“Yeosang,” he called, jogging to catch up. “Hey—wait up.”
Yeosang didn’t slow down. He kept walking, brisk and silent, heading toward the hallway that led to the dressing rooms.
“Sang,” Wooyoung tried again, gentler this time, “are you okay? You looked a little”
“I said I’m fine,” Yeosang snapped, his voice sharper than he meant it to be. He didn’t stop walking. “Don’t follow me.”
Wooyoung froze, stunned silent as Yeosang turned the corner and disappeared.
The hallway felt endless, every step dragging heavier than the last. The first dressing room he found was dark and quiet, and he slipped inside, locking the door behind him with trembling fingers. His knees gave out before he made it to the chair.
He sank to the floor.
The moment he was alone, the mask cracked. His breath came fast, too fast, and he couldn’t control the shaking in his hands. It started in his fingertips and spread like fire, up his arms, down his spine. His vision blurred.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t think.
He folded in on himself, arms around his legs, rocking slightly as panic roared in his chest like a storm. A choked sob escaped before he could swallow it down. Then another. He pressed his hand to his mouth, trying to silence them, but his body betrayed him.
He hated this.
Hated how weak he felt.
How small.
He barely registered the knock until it was followed by the sound of a key in the lock.
The door creaked open.
Yeosang scrambled upright, wiping at his face with trembling hands as Director Han stepped in, flanked by the makeup artist and the lighting tech. None of them looked surprised to find him like this.
“Wow,” Han said with a scoff. “Hiding in here like a child. Thought you’d at least have the dignity to cry at home.”
Yeosang’s voice caught in his throat. “I, I just needed a minute.”
“To what?” the makeup artist sneered, arms crossed. “Recover from standing still? Poor thing. You’re so fragile.”
“I’m not” Yeosang tried.
“Don’t bother,” Han cut in, tone icy. “You’ve been coasting on your husband’s name since the day you walked in here. We all know it.”
The lighting tech leaned against the wall, bored. “Some of us actually work to be here. You just… exist.”
Yeosang stood slowly, bracing himself on the counter behind him. “I haven’t done anything to any of you.”
“No,” the makeup artist said, stepping closer now, “you just take up space. Space someone more talented could’ve had.”
Yeosang’s breath hitched. He didn’t see the hand coming until it was already on his face, cold fingers grabbing his chin, tilting his head up.
“You’re just a pretty puppet,” she said, eyes narrowing. “Let’s not pretend you’re anything more.”
Yeosang jerked away, his skin burning where she’d touched him. “Don’t touch me.”
Han snorted. “You think Jongho’s going to save you? You think he’d believe you over us? Please. He sees what we tell him to see. And if you make waves? That company he loves so much might not survive the backlash.”
The message was clear:
Speak, and Jongho suffers.
Yeosang stood there, silent and shaking, their words echoing in the air long after they turned and walked out.
The door shut behind them with a soft, merciless click.
Yeosang’s legs gave out again. He collapsed onto the chair, numb and burning all at once.
He couldn’t fall apart now.
Not when they wanted him to.
Not when it could hurt Jongho.

The tear tracks were gone. The swelling had faded, masked expertly by a cold compress and the careful pat of a concealer sponge.
Yeosang’s eyes, however, still betrayed him. A little too glassy. A little too tired.
He checked himself once more in the mirror outside the executive lounge, adjusting the soft beige knit sweater he’d changed into after the shoot. The color softened his features, gave him the illusion of warmth. He looked fine.
He could be fine.
He had to be.
The private dining floor of Choi Entertainment was quieter than the bustling cafeteria downstairs reserved for executives and senior creatives. He stepped inside with practiced ease, greeted by the muted clink of cutlery and the occasional low burst of laughter.
Mingi was talking animatedly with Yunho near the window table, chopsticks gesturing so wildly he nearly flung a piece of kimchi into Yunho’s lap.
“I swear, if he ends up in a historical film, I’m going to have to rewrite my entire aesthetic. You’re a sageuk nightmare,” Mingi declared.
“I look good in hanbok,” Yunho replied smoothly, catching the kimchi with his spoon. “The nation agrees.”
Seonghwa and Hongjoong were already seated, a small bowl of fruit between them. Seonghwa plucked a grape delicately and held it up.
“Say ‘ah,’” he said.
Hongjoong, deadpan: “I’m a grown man.”
Seonghwa popped the grape into his own mouth with a shrug. “Your loss.”
Wooyoung was already watching him when he walked in.
Yeosang slid into the open seat beside Seonghwa with a polite smile, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not,” Seonghwa said softly, passing him a chilled bottle of water. “We just got here.”
Yeosang nodded his thanks and took a sip. His throat stung on the way down—he hadn’t realized how parched he was.
Wooyoung dropped into the seat beside him. Closer than usual. He didn’t say anything right away, but Yeosang could feel the tension radiating off him like static.
The others were already back to chatting.
“Okay, but you can’t wear glasses in a historical drama,” Mingi pointed out.
“I’ll squint dramatically,” Yunho said. “Very period-accurate.”
Yeosang smiled faintly.
It didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Seonghwa leaned in, voice low. “You’ve been crying.”
Yeosang froze for half a second too long.
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, eyes on his water bottle.
Seonghwa didn’t argue. He just reached out and straightened the cuff of Yeosang’s sweater, brushing imaginary lint from the edge.
“I know,” he said softly.
Wooyoung’s fingers tapped lightly against the table, rhythm steady and grounding. “You don’t have to tell us what’s wrong,” he murmured, voice low and private. “But you don’t have to be alone in it, either.”
Yeosang’s expression faltered. A crack in the porcelain.
“Thanks,” he whispered.
Across the table, Hongjoong looked up from his phone, catching the stillness that settled over their corner of the table. His brows pinched slightly, the beginnings of concern flickering across his face but he didn’t speak. He just reached under the table and took Seonghwa’s hand.
Then Mingi looked up, face bright. “Yeosang, did you hear? I might be doing the soundtrack for Yunho’s new film. If that happens, we’re basically Korea’s new power couple.”
Yunho grinned. “Power trio. You’re not getting all the glory.”
“I’m the composer. I get full dramatic scoring privileges. When you cry on screen, it’ll be because of me,” Mingi said smugly.
“I think my acting might have something to do with it,” Yunho countered, mock offended.
Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re fighting over who makes people cry.”
“I can,” Wooyoung muttered. “Have you seen Yunho watch animal documentaries? One baby fox and he’s weeping.”
Yeosang laughed. Quiet. Reflexive. Too short.
They were all so vivid, so full of light and color.
And he felt like he was made of glass—thin, cold, one wrong touch from shattering.
He nodded in the right places. Smiled when someone looked his way. Reached for his chopsticks and pushed rice around his plate like he was part of the moment.
But the food had no taste.
The warmth didn’t reach him.
His body was here, but his mind was floating somewhere above, watching the scene like an outsider behind soundproof glass.
This was the part of the day he could pretend.
Here surrounded by these six people he could almost believe he wasn’t breaking.

Yeosang was just beginning to relax—just a little, just enough to let himself laugh softly at Mingi’s dramatic reenactment of a botched recording session when the elevator chimed.
And just like that, the moment shattered.
His laughter caught in his throat, eyes fixed on the untouched bowl of rice in front of him. Every muscle in his body tensed, and a cold, creeping pressure settled over his chest like a weight he couldn't push off.
He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
He felt it.
Jongho’s presence was unmistakable steady, strong, commanding. And beside him, San’s energy crackled like a spark, always vibrant, always loud even in silence. The atmosphere in the room shifted around them. Heavier now. More expectant.
The laughter at the table dulled. The clinking of silverware grew quieter. Conversations paused at the far end of the dining space, eyes lifting subtly, like waves reacting to a sudden change in gravity.
Yeosang felt all of it. The noise. The silence. The eyes. The way the air turned viscous in his lungs, every breath thick and hard to pull in.
His world began to close.
Not in a dramatic, spiraling way but in that slow, crushing silence of someone drowning quietly in plain sight.
His vision narrowed. The comfort of the table, the warmth of his friends, the brief illusion of normalcy all of it slipped further out of reach.
He stared harder at his food.
Wooyoung turned toward the sound with a grin. “Speak of the devils.”
“Hey,” San greeted, hands tucked casually into his coat pockets, gaze sweeping the table.
Jongho followed behind, removing his blazer with quiet grace. His eyes scanned the room once, then landed on Yeosang and softened immediately. “There you are, Sang.”
Yeosang couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could barely even breathe.
He felt their eyes now. The ones across the room. The ones that always lingered a second too long when Jongho entered. And then flicked to him. Why him?
Like he was wearing something too expensive for his skin.
Like he’d stolen something sacred.
You don’t belong here.
His hand curled tighter around his water bottle.
His smile wavered.
Jongho’s presence had always been grounding for Yeosang. Steady. Warm. Unshakable. But lately, even that comfort felt far away like he was watching it through a fogged window, pressed up against the glass, unable to feel it the way he used to.
He could feel Jongho’s fingers tracing soft circles against his palm under the table, a silent reassurance. He knew it was meant to calm him, to remind him he wasn’t alone. But his body wouldn’t respond. His skin buzzed with tension, every nerve ending lit with the awareness of too many stares and too much silence.
They’re looking again.
Jongho’s voice quiet, just for him, broke through the storm cloud gathering in his mind. “You sure you’re okay?”
Yeosang didn’t trust his voice. He just nodded.
Jongho turned slightly in his seat, shielding him a little from the rest of the room with the subtle shift of his broad frame. His free hand reached for Yeosang’s water bottle and twisted the cap off with a casual ease, offering it back like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Drink something,” he murmured gently. “You’re always forgetting.”
Yeosang took it mechanically, forcing a sip. It went down rough.
Jongho didn’t say more didn’t press like the others. Instead, he let his thumb find Yeosang’s knuckles again, a soothing rhythm in the quiet chaos of Yeosang’s mind. His eyes flickered briefly to Yeosang’s face, then darted away with the smallest frown, as if he could sense something was wrong but couldn’t quite place it.
Yeosang hated that.
He hated that Jongho, his Jongho, could love him so deeply and still not see what was happening.
Couldn’t see the whispered glances. The venom behind every smile that wasn’t from one of the seven at this table. Couldn’t see how hard he had to fight to stay upright, to keep his breathing even, to stop himself from standing and running out the door.
You’re ruining his image.
They think you’re weak. Spoiled. Undeserving.
He smiled again at something Mingi said about needing Yunho’s face for the film poster and definitely not his own, and it hurt. Physically hurt. His cheek twitched from the effort.
Wooyoung leaned in and bumped shoulders with him, a lighthearted nudge, but there was a question in his eyes.
San was watching him too now, not overtly, but with the sort of quiet observation that made Yeosang nervous. He could see it, see the wheels turning. He was noticing.
“Did something happen?” Jongho asked again, low and gentle, brushing his knuckles lightly against Yeosang’s thigh under the table. “Tell me if it did, okay? I’ll fix it.”
Yeosang’s stomach twisted.
You can’t fix this, he thought, lips parting but no words coming out.
Because how could he say it?
That every time Jongho smiled at him like that, it only made the whispers worse.
That his presence, his protection, his love the very thing Yeosang once believed would save him, was starting to feel like a gilded cage.
That he couldn’t tell his husband what was happening, because the truth would break his heart.
And Yeosang couldn’t bear that. He could barely bear himself.
“I’m okay,” he lied again, voice barely above a whisper.
Jongho’s eyes searched his face for a long moment. Then he reached up, tucking a strand of Yeosang’s hair behind his ear with aching tenderness.
“Okay,” he said softly. “But if that ever changes… you tell me. No matter what.”
Yeosang nodded.
Because that’s what he always did.
Even as his lungs burned from the effort of pretending.
Even as his reflection in the polished spoon beside his plate didn’t look like someone who belonged.
Even as a part of him whispered You can’t do this much longer.
He pressed closer to Jongho anyway, letting his shoulder rest against his husband’s like nothing was wrong.
Fake it for a little longer.
Just until you’re alone.

Lunch ended with laughter and warmth, easy smiles traded over half-finished plates and inside jokes. But as the table cleared and the group drifted off in pairs Mingi walking with Yunho, Seonghwa linking arms with Hongjoong, San lingered, his eyes locked on Yeosang’s now-empty seat.
He hadn’t eaten a single bite.
San’s gaze shifted to Wooyoung, who was quietly gathering his things, stuffing his phone and chapstick into his tote bag with movements just a bit too careful, like he was buying time.
“Hey,” San said, voice low and steady in a way that made Wooyoung freeze mid-movement.
Wooyoung looked up, blinking. “Yeah?”
“Walk with me.”
There was no teasing in San’s tone. No lazy grin. Just quiet urgency.
Wooyoung’s brow furrowed, but he nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder and following him out into the hallway. The corridor was quieter now, most of the staff having filtered out, their laughter distant echoes in the elevator lobby.
San didn’t speak at first. He kept his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders tense beneath his coat. His jaw flexed once. Twice. Like he was biting back something sharp.
They stepped into the elevator. San hit the button for the top floor.
Only when the doors slid shut with a soft ding did he speak.
“What’s going on with Yeosang?”
Wooyoung froze.
The words were like a drop of ink in water sudden, inescapable, spreading fast. His fingers gripped the strap of his bag tighter.
“You noticed too,” San said, eyes fixed ahead. It wasn’t a question.
Wooyoung didn’t answer. He couldn’t. There was too much tangled behind his ribs to speak just yet.
San turned to look at him, the lines of his face sharper now, his usual relaxed presence replaced by something clenched and burning.
“He didn’t look like himself today,” San continued, quieter now. “He flinched when you touched him. He didn’t eat. And when Jongho showed up, it was like…”
He exhaled hard, chest rising with the force of it.
“…it was like he shut down completely.”
Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. “I know.”
San faced him fully. “So talk to me.”
Wooyoung looked away. The elevator lights cast a soft gold over his features, making his expression look older somehow. Sadder.
“I don’t know what to say,” he muttered. “He won’t tell me anything. Every time I try, he dodges or smiles or makes a joke. But I know something’s wrong. I’ve known for a while.”
“How long?” San asked, his voice tighter than before.
Wooyoung hesitated. “Months. Maybe longer. He hides it too well. I used to think it was just stress, or… burnout. But today…”
He trailed off, eyes burning.
“Today was bad,” San finished for him.
Wooyoung nodded once, sharply. “He was crying before lunch. I saw it. His eyes were red, his face was pale. He looked like he was holding his whole world together with duct tape.”
San’s fists curled in his pockets.
“And you haven’t told Jongho.”
“No,” Wooyoung said quickly. “Because I don’t have proof. If I go to him now, if I even hint at something being wrong without anything solid, Yeosang might shut me out completely. He’s already hanging on by a thread.”
San was quiet for a long moment.
Then, softly, “Do you think someone’s hurting him?”
Wooyoung’s head snapped up. “Yes,” he said, voice hoarse. “But not Jongho. Don’t even think that. Jongho would burn this whole company to the ground for Yeosang. He’s the only reason Yeosang still smiles at all.”
San nodded, relief flashing in his eyes. “Okay. Then who?”
“I don’t know,” Wooyoung whispered. “But it’s someone here. I know it is. And he’s too scared to say.”
San pressed his lips together, fury flickering in his gaze. It wasn’t loud or explosive—but that low, simmering kind that meant he would not let this go.
“He’s family,” San said. “Just like Jongho.”
Wooyoung looked at him then, something soft and unspoken settling between them.
“So what do we do?” San asked.
Wooyoung exhaled, quiet but sure. “We stay close. We keep watch. We don’t push, but we don’t leave him alone either. And when he’s ready to fall, we catch him.”
San nodded once.
The elevator dinged.
The doors slid open to the top floor, light pouring in but neither of them moved right away.
They didn’t need to say more.
The promise was already made.
And the quiet fury in their silence said everything.

Yeosang’s heels echoed against the marble floors of the upper east corridor, his steps perfectly measured, back rigidly straight.
He was wearing his professionalism like armor.
Polished shoes, tailored suit, emotionless mask.
But inside, his chest ached. The sting from lunch hadn’t faded—it had only grown sharper now that he was alone again. He should have felt lighter surrounded by the warmth of his friends, Jongho’s voice soft at his side, Wooyoung brushing against his arm like he always did. But it hadn’t dulled the weight. It hadn’t silenced the whispers.
They only got louder when he returned to the upper floors of Choi Entertainment.
A cluster of interns stood near the editorial wing, huddled in a mock-casual half-circle, coffees in hand. When they saw him approaching, their expressions shifted faux innocence bleeding into open disdain. One of them laughed too loudly at nothing, but it cut off the moment Yeosang came into view.
He kept walking.
“Look at him,” someone whispered. “He always walks like he’s above us.”
“Because he is, right?” another murmured. “He’s the CEO’s pretty little pet. Must be nice having a shortcut to the top.”
Yeosang didn’t stop.
He couldn’t afford to.
But their words trailed him like smoke, curling under his skin, seeping into the cracks of his composure.
“Bet he doesn’t even audition for half his gigs,” one voice sneered. “He just blinks at the camera and gets booked.”
“Don’t need talent when you’ve got a last name like Choi, huh?”
He turned the corner and stepped into the lounge near the photoshoot suites. The air here felt colder, thinner somehow. More dangerous.
A group of stylists were seated around the glass table, swiping through photos on their iPads. One of them didn’t bother lowering their voice.
“He got that Versace spread because he’s married to the CEO,” she said, flipping her sleek bob. “Nepotism in eyeliner.”
Another scoffed. “Versace? Please. He looks like he cries between takes. That campaign was probably a pity favor.”
“I heard they only married so he could lock in a brand deal,” a third added. “He’s basically a walking mannequin with a wedding ring.”
Yeosang paused just beyond the doorway, back to them. His spine remained straight, but his shoulders tensed, breath caught between his teeth.
Miserable.
That word hung in the air longer than the rest.
They weren’t wrong. But not for the reasons they thought.
He exhaled slowly, locking his expression into place before stepping fully into the room. The silence that followed was instant and stifling. People glanced at him, then quickly away. A few stared too long. One smirked. Another scoffed into her drink.
He didn’t acknowledge any of them.
His feet carried him to the makeup department, where a new artist a woman with a sharp mouth and eyes like icicles, waved him into a chair without a word. She didn’t offer a greeting. Didn’t meet his gaze.
The foundation brush was rough against his cheek, her touch impersonal and cold.
When she adjusted his collar, she tugged it hard enough to make his head jolt back slightly. Still, he said nothing.
“Try not to cry this time,” she muttered, just above a whisper.
His heart stuttered.
“I’m sorry?” he asked, his voice so quiet he barely recognized it.
“I said don’t smudge it this time,” she replied, louder, tone laced with condescension. “Wouldn’t want to ruin another set of retakes.”
He didn’t respond.
He stood the moment she finished, murmuring a soft “thank you” even as she rolled her eyes and turned her back on him.
He left the makeup chair with his hands trembling, the edges of his vision tight. He folded them behind him to hide it—his last line of defense.
The studio was colder than usual, the lights harsher. His stylist didn’t even glance at him as she shoved a designer coat into his hands with a huff. “Put it on properly this time. Last shoot, you looked like a drowned rat.”
Yeosang pulled the coat on without a word.
The assistant photographer someone who used to joke with him between takes barely acknowledged his presence, murmuring something under his breath to a nearby crew member. She giggled.
He didn’t ask what was so funny.
Because he already knew.
The director entered the space last, tapping at his tablet, his gaze sweeping over Yeosang with a flicker of annoyance.
“You again,” he said dryly, like Yeosang’s presence was an inconvenience. “Still can’t smile properly, huh?”
Yeosang didn’t answer.
“Let’s make this quick,” the man continued, adjusting his lens with exaggerated impatience. “The lighting budget doesn’t include redoing your entire face in post.”
Yeosang stepped onto his mark, spine stiff.
“Don’t look so stiff,” the director snapped. “You’re supposed to be a model, not a mannequin.”
There were a few chuckles. Low, cruel, and unkind.
Yeosang swallowed.
“Give me elegance. Emotion. Something real,” the director said, waving his hand like Yeosang was a waste of his time. “Or is that all you know how to do? Stand there and look pretty?”
Yeosang’s jaw tightened. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t breathe.
He posed.
Because that was all he had left.
A practiced smile. A precise angle. The mask of perfection.
Even as his soul screamed beneath it.
Even as he wondered how many more pieces of himself he could afford to lose before the whole thing came crashing down.

The photoshoot dragged like a slow, cruel punishment.
Each click of the camera sounded like a verdict, sharp, cold, final.
The lights were too bright, the room too silent between commands. The director’s tone was clipped, impatient, never quite yelling but always cruel.
“Lift your chin. No, not like that. God do you know how to model, or are you just here to look pretty and cry?”
No one offered him water. No one offered a break.
No one told him he was doing well.
When it finally ended, the director didn’t even look at him. He waved toward the exit like dismissing a fly.
“Tell your husband to pull you from next month’s shoot,” he said, loud and clear for everyone to hear, “if you're going to keep wasting everyone’s time.”
A few people chuckled.
Yeosang said nothing.
He bowed.
Then walked out slowly carefully like a wind-up doll near the end of its gears.
The dressing room was blessedly, finally, mercifully empty.
He dropped onto the corner bench, his limbs heavy. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like static, and the mirrors across from him caught too much: the redness in his eyes, the unnatural stiffness in his shoulders, the ghost of hurt in his clenched jaw.
He didn’t cry.
Not yet.
He just stared.
His hands trembled slightly as he peeled off the blazer. The fabric scraped against the faint bruises on his arm, still healing, still hidden. Jongho hadn’t seen them. He made sure of that. No one had.
The memory came rushing back like cold water down his spine:
An assistant, pretending to adjust him during a shoot, fingers digging in hard, their mouth inches from his ear.
“You’re lucky you have a pretty face. Because once that fades, you’ll be nothing.”
Yeosang didn’t flinch then. He didn’t flinch now.
He simply pressed his palm over the bruise like it was a secret he could bury into silence.
He was used to this.
Used to the resentment.
Used to the way people looked at him, like he hadn’t earned any of this, like he was taking space from someone more deserving. Someone louder. Someone loved.
He didn’t notice how long he sat there, locked in stillness, as the silence dug into his chest like sharp claws.
A soft knock startled him.
He flinched hard and stood too quickly, grabbing for his blazer, heart thudding in his ears.
“Yeosang?”
It was Seonghwa.
His voice was a balm. Quiet, but full of something Yeosang hadn’t heard all day: care.
Yeosang tried to pull his expression back together before cracking the door open. “Hey,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Seonghwa’s eyes swept over him and softened. “You’ve been gone a while. I got worried.”
“I’m fine. Just… tired.” Yeosang tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Seonghwa didn’t believe him. He never did.
He stepped a little closer, careful, gentle, like approaching a frightened deer.
“You’ve been through enough today.” His voice was steady, kind. “They were awful. No one should have to listen to that.”
Yeosang looked away. “It’s not new.”
“And that’s the worst part,” Seonghwa murmured. “You say it like it’s normal. Like you expect to be treated like this.”
Yeosang didn’t respond.
“You want to come up to the rooftop?” Seonghwa offered softly. “It’s quiet. We can just sit. You don’t have to say anything. You can just… breathe.”
Yeosang hesitated.
Then nodded. Not because he believed he deserved peace but because maybe, just maybe, he could borrow a little of Seonghwa’s.
Just for tonight.

Above the steel and glass of the city, there was quiet.
Still and untouched.
High above the whispers, the judgment, the artificial smiles, the backhanded compliments and carefully veiled threats. Up here, the city looked soft. Like it hadn’t hurt him. Like it wasn’t still trying to.
Yeosang had only been to the rooftop once before.
It had been raining then.
Today, the sky was clear, painfully so. The sun hung low and heavy, casting the buildings in golden light that almost looked beautiful. Like it was trying to apologize.
The wind curled softly through his hair as he stepped out onto the rooftop. He didn’t move quickly. Every part of him felt sluggish, tight with unspoken ache. Behind him, Seonghwa followed silently, saying nothing, but his presence was a balm in itself gentle and patient.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
Seonghwa walked ahead slightly, leading him toward the far end of the rooftop where a stone bench sat tucked near the edge, half-shielded by a slim, blooming tree. The petals fluttered in the wind like something from a scene Yeosang was too tired to believe in.
Seonghwa sat first, smoothing his palms over his knees, then looked up his gaze steady, kind. Wordless.
Yeosang sat beside him.
The silence stretched.
Not tense. Not heavy.
Just there.
Like a blanket laid over raw nerves.
Yeosang stared out at the skyline, but didn’t really see it. All he could feel was the weight in his chest, deep and aching, pressing into every breath. His hands were clasped too tightly in his lap. His mouth tasted like iron.
He didn’t want to cry.
But he wasn’t sure how not to.
He hated how small he felt.
How invisible.
He hated that one man with a cold voice and a sharper stare could unravel hours of effort. That strangers’ opinions echoed louder in his head than his own husband’s love. That he could be touched like that, hurt like that and not even flinch anymore.
He didn’t want Jongho to see the bruises.
Not because he didn’t trust him.
But because… maybe he deserved them.
Maybe the assistant was right. Maybe he wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe he’d only ever gotten this far because of his face, because of the name he’d married into, because of luck.
What would be left when that all wore away?
What would be left of him?
His throat tightened. He looked down, focusing on a small crack in the concrete. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust himself.
Beside him, Seonghwa shifted slightly, leaning back against the wall behind the bench with a soft sigh. He closed his eyes.
Yeosang stared at him for a moment, not moving.
Then he leaned back too. Slowly. Carefully. Like it might shatter something inside him to let go, even a little.
The wind brushed past again. A bird landed on the metal railing and tilted its head.
Somewhere below, a car honked. A siren wailed faintly in the distance.
Then, Seonghwa spoke.
“Did you know,” he said softly, “the first time I ever came up here, I cried for an hour?”
Yeosang turned his head, blinking. “…What?”
Seonghwa’s eyes stayed closed. “It was after my first campaign failure. The director told me I didn’t have ‘it’ anymore. Said I was too old. Too stiff. Not fresh enough. I was twenty-eight.”
Yeosang was silent.
He hadn’t known that.
“I came up here thinking it was over. That I’d wasted years trying to be something I wasn’t.” He opened his eyes then, turning his head slightly. “And I believed them. For a while. Because they said it so convincingly. Like they knew me better than I knew myself.”
Yeosang swallowed. His voice came out quiet and flat. “Maybe they did.”
Seonghwa frowned, soft and sad. “No, sweetheart. They didn’t.”
“But what if they’re right?” Yeosang’s voice cracked. “What if this is it? What if I’m just… someone they tolerate until they find someone better?”
Seonghwa didn’t interrupt. Didn’t try to immediately fix it.
He let the words come.
Yeosang’s breath hitched. “I try so hard. I don’t complain. I do what I’m told. I smile. I show up. And it never matters. They still look at me like I don’t belong. Like I’m just… a pretty ornament Jongho put on the shelf.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes I start believing it, too.”
Seonghwa reached over, not to pull him into a hug—but to rest his hand on Yeosang’s knee. Solid. Present.
“I know it feels like you’re alone in this,” he said gently. “But you’re not. You’re not. I see you. I know what they’re doing to you, even if they’re too cowardly to say it outright.”
Yeosang’s throat burned.
“I’ve heard them talk,” Seonghwa continued, his voice still low and warm, “and I want you to know—none of it is true. Not a single word. You belong here because you earned it. Because you work harder than anyone. Because you have something no one else has. And they hate that.”
Yeosang blinked hard, biting the inside of his cheek.
“They don’t want to admit they can’t control you,” Seonghwa whispered. “So they try to break you instead.”
Yeosang looked away, shoulders curling in.
Seonghwa didn’t press. He just kept his hand there, steady and warm. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “the people we trust the least are the ones with the loudest voices in our heads. And sometimes… the only way to remember who we are is to find a place where they can’t reach us.”
The silence returned, gentle again.
Not empty.
But filled with something unspoken and sacred.
Yeosang closed his eyes.
Let the air move around him.
Let Seonghwa’s words settle deep.
He didn’t cry. Not fully.
But he breathed.
And in that breath slow and steady and real, he felt something like strength return.
Not all of it. Not enough to fight the world.
But enough to survive the night.

The rooftop garden of Choi Entertainment was Seonghwa’s secret.
Not many people knew about it. Nestled high above the clamor and buzz of the city, it wasn’t much a stone bench, a young tree, a patch of green that fought valiantly against the concrete sea around it. Quiet. Still. Untouched by office gossip or flashing cameras.
Jongho hadn’t meant to stop.
He was on his way to a high-stakes meeting, a sleek black tablet tucked under one arm and a mind sharpened for quarterly reports. The elevator ride had been silent, his reflection in the polished doors unreadable, focused.
But something tugged.
It was small, almost imperceptible. A flicker of movement beyond the tall windows that overlooked the rooftop. Instinct more than anything else made him pause, glancing sideways just as the elevator doors parted.
And then he saw him.
Yeosang.
Seated on the stone bench by the tree, hands clenched too tightly in his lap. The sun caught in his hair like it was made of gold, but his shoulders were bowed inwards, too stiff, too heavy. And beside him, still and steady as ever, was Seonghwa.
Jongho didn’t breathe.
He took a slow step forward, barely noticing his assistant hurrying to match his pace. He drifted toward the window, close but unseen behind the tint of two floors’ worth of distance. His eyes fixed on the bench, his whole body suddenly attuned.
Yeosang wasn’t speaking. Neither was Seonghwa.
But they didn’t need words. Not for Jongho to understand.
There was something about the way Yeosang held himself like he was folding in on something invisible. His back straight but trembling ever so slightly, his profile turned toward the garden like he was hiding from the world. From everyone. From him.
Jongho’s throat tightened.
And then he saw it. The faintest shimmer of moisture beneath Yeosang’s eyes. Not fresh tears, not now. But remnants. A redness around his lashes. The kind that came from holding it in for too long. The kind that hurt just as much.
His chest cracked open.
Because Yeosang didn’t cry often. Not even in private, not even when Jongho had his arms wrapped tightly around him in the safety of their home. His emotions came in quiet waves soft, rare things that Jongho treasured every time they surfaced.
Seeing the aftermath of tears, left unspoken, hit something deep in him.
His fingers curled tighter around the edge of his tablet.
From afar, Jongho could only watch as Seonghwa gently reached out and fixed the edge of Yeosang’s coat, smoothing it over his shoulder with quiet care. A simple touch. Tender. Protective. Like a shield made from nothing but presence.
And Yeosang didn’t flinch. Didn’t lean away.
He just… let it happen.
Jongho’s jaw clenched. Not in jealousy, never that. He trusted Seonghwa. Loved him, in his own way. But it made his heart ache to see someone else there when he wasn’t. To see Yeosang hurting, and not know.
To see his love in pain, and feel it secondhand.
“Sir?”
The voice beside him pulled him back.
He blinked, startled, like surfacing from deep water. His assistant was there, tablet in hand, brows pinched with worry.
“The board meeting has started. They’re waiting.”
Of course they were.
Jongho looked back at the rooftop once more. Just one more glance. As if he could memorize the shape of Yeosang sitting there. As if he could reach through the glass, wrap his arms around him, and take the weight off his shoulders with sheer love alone.
He couldn’t.
But God, he wanted to.
“I’ll be there in two minutes,” he said softly.
His assistant hesitated, then nodded and stepped away.
Jongho stayed, still and steady, watching the man he loved more than anything in this world sit on a lonely rooftop with tears barely dried on his face. His heart ached not with anger or fear, but with longing. With the desperate desire to protect him from everything, to keep him safe and happy and untouched by the cruelty of the world.
A flicker of guilt slid beneath his ribs.
Why hadn’t he noticed? Why hadn’t Yeosang told him?
And why had he looked so tired this morning—smiling, yes, always smiling—but with a hollowness that Jongho had missed?
He turned from the window at last, his expression unreadable, but his heart pounding with quiet urgency.
He would fix this.
Whatever had caused those tears, he would find it. And destroy it.
For Yeosang.
Always, for Yeosang.

Dinner at the Choi household was usually warm.
It was a ritual more than a meal layers of comfort folded into the familiar rhythm of domestic life. Yeosang liked setting the table with delicate precision, humming a soft tune under his breath as he adjusted each placemat, folded each napkin like origami. Jongho, ever amused, always filled their wine glasses with sparkling water like it was some private joke between them “Fancy hydration,” he’d murmur with a wink, and Yeosang would roll his eyes but smile anyway.
Soft music drifted from the speakers built into the walls. Something instrumental. Peaceful.
These were the little things. But to Jongho, they were everything.
They were theirs.
Tonight’s dinner looked beautiful. Pasta coated in a velvety mushroom sauce, steam curling gently from roasted vegetables arranged with almost artistic precision. A single candle flickered between them, casting Yeosang’s features in soft light.
Jongho watched him as he adjusted the candle slightly to the left, then the salt shaker to the right, small motions, perfect placements. His hands were careful. Too careful.
“You really didn’t have to cook tonight,” Jongho said softly, idly spinning his fork in his fingers. “You’ve been working so hard.”
Yeosang smiled. It was the smile Jongho loved, soft, a little bashful but tonight, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something faintly strained beneath it, like a hairline crack beneath flawless porcelain.
“I like cooking,” Yeosang replied simply.
And maybe that was true. Maybe he did. But Jongho wasn’t listening to the words. He was watching the almosts.
The almost-smile. The almost-relaxed posture. The almost-happy hum that didn’t come tonight.
His heart stirred uneasily.
He looked down at his plate, then back up, voice quiet. “You seemed tired earlier.”
Yeosang blinked. It was a tiny pause, not even a full second. But Jongho noticed. He always noticed.
“Did I?” Yeosang asked.
“I saw you on the rooftop,” Jongho said, eyes never leaving him. “With Seonghwa.”
That stopped Yeosang mid-motion. Just for a breath. His fork hovered above his plate before he set it down, delicately, like he was trying not to make a sound.
“Oh,” he said. Then, almost too quickly, he chuckled. “He just wanted to talk. You know how he gets.”
Jongho nodded slowly. “I thought… you looked upset.”
Another pause. Thicker, this time. The kind that left something unspoken in the space between them.
Yeosang looked at his plate, then at Jongho. His eyes were calm, unreadable. Too practiced. “It’s nothing,” he said, almost breezy. “Just a long shoot. The director’s always a bit intense.”
Jongho didn’t press. He didn’t call out the lie. Not because he believed it—but because he saw how badly Yeosang wanted him to.
Instead, he watched the man he loved lean his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his palm like nothing had changed. That smile returned—charming, teasing, too bright—and he reached out to poke Jongho’s hand.
“Don’t worry, Sang’s okay,” he said, voice lilting, affectionate. Like always.
But Jongho didn’t laugh.
He couldn’t.
Because Yeosang was too good at this. At playing perfect. At being everything for everyone. His glow was always soft and steady but Jongho was beginning to see the flickers in it. The places where the light dimmed when no one was looking.
He didn’t know what had happened on that rooftop. He didn’t know what was said, or what was felt. But he knew the redness around Yeosang’s eyes hadn’t come from the wind. And he knew down to his very bones, that something was wrong.
And it broke him.
Because he loved Yeosang with every corner of his heart. With the kind of love that made him want to shield him from the world, from anything that could make those lashes damp, that voice tremble.
So he didn’t ask the question burning at the back of his throat.
What happened? Who hurt you? Why are you still lying to me?
Instead, he reached across the table, gently, and threaded their fingers together. He brushed his thumb across the back of Yeosang’s hand like a silent promise.
“I just want you to tell me if something ever feels off, okay?” he said, voice quiet. Steady. Laced with everything he couldn’t say out loud.
Yeosang didn’t answer right away. His fingers twitched against Jongho’s.
Then he squeezed. A little too hard. As if he needed the grounding. As if he couldn’t trust his voice.
“I know,” he whispered. “I will.”
And Jongho nodded.
Because he had to believe it.
Because the smile Yeosang gave him next was still beautiful, ethereal, almost but it wasn’t his. Not really. Not tonight.
And Jongho would wait. He would watch. And when Yeosang finally let the cracks show, finally stopped saying “I’m okay” like it was a shield
He would be ready.
He would catch him.

Their bedroom was dim, cast in a soft amber hue from the lamp on Jongho’s side of the bed. Outside, the city was hushed, only the occasional hum of a passing car beneath their window, the distant bark of a dog. Inside, it smelled like lavender and clean cotton, the kind of calm that wrapped around you and asked nothing but rest.
The sheets had just been changed that morning cool and smooth, carrying the faint scent of the dryer sheets Yeosang always picked out. The ones Jongho had once teased were too floral, but now admitted reminded him of Yeosang. Clean. Gentle. Familiar.
Yeosang lay curled tightly into Jongho’s chest, like a leaf pressed between the pages of a book. One leg was thrown loosely over Jongho’s, his fingers curled lightly against his husband’s side, head tucked beneath his chin. He fit there perfectly, like that space had been made for him.
The steady beat of Jongho’s heart filled the silence. Strong. Constant. Safe.
Jongho’s arms were wrapped around him fully, completely, as if even in sleep he refused to let Yeosang go. His large hand rested on Yeosang’s waist, fingers twitching every so often like muscle memory, like even in dreams, he was keeping Yeosang close.
But Yeosang couldn’t sleep.
His eyes were open, staring into the soft shadows of the room, breathing slow and quiet. He tried to match Jongho’s rhythm, tried to let himself be lulled by the rise and fall of the chest beneath his cheek, but the stillness didn’t bring peace. Only thoughts.
Too many thoughts.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Jongho murmured suddenly, voice low and warm, slurred with the weight of nearing sleep but still laced with concern. He always noticed. Always.
Yeosang shifted slightly, pressing his nose deeper into Jongho’s chest, like he could disappear there. Like he could become something small and safe and forgettable, just for a little while.
“Mhm,” he hummed softly in reply.
Silence returned. But it wasn’t empty. It pressed in on them like fog, thick, unmoving.
Then Jongho dipped his head and pressed a lingering kiss to Yeosang’s forehead. The kind that stayed. The kind that said, I see you. I’m here. Always.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Sang,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse with honesty. “You know that, right?”
Yeosang’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. Just a quiet hitch, a ripple in the stillness.
But he nodded.
He had to.
Because he wanted to believe it. Because it mattered that Jongho believed it.
Jongho’s arms tightened around him, wrapping him up like a shield, like a sanctuary. Yeosang could feel it in every inch of him, how much love Jongho held for him. Fierce. Immovable. The kind of love that built walls and lit fires and said, Let the world come. I’ll protect you.
“I love you,” Jongho murmured, the words melting into Yeosang’s skin. “Always. No matter what.”
Yeosang closed his eyes. Just for a second.
“I love you too,” he whispered, and the words cracked at the edges.
Jongho didn’t hear the break.
Or maybe he did, but chose not to press. He only pulled Yeosang closer still, cradling him so tightly it was like he could fuse them together. As if love could be armor, and warmth could be a cure.
Eventually, Jongho’s breathing deepened, his hand stilled over Yeosang’s heart. He drifted off, safe in the belief that things were okay.
But Yeosang stayed awake.
Motionless.
Eyes wide and unblinking in the dark, chest tight beneath the weight of Jongho’s love, a love so all-encompassing it both saved and shattered him.
His eyes burned before the tears even came.
He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to need to cry. But the ache in his chest wouldn’t quiet, and the thoughts kept spiraling, dragging him under like a riptide.
Am I still enough for him?
Do I make him proud, or does he only see what he wants to see?
If he knew how they talk about me—if he knew the names they call me when he’s not around
Would he still look at me the same?
Would he still love me like this?
The tears slid silently down his cheeks, soaking into the pillow, into Jongho’s shirt, into the space between them. He didn’t make a sound. He wouldn’t let himself.
Because he didn’t want to wake Jongho.
Because he didn’t want to break this
This moment.
This love.
This safety that wasn’t meant for a cracked, aching thing like him.
He pressed his mouth to Jongho’s chest, trying to muffle the sob that nearly escaped, breathing in the scent of him like it was oxygen.
Vanilla and cedar.
Familiar.
Home.
And in the dark, Yeosang felt like glass.
Fragile and sharp at the same time, held in hands so steady, so loving, he knew they’d never let him fall. Jongho would never drop him.
But the fear wasn’t in being dropped.
It was in breaking anyway.
Silently.
Invisibly.
Right there in his arms.
And no matter how tight the hug, how safe the bed, how gentle the love—Yeosang didn’t know how to stop the cracking inside.

The morning light crept through the sheer curtains, turning the walls gold, gentle and drowsy. It painted the room in soft hues, like honey melting into shadow. The air was still, quiet, only the muted chirp of birds and the distant hum of the city below hinted at the hour.
Yeosang blinked awake, and immediately regretted it.
His head ached, a dull, pounding throb that made it hard to focus. His limbs were heavy, leaden under the weight of the blankets. Even breathing felt effortful, like he was submerged underwater. His throat was raw, and he could already feel the faint heat clinging to his skin.
The warmth at his back was gone.
Jongho had already gotten up.
But his absence wasn’t cold. The bed still held the shape of him, the sheets still warm where his body had been. And there was the unmistakable scent of coffee lingering in the air rich, dark, and grounding. Like love in another form.
Yeosang groaned softly and pushed himself upright, but the room tilted dangerously. He clutched at the blanket with shaking fingers, trying to steady himself.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Then Jongho burst through the bedroom door like he’d been waiting just beyond it. “Sang—hey,” he said, breathless with worry, eyes locking onto him instantly. “You okay?”
Yeosang blinked up at him, blinking slowly, dazed. He tried to form words, but the throb in his head and the heat in his cheeks made it hard to think.
Jongho was already moving toward him, eyes sharp and assessing. He crouched at Yeosang’s side, reaching out to brush his hand over his forehead.
“You’re burning up,” he muttered, more to himself than to Yeosang.
“I’m fine,” Yeosang said hoarsely, but even to his own ears it sounded like a lie.
“Absolutely not,” Jongho replied, already pulling the blankets up more snugly around him. “You’re not going anywhere today.”
“Jongho, I—”
“I mean it.”
The firmness in his tone left no room for argument, but it wasn’t harsh. It was protective. Anchoring. The kind of voice that held you still when your world tilted sideways.
Yeosang opened his mouth to protest again, but the moment Jongho sat on the edge of the bed, something in him sagged. Jongho's hand returned to his forehead, checking the fever with a touch that was both clinical and unbearably gentle.
Yeosang leaned into it before he even realized.
And Jongho noticed.
The stern lines on his face softened instantly, replaced by something raw and tender. “I’m calling in for you,” he said more gently. “You need rest. That’s all that matters today.”
Yeosang’s chest twisted painfully. “You have a full day…”
“I’ll move things around,” Jongho said, already pulling out his phone. “Cancel meetings. Push calls. It can all wait.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Jongho interrupted, firm but kind. “Let me be here. Let me take care of you.”
Yeosang turned his face away, hiding in the cocoon of the blankets. “I don’t want to be a burden…”
Jongho stilled.
Then he moved closer, kneeling beside the bed again, reaching up to gently push back Yeosang’s damp hair. His touch was slow and reverent, fingers gliding through tangled strands. He cupped Yeosang’s cheek with one warm hand and brushed his thumb softly against his temple.
“You’re never a burden, Sang,” he said, voice rough with feeling. “Not now. Not ever. Not to me.”
Yeosang didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because something inside him cracked quietly, silently. Not like the night before, when it had splintered in the dark. This time, it cracked in relief. In love.
His throat tightened, tears prickling just beneath the surface—but they weren’t the same tears. These ones didn’t come from doubt. They came from being seen.
Jongho stood briefly, only to return moments later with a cool towel, a glass of water, and a handful of medicine. He moved around the room with quiet efficiency, adjusting pillows, tucking in blankets, brushing soft kisses to Yeosang’s temple with each pass.
It wasn’t just care, it was devotion.
“You don’t have to take care of me like this,” Yeosang murmured, voice barely more than a breath, trembling despite himself.
Jongho looked at him then.
And something in his gaze, so steady, so full, stilled the panic that had been threatening to rise in Yeosang’s chest.
“But I want to,” he said again. Simply. Like it was obvious. Like there was never another option.
And Yeosang couldn’t speak after that. Because if he did, everything might break open—the pain, the fear, the shame, the way he’d cried silently in the dark just hours before, terrified of being not enough.
But now…
Now there was only this.
Jongho holding his hand without letting go.
Jongho pressing another kiss to his fevered brow, whispering soft, nonsense reassurances that still somehow made Yeosang feel safe.
Jongho humming, terribly, endearingly, some tune Yeosang couldn’t recognize as he pulled the blanket up to his chin and smoothed it down like a lullaby.
And for the first time in what felt like days, Yeosang let himself relax.
Let himself feel.
Let himself believe—that this love was real, and strong, and unwavering.
That he was cherished, not despite his quiet pain, but through it.
And in Jongho’s arms burning with fever and broken sleep, sick and exhausted and clinging to the edges of himself, Yeosang didn’t have to pretend.
Not with Jongho.

The house was too quiet.
Not the kind of peaceful silence Yeosang usually cherished, the kind that embraced him gently after long shoots and exhausting interviews. This silence was wrong. Cold and heavy. The kind that slipped between the cracks in the floorboards and settled into his chest like dust he couldn’t cough out.
He lay cocooned on the couch, a quilt wrapped around his too-thin frame, eyes dull and half-lidded. Fever curled through his bones like smoke, thick and suffocating. His skin was clammy, his lips dry. His whole body ached with a slow, relentless pulse, like waves crashing against worn cliffs, but that wasn’t what made it unbearable.
It was the silence.
It was how loud his thoughts became inside it.
He remembered Jongho’s goodbye that morning—tender and worried. He’d crouched by the couch, one warm hand on Yeosang’s cheek, the other brushing tangled strands of hair behind his ear. His voice had been soft with devotion.
“Text me if you need anything, okay, Sang?”
“I’ll bring your favorite tea on the way home.”
“You’re so beautiful, even when you’re sick. Drives me crazy.”
Yeosang had forced himself to smile. He had to. Jongho didn’t need to carry more. So he kissed his husband back and whispered the lie: “I’m okay.”
But he wasn’t.
He wasn’t okay.
He hadn’t been for a long time, if he was honest with himself, if he peeled back the layers of routine, of practiced smiles and hollow reassurances.
Now, hours later, the house felt too big. Too still. The shadows on the walls felt like they were watching him. Judging him. And he sat curled into the corner of the couch, sinking into the cushions like he wanted to disappear entirely. The quilt weighed heavy on his chest. His breathing was too shallow, too fast.
The tea Jongho had made for him that morning—perfectly steeped, honey and lemon just the way he liked, sat untouched, cold and forgotten. The soup he’d tried to heat up spilled a little over the edge of the bowl when his hands shook too hard, and he’d left it there on the counter, abandoned.
His phone buzzed.
A gentle message from Wooyoung:
“I love you, dummy. Let me come over and force you to hydrate.”
A calm, musical voice note from Seonghwa, piano playing quietly in the background:
“Breathe with me, sweetheart. In… and out. Just like that.”
A cursed meme from Mingi about cats leading underground resistance armies, timestamped way too early in the morning. It should’ve made him laugh. It didn’t.
And then Jongho’s message lit up the screen:
“How’s my baby? Did you eat?”
“I miss you.”
❤️❤️❤️
Yeosang stared at it, heart twisting.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He typed, “I’m okay.”
Then erased it.
Typed, “Miss you too.”
Then erased that too.
What was he supposed to say? That he hadn’t eaten? That he’d cried himself into another headache? That the weight in his chest felt like it might crush him if he breathed too hard?
No. Jongho didn’t need that. Jongho had enough to worry about.
So Yeosang locked the screen.
He pulled the blanket tighter, hiding his face in the worn pillow Jongho had used the night before. It smelled like him. It only made the ache worse.
Why can’t I be stronger?
Why does it still hurt this much?
Why can’t I get over this?
Why am I so easy to break?
The memories played like ghosts behind his eye, —the fake smiles, the cutting words, the way they all looked at him at the office. Like he didn’t belong. Like he was some fragile little ornament Jongho kept around out of guilt or pity or obsession. Like he hadn’t earned his place, hadn’t bled for it.
He remembered the way the director talked about him in meetings, like he wasn’t there. The whispers in the hallway. The laughter that always stopped when he entered a room. The glances. The cold eyes. The cruel little smirks.
He curled tighter into himself.
He tried to breathe, but the breath caught in his throat.
You’re nothing but a pretty face.
You only have this life because of him.
If he wasn’t protecting you, you’d be gone in a week.
They were right, weren’t they?
Yeosang squeezed his eyes shut, but the thoughts didn’t stop. They got louder.
He deserves better.
He deserves someone stronger.
Someone who doesn’t cry when no one’s looking.
Someone who doesn’t break under pressure.
Someone who doesn’t need constant saving.
His chest seized. His throat closed.
He turned his face into the pillow and let the tears come, hot, silent, fevered. The kind that left salt lines on flushed cheeks and burned the skin they touched.
He didn’t make a sound.
He didn’t dare.
Because if Jongho heard, he’d come running. And Yeosang didn’t want him to see this.
Didn’t want him to see what was left of him when the strength ran out.
Didn’t want to be held together with pity and guilt.
So he cried alone.
Quiet.
Shaking.
Breaking in pieces too small to gather.

Choi Entertainment’s lobby bustled with its usual chaos, heels clicking over glossy tile, elevator doors opening with well-oiled chimes, clipped greetings and shallow laughs exchanged like currency. On the surface, it was just another weekday. Just another day at the top of the tower Jongho built.
But the second he crossed the threshold, Jongho felt it in his bones.
The shift.
Something was wrong.
He didn’t know how to describe it at first, it wasn’t quiet, not exactly. It was… guarded. Polished pleasantries spoken in careful tones. Faces too composed. Bodies moving around him like clockwork, too smooth, too rehearsed. Every word felt like it was chosen instead of spoken naturally. Like everyone had something to hide.
No one mentioned Yeosang.
That was the first real crack in the glass.
Usually, someone would ask. A model in the elevator might bring up his absence. A producer might casually mention how quiet the breakroom felt without Yeosang’s soft laughter or how much lighter the set had seemed when he was on it. Someone at the front desk always asked, even just to say, “Hope he’s feeling better today.”
But now, nothing. Not even a whisper of his name.
Jongho’s face stayed passive, professional. But his chest tightened as he stepped deeper into the building. His ears caught every whispered word, every unfinished sentence cut off the moment he entered a hallway. He passed two interns near the lighting rig, voices low, posture too stiff.
They froze the second they noticed him.
One of them offered a smile too fast, too nervous and Jongho’s eyes flicked between them. Just as he passed, he caught the tail end of a sentence like a whisper behind glass:
“...he’s always getting special treatment.”
A muscle in Jongho’s jaw jumped. His fists curled for the briefest moment at his sides before he forced them to relax.
Special treatment?
That wasn’t concern. That wasn’t empathy for a sick colleague.
That was spite.
He turned the corner into his wing and found San waiting outside his office. Dressed sharp, tablet in hand, expression calm—but Jongho knew him too well. The edge in his brother’s posture, the way his thumb tapped once, twice, against the tablet’s frame, San was holding back.
“Morning,” San greeted.
“Morning,” Jongho replied, stepping past him, but he paused with his hand on the office door. “Everything alright?”
San hesitated, just enough to confirm Jongho’s growing dread. “Yeah. Mostly. Studio B had some… tension earlier. Something about yesterday’s shoot.”
“Yeosang’s shoot?” Jongho asked, his voice sharper than intended.
San nodded slowly. “Creative differences, supposedly. Wooyoung mentioned it. Said the atmosphere was off, cold, maybe worse.”
Jongho blinked. “Yeosang didn’t say anything to me.”
San tilted his head. “You told him to rest today, right?”
“I did. Fever hit him hard last night. He looked exhausted.” Jongho’s voice softened for a moment—just remembering how fragile Yeosang looked curled up in their blanket, his cheek hot against Jongho’s palm.
San’s voice dropped lower. “Then maybe now’s the time to ask what he’s not saying.”
That stuck in Jongho’s chest like a splinter.
He entered his office in a slow, measured walk, but he didn’t sit. He went to the floo -to ceiling windows that overlooked the city and stood in silence. The skyline was as relentless as ever, humming with life and lights and ambition, but for the first time, it looked distant. Like something behind glass. Like something that didn’t matter.
He pulled out his phone.
One message from Yeosang blinked up at him, sent early that morning.
“I’m okay, love. Resting like you told me to. Promise. 💛”
Jongho read it once. Then again. A third time.
It was… wrong.
Too short. Too polished. No rambling. No sleepy punctuation. No off-key jokes about their neighbor’s dog or how many times Yeosang sneezed. No voice note with a hoarse little “I miss you already.”
It was textbook perfect.
And Yeosang didn’t do perfect when he was sick.
He did soft. Vulnerable. Unfiltered.
This message read like a carefully constructed shield. Like a performance.
Like he didn’t want Jongho to worry.
And that more than anything made Jongho terrified.
His grip on the phone tightened.
His instincts screamed, the same instincts that kept him alive in boardrooms and backroom negotiations alike. He knew when something was being hidden from him. He knew when the people he loved were in pain.
He had missed it.
And Yeosang had always been so good at hiding.
Jongho exhaled shakily, his voice a whisper into the room.
“…What are you protecting me from, baby?”
He rubbed at his chest as if the ache there could be eased with pressure.
He thought of Yeosang on their couch, feverish and quiet, giving him soft smiles like nothing was wrong.
He thought of the cold soup, the tea that probably went untouched, the loneliness that had likely wrapped around his husband like chains while Jongho was out here ignorant, distracted, playing the part of the doting CEO instead of seeing the man he loved.
Guilt curled in his stomach like rot.
Then the guilt twisted into something else.
Something sharper.
Someone was hurting Yeosang.
Whether through words or silence. Through isolation. Through veiled cruelty behind polite masks.
And Jongho had let it happen, had let it fester right under his nose.
He turned away from the window and sat, his jaw tight, phone still in hand.
He would call Wooyoung. He would call Seonghwa. He would talk to San. He’d find out everything Yeosang had been keeping from him.
And when he found out who had dared to lay even emotional harm on his husband?
There would be no mercy.
Jongho’s voice was soft when he spoke again, just a breath of sound.
“Tell me who it is, Sang. Just tell me who it is…”
His gaze hardened.
“…and I’ll make sure they never work in this building again.”
Jongho shut the office door behind him and leaned against it, the quiet click echoing too loud in the still room. He let the silence settle, eyes fixed on the floor, the dull hum of city traffic outside barely cutting through the storm building behind his ribs.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled to Yeosang’s contact. His thumb hovered over the screen, heart stuttering. For a second, he just stood there, the glowing letters of Yeosang’s name blurring as he hesitated. Calling him felt like it would make it worse somehow—like if Yeosang picked up and told him, “I’m fine,” in that gentle, practiced voice, it would only confirm how deeply he wasn’t.
So he redirected. Tapped instead on Wooyoung.
The line barely rang twice.
“Hyung?” Wooyoung sounded bright at first hopeful but it shifted the moment he heard Jongho’s silence. “Is something wrong?”
Jongho kept his voice even. “You talk to Yeosang today?”
A beat. Then, quietly, “…Not yet. I texted him earlier, but he didn’t reply.”
Jongho's jaw tightened. “San mentioned the atmosphere was weird yesterday. At the shoot.”
Wooyoung sighed, the sound scratchy like he was moving around, pacing maybe. “Yeah. It was. The director kept pushing him, wouldn’t let up about the concept. And when Yeosang pushed back a little, he snapped. Told him he was being difficult. Unprofessional.”
A long, simmering pause.
“He didn’t look okay, hyung,” Wooyoung said finally. “Not just tired. Just… small. Like he was trying to disappear.” His voice cracked slightly. “I tried to talk to him, but he brushed it off. Smiled. Said he just wanted to go home early.”
Jongho squeezed his eyes shut. “I should’ve known something was off.”
“You’re not psychic,” Wooyoung said, but gently. “He hides it well. He always has. Especially from you.”
That truth burned. Jongho thanked him, ending the call after a few more quiet reassurances. But the moment the line disconnected, he was already calling someone else.
“Jongho?” Seonghwa’s voice came smooth and calm, like always.
“Are you near the apartment?”
There was a pause, then a hum of concern. “I’m just a few blocks away. Why?”
“Yeosang said he was sick, but he’s not answering me. Or Wooyoung. Or you, apparently.”
“No,” Seonghwa said gently. “I’ve sent three messages today. All read, none replied to.”
Jongho’s grip on the phone tightened. “Can you check on him? I just… I don’t think he’s okay. I think something’s been going on and I missed it.”
“I’ll go now,” Seonghwa said instantly. “I’ll call you once I’m with him.”
“Thank you.” Jongho’s voice caught slightly. “Please make sure he’s really alright. Not just… pretending to be.”
“I will.”
The call ended, but the unease stayed, swelling in Jongho’s chest like a tidal wave waiting to crash. He sat at his desk, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
This morning replayed in pieces Yeosang’s soft, sleepy voice by the door, the faint smile that never touched his eyes, the way he kept his sleeves tugged down even though it wasn’t cold. The way he kissed Jongho’s cheek like he didn’t want to linger too long.
"I'm okay."
He wasn’t. Not even close.
And Jongho couldn’t shake the bone-deep feeling that someone, somewhere in the walls of his own company, had made Yeosang feel like he had to lie.
He should’ve seen it sooner. Should’ve asked more questions. Paid closer attention.
The ache in his chest turned molten.
Because if someone had hurt his husband—whether with words or pressure or cruel, careful little cuts of silence, then Jongho wouldn’t rest until they regretted every breath they took in his presence.
Whatever was going on, whatever Yeosang was keeping to himself to protect Jongho from…
It ended today.
And if Jongho had to burn the whole damn building down to make it right, so be it.

Yeosang didn’t know how long he’d been curled up on the couch. Time had lost its shape around him, bleeding into itself like the fever blurring his thoughts. His skin burned and his bones ached, but the real pain wasn’t in his body. It was deeper, somewhere beneath the surface, festering in silence.
He stared blankly at the wall, the soft hum of the apartment’s heater the only sound filling the room. The world felt distant, like he was behind glass, watching it move without him. His phone buzzed again, and he flinched. He didn’t look at it.
He couldn’t. He already knew the names lighting up the screen. Knew the concern behind their messages. But even the thought of replying felt like trying to lift a mountain. If he answered… he might break. And if he broke in front of them, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to piece himself back together.
What if they looked at him differently? What if they saw the cracks and decided he wasn’t worth the trouble anymore?
A knock at the door made his heart stop.
No. Please.
Not today.
He didn’t move. Maybe if he stayed still, if he didn’t make a sound, they’d go away.
But then he heard the click of the lock and soft footsteps.
“Yeosang?”
It was Seonghwa’s voice. Gentle, measured, calm in the way only Seonghwa could be. A soft light in the middle of the storm.
“It’s us,” Wooyoung added quietly.
Yeosang’s eyes squeezed shut, and his throat burned. The tears had been sitting just beneath the surface all day, and now they threatened to rise like a tide.
No. Not in front of them. Please not now.
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His limbs were heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and shame. The blanket clutched around him trembled as he tried to stay silent, tried to pretend like he hadn’t heard them.
But the footsteps came anyway. Slow. Careful. Not pushing.
“Hey,” Seonghwa said as he knelt by the couch. His voice was softer now, fragile with concern. “You didn’t answer any of my messages.”
Yeosang turned his head away, barely able to look at him.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said hoarsely. His voice cracked like dry leaves beneath his breath.
Seonghwa didn’t respond right away. Instead, he studied Yeosang carefully his flushed cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his brow, the tight way his hands clenched the blanket like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“You look exhausted,” Seonghwa murmured, more to himself than to Yeosang. “And not just from being sick.”
Wooyoung sat beside him on the couch with none of his usual bounce. His tone was serious, quiet in a way that felt unfamiliar. “You’re scaring us, Sang.”
Yeosang let out a shaky breath. “I’m just tired,” he said, but even he knew how hollow it sounded.
“Liar,” Wooyoung said gently. He placed a hand on Yeosang’s back, not pushing, just… there. A quiet promise that he wasn’t alone.
“Yeosang…” Seonghwa’s voice caught a little, and when Yeosang glanced down, he saw that Seonghwa’s eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. “You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to pretend for us.”
His breath hitched. He shook his head, more out of desperation than denial. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “I just… I just needed a break.”
“No, sweetheart.” Seonghwa’s hand reached out, brushing hair from Yeosang’s damp forehead. “This isn’t just needing a break. This is something else. Please… talk to us.”
Yeosang turned his face into the pillow, trying to stop the tears, but it was too late. His shoulders shook with silent sobs, each breath sounding more like a plea than a cry.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” he choked out. “I don’t want you to think I’m weak.”
“You’re not weak,” Wooyoung said firmly. “You’ve been holding yourself together for so long, Sang. You’ve been strong for everyone, even when you shouldn’t have to be.”
Yeosang’s voice broke. “Then why does it feel like I’m falling apart?”
“Because you’ve been carrying too much alone,” Seonghwa answered, voice tight with emotion. “And you never should have had to.”
There was a silence that followed. Thick and heavy with everything Yeosang didn’t say.
They didn’t push.
They didn’t ask again.
They just sat with him.
Wooyoung’s hand stayed steady on his back, a grounding presence. Seonghwa sat on the floor, one hand still resting on Yeosang’s, letting him know he was seen, even if he couldn’t say the words yet.
“I don’t know how to fix it,” Yeosang whispered after a long stretch of silence. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this. Like I’m not enough. Like I’m disappointing everyone… Jongho—”
His voice cracked and the dam burst. The sob that followed was raw, painful, like it had been buried deep for too long.
“I try so hard to be the person he believes I am. But I’m not. I’m not strong. I’m not confident. I’m...” He stopped, breaking down again. “I’m scared. All the time. I hate being scared.”
Seonghwa climbed up beside him on the couch and gathered Yeosang into his arms, wrapping him up without hesitation. “You don’t have to be strong right now,” he whispered into Yeosang’s hair. “You just have to let us be here. Let us help.”
Yeosang clung to him, fists tightening in Seonghwa’s shirt, like he was terrified of being left behind.
“I don’t want to be alone,” he cried. “I feel so alone.”
“You’re not,” Wooyoung said. His voice was hoarse too. “You never were. Not with us.”
Yeosang sobbed into Seonghwa’s chest, letting it all fall away. The weight, the fear, the shame. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let someone else carry it with him.
They didn’t need answers.
They didn’t need explanations.
They just held him, quiet, steady, and real.
And Yeosang, for a fleeting, aching moment, let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he was still worth loving. Even like this.

The soft click of the apartment door echoed through the dimly lit hallway, a final punctuation to the emotionally charged silence that hung between Wooyoung and Seonghwa. Neither of them spoke at first. They stood there, still as statues, surrounded by the hush of the building, the weight of what they had just witnessed pressing down like a storm cloud.
Wooyoung leaned back against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair, his fingers trembling slightly. “He’s… he’s falling apart, Seonghwa.”
His voice cracked with the raw truth of it, and it made Seonghwa’s stomach twist. Seonghwa didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed locked on the closed door, as if he could still see through it, see Yeosang curled on the couch, hollow-eyed and forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I know,” he said finally, voice low and steady but filled with a quiet sorrow that rang louder than any outburst. “He’s been like this for weeks. Maybe longer. I just, I didn’t want to believe it.”
Wooyoung let out a bitter laugh, one with no humor behind it. “It’s not just stress, Seonghwa. It’s not deadlines or demanding shoots. It’s not missing a meal or sleeping late.” He pushed off the wall and began pacing, restless energy overtaking him. “He’s shattered. I’ve never seen him like that before. Not even during his worst modeling phases. This is different. This is—this is wrong.”
Seonghwa nodded slowly, his eyes haunted. “It’s everything. The long hours. The constant judgment. The whispers, the glares. The fake smiles when the cameras are on and the knives that come out the moment his back is turned.”
Wooyoung stopped pacing and turned to him, fury simmering in his expression. “And we let this happen. We watched him crack and didn’t even notice until he was already breaking. I thought, I thought he just needed space, you know? That he was tired. But this? This is so much worse.”
Seonghwa’s jaw tightened. “He’s pulling away. From all of us. Even Jongho. And the worst part? I think I know why.”
Wooyoung blinked. “You think Jongho doesn’t know what’s going on?”
“He doesn’t.” Seonghwa’s voice was firm. “Yeosang would never let him see it. He’s hiding everything. He’s been wearing that mask so well, even the person closest to him can’t see the truth. And Jongho? He worships him. But he doesn’t see how much Yeosang is crumbling beneath the surface.”
Wooyoung’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Why? Why the hell would Yeosang hide something like this from Jongho? That man would burn the world down for him.”
Seonghwa’s expression darkened. “That’s exactly why. Yeosang thinks that if he lets Jongho see how much he’s hurting, Jongho will blame himself. He’ll see it as his failure. And Yeosang… he’d rather suffer in silence than make Jongho feel that guilt.”
Wooyoung’s throat tightened. “That’s… insane. He thinks hiding his pain is protecting Jongho? That pushing him away is somehow love?”
“Yeosang’s never been good at asking for help,” Seonghwa murmured. “He’s always been the one everyone leans on. Always the one who smiles through pain. But this time, it’s not just emotional. It’s eating at him, mind, body, soul. And no one’s there to catch him because he won’t let anyone catch him.”
Wooyoung looked down, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white. “He’s disappearing right in front of us. And we’re just now realizing it.”
Seonghwa reached out and gently placed a hand on his arm, grounding him. “We’re not too late, Wooyoung. We’re here now. And we can help. But we have to do it the right way.”
Wooyoung looked up, pain swimming in his eyes. “You’re thinking of Jongho.”
Seonghwa nodded. “He needs to know. He’s the one person Yeosang trusts more than anyone. If anyone can reach him, it’s Jongho. But we can’t just dump this on him. We need to make sure Jongho understands what’s really going on and that this isn’t about blame. It’s about saving him.”
“And what if Yeosang gets mad? What if he sees it as a betrayal?” Wooyoung’s voice cracked with uncertainty. “What if we make things worse?”
Seonghwa’s hand tightened on his arm. “Then we face that. Together. Because letting him spiral without trying? That’s not an option.”
Wooyoung swallowed hard and gave a shaky nod. “We talk to Jongho. But we do it carefully. We plan it out. We let him see the truth, and then… we help Yeosang together.”
Seonghwa gave him a small, resolute smile. “Exactly. We’re going to fix this. No more secrets. No more silent suffering. We’ll get through this, together. But we need to approach this carefully. For Yeosang’s sake.”

Jongho stepped through the front door, the familiar click behind him echoing in the quiet apartment. He paused, frowning. Usually, Yeosang would be there. Maybe not always right at the entrance, but somewhere—leaning against the kitchen counter with a soft smile, sprawled lazily across the couch offering a teasing comment, or just peeking out from the hallway with that ever-gentle “Welcome home.” It wasn’t always grand or loud, but it was them—their rhythm, their routine.
Today, there was no sound. No warmth. Just a heavy, unsettling stillness.
“Sang?” Jongho called out gently, his voice laced with affection and worry. “I’m home.”
Nothing.
A chill crawled down his spine. Jongho kicked off his shoes more quickly than usual, worry pressing in on his chest as he stepped further into their apartment. The blinds were drawn tight against the afternoon sun, casting the room in muted greys and shadows. The space felt colder, emptier.
Then he saw him.
Yeosang was curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped tightly around his slender frame like armor against the world. His face was turned away, his body small, folded into itself. From afar, he might’ve looked asleep, but Jongho noticed the faint, erratic rise and fall of his shoulders, the kind that came from crying and trying not to. The kind that broke Jongho’s heart in one clean, brutal motion.
“Sang…” Jongho’s voice dipped, low and tender, already thick with unspoken ache.
He stepped closer, every protective instinct he had roaring to the surface. He knelt beside the couch, lowering himself so Yeosang wouldn’t have to look up, he wanted to meet him at eye level, wanted him to feel safe, not cornered.
Yeosang opened his eyes slowly, the motion sluggish, like he was surfacing from somewhere deep and dark. Their gazes locked and for a moment, Jongho saw it all. The streaks of red beneath his eyes, the sheen of uncried tears, the trembling in his jaw as he forced his face into something neutral, something unreadable.
“I’m fine,” Yeosang said, barely above a whisper. His voice cracked like fragile glass. “Really. I’m just tired.”
Jongho’s heart clenched. He hated that word fine. He hated how Yeosang always used it as a shield, a dismissal, a way to hold the world at arm’s length.
“You’re not fine,” Jongho murmured. His hand reached out instinctively, fingers brushing against Yeosang’s. The touch was soft, reverent, like Jongho was afraid to break him.
Yeosang flinched so subtley, but Jongho felt it like a punch to the gut. The model turned his face away quickly, dragging his sleeve across his cheek in a desperate attempt to erase the evidence of his pain.
“I said I’m just tired,” he repeated, but there was no strength behind it. No conviction.
It felt like Yeosang was slipping through his fingers, hiding behind those high, lonely walls he only built when the world got too cruel. And the worst part he was shutting Jongho out. Him. The person who would tear down the heavens and hells just to keep Yeosang safe.
Jongho swallowed hard, emotions storming beneath his calm exterior. He shifted closer, carefully reaching out to cup Yeosang’s cheek. His thumb brushed beneath his husband’s eye, catching a tear that hadn’t yet fallen.
“Look at me, Sang. Please.” His voice cracked gently, a tremble he couldn’t hide. “Talk to me. You don’t have to do this alone. Not when I’m here. Not when I love you more than anything in this world.”
Yeosang finally looked at him then—really looked. And what Jongho saw nearly knocked the breath out of him.
Pain. Guilt. A grief so deep it looked ancient, as if Yeosang had been carrying it for years without ever letting anyone see it.
“I’m not who you think I am, Jongho,” Yeosang said, his voice breaking around the edges. “I don’t know how to be strong anymore. I don’t know how to be the person you… deserve.”
Jongho’s hands tightened slightly not out of anger, but helplessness. How could someone so luminous ever believe they weren’t enough?
“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” Jongho said, fierce and gentle at once. “You don’t have to be anything but you. I didn’t marry some perfect illusion, Sang. I married you. The real you. The quiet moments, the messy ones, the nights when you laugh so hard you cry, and the days when you can’t get out of bed.”
He took Yeosang’s hand again, this time holding it firmly, unwilling to let go.
“I love you when you’re shining. And I love you just as much when you’re falling apart. Don’t you get that? You’re not a burden. You never have been.”
Yeosang’s body trembled, the blanket shifting with him as he curled into himself again—but he didn’t pull away from Jongho’s touch. Not this time.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered. “I don’t want you to… hate me.”
“Hate you?” Jongho’s voice broke, a disbelieving breath escaping him. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Yeosang’s, grounding them both. “Sang, there is nothing in this world that could make me hate you. Nothing. You are everything to me. Your pain is my pain. When you cry, it’s like my heart is bleeding. You’re the love of my life. I would walk through fire for you, Sang. If you’re hurting, then I need to know. Not because I need to fix it, but because I don’t want you to face it alone”
The silence that followed wasn’t hollow. It was heavy with emotion, heavy with the kind of love that had been forged through vulnerability, through raw truth.
Yeosang didn’t respond with words. But the way he leaned into Jongho’s touch tentative, trembling, was answer enough.
Jongho moved onto the couch slowly, slipping behind Yeosang and wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into the circle of his warmth. He held him like a shield, like a vow, like he could keep every cruel thing in the world at bay if he just held on tight enough.
“You’re not alone,” he whispered against Yeosang’s hair, voice thick with unshed tears. “Not now. Not ever.”
And though Yeosang didn’t say anything, didn’t break down or confess the weight of what he was carrying, he didn’t resist the embrace. For the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to be held.
Jongho stayed like that—arms around the man he loved more than life itself, heart aching with the intensity of it. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but he knew this:
He would be Yeosang’s shelter. His strength when he had none. And he would never, ever let him go.

The bathroom was quiet, bathed in a soft golden glow from the flickering candles. Shadows danced across the tiled walls, delicate and slow, as if the world itself was trying to be gentle. The tub filled steadily, the sound of water spilling over porcelain breaking the silence like a lullaby.
Yeosang sat on the edge, knees drawn close, his body fragile beneath the oversized sweater he wore. His cheeks were still tinged with fever, eyes dull with exhaustion, and he hadn’t said much all evening. Not since Jongho had come home to find him curled up on the couch, looking more like a ghost than the radiant man he adored.
Jongho moved slowly, reverently, like even his footsteps might shatter the silence Yeosang had retreated into. He added a few drops of lavender oil to the water, watching it bloom across the surface, the scent wrapping around them like a soft sigh.
He turned, heart squeezing tight when he caught sight of Yeosang’s profile, so still, so tired, so heartbreakingly distant.
“Come here,” Jongho whispered as he knelt in front of him, lifting a hand to gently tilt Yeosang’s chin up. His thumb brushed over his cheek, slow and warm. “Let me take care of you tonight, love.”
Yeosang blinked, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t know if I can,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “Everything just… hurts.”
Jongho’s breath caught. Not because he didn’t expect it, but because of how softly the words were spoken. Like they’d slipped past defenses he hadn’t meant to lower.
“I know it does,” Jongho said, voice raw around the edges. “But you don’t have to do anything alone tonight. Let me hold you. Just that.”
Yeosang hesitated, then nodded.
Jongho moved gently, helping him out of his sweater, guiding him into the bath like he was something precious, breakable. His fingers brushed over Yeosang’s skin as he eased him into the water—and that’s when he saw it.
The bruise.
Faint but there, purpling beneath the delicate skin near Yeosang’s wrist. And then another, just above his ribs, half-hidden by the steam curling through the air.
Jongho froze. His breath hitched. And for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
His chest ached with something sharp and hollow, like grief and rage and helplessness all tangled into one unbearable knot. He swallowed hard against the burn rising in his throat.
But he didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
Because Yeosang’s shoulders were trembling, and his fingers had curled around the edge of the tub like he needed something to anchor him.
Jongho climbed in behind him, the heat of the water barely registering. All he could feel was Yeosang, the way his body felt too thin, too tense, too fragile.
He wrapped his arms around him slowly, one hand pressing against his stomach, the other slipping up to rest over Yeosang’s heart.
“You’re safe,” Jongho whispered, voice shaking now. “I’ve got you, Sang. I swear to God, I’ve got you.”
Yeosang let out a shaky breath. He leaned back into Jongho, like it cost him everything to do it. And Jongho held him tighter.
His lips brushed over the shell of Yeosang’s ear, then down to the back of his neck. Gentle, reverent kisses. Like he could kiss away every bruise. Like love could rewrite pain if he just poured enough of it into the spaces where it hurt.
“I hate that you’re hurting,” Jongho whispered, his voice barely audible. “I hate that I didn’t see it sooner. That I wasn’t there to stop it.”
Yeosang flinched, and Jongho’s grip tightened, not to trap, but to hold. To be something unshakeable when everything else felt too sharp.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” Yeosang said, the words breaking apart like glass. “I didn’t want you to look at me like I was… like I was falling apart.”
“Oh, baby,” Jongho murmured, his lips at Yeosang’s temple now, his chest aching so deeply it felt like he couldn’t breathe. “You don’t have to hide from me. Ever. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t even have to be okay. Just be—with me.”
Yeosang turned his face slightly, enough to bury it against Jongho’s shoulder, and the first sob broke free. Yeosang melted further into Jongho, his tears now flowing freely, but this time, they weren’t tears of pain or fear. They were tears of release, of relief, of finally letting go of everything he had kept hidden for so long.
Jongho kissed the top of Yeosang’s head, his hands soothing, his warmth enveloping, as if the world outside could fade away. There was no rush, no pressure. There was only the gentle rhythm of the water, the quiet space between them, and the love that Jongho poured into his touch.
Jongho didn’t speak.
He just held him.
Held him through the tears. Held him through the shaking. Held him like he was everything he’d ever loved in this life or any other. Like he was worth every second of heartbreak.
“I love you,” he whispered again and again, his lips brushing over soaked skin, his hands never letting go. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
And Yeosang, for once, didn’t argue. Didn’t push it away. He just wept in the arms of the man who would burn the world to keep him safe.
And Jongho… Jongho just loved him harder.

The atmosphere at Choi Entertainment was suffocating.
What used to be a place of artistic energy now felt like a gilded cage—walls too narrow, whispers too loud, and cruelty too precise to be coincidence. The air was charged, like a storm ready to break. Yeosang could feel it in his bones as he walked through the building, the silence around him brittle with judgment.
His heels clicked against the polished floor with each measured step, but the only rhythm he heard was the sharp chorus of murmurs trailing behind him. Eyes followed him like searchlights—hungry, gleaming with something uglier than mere jealousy.
He passed a group of assistants near the dressing rooms. They didn’t even bother to lower their voices this time.
“Why’s he even still here? He’s thirty-six. That’s basically retirement in this industry.”
“Models like him don’t age gracefully. They just cling until they’re embarrassing.”
“I heard he begged Jongho to keep him on. Must be nice to sleep your way to stability.”
Yeosang’s stomach turned. He didn’t flinch he couldn’t afford to but the words hit like stones hurled at glass. He kept walking, each step heavier than the last, gaze lowered as if it might shield him from the venom slithering into his ears.
When he reached the studio, the door stood half-open. Light spilled out, framing a group of executives and the director in low conversation. The second Yeosang stepped closer, their words shifted into something colder.
“…Still clinging to relevance.”
“He should’ve been phased out last year.”
“Jongho’s probably too soft to see how useless he is now.”
Yeosang faltered just outside the door, breath caught in his throat. The shame that washed over him was suffocating. He didn’t realize he was trembling until he reached to steady himself on the doorframe.
Inside, the photoshoot set was aglow. Bright lighting, white backdrops. A minimalist pedestal stood at the center, today’s concept required him to pose like a statue, cold and untouchable.
He stepped onto it, trying to bury every wound beneath his expression. But the director’s voice, loud and sharp, broke through the tension.
“Yeosang. Try to stand like you’re still relevant. Chin up, chest out, let’s pretend you haven’t aged out of this industry.”
A few of the crew laughed. One of the younger assistants snickered openly and rolled his eyes.
And then it happened.
Yeosang shifted his weight, only slightly, but the assistant closest to the pedestal smirked and deliberately bumped into it. Hard.
Yeosang's balance tipped. He stumbled forward, catching nothing but air.
He hit the ground with a sickening thud.
Gasps echoed through the studio. No one rushed to help.
No one except one voice, low, furious, and booming through the space like thunder.
“Get away from him.”
The room froze. Everyone turned.
Yunho stood in the doorway like a storm about to break. His jaw was clenched, fists tight at his sides, the calm usually on his face replaced by something hard and sharp. Behind his eyes was fury and concern.
“Who pushed him?” he demanded, voice steady despite the rage in it.
No one answered.
He didn’t wait. Yunho crossed the room in quick strides, dropping to his knees beside Yeosang.
“Yeosang. Hey, come on look at me.”
Yeosang blinked, dazed, pain flaring in his shoulder and ribs. His body trembled, not just from the fall but from everything that had built to this moment.
“I’m fine,” he whispered hoarsely, trying to sit up.
“No, you’re not,” Yunho said, gently but firmly. He reached out, brushing Yeosang’s hair back. His hand stilled when he noticed the dark bruise beneath the collar of Yeosang’s shirt.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, voice tight.
Yeosang flinched slightly when Yunho adjusted the shirt, exposing more of the bruise. It was old but still raw in color.
“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” Yeosang mumbled, eyes darting away.
Yunho didn’t speak at first. He exhaled slowly, grounding his voice as best he could.
“You’re not supposed to deal with this alone,” he said. “You don’t deserve this. You never did.”
Yeosang’s expression wavered, and he looked down as if ashamed to have been seen so vulnerable.
“We’re not just coworkers, Yeosang. We’re family. You know that, right?”
Something in Yeosang cracked at that just a little. His throat bobbed as he swallowed down the emotion.
Yunho rose and helped him to his feet, steadying him with a hand on his back.
“Come on,” he said softly. “You don’t owe this place anything. Let’s go.”
Yeosang didn’t protest.
As they walked out together, the studio remained silent. No one dared speak, not after what they’d witnessed.
Not after Yunho reminded them what loyalty looked like when it finally spoke up.

The day dragged on long after the incident at the studio. Yunho tried to throw himself into the rest of his work, but it felt impossible to focus. His thoughts kept drifting back—back to the cruel words he’d overheard, the callousness in the director’s voice, the way Yeosang had picked himself up off the ground with no one but him to care.
That wasn’t something you just moved on from.
After the shoot, Yeosang had gone home, brushing off Yunho’s concern with a tired smile and soft assurances that he just needed to rest. But the lines around his eyes had told a different story. Yunho knew that look—it was the same one Yeosang wore whenever he was trying not to cry.
By late afternoon, Yunho couldn’t hold it in anymore. He found himself in the break room with Seonghwa, Wooyoung, Mingi, and San. The tension in his chest hadn’t lessened, it had only grown tighter with every passing hour. Jongho was still in meetings, and while Yunho hated saying anything before talking to him, this couldn’t wait.
He needed them to know. They all needed to know.
The conversation started out normal enough. A few comments about schedules, a passing joke about Mingi nearly falling asleep during a staff meeting, soft laughter. But Yunho didn’t join in. He sat stiffly at the edge of the couch, cradling a lukewarm coffee he hadn’t touched.
Seonghwa noticed first, as he always did. His eyes scanned Yunho’s face, reading the tension there with ease.
“Something’s off with you,” he said gently, but firmly. “Is everything okay?”
Yunho didn’t hesitate.
“No,” he said, voice low and controlled. “Yeosang was treated like absolute crap at the studio today.”
The others immediately stopped talking.
“The director… he humiliated him. Right in front of everyone. Said he was a liability. That he should’ve been replaced already. And the staff—they just stood there, laughing like it was a joke.”
Wooyoung’s entire body went rigid. “You’re kidding,” he said, but his voice was hollow. He knew Yunho wouldn’t lie about something like this.
“I wish I was,” Yunho muttered. “I stepped in. Told them to come through me if they had a problem with him.” His jaw clenched. “But it’s not just one incident. It’s a pattern. A long one.”
Mingi leaned forward, concern written all over his face. “How long has this been happening?”
Yunho rubbed his temple. “I don’t even know. Months, maybe longer. He never says anything. But I’ve seen the way people look at him. Like he doesn’t deserve to be there anymore. Like he’s just coasting on his marriage to Jongho.”
Wooyoung’s expression darkened with fury. “He’s one of the best models this company has ever had. He built half the image they market. And now they’re acting like he’s disposable?”
San stood up, pacing slowly. “And none of us noticed?” he said bitterly. “We’ve been right here. And we didn’t see it.”
“Because he didn’t want us to,” Seonghwa said softly. “Yeosang hides things. Always has. He doesn’t want to be a burden.”
“But he’s not a burden,” Wooyoung snapped, voice thick with emotion. “He’s family. He’s one of us. And he’s been suffering in silence while we all went on like nothing was wrong.”
Yunho hesitated, then added, “Today... they didn’t just humiliate him. They pushed him off a podium.”
The room went still. Silent.
“What?” Seonghwa said sharply, as if he hadn’t heard correctly.
Yunho’s face was tight with restrained fury. “It was subtle, just enough to make him fall. The photographer acted like it was nothing. Like Yeosang was being dramatic for stumbling. But I saw it. It was intentional.”
Mingi’s chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood. “They pushed him?”
Wooyoung’s voice came out like a growl. “He fell? Did he get hurt? What the hell, why didn’t he say anything?”
“He didn’t want to make it worse,” Yunho said, fists clenched. “Didn’t want to cause trouble.”
“He’s not causing trouble, they are,” San barked. “I swear to god, if I ever see that director again”
“No,” Seonghwa interrupted, his tone glacial. “We do this smart. Strategic. If they think they can put their hands on him and get away with it, they don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
Wooyoung’s eyes were glassy now. “He came home and smiled, didn’t he? Like nothing happened.”
Yunho nodded once.
“I’m going to kill someone,” Mingi muttered under his breath, and for once, no one told him to calm down.
Seonghwa's voice was low, but cut through the tension like steel. “This changes everything. This isn’t just mistreatment. It’s assault.”
There was no disagreement.
“We need to talk to Jongho,” Yunho said, voice tight. “Tonight. Before he finds out any other way.”
“And when he does,” San said coldly, “this company better pray he doesn’t burn it to the ground.”
“They pushed our Yeosang,” Wooyoung whispered, shaking his head. “He’s the gentlest person I know. And they pushed him. Like trash.”
Mingi’s voice was full of venom. “Then we remind them exactly who they’re dealing with. Yeosang isn’t alone anymore.”
“No,” Seonghwa agreed. “And he never will be again.”

Yeosang had never been one to shy away from hard work, nor had he ever drawn attention to his suffering. He had learned early on how to survive in an industry obsessed with image, how to smooth over the cracks in his heart with flawless smiles and perfect posture. He knew how to take the sneers, the envy, the cold shoulders that came with being too beautiful, too successful. But today, today was different.
It had been simmering for weeks. A storm building behind polished sets and forced smiles. He could feel it in the air, in the way the other models watched him with narrowed eyes and lips curled in disdain. The director didn’t even bother hiding his irritation anymore, barking corrections at Yeosang louder than anyone else, nitpicking imaginary flaws.
They were waiting for him to fall.
He stood in the wings of the photo set, adjusting his hair in a full-length mirror, trying to drown out the tension and focus. Just get through the shoot. Just get through the day. That was when the first shove came.
“Oops,” a voice behind him sneered. “Didn’t see you standing there, princess.”
Yeosang caught himself against the mirror frame, his jaw tightening. He didn’t turn around. He knew that voice, Marissa, a model with sharp cheekbones and sharper claws. She had hated him from the moment he joined the company, masked her bitterness with passive digs and backhanded compliments. But this wasn’t subtle. Not anymore.
“Maybe if you actually worked instead of coasting on your husband’s money, you’d be worth something,” she added, her tone dripping venom.
Before he could move, another push hit him square in the back harder this time. He stumbled forward, catching the edge of a backdrop stand to steady himself.
“What’s the matter?” came another voice, Eric, one of the newer male models. He stepped up, eyes gleaming. “Not so graceful today, are we?”
Yeosang turned halfway, eyes pleading silently, but the only thing he saw was Eric’s smirk before a hand slammed into his shoulder and shoved him hard into the wall.
Pain exploded through his back and spine as he hit the cold surface, and he gasped, the wind knocked out of him.
“You think you’re better than us? You’re nothing,” Eric hissed, pressing in closer. “You’re just a pretty puppet. They only keep you around to look good in ads.”
Another hand yanked his wrist, twisting until Yeosang cried out. The sharp pain made his knees buckle, and he bit his lip hard to stay quiet.
“Did I say you could talk?” Marissa spat. Her hand shoved into his chest, sending him stumbling back into a low set piece. His knee struck the sharp corner with a sickening crack, and he bit back a sob as stars danced in his vision.
He clutched his wrist, his breath shallow and fast. Everything hurt. His knee throbbed. His back burned. His pride, his carefully guarded composure was in tatters.
Still, he didn’t scream. Didn’t fight.
He couldn’t. He didn’t know how to anymore.
“What the hell is going on in here?”
Yunho’s voice cracked across the room like lightning. The fury in it was immediate and unrelenting. The models froze. Even Marissa paled.
Yeosang’s heart jumped violently in his chest.
No. No no no.
He tried to pull himself up, but his legs wobbled beneath him. He grabbed at the mirror frame again, trying to look composed, trying to hide the shaking in his hands.
He couldn’t let Yunho see him like this.
He couldn’t.
Yunho was already crossing the room, his strides long and full of rage. His eyes scanned the faces, then landed on Yeosang and stopped cold.
Yeosang flinched like he’d been struck.
His lip was trembling. His wrist was bent awkwardly against his chest. His knees were red and scraped. His back was arched protectively, like he was trying to disappear into the wall. And the look in his eyes
Panic.
Pure, terrified panic.
“Yeosang,” Yunho said, voice breaking from a growl into something much softer. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me.”
But Yeosang was already shaking his head. “I’m fine. I’m fine, Yunho, please don’t, don’t tell anyone, I just please,” he gasped, his voice spiraling higher with every word. “I just want to go home. Please don’t be mad. Don’t tell Jongho.”
Yunho’s rage faltered, crushed under the weight of Yeosang’s distress.
He stepped forward slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. “Sang. Look at me. You’re okay. You’re safe now.”
Yeosang shook like a leaf, chest hitching with short, shallow breaths.
Yunho knelt in front of him, hands raised but not touching. “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at them. You did nothing wrong.”
Yeosang’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes brimmed with tears.
“I just wanted to be enough,” he whispered, voice cracking in half. “I didn’t want to ruin things. I didn’t want to make it worse.”
Yunho’s hands finally touched him, gentle, grounding. One on Yeosang’s trembling wrist, the other bracing his shoulder.
“You’re more than enough,” Yunho said fiercely. “You’ve always been enough. And this?” He looked back toward the spot the models had stood. “This will be dealt with. But right now, I just need you to breathe.”
Yeosang’s lip quivered.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he admitted, barely a whisper. “I can’t keep pretending.”
“You don’t have to,” Yunho said, pulling him close, holding him tight. You don’t have to do it alone. We’re here for you, Sang. And Jongho is going to protect you, too. We all are.”
Yeosang collapsed into the hug, his forehead pressed into Yunho’s shoulder as silent sobs wracked his frame. And Yunho held him like he was something precious. Something irreplaceable.
Because to all of them he was.
Yeosang barely registered the sharp sting of the antiseptic as Yunho carefully cleaned the grazes on his wrist. His thoughts were a tangled mess, too overloaded to process the care, the touch. All he could focus on was the sharp, echoing memories of the moments before Yunho had intervened—the physical blows, the harsh words, the crushing isolation.
But now, sitting in the quiet of the infirmary tucked away in the back halls of Choi Entertainment’s sleek building, he allowed himself to relax just a little. Yunho was here. He was safe for now. And he didn’t have to hide his pain anymore not physically, at least.
Yunho's hands were gentle but steady, the damp antiseptic wipes brushing over Yeosang’s skin with a care that made his chest ache in a different way. Not from pain, but from the sheer kindness of it. It had been a long time since someone had treated him like he was fragile without making him feel weak.
“You’re gonna be okay, Sang,” Yunho murmured, voice low and calm, even as his eyes flickered with unspoken anger. “Just a couple of bruises and scratches. You’ll heal. But your mind… that’s the part we need to fix.”
Yeosang nodded, but it was slow and hesitant. His throat was tight, dry from the cries he hadn’t let out, the screams he’d swallowed. He wanted to speak, wanted to tell Yunho just how much this was eating him alive—but the words were stuck. Trapped. Caught in the mess of everything he’d been holding in for months, maybe even years.
Yunho saw it. Saw the silence building like pressure behind his friend’s eyes. So he set the antiseptic wipes down, careful not to make any sudden movements, and gently rested his hand over Yeosang’s uninjured one.
“Sang,” he said, voice softer now, almost coaxing. “You can talk to me. I’m not going to judge you. I’m not going to rush you. But I need you to hear something important, alright?”
Yeosang’s lashes fluttered, and for a moment, he looked like a wounded animal, still poised to flee at the first sign of rejection. But he nodded.
“You need to tell Jongho.”
Yeosang’s reaction was instant—his body stiffening, shoulders tensing, eyes going wide with panic. He shook his head rapidly, the panic suddenly spilling out of him like a dam breaking.
“No,” he whispered, breath catching. “No, I—I can’t. He’ll… He’ll be upset. He’ll blame himself. He’ll do something reckless”
Yunho squeezed his hand gently, grounding him.
“He should be upset,” Yunho said quietly, but firmly. “Because someone hurt the person he loves. And he deserves to know. But you’re right—he’ll be furious. I know Jongho. He’ll want to burn the world down for this.”
Yeosang’s hands trembled in Yunho’s grip, and he looked away, voice cracking. “I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want to disappoint him.”
“Sang, look at me,” Yunho urged. It took a second, but Yeosang finally did, meeting his friend’s gaze. “You are not a disappointment. You are strong. The fact that you’ve kept going, even through all this, that’s strength, not weakness.”
“But I didn’t fight back,” Yeosang whispered. “I let them hurt me.”
“And that doesn’t make you weak. That makes you human,” Yunho said, his voice growing firmer with every word. “You were trying to survive. That’s what you’ve been doing all this time surviving in a place that treats you like you're less than. Jongho needs to know that. He needs to know what you’ve been carrying alone.”
Yeosang let out a shaky breath, the fight slowly draining from him.
“I don’t know if I can say it out loud,” he admitted, voice barely audible.
“Then I’ll be there when you do,” Yunho promised. “I’ll stand next to you the entire time. You don’t have to face this alone anymore. Not with me. Not with Jongho. Not with any of us.”
A long silence settled between them, heavy with pain but laced with something softer, hope.
Yeosang leaned forward, just slightly, resting his forehead against Yunho’s shoulder.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Just… not tonight. Not yet.”
Yunho’s arms wrapped around him carefully, a shield against the world.
“Whenever you’re ready, Sang. We’ll be ready, too.”

There was a soft knock on the door.
Both Yunho and Yeosang looked up, breath catching in unison, as a tall figure appeared in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the sterile white light of the hallway.
Jongho.
He stood frozen, the light outlining the square of his shoulders and the rigid tension in his posture. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, swept over the room until they landed on Yeosang. The moment his gaze found him, slouched, small, bruised, Jongho’s breath caught. His lips parted to call his name, but no sound came out. The bruises on Yeosang’s arm, the swelling near his temple, the tremble in his fingers, it said everything.
He didn’t need Yeosang to explain.
A storm was brewing inside him, and it showed in the way he moved. Jongho stepped into the room without a word, each stride silent but heavy with intent. He didn’t bother with greetings. Didn’t acknowledge Yunho except for the briefest flicker of a glance that held a silent, searing question.
Yunho responded with a slow shake of his head, murmuring, “He’s okay physically. Just bruises and scratches. But it’s more than that, Jongho. It’s… more.”
But Jongho wasn’t listening anymore. His whole world narrowed to Yeosang.
“Yeosang.” His voice was low, rough, like gravel scraped against the floor, raw, protective, trembling with fury he was barely keeping on a leash. “Are you okay?”
Yeosang didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He stared down at his hands, his fingers curled tightly in his lap to hide the shake in them. The sound of Jongho’s voice, so familiar, so full of love, cut deeper than the pain of any blow. He couldn’t bear to see the look in his husband’s eyes. Not now. Not when he felt like he was breaking.
“I’m fine,” he said quietly.
It was a lie.
Jongho’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenching hard enough to make the muscle twitch. That single word was more painful than any confession could’ve been. He could hear the fracture in Yeosang’s voice, could see the pain in every tense line of his body.
“Look at me, Sang,” he said, kneeling in front of him, his voice gentler this time but still thick with emotion.
Yeosang’s breath hitched. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. Because he knew the moment he saw Jongho’s face, his eyes, his fear, his love, he’d fall apart.
“Please don’t,” he whispered, tears threatening to spill over. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Jongho’s heart cracked wide open.
“Sang,” he said softly, reaching up to cup Yeosang’s face with both hands. His thumbs brushed against his cheeks, his touch infinitely gentle. “You never have to hide from me.”
Yeosang tried to look away, but Jongho wouldn’t let him. His hands held steady, anchoring him.
“They hurt you,” Jongho said, his voice thick, breaking. “Didn’t they?”
Yeosang’s face crumpled.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” he said through a trembling sob. “You already do so much. I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t want to be the weak link.”
Jongho's arms came around him in an instant, enveloping him completely, pulling him in until there was no space left between them. Yeosang collapsed into him with a sob that cracked the air, burying his face into Jongho’s shoulder as the dam finally burst.
“Don’t ever say that again,” Jongho whispered fiercely, holding him like he could shield him from everything. “You are not weak. You are not a burden. And anyone who made you feel that way, anyone, will answer to me.”
Yeosang trembled in his arms, his tears soaking into Jongho’s shirt. But for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel shameful. It felt like safety.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry, Jongho.”
Jongho pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, voice trembling. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known something was wrong. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Yeosang clung tighter, the crushing weight of fear and shame beginning to lift, replaced with a small, flickering warmth, relief. He still felt unworthy, still unsure why someone like Jongho loved him so fiercely, so completely.
But Jongho was here. And maybe, just maybe, that meant he didn’t have to carry it all alone anymore.
“I love you,” Jongho whispered into his hair. “And I will protect you. Always.”

The apartment felt suffocating, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and emotional exhaustion. Even the silence between them throbbed with tension an aching, unresolved thing that lingered like smoke.
Jongho stood rigid near the kitchen, fists clenched tightly at his sides, jaw taut as he tried to keep control over the storm brewing inside him. His anger wasn’t violent. It was the quiet, heart-wrenching kind born from love and helplessness.
Yeosang stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest, like he could protect himself from the heartbreak radiating between them. His gaze was fixed somewhere to the left of Jongho, unable, maybe unwilling, to meet his eyes.
Jongho had been trying to hold it together all day. After what happened at the office, the revelations, the betrayal, the way people he trusted had hurt the one person who meant the world to him—it was a miracle he hadn’t already broken something. But now, in the quiet of their shared home, the walls he’d built around his fury and pain were cracking.
He had promised himself, the day they exchanged rings, that he would protect Yeosang with everything he had. That he would make him feel safe, loved, adored, and never alone. But it felt like Yeosang was slipping away from him, building walls of his own, and Jongho didn’t know how to tear them down without hurting him more.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jongho’s voice finally cracked the silence, raw and trembling. “Why didn’t you let me help you? I’m your husband, Yeosang. You can’t keep pushing me away like this.”
Yeosang’s shoulders tensed, his voice sharp, too sharp. “I didn’t want you to worry about me!” His words cracked mid-sentence, betraying the emotion he was trying to bury. “You already have enough on your plate, Jongho! You’re the CEO, you have the company to run, your family, the press, everything! You don’t need to deal with me too.”
He looked at Jongho then, and something in his expression broke, vulnerability, fear, shame flickering in his eyes. “I… I didn’t want to be a burden.”
Jongho’s breath hitched like he’d been physically struck. The word burden echoed in his chest like a gunshot.
“A burden?” he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “You think I’d ever see you as a burden?”
He stepped forward, voice thick with pain. “Yeosang, you’re my husband. You’re my heart. You’re the reason I get up in the morning and believe in something better. You’re not a burden, you’re everything to me.”
Yeosang looked away, his chin trembling. “You don’t understand,” he whispered, and then louder, more desperate: “I don’t want to be someone who needs protecting all the time. I don’t want to be the one everyone pities. I don’t want to be weak.”
Jongho’s heart ached so fiercely it felt like it might shatter. “Sang…” He stepped closer, his voice gentle but urgent. “It’s not weakness to let someone love you. It’s not weakness to let someone hold you when you’re breaking.”
Yeosang’s eyes welled with tears he refused to let fall. “Love doesn’t fix everything, Jongho. It doesn’t make the world stop trying to tear me apart.”
Jongho paused, every word Yeosang said carving deeper into him. Then, quietly, he whispered, “No, love doesn’t fix everything. But it fights. My love fights for you, Yeosang. Every single day.”
The silence that followed was different, quieter, sadder.
“I need you to trust me,” Jongho said, his voice barely holding steady. “Please, Sang. Trust me enough to let me in. Let me be your safe place, like you are mine.”
Yeosang’s shoulders trembled, his body on the verge of collapsing. “I’m scared,” he choked out. “I don’t know if I can take it anymore. I don’t know if I’m good enough for you. I’m tired of fighting to feel like I belong in my own life.”
And that, that was what broke Jongho.
He crossed the space between them and reached out with trembling hands, gently cupping Yeosang’s face as if he were the most fragile, sacred thing in the world.
“You are more than good enough for me,” Jongho said, his voice cracking as tears brimmed in his own eyes. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re not a burden, you’re a gift. A miracle. Every time I wake up and see you beside me, I thank the universe.”
Yeosang’s defenses finally crumbled. Tears spilled down his cheeks, silent and unstoppable. His entire body trembled as the walls came crashing down, and he let out a shuddering breath that sounded like surrender.
“I don’t know how to let you in,” he whispered, broken and raw.
“You already have,” Jongho murmured. “You did, the first time you looked at me.”
A shaky laugh fell from Jongho’s lips as he leaned in and pressed his forehead gently to Yeosang’s. “Do you remember how we met?”
Yeosang blinked through his tears, barely nodding.
“I do,” Jongho said, and his voice took on a warm, reverent softness. “You were in the back of that massive lecture hall, huddled over your notebook like the world would disappear if you just stayed small enough. You had this oversized hoodie and a pencil tucked behind your ear. And then you looked up. Right at me.”
Yeosang gave a tiny, watery smile.
“I swear, Sang, I forgot what the professor was saying, forgot what day it was, forgot my own name for a second. You looked so soft, so careful… and I knew, I knew in that second I wanted to be the one who protected you. Who made you laugh. Who made you feel seen.”
Yeosang finally let out a broken sob, covering his face with his hands. The sheer love pouring out of Jongho’s voice, the memory, the honesty, it was too much. It was everything.
Jongho pulled him into his chest, arms wrapping around him with fierce, unwavering love. “You never had to be perfect, Sang. You just had to be you. And I fell, so hard, for you.”
Yeosang sobbed against Jongho’s shirt, finally allowing the fear and exhaustion to escape his body. He clung to Jongho like he was his anchor to the earth, like the man in his arms was the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.
“I love you,” Jongho whispered, lips pressed to the top of his head. “I’ve loved you since you looked up at me that day. Since you offered me half your sandwich two weeks later, like you weren’t terrified of speaking. Since you kissed me that night on the roof, when the stars were out and your hands were shaking.”
Yeosang cried harder, trembling under the weight of so much love.
“I’m not perfect,” Jongho continued, tears sliding down his own cheeks now, “but I’ll spend every day trying to deserve you. Trying to be what you need. Because you’re not alone, Sang. Never again.”
“I didn’t think anyone could love me like this,” Yeosang whispered through his sobs.
Jongho pulled back just enough to cup his face again, his thumbs wiping away the tears. “You don’t have to earn love, baby. Not from me. You just have to let yourself be held.”
And Yeosang did. He let go.
With a soft, gasping sob, he fell into Jongho’s arms again and let himself feel it all the pain, the relief, the overwhelming sense of being loved without conditions, without limits.
They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in each other, surrounded by the quiet safety of their home.
In the aftermath of heartbreak, there was healing.
And in Jongho’s arms, Yeosang finally remembered what it felt like to breathe.

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp, slicing through the city like a blade honed by weeks of silence and tension. But Jongho barely felt it. His arm was slung protectively around Yeosang’s shoulders, the rhythm of their steps matching as if they had rehearsed it. In truth, they hadn’t needed to. They were in sync in every way that mattered now. United. Immovable.
Yeosang leaned into his husband’s side, his fingers curled tightly around Jongho’s hand like it was the only anchor keeping him from drifting into a sea of stares, whispers, and wounds that had yet to heal. He was dressed impeccably, every thread flawless as always, but his expression was muted, weighed down by the invisible bruises that still lingered.
The lobby of Choi Entertainment was a glacier of false civility the moment they stepped through the glass doors. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Eyes flicked to them, then quickly away. The silence wasn’t the polite kind. It was heavy, uncomfortable. It throbbed with judgment, resentment, fear, and something Yeosang could only describe as disdain.
A group of employees near the reception desk didn’t even try to hide their smirks as they turned away. One of them, someone Yeosang recognized from a previous shoot, snorted under their breath.
"Guess some people get by on pretty faces and husbands, huh?" one whispered.
Another laughed quietly. "Yeah, too bad pity doesn’t make you talented."
Yeosang’s stomach twisted, but he didn’t flinch. Not this time.
Jongho heard it. He didn’t have to look back to know who said it, but he did. He turned, gaze slicing through them like a scalpel. The smirks fell away, and suddenly everyone found the ceiling very interesting.
"Keep walking," Jongho said, voice low but lethal. "Before I decide your jobs aren’t worth saving."
The air grew heavier, darker, and every footstep echoed like a gunshot as the couple passed.
"Are you okay?" Jongho asked softly, his thumb brushing across Yeosang’s knuckles.
Yeosang nodded once, the movement stiff. "I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed. But I’m okay."
Jongho kissed the top of his head, the gesture grounding. "You’re doing better than anyone here. Don’t forget that."
They moved toward the elevator, nearly there when a young woman, an assistant barely into her twenties, approached from the opposite direction. Her eyes flicked between them, then to the floor. Jongho would have ignored it, but there was a calculated shift in her pace. A purposeful angle in her step.
She walked too close.
Yeosang didn’t notice the danger until it was too late. Her heel clipped into his path deliberately, and the collision was inevitable. His foot caught. He stumbled forward and then he was down.
The sound of his body hitting the polished floor echoed across the lobby. Papers rustled. Gasps were muffled. But no one moved. No one helped. No one even looked surprised.
Jongho was on the floor in an instant. His hands found Yeosang’s arms, his touch gentle, controlled, only barely masking the furious quake simmering beneath.
"Are you okay?" he asked, eyes scanning the bruise beginning to bloom on Yeosang’s elbow.
Yeosang winced. "I’m fine. Really"
Jongho was already standing.
The assistant was still standing nearby, trying to look confused. "Oh, sorry, I didn’t see"
"You did," Jongho said, cutting her off. His voice dropped an octave, cold and steady like the calm before a storm. "You saw him. You timed it. That wasn’t a mistake."
She paled instantly. "M-Mr. Choi, I"
"In my office. Now."
The girl hesitated, then looked around as if expecting someone to intervene. No one did. Everyone looked away.
Yeosang stood shakily, his hand pressing to the small of his back where the pain throbbed. Jongho was beside him instantly, but he didn’t say anything else to the assistant. He didn’t need to. His silence was a blade.
When they reached Jongho’s office, the assistant followed like a shadow. Jongho didn’t even sit down.
"You’re done here," he said simply. "Get your things and leave."
She gaped. "I, please, it was just"
"It was harassment," Jongho snapped. "And I don’t make excuses for people who think they can get away with hurting my husband."
"I didn’t mean"
"You did," Jongho growled. "And you’re not the first. I should have acted sooner. But this, this was the last straw. You're finished. Don’t speak to him. Don’t look at him. Don’t come near this building again. Security will escort you out."
Her face crumpled, and she turned, retreating in stunned silence.
When Jongho turned back, Yeosang was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. His face was unreadable, but his eyes shimmered with something deep, pain, shame, gratitude, all tangled into one.
"You didn’t have to fire her," Yeosang said quietly. "It was"
"It wasn’t an accident," Jongho said. He walked over, gently uncrossing Yeosang’s arms and holding his hands instead. "She humiliated you on purpose. And she’s not the only one who’s been trying. I see it now. And I won’t let any of them keep getting away with it."
Yeosang dropped his head. "I just… I didn’t want you to have to fight all of this for me."
Jongho took his face in both hands, brushing a thumb across his cheek. "I’m not fighting for you. I’m fighting with you. We are in this together. You and me, Sang. Always."
Yeosang blinked, tears welling behind his lashes. "But it feels like I’m dragging you into something ugly"
"Then let it be ugly," Jongho said fiercely. "Let them talk. Let them show their true colors. I’m not afraid of them. And you don’t have to be either. Because I’ve got you. And I will never let them tear you down again."
Yeosang’s breath caught. He surged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Jongho’s waist. The kiss that followed wasn’t desperate. It was raw, full of need and defiance, a promise sealed between parted lips and steady hands.
Jongho kissed him like he was staking a claim, like he was protecting sacred ground. And Yeosang kissed back like he was finally, finally safe.
When they parted, Jongho rested his forehead against Yeosang’s, his voice barely a whisper.
"I’ve got your back. Every moment. Every breath. I love you, Sang."
Yeosang nodded, his voice breaking. "I love you too."
And in that moment, it didn’t matter what the world outside thought. It didn’t matter what they would face. Because they weren’t alone. Not anymore.
They were a force. Together.
The evening air had grown colder as the day dragged on, but the top floor of Choi Entertainment still thrummed with quiet energy. The fluorescent lights above cast a soft glow over the space, shadows pooling in corners while the hum of the city beyond the glass windows served as a distant backdrop. The usual buzz of employees had faded with the close of business hours, leaving the space empty, except for the ones who mattered most.
In a quiet corner of the executive lounge, the main group had gathered: Jongho, Yeosang, Wooyoung, Seonghwa, San, Yunho, Mingi, and Hongjoong. The air was thick with unspoken words, the tension of the past few days simmering just beneath the surface. They weren’t here for business tonight. They were here for something far more important.
Yeosang sat quietly on the plush sofa, tucked between Wooyoung and Jongho like a fragile note between chords. He kept his gaze low, shoulders hunched, the bruises on his arms and the pain lingering in his chest from the day’s earlier encounter still fresh. He hadn’t wanted to come. He had felt like maybe it wasn’t his place. But Jongho’s gentle insistence had pulled him from the bedroom, wrapped him in warmth, and reminded him he was needed. Wanted.
Jongho, ever a steady presence, sat close enough that their legs touched. His hand rested gently on Yeosang’s knee, a small anchor in the storm. His thumb moved in slow, rhythmic circles, offering silent reassurance with every pass. Every time Yeosang’s breathing quickened, Jongho squeezed just slightly, grounding him again.
The moment Yeosang had entered the room, the atmosphere shifted. Laughter died down, replaced with a soft hush. Not out of pity, but reverence. Each of them had seen the wear in his eyes, the heaviness he tried to hide behind polite smiles. And each of them had made a choice.
This wasn’t going to happen anymore.
"So," Mingi said at last, breaking the quiet. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, expression firm but kind. "We’ve been talking. And we think it’s time we stop letting this slide."
Yeosang flinched. He didn’t mean to, but the tension was still coiled tightly in his chest. Mingi's words weren’t cruel, far from it, but the reminder of his pain, of the coldness he’d been facing daily, made his throat tighten.
Seonghwa leaned in, one hand gently placed on Yeosang’s arm in comfort. "This isn’t just about office drama anymore, Sang. It’s about how you’ve been treated, how people think they can get away with it. And that stops now." His voice was like a balm, steady, warm, unwavering.
Yeosang swallowed. His lips parted, but no words came at first.
"I don’t want anyone getting hurt… not because of me," he whispered, voice raw, barely audible.
"You’re not the reason," Yunho said firmly. He sat across from Yeosang, his eyes locked on his with quiet intensity. "The problem is them. And the only mistake you made was not telling us sooner." His voice dropped into something softer, almost broken. "You should never have had to carry this alone."
San sat beside his brother, his normally cocky expression replaced by something far more serious. He looked at Yeosang and gave a slow nod. "You’re family, Yeosang. And no one messes with family. We’ve got your back, now and always."
Wooyoung leaned his shoulder against Yeosang’s playfully but gently, his eyes tight with unshed frustration. "You don’t need to be strong for us anymore, Sang. Let us be strong for you. Just for a little while." His usual teasing grin was still there, but it wobbled around the edges.
"Exactly," Hongjoong added from the armchair near the window. He had been quiet until now, arms crossed as he studied the group. "This isn’t going to be some polite little warning to the others. We’re going to make it known. Yeosang isn’t just a model. He’s a part of this company. He’s a part of us. And we protect our own."
Jongho’s fingers tightened on Yeosang’s knee, his other hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from Yeosang’s eyes. His gaze was dark, fierce, the fire in his heart plain on his face. "No one lays a hand on you again. No more looks. No more whispers. No more meetings that feel like warzones." His voice, though soft, was laced with steel. "You’re my husband. And I will burn this place down before I let anyone hurt you again."
Yeosang’s breath caught. His eyes prickled with tears, tears he tried desperately to blink back. The room was full of love, burning, blinding love, and it crashed into him like a wave he hadn’t been prepared to swim through. He had spent so long shrinking, retreating into himself, not knowing if his pain was visible. Not daring to hope that anyone would care enough to fight for him.
But they did. They all did.
"I… I don’t deserve this," he murmured, voice cracking as the words left him.
"You deserve everything," Mingi said without hesitation, his voice quiet but resolute.
"You’ve always put others first," Seonghwa added. "It’s time someone did that for you."
Yeosang glanced around the room. At Wooyoung’s protective warmth. San’s steely loyalty. Yunho’s calm determination. Seonghwa’s gentle strength. Mingi’s fierce love. Hongjoong’s unwavering leadership. And Jongho’s unwavering, boundless love.
His chest ached from the weight of it.
"Thank you," he breathed, looking at each of them, his voice barely a whisper. "I don’t know what I did to deserve you all. But thank you."
Jongho rose to his feet, never once letting go of Yeosang’s hand. He pulled him up gently, cradling him against his side. "You’re not alone anymore, Sang," he said softly, but with a promise threaded into every word. "Not in this. Not ever again."
The group stood slowly, surrounding Yeosang in a silent circle of support, shoulders squared, eyes filled with resolve.
They would fight for him.
They would protect him.
They would love him until he remembered how to love himself again.
Together, they would fix this.
The group nodded, their expressions set with the quiet confidence of people who knew what it meant to protect those they loved.
Once at home Yeosang's phone buzzed once, then again, vibrating softly across the marble counter of their kitchen. Yeosang barely registered the sound at first, lost in the rhythmic tapping of rain against the windows and the lingering quiet of the afternoon. But when the screen lit up with an unfamiliar number and the name Camille, Dior PR, his heart stuttered.
For a moment, he simply stared at it, his mind flashing through every possible scenario. Scam? A mistake? A prank?
But curiosity, and a strange, almost instinctive tug in his chest, pushed him to swipe and lift the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" His voice came out tentative, the edges frayed with nervous uncertainty.
"Yeosang?" The voice that answered was smooth, crisp, and unmistakably professional. "This is Camille from Dior’s PR team. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time."
Yeosang blinked, hand gripping the edge of the counter for support. "Oh, no, not at all."
"We’ve been following your work for some time now. Your portfolio, your walk, your elegance, your presence is exactly the kind of energy we want on our runway. I’m calling to formally invite you to represent Dior at Paris Fashion Week next month."
Silence fell around him like snow. Soft, slow, and suddenly too much. He couldn’t breathe.
"I, I’m sorry, could you repeat that?" he asked, breathless.
Camille chuckled, kind and patient. "Of course. We’d be honored to have you walk for Dior this season. We’re incredibly impressed, Yeosang. The team is very excited about the possibility of working with you."
His knees felt like they might give out. He turned, half-sitting against the counter, the phone now clutched tightly between his shoulder and ear. This couldn’t be real. Dior. Paris. Fashion Week.
"I... I don’t know what to say," he whispered, blinking fast as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. "Yes. Yes, I’d be honored. Thank you, thank you so much."
"We’ll send all the details to your team by the end of the day," Camille said. "And Yeosang? Congratulations. You’ve earned this."
When the call ended, he sat in stunned silence, phone in his lap, chest rising and falling rapidly. The kitchen seemed suddenly brighter, or maybe it was just the way he was seeing the world now. More alive. More golden.
He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth. Dior.
The same hands that had trembled from exhaustion, from anxiety, from hiding bruises and swallowing cruel words, now trembled from joy.
This was real. It wasn’t a dream. He’d made it.
"Yeosang?"
Jongho’s voice drifted in from the hallway, and Yeosang looked up to see his husband standing in the doorway, still in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a soft worry etched into his brows.
"What’s wrong?" Jongho asked, stepping into the room quickly. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Yeosang’s lips trembled, but he broke into a wide, breathless smile. "I just... got off the phone with Dior."
Jongho blinked. "Dior?"
"They want me. For Paris Fashion Week. Next month. They called me directly, Jo. I, I got it."
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Jongho surged forward, scooping Yeosang up into his arms and spinning him off the ground with a laugh that echoed like sunlight in the room.
Yeosang laughed too, gripping Jongho tightly as the room spun around him, their joy filling every corner.
"You did it," Jongho murmured into his hair, voice thick with pride. "God, Sang. You really did it. I’m so proud of you. So damn proud."
When he set him down, Yeosang’s eyes were glossy. He cupped Jongho’s face between his hands, thumbs brushing along the faint stubble on his jaw.
"I never thought I’d get here," he whispered, voice raw. "Not after everything. I thought maybe... maybe I wasn’t good enough."
"Don’t say that." Jongho’s tone was sharp but gentle, his hands wrapping around Yeosang’s waist. "You were always good enough. More than enough. The problem was never you. It was them. But this..." He kissed Yeosang’s temple. "This is proof. You’re unstoppable."
Yeosang leaned into the touch, letting himself bask in it, letting himself believe.
"I want to celebrate," Jongho said suddenly, eyes lighting up as an idea struck him. He turned toward the fridge, rummaged around for a moment, and pulled out a bottle of champagne Yeosang didn’t even remember buying.
Jongho popped the cork with dramatic flair. It shot across the kitchen, bouncing off a cabinet. Yeosang laughed again, full-bodied and free.
As the bubbles fizzed in two tall glasses, Jongho handed one to him.
"To you," Jongho said, holding his up. "To the most talented, beautiful, hardworking man I’ve ever known. To every moment that tried to break you and failed."
Yeosang clinked his glass against Jongho’s, his chest aching in the best way.
"To us," he said, voice thick with emotion. "To the fight. To the future. To believing again."
They sipped, and Jongho set his glass down only to pull Yeosang in close, kissing him slow, reverent, like a prayer, like a vow.
"You shine, Sang," he murmured against his lips. "No matter what they say. You shine."
And Yeosang, wrapped in the arms of the man who loved him endlessly, finally believed it.
The next morning, remnants of last night’s euphoria clung to Yeosang like a fragile dream, delicate and fading with every passing second. As he stepped through the pristine glass doors of Choi Entertainment, the automatic whoosh seemed louder than usual, as if slicing through the comfort he had clung to all night.
The lobby, once a familiar flurry of movement and noise, now felt colder, more calculated. Heels clicked like metronomes of judgment on the marble floor. Phones rang in shrill tones, and staff bustled past, their gazes grazing him and then snapping away, like contact with him might contaminate them.
He walked with his chin lifted, but the change was undeniable. Something in the air had shifted.
The receptionist didn’t even offer the usual polite nod. Instead, her gaze trailed after him with narrowed eyes before she leaned over to whisper something to her coworker, who immediately stifled a laugh.
Whispers chased Yeosang’s footsteps like shadows.
"I saw his post this morning," someone sneered just behind him, loud enough to be heard. "Dior. Can you believe it? He thinks he’s some kind of fashion god now."
A colder voice followed, sharp and venomous. "Give him a month. He’ll choke under pressure. They always do. And with that attitude? It’s only a matter of time before Dior drops him like dead weight."
Laughter, cruel and knowing, echoed briefly before dissolving into faux silence.
Yeosang gripped the strap of his bag tightly, his knuckles white. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he did, he might fall apart before even making it through the door.
Inside the studio, the atmosphere turned suffocating the moment he walked in. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. The makeup artist gave him a once-over and huffed, muttering something under her breath before turning her back.
The director didn’t wait.
"Yeosang," he snapped, his voice cold enough to freeze the room. "How kind of you to show up."
Yeosang’s lips parted, an apology halfway formed.
"Don’t speak," the director cut him off, waving a dismissive hand. "I’ve already had to deal with your Dior news holding up production. You think the world revolves around your little moment of glory?"
Yeosang’s throat tightened, a lump forming he didn’t have time to swallow. "I wasn’t trying to"
"No?" The director walked closer, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Then why were there six camera crews trying to shove their way into the building this morning? You want a red carpet too? Maybe I should call for confetti."
A few of the stylists snickered.
One model, lounging against the vanity, murmured just loud enough, "Honestly, he’s not even that attractive. It’s the jawline and good lighting. That’s it."
"Photoshop does miracles," another chimed in. "You’d think Dior would go for someone… I don’t know, with a personality."
Yeosang stood frozen, lashes lowered to hide the flicker of shame in his eyes. The stylist fixing his collar yanked it a little too hard, her nails grazing his skin.
"Try not to act like a diva today, pretty boy," she hissed near his ear. "Some of us are here to work."
The director clapped his hands. "Let’s go. Dior’s golden boy is on set. Let’s not waste more time pretending he’s some kind of genius."
Yeosang moved into position, feet like lead. The lights were blinding, but not enough to shield him from the sideways glares or the tight-lipped smirks.
"Give me emotion," the director barked from behind the camera. "No, not that. You’re not at a funeral. You just got a deal with Dior, remember? You’re supposed to look like you belong."
Another snide voice from the makeup crew: "Too bad he doesn’t."
Each word pierced deeper than the last. His skin felt too tight. His breaths came shorter. He tried to focus, on the lens, on his pose, on the image he needed to sell, but his hands trembled with every shutter click.
The session dragged, painfully slow. Every movement he made felt wrong under their scrutiny. He wasn’t just being watched, he was being dissected, judged, stripped bare of dignity and left to rot under the heat of the studio lights.
At the break, Yeosang slipped away to the corner, back to the wall, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. He didn’t dare sit with the others. Even the models who used to joke with him avoided his gaze now, eyes filled with thinly veiled disdain.
"You think they’ll remember him after this?" someone whispered as they passed by.
"No," came the reply. "But they’ll remember the crash."
He closed his eyes. Dior. Paris. The biggest opportunity of his career. And yet, all he could feel now was the chill of rejection, laced not with disappointment, but with envy and bitterness from the people who should’ve been his team.
After the shoot ended, Yeosang didn’t wait to hear the director’s closing remarks or the snide whispers that followed. He slipped away while the others were still gathering their things, ducking into the nearest restroom like a man running from a storm.
The cold tiles echoed his every step. The silence inside felt deafening after the harsh scrutiny of the studio. He moved to the sink, gripping its edge so tightly his knuckles turned white. The mirror greeted him with a reflection he barely recognized, pale, drawn, and exhausted. His usually clear eyes were rimmed red, his jaw tight with the effort of keeping it all together.
He swallowed hard, but the knot in his throat refused to budge.
You’re not good enough. You’ll never be good enough.
The words weren’t just echoes of cruel voices anymore. They had taken root, grown thorns, and dug into his very bones.
His mind raced. Every moment from the day replayed in a cruel, endless loop: the whispers, the laughter, the director’s venom-laced orders, the glances full of contempt. He tried to breathe through it, to shake it off, but the pressure sat on his chest like a weight he couldn’t lift.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, willing the thoughts to stop, but they only grew louder.
You got lucky with Dior. That’s all it is. Luck. Not talent. Not skill. Just dumb luck.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drown out the voices. But they weren’t just in his head anymore. They were in the walls, the floors, the mirror’s reflection.
With a trembling hand, he turned on the tap and splashed water on his face. Cold, sharp, numbing. It stung against his skin, but he welcomed the sting. Maybe it would anchor him. Maybe it would keep him from falling apart.
When he opened his eyes again, water dripped from his lashes, down his cheeks. It looked like tears.
He forced a breath through his lungs. You worked for this. You earned this. Dior picked you for a reason. You’re not here by accident.
The words felt weak. Fragile. But they were his. And he clung to them like a rope in the dark.
He straightened slowly, wiping his face with shaking hands. His spine stiffened, shoulders squared, barely. The armor was thin, cracked, and fraying at the edges. But he had no choice.
He had to keep going.
He stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway, blinking under the fluorescent lights. His head was down, shoulders still hunched with exhaustion, when someone collided with him.
Hard.
Yeosang stumbled back a step. His shoulder hit the wall with a dull thud. A sharp laugh followed.
"Watch where you’re going," sneered a junior model with cold eyes and a smile that didn’t reach them. Her gaze flicked over him like he was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
Yeosang’s breath caught. He looked at her in disbelief. He hadn’t even seen her coming.
He tried to steady himself, to summon words, but before he could, another figure appeared beside her. A senior model, tall and striking, the kind of presence that commanded attention on set. She had never been warm to him, but this time, her disdain was ice cold and sharpened.
"Careful, Yeosang," she said sweetly, mockingly. "Wouldn’t want to break something, would you?" She reached out and tapped his arm with her manicured fingers. Light, but with a precise, humiliating kind of force. The touch wasn’t meant to hurt. It was meant to belittle.
They laughed as they walked away, their heels clicking confidently against the floor, leaving him behind.
Yeosang stood frozen. Humiliated. Shaking.
Say something, his mind screamed. Don’t let them walk all over you. Don’t let them win.
But nothing came out. His throat was locked tight. His body refused to move.
The hallway seemed longer than ever. The walls closed in, the shadows stretched. His chest tightened again, breath shallow, heartbeat a drumbeat of anxiety. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.
He wanted to scream. To cry. To disappear. To give up.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. The pain grounded him, just enough to take a step forward. Then another. Every inch felt like dragging a broken limb, but he walked.
You are good enough, he told himself again, the words worn and ragged but still burning.
He had survived worse. He had clawed his way up from nothing. He wouldn’t let them drag him back down, not when he had come this far.
But gods, it was getting harder to believe.
As Yeosang wrestled with the storm inside him, Jongho stepped into the building, his presence like a sudden shift in pressure. Usually, his stride was easy, confident, grounded in control, but today, something coiled tight in his gut.
The lobby buzzed with soft conversations, but as soon as he entered, the air shifted. Whispers flared like embers on dry leaves. People looked up. Some flinched. Some glanced away too quickly. Others dared to meet his eyes, only to avert them the moment they saw the steel behind his calm expression.
He noticed.
He always noticed when it came to Yeosang.
There had been a change. A slow, poisonous shift in how the staff spoke around him. A coldness in the air when they thought no one was listening. Glances Yeosang brushed off with tight smiles and forced excuses. Jongho had seen it all, every bruise that wasn’t quite from a fall, every silence that lasted too long, every night Yeosang came home smiling too brightly.
But today, it was different.
The moment he passed through the corridor, he felt it. Something was wrong. His heart pounded, every instinct on edge. His pace quickened.
And then he saw him.
Yeosang stood in the back hallway, just around the corner from the studio. He was leaning against the wall like his legs might give out. His head was tilted down, one hand gripping the edge of a small display table for balance. His other hand was pressed to his chest like he was trying to hold something broken together.
Pale. Shaken. His expression far too fragile for someone who had just finished what should have been a triumphant shoot.
Jongho’s stomach dropped.
"Yeosang," he called out, voice sharp, not with anger, but urgency, threaded with worry he couldn’t hide.
Yeosang looked up. Their eyes met.
And Jongho’s world stopped.
There was something in Yeosang’s gaze that gutted him. Not just exhaustion. Not just sadness. It was fear. Deep, quiet fear. Like he was hanging on by a thread. And beneath that, doubt, shame, something darker. Something Jongho couldn’t quite name but hated instantly.
"I’m fine," Yeosang said softly. Too softly. The words were too even, too rehearsed.
Jongho wasn’t fooled for a second.
He strode forward without hesitation, reaching out, cupping Yeosang’s cheek in one hand, his touch impossibly gentle for someone built like a wall. His thumb brushed against a damp streak on Yeosang’s skin, and he realized he had been crying.
"You’re not fine," he said quietly. "Don’t lie to me."
Yeosang’s breath hitched.
And then something in him cracked.
He leaned forward, slowly at first, as if testing the strength of Jongho’s presence. When Jongho didn’t move, didn’t pull back, Yeosang’s restraint shattered. His hands gripped the front of Jongho’s coat tightly, his forehead pressing against Jongho’s shoulder. His breath came out in a soft, broken gasp as the weight he had been carrying spilled out in trembling silence.
Jongho’s arms wrapped around him without hesitation, drawing him in tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head as if shielding him from the world.
"I’m here," Jongho murmured into Yeosang’s hair. "I’ve got you. You don’t have to do this alone."
Yeosang didn’t respond with words, but his body did. He clung to Jongho like he was the only steady thing left in the world. His fingers curled into his coat like they were anchoring him to the present, to safety.
The hallway buzzed with movement, staff passing by, assistants chatting, cameras being packed, but none of it touched them. Jongho didn’t care who saw, didn’t care what they thought.
He felt the way Yeosang trembled in his arms, and he knew this had gone on far too long.
"I can’t protect you from everything," he whispered, voice low and fierce. "But I’m sure as hell going to try."
And this time, Yeosang didn’t flinch from the promise.
He leaned in closer, letting the warmth of Jongho’s arms fight off the cold in his bones.
The terminal buzzed with the early-morning rush, rolling suitcases, boarding calls, and half-asleep passengers huddling around cafés. Yet, to Jongho, it all faded into the background.
All he could see was Yeosang.
His husband stood near the security gate, dressed in sleek travel layers, his carry-on slung over one shoulder. Even in the unglamorous glow of airport lighting, Yeosang looked effortlessly elegant, poised, composed, but Jongho could see the tightness in his smile. The tension in his fingers as he adjusted the strap of his bag for the third time.
"Make sure you rest on the flight," Jongho said, brushing imaginary lint off Yeosang’s sleeve. "You’re going to land straight into chaos."
"I know," Yeosang replied with a soft laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’ll try."
Jongho reached up, gently cupping Yeosang’s face, his thumb brushing against the smooth line of his cheek. "Don’t just try," he murmured. "Promise."
Yeosang hesitated, then leaned into his touch. "I promise."
A pause. The noise around them pressed in again, boarding announcements, the hum of travelers, but in their little corner of the airport, it felt like time had slowed.
"I hate that I can’t come with you," Jongho said, his voice low. "I should be there."
Yeosang shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips now, real this time. "You’re the CEO. You’d cause more chaos than the cameras."
"Exactly why I should be there," Jongho quipped, then softened. "I just hate not knowing if someone’s going to look at you wrong, or talk to you like they did last time."
Yeosang’s hand slipped into Jongho’s. "I can handle it."
"I know you can," Jongho said, stepping closer, their foreheads almost touching. "I just don’t want you to have to."
They stood like that for a moment, quiet, close, suspended between goodbye and the promise of return. Then Jongho leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Yeosang’s lips. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just full of love.
"I’ll call you when I land," Yeosang whispered against his mouth.
"You better," Jongho said, his voice a little rough. "Or I’m grounding the Dior jet next time."
Yeosang laughed softly, then pulled away, reluctantly. "I’ll miss you."
"I’ll miss you more," Jongho said. "And I’ll be right here when you get back."
Yeosang gave one final squeeze to his hand before stepping past security, glancing over his shoulder one last time. Their eyes met, and Jongho raised his hand in a small wave.
And then he was gone, disappearing into the sea of passengers.
Jongho made his way to the observation windows, hands in his coat pockets, heart heavier than he wanted to admit. He watched as the plane pulled away from the gate, his eyes locked on the tiny oval where he hoped Yeosang was sitting.
The engines roared to life. The aircraft rolled forward, picking up speed on the runway. Jongho's breath hitched slightly as it rose into the sky, slicing through clouds and sun, carrying half of his heart with it.
"Be okay," he murmured, almost to himself. "Just… be okay."
A few days later, a sleek black car rolled to a gentle stop in front of the Dior headquarters. The building shimmered beneath the morning light, its mirrored glass façade towering into the sky like a monument to prestige and perfection. Inside the car, Yeosang sat utterly still, his fingers twisted tightly in the soft leather of the seat beneath him, knuckles pale.
He stared at his reflection in the tinted window.
Flawless skin. Perfectly styled hair. A Dior trench coat draped across his shoulders like armor.
A model. Beautiful. Desirable. Untouchable.
But inside?
He was unraveling.
The door clicked open, breaking the fragile quiet, and Yeosang blinked rapidly, heart pounding. He took a breath, sharp and shallow, and stepped out, his shoes clicking against the cobblestones with crisp precision. Every step toward the building felt like it sank him deeper into something he couldn’t climb out of. And as he looked up at the monolithic structure, it didn’t glimmer with opportunity. It loomed.
It felt like walking into a cage.
Inside, the air was cool and perfumed, filled with soft footsteps, muted conversations, the clicking of stylists' heels against polished marble. There was no warmth here, only precision. Politeness that didn’t reach the eyes. Faces turned to greet him, but not a single one truly looked at him.
"Yeosang, welcome," a Dior representative greeted him, smiling as she extended her hand. Her tone was rehearsed, her posture practiced. "We’re so excited to have you here."
For a moment, it felt real. For a split second, he could almost believe it.
"Thank you. It’s an honor," he replied with a polite nod, voice calm, the mask holding strong for now.
They passed through the grand corridor toward the fitting rooms, and Yeosang caught sight of the Choi Entertainment staff scattered near the far wall. His team. Supposedly. But the moment their eyes met his, the warmth in the room dropped ten degrees.
They turned slightly as he passed, leaning closer to one another. Their voices dropped, but not low enough.
"Of course he’s here. Dior loves a pretty face, even if there’s nothing behind it," one muttered, her eyes flicking toward him with disdain.
"Honestly? I heard Jongho practically begged for them to take him. Guess even top brands can be bought," another sneered.
"He’s such a glass doll. Let’s see how long before he cracks."
The laugh that followed was quiet and sharp. Like a knife being cleaned before use.
Yeosang’s grip tightened around the water bottle he had been given. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t respond. But the words pierced through the air and sank into his skin like acid.
A part of him, the part that had always tried so hard to earn respect, wanted to crumble. Wanted to shrink into himself, to disappear.
They’re right, that part whispered. You’re not like the others. You’re not natural. Not real. Not enough.
You only got this because Jongho loves you.
You’re not a model. You’re a charity case.
Just a beautiful thing with no spine. A placeholder.
But there was another voice, stronger now, louder than it used to be, rising in the back of his head.
No.
You earned this.
You worked. You bled for this stage. You starved and trained and pushed yourself so far you forgot how to breathe. You are not some handout.
And you sure as hell aren’t anyone’s doll.
His chest burned, not just with pain, but with fury. How dare they. How dare they look at him like he hadn’t clawed his way through every standard, every sneer, every sideways glance just to get here. To stand among them. And still, they whispered. Still, they doubted.
They didn’t know how often he had cried behind locked doors. How many nights he had laid awake asking if this world would ever accept someone like him. How much it cost him to keep showing up, knowing the same people tasked with supporting him were sharpening their knives behind his back.
As he walked into the fitting room, the mirror caught his reflection again. He looked flawless. Dressed in Dior. Every inch the model. The elite.
But it was a strange image, one that shimmered between reality and illusion.
Are they right?
Am I just pretending?
Will I ever be enough to silence them?
His throat tightened. But instead of turning away, he stared himself down. Chin raised. Shoulders square.
"You don’t get to win," he whispered under his breath, half to the reflection, half to the people waiting for him to break.
The backstage area of the Dior runway show buzzed with elegance and tension, the air thick with the scent of high-end cosmetics and anticipation. Spotlights gleamed overhead, illuminating racks of haute couture, the rustle of silk and satin whispering secrets as models moved between stylists and makeup artists. Every inch of the space gleamed with polished perfection.
Yeosang stood in the center of it all, a vision in tailored black and gold, sharp lines, bold shoulders, and an intricate brocade that shimmered under the lights. The Dior team hovered around him like a constellation of stars, orbiting with gentle precision and practiced adoration.
"Oh, Yeosang, this cut is made for you," one stylist breathed, tugging gently at the lapel of his coat before stepping back to admire the full effect. "God, you make it look effortless."
"Your skin is unreal," murmured the makeup artist, smoothing highlighter along his cheekbone. "We barely need to do anything. You’re luminous already."
"Honestly," said another, grinning as she pinned a strand of hair behind his ear, "you might steal the entire show. Don’t tell the others I said that."
They laughed lightly, and for a moment, Yeosang’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile. It was genuine. The way they looked at him, the way they touched his shoulders gently and adjusted his outfit with care, it wasn’t just professionalism. It was warmth. It was admiration. It was real.
And yet, beneath it all, the compliments rang hollow.
Because no matter how kind these people were, no matter how many hands fluttered around him like he was some rare and beautiful thing, the whispers from earlier clung to him like a second skin.
How did he even get this opportunity?
It’s all just a trend.
A glass doll waiting to break.
He stood still as a mannequin while they worked, his eyes fixed on the polished floor as if grounding himself. But his mind drifted, unbidden, to another place. Another time.
To the first time he met Jongho.
Back in university, when Yeosang had still been figuring himself out, when he had shown up to a modeling workshop with his nerves fraying, his hands shaking from caffeine and self-doubt. He had felt like a fraud then, too.
But Jongho had looked at him, really looked, and instead of the skepticism or judgment Yeosang had come to expect, there had only been warmth. A calm, steady presence.
"You’re more than beautiful," Jongho had said that day, quiet and sure. "You just don’t believe it yet."
Yeosang had laughed at the time. Called him dramatic. But it had stayed with him. Like a thread wrapped around his ribs, tugging him back whenever he started to fall apart.
He always believed in me, Yeosang thought now, eyes burning faintly. Even when I didn’t.
Jongho had been his anchor in a world that constantly tried to unmoor him. His strength. His softness. His quiet confidence that Yeosang was more than enough.
And now, here in the glittering heart of Paris, dressed in luxury, adored by a team who truly seemed to care, Yeosang had never felt so hollow.
Because none of this mattered if Jongho wasn’t here to see it.
He missed him. Fiercely. Desperately. A dull ache behind his sternum.
"You okay, love?" one of the stylists asked, catching the far-off look in his eyes as she finished adjusting the collar of his coat.
Yeosang blinked. Forced a small smile. "Yeah. Just… taking it all in."
She smiled kindly, then reached up to brush a stray lash from his cheek. "You’re going to do amazing."
He nodded, but didn’t answer.
Because as the show director called for final lineup, and as the lights above the runway began to dim and pulse in preparation, the noise in Yeosang’s head grew louder.
You don’t belong here.
They only love the image. Not you.
Jongho would say otherwise.
He straightened his spine.
Breathed in.
And thought only of Jongho’s voice.
You just don’t believe it yet.
The sound of the runway show swelled in Yeosang’s ears, bass-heavy music vibrating through the floor, echoing up into his chest like a second heartbeat. The lights beamed down in merciless intensity, illuminating every angle of his face, every inch of his frame draped in Dior’s latest collection. It was time.
Time to step out.
Time to perform.
Time to pretend.
His legs trembled beneath the polished fabric of his trousers as the assistant gently nudged him forward, toward the mouth of the runway. His throat tightened. His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth. The noise blurred around him, all color and heat and pressure, and when he stepped out beneath the glaring lights, it felt like walking into a furnace.
The crowd was a vague wall of shadow and glitter, camera flashes firing off like lightning strikes. The music thundered in his ears. His heels clicked sharply against the pristine runway floor, tick, tick, tick, like the ticking of a countdown he hadn’t asked to start.
One foot in front of the other. Head up. Shoulders back. Smile just enough. Don’t let them see.
The model mask slipped on easily, practiced over years of pretending. But his chest was a vice. His breath caught, hitching in his throat like it didn’t belong there. Every step felt like dragging weights tied to his ankles. The further he walked, the smaller he felt.
He could hear them. Whispers not from the audience but from somewhere deeper, somewhere inside.
You’re not good enough.
They picked you because it’s trendy. Because you’re pretty. That’s it.
You’re a placeholder. Just a phase.
You’ll be forgotten next season.
The thoughts spiraled tighter, faster, feeding off the pressure, feeding off the lights, the sound, the eyes.
He reached the end of the runway and pivoted, gaze forward, lips pressed into something poised. He was the picture of grace, of elegance, of beauty. And no one could tell his hands were shaking.
When he returned backstage, it was a blur. He didn’t hear the soft praises, the congratulations, the buzz of adrenaline from the stylists and assistants. All he could think about was how fast he needed to leave. His lungs were starting to burn, panic climbing like ivy in his throat.
He slipped past the curtain, past the clothing racks, past the models chatting in clusters, and ducked into the nearest bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
The lights above the mirror buzzed quietly. The room smelled of expensive soap and hairspray and too much perfume.
Yeosang gripped the edges of the porcelain sink. His reflection stared back at him, painted, perfect, hollow.
He gasped, breath hitching again, then again. His lungs refused to fill. The air felt wrong. Too thin. Too thick. His vision blurred at the edges.
Stop it. Breathe. You just need to breathe.
But his body wasn’t listening.
His chest heaved.
His hands clawed at the sink, white-knuckled.
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes before he could stop them.
No. No. Not here. Not now.
He stumbled back, his hand fumbling against the marble counter until he hit the floor, back pressed to the cold tile wall. The designer coat he wore felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. His knees curled to his chest.
His entire body shook.
Shallow breaths.
Racing pulse.
Tears now spilling freely down his cheeks, smudging the corner of his liner.
The storm inside him broke free in full.
He couldn’t hold it anymore. Couldn’t pretend. Couldn’t keep the mask in place.
He sobbed, silent and wracking, the sound muffled in his sleeves. Not loud, but devastating. The kind of cry that came from deep inside, from the part of him that had been stepped on, overlooked, doubted again and again.
And through it all, Jongho’s voice played faintly in his memory.
You’re more than beautiful… You just don’t believe it yet.
Yeosang curled tighter, wishing more than anything that Jongho were here. That he could press his forehead to Jongho’s shoulder and feel the world calm down. That he could hear that voice, steady and warm, reminding him of who he was.
Instead, he was alone. Crying in a Dior bathroom. Shaking so hard he could barely breathe.
And all he could do was wait it out.
Until it passed.
Until someone knocked.
Until he could pull himself together again and pretend the cracks weren’t showing.
Jongho sat back in his chair, staring at the screen of his phone long after he had sent the message. The buzz of the office around him seemed distant, muffled, like everything was happening on the other side of a glass wall. His thoughts kept drifting back to the text from Yeosang, his carefully crafted words, so casual, so perfectly Yeosang, and yet Jongho could see the cracks beneath the surface. He could feel the distance in the way Yeosang had tried to reassure him.
I’m fine.
No, you're not.
It wasn’t the first time Jongho had felt this knot of worry in his chest. Yeosang had been distant, had been struggling in ways he hadn’t shared. He had tried to hide it, tried to protect Jongho from whatever was going on, but Jongho wasn’t blind. The way Yeosang’s smiles had started to feel more forced, the way his voice had grown quieter over the past few days, it was all starting to pile up in Jongho’s mind.
He glanced at his watch, then back at his phone. He had meant to check in with Yeosang again, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it just yet. Something told him that no matter what Yeosang said, no matter how convincing his words seemed, he wasn’t going to be able to hide the truth for much longer.
Jongho’s fingers hovered over the phone screen, contemplating a call. He had told Yeosang he would be there for him, and in some way, he had meant it. He would always be there for him. But what if that wasn’t enough? What if he was missing something crucial? What if Yeosang’s pain was something deeper, something that couldn’t be fixed with a few kind words or a promise to bring him strawberry tea?
The voice in his head nagged at him, refusing to be ignored.
There’s something going on. Something you haven’t seen yet.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his office door. He looked up to find San standing there, his expression tight with worry.
"You alright?" San asked, stepping inside without waiting for a response.
Jongho ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the tension that had built up in his shoulders. "Yeah, just... thinking."
San raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "About Yeosang?"
Jongho nodded, his eyes narrowing. "How did you know?"
"I’ve been keeping an eye on him," San said, his voice quiet but firm. "I know he’s been... off lately. We’ve all noticed it."
Jongho’s chest tightened at the words. "Has he said anything to you?"
San hesitated for a moment, his expression flickering with indecision. "Not directly. But Wooyoung and Seonghwa have both mentioned it. Yeosang’s been keeping things to himself, more than usual. And... I think he’s afraid to tell you how bad it’s gotten."
Jongho’s blood ran cold at San’s words. He had known. He had known something was off, but hearing it from someone else, someone who had been watching Yeosang, who had seen the cracks he hadn’t yet seen himself, made the realization hit harder.
"He’s hiding something," Jongho muttered, clenching his fists. "I just don’t know what."
San stepped closer, his voice soft but urgent. "You need to talk to him, Jongho. He’s not going to open up if you don’t. He’s been keeping it all in for too long. And if you don’t figure out what’s going on, it’s only going to get worse."
Jongho’s throat tightened as he looked down at his phone again. The last message from Yeosang was still sitting there, waiting for his reply, as if everything was fine. But Jongho knew that it wasn’t. Yeosang was slipping away from him, and no amount of text messages or empty reassurances would change that.
"I’m going to get on a plane," Jongho said suddenly, standing up. "I’m going to Paris."
San blinked, clearly taken aback by the decision. "You’re leaving now? The team needs you here"
"I don’t care about the team," Jongho snapped, his voice hardening. "I care about Yeosang. And I’m not going to let him suffer alone any longer."
San hesitated, then nodded. "I get it. But... be careful. You don’t know what’s going on, and Yeosang’s good at hiding things. You’ll need to approach this carefully."
Jongho was already shrugging on his coat as he stormed out the door, the last text still open on his phone like a wound.
The lights are too bright today. It hurts to breathe.
No emojis. No exclamation points. Just that.
And Jongho knew.
There was no more waiting, no more pretending that Yeosang would be fine with just words of comfort over the phone. Jongho had been fooling himself, trying to give Yeosang space, thinking love alone would be enough. But Yeosang didn’t need love from a distance. He needed him there. With him. Beside him.
The flight to Paris dragged like a cruel joke. Every moment in the air was a thousand seconds too long. Jongho couldn't sit still. He kept checking his phone, rereading messages, searching for something he might have missed, a sign that Yeosang was okay. But there was nothing. Just silence.
And silence from Yeosang wasn’t peace. It was a scream with the volume turned off.
The second the plane touched down in Paris, he was on his feet, navigating through the terminal like a man possessed. Time wasn’t on his side and he was running on nothing but adrenaline and desperation. The thought of Yeosang alone, breaking down under the weight of it all, was like a vice on his chest.
The drive from Charles de Gaulle to the Dior headquarters was torture. Every red light, every moment of traffic felt like a personal affront. Jongho gripped his phone tightly, refreshing messages that didn’t exist, checking for missed calls that never came.
Please be okay. Please hold on.
When the car finally pulled up in front of the iconic glass-paneled building, he barely waited for it to stop before leaping out. A swarm of press, stylists, and models buzzed around the entrance like bees, but there was no sign of Yeosang.
Jongho's heart sank. He moved quickly, scanning every face, dodging cameras and murmured conversations, desperate to find that familiar silhouette. The more time passed, the faster his pulse raced.
Where is he?
He reached out to one of the assistants he recognized. "Have you seen Yeosang? Model, tall, dark hair. He was supposed to walk today."
She blinked, startled by his intensity. "He… I saw him earlier. He looked pale. I think he went to the back hall. Maybe the bathroom?"
Jongho didn’t wait for her to finish. He turned on his heel and rushed down the hallway, his boots echoing against the tiled floor. A sudden sound caught his attention, shallow, rapid breaths, almost like someone was hyperventilating. It came from one of the bathroom stalls.
Jongho froze, heart seizing.
"Yeosang?" he called, voice trembling.
No response. Only the sound of gasping, like someone was drowning on air. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
And there he was.
Yeosang was curled into himself by the sinks, blazer discarded, fingers trembling as they clutched at the fabric of his shirt. His eyes were wide, unfocused, his chest rising and falling in panicked waves. His lip quivered as he tried to breathe but failed, again and again.
"Yeosang." Jongho dropped to his knees beside him, hands immediately reaching out. "Hey. Hey, it’s me. I’m here. Look at me, baby."
Yeosang flinched at the voice, then blinked. Recognition flashed in his eyes, then relief so raw it broke Jongho’s heart.
"You’re... you’re here?" he croaked, voice barely audible. "I... I thought..."
"I’m here," Jongho whispered, pulling him close. "I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re okay."
Yeosang buried his face into Jongho’s chest, fists gripping at his coat like he would fall apart if he let go. His breathing was still uneven, but he was clinging now. Not just to Jongho, but to the lifeline of his presence.
Jongho ran a hand through Yeosang’s hair, his other arm wrapped tightly around his waist. "Breathe with me, okay? In... and out. Just like that. You’re not alone. I’m here. I promise."
Yeosang tried to follow him, shaking like a leaf, and Jongho didn’t let go. Not once.
"I was so scared," Yeosang whispered, voice cracking. "Everything was too much. I couldn’t... I thought I had to face it alone."
"You don’t," Jongho said fiercely. "You never have to face anything alone again. I should have been here sooner, I know. But I’m here now. And I’m not letting go."
Yeosang let out a broken sob, then finally, finally, his breathing began to slow. His body melted into Jongho’s, exhausted but calmer, safer.
"You came for me," he mumbled against Jongho’s chest, voice laced with disbelief and gratitude.
"Of course I did," Jongho murmured, kissing the top of his head. "You’re my everything, Yeosang. All I care about is you being okay."
They sat there for a long moment, tangled together in a quiet corner of chaos. Jongho didn’t care about the show, the people waiting, or anything else outside those bathroom walls.
He just held Yeosang like his life depended on it.

Chapter Text

The evening sky was painted in hues of lavender and rose, the fading daylight casting soft shadows over the city of Paris. Jongho had insisted on taking Yeosang out, despite the whirlwind of work and the unspoken tension still lingering between them. Yeosang had hesitated, but Jongho’s insistence, his quiet determination to make him smile again, was impossible to resist.
As they stepped out into the crisp Parisian air, Yeosang felt a lightness that he hadn’t felt in weeks. The weight of the past few days, of work, of the suffocating expectations, the cruel whispers, and his own fears, seemed to melt away in the face of Jongho’s gentle presence. They walked side by side, their hands brushing occasionally, a touch so natural that it made Yeosang feel as if they were the only two people in the entire world.
Jongho led him through the narrow, cobbled streets, the sounds of the city humming softly around them. The streetlights flickered on as the night deepened, casting a golden glow on the quiet Parisian alleyways. The charm of the city felt almost like a dream. Everything was so beautiful, so effortless, like it was all made just for them.
"Where are we going?" Yeosang asked, his voice soft with curiosity, though his heart fluttered with a sense of excitement. Jongho had been so secretive about the evening plans, but there was something about the mystery that made him feel like a giddy teenager again.
"You’ll see," Jongho replied with a sly grin, taking Yeosang’s hand more firmly now, as if to reassure him that he was there, steady and unmovable. "But you have to trust me."
Yeosang gave him a small smile, a rare one that came easily, without hesitation. He trusted Jongho, completely. He always had. The anxiety he’d carried all week seemed to slip away in the face of Jongho’s unwavering affection. Whatever happened, they would be okay.
Jongho led him around a corner, and Yeosang’s breath caught in his throat when he saw where they had arrived. It was a small, intimate café, tucked away in a quiet square that felt worlds apart from the bustling city around them. Soft candlelight flickered from the windows, casting a warm, inviting glow. The outside tables were surrounded by flowers, the air thick with the scent of fresh croissants and espresso.
"This is... this is beautiful," Yeosang whispered, taken aback by the peaceful atmosphere.
Jongho smiled, a soft, loving expression on his face. "I thought we could get away from everything for a while. Just you and me. No expectations. No work. Just... us."
Yeosang’s heart swelled. His eyes flickered toward Jongho, and he could see the quiet sincerity in his gaze, the way he always seemed to look at him with such tenderness, as if there was nothing more precious in the world than this moment, this connection.
They took a seat at one of the outdoor tables, and Yeosang settled into the chair, feeling the soft breeze ruffle his hair. Jongho ordered for both of them, his deep voice low as he spoke to the waiter. Yeosang took in the surroundings, letting himself be fully present in the moment. No worries, no stress, just the hum of Parisian life around them.
As the waiter left, Jongho reached across the table, his hand slipping into Yeosang’s. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft and full of concern. "I know things have been tough lately, but I want you to know, right now, in this moment, I want you to be happy."
Yeosang’s heart beat faster. He squeezed Jongho’s hand gently, smiling at him. "I am happy," he said, the words coming out so easily, so truthfully. "I’m happy because I’m here with you."
Jongho’s eyes softened, his lips curving into a smile that made Yeosang’s chest tighten with affection. He leaned across the table, his thumb brushing over Yeosang’s hand in a slow, soothing motion. "I’m glad," he murmured, his voice low, almost as if speaking to himself. "I’ll always make sure you’re happy, Yeosang. I promise."
The sincerity in Jongho’s words made Yeosang feel something inside him shift, a sense of peace, of being seen and cared for in ways he had almost forgotten he needed. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of the night, the gentle touch of Jongho’s hand, and the soft music from the café wash over him.
"I don’t want to go back to work tomorrow," Yeosang admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jongho’s smile faltered, but only for a moment. He leaned back in his chair, looking at Yeosang with an expression that was part amusement, part understanding. "I know. I know, love. But we’ll face it together, alright? I’m not going anywhere."
Yeosang met his gaze, the weight of those words sinking in. He wasn’t alone. Not now, not ever.
The food arrived, and they ate together, the conversation flowing easily, their laughter light and genuine. For the first time in what felt like forever, Yeosang felt a sense of calm. No one was judging him here. No one was whispering behind his back. There was just him and Jongho, enjoying each other’s company in the heart of Paris.
As the night wore on, they took a stroll down the Seine, the lights of the Eiffel Tower sparkling in the distance. The air had turned cooler, but Jongho had draped his jacket over Yeosang’s shoulders, his hand on the small of his back, guiding him as they walked.
Yeosang felt utterly content, the peace he had longed for settling deep within him. In that moment, with the soft sound of the river flowing beside them, the Parisian night unfolding around them, and Jongho’s presence grounding him, he realized something.
No matter how hard things got, no matter how many people tried to bring him down or how lost he felt in the chaos of his life, there would always be moments like this. Moments when he could feel the warmth of Jongho’s love, the steadiness of his support, and the quiet joy of simply being in his arms.
"I think this might be the happiest I’ve ever felt," Yeosang whispered, looking up at Jongho with soft, sincere eyes.
Jongho smiled, his hand reaching for Yeosang’s. "Then let’s make sure you feel this way more often."
The night air was cool against their skin, carrying with it the faint hum of Parisian life. Jongho and Yeosang walked side by side through the cobbled streets, their fingers brushing occasionally, sending soft jolts through Yeosang’s chest. They hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the restaurant, but there was something peaceful about the quiet between them. It was as though the world had faded away, leaving only the two of them in this small corner of Paris.
Jongho’s hand, warm and strong, finally closed around Yeosang’s, gently pulling him to a stop beneath a lamp post. The light cast a soft glow on their faces, accentuating the way Jongho’s eyes softened whenever they locked with Yeosang’s.
"I’m glad we’re here together," Jongho murmured, his voice low and steady.
Yeosang smiled, his heart light. For a moment, he forgot about the pressures of the past weeks, the whispers, the cold stares, the weight of expectations. There was only this, the warmth of Jongho’s hand in his, the steady beat of their hearts in sync, the feeling of being seen in a way that made him feel whole.
"I’ve never been to Paris like this," Yeosang whispered, his voice almost a sigh. "I think I’ve always imagined it differently... but this? This feels right."
Jongho’s thumb brushed over the back of Yeosang’s hand, a gentle caress that spoke volumes. "I want to give you all the things you deserve, Sang. Even if it's just this, being here, in this moment. With you."
Yeosang’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening with a swell of emotion. He stepped closer to Jongho, leaning into the embrace that had become his safe place, his haven. His arms slid around Jongho’s waist, and for a moment, they simply stood there, bodies pressed together under the soft glow of the streetlights. The world outside felt distant, irrelevant.
Jongho’s hands rested at Yeosang’s back, his fingers tracing slow circles against his skin. "You’re everything to me, Yeosang," he murmured, voice low but filled with so much emotion that it made Yeosang’s heart ache in the best way. "I wish I could show you how much I love you."
Yeosang pulled back just slightly to meet his eyes, his lips slightly parted. The intensity in Jongho’s gaze made his pulse quicken, but there was no fear, no hesitation. Just pure, raw love, and a longing to be closer, to bridge the small space between them.
Without a word, Jongho leaned in, his lips capturing Yeosang’s in a kiss that was soft, tender, but with an underlying depth that sent a wave of warmth rushing through Yeosang’s veins. It wasn’t hurried or desperate. It was a kiss that spoke of years of affection, of understanding, and of trust.
Yeosang melted into it, his hands sliding up to Jongho’s chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his fingers. Every movement felt like it was in perfect harmony, their breaths matching, their bodies drawn to each other as if they were two parts of a whole that had finally found its place.
When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the cool night air. Jongho’s hand cupped Yeosang’s cheek, his thumb gently swiping away the stray tear that had slipped from his eye.
"I’m here," Jongho whispered, his voice thick with affection. "I’ll always be here."
Yeosang closed his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. He had never felt more cherished, more safe, than in this moment. His heart swelled with something more powerful than love, something that made him feel invincible, as though he could face anything as long as Jongho was by his side.
"Thank you," Yeosang whispered, his voice barely audible. "For everything."
Jongho kissed his forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment. "You don’t need to thank me, love. You’ve always been enough. And you always will be."
The plane touched down in Seoul with a soft jolt, the wheels kissing the tarmac as if reluctant to return to the ground. Yeosang sat quietly, fingers tightly interlaced with Jongho’s, his heart pounding in his chest. Paris had been a dream, fleeting, soft, and filled with warmth, but reality waited for them beyond the airport gates like a predator in the dark.
As the plane taxied to a stop and the seatbelt signs flickered off, Yeosang let out a slow, steadying breath. He could already feel it, the shift in atmosphere, the weight of everything he had tried to escape pressing down on his shoulders again. The coldness of Seoul’s expectations seeped in through the airplane walls, and the gentle peace of Paris began to fade like a distant melody.
But this time, something was different.
Jongho rose beside him, tugging their bags down from the overhead compartment with a quiet efficiency that always made Yeosang feel safe. He did not let go of Yeosang’s hand for a moment, not in the aisle, not in the jet bridge, not even when the crowd surged around them, pulling them into the chaotic current of travelers.
The terminal buzzed with movement and noise, announcements blaring overhead, children crying, the rhythmic drag of suitcases over tile, but Jongho’s presence was a steady pulse beside him. Strong. Sure. Unshaken.
Yeosang’s grip tightened instinctively. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to go back to the quiet corner café with candlelight and croissants, to the echo of Jongho’s laughter in the Parisian streets. But that was not an option anymore. Not when he finally understood something important, something that had settled into his bones like truth.
He had something worth fighting for.
As they weaved through the crowd, Jongho glanced at him, worry flickering briefly in his gaze. "You okay?" he asked, voice low and protective.
Yeosang swallowed the knot in his throat and nodded. "Yeah. I just..." He paused, heart hammering, then met Jongho’s eyes with a newfound resolve. "I’m ready."
Jongho slowed, guiding them to a quieter spot near the terminal windows. The city stretched beyond the glass, cold, bright, familiar. "Ready?" he echoed, his voice careful, gentle.
Yeosang turned to face him fully. The words trembled on the edge of his lips, but he did not let them falter. "I’m ready to fight," he said, his voice firm even as his hands trembled. "Not just for me. For us. For what we have. I let them take too much from me already, my confidence, my peace, my voice. I can’t let them take this too."
Jongho’s expression shifted, first to surprise, then to something deeper, more emotional. A softness that curled at the corners of his eyes. He raised Yeosang’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against his knuckles, lingering there like a silent vow.
"You’re incredible," he murmured against his skin. "So strong, even when you don’t see it. You’ve already won the hardest part, choosing yourself. And I’ll be right beside you. Every step."
Yeosang’s throat tightened. For so long, he had walked alone. Smiling when he wanted to scream. Shrinking when he should have stood tall. But now, now he had Jongho. And more importantly, he had himself.
As they stepped out of the terminal and into the cool Seoul evening, the wind rushed against his skin, sharp and sobering. Jongho moved closer, draping his arm around Yeosang’s shoulders protectively, but not possessively. His warmth was not a cage, it was armor. Safe. Steady. Constant.
The city did not feel like a battlefield anymore. Not entirely. It felt like a challenge. One Yeosang was ready to meet.
"I won’t let them break me," he whispered, as they reached their car. "Not again."
Jongho unlocked the door, then turned to him with a quiet smile that held the weight of a thousand unspoken promises. "They don’t stand a chance."
Yeosang smiled back, sliding into the passenger seat, his heart still fluttering, but this time with courage, not fear.
Let them whisper. Let them judge. Let them try.
Once they were inside the apartment, Yeosang moved like a ghost, silent, graceful, but frayed around the edges. He made his way straight to their bedroom, not bothering to turn on the lights. The faint glow of the city outside spilled through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. It should have felt like peace. The familiar scent of Jongho’s cologne lingering in the air, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the other room, the warmth of home, but tonight, none of it could silence the storm in his mind.
His coat slipped from his shoulders and landed on the floor with a whisper. He stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, fingers twitching at his sides. His chest was tight, his thoughts too loud, his heart racing as if it were trying to outrun the truth.
He had not told Jongho everything.
Not about the quiet cruelty he faced day after day. Not about the subtle cold shoulders, the whispered comments, the way people smiled to his face and twisted knives into his back the moment he turned. Not about how even success had felt hollow, because no matter how hard he worked, someone was always waiting to tear him down.
It had been happening for years. And he had carried it all in silence.
Because he did not want Jongho to worry. Because he did not want to seem weak. Because he had convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, if he stayed quiet long enough, it would go away.
But it had not. And now, finally, he could not stay quiet any longer.
Behind him, he heard soft footsteps. Jongho appeared in the doorway, silhouetted in the dim light, his expression unreadable but his presence undeniably grounding. He did not say anything. Just waited. Patient and steady, like always.
Yeosang turned to face him, his lips parting as if to speak, but nothing came out at first. His throat felt dry, his emotions a tangled knot he had tried to keep buried for too long. He pressed his fingers to his temples, then let them fall.
"I have to tell you something," he said finally, voice low and raw.
Jongho took a slow step forward. "Okay."
Yeosang’s eyes shimmered. "It’s been happening... for years. Not just recently. Since almost the beginning. The way they treat me at the company. The way they look at me like I don’t belong. Like I’m just some mistake they have to tolerate."
Jongho’s jaw tightened slightly, but he did not interrupt.
"I tried to ignore it. I thought if I just worked harder, if I smiled more, if I stayed quiet, they would accept me. That they would stop making me feel like I’m not good enough. But it never stopped." His voice cracked. "No matter what I did, it was never enough. And I was scared, Jongho. I was so scared that if I told you, you would look at me differently. Like maybe they were right."
Jongho was in front of him before he could finish the thought, closing the distance with a fierce tenderness that made Yeosang’s breath catch.
He wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close like he could hold all the broken pieces together. His hands splayed across Yeosang’s back, grounding him, protecting him, shielding him. Yeosang melted into the embrace, clinging to the front of Jongho’s shirt as his body trembled with everything he had tried not to feel.
"You should have told me sooner," Jongho murmured, voice thick with emotion, his cheek pressed to the top of Yeosang’s head. "Not because I’m angry, but because I hate knowing you went through that alone. For years."
"I didn’t want to be a burden," Yeosang whispered, tears slipping silently down his cheeks. "You already do so much for me. I didn’t want to add to it."
"You’re not a burden, Sang." Jongho’s voice was fierce now, but not with anger, just love. A protective, all-consuming kind of love. "You never were. Not even for a second. And I swear to you, if I had known even a fraction of what you were going through..." His voice faltered. "I would have burned the whole place down for you."
Yeosang gave a broken laugh through his tears, gripping Jongho tighter.
"I won’t let them hurt you anymore," Jongho whispered. "I don’t care who they are, what position they hold, or what they say behind closed doors. You belong there, Yeosang. You shine brighter than any of them ever will. And if they can’t see it, that’s their failure, not yours."
Yeosang nodded against his chest, his sobs soft but steady. The years of hurt did not vanish in an instant, but in Jongho’s arms, they did not feel so impossible to carry.
The next morning, the glass doors of Choi Entertainment slid open with a soft hiss, ushering in the quiet clack of Jongho and Yeosang’s footsteps. The polished floors gleamed beneath their shoes, reflecting the cool, sharp lighting of the pristine lobby. Everything looked the same, untouched by the days they had been away. But everything had changed.
Especially Yeosang.
The moment they stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations stilled. Heads turned. The rustling of papers and the tapping of keyboards slowed like the world was holding its breath.
Yeosang felt the weight of their stares. Some were curious, others guarded, and a few barely masked with disdain. They were not used to seeing him like this. Straight-backed, chin lifted, hand securely held in Jongho’s. Unapologetic. Unafraid.
For a moment, that old anxiety tried to rise, tried to whisper that maybe he should lower his gaze, pretend he did not hear the murmurs, fall back into the version of himself they were comfortable with. Quiet. Compliant. Invisible.
But that Yeosang was gone.
His grip on Jongho’s hand tightened, drawing strength from the warmth of his husband’s palm. Jongho, in his sleek black suit and cold expression, radiated authority. His eyes scanned the room like a hawk. Every step forward was an unspoken warning. Yeosang is under my protection.
They walked together, side by side, through the halls that had once felt like cages. Each step was a quiet rebellion. Every glance they returned, a challenge.
By the time they reached the conference room, Yeosang’s heart was pounding. Not with fear, but with resolve.
Inside, the team was already seated. Directors, managers, stylists. The inner circle. The same ones who had spoken behind his back, the ones who smiled to his face and then tried to erase him. Their chatter died instantly when the door opened.
Some forced smiles. Others avoided his gaze entirely. A few froze.
Yeosang did not blink.
Jongho did not release his hand as they entered, did not take a seat before Yeosang did. He did not need to. His presence said enough. I am here. I see you. Do not forget who you are dealing with.
Yeosang looked around the table, meeting every gaze, holding them in turn. No longer shrinking under their scrutiny. No longer pretending not to notice the ice beneath their words.
"I’m here," he said, voice calm but firm, echoing in the silence like a declaration. "And I’m not going anywhere."
Not a stutter. Not a tremble. Just steel wrapped in velvet.
Jongho turned slightly toward him, squeezing his hand, a silent promise that no matter what came next, they would face it together.
Some of the team shifted in their seats, expressions unreadable. A few tried to recover, clearing their throats or offering empty nods, but the power dynamic had already shifted. Yeosang had just walked in with the CEO at his side, and he was not hiding anymore.
Yeosang released Jongho’s hand then, slowly, but only because he wanted to. He took the empty seat at the head of the table beside Jongho’s, eyes still locked on the people who had tried to push him out of his own story.
He sat like he belonged there.
Because he did.
The sun was beginning to set, painting the walls of Jongho and Yeosang’s apartment in soft amber and gold. Long shadows stretched across the hardwood floors, and the quiet hum of the city outside filtered through slightly open windows. Inside, everything felt still, suspended in a kind of silence that comes before something important, something irreversible.
The knock at the front door was gentle, but it echoed like a thunderclap through the quiet space.
Yeosang flinched.
He stood frozen in the living room, staring down at his hands, which trembled slightly despite his best efforts to steady them. He was not ready.
But he needed to do this.
They were his people. His family. And if anyone deserved to know the truth, it was them.
Jongho crossed the room without hesitation, pausing just long enough to glance back at Yeosang. His gaze was warm, calm, reassuring, like always. Then he opened the door.
"Hey," Jongho greeted, his voice low and genuine.
The hallway outside was filled with familiar faces. Seonghwa, Wooyoung, Yunho, Mingi, Hongjoong, and San. All of them dressed comfortably in jeans and hoodies, off-duty and gathered just for this. There was laughter on their lips, but it faded quickly when they saw Yeosang standing in the living room.
The energy shifted.
"Come in," Jongho said, stepping aside.
They filtered inside one by one, exchanging soft greetings as they settled into the living room, onto couches and armchairs, some sitting on the floor like they always did when the group got together. But something was different this time. The air carried a quiet tension. An expectancy. Like they all felt it, something just beneath the surface.
Yeosang stood, hands clasped tightly in front of him, trying to slow his breathing. He could feel the pressure building in his chest, the words he needed to say lodged in his throat.
It was Seonghwa who broke the silence.
"You’ve been quiet lately," he said gently, folding his hands in his lap. His brows were pinched in worry, eyes fixed on Yeosang with a quiet kind of intensity. "More than usual. And not just tired. It’s something else, isn’t it?"
Wooyoung, who sat at San’s side with his knees tucked up to his chest, nodded slowly. "You don’t have to pretend with us, Yeosang," he said, voice soft but sure. "We know you. We see you."
Yeosang opened his mouth, then closed it again. His lips trembled.
Every pair of eyes was on him now. Concerned, supportive, waiting. But not pressuring. He looked at each of them and saw love. Real love. And for the first time, it did not scare him.
His voice cracked when he finally spoke. "Actually… no. Things haven’t been okay. Not for a long time."
The room held its breath.
"I’ve been treated like I don’t belong at Choi Entertainment. Not just once, not just by one person. It’s been years. The staff, some of the models, even people from Dior, they look at me like I’m disposable. Like I’m a placeholder. And I tried to ignore it. I told myself to be professional, to keep working hard, to smile." He swallowed hard. "But it hurts. It hurts every day."
Wooyoung’s eyes shimmered. His voice choked when he stood and crossed the room. "Why didn’t you tell us?" His lips trembled as he reached for Yeosang’s hands. "You’ve been carrying this all by yourself?"
Yeosang looked away, his breath shaky. "I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want Jongho to worry. He already does so much for me. He treats me like I’m worthy. Like I’m strong. I didn’t want to be weak in front of him. Or in front of any of you."
Wooyoung pulled him into a hug without another word. It was not soft or careful. It was fierce, protective. San joined them a moment later, wrapping his arms around both of them, pressing his chin to Wooyoung’s shoulder in quiet solidarity.
"I’m so sorry," Wooyoung whispered. "We should have known. We did know, somewhere deep down, but we let you smile through it."
Seonghwa’s eyes were glassy now, his voice low. "You’ve always looked after all of us. It never crossed my mind that you’d think being vulnerable would make us love you less."
Hongjoong, who had remained standing near the window, clenched his jaw. "You’re not weak, Yeosang. Don’t you ever call yourself that again." His voice was a growl, filled with an anger so sharp it made Yeosang blink in surprise. "You’ve been surviving in silence while they tore you down behind your back. That’s not weakness. That’s strength I can’t even imagine."
"I’ve heard some things," Mingi admitted, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "Snide comments. Looks. I should have said something sooner, but I thought, God, I thought maybe you didn’t care. That maybe you didn’t notice." His voice cracked with guilt. "But you did. And I hate that I stayed quiet."
Yunho’s hand settled on Yeosang’s shoulder, grounding him. "They don’t get to do this anymore. You’re not alone, and you’re not fighting this battle by yourself. Not while we’re here."
Jongho was beside him then, silent but steady, one hand resting at the small of Yeosang’s back. His touch was so gentle, but it held the weight of every promise he had ever made. His voice was quiet, meant just for Yeosang.
"You don’t have to be strong for me, Sang. Just be you. I’ll be strong enough for both of us when you need me to."
And that was it.
The dam broke.
Yeosang’s shoulders shook with the first sob, the kind that rips out of the chest after years of being swallowed down. But he was not alone. Arms wrapped around him from every side. Jongho, Wooyoung, San, Seonghwa. Mingi and Yunho moved in too, and even Hongjoong joined the huddle, pressing a hand to Yeosang’s back with a gentleness that surprised them all.
"I’m ready," Yeosang said through his tears, voice thick but determined. "I’m done hiding. I’m done pretending it doesn’t hurt. I’m going to fight. For myself. And for the people who believe in me."
There was a beat, and then San grinned through the emotion, squeezing him tight.
"We’ve got your back," he said. "Always."
And in the warmth of their embrace, Yeosang felt something he had not in a long time:
Hope.
Real, fierce, undeniable hope.
He was not alone anymore. And he never would be again.
The atmosphere in the apartment was heavy with determination. Everyone had gathered in a tight circle around Yeosang, their faces set with purpose. The room that had once felt like a sanctuary now buzzed with an electric charge as each of them formulated the next steps in their mission to protect Yeosang—and to take a stand against the people who had been hurting him.
Jongho was the first to speak, his voice firm but low. "We can’t keep letting this happen. This isn’t just about some petty jealousy or office gossip anymore. This is about respect. About showing them that Yeosang deserves to be treated with dignity."
Seonghwa nodded, his expression serious. "We can’t keep playing nice with people who have been this cruel. It’s clear they’ve been undermining Yeosang for far too long. It’s not just about the way they talk behind his back, but how they’ve been treating him openly." He turned to Yeosang, offering a gentle smile. "I think it’s time we go on the offensive."
Wooyoung, still wiping his tear-streaked face, looked between his friends. "I agree. We can’t let them keep making him feel like this. We’ve been letting them walk all over him, and I—" His voice cracked. "I’m so sorry I didn’t do more before." His usual bravado was replaced with raw emotion. "We need to take action now, before it gets worse."
Mingi, normally the one who kept things cool, clenched his fists in fury. "We’ve been letting this slide for far too long. I’ve heard the whispers. I’ve seen how they look at you, Yeosang, and I don’t care who they are. It’s time for them to understand that you’re not someone they can just trample over." His voice darkened. "We’re going to make sure they know just who they’re dealing with."
Yeosang felt a swell of gratitude for his friends—his family—and his heart warmed as he took in their fierce resolve. The anxiety that had been gnawing at him for so long slowly started to subside. He wasn’t alone in this anymore.
"Okay, but what do we actually do?" Yunho asked, his brow furrowed. "We can’t just walk in and start making accusations without proof. We need a solid plan. They’re not going to go down easily."
Jongho’s jaw clenched in frustration. "We don’t need to just play by their rules. We need to hit them where it hurts—show them that what they’ve been doing is wrong, that it won’t go unnoticed anymore."
San, ever the strategist in his own way, nodded thoughtfully. "We need to document everything. Record the incidents, take note of the conversations. We don’t just need to confront them, we need to make sure they understand the consequences. If they try to push Yeosang out, we push back twice as hard. Let’s make sure they know there’s a cost to this behavior."
Yeosang looked down at his hands, his fingers nervously twisting together. "I don’t want to make things worse for you all," he said softly, though his voice was resolute. "I don’t want to drag anyone into this."
Jongho immediately reached for his hand, squeezing it firmly. "You’re not dragging us into anything, Yeosang. This is our fight too. We’re not going to let you take the fall for people who don’t have your back." His eyes locked onto his husband’s, soft but filled with conviction. "You’ve been carrying this burden alone for far too long. Now, we carry it together."
Wooyoung chimed in, his voice low but fierce. "And don’t forget, we’ve got connections. People who have seen the things that’ve been going on. We can use that. We don’t need to be afraid anymore. We’ll stand up for you, no matter what."
Seonghwa smiled at Yeosang, his gaze warm but determined. "This is bigger than just the company. This is about showing them that the people who love and care for you aren’t going to let them get away with it. It’s time we put the spotlight on their behavior."
Hongjoong’s eyes were hard with resolve. "The people who’ve been bullying you, who’ve been undermining you—they won’t get away with this. We’ll make sure they know exactly who they’re messing with."
Mingi added, a wild spark in his eyes. "And if they still don’t get it, then we’ll make sure they regret it. No one messes with our friend. No one."
Yunho crossed his arms, nodding firmly. "We’ll stand behind you every step of the way, Yeosang. Whatever we need to do, we’ll do it. This ends now."
Yeosang looked around at all of them, his heart swelling with love and appreciation. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like the lone person fighting. He didn’t feel like he had to shoulder this burden alone. His friends, his family, were right there with him—united and ready to fight by his side.
With a deep breath, Yeosang stood up, his resolve stronger than ever. "Let’s do this. Let’s show them that I’m not going anywhere. I won’t let them break me."
The room was filled with a collective, determined silence as they all stood together, their hearts beating as one.
Jongho squeezed Yeosang’s hand. "We’ve got your back. Always."
And with that, the plan was set in motion. They weren’t just going to take a stand for Yeosang—they were going to take the fight to Choi Entertainment and everyone who had ever looked down on him.

The next morning, Jongho stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, his back straight, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His reflection in the glass was still—too still. But his eyes burned with something close to murderous rage.
Yeosang’s trembling confession haunted him. His husband’s voice, choked with shame and years of silence, played over and over in his mind like a curse. Every tear Yeosang had shed—every insult, every bruise, every smirk tossed behind his back—Jongho remembered them now. And he would make sure no one forgot.
He reached for his phone with the precision of a weapon drawn. His voice, when he spoke, was calm—but it carried a weight that made his assistant freeze the moment she answered.
“Schedule an emergency meeting with the board,” Jongho said, each word sharp as a blade. “Every department head. Legal. HR. PR. I don’t care if they’re halfway around the world—they will be in that room by noon.”
“Yes, sir—"
“And tell security I want surveillance logs pulled. Emails. Text records. Everything. If anyone tries to erase evidence, they’re done. Permanently.”
He ended the call before she could respond. The silence that followed buzzed with menace.
He turned to his door and barked, “San. In. Now.”
San entered seconds later, his usual grin long gone. Even he looked uneasy at the sight of his younger brother—this wasn’t CEO Jongho. This was something else. A storm in human form. Cold, lethal, and methodical.
“They hurt Yeosang,” Jongho said quietly. “They humiliated him. Mocked him. Made him feel like he didn’t belong in the company he helped build. My company. Our family.”
He looked San in the eyes—his own dark and cold enough to freeze hell.
“I want names. I want records. I want to know who let it happen, who encouraged it, and who watched it unfold without lifting a finger. If HR buried it, fire them. If Legal knew and stayed silent, fire them. I’m burning the rot out, San.”
San nodded once. “I’ve got someone digging already. It’s worse than we thought. There are patterns.”
“I don’t want patterns, I want proof,” Jongho snapped. “Because when I go in there, I’m not giving them warnings. I’m giving them consequences.”
By noon, the boardroom was packed. Nervous chatter stuttered into silence when the double doors opened and Jongho walked in. San followed, stone-faced, holding a thick stack of documents. Behind them came two members of internal security, who took positions by the door.
No one spoke.
Jongho didn’t sit. He stood at the head of the table and stared each executive down, one by one. The silence stretched. Grew suffocating.
“This company is diseased,” Jongho said, his voice like iron. “You know it. I know it. The only difference is—I’m the one who’s going to rip it out by the roots.”
Someone tried to interject—an older executive from marketing. “Sir, if this is about the recent rumors—”
“Sit down and shut up,” Jongho snarled, his voice cracking like thunder across the room. The man sat down instantly, pale-faced.
“You let one of this company’s most celebrated models be abused, ostracized, humiliated—and you watched. You watched because you were scared of rocking the boat. Or worse—because you agreed with it.”
He slammed a thick folder onto the table. The sound made several people flinch.
“Inside are names. Dates. Statements. Some of them anonymous. Some of them not. I don’t care who you are, how high your title sits, or how long you’ve been here. If your name is in this folder, your career ends today.”
Gasps. Whispers. Panic blooming in controlled faces.
“I’m not here for apologies,” Jongho said. “I’m not here for excuses. This isn’t about one man. This is about a culture that I will dismantle piece by piece if I have to.”
He leaned forward, voice low but deadly: “And if I ever—ever—hear so much as a whisper of anyone targeting Yeosang again, I will make it my mission to ensure you never work in this industry again. Not in Korea. Not anywhere.”
He straightened. “Effective immediately, we are conducting a full investigation. HR will be audited. Senior staff reviewed. Every complaint reevaluated.”
He turned to San. “Give them the list.”
San dropped the folders on the table with a satisfying thud.
“There will be no second chances,” Jongho said. “Only resignations and terminations.”
He didn’t wait for their response. “Dismissed.”
Yeosang stood in front of the full-length mirror, his reflection a mixture of familiar comfort and foreign uncertainty. The person staring back at him was still him, but the weight of what he had been through, the years of feeling small, unseen, and unworthy, clung to him like a second skin. It wasn’t gone, not completely. The bruises on his body had faded, but the scars they left behind? Those lingered, just beneath the surface.
He ran his fingers along the edge of his collarbone, where the marks from past struggles had once been vivid and painful reminders of how others saw him. Those marks weren’t there anymore. But they were. In here, he thought, pressing a hand to his chest. In my mind.
A soft sigh escaped him, his gaze distant as he stared at the man he had been and the man he was still trying to become. The transformation was happening, but it felt so slow. And some days, it felt like he would never get all the way there.
You’re stronger than you think, he told himself, though the words didn’t settle as easily as they should. His stomach tightened with anxiety, and his heart, always so full of love and hope, felt too heavy to carry in moments like this.
Deep down, he knew that standing up for himself, facing the people who had treated him like he was less than human, was the right thing to do. But there were still moments when the weight of his fear made it hard to breathe, hard to believe he was capable of change.
What if they don’t believe me? The thought crept in, uninvited, as it always did when he felt vulnerable. What if they think I’m just weak, just a victim?
His heart raced at the thought of confrontation, of exposing the truth to everyone who had been so quick to tear him down. His mind flashed with images of the people at Choi Entertainment, his coworkers, his so-called friends, and the sharp, dismissive words they had thrown his way. The cutting remarks. The dismissive gestures. He could almost hear them now.
And then there was the doubt. What if no one cares? What if it’s just another empty attempt, just like before?
His breath hitched as he thought about standing there in front of them, telling them everything. His palms felt clammy as the uncertainty gripped him. But it wasn’t enough to hold him back. Not today.
The sound of footsteps broke his spiral, and his heart gave a little leap. He turned around, his gaze locking with Jongho’s, who had entered the room quietly. There was no judgment in his eyes, just soft concern and unspoken support.
“Yeosang?” Jongho asked, his voice low but comforting.
Yeosang’s heart squeezed. “Yeah?” He hadn’t meant to sound so distant, but his voice betrayed him, thick with emotion.
Jongho’s expression softened, his steps slow and measured as he walked toward him. He didn’t rush, didn’t push, but simply stood there in the space between them, his presence unwavering. His hand reached out gently to rest on Yeosang’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Yeosang’s gaze dropped to the floor, avoiding his husband’s eyes. “I’m just… I’m scared, Jongho. I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to stand up to them, to tell them everything. What if they just think I’m overreacting? What if they don’t believe me?”
Jongho’s thumb brushed gently over his shoulder, his touch grounding, as if reminding Yeosang that he wasn’t alone. “You’ve already been strong, Sang,” Jongho whispered. “You’re standing here, aren’t you? You’ve already faced down more than most people ever will. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be honest with yourself and with them.”
Yeosang’s breath caught in his throat. He wanted to believe those words. God, how he wanted to. But the voice inside his head, the one that always told him he wasn’t enough, made it hard. What if my truth isn’t enough? What if I fail?
He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as the wave of doubt hit him again. “But what if, what if it all falls apart, Jongho? What if they won’t care? What if I’m just a liability to everyone?”
Jongho’s grip tightened, pulling Yeosang a little closer. “You’re not a liability. You’re the one holding everything together. You’ve been carrying this weight for far too long, and it’s time for you to let it go. But you don’t have to do it alone. I’m right here, Sang. We’ll face this together.”
A sob caught in Yeosang’s throat, and he fought to keep it down. The vulnerability he was allowing himself to show felt like a new kind of exposure, like giving up a piece of himself he wasn’t sure he could afford to lose. But he also knew that if he didn’t face this, it would consume him.
You’re stronger than you think. Jongho’s words echoed in his mind, a lifeline in the storm of his anxiety.
Yeosang finally nodded, the action small but decisive. “I… I think I’m ready. I don’t know if I’m strong enough yet, but I’m going to try. For me. For us.”
Jongho’s eyes softened, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s all I need to hear.”
The morning sun had barely touched the skyline of Seoul when Yeosang stepped out of the car, his hands trembling at his sides. The familiar glass doors of Choi Entertainment loomed ahead of him, as imposing and cold as they had ever been. But today, he didn’t see them as obstacles. Today, they were just a gateway into a battle that had been long overdue.
His heart was pounding in his chest, not from fear, but from determination. Every step he took felt heavy, but purposeful, each footfall echoing in his ears like a countdown. He wasn’t walking into that building as the man they expected him to be anymore. Today, he was walking in as the man he had always been beneath the surface. The man they had tried to break. The one they underestimated.
Jongho stood beside him, his presence solid and unwavering. The weight of his hand, warm and steady against Yeosang’s, sent a grounding sensation through his body. They were ready. They had faced many battles together, but this one was personal. This one was for Yeosang’s dignity, for his career, and for his future.
“Ready?” Jongho’s voice was low, but filled with quiet strength, a mirror of the resolve in his eyes.
Yeosang swallowed, nodding. “Ready.”
As they entered the lobby, the energy in the air shifted. People who had once ignored him or snickered behind his back now stopped to watch him, their eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. Yeosang didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He held his head high, ignoring the prying stares, focusing on the path ahead.
In the conference room, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The heavy, sterile tables and cold fluorescent lights did nothing to ease the oppressive weight of the moment. The staff had gathered, their murmurs barely audible at first, but growing louder as Yeosang and Jongho entered. The eyes of the executives followed them, some cool and calculating, others pretending to be distracted, though their attention was fixed on Yeosang.
It was as though the air itself had thickened, and Yeosang could almost taste the hostility in the room. But he didn’t shrink. He stepped forward, his breath steady, and his voice, though filled with an unshakable resolve, was tinged with the weight of everything he had been holding in.
He stood at the center of the room, his back straight, his posture regal, as though he were a king preparing to confront his enemies. Jongho was at his side, silent but unwavering, his presence a shield.
The whispers started, louder now, more biting than before.
"How did he even get here?" one voice sneered from across the room.
"He’ll be gone soon, just like the others," another muttered, barely concealing their disdain.
Yeosang’s chest tightened, but he didn’t allow them to see how their words scraped against his soul. His heart hammered, but the fear didn’t take over. This time, it fueled him.
"Enough," Yeosang’s voice sliced through the murmur, clear and commanding. The room quieted, but the tension crackled in the air.
Yeosang exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the room, looking each person in the eye. He could see their discomfort, the guilt seeping into their postures, the way they avoided meeting his gaze. They knew. They knew what they had done.
"For years," Yeosang began, his voice wavering only for a brief moment before it grew steadier, "I have been silenced. I’ve been pushed aside, overlooked, and treated like I don’t matter." He took another breath, his eyes scanning the room, finding the faces of those who had made his life a living hell, those who had conspired in silence, the ones who had pretended to be his allies. "And I let it happen. I let you treat me that way because I thought... I thought I wasn’t enough. That I couldn’t stand up to you. That this was the price I had to pay for success."
His hands were shaking, but his voice remained steady, louder now. The words that had been trapped inside him for so long were spilling out, raw and unrefined.
"But today, I am done being silent." Yeosang’s voice grew stronger with each word. "Today, I’m not afraid to speak my truth, no matter how much it shakes you. I’ve been humiliated, belittled, made to feel like I was disposable. I’ve been treated like I’m not good enough for this job. And you have allowed it to happen. You’ve been complicit in my pain."
A gasp rippled through the room. The air seemed to grow colder, but Yeosang didn’t let that slow him down. He stepped forward, his eyes flashing with a defiance he hadn’t known he was capable of until this very moment.
"I am enough. I am more than enough. And I deserve respect." His voice trembled only once, when he said the word deserve, but it was a tremble of raw emotion. He had never said that to himself before, not like this, not with the conviction he felt now. "I deserve the same respect as any other model in this agency. As any other person in this room. And I will not stand by while you tear me down. I will not allow you to hurt me anymore."
The silence was suffocating now, the room frozen in place, the collective breath of the group held in suspense. But it wasn’t just Yeosang’s words that stunned them. It was his presence. His confidence, like a shield around him, cut through the years of mistreatment and judgment.
Jongho stood behind him, unwavering, but his eyes flickered to the people in the room with a quiet fury. Jongho’s voice dropped into something deadly, a tone so cold it made even the executives shift uncomfortably in their seats.
"If you think for a second that I’m going to let it continue, you’re more foolish than I thought."
He stepped forward, no longer just the silent support at Yeosang’s side, but a force of pure wrath barely contained behind a suit and a sharp jawline. His entire body radiated fury, the kind of rage that simmered long enough to boil dry. The kind that didn’t yell. It promised.
"I have watched you all. Smirking, whispering, walking past him like he was nothing. I’ve read every fucking email, every memo you thought you could hide, every meeting you forgot to include him in." Jongho’s eyes burned as they swept over the room, his voice calm in a way that felt more dangerous than shouting. "Do you think I built this company so that you could tear down the one person in this building who actually gave a damn about the integrity of it?"
The CEO’s hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white.
"You think I didn’t notice? That I was blind?" He scoffed, eyes now locked on one of the department heads who had gone visibly pale. "I gave you all chances. Time. Space. To correct yourselves. To treat him like the professional and human being he is. And instead, you played games. You treated his kindness as weakness. You exploited his silence."
Jongho stepped forward again. The sound of his shoes against the tile echoed like a war drum in the dead quiet.
"You don’t get to look surprised. You don’t get to pretend you didn’t know."
"Jongho," Yeosang said quietly, but Jongho didn’t stop. He looked at his husband for just a heartbeat, gentle eyes meeting uncertain ones, and then returned to the room with a chilling finality in his tone.
"No more warnings," Jongho said. "No more mercy. If you so much as breathe disrespect in his direction again, you’ll be escorted out of this building with your name stripped from every credit roll and campaign folder. You’ll be erased from this industry so fast you won’t even remember you worked here."
He let the words hang. Heavy. Brutal. Undeniable.
"And if anyone," he continued, his voice now a razor’s edge, "tries to retaliate, to punish him in any way for speaking out, you won’t just answer to me. You’ll answer to the entire board. To our lawyers. To the law."
A silence fell that no one dared break.
Then he added, quieter, darker, "And you’ll answer to me."
No one spoke. No one moved. Because for the first time, they didn’t just see the CEO of Choi Entertainment. They saw the man behind the power, the man who had built his empire with iron and will and rage, and realized that they had deeply, irreparably, messed up.
Yeosang’s hand slipped into Jongho’s, fingers trembling. But he stood taller now. Stronger. Braver.
Jongho squeezed his hand and turned his gaze back to the room.
"This is your reckoning," he said. "I suggest you figure out what kind of legacy you want to leave behind. Because the era of treating Yeosang like he’s invisible..."
He smiled. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
The whispers in the room died down. One by one, the staff exchanged glances, their bravado faltering under the weight of Yeosang and Jongho’s combined presence.
Yeosang’s gaze never wavered.
"I’m not asking for your pity," he continued, each word like a hammer striking down the walls of his own fear. "I’m asking for the one thing you’ve never given me. Respect."
Jongho’s hand slid into his, a silent promise that he wasn’t alone. That no matter what, they would face this together.
As the meeting came to an end, the staff’s eyes were no longer filled with the same mocking pity. Instead, Yeosang could see the beginnings of unease, uncertainty about their own actions. And that, he realized, was the first step.
When they left the conference room, side by side, Jongho turned to him, his expression softening.
"You were amazing in there," he whispered, squeezing Yeosang’s hand.
Yeosang looked up at him, his heart full, his smile genuine but fragile.
"I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you."
Jongho didn’t say anything right away. He simply pulled Yeosang gently into his arms, one hand cupping his cheek with a tenderness that made Yeosang’s breath hitch. The world around them quieted, blurred into nothing as Jongho leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t hurried or desperate. It was reverent, adoring, like Jongho was memorizing the feel of him, reminding Yeosang with every slow brush of lips that he was proud, that he was loved, that he was home. Yeosang melted into it, fingers curling into Jongho’s suit jacket, and when they finally broke apart, Jongho rested their foreheads together, whispering, "You’ve always had that strength, Sang. I just reminded you."
Yeosang’s eyes shimmered, and he kissed him again, quick and smiling this time, like sunlight after a storm.
Later that evening, the apartment was quiet.
The city murmured in the background, a soft, faraway hum like a lullaby whispered by the world beyond their windows. The kind of stillness that wrapped around everything like a gentle blanket, soothing but weighty, as if the silence itself understood what the day had taken from him.
Yeosang sat by the window, tucked into the corner of the couch with a blanket draped over his legs. The last rays of sunlight poured in through the glass, bathing him in gold, catching in the edges of his hair and turning him into something ethereal. He looked like a painting, Jongho thought from the doorway. Beautiful and delicate, but heavy with thought.
The expression on Yeosang’s face was distant and pensive, his gaze tracing the horizon but seeing far beyond it. He didn’t move when Jongho approached, too caught in the storm inside his own mind.
Jongho didn’t say a word at first. He just moved quietly, sitting beside him with the kind of closeness that spoke of years together. His body curved toward Yeosang instinctively, and when he reached for his hand, Yeosang let him take it, like muscle memory, like home.
For a long while, they sat like that, fingers intertwined, silence stretching comfortably between them. It wasn’t the silence of distance. It was the kind of silence that only came from deep understanding. From love.
"I’m proud of you," Jongho said softly, his thumb tracing slow circles over the back of Yeosang’s hand. His voice was low, a murmur that melted into the quiet like sunlight through fog. "You stood tall today. You didn’t shrink back. You told your truth."
Yeosang didn’t answer right away. His lips parted, then closed again. He swallowed, his gaze lowering to where their hands were joined.
"I said what I needed to say," he murmured eventually, "but I don’t know if it made a difference. They looked at me like..." He paused, brow furrowing. "Like I’d grown a second head. Or like they couldn’t believe I had a voice."
Jongho’s chest ached. He leaned forward slightly, his free hand rising to gently brush a strand of hair behind Yeosang’s ear, fingers lingering just long enough to graze his cheek.
"It did make a difference," he said firmly, but still with that same softness. "Even if they didn’t show it. Even if it wasn’t everything you wanted, it was a beginning. And beginnings are always the hardest part."
Yeosang turned his head then, eyes meeting Jongho’s. There was vulnerability in them, but also something else, something small and bright. Uncertain, but alive. Hope, maybe.
"I still feel scared," Yeosang admitted. His voice trembled, as if it was difficult to confess. "Like everything could come crashing down again at any moment. Like maybe I was stupid to think I could change anything."
"You’re not stupid," Jongho said immediately, squeezing his hand gently. "And you’re not alone in this. You’re not carrying the weight of it by yourself anymore."
He shifted, wrapping an arm around Yeosang’s shoulders and pulling him into his side. Yeosang came easily, nestling against him with a sigh that was more weary than defeated.
Jongho pressed a soft kiss to his temple. "You’ve been strong for so long, Sang. Quietly. Alone. But strength doesn’t mean staying silent. It doesn’t mean putting up with pain just to make others comfortable. Today, you were brave in a new way. You chose yourself. That matters."
Yeosang closed his eyes, letting the words sink in. They settled in his chest like warm tea on a cold day, gentle, soothing, needed.
"I don’t know how to do this," he whispered. "To keep believing in myself when everything feels so fragile."
"You don’t have to know how," Jongho said, tilting his head to rest against Yeosang’s. "You just have to try. And when it’s too heavy, when you forget what makes you strong, I’ll be here. I’ll remind you, as many times as it takes."
Tears prickled behind Yeosang’s eyes, but they didn’t fall. He breathed in slowly, deeply, letting his body relax into Jongho’s. The tightness in his chest loosened just a little, and for the first time all day, he felt like maybe he didn’t need to keep holding himself together so tightly.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Jongho smiled, tilting Yeosang’s chin gently so their eyes met again. "Always."
Then he kissed him. Slow, deliberate, full of adoration. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything. It only offered. Love. Assurance. Home.
When they parted, Yeosang exhaled, the breath catching in his throat like a small sob, though he wasn’t crying. He was just full. Of love. Of exhaustion. Of relief.
"I think I’m learning," he said quietly. "How to take up space. How to exist without apology."
Jongho’s smile deepened, eyes glimmering with quiet joy. "You’re doing more than learning, Sang. You’re becoming."
The sun dipped lower, casting the apartment in hues of amber and rose. Outside, the city buzzed onward, but inside, time slowed. The world didn’t need them right now. Right now, all that mattered was this: Yeosang leaning against Jongho’s shoulder, Jongho’s arms wrapped securely around him, and the quiet promise that no matter what came next, they would face it together.
And in that soft, golden light, something inside Yeosang finally began to settle.
He wasn’t fixed. He wasn’t healed. But he was growing. And this time, he wasn’t growing alone.

Chapter Text

]It started small.
A nod in the hallway. A smile by the elevator. A quiet "Good morning, Yeosang-ssi" from someone who had previously looked through him like he was wallpaper. They weren’t grand gestures, but they were real. And more importantly, they were consistent. Bit by bit, the walls built around him by others’ coldness began to crumble.
For the first time in a long time, Yeosang felt like he was being seen. Not just for his beauty, not just for the model image Choi Entertainment had sculpted, but for the man he was. Complex. Brave. Kind. Capable.
It had been weeks since that meeting. And in those weeks, things had slowly, quietly begun to shift.
His coworkers had started making room for him in conversations. Someone brought him an extra coffee once, saying they had remembered he liked oat milk. A stylist who had once ignored his discomfort during fittings now asked if he was okay with each adjustment. It wasn’t perfect. Yeosang didn’t expect it to be. But it was progress. And every smile, every hello, every moment of genuine consideration felt like a little piece of armor he could finally take off.
He was lighter now.
He laughed more easily. His shoulders sat higher. His gaze didn’t drop to the floor as often. He began choosing his own outfits again for shoots, taking risks with colors and styles that made him feel himself. He took up space. Not aggressively. Not loudly. But fully. He didn’t shrink anymore.
And in Jongho’s eyes, he had never looked more radiant.
One quiet Sunday afternoon, all eight of them were gathered at Jongho and Yeosang’s apartment. The windows were open, letting in a breeze that fluttered the curtains and carried the scent of the cherry blossoms blooming just outside. The coffee table was cluttered with board games no one was actually playing, half-eaten pastries, and tangled limbs as everyone lounged wherever they could.
Wooyoung was dramatically telling a story that San kept interrupting with “That’s not how it happened,” which only made Wooyoung more theatrical. Yunho and Mingi were cuddled on the floor, Yunho drawing lazy circles on Mingi’s arm while nodding along. Seonghwa and Hongjoong were curled up together in the window seat, sharing headphones and quietly giggling over a playlist Seonghwa had made titled Hongjoong’s Dramatic Genius Mix, Vol. 3.
And in the center of it all, Yeosang was nestled between Jongho’s legs on the couch, his back resting against Jongho’s chest, their hands laced together in his lap. He was smiling. Truly smiling. As he watched his friends talk, argue, and exist in the safe little world they had built together.
"Do you see this?" Jongho whispered against his ear, nuzzling his temple.
Yeosang hummed. "What?"
"All of it. Them. You. Us. You made room for all of it by just being yourself."
Yeosang tilted his head back to look up at him, eyes soft. "It doesn’t feel as hard anymore," he admitted. "Believing I belong here. Believing I deserve you."
Jongho kissed his forehead, his voice thick with love. "You always did."
Yeosang didn’t argue. Not anymore. Because part of healing, he had learned, was learning to accept love without questioning its source. Without bracing for the moment it might be taken away.
"You were right," he murmured, curling his fingers tighter around Jongho’s. "I’m becoming."
Jongho smiled and rested his chin atop Yeosang’s head. "You’re already there."
From across the room, Wooyoung suddenly shouted, "Why are you two being so sappy over there? This is supposed to be game night!"
"We haven’t played a single game," San deadpanned.
"Semantics!"
Yeosang laughed, and the sound turned heads. Startled for only a second, before everyone smiled with him, like it was the most natural sound in the world. Because now, it was.
As the sky outside turned from golden to rose to indigo, the warmth inside stayed. Safe. Full.
Things still weren’t perfect. Life didn’t work that way. There would be more hard days, more learning, more work. But now Yeosang faced those days with open eyes, a stronger heart, and people who stood beside him no matter what.
And Jongho. Jongho, who had held his hand through the storm, who had kissed his bruised soul back to life, was still there. Always there. Loving him, fiercely and gently, every step of the way.
Yeosang was not alone. He never would be again.
And as laughter spilled into the evening air and soft music played in the background, Yeosang leaned his head back against Jongho’s chest, closed his eyes, and breathed in the quiet joy of becoming everything he had once feared he couldn’t be.
Whole. Loved. Free.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be simple.
Just a tasteful little photoshoot for Choi Entertainment’s anniversary issue. A full-spread piece about their power couple, CEO Choi Jongho and his husband, the face of the brand, Kang Yeosang. A celebration of their love, their leadership, and their journey.

Tasteful. Elegant. Corporate.

What actually happened?
Utter. Adorable. Chaos.

The moment the lights turned on and the camera lens focused, it was clear. Jongho and Yeosang were completely incapable of taking each other seriously.

"Okay, let’s start with a classic pose," the photographer said, already sounding a little nervous. "Jongho, place your hand on Yeosang’s waist. Yeosang, just tilt your chin slightly. Think timeless. Classy."

They lasted four seconds.

"Jongho, your hand is cold!" Yeosang yelped, twisting in his grasp. "Stop doing that thing where you dig your fingers into my side like a claw."

"It’s not a claw, it’s affection," Jongho replied, lips twitching.

Yeosang arched an eyebrow. "Affection doesn’t involve tickle torture."

Click. Click. Click.
The camera caught Yeosang trying to swat Jongho’s hand away with the back of his wrist while Jongho laughed, the picture of a man who knew exactly how to rile up his husband.

"Let’s reset," the photographer groaned, rubbing her temple. "Please. Reset. Let’s do something with movement. Maybe you walk toward the camera, hand in hand?"

That didn’t go well either.

Jongho tried to walk confidently. Yeosang tried to strut. Somewhere between step four and step five, Yeosang tripped on Jongho’s foot, flailed, clutched at him for balance, and they both went down.

Hard.

There was a stunned silence.

Then: "I KNEW this was going to happen!" Wooyoung howled from the sidelines, nearly choking on a cherry tomato. "Someone get the replay! Where’s the slow-mo?"

"I’m okay!" Yeosang wheezed from where he was lying sprawled on top of Jongho, face pressed into his chest. "I’m fine. I’m just… staying here for a moment. This is fine."

"Are you seriously napping on set?" Jongho huffed, but his arms still instinctively wrapped around him, holding him tighter. "You’re unbelievable."

"You married me."

"Regretfully, in this exact moment."

Yeosang poked his cheek and grinned. "Liar."

Click.
Another perfect candid.

Eventually, they made it to the infamous couch. The photographer, now delirious but entertained, simply begged, "Please. Just sit. Stare into each other’s eyes. No jumping. No biting. No tripping."

"Define biting," Jongho mumbled under his breath.

Yeosang burst out laughing, nearly toppling off Jongho’s lap for the second time.

Still, somehow, between giggles and nose kisses, Jongho managed to wrap an arm around Yeosang’s waist and pull him close. This time, there was something quiet in the air. A shift. A soft kind of gravity.

Yeosang stilled. Their laughter faded into breathless fondness.

"I missed this," he said, brushing a stray curl from Jongho’s forehead.

"This? What, cameras? My lap?"

"No," Yeosang smiled, his voice tender. "You. Like this. Just us."

Jongho’s smile dimmed, in that way it always did when the weight of how far they’d come tried to creep in. "I’m here now," he whispered. "And I’m not going anywhere."

The photographer, wisely, didn’t say a word this time. She just kept clicking.

They cuddled. They kissed. Jongho peppered Yeosang’s cheeks with kisses until he squealed and batted him away. Yeosang attempted a sultry smolder, only to dissolve into laughter when Jongho mimicked it with an exaggerated eyebrow waggle. They tried posing with props, Yeosang in Jongho’s oversized blazer, Jongho in Yeosang’s sunglasses, until the photographer begged them to stop. They made heart signs with their hands, accidentally knocked over a floral arrangement, and at one point Yeosang tackled Jongho onto the couch cushions in a fit of laughter because he had "looked too smug" and she "had to fix it."

Through it all, their friends were in the back, a mess of commentary:

"That one better be the cover," San pointed as Jongho kissed Yeosang’s temple, his eyes closed in reverence.

"Which one? There’s like seven hundred of that exact pose," Yunho said.

"The one where they’re smiling like idiots," Mingi added helpfully.

"They’re always smiling like idiots," Wooyoung chimed in. "Disgusting. I love them."

Eventually, as the last few photos were taken, the shoot melted into something more like home.

It wasn’t the shoot Choi Entertainment had planned.
It was better.

Jongho curled one arm around Yeosang, his head resting against his shoulder. Yeosang’s fingers played lazily with Jongho’s hair, his smile relaxed and dreamy.

And in the center of it all, they were laughing. Not the loud kind now, but the quiet, affectionate kind that came from being seen, cherished, and utterly comfortable.

It wasn’t professional. It wasn’t poised.
It was them.

Click.
That shot made the cover.

Yeosang, glowing, head thrown back mid-laugh. Jongho looking up at him like he hung the stars. Behind them, blurry but unmistakably present, the rest of their family grinned and cheered.

Love Leads Us: The Heart Behind Choi Entertainment’s Brightest Era

Later that night, curled in their bed with the city lights flickering outside their window, Jongho pulled Yeosang into his chest, resting his chin in his hair.

"You were so dramatic today," he murmured, voice already thick with sleep.

"I was amazing today," Yeosang corrected proudly, snuggling closer. "We looked like idiots. But, you know. Power couple idiots."

Jongho kissed his forehead. "My favorite kind."

Yeosang smiled. "We’re really happy, huh?"

"Yeah," Jongho whispered. "And we earned it."

They had. Every laugh. Every kiss. Every golden hour they had created from the ashes of everything they thought they had to carry alone.

This was their forever. And it was soft.